Chapter 1

When you’re forty-four and divorced for twelve years, you have been around the block a few times. I tried singles nights, online dating, and hanging out at the local bar. I’ve had my share of one-night stands because I’m still attractive enough to be able to pick up a guy when I am in the mood. I even had a few men interested enough to stick around for a while and give me false hopes. But, finding Mr. Right has been on the back burner for a couple of years now. I have a secret I have not even told my best friends Betty Johnson, Carol Williams, and Joan Higgins.

Betty is 42, five foot four brunette of German and English background. Carol is a 40-year-old black woman standing five foot seven and is a little on the thin side. Joan is 46 and a typical American auburn-haired, five foot five mongrel of undetermined ancestry.

We all work for the same company downtown and have been friends for years. Every Friday night after work, we go out for a few drinks, have girl talk, and generally cut loose for a couple of hours before heading home. Our conversations cover the gamut from the price of hamburger to politics and everything in between, including our sex lives. To be honest, we are a randy bunch of divorcees that like to brag about our conquests and hear the intimate details of our friends’ bedroom antics. I also know we lie a lot. I know I do. I tell them how good the sex was but leave out all my darkest secrets, or I tell them all I did was sit by the pool and read the latest bestseller.

We would never embarrass each other by trying to catch someone in a lie. But we can always tell if one of us is embellishing to the point of lying. The handsome, well-endowed gentleman’s description is right out of one of my romance novels, and his sexual prowess would make a nymph beg for mercy. The following week Mister Wonderful was never mentioned, or his hair color, height, or occupation would suddenly change. But what the hell? I don’t mind trading sex fantasies with my friends.

Don’t get me wrong. There were plenty of true stories. But my friends’ Mister Wonderful physical descriptions, such as age, hairline, and weight become vague. The details of their lovemaking much less impressive. The big question the next week was, did he stick around for a repeat visit? Joan Higgins holds the record for dating the same man the longest. She dated a guy named Reginald something or other for seven months before dumping him. (It’s funny how we always dump the bum. They never dump us when we relate the good news in our Friday night hen session. Then one of us ends up crying her eyes out for a half-hour on her friends’ shoulders.)

Tonight started in a typical fashion. We bitched about the 2% price increase on a pound of hamburger as Betty passed out the $2.00 off coffee coupons she printed from the company computer. We had just finished berating Donald Trump and ordered our third drink when Carol asked. “Did any of you ever date a younger guy?”

Joan piped up with, “I did. You remember John, or maybe it was Peter. Anyway, he was seven months younger than me.”

“That doesn’t count. I mean, like a really younger guy. More like twenty years younger. Like that one sitting at the end of the bar.”

We all turned and looked at the handsome young man sitting at the bar. He was wearing a suit and tie, was well-groomed, and could not have been more than twenty-five or twenty-six years old. We see a lot of them around the company where we work. Young college grads just breaking into the business as interns. Some of the more talented are being groomed for sales team leadership and management positions state-side and abroad.

Betty lamented, “Don’t I wish I had the goods to turn a guy like that on.”

Carol looked at me and asked, “How about you, Ms. Sara McDowell? Ever get lucky with a younger guy?”

I nodded and felt myself blush with embarrassment. “Yes, I did. I had a few drinks and took a young man home with me after a New Year’s Eve party.” Already regretting opening my big mouth, I quickly added, “It was just that one time.” Everyone was looking at me and waiting for more details.

After the pregnant pause, Joan found her voice, “You’re not putting us on, are you?”

“Oh hell, I should not have said anything. It was a long time ago, and as I said, it only happened that one time.” I was starting to regret trying to one-up my friends.

Carol wasn’t going to let me off the hook, “You are not getting away with just that. You will tell all, Honey. How old was he, and when did you do this?”

“Two years ago.” I thought about lying about his age, but in a way, it was another one-upmanship on my friends. “He was nineteen.” I waited to see if my friends would condemn me to hell for taking advantage of a barely legal teenager as I thought back to that fateful New Year’s Eve. I remember it was cold, and light snow was falling...