Folks, this is a sneak preview from Jennifer Oliver's romantic fiction-in-progress called "Wife Seeking Wife."  Let her know what you think of it!
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CHAPTER ONE

Cranberry Falls, Texas

        Before logging off for the night, Sheridan decided to check her inbox.

          The latest e-mail rested on a stack of unopened notes, most of them from well-meaning family members.  Subject line after subject line, it was the same.  Our Condolences.  Sorry.  Thoughts and Prayers.  Oftentimes she dragged the notes over to the virtual trash bin, only to resurrect them out of guilt.  She'd been doing this for almost three years now, these notes pecking at her wounds.  It was a means of pinching herself to keep the pain real.

          She clicked on the tiny sealed envelope next to her best friend's name.

          "Hey Sheri, check out this web site at www.woman2woman.com.  You're in for a real treat, hon!  =:o)"

Sheridan Glover smiled at her friend's standard smiley-face sign-off.  So typical of Carly, constantly mining the Internet for wacky web sites.  Anything to cheer her up.  Lord knows she needed it.

Clicking on the site in her friend's e-mail note immediately launched the Internet.

Half smiling, she blinked, puzzling over the landscape of the page.  No marquees, music, animations.  A simple menu pasted to a pale blue background with a couple of static advertising logos.

"Welcome to Woman2Woman!" crawled into view, followed by a brief shower of confetti.

Oddly enough, the plainness of it was appealing.  As a self-employed web designer, she found this disconcerting.  After all, she wasn't nicknamed the Webadonna for nothing.  Bells and whistles were her livelihood.  Clearly this was the work of a novice.

Sheridan clicked on one of the menu options.

STORIES TO FILL YOUR HEART, shouted the banner.  A series of titles were formatted neatly into two columns.  Obviously soul-stirring stories judging from the titles.

Begging for attention beneath the banner were the words "SUBSCRIBE NOW!"

Need inspiration? it asked.  A little light in your life?  If you want a heart-to-heart, become a member today.  You'll receive free uplifting stories in your e-mail every Friday.

Sheridan backed out of the page.  She wasn't in the mood to have her soul stirred.  If that's what Carly had in mind, she was wrong.  Besides she had enough e-mails clogging her system.

Scanning the menu, she settled on "About Me."  Another pale blue page with what looked like a letter centered on the screen.

"I am a wife," it began, "seeking a wife."

What?!

Okay, Carly, she thought, chuckling.  You got me.  Just because I haven't the energy to look for a man, now you're trying to send me into the arms of a woman?

Curious, she read on.

My Dearest Woman2Woman Friends,

 The proverbial axe has fallen.  Three weeks ago my doctor confirmed my worst fears.  The grim reaper, a.k.a. cancer, is swallowing me whole.  Not only has it robbed me of breasts, it's also robbing me of growing old gracefully with my beautiful husband and children.  The rest of my life consists of months, my dear friends.  Maybe less.

             I am seeking a wife to carry the torch after my job is done here on earth.  This is not something I take lightly.  I have thought this through completely.

             E-mail me if you think you can handle this much beauty in one household.

            Love, Grace Hennessy

Sheridan's smile turned to stone, her mind reeling as if she'd been broad sided.  She glanced at the tiny date in the bottom corner.  August 4, 1999.  The page was last updated two months ago.

Beneath the letter was an underlined statement, "Click here to see our photo album!"

No.  I will not look at them.

This is simply ghoulish.

Intrusive.

I will not--

Click.

            Nothing.  Just a blank page with a little cartoon construction guy jack-hammering asphalt.  The page was under construction.

Sorry, it said.  Please check back again.

Quickly, as if she had entered the men's bathroom by mistake, she backed out.  She stared at the unsettling words.

I am a wife seeking a wife.

Insane.  Sheridan shook her head.  Insane.

Yet...

Something about the woman's plea intrigued her.  After all, what mother didn't fear the demise of her family after she was gone?  Was her husband even aware of her matchmaking sideline?

This couldn't wait until morning.  Sheridan punched in seven digits on her cordless handset.

"Rise and shine, sillyhead!" she spoke into the earpiece.

"You have reached the Cleavage residence," the voice responded sleepily.  "And if you're not Kevin Costner, then don't even bother."

