Free The Queen Gene by Jennifer Coburn Page A

report you to animal cruelty. Seriously, Mother, no dog should have to live this way.”
    “What way? Spot is spoiled rotten. Do you know what he had for supper last night, darling? I fed him steak tartar!”
    “Then let the dog enjoy his steak tartar without fear of it being sucked out of his ass the next day,” I said.
    “It was just a thought,” she said sheepishly. “What do you think I should do? You know I can’t stand to witness suffering.”
    “Well, Mother, you might try taking him out of your purse every now and then and letting him burn some of his energy doing normal dog things.”
    “Such as?” she inquired.
    “I don’t know, chasing sticks, burying things. Maybe you could take him to Washington Square Park and toss around a Frisbee.”
    “He couldn’t get his mouth around a Frisbee, darling!”
    “Then one of your old diaphragms, Mother. The point is that he needs to burn some energy.”
    She sighed. “I don’t know. Let me give it some thought.”
    “Our guests are coming in four days,” I told Anjoli.
    “Guests?”
    “The artist and his wife, remember? I’m buying sheets for the guest house. It feels so real all of a sudden,” I said.
    “It must,” she returned. “I spoke with your aunt Bernice yesterday.”
    “Oh?” I said, wondering how much she revealed.
    “I think the woman’s losing her mind,” Anjoli said. “She was carrying on, telling me I had to shave off my pubic hair. Can you imagine? She says you told her it would keep her vagina cooler. Anyway, she’s convinced all of the women in her condo to try it, and apparently it’s the rage among seniors in south Florida right now. I’m very concerned about her stability, darling.”
    “Well, it seems harmless enough and —”
    “Hang on a sec, would you, darling? I’ve got a call waiting.” After two full minutes, she returned. “I’ll call you back, Lucy. It’s Kimmy. She’s lost in New Haven.”

Chapter Nine
    I had just put Adam to bed for the night when Jack’s car pulled in to the driveway with Maxime and Jacquie. It was a snowy Valentine’s Day, which I thought was an appropriate, however coincidental, time to bring French artists into our lives to fulfill a dream concocted on Jack’s and my first date. My heart raced with anticipation.
    When a cold rush of air burst in the front door and I saw their faces, I knew everything would be fine. Maxime had a wide, weather-beaten face with black razor stubble that matched his shoulder-length wavy hair. He had high cheek bones, icy blue eyes, and a dimple in his chin. When he smiled, one side of his mouth opened a bit wider than the other. Jacquie’s eggplant-color leather coat was the first thing I noticed about her. That and her brightly colored Kandinsky-patterned silk scarf. Her hair was long and wavy, mostly pepper, but some salt too. It was twisted and pinned up in the back. The couple seemed utterly unafraid of appearing their age, which I knew from their application to be early forties. They placed their one suitcase in the foyer and immediately made their way over to me for kisses and hugs. I was unprepared for such warmth from strangers.
    After both cheeks were double stamped by each of our new guests, Jacquie informed me that she and Maxime brought a bottle of wine from near the town where they live. Or used to live. They gave up their apartment in Lyon and planned to travel through the United States after they left our place after Labor Day.
    “Your accent,” I said without thinking. “You sound American, Jacquie.”
    “This is what I tell her,” Maxime said, laughing. “Which is perfect when she speaks English, but not so good when she speaks French,” he said with the zeeses and zats of a man whose native tongue is French.
    “I was raised in the United States until I was twelve,” said Jacquie, seemingly not offended by Maxime’s comment. She then turned to him and snapped something in French. I hoped the two wouldn’t have their private