I’m kinda shocked by the attention he’s paying Mom.Mom?Especially when he hasthatwife? But I guess Pa is right: he did take a shine to Mom after all. Humph. I don’t get it. But whatever.
“Yeah, I love the outdoors, love going out to my land,” Mr. Andersen says.
“You a hunter?” Mom asks, twisting a lock of her hair with her free hand.
“I am. Or…I was. I mean, I still hunt sometimes, still go out there and camp, too, but…not as much as I’d like.” His voice low, he takes a step toward Mom. “Like I said the other night, the family’s not so into it. These,” he says, rattling the box of bullets at Mom, “are for the shooting range.”
“Well, I for one can’t get enough of it,” Mom says, locking her eyes onto his.
I blush at her brazenness. Other than with Pa, I’ve never seen her like this. She’s always the dutiful wife, devoted, faithful. This flirty side is…jarring.
“I love sleeping under an open sky, out in the fresh air, beneath the stars. Sometimes without even a tent. Or a sleeping bag.” A wicked grin creeps across Mom’s lips.
It may be creepy but I gotta hand it to her, she’s hooking him. A verse from Bible study, which she leads us in, flashes across my brain:For the lips of the adulterous woman drip honey, and her speech is smoother than oil.
Mr. Andersen inches even closer to her, leans in. “Whaddyahave here?” His fingers edge the lip of the box. Their heads are nearly touching. His crown of golden hair, perfectly held in place with light product, glistens in the light streaming down from the skylights.
There’s something about him; he’s not only gorgeous; he’s magnetic. Can’t say I blame Mom for fully getting into character here.
“Oh,” she says, tapping a finger to her cheek, blushing, “these are just my samples. I make my own oils and botanicals.”
“That’s amazing,” Mr. Andersen says.
He pries one from the box.
His lips crinkle into a smile. “Love Potion?”
Red streaks claw up Mom’s neck. “Yep. It’s my most popular one. Your wife—”
“Charleigh—”
“Yeah, she came out to visit us but said y’all weren’t in any need of it—” Now it’s Mom who leans in closer, tilting her chest down so that we can both see down the top of her dress.
“Did she now?” Mr. Andersen replies, sounding like he’s got a frog in his throat.
“She also said y’all weren’t interested in my husband’s customs, but,” Mom says, licking her lips, “you seem to be a man of exquisite taste. So maybeyou’dlike to look at some of my husband’s work, see for yourself?”
I feel overheated just spying on them, my breath hitching in my lungs, wondering how long this will go on.
At this, Mr. Andersen is silent. He scratches the back of hisneck, and as he does, his shirt crawls up, revealing his tanned, toned abs.
Mom lowers the box to the floor; his eyes feast on her boobs.
She nearly knocks her head into his face when she stands back up. In her hand, a business card. She flicks it toward him.
He accepts, gripping it in his fingers.
“Shop’s out at our place, on our land. Come see us sometime. Number’s on the back. I’m almost always there.”
She heaves back down again, collects the box.
Mr. Andersen’s eyes are crimped into a smile; his mouth is dangling open.
Hook. Line. And sinker.
Later
The scorching wind rattles through the pines, scrapes the surface of the lake.
