Deliciously Obedient (14 page)

“
No,
but he played around a bit at the back door.”

They
both giggled.

“
What’s
so funny?” Miles intersected with their path, coming from his own
house.

Raucous
laughter was their reply.

“
Now
you have to tell me what you were talking about!”

“
Fine.”
Lydia stopped and made sure to have his full attention, eyes locked.
“We were talking about anal sex.”

She
expected a bright red Miles to stammer and run away. Instead, he
shrugged and said, “Anal’s so…last decade. Everyone knows
ménage is the new anal.”

Ménage.

This
time two words invaded her thoughts in the space reaction was
supposed to fill.

Mike
and
Jeremy.

“
Ménage
is the new anal?” Krysta choked.

Caleb
was steps away from the group as Krysta uttered the words, coming
into view just as she said “anal.” He pulled his neck back and
came to a halt.

“
I
miss all the good conversations,” he declared.

“
Not
so sure this is a good one,” Miles grumbled. “We’re talking
about Lydia’s ass and what she puts in it.”

“
We
were NOT talking about my ass!” she said.

Caleb
turned and looked directly at Krysta. “You were talking about
Krysta’s ass?”

Krysta
turned the color of the tomatoes she’d chopped yesterday. “Not
my
ass!”

“
Then
your ménage?” he said, leering.

“
My
what? I don’t—” Miles and Caleb chuckled as they walked away,
heads together, the brothers conspirators.

“
Those
two!” she huffed, turning to a bright red Krysta, who looked like
someone had dumped a cooler full of Gatorade on her.

“
Does
Caleb think I have threesomes? And anal? What must he be thinking
about me?” she groaned.

“
He
thinks you chop tomatoes well. Don’t read into anything. Besides,
you brought it on yourself, talking about my lack of anal sex.”

Of
all the moments for her father to appear.

“
Lack
of…” Pete’s voice died down as if he were speaking in slow
motion, the blood draining from his face, suddenly awkward and
stammering.

Lydia
joined him.

Krysta
piped up and rescued them both. “That analysis was really good,
Lydia, and I think it will help when I go back to work.”

Pete
opened his mouth, an expression of dawning passing over him, welcomed
as a substitute for what he appeared to have thought Lydia said. “Ah,
analyzing a problem? I hope you get to the bottom of it.”

Oh,
Dad.

That
comment was Krysta’s undoing. She held one finger up in a gesture
of buying time, her mouth bobbing like a fish’s, and then turned on
her heel and fairly ran into the rec hall.

“
Coward,”
Lydia muttered.

“
Coffee?”
Pete held a paper cup with a lid. “It’s a latte. Just like you
like ’em.” She took the cup with gratitude.

“
Thanks.”

“
Where’s
Jeremy?”

“
Sleeping.”

“
Good
for him. He needs a nice, relaxing vacation from…” Pete’s brow
furrowed. “What does he do for a living again?”

Has
sex on the beach in Thailand and rescues his best friend’s lovers
.
“He’s an investor. Lives off his money from the dot-com boom.”

“
Nice!
So he doesn’t work.” Pete appeared to mull over that one. Lydia
frowned, willing herself to handle the next question.

“
If
he doesn’t work, what does he do with himself all day?”

Good
question.

“
I
don’t know, Dad. We’ve only been dating for a few weeks.”
Dating
was the closest word she could think of in Pete’s
lexicon of terms to describe what she and Jeremy were doing.
Fucking
wasn’t going to cut it.

But
that wasn’t true either. This was more…but what, exactly, was it?

Pete
directed their walk, taking her past the newer cabins in the back of
the property. A group of bicycle travelers had taken one over, two
tents outside around the fire pit, about twenty bikes lined up neatly
to one side. Her dad had a soft spot for groups like this and always
gave them a bargain.

“
You
like him?”

“
I
must.” She smiled into her coffee and took a sip.

“
I
know you must. I guess that was rhetorical. He’s the first guy
you’ve ever brought home since you left.”

“
Do
you
like him?” The question hung in the air like fog. Lydia
slurped a sloppy sip and waited.

A
half-smile stretched her dad’s face, making him look more like
Miles than she’d ever noticed. “You know, I do. He was so nervous
when you first arrived, like he was afraid I’d hit him.”

“
He
has a thing about meeting fathers.”

“
What
guy doesn’t?”

“
Fair
point.”

