CHAPTER 32
Lary lies in bed on her back in her new negligee in Manuel’s room, Pizza snuggled into her side. Her eyes are wandering up and down the trellises of wallpaper roses.
Never one to feel lonely, she does now. The bed seems empty of his masculinity, his energy, his exotic presence. She feels like a middle-aged, melodramatic mess. Here she is, about to turn fifty-six next week, and she is whimpering and sighing like a pre-teen, Brad Pitt groupie.
Pulling herself out of bed, she sits down at the dressing table to peer into the Mirror from Hell she had brought in from her own room just to torture herself. A stout gold hair has sprouted dead center of her chin. Did he see it?
He saw it and thought, what in the popcorn is that? I better make some lame excuse and get out of Dodge befo
