High Noon

stepped one foot outside of Mac Namara House on Jones in ten years or more, bless her heart. She comes out on the veranda sometimes, and she’s still as pretty as a picture. And so slim.
    Of course, they’d never weathered one of Mama’s panic attacks, or watched her struggle just to find the courage to step out on that veranda. They hadn’t seen her weep with gratitude when her future daughter-in-law asked if she and Carter could have the wedding at the house.
    God bless Josie, Phoebe thought. And hell, God bless the Internet while she was at it. If her mother couldn’t go out into the world, at least the world could come to her through her computer.
    “Hey, sweetie pie.” Essie’s fingers stilled as she spotted Phoebe. “You need something?”
    “No. No, I was just poking in to let you know I’m going up to work out, then I’m going to get ready to go out.”
    Essie’s dimples deepened with her smile. “With Duncan.”
    “To a barbecue at one of his friend’s.”
    “You have a good time, and don’t forget the flowers you put in the spare fridge now.”
    “I won’t.”
    “And wear the green sundress,” Essie called out as Phoebe turned. “Show off those nice shoulders. God knows you work hard enough on them.”
    Phoebe glanced back. “Should I wear more blush, too, so I can catch me a husband?”
    “What’s that?”
    “Nothing. I’ll check back with you before I go.”
    She escaped to her little gym, and a solid sweaty hour.
    Later in the shower, she wondered if she’d been using exercise over the past months as a substitute for sex. She’d definitely kicked it up a few notches in the past six months.
    Eight months, she corrected, rinsing shampoo out of her hair. Or was it ten?
    Well, Jesus, had it actually been a year since she’d had sex? Shoving at her dripping hair, she began to obsessively backtrack and count.
    Ava’s son’s friend’s neighbor Wilson—Ava had arranged the date, pushed for it until Phoebe caved. He’d turned out to be very nice, Phoebe remembered. Kind of sweet with his shy smile and little goatee. He liked country music and football, and had been on the tail end of a divorce.
    They’d enjoyed each other’s company enough to date a few times, and she’d slept with him twice. It had been, she recalled, nice. The same way he’d been nice.
    And then he’d reconciled with his wife. That was nice, too, really. She’d heard they’d had a baby since…
    Wait a minute, wait one damn minute. She snapped off the shower, grabbed a towel. Wrapping it around her, she put the congenial, wish-you-all-the-best breakup with the very nice Wilson into the context of time, of season, of date.
    Shortly after New Year’s, she remembered. She’d slept with him on New Year’s Eve, then again a few nights later. New Year’s of last year, she realized with a jolt.
    “My God! I haven’t had sex in fifteen months.” She stepped over to the mirror, wiped the fog away so she could stare at her own face. “I’m thirty-three years old and I haven’t had sex in fifteen months. What’s wrong with me?”
    She pressed a hand on her belly. What if everything was rusted in there? It didn’t matter if she knew better, intellectually, it was still a horrible and scary thought.
    And what if she had sex with Duncan, and it was so good she started skipping the workouts (which surely were a substitute for sex)? She’d get out of shape, become flabby and lazy.
    Then he probably wouldn’t be attracted to her anymore. Hadn’t he commented on her body? Hadn’t he? So when her body went soft and flabby, he wouldn’t want to have sex with her, which would send her back to Pilates with a vengeance.
    It would cycle over and over, until she died with rusted plumbing and six-pack abs.
    Jesus, she needed therapy.
    Amused at herself, she wrapped her hair in a towel before she deliberately reached for her best, special-occasion-only body cream. Cycle or not, it was time to break the fifteen-month deadlock.
    Not just with anyone, she reminded herself. She wasn’t a slut—all too obviously. She avoided giving or receiving any signals from other cops, from criminalists, from prosecutors. Date or sleep with someone associated with the job, everyone on the job knew about it. That severely limited the field of play for her.
    And it was true she’d been the one to make the first move toward bed with nice Wilson. But she’d liked him, enjoyed going out with him. Besides, before that New Year’s