Skinny Dippin' Read online

  By Didi Oviatt

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Dear Reader

  You might also like

  About the Author

  Also by Didi Oviatt

  Copyright (C) 2021 Didi Oviatt

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

  Published 2021 by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

  Edited by Story House Editing

  Cover art by CoverMint

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

  Acknowledgments

  A special thank you to each and every one of the 17 extremely talented authors who took part in the original Sinners & Saints anthology. Getting to know and work with you was a real pleasure!

  Chapter 1

  I slam my car door a little too hard. I can’t believe I’m actually considering my kids’ nonsense extended vacation proposition. They’ve been talking about my taking some much-needed time to myself for a couple of years now, but to seriously go and approach my boss behind my back, what gall. I don’t know whether to smack them each, or to hug their guts out for caring so much about their aging mom.

  It’s bad enough that I have to see my ex-husband running around with some tramp who’s only five years older than our kids -- with her perky boobs, and tight thighs -- buying her new dresses and taking her out to all the fancy places. Okay, I’ve only actually seen her once, and she was really nice to me. She’s nice to my kids, too. She and Marsha even share shoes. But I have spies who fill me in on her dirt and I’ll cling to every curse word she’s been caught saying in public. To top off everything out of my hands, my kids are getting serious about forcing me to live in a beachside condo for an entire summer. What is my life coming to?

  I sigh and pop the trunk before reaching in for the single paper sack of groceries. It’s stuffed to the brim, enough to throw together a less than ideal Friday night dinner for my twin meddlers. I wrestle it into the crook of my arm. The kids asked for steak, I’ll give them spaghetti. Paybacks for their intrusion on my otherwise uneventful day. Everything was going just fine and dandy before Mark, my boss, pulled me into his office the very second I closed my till.

  I packed up the last of my things, leaving my paperwork organized in a nice and tidy stack by my nameplate. It merely reads Carla. Mine is the only nameplate without a last name at this bank. Seven years ago, when I divorced, I kept my husband's name so that I’d forever be the same as my children. That doesn’t mean I need to advertise it. Asking Mark to order me a new plate was among the first changes I made.

  It’s rare for him to call any of us tellers into his office at closing time. I could count on both hands just how many times in the last fifteen years this has happened.

  “I had an interesting chat with your kids this afternoon while you were at lunch,” he said.

  My stomach sank as I reeled over what they could possibly want with my boss.

  “Oh God,” I’d replied. “Together those two are the devil himself. Don’t listen to a word they tell you… ever.”

  Mark only laughed at my response and told me that he agrees with their devious ways one hundred percent. Apparently Suzanne, our usual call-in at First National, will be packing up her things and attending college in a different state by the end of the summer, and has been begging for a full-time position at our branch - just until she moves. Taking over my shift while I’m on leave would benefit her immensely, and I have plenty of money put away to cover my living expenses.

  Marsha and Dean even told Mark all about their intentions to hold the fort down at my home. They talked to him about my love life, or lack of, and the potential of my finding a mate on the beach. Nothing is sacred around here, and my boss found their entire approach to be like a hilarious game of chess where I’m the pawn. They’ve covered every angle and detail imaginable. Talk about an awkward and inappropriate conversation to be having with my boss. Thanks kids!

  Mark went on to tell me that an extended personal leave wasn’t completely out of the question. All jokes aside, he encouraged my taking a bold move at self-improvement, despite my argument that too much sun isn’t exactly good for people. Then he went ahead and dropped the guilt bomb.

  “Carla,” he tilted himself forward, folding his arms on his desk and closing a little distance between our faces. “I spent the entire afternoon back and forth on the phone with Danika, the HR personnel officer from the central office up state.”

  I deflated. “You didn’t.”

  “I sure did, and she pulled up your file to review it for a pre-approval of an extended personal leave. In fifteen years, you’ve only taken off twenty personal days. You’ve trained dozens of other tellers who have come and gone, and you’ve capped on pay raise dividends twice. Danika agreed with me that you’re very deserving of a personal leave, especially since Suzanne is ready and willing to slide into your shift while you’re gone. Apparently, not needing to hire and train anyone to fill your shoes is a big selling factor for the board. She already started all the necessary paperwork on her end.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” I mumbled and pinched the skin between my eyes with my thumb and pointer.

  He went on to show me the stack of paperwork that would need to be filled out by me and signed by the both of us. As acting branch manager, he’s already emailed a formal letter of personal leave recommendation, as his approval is the first step, followed by Danika, followed by the board. Danika didn’t doubt for a second that the board would give it a stamp of approval. She even offered to address it personally during a meeting they’ll all be attending at the beginning of next week.

  He handed me a short stack of pages, already printed off with my name on them, just waiting for me to fill in the blanks. Vaguely, if at all possible, and to state in writing that the reason for a leave request is, “of personal family business,” as per Danika’s recommendation.

