Authors: Leslie Wells
“So what d’you say, Ollie can come stay with us in the city? You know he’d love it,” Jack urged.
“Well, he’d only miss a week of school since the new term doesn’t start until the end of January. I guess so,” Sharon said. “But Julia, don’t let Jack stuff him with sweets every chance he gets. Try to set a regular bedtime,” she pleaded as Jack plugged his ears and started humming. “And make him hold your hand when you cross the street. Please?”
“He’ll be safe as a chick in a nest,” Jack said, taking his fingers out of his ears. “Too bad you can’t come along too,” he said to Randall. “You and I had many an adventure, didn’t we, old boy?” He leaned down and let the dog slobber all over his face. Then he stood up and came over to me. “C’mon now, gimme a kiss,” he said with a grin.
Private Idaho
After our stay at his mother’s, Jack and I flew from London to the secluded island of Mustique for New Year’s. Jack—or to be accurate, Mary Jo, at his request—had booked us an amazing cottage on an isolated beach, from which we would celebrate the dawning of 1982. There was no love lost between me and Jack’s crabby manager, but I had to admit, she knew her stuff in terms of vacation paradises. My mom was flying in from Pennsylvania later that day. She would have her own room in a separate compound, within walking distance but far enough away that we could have some privacy.
On the winding road from the airport Jack chatted with the driver, whom he obviously knew from previous visits to the island. I stared out the window as we flew past coconut trees, fragrant bougainvillea and blossoming hibiscus, and luxurious villas situated behind ornate iron gates. I bit my tongue to keep from asking Jack if he’d been here with Caroline, or what other girlfriends he’d brought here in the past.
The driver pulled up to a large two-story beachfront house surrounded by stately palms that belied Jack’s description of a “cottage”. When I stepped out of the car, my eyes were momentarily dazzled by the sun. The air was wonderfully humid after the dry radiator heat of England, and scented with a heady hint of frangipani. The driver carried our luggage inside and left us with a set of keys. The entrance was spacious and airy, salmon-pink-tiled with potted plants and huge ceiling fans slowly circling.
“This is amazing,” I breathed. Growing up in small-town Pennsylvania, an exotic vacation had been a sweaty five-hour drive with Dot to the South Jersey shore. In my two and a half years in New York City, I’d only made a couple of day trips with girlfriends by train to Jones Beach on Long Island. Sugar-white sand and balmy breezes were entirely out of my league.
Jack kicked off his boots. “Nice, isn’t it? Let’s get our suits on and hit the beach.”
I followed him upstairs to a huge room dominated by a king-sized bed made up with a snowy cotton coverlet. Through open doors I went onto the veranda, which overlooked a sparkling pool. Beyond it was a thatched hut and the beckoning azure of the ocean. Jack came up behind me, already in his swimsuit. “C’mon, let’s get some sun.”
“I’m just taking it all in. I’ve never been anywhere like this before,” I said.
“Good thing we came, then.”
I fished my bikini out of the bag and went into the bathroom to change, self-conscious about my pale skin in the skimpy suit. Jack’s eyes lit up when I emerged. “Very nice,” he said. “Let’s go. If we don’t leave now, we’ll never make it out of here.”
We went downstairs, grabbed towels and suntan lotion in the foyer, and stepped out into the radiant sunshine. A narrow sand path led to the wide white stretch of beach. The strand was entirely empty as far as the eye could see. Jack and I spread our towels and laid down under the brilliant sky.
“Ahh,” I said, basking in the sensation of warm sun on my skin. “This feels amazing. Especially after all that snow.” There had been a blizzard right before we left England.
Jack turned on his side, head in hand, his dark eyes shadowed. “This detour was a very good idea. You know, the beach is totally deserted,” he said, slipping his finger under my bathing suit strap and sliding it down my shoulder. “Why don’t you take your top off and get some sun?”
I sat up. “I don’t know. Do you think anybody’s around?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll try it.” I reached for the clasp and unhooked myself. It was strange to feel the ocean breeze on my bare breasts.
“You’ll need some of this,” he said, squeezing lotion into his palm. He rubbed it on me, taking particular care with my nipples. “I wouldn’t want the girls to get burned.”