A
boy not much older than a kindergartner rode past on a little bike
with training wheels, his face lit up with the joy of new ridership.
Ding! Ding!
He rang the bell on his handlebars and Pete gave
him a thumbs-up.

“
You
recovering from Iceland?”

She
sighed. “I’m recovering from life, Dad.”

“
You
can always come back here. Job’s yours if you want it.” He
avoided her eyes.

“
I
know.” And she did know. Always knew. A job of some kind in the
family business was hers for the taking, anytime. Same with a house.
Dad would give her the land and they’d build it as one of the
outbuildings with a shared mortgage. That was what all her brothers
did. Including Luke, though his widow, Claire, had left.

That
house stood empty. Lydia would never, ever live in it, though. No one
did. Her parents never rented it out, either. They didn’t treat it
like a shrine. Just like a ghost house.

Which,
in a way, it was.

“
Dad.”
She stopped and took a long sip of her coffee. Not bad. Nothing like
the finer coffee shops in Boston, especially Barrington Roasters or
1369 in Cambridge, but passable for their part of Maine. “Thank
you.”

“
For
what?” He finished off his coffee and smiled kindly at her, a
quizzical expression asking her deeper questions than his words
could.

“
For
making sure I always know I can come home and be safe.”

“
I’m
glad you know that.”

“
That
kind of safety is rarer than you think.”

Alarm
spread across his face. “Did something more happen while you were
living in Iceland than you’re letting on about? Because if we
need—”

“
No,
no,” she said quickly. “Nothing like that. Just some life lessons
that aren’t so pleasant. Being a fully-fledged human being is
turning out to be a lot harder than I thought.”

Palpable
relief changed the air between them back to a contemplative calm.
“Whew!” He put his hand over his heart. “You scared me for a
moment there.”

“
I’m
sorry.”

Resuming
their walk, they meandered over to the shoreline. Pete found a kayak
out of place and dragged it next to its comrades, the yellow, scuffed
bottoms like giant bananas on the shell-covered beach making Lydia
think of a Fellini movie. Or something Sacha Baron-Cohen might make.

“
You
are my enigma,” he said. His eyes searched her face. “The one who
always wanted to get away.”

“
I
did.”

He
frowned. “Did what?”

“
I
did want to get away.”

“
Past
tense? Has something changed?”

“
Don’t!”
she said, pointing at his face. “Don’t get too excited. You know
how contrarian I am.”

“
Go
away! We don’t want you here!” he barked in jest.

“
That’s
more like it, Daddy.” They found a spot of the edge of the stone
wall that lined the shore, made by ocean tides.

“
Haven’t
called me that since before you wore a bra.”

“
Dad!”
She smacked his shoulder. “I’ve worn a bra since I was nine.”

“
Then
you haven’t called me ‘Daddy’ in sixteen years.” His eyes on
the horizon, Pete stared in silence, Lydia joining him. When she was
a hormonal teen filled with raging craziness, some days he’d bring
her out here and insist they do nothing but stare at the ocean for
thirty minutes. On the worst days, he’d have to set a timer, and
she would stalk off the second it rang.

Secretly,
she loved that he took the time to just be a peaceful presence with
her. But she couldn’t tell him that back then.

As
the silence deepened, she relaxed into it, the scent of the ocean
filling her nose and lungs, cool and salty, the smell of home. Coffee
finished, she bounced her legs against the stones and just watched
the waves.

“
You
know I love you, Lydia.” Pete’s voice came out gravelly, and when
she turned she caught a tear in the corner of one eye. He wiped it
away and looked at her with a trembling smile.

“
I
love you too, Dad.” Pete wrapped his arm around her shoulders and
she pulled into the hug, his aftershave the same, her daddy
unchanging, secure and, like the ocean—home.

Jeremy
woke up alone. In a giant wet spot. And cold.

It
wasn’t the first time it had happened, but the last time had been
six years ago, in a Malaysian youth hostel, asleep on a wood pallet
on the floor, and he’d pissed himself in his sleep.

This
time was decidedly better.

No
Lydia. Where had she gone? No note, no sound of rumbling around, no
gurgling of a coffee maker. Just the cold air, the wet sheets, and a
raging morning boner that called out for her.

Sigh.

This
whole sex-twice-a-day thing was all too easy to get used to. Now that
his dick had come to expect it, when it wasn’t happening he was at
attention—
yes, sir
!