  “Carla, you never even took time off with your divorce,” he said, “and your kids are in their twenties now. You’re one hell of an employee, and your job isn’t going anywhere. If there is anyone here who deserves a break, it’s you.”

  “Maybe I’ve never taken time off because maintaining a mundane lifestyle is the only thing that keeps me sane,” I teased.

  “Don’t make my entire afternoon a waste, Carla.” He leaned back in his chair and clamped his hands behind his head. “Sounds like your kids have all the details covered. What were the words Marsha used? You're growing stagnant?" He grinned from ear to ear with amusement. “If all goes smooth with the board, we could have you checked out by the end of next week.”

  “But today’s Friday.”

  “Yep.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re all trying to get rid of me?”

  To that he only chuckled and sent me on my way. On the drive home I passed the same billboard that I do every day, only this time I truly looked at it. A young man on the beach. His naked back, dripping with ocean water accentuating every muscle – clear down to the tag of his underwear, that's meant to be advertised. What would it be like to run my fingers across the shoulder line of a man that fit? If the front of him matched the back of him, I’d prob
ably even give the sweat on his stomach a lick. Maybe a summer on the beach isn’t such a bad idea after all.

  Despite my inner turmoil leaning toward defeat, here I am, preparing to stand my ground against my kids over some fraction of a chance at change, at hope, at adventure. A chance that I never got after marrying too young and dedicating myself entirely to raising them. I don’t regret a second of the way I’ve brought up my children, but now that they’re grown, I think I’m losing my mind. My thoughts are everywhere. I’m scattered, and they can tell.

  I’m scared to death of what my life will be when they finish college. Maybe a break is what I need. A slow transition to my being alone, all the while I know they’re still safe at home. Then again, maybe Marsha and Dean really just want my house to themselves. I’m clinging to every last second I have with them, and they want to ship me off. It’s weird, yet for some reason my gut is telling me to go for it. The two of them are the most dramatically persistent humans on the planet. I suppose I should be proud. They’re destined to accomplish big things, both of them. Once they put their minds to something there’s no limit to the lengths they’ll go.

  On the money side of things, I really lucked out with my kids’ scholarships. The funds I had saved for their schooling wasn't needed so it continues to accumulate interest, and the two of them are refusing to spend it on anything but “family wellness.” Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. I keep waiting for either one of them to let their selfishness shine through, but it’s yet to happen. They’re great kids, so I can’t imagine them to have ill intentions. But, why now?

  Damn it, Carla, stop overthinking!

  Slowly, the air releases from my lungs and I stomp my feet to the house. The paperwork for my leave sits perfectly concealed on the front seat of my car. The last thing I want is to have my kids see them right off the bat. I pull a stalk of celery out of the overstuffed paper bag in one hand, so I can point it at my children while I make my way into the kitchen.

  “Mom!” Dean throws his hands in the air, palms toward me in surrender. “Before you say anything, just hear us out.”

  “You’re a villain,” I say and thrust the celery around like a sword. I wave it back and forth between them. “Both of you.”

  “Disarm yourself, Woman.” Marsha chimes in. “We only did what we had to. You never would’ve taken the initiative at work if we didn’t step in. There’s only so long you can use your job as an excuse.”

  She rounds the bar to take the awkwardly full paper bag from my arm and sets it next to the stove before the bottom has a chance to give way and spill its grocery guts all over the tiled floor. She’s completely unfazed by my foodish threats and doesn’t even glance in the celery’s direction.

  Dean’s face lights up at my lighthearted humor. With wide eyes he laughs openly, then he shakes his head and returns his attention back to the schoolwork in front of him. Finals are rapidly approaching, so they've both been glued to their studies. It’s been peaceful this last week, but a little lonely I’ll admit. Another reason I’m afraid to be by myself for the summer. I’m a great mom, and for the most part my kids prefer to spend the majority of their time with me, so I’m rarely lonely.

  I don’t want to be alone for months on end. My mind wanders to the billboard, and I remind myself of the water dripping down the muscular back. Okay, alone is one thing. Alone on the beach might not be so bad, with the possibility of a view like that close by.

  “Spaghetti? Really?” Marsha moans, pulling the sauce from the bag and holding it into the air with her other hand on her hip. One brow slowly lifts to a perfectly pointed form of quizzical defiance. Her brows are the best, it’s like they each work on their own grid. Separate entities and such. “I thought we were having steak. Do you realize we requested it by way of celebration?”

  “I don’t take requests from traitors.” I tell her and take a dramatic crunch from the end of my celery stalk.

  Dean cringes. Without looking up he mumbles, “You know you didn’t wash that, right?”

  I shrug, “I guess if I die of an unclean veggie disease then I won’t have to leave work for three months to live in a stranger’s house then, huh?”

  Marsha talks over her shoulder while she fills a pot of water to boil the noodles in.

  “Mom you know Stephany, she’s far from a stranger. Her family needs someone they can trust to stay in their house for the summer. We’ve gone over this. The plants need watering, squatters kept at bay, the dust needs to not accumulate… blah blah blah. It's a really nice place, Mom. It's only two hours away, and it's right on the beach.”