I stretched out as he sat gazing down at me. “Now that’s a pretty picture. I could go for a total tan myself.” He pulled off his suit and lay on his stomach next to me.
“Do you want me to rub some on your back?” I asked.
“In a second.” He shut his eyes and was still for a minute, then put his arm around me and started kissing my neck. “I knew this wasn’t going to work.”
“What?” I glanced around. I really didn’t want to be stumbled upon by some beachcomber. Or by Dot, whose flight was arriving any minute.
“I should have known I couldn’t keep my hands off you.” He pushed up and got on top of me, his bare chest against my sun-warmed breasts, his tousled head silhouetted against the bright blue sky.
“I have a feeling we’re about to get very sandy,” Jack said. He began tugging down my bathing suit bottom.
“Shouldn’t we go in?” I asked.
“Relax, baby. Not a soul here except us.”
Sunburned and sticky, we put our suits back on and waded into the cool water, then walked hand in hand to the house for a siesta. I felt more relaxed than I had in ages; the stress of work—and worrying about whether his mother had liked me—was sloughing off with each caress of gentle ocean breeze. Even my highly-charged boyfriend seemed content to kick back. As we were drifting off to sleep beneath the ceiling fan, the phone rang. I grabbed it and took it out onto the veranda.
“I just got in,” Dot said. “Boy, this place is fantastic. It must have cost Jack an arm and a leg.” Hearing the strike of a match, I pictured her, hair dyed a brassy shade, lit cigarette sending up plumes from the resort ashtray.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I feel so lucky to be here.” Shading my eyes, I gazed at the view.
“How was your visit with his mother?” Dot lowered her voice dramatically, although I knew she was alone in her hotel room.
“I think it went well. Maggie’s a little bossy and obsessed with her dogs, but I think she liked me all right.” I wasn’t going to mention what she’d said about wanting more grandchildren; I knew Dot would take that and run with it. “I forgot to ask, did you wind up getting off early on Christmas Eve?”
“No, Erwin had me and Marie doing inventory again. I don’t know why; it’s not like the pipe fittings are going to walk out of the place by themselves.” My mother worked at a plumbing supply store in our small hometown of Pikesville, Pennsylvania. She complained about her boss nonstop, but she liked chatting up the customers, who were mostly well-built construction guys.
“I can’t believe he had you doing that up until the last minute.”
“It was okay. We had eggnog in the storage room, and then we went to Buck’s afterwards.” Buck’s Bar and Grill was my mother’s local hangout. “This hotel is great though. The concierge told me there’s a luau tonight, so I went ahead and booked a table for us,” she continued.
I plopped down into a white chair, then immediately jumped up as the iron-hot metal branded my thighs. “I don’t know if Jack will want to do that, Mom. He usually has to keep a low profile.”
“For goodness’ sake, Julia. It’s the islands. Everyone’s laid-back here; I doubt anyone will even notice him. Let the man have some fun.”
“I think that just about does it,” Jack said after signing his thirtieth luau program. The minute we’d stepped into the seating area, people started whispering and pointing. They’d lined up three-deep beside our table, wanting autographs. I felt badly about it, but Jack was being a good sport.
“I had no idea he was so internationally known,” Dot whispered to me. She tugged at her pink tube top.
“Pretty much worldwide,” I whispered back. Finally the manager came over and cordoned off our table so Jack could have a bite to eat. The highlight of the evening came when the musicians, in the heat of their final number, beckoned Jack onto the low stage. Since there wasn’t a guitar, he gamely took a place at the bongos as the limbo-la began. Three sheets to the wind after her fourth Fuzzy Navel, Dot was at the head of the line, going down low with the best of them.
When we got back to the cottage, the stars were sparkling above the wide bowl of vast dark ocean. Jack and I walked barefoot on the beach, the moon looming over the endless span of water like a great shimmering moth. The sensations were intoxicating: the soft night breeze, the rushing sound of the waves leaping and subsiding on the shore, Jack’s arm around my waist.
“I’m sorry about tonight,” I said. “Dot got a little carried away.” She’d wound up doing a suggestive grind with a muscled ukulele player.
“We all need to cut loose sometime.” Jack’s smile flashed in his tanned face. “Tomorrow I’ve rented a motorboat so we can go off by ourselves for a bit.”
