"Good Lord, you sure loved your denim shorts back then, huh?" Amanda displayed the photo at eye level, quirking a brow at the questionable fashion choices it featured in muted late eighties tones. The picture was actually adorable: Olivia, age nineteen or twenty, all legs and sporting a sable blowout worthy of Phoebe Cates herself, sprawled on her stomach on the lawn in front of an elite-looking academic building. She wore a snug pair of cutoffs and what appeared to be a turquoise vest that also doubled as a shirt, her black bra clearly visible underneath. But Amanda's favorite part of the entire ensemble was the bare feet, upraised behind the young woman, grass-stained on the bottom, the toes cutely scrunched together. Her shoes were nowhere in sight.
Olivia still liked to walk around barefooted at home. In fact, she was lounged against the arm of the couch now, her long legs extended towards the other end, her bare feet crossed at the ankles and tucked at Amanda's side. Amanda mirrored her posture, back to the opposite arm of the couch, one leg draped over Olivia's, the other dangling off the cushion. The socks were the only major difference—Amanda's feet were almost always cold.
Their laps were covered in old photographs from the shoeboxes and keepsake boxes that were open beside them on the coffee table. Olivia looked up from a handful of school pictures—duplicates from a sheet of wallet-sizes that had long ago been chopped into odd angles by Amanda's childish hand—and snorted at the observation.
"That's rich, coming from little Stephanie Tanner," she said, fanning the photos out like a poker hand, to reveal multiple twelve-year-old Mandy Rollinses. Each one with a stick-straight blonde ponytail sprouting from the scrunchie on the side of her head. A cloud of feathery bangs stood at least two inches above her forehead, except where they had deflated in the middle, halfway through the school day—and it had required several layers of Aqua Net just to hold them in place that long. "How are your sisters DJ and Michelle, by the way?"
"Blech, put that away." Amanda kicked at the pictures, playfully trying to slap them aside with her foot. "Why were you even watching Full House? Weren't you, like, twenty-something when it aired?"
"John Stamos," Olivia said matter-of-factly, and pushed the foot down, stuffing it between her thigh and the couch cushion. She turned the pictures back around with a fond smile. "And these are cute, not blech. I'm putting one in my wallet."
"Suit yoursel— oh, hot damn." Amanda plucked a photo from the pile she was sifting through. Most of them were similar to the previous one with the bare feet—various shots of Olivia striking cute and silly poses, usually flashing a wide, brilliant grin that only made occasional appearances these days, and almost invariably clad in those tiny cutoffs—but this was much more provocatively staged.
The shorts were still in place, although unbuttoned to reveal a glimpse of skimpy black lace against a skimpy flat tummy, to go along with the skimpy black bra from before; but that was the extent of Olivia's attire, save for an oversized letterman jacket in dark green and gold, which she wore draped around her like an off-the-shoulder shawl. She barely looked old enough to have legally consented to the amount of skin she was showing—or rather, its presentation. The figure, however, belonged to a very grown, very shapely woman. Lord, the boys must have been tripping all over themselves. Amanda could relate.
"I feel like I should arrest you for possession of child pornography," she said, giving Olivia a quick peek at the photo, before flipping it around to ogle some more. The words "nubile" and "supple" sprang to mind, though Amanda didn't recall ever having used either before in her life. "I feel like I should arrest myself for not being able to stop looking at it. Jesus Criminy."
"I was eighteen," Olivia said, her voice velvety smooth from behind a seductive little smirk. "Perfectly legal."
For a moment, Amanda fought the urge to heave the pictures aside and take Olivia right then and there on the living room couch. It wouldn't be the first time. But the kids were due back from their movie date with Lucy—the most accommodating nanny in New York City—within the hour. And quickies weren't really Amanda's thing anymore. She preferred to take her time with Captain Benson. A body like that deserved special attention, whether young and lithe, or mature and curvaceous. Seated across from Olivia with the picture in hand, Amanda was getting the best of both worlds. "Eighteen or not, why exactly are you dolled up like you're auditioning for Hugh Hefner, might I ask?"