  “I’m forty-one years old. I don’t need a summer on the beach. I need a warm fuzzy blanket, a How to Knit for Dummies book, and the cure to cottage cheese ass.”

  “Gross!” Dean interjects.

  I lean my rear end against the fridge and cross one foot over the other while I continue to munch on my uncleansed food. If nothing else, I’ll kick back and let Marsha prep dinner while I whine in protest. Dean has textbooks and notes splayed out across the entire kitchen table. He’s completely buried in his studies. I’m surprised he had the capability of noticing my food, or my ass comments. He’s always been a one-track-mind kind of guy, and despite his usually carefree humor, he’s determined to make it into medical school.

  “Whatever.” Marsha says. She pulls out a chopping block and sets to work on a salad. “You don’t have any sign of cottage cheese ass. You’re a devilishly hot middle-aged woman with perfect skin and minimal wrinkles.”

  “Why thank you, my dear meddler.”

  Crunch, the last bite of celery rolls around on my tongue.

  “Really though,” she persists, “the beach is just what you need. Show off that body of yours while you still can. Time is ticking you know.”

  I roll my eyes dramatically and flop myself down on a barstool. Drumming my fingers on the countertop gives me a fidgeting outlet while I watch my daughter take over dinner with ease, moving from dish to pot, careful not to over-season or over-cook anything. She’s always so comfortable in the kitchen. I don’t know where she gets it. I’m certainly no chef, and the only thing her father’s ever managed to do is burn a few BBQ’s. Thank God for the sexy pizza delivery guy who comes around with our usual at least once a week. Maybe I like pizza, maybe I like his smile - who knows.

  “Okay,” I announce, “let’s toy with the idea that I go along with this summer plot.”

  Everything stills. Marsha stops stirring the sauce and stands like a statue. No breathing, no moving, only holding as stiff as humanly possible as she waits for me to continue. Dean looks up from his studies with his mouth agape. I chuckle and keep talking.

  “Let’s say we use up a bit of your saving accounts.” I accentuate the word your, to really drive my point home. “Then what? Dean, how will you be able to afford a fancy new sports car? Marsha, what if you decide you want to rebel a little? You know, buy a bunch of expensive clothes, cover half your body in tattoos, get a boob job?”

  “Arrrrgh,” Dean moans, and without looking up he reminds me. “I’m going to be a doctor soon, remember? By the time I go through a midlife crisis and want a flashy car, I’ll be able to afford two.”

  Marsha taps the sauce off of her stirring spoon before setting it down and spinning on her heels to face me.

  “A boob job? Really? That’s your argument?”

  I shrug and wait for her inevitable rant.

  “For starters,” she says, “don’t make things awkward. You know I like having small boobs, it’s the cool thing these days, natural and all. Plus, I have a tiny frame like yours, big boobs would just make me look… weird. Besides that, we agreed to split your spending money between the two of us. We’ll each keep an eye on your account and fill it up as needed.” Her toothy smile rings proud. “Easy peasy. We’re not worried about you spending it all. We know you better!”

  “You might change your mind on the boobs.” I argue. “Plus, I’m the mom here, remembe
r?”

  Dean starts cleaning up his mess, stacking and organizing papers before sliding them into their rightful folders and slamming all of his books shut.

  “Mom,” he says. “Just cut to the chase. Why are you fighting this? It’s the last summer Stephany’s family will need a house sitter, like probably ever. They don’t want anyone they’re unsure of or that they can’t trust, so you’re a perfect fit. Stephany has convinced them not to find anyone else until you make up your mind. They’re leaving next week, and you'll never find an opportunity like this again.”

  “Maybe it’s because I, well, I’m old.”

  “No, you’re not.” He argues.

  I ponder his straightforward approach. “Too old to run off and spend a summer on the beach. It’s strange. What am I supposed to do with myself? Swim?”

  In unison they blurt, “Maybe you’ll meet someone.”

  “I knew it!” I shout, drop my head back, and throw my palms in the air. “I knew that’s what this was all about. You two just assume that a single woman on the beach automatically summons a hook-up of sorts. Not every aging lady needs a man, you know.”

  With that, my stomach knots. I haven’t been with a soul since I divorced Bradley and hadn’t fooled around with him for at least two years before that. The dirty cheater. Anyway. I’m not exactly sure how long it’s been since I got laid. Depressing, I know. Some say that with time, the ache for human touch goes away. That’s a bold-faced lie in my case. I think about sex all the time, and it only grows with age. I miss it. At one point I was even good at it. No... great at it.

  All my friends have tried hooking me up on blind dates, insisting that orgasms are top notch when you’re in your thirties. It never panned out. I hated all the dates and didn’t even let them get to second base. I guess the whole, “sex is amazing in your mid-to-late thirties” myth will forever remain a mystery for me. Perhaps this summer I'll find out how things work in bed for an early forties gal?