Talk of the Town (14 page)

"You're pretty tidy for a man," she said, feeling she'd understated an anal-compulsive need for sterility. There were no pictures on the walls, no dirty socks, no crumpled newspapers, no aftershave on top of the dresser. Nothing but the book on the nightstand to show that someone lived there. It was still more the Peterses' house than Gary's.

"Bad habit," he said, watching her test the firmness of the bed's mattress. "Overcompensation for being the kid of a garbageman, I guess. Actually both my houses are like this," he added, walking slowly to the bed. "Houses, not homes. But all I do is sleep in them, and rarely at that."

He sat down on the bed beside her, wishing he had a more intimate place to take her.

She stood up.

"I think we should talk," she said.

"Okay." He slipped a hand under each leg, trapping them as if he couldn't trust them.

She turned her back to him, walking slowly toward the closet as she spoke.

"You may have noticed that I'm not a young girl anymore," she said, her mouth as dry as her palms were clammy.

"Yes. I have."

"I mean, I'm not old, but I'm not young either."

"That would make you about . . . just right, then. Right?"

The smile she gave him over her shoulder was weak.

"The thing is," she said, opening the closet door with an irrational hope that he'd stuffed it full of smelly dirty clothes, banana peels, arid porno magazines to make him seem much less perfect and polished. There were two dark suits, four dress shirts, about ten or twelve flannel shirts, and three pairs of casual slacks, all hung neatly on hangers. A cardboard box sat on the top shelf. Work boots, an extra pair of sneakers, and dress shoes were on the floor. She sighed dismally and closed the door.

"The thing is," she started again, facing him. "I don't have a lot of experience at this. I'm not a virgin, certainly. Not with Harley. But single mothers don't have the time to be as promiscuous as some people think, or used to think, maybe still think sometimes. I know I don't – have the time, that is. You know, for a lot of sex."

The look on her face made him want to burst into laughter, but it was far too serious for him even to attempt a smile.

"I hope you don't want me to say I'm sorry about that?"

"No, no. I don't want you to say anything about it." She really didn't. "I just . . . wanted you to know." He nodded, properly advised of the situation. When he made no comment, she felt compelled to go on.

She laughed. "I don't even know where to begin." She laughed again, a little higher and a lot more nervous. "I think I've forgotten."

Again he swallowed the urge to laugh. Instead he pressed his lips together and gave a solemn nod as he got to his feet.

"I hear it's like riding a bike," he said, struggling to remain serious, tempted to rip her clothes off and give her a quick refresher course. "Once you've done it, you never really forget how." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets to appear less of a threat to her. "And lucky for us, it's been on my mind lately. Quite a bit. I think I have a vague recollection of how it works," he said, standing mere inches away from her, his hands turning to fists in his pockets as he looked into her clear and most wonderfully trusting green eyes. "If you want me to, I think I can guide you through it this first time."

He might have missed the slight nod of her head if he hadn't been so anxious for it. And he was. The fantasies he'd had as he'd watched her from afar, the dreams he'd had since they met, the reality of her touch and the taste of her mouth, were all taking a toll on his good but all-too-human nature. Frankly, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt a need for a particular woman as deeply or intensely as he felt it for Rose.

"Take your shoes off," he said, his voice so unmanageably abrupt and gruff that it startled her. She did a quick toe-to-heel step with her shoes as he quickly tried to cover the sudden panic churning his gut. "If I'm not mistaken, we do this without clothes.”

Now, let's face it, Gary was no stranger to the female form. It was his experience that women came rigged with the same basic equipment, differing only in size and color. He couldn't imagine finding anything new or unusual on Rose, so . . . why were his fingers numb? Stiff. Awkward with the buttons and holes down the front of her cotton shirt.

She moved suddenly, and he went rigid. Slow and tentative, her hands moved to the front of his shirt. She lowered her eyes from his to focus on her task. He bent his head to watch. She was trembling.

They were both giving serious consideration to clawing at and tearing away the minor inconveniences between them, but there was something profoundly physical, private, carnal, and downright exciting about unveiling each other for the first time.

He held his breath as he pealed her blouse from her shoulders, her white lacy bra looking delicate and feminine against the excited flush of her pale breasts. Her hands were cool to his overheated skin; her touch weightless and exploratory. His nipples grew hard when her palms passed over them. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears when his feather-light fingers slipped the hook of her bra. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh, inside and out, when he brushed it away with the backs of his hands, cupping the soft, sensitive mounds in his palms.

Thunder rumbled in the distance ... or just outside the window, it was hard to tell.

She lifted her face to his and felt a shiver of anticipation quiver through her when their eyes met. Powerful, passionate, possessive. Boldly she pressed her breasts against his palms, easing the ache and stirring the fire. She watched the hungry beast in his eyes target his prey. Keen. Confident. Lethal.

"A kiss about now could be interesting," he said, his tour-guide voice tight with need, his face already moving toward hers.

"To take the edge off?" She wondered aloud.

His devastating grin of comprehension and appreciation wasn't comforting.

"I don't think so," he said, his lips closing over hers.

His tongue slipped effortlessly into her mouth to taste and tease. Something close to pure delight washed through her as she did the same. Her mind reeled. His tense muscles turned to steal beneath her fingertips. A familiar medium. A material she knew she could control and manipulate, something she had power over.

Her artful hands went to work. Kneading. Stoking. Stressing. Establishing her authority. She went breathless when his arms snapped closed around her, crushing her to him. He was liquid molten ore, and he set her ablaze.

Lightning split the sky. Thunder rattled the windows.

It was a shock to discover that her powers were limited, humbling and thrilling at once. She was consumed by the basic elements of the material she was working with. Gary. The man. His texture. His taste. The sound of sweet misery low in his throat. The power in his strength. The purpose in his touch.

He made quick work of the rest of her clothes, his hands sure and masterful.

He tinkered with her. Rubbed her senses raw. Forged a sizzling pit of need within her. Molded her to him. Fashioned an unbreakable bond between them.

When she could no longer decipher the seam between them, where she stopped and he began, he took her, blending their souls into something new. Something never before known to man. As one, they were a mega-strength alloy. They were a composite of the best of them both. A perfect mixture. Created by God, conceived in the mind of Fate, manufactured by human need and ingenuity.

Rain pelted the windows and the thunder rolled into the distance as they lay spent in each other's arms. The hammering of his heart beneath her hand softened and slowed to a steady rhythm. His skin cooled, and he wrapped himself about her to keep them both warm. She began to cry.

"Rose? Aw, Rosie. Did I hurt you?"

"No, no. Not at all. No. I . . . remember," she said, and he chuckled. It was as if she were finishing their earlier dialogue. She reached up to draw his head back to her breast. She touched his dark hair, his whisker-rough cheek. "But I didn't know ... I never knew ... I never dreamed it could be like this."

He smiled and closed his eyes.

"That makes two of us," he said, tightening his arms around her, planning to hold on forever.

They didn't speak, but the room was far from silent. They sighed their contentment. Their love grew. Their doubts withered to dust. Happiness hummed in every corner. And hope built a solid foundation around them.

"Does everyone have to know about this?" she asked softly, a recurring thought creasing her brow.

"You mean, was I planning to put it in the newspaper? Gary Gets Lucky, see page one."

She laughed. "No, I mean, does everyone in Redgrove have to know we did this?"

He tipped his head back to