Cupid's Confederates by Jeanne Grant Page B

that…crew of men. Sweetheart, look at your nails.”
    Bett dutifully looked at her nails. All ten were there, clipped very short. Her small hands didn’t fare well with physical work, which was why she constantly plied them with hand lotion. They were never going to pass for the hands of a lady of leisure, but she couldn’t see any actual deformities.
    “See what I mean?” Elizabeth said gently.
    “Not exactly.”
    “Many, many women,” Elizabeth said obliquely, “make the terrible mistake of letting themselves go after they’ve been married awhile. Just a little. As if once you’ve caught the man, you don’t have to worry anymore about keeping him.”
    Bett shuffled her cards back together, scooped up her mother’s and started putting them back in their cardboard box. “I’m almost positive Zach isn’t on the verge of divorcing me because of the state of my hands,” she said dryly.
    “Now, don’t get defensive.”
    “I’m not getting defensive.”
    “I was married to your father for a long time, you know. We had a good marriage, a very good one. That took work on both sides, Brittany, don’t think it didn’t. The hunt and chase is very exciting before you’re married, but then a man suddenly realizes he doesn’t have to chase anymore, once the ring’s on her finger. Humdrum sets in. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about, because I’ve never met a woman yet who hasn’t gone through it. The man’s just not in as much of a hurry to pursue, so to speak.”
    Bett cupped her chin in her palm. She’d been through a lot of these lectures with her chin cupped in her palm. For some strange reason, though, she had an odd stricken feeling inside. Humdrum didn’t apply to her and Zach. Luck, undoubtedly? Actually, it was Zach. But for the past two weeks, Zach really hadn’t seemed to mind that their lovemaking had been interrupted every time, nor that their touch-and-tease contacts throughout the day had been curtailed. Bett swallowed suddenly. “What is it you’re suggesting?” she asked quietly.
    Elizabeth smiled in triumph. “Several things, really. Darling, don’t you think Zach could be tired of seeing you in jeans and work clothes every day? And what exactly do you think he feels when he notices grease under your fingernails?”
    Bett didn’t know. It had never occurred to her before. She’d thought more along the lines of the pleasure of doing work together than the appearance of her hands before they were washed. Dirty fingernails were…rather disgusting. Which was why she was always careful to clean her hands thoroughly and use the apricot hand cream liberally, but she’d never really thought of how often Zach had seen her fresh—or not so fresh—from the fields.
    “And you doing rough-and-tumble work. Man’s work. Honey, do you think so much has changed over the generations? A man still likes to feel he’s bigger and stronger than his woman. All men like to protect, to believe they’re taking care of their wives. If you take that away from him, maybe he sees you less as a woman?”
    “Mom.” Bett took a long, weary breath. The whole conversation was ridiculous, but a most undesirable flicker of doubt was suddenly preying on her already jangled nerves. When they were first married, she’d invariably come home from work in a dress or skirt. Zach had inevitably commented on her legs, the scent she wore. He was so damned impatient half the time that they’d skip dinner, or forget it. He’d always been…impatient. But the past couple of weeks, he hadn’t seemed to care at all that they’d been interrupted. Maybe…
    Elizabeth pressed her advantage. “You used to wear padded bras to build up your figure. A little makeup, darling. And your hair, if we had it cut and permed—”
    Bett’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “I had ten thousand permanents as a child. They never worked.”
    “Maybe this time—”
    “ No, Mom.”
    Elizabeth sighed. “Well, makeup,