"That's not gonna work with me, Carly."

Sheridan pictured her friend bundled up in thick cotton pajamas, her sassy curls in velvety, black tangles.  The girl had thin skin when it came to mild Texas winters.  When no one was warming her toes, Carly floated in a cloud of blankets and pillows.

"Sheri, what’s your problem?  Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?"

"Just for the halibut."

"Hardy har."

"I'd like to know the meaning of your little e-mail."

"What?  What e-mail?"

"Like you don't know, Carly."

"Is this what you interrupted my beauty sleep for?  For some piddly little e-mail?" Carly asked, yawning.  "I just thought you might want to subscribe to the newsletter.  Someone forwarded me one of those stories, and I'm telling you, this woman is real."

"Did you look at her web site?"

"Yeah, just a bit."

"Oh.  So you know about the wife-seeking-wife thing."

"What?!  Hell-ooohh!" Carly sing-songed, laughing and sounding wide awake now.  "What did you do?  Enter one of those dating services by accident?  What's this about wife-swapping?"

Sheridan paused, chewing her lip.  She could save this for their lunch tomorrow.

Then again...maybe not.

Sheridan couldn’t believe what she was thinking.  They had shared everything since they first met on a seesaw.  Mutual love of Nancy Drew and Harlequins, training bras, strawberry lip-gloss, and one time even the same boyfriend.  Heck, they filled in each other’s diary the summer prior to seventh grade.

"Sorry, Carly.  Go back to sleep.  I hear Kevin Costner has just tattooed your name on his dearie-ear."

"Well, now, that's a fine howdy doo-doo.  Just leave me hanging, why don't you."

"Good night, Carly.  See you at the restaurant tomorrow."

"Ah.  Changing the subject.  Real smooth."

"You're boring me."

Carly mimicked snoring, then hung up.  Sheridan shook her head with amusement.

The family portrait above the computer caught her eye.  Normally she did not linger on the smiling faces under glass.  But this moment seemed to draw out a hunger in her.  She reached up and grabbed the pine frame from the shelf, cradling it in her lap.  Perhaps it was a side effect of weaning herself away from anti-depressants, this melancholy ache in her bones.

Perhaps it was the plight of a dying woman she did not know that moved Sheridan to focus on her son.

He was three years old when the family photo was taken.  Trevor Blake Glover.  It was a name that honored both grandfathers.  Trevor for her father-in-law.  Blake for her dearly departed daddy.

He embodied the best of both parents as if genetically programmed.  Shimmering eyes, the color of clear tropical waters, thanks to his father.  A dimple that deepened with mischief, and thick dirt-blonde hair that often betrayed the comb (again, thanks, Dad).  Lips that quivered when he cupped baby birds that attempted flight too soon.

Sheridan lightly traced his features with her forefinger.  His smile mirrored hers.  Expansive, showing two rows of small, even teeth.  His kisses sometimes smelled of peanut butter and crackers.

One sweet moment, like a video clip, popped up unbidden.

"Mom, look what I made!"

She glanced up, smiling.  Posing in the doorway of her home office was Trevor, five years old at the time, ruddy cheeks from exploring trails around their country estate.  On his head was a dry coffee filter, and he held a makeshift sword fashioned out of twigs and rubber bands.

"I'm a knight!"

"And what a brave, handsome knight you are, Sir Trevor!"

"I'm going to be a knight when I grow up."

"You'll make a fine one, I'm sure."

"Chaaa—aaarge...” he yelled, his voice echoing down the hallway.

Sheridan wrenched herself away from that moment with her son, leaping from three summers ago to the present.  Sitting in the same office from which her little knight had charged away.

It was a fun photograph.  All three of them were lying on the floor of the photography studio on their tummies with matching acid-washed jeans and white button-down shirts, juxtaposed against a blinding white backdrop.  They crooked their legs up, feet bare, parents on both sides of Trevor, their arms wrapped around him.  Looking as if they had just had a tickling match.

Well, they had done just that.  Faces flushed, they molded to each other like clay, and the camera managed to capture the heart of their existence with one flash.

She gazed at her husband, drinking in the reasons why she loved him to the core of her being.

Kyle's outrageous laugh.  The kind of laugh that made her join in even when she failed to see the humor.

