if you want to tell something the way it really is and not mislead people.
The fact is, I’m not and never was ugly. My face doesn’t stop clocks. But then, it doesn’t stop traffic, either. People have said I have a “sweet” face, and I’ve been called “cute.” Not many people have ever used the term “beautiful” in connection with me. Those who did—like my parents—were either blinded by prejudice in my favor, lying outright to spare my feelings, or hoping to lay me.
George Gunderson used to call me “beautiful” and “gorgeous,” but you should’ve seen George. I was probably the only gal in the history of his life who didn’t run away screaming. Besides, he was just flattering me to get in my pants. Guys are that way, in case you never noticed.
Anyway, I’m not exactly beautiful or gorgeous. I just have an ordinary, fairly pleasant-looking face. My natural hair color is brown, but I tint it a nice, light shade of blond. My eyes are brown. So are my teeth.
Just kidding about the teeth.
Maybe I shouldn’t joke around like that. After all, this is supposed to be a serious book. People do tell me, though, that I’ve got an interesting sense of humor.
My two greatest attributes, if you listen to what other people say, are my sense of humor and my smile. They also say I’m a “nice” person, and that I’m “caring.” But what do they know?
Though I’m nothing special in the face department, I do have a damn good body on me. I’m large for a woman (five-foot ten), and used to be on the husky side. Hell, I was fat and dumpy. But my first year at college, I pulled myself together and got into shape. Ever since then, I’ve stayed fit. I look great in a swimsuit—and even better out of one.
But mostly, I keep my main assets well hidden. I don’t like for guys to see what I’ve got.
Back when I was dumpy, they never wanted to look at me or be seen with me. After I got into shape, though, I had to fight them off. Just about all of them were total jerks. They didn’t want to know me or have fun. All they cared about was the fact that I was “built.”
According to several charmers, I was “built like a brick shithouse.”
I don’t even know what a brick shithouse looks like.
What the hell is a brick shithouse? Why would anyone want to compare me to one? It’s not only crass, but it doesn’t even make sense.
When you come right down to it, most guys stink. By the time I was twenty-six and living above Serena’s garage, I’d pretty much given up on them.
But then came the night the stranger showed up.
It was a hot night in July. Serena and Charlie were off on a vacation with the kids, and wouldn’t be coming back for a week. In the meantime, I had the entire house to myself. They always encouraged me to stay in the real house whenever they went away. They said it made the house look “lived in,” so it wouldn’t be a target for burglars. Maybe they believed what they were saying. Personally, though, I think they were just being nice to me. They figured I would much rather spend the week in their house than in my room above the garage.
They were partly right. They had a wonderful kitchen, a master bathroom with a sunken tub that was absolutely heavenly, and a den with a thirty-five-inch television. Whenever I had the run of the house, I prepared great meals for myself, lounged in the bathtub, and spent hours watching the big-screen TV.
In the master bedroom was a king-sized bed about three times the size of my bed in the garage. The walls and closet doors on both sides of it were lined with mirrors, and another huge mirror was fixed to the ceiling directly above the mattress. Serena told me they were Charlie’s idea. They probably were. Serena must’ve like them, too, though. The mirrors wouldn’t have gone up if she hadn’t approved. She and Charlie were both a couple of gorgeous specimens, so it’s hardly any wonder that they liked to watch each other—and themselves.
The first time I ever stayed overnight in the house, I tried out their bed. I looked pretty good in the mirrors, myself, but I also looked very alone sprawled out in the center of that enormous mattress. And then I got