"Why didn't you wake me up?" she asked, stirring Sweet'n Low into black coffee.
"Because it sounds as though you needed a good night's rest." Wearing a feline smile, Lilah bit into a piece of crisp bacon.
"I see you've already had breakfast." On the round kitchen table were three syrup-sticky plates.
"I fixed pancakes for the kids. Want some?"
"No," Elizabeth snapped ungraciously. Ordinarily she would have been grateful for Lilah's dropping by to cook breakfast for Megan and Matt so she could sleep late. On Saturdays she kept Fantasy open only from noon until five. It was her one morning a week to sleep past six-thirty. "Go do your chores," she told her children crossly. "Make your beds and put all your dirty clothes in the hamper."
"Then can I go out and play?"
"Yes." Breaking her first smile of the day, Elizabeth swatted Matt on the seat as he sped past her chair. Deferring to Megan's maturity, she gave her a brief hug.
"Cute kids," Lilah remarked when they were alone.
"And talkative. Especially when they've got a busybody pumping them for information."
"I didn't pump," Lilah said righteously. "I merely asked what was new and they told me." She propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. "Did the mysterious Mr Randolph really rescue you from the tree last night?"
There was no use denying it. "Yes, he did."
"Bingo!" Lilah chortled, clapping her hands together.
"It was no big deal. Not nearly as melodramatic as you're making it sound."
"We were just getting to the good part when you came in. What was that about the torn petticoat?"
"Nothing. My petticoat got caught on a twig."
"And he got it off?" Lilah's smile was downright lascivious.
"Yes, but it was a humiliating experience. I felt like a fool."
"What's he like? What'd he say?"
"Forget it, Lilah. He's… he's elderly."
"Elderly?"
"Well, you yourself noticed that he has gray hair. He's too old for me."
Lilah frowned. "How gray? How old?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask," she said peevishly.
"Hmm, well, it's a start. At least you attracted his attention."
"I didn't do it on purpose."
"The net result is the same.
"Get this through your conniving head, there is no net result."
"Stop shouting at me, Elizabeth. I'm interested for your sake."
"Well, don't be!"
Lilah sat back in her chair, sighing in exasperation. "Brother! You're as cranky as an old bear this morning. Know what I think? I think you'd be in a much better mood if he'd spent more time unsnagging your petticoat."
"Lilah," Elizabeth said warningly.
Lilah was unfazed. "Here, read this while I'm doing the dishes." She tossed a magazine toward Elizabeth before she began clearing the table. It was a popular monthly publication which had an enormous female reading audience. "Page ten."
Elizabeth thumbed forward to the specified page. Upon reading the headline of the advertisement, she glanced up at her sister, a glance Lilah pointedly disregarded.
By the time Elizabeth had read the lengthy ad, Lilah had rinsed and placed all the dishes in the dishwasher. She returned to the table. The two sisters stared at one another.
"Well?" Lilah said at last.
"Well?"
"What do you think of the idea?"
"You're not serious? You expect me to write out my fantasies for publication?"
"I do."
"You're sick."
"I'm normal. And so are you. And so are your fantasies. Only I'll bet they're much more detailed and romantic than most. What could be the harm in writing them down and submitting them for the book this publisher is putting together?"
"The harm?" Elizabeth cried. "The harm could be that I have two children."
"They won't be buying a copy, will they?"
"Don't be cute, Lilah. Your idea is absurd. I'd never feel comfortable about doing something like this. I'm a mother. A widow."
"But you're hardly Granny Grunt. You're a young, attractive woman whose husband happened to die prematurely. It says right here that they want stories from 'average' women. You qualify. The only thing that's not average about you is your love life, which is zilch. But," she added hastily when she saw that Elizabeth was about to take issue, "it can be a bonus. If you're deprived, then your fantasies should really sizzle."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes heavenward. "I can't do it. I don't know where you ever came up with the hare-brained notion I could."
"Look," Lilah said, flattening her hand on the table, "you write the fantasies, as many as you want. I'll do the rest. I'll submit them under a pen name. You'll remain anonymous. I'll do everything but cash the check the publisher sends you when your manuscripts are selected."
"Check?"
"Didn't you read that paragraph?"
"I didn't get that far."
"There." Lilah pointed to that part of the text. "They're paying two hundred and fifty dollars for each fantasy they select to go in the book no matter how long or short it is, historical or contemporary, first person or whatever."
In spite of herself, Elizabeth's interest was piqued. It had taken virtually all of John's life-insurance money and their savings for her to open Fantasy. From the beginning, the shop in the well-trafficked lobby of the Hotel Cavanaugh had made a profit, but a small one. She wasn't destitute, but she couldn't afford extravagances. As the children grew older they became more expensive. She'd often worried about how she would finance their college educations.
On the other hand, earning money by writing out her most secret fantasies seemed like a disreputable thing to do. "I'm not a writer."
"How do you know? Have you ever tried? You always made A's in English. Besides, from what I understand ninety-nine percent of writing is imagination. You've got gobs of that. Lizzie," Lilah said, warming to her subject. "This is something you've been preparing for all your life. No one daydreams more than you. It's time you converted that pastime into an enterprise."
"I couldn't."
"Why not? It will remain our little secret, just like the time we glued Grandma's house shoes to the closet floor."
"As I recall that was your bright idea too. And I got a spanking for going along."
"The hilarity was worth the spanking," Lilah said with a dismissive shrug.
Elizabeth sighed, knowing that Lilah never took no for an answer. "I don't have the time to write even if I wanted to."
"What else do you do at night?"
She had a point and Elizabeth conceded it. She left the table and moved to the coffeemaker on the counter. "I'd be embarrassed for anybody to read my fantasies."
"Good! That means they're hot and juicy. That's just what they want. See? "Explicit, but tasteful," she read from the magazine. "That means make them good and dirty, but not crude."
"I think that lost something in your translation."
"Well, are you going to do it or not?"
"I'm not. If you're so high on the idea, why don't you do it?"
"Because I don't have your creativity. When we played make-believe, you always made up the scenarios. I only acted out the parts."
She could feel herself weakening. It would be a catharsis of sorts, wouldn't it? A way of venting her sexual frustration. A challenge she needed. Something to do that was hers and hers alone. Not something she was doing for her children or for her business, but for herself, the woman. She had so few personal indulgences.
"I don't know, Lilah," she said, unready to capitulate entirely. "It seems so… so…"
Her voice trailed off as she spied something across her yard. Thad Randolph was nailing together lumber and wiring to form what looked like a pen. Probably for the puppies. Matt was assisting him by holding the nails. Megan, sitting in the old swing which a former owner of Thad's house had suspended from the branch of an oak, was giving advice. Baby was napping on Megan's lap.