Tanned from rounds of golf with the upper echelons of the firm that hired him fresh out of law school after serving his internship there for three consecutive summers.

Strong, square hands.  Hands that had once manhandled bales of hay during boyhood summers on his grandparents' farm north of Austin.  Hands that deftly swaddled their newborn.  Warm and dry in the curve of her back, kneading tension out of her shoulders.

His penetrating love for life.

I never wanna die.

Kyle always said that.

I never wanna die.  You and me, baby, we're going to grow old together.  We'll fly into the sunset and keep on flying until we leave the wind and the stars -- the whole world -- behind.

Then he'd sing, slightly twisting the end to Harry Chapin's "Taxi."

We're gonna flyyyy so high...

            And we're stoned.

Sheridan shifted her gaze from the family portrait to the object leaning against the loveseat in her office.  It was a gift she had planned to give to Kyle for his fortieth birthday, a door from an old biplane she had stumbled across at an antique shop. 

A local artist was commissioned to paint a cloudy sky scene and use calligraphy to print on it Kyle's favorite poem, "High Flight - The Aviator's Poem."  She especially loved the closing:

"And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
            The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
             Put out my hand and touched the face of God."

            Flying...

Sheridan brushed it away, concentrating instead on the woman in the photograph.  She hardly recognized herself.  Long, molasses-colored hair, unfettered by hair-styling products.  A smile borne of carefree thoughts.  She was not model-gorgeous.  What she lacked in long legs she more than made up for in charismatic energy.  She could've easily passed for the Avon lady, preaching her wares over pecan rolls and cappuccino.

Sheridan returned the family portrait to the shelf above the computer, then leaned back in her executive-style chair, hands clasped behind her head.  She made mental Post-its of her life.

A sprawling estate nestled in Texas hill country that had been in her father's family for well over a century.

In-laws who graciously enfolded her into their lives, calling her an out-law because she was always wanted.

Carly.  Her best friend since third grade.

A job she loved with a cyber-Rolodex bulging with clientele.

Hair that turned white almost overnight.

Grief-etched lines around her mouth and eyes.

Twenty-something extra pounds that snuck up on her.

Thirty-nine years old and feeling ninety.

Hollow rooms.

Empty arms--

A sudden realization froze her in mid-thought.

She remembered something Carly had said a while back.  Always the pseudo-psychologist, Carly liked to spring various mood-altering tactics on her.  Anything to help her through the healing process.

Reach out to others, she had said.  Reaching out to others will help take your mind off your own troubles, girlfriend.

At the time, Sheridan swept away her friend's glib statement as she was still trembling with grief just one year after the accident.  Damn it, she didn't have time to coddle others when her own life had slammed into a brick wall.

That was over a year ago though, a voice inside needled her.  And what are you doing with yourself these days?  You hibernate inside a cyberspace cubicle, shrouded in guilt, not connecting with anyone real beyond your family and closest friend.  When was the last time you thawed out in the presence of strangers?  At a beach?  A dinner party?  A simple stroll through an antique store, for Christ's sake?

            Will the real Sheridan Glover please wake up?

That's it, she thought, gritting her teeth.  I'm tired of being tired.  I'm tired of not living.

She immediately went to her incoming e-mail folder.  One by one, she deleted each sympathy note.

Then Sheridan clicked on the e-mail button to open a new note and began typing with the kind of clarity she hadn't felt in years.

Dear Grace, she began.  You don't know me.  My name is Sheridan Glover, and three years ago my world fell apart.

********************

Sighing, she switched off the computer and the Mickey Mouse desk lamp.  The one Trevor gave to her for her "office-warming" party.

Sheridan felt as if a load had been spirited away, having funneled her entire life into one e-mail note.  This sense of peace was generating a nice buzz.  She'd meant to keep the message brief, but her fingers had been furiously keeping pace with thoughts needing release.

Sheridan tightened the cotton robe around her middle and padded down the dusty-blue carpet of the hallway lined with generations of framed photographs.  She walked past her son's room, skirting the master bedroom as well.  After filling a glass with cool tap water in the kitchen, she strode to the double French doors that opened up to the sunroom where a queen-sized futon, encased in sunflower-print sheets, was parked on the table-rock floor.

