A Million Little Things. Susan Mallery

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       Chapter Five

      Jen backed out of Jack’s bedroom and quietly closed the door. Later, just before she and Kirk went to bed, she would open it again, so she could hear him if he started crying. A backup plan, in case the baby monitor failed.

      Instead of joining Kirk in the family room, she took a quick detour to their bedroom where she brushed her teeth, combed her hair and made sure the light makeup she’d applied earlier hadn’t gotten all smudgy under her eyes. She debated changing into something provocative, but wasn’t sure what to say if Kirk noticed.

      Not that she didn’t want him to notice. That was the point of her carefully planned evening. She’d been unable to stop thinking about what her mother had said a few days ago—about Jen and Kirk having a healthy sex life.

      The truth was they didn’t. Since Jack had been born, they rarely made love. She was usually so stressed she couldn’t summon the enthusiasm, and in the past few months, Kirk had stopped asking. That was the part that made her the most nervous. How much of it was his being busy with his new job and how much of it was Lucas talking about his twenty-two-year-olds? Not that she was going to ask. Instead she would deal with the problem.

      She went into the family room and found Kirk already sitting on the sofa, watching a basketball game. Instead of sitting in her usual seat at the other end, she settled closer to him. He smiled at her.

      “Jack asleep?”

      “Uh-huh. I start the music box and he’s usually out in seconds.”

      “Best baby gift ever?”

      She laughed. “Certainly one of the top ten.”

      He looked back at the game. The Lakers were up by six. Jen shifted so that her oversize shirt fell off one shoulder. She’d put on her sexiest bra, with the lacy strap. Hopefully the visual would—

      “You okay?” Kirk asked. “You’re fidgeting. Does your back hurt?”

      “No. I’m fine.”

      She sighed silently. So much for her sexy move. She turned to him, prepared to snuggle closer, only he’d leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze intent on the television.

      “Come on, come on! Don’t blow it. Pass the ball. Pass it!”

      Kirk had entered the game zone. She had a couple of choices. She could try to be less subtle, maybe kiss him or something, or she could simply accept it wasn’t going to happen tonight. The danger with the first choice was he could give her that absent smile that said he wasn’t the least bit interested. Not that she’d seen it very much, but the threat was always there.

      In her head she knew that the best response would be to simply tell her husband what she was thinking. That she was very much in the mood. Considering how long it had been, he would probably turn the TV off so fast her head would spin.

      But saying that didn’t guarantee the outcome and while her head was very clear on the mature, straightforward action, the rest of her was less sure. What if he wasn’t interested in her that way anymore? What if there was a twenty-two-year-old? What if...

      “I’m going to go pay bills,” she said, rising from the sofa.

      “Okay. Is there ice cream for later?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      She walked into the study and sat behind what had been her father’s desk. According to her mother, her parents had gone at it, right up until her father’s death. They’d been married over thirty years. How on earth had they managed to keep the spark alive that long?

      She wasn’t sure if the problem with her and Kirk was circumstantial or something more. To be honest, she didn’t think she wanted to risk asking that question either.

      * * *

      Late Sunday morning, Zoe checked on the chicken marinating in her refrigerator. She’d decided to go simple with the menu for her barbecue. Grilled chicken, an assortment of salads, pinto beans cooked in a Crock-Pot—the recipe compliments of her mother—and desserts from Let’s Do Tea. The drinks were equally simple. Sun tea, beer and margaritas made with Saldivar tequila.

      Her father’s family had emigrated from Mexico four generations ago. Over the years there had been plenty of non-Hispanic spouses until the Saldivar family was just like most in Southern California. A little bit of this, a lot of that, with a sprinkling of I-have-no-idea thrown in. But the family business—Saldivar tequila—kept them connected to Mexico.

      The agave plants were grown in Mexico, but the company was headquartered in Southern California. The liquor was exported all over the world. She’d been at least twelve or fourteen before she’d realized that liquor didn’t just mean tequila.

      Her father and his brother had been raised to be in the family business. Her uncle ran the company, her father acted as the spokesman until just a few years ago. While Zoe enjoyed a margarita as much as the next person, she’d had no desire to join the family firm. Her cousins were doing just fine without her.

      A little before eleven, her father showed up.

      “I came early to help,” he said as he hugged her, then passed over a bag of limes. Mariposa, his papillon, trotted in on his heels.

      Miguel Saldivar was about six feet tall, with thick, graying hair and a trimmed beard. A lot of her friends had gone on and on about how handsome he was—which Zoe didn’t get. To her, he was just her dad.

      She bent down and scooped up Mariposa. The small dog relaxed in her embrace and offered a doggy kiss.

      “How’s my girl?” Zoe asked. “Are you keeping Dad in line?”

      Mariposa wagged her tail.

      “I have a friend with a little dog,” she said, thinking of Pam. “You two could have a playdate.”

      “Mariposa doesn’t hang out with dogs,” her father said. “She’s a people person, not a dog person.”

      Zoe thought about pointing out that Mariposa wasn’t a person at all, but why go there?

      “You came alone?” she asked with raised eyebrows. “No beach bunnies trailing behind.”

      “You’re disrespectful. Where did I go wrong?”

      She traded him the dog for the limes and started for the kitchen. “Maybe it was the time you showed me the pictures of you at the Playboy mansion.”

      “That was a hundred years ago.”

      “I was twenty. Most of the girls there were my age. It was a little creepy.”

      Her father winked. “You’re jealous.”