I had an epiphany the other day, during what I thought was a heart attack.

See, I had just stepped out of the shower when I felt this shooting pain down my left arm. I was really perturbed, because I exercise and don’t smoke. Dammit, if you exercise and don’t smoke, it’s been implied by the medical establishment that you are immortal. My culture, I thought, has lied to me. The maybe-a-heart-attack was really scaring me until I figured out I had accidentally trodden upon my own boob and that was what was causing the ouchies. After breast feeding three babies the damn things drag the ground when I am not wearing a bra and accidents of this nature aren’t uncommon.

It was then I realized that I didn’t feel like reading yet another romance novel with a young heroine who had tits that defied physics and an ass that had not yet slid down the back of her dimply thighs. I wanted to read about a middle aged woman getting the what-what. A woman who, when she wanted to flash her lover, lifted her skirt. In short, a woman like me.    

I logged on to my computer so that I could trudge through the jungles of Amazon to see what I could find for my kindle. However, being a sad Facebook addict, I checked my page first out of habit. As serendipity would have it, an author I had “liked” on Facebook (I had read another one of this author’s books, Rule Number One, last year and had really enjoyed it) posted in her feed that she had new books out. One of them featured a heroine in her 50s.

Thus, I decided to check out Sex and the Widow Miles by Nan Reinhardt. Here’s the blurb:

His life ended. Hers didn't.

Model-thin, beautiful, and aging gracefully, Julie Miles was looking forward to retirement with her husband, Dr. Charlie Miles, in their idyllic Willow Bay, Michigan home. But when Charlie dies of a heart attack, simply getting out of bed becomes a daily struggle. Desperate for a change of scene, she leaves her home to stay in her friend Carrie’s unoccupied Chicago apartment.

Her handsome and young new neighbor, Will Brody, seems to enjoy his assignment to keep an eye on her, and Jules can’t help but be flattered. She embraces life—and sex—again, until the discovery of a dark secret shatters her world once more. She knows her feelings for Will are more than casual, and he’s made it clear he wants her, but how can she ever trust a man again when her perfect life turned out to be a lie? Determined to get to the bottom of it all, Jules goes in search of the truth and discovers that there’s always a second chance to find real love.

I was unsure about buying it at first. It had the older heroine I was looking for, but I wasn’t certain I wanted her to be model thin and aging gracefully. (Do older women who look a little like Mrs. Doubtfire only make the beast with two backs in real life? You almost never read about us still tearing up the sheets in fiction.)  However, based on the fact I had liked the author’s other book, I decided to give Sex and the Widow Miles a try.

The short version of the review is that I liked the book. For one thing, the heroine was likeable enough that I managed to feel for her even though she was a well-to-do, thin, former model who had been sheltered by her own social class and attractiveness. It would have be easy to dismiss her as too privileged to be too sympathetic towards, but Julie was willing to learn to look beyond her own comfort zone and had a sincerely caring heart. I think maybe the fact the story was in the first person point of view helped the reader connect with her, because the reader didn’t have to guess what Julie was feeling; the reader knew.

Julie was also very human. Take, as an example, this snippet from early in the book wherein Julie meets the hero. She is all alone in the master bedroom of a friend’s empty apartment when she hears the front door open. She is, understandably, freaked out. She looks around her and sees her only possible weapon, a Louisville slugger.

Heart pounding, I grabbed the bat and tiptoed over to peer around the door.

“Carrie? Are you in here?” called a deep voice laced with concern.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a murderer … [but] How dare someone just walk in without knocking and scare the daylights out of me like this. What the hell’s wrong with ringing the damn doorbell?

The footsteps were headed down the hallway now, so I used my anger to build courage and stepped out from behind the door … He was tall and his spiky blond hair, backlit by the sun, shone in a gold halo around his head. “Do I know you?” he asked. “Are you Jules?”

Irritation battled with relief as I realized the guy, who looked vaguely familiar, was probably harmless. Still, he should have rung the doorbell, not just walked in.

Jerk.

I was beat and frustrated and so over everyone and everything that I brushed past him and headed for the kitchen.

“I’m the widow fucking Miles,” I said. “And I need a drink.”

You have to like a woman who has discovered she is all out of shits to give.

The hero was younger, but not so much younger that his age would be a formidable social obstacle. Nevertheless, it was something Julie had to deal with along with the grief of moving on emotionally and confronting the reality of her aging body.

“Bullshit.” Will’s voice trembled. “I’m thirty-nine years old — in most cultures that’s considered an adult.”
  
“Well, I am fifty-two and in this culture that’s considered practically a senior citizen.” My heart pounded. My face was feverish and a trickle of sweat ran between my breasts.
   
Oh great, a hot flash.

The sexy-times were steamy and I am happy to report the hot flashes were more about lust than menopause most of the time.The fact that Julie was waiting to hear the news about her first grandchild while she was also enjoying trysts with Will made me happy. Furthermore, the subplot was good, too. It stretched my credulity a tiny amount in a few places, but I think if I hadn’t read so much about that particular topic in feminist theory classes I wouldn’t have blinked an eye.

The writing style was also very good, and tight. The only reason I didn’t flat out give it an A was that there were some elements of the story that did not thrill me (YMMV).

First, I think the book would have been more powerful if Julie’s perfect married life hadn’t turned out to be a lie. Although the heroine handled it well and there were Deep Thoughts and Emotional Growth, I felt like it was a bit of a copout — almost a way to give Julie permission to love Will. Why couldn’t she have had an ideal love AND been able to fall in love again? Why must guy #2 be at least a little bit better than guy #1? This seems to be a really common theme in romances involving a second marriage after the death of the first spouse.

Secondly, the way Julie remembered her husband, even at the best of times, he seemed like a cross between a good, loving, devoted family man and a shallow, image-driven, selfish dickweed. Realistic? Yes. People are complex. Nonetheless I reserve the right to think slightly less of Julie because she considered his obsession with her looks to be a compliment to her as opposed to a sign of immaturity in them both.  

All in all the book was a good read and I felt the requisite enjoyment when the protagonists got their HEA. I think it rocked a solid B+ and I could recommend it to my friends without hesitation.

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