She set the glass down on an old wooden footstool next to the futon and removed her robe, draping it over the arm of an Adirondack chair.  She smoothed out her Garfield nightshirt and tossed her ankle socks into a dark corner.

Slipping in between the sheets, Sheridan felt the weight of the moon.  Its cold light filtered through ancient bald cypresses clutching the banks of the Guadalupe River that dissected their 180 acres.  Skeletons of dead flower stalks, ones she had planted and nourished in a former life, gently raked the windows.  She pulled up to her chin a feather-tick coupled with her great-aunt's faded quilt.

The clock-radio glowed 1:37.  Usually she passed out well before midnight, but thanks to Carly, she was wired.  She didn't ordinarily indulge in the past, but tonight she slipped away to brighter days.  When time was measured not by clocks, but by hope, dreams, and laughter.

********************

Kyle was barely in his second year of law school at the University of Texas in Austin when he received his pilot's license.

His daddy bought him a used single-engine Cessna as a gift for reaching a milestone that had been drummed into Kyle's head since birth.  After all, he would be the third generation of the Glover clan to inherit the love of flight.  Grandpa Glover, a veteran of foreign wars, taught his son, who later taught Kyle, how to maneuver the crop-duster used on the Glover' farm.

Sheridan could honestly tell people that Kyle swept her to new heights.  Their first date was on that Cessna.

Even their first encounter was the stuff of fairy tales.

He found her in one of the Chilling Stations at U.T.  Cross-legged on a couch, Sheridan was nodding as she cradled an open biology book in her lap.  Each time her head snapped back, she'd blink away temptation of sleep.  Finally she surrendered.  She stretched out her legs, used her breasts to bookmark the molecular chapter in her book, then closed her eyes.

Just resting my eyes, her father used to say before drifting off.

She must have dozed.  A heady whiff of lemon sours jolted her awake.

"Hello, Sleeping Beauty."

Disoriented, she rubbed her eyes.  A man towered over her, grinning indulgently, his face upside down from her viewpoint. 

Then it dawned on her.

He had kissed her.

Well, this was a first.  She'd never been kissed upside down before.

And definitely not by a stranger arrogant enough to assume the role of Prince Charming.

She beckoned him with the crook of her forefinger, mouthing, "Come closer."

The slap across his face resonated through the milling crowd.  A couple of students elbowed each other, snickering.

Her hand stung.

As did her lips.

It was a kiss that needed an encore.  And no way was she going to admit it.  Not here though.  Not now.

"This Saturday you and me are flying," he said, unfazed by the impression she left on his cheek.

Those green eyes.  She found herself dipping into them.  They looked strangely familiar.

"I'm busy," she retorted.

Prince Charming smiled and began to walk away.

"I'll pick you up at five, Sheridan."

She bolted upright.

"Wait a minute.  You're the Glover’ boy!"

Winding his way through the crowd with his back to her, he waved to acknowledge that she had scored bull's-eye.

Glover’ boy.  God, what was his name?  The gawky one who always spent summers at the farm near her family's home.

For the rest of that week Sheridan muddled through classes, his name dodging her.

Retracing his kiss...

God, she couldn't wait until Saturday.

Before the rooster’s routine debut, her mother was rapping quietly on her bedroom door.

"Sheridan, honey?" she asked.  "There's a young man at the door asking for you.  He is insisting that you two have a date."

Sheridan eyed the clock and groaned.  Five o'clock on the dot.  Just as he had promised.  Would it have been too much to specify the a.m. or p.m. when asking a girl out on a date?  She ought to burrow deeper into her blankets and ignore him.  That'll teach him some manners.

The promise of his mouth on hers.  Like butter on fresh-baked bread.

"Yes, Mom," she said finally.  "We have a date."

Blindly she donned a pair of gray sweats with a matching top and tamed her hair into a ponytail.  After splashing cold water on her face, she brushed her teeth vigorously, then colored her lips mauve.

Idling in the gravel driveway was a 1957 Chevy pickup that Kyle had borrowed from his grandfather.  It looked like it had been drug through several wars and back, but the engine was solid, and that's all that mattered to him.

"Coffee?" he offered as she shifted her weight into the cab of the pickup.

"Sure," she said, impressed that he had thought of bringing a twin thermos for her.

Their drive to the small airstrip was made up of mostly thoughts strung out between them like sunfish in netting.  Small talk and coffee.  The best antidote for early risers who didn't know each other well.

At the edge of the airstrip, Kyle killed the engine.  He fumbled around for his keys and cracked the window open.

"Wait here," he said.  "I'll go set everything up."

"Kyle Glover!"

He looked bewildered.

"That's your name, isn't it!"

He erupted with laughter.  Oh, that laugh of his.  He walked away, chuckling and shaking his head.  She rather liked the confident swagger in his stride.

It wasn't long before Kyle led her to the plane.  Upon entering the cramped quarters, Sheridan resisted the urge to exit the throbbing plane and flee.  But he had already strapped her in and plopped down next to her, assessing the controls with the eagerness of a child peering into his Easter basket.

"Kyle?"

"Yes?"

"How long have you had your license?"

"A week ago today," he responded with obvious pride.

Oh, God.

As the sun bloomed on the horizon, Sheridan darted one last look at her pilot before squeezing her eyes shut.

When they leveled, she felt his hand on her knee in a genuine attempt to relax her.  She smiled at him, tentatively placed her hand on his, and began feasting on the Texas landscape below.  A myriad of lush fields ripe from summer rains, winding roads, tractors kicking up dirt clouds.

Suddenly--

"My house!" she shrieked with delight.  "There's my house!"

"Jesus, girl!  Thought a duck was headed our way!"

"But that's my house down there!  Hi, Mom!  Hi, Dad!"

"Let me guess.  This is your first time in the air."

"Hey, you're pretty bright.  For a law student."

Laughing, they settled into their date with the ease of lifelong friends.  They skimmed clouds on autopilot and bantered about subjects on the news and close to home.

And it was during this flight she leaned over to kiss him.  His mouth was full and warm like the wedge of a sun-glazed orange.  She tasted coffee, a touch of clover honey.

She tore herself away, searching his face for a clue.

Yes, there it was.

She was going to be Mrs. Kyle Glover.  It was in his eyes and in the tug of his smile.

More importantly.  It was in her heart.

********************

Flying...

...flying...

Like old 8mm film vaulting from one scratchy setting to an entirely different one, Sheridan switched from their first kiss to the last one.

Before she could turn away, the scene rolled.  A scene she often refused to indulge in since that bright afternoon when two police officers knocked on her door and informed her that the world as she knew it had dissolved.

The last breakfast she'd have with her family intact.

"Mom!  Guess what!" Trevor shouted, running into the kitchen.

 Sheridan was scraping a skillet full of steamed migas into a vegetable bowl.  The microwave oven signaled that the black beans were ready.  Tex-Mex breakfasts on Saturday mornings were her specialty.

[Ma'am, I'm sorry to inform you...]

"No running, Trevor!" she admonished.  "You know the rule!"

"Dad's taking us to the lake in the airplane!"

[...a terrible accident.  Your husband...]

This wouldn't be the first time Kyle had flown the family to the lake in the turbocharged Cessna, christened "Sleeping Beauty," which had replaced the unpolished one years ago.  When they weren't chasing airborne freedom, the craft was parked in a hangar owned by Max, a cigar-chewing grandmother whose outer crust belied a weakness for abandoned kittens.

[...and your son were involved...]

"Honey," Sheridan turned to her husband.  "I thought I told you I had work to do this afternoon.  My client is expecting a demo first thing Monday."

[...witnesses heard the engine cut out in mid-air...excuse me, ma'am, I am so sorry...]

 "Oh, c'mon, sweetheart," he replied, snaking his arms around her from behind.  "All I'm asking is a couple of hours."

 "No!  This one is really important to me." 

"What, is it enough to get us a new remote control?"

She laughed, slapping his hand.  "Gawd, you are awful!  Just for that--"

Sheridan turned around, drew his head in closer with both hands planted firmly on his cheeks, and kissed him deep and long.

Kyle feigned torture, his arms flailing.

            "Yuck, you guys," Trevor piped up, grinning in spite of himself.  "Stop being yucky!"

            [...no pain, ma'am.  We can assure you they felt no pain at all.]

            She saw them in her dreams.  Her husband and six-year-old son heading for the pale sun.  Flying until they vanished from radar screens.  Until they left the wind and the stars -- the whole world behind -- to touch the face of God.