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Praise for Rexanne Becnel
“Ms. Becnel creates the most intriguing characters and infuses them with fiery personalities and quick minds.”
—Literary Times on The Bride of Rosecliff
“…Becnel skillfully blends romance and adventure with a deft hand.”
—Publishers Weekly on When Lightning Strikes
“There’s magic in Rexanne Becnel’s ability to conjure a story.”
—Baton Rouge Advocate on Where Magic Dwells
“Becnel gives us true insight into the human spirit.”
—Romantic Times on The Matchmaker
“Rexanne’s stories stay with the reader long after the final page is turned.”
—Literary Times on Heart of the Storm
Rexanne Becnel
Rexanne Becnel, the author of nineteen novels and two novellas, swears she could not be a writer if it weren’t for New Orleans’s many coffeehouses. She does all her work longhand, with a mug of coffee at her side. She is a charter member of the Southern Louisiana Chapter of Romance Writers of America, and founded the New Orleans Popular Fiction Conference.
Rexanne’s novels regularly appear on bestseller lists such as USA TODAY, Amazon.com, Waldenbooks, Ingrams and Barnes and Noble. She has been nominated for and received awards from Romantic Times, Waldenbooks, The Holt Committee, the Atlanta Journal/Atlanta Constitution and the National Readers Choice Awards.
Old Boyfriends
Rexanne Becnel
From the Author
Dear Reader,
You’d think an author with eighteen books under her belt wouldn’t be so excited about the publication of her nineteenth!
Wrong!
Old Boyfriends marks the beginning of a new direction for me: from historical romance to what I fondly call “girlfriend” books. Little did I know when I started writing about Cat and Bitsey and MJ that a new publishing outlet was being created for that exact sort of book. I am so happy to be a part of NEXT and their wonderful lineup of books and authors. Writing about women my age with my concerns and my fears and hopes has rejuvenated my creative side. Maybe too much. You see, I write in a coffeehouse and I know some of the other patrons wonder about me. I sit at my corner table, pen in hand, and grin and frown and mumble to myself. Sometimes I even shed a tear or two. But I’m too happy with what I’m doing to care if they think I’m crazy.
Writing Old Boyfriends was sometimes hard and sometimes effortless, but always fulfilling. I hope you find reading it equally satisfying.
Best wishes,
Rexanne
For my friends on Jackson Avenue
who keep me sane and focused.
Contents
CHAPTER 1: Death and Dieting
CHAPTER 2: Not Without My Daughter
CHAPTER 3: Getting the Hell Back to Dodge
CHAPTER 4: Men and Whine
CHAPTER 5: Baby You Can Drive My Car
CHAPTER 6: The Heat Is On
CHAPTER 7: Between a Rock and a Hard Place
CHAPTER 8: Are You In or Are You Out?
CHAPTER 9: Should I Stay or Should I Go?
CHAPTER 10: On the Brink
CHAPTER 11: Bed Head & Boob Jobs
CHAPTER 12: Walking to New Orleans
CHAPTER 13: Home Again
CHAPTER 1
Death and Dieting
Cat
M y friend M.J.’s husband died on a Friday, lying on the table during a therapeutic massage. A massive heart attack, that’s how the newspaper reported it. But that’s only because his son and the PR firm for their restaurant chain made sure that’s what they reported.
The truth? Viagra and the too-capable ministrations of a pseudowoman, pseudomasseuse wearing a black oriental wig, a red thong and fishnet hose are what did in Frank Hollander. The table was actually a round bed covered with black satin sheets, with an honest-to-God mirror on the ceiling. The House of the Rising Sun serves a very good hot and sour soup downstairs, but the therapy going on upstairs isn’t the sort that the chairman of this year’s United Way Fund Drive could afford to be associated with.
Needless to say, the funeral was huge. The mayor spoke, the bishop said the mass, and the choir from St. Joseph’s Special School, a major beneficiary of the United Way, sang good old Frank into the ground. As pure as those kids’ souls were, even they couldn’t have sung Frank into heaven.
Afterward, M.J.’s stepchildren entertained the mourners at her home, where everyone came up to the widow and said all the things they were supposed to:
“If I can do anything, Mary Jo, just call. Promise me you’ll call.”
“Your husband was a great man, Mrs. Hollander. We’ll all miss him.”
Blah, blah, blah. It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut. But Bitsey had given me my marching orders and I knew my role. I was there to support M.J., not to air my opinion about her sleazy bastard of a husband and his gang of no-good kids.
Thank God for Bitsey—and I’m not using the Lord’s name casually when I say that. Thank you, God, for giving me Bitsey. She’s like the voice of reason in my life, the perfect mother image for someone sorely deprived of that in her biological parent.
M.J., Bitsey and me. Three girls raised in the South, but trapped in California.
Well, I think that maybe I was the only one who felt trapped in the vast, arid beigeness of southern California. But then, I felt trapped wherever I was. I was slowly figuring that out.
That Tuesday, however, at M.J.’s palatial home with the air-conditioning running double time, and Frank Jr.’s Pacific Rim fusion restaurant catering the after-funeral festivities, we were all feeling trapped. Sushi at a funeral is beyond unreal.
Bitsey had explained to M.J. that she had to stay downstairs until the last guests left. She was the hostess, and it was only right. But yes, she could anesthetize herself if she wanted to. Everybody else was.
So M.J., in her perfect size-six black Giselle dress and her Jimmy Choo slingbacks, sat in Frank Sr.’s favorite fake leopard-skin chair and tossed back five vodka martinis in less than two hours.
M.J. drank, Bitsey ate, and I fumed and wanted to get the hell out of there. That awful, morbid couple of hours sums up pretty well how the three of us react to any stress thrown our way. And God knows there’s enough of it. When Bitsey hurts, she eats. Even when she was on Phen-Fen, and now Meridia, if she’s hurting—especially if her husband, Jack, pulls some stunt—she eats. Considering that Jack Albertson can be a coldhearted bastard, and unlike Frank, doesn’t bother to hide it, it’s no wonder she’s packed close to two hundred pounds onto her five-foot-four frame. The more she eats, the fatter she gets, and the more remote and critical he gets. Which, of course, makes her eat even more.
But I digress, which I do a lot. According to my sometimes therapist, that’s a typical coping mechanism: catalog everybody else’s flaws and you’ll be too busy to examine your own. M.J. drinks,