“How beautiful,” I said the next day as Jack moored the boat in a quiet lagoon. Arcing palms dipped long green fingers into the turquoise water, and I could see silvery fish flitting around on the surface. Jack looked sultry, dark eyes and hair set off strikingly by his bronzed face and chest.
“Let’s get in,” he said, shoving down his swimming trunks. He stood naked on the side of the boat and executed a neat dive. His sleek head popped up like a seal’s. “C’mon in, the water’s fine.”
“Okay.” Gingerly I sat on the edge and dabbled my toes. There were hardly any waves, and the seawater was clear and cool. I pushed off, going under. When I surfaced, Jack started untying my bikini top. By now I knew better than to protest.
“Just don’t lose it,” I said, laughing. I reached down and grabbed him. “I think someone’s happy to see me.”
Jack draped my bikini around his neck so it hung down in back. “Let’s go closer to shore where we can stand up.” We swam to a rock outcropping and stood in the chest-deep water, soft sand enveloping my feet. The sun beat down mercilessly on the top of my head, but below chin-level, the water was perfect. Jack gave my neck a teasing lick. “Salty,” he commented. Reaching down, he ducked his head below the surface and tugged off my bottom. I stepped out of it so he could come up for air. Jack put his arm through the leg hole and shoved it up on his shoulder.
“That’s a smooth move with the bikini,” I said, thinking again of Caroline and all my other predecessors. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“No comment.”
“Is there anything you
haven’t
done?” I asked.
Jack thought for a minute, water swirling around his chest. “I’ve never had sex with a man. Or an animal.”
I laughed. “Well that’s good, I guess.”
Jack got that slightly glazed expression that meant he was turned on. “You look like a mermaid with your wet hair and those blue, blue eyes.” He lifted me up by my elbows. “But I’m glad you’re not. If you were a mermaid, I couldn’t…do…this.”
Stir It Up
We had been back in New York for a week. Following the balmy bliss of the islands, I’d had a hard time re-adjusting to icy sidewalks and crowded subways. But now I had to focus on my career, which after gaining an initial head of steam, currently seemed stalled in its tracks.
I had been promoted this past fall when I’d signed up a memoir by former sitcom star Isabel Reed. Since then I’d acquired a few books of my own, while also continuing my assistant duties for my boss, the publisher. It was far from an ideal situation—most people who made editor didn’t have to keep doing the clerical stuff—but Harvey claimed he didn’t have the budget to hire anyone else. For the time being, I was stuck.
“Time for the editorial meeting, Julia.” My friend Meredith, our managing editor, put her head in my office door.
Meredith and I took our seats at the conference table. Edgar, a dignified older man who handled arts and crafts, sat next to me. Senior editors Charlie and Kate took their seats. Harvey hustled in, brandishing the bestseller list.
“Freeman Fyfe’s just dropped off the list,” Harvey said, referring to the house’s one big author. I had edited Freeman’s last novel, which had stayed at the top of the charts for several months. “We’ve got to find another brand name. Kate, what do you have this week?”
“Roxanna stopped by with yet another manuscript,” Kate answered.
“That’s not writing; that’s typing,” commented Edgar.
Everyone looked at me in commiseration. Roxanna Stokes was a pale, emaciated novelist with a devoted following. The problem was, every four months she showed up at the office with another 700-page doorstop in a shopping bag. It was a house tradition that the junior editor got first crack at her books; I had only just finished whacking back her latest masterpiece.
“Is it true she never sleeps or eats?” Charlie said.
“Who cares? They sell, so let’s keep her cranking them out,” Harvey said. “Julia, you’ll need to clear your plate for the next few weekends. What about you, Meredith?” Unusual for most managing editors, Meredith acquired her own titles as well as handling all the copyediting.
“I have a historical about a flapper who turns to prostitution,” she said. “It started out well, but the second half’s a mess. I’ll keep reading to see if it’s salvageable.”
“Don’t bother. I turned that down three months ago,” Kate chimed in.
“Okay, so you can skip the sloppy seconds,” Harvey said. “Have any of you taken a gander at the list?”
“Four money guides in the top ten,” Charlie said. “People are frantic to climb out of this recession.”
“Not to mention the diet craze,” Harvey added. “The
I Love New York Diet
moved up to number eight. You can never be too thin or too rich–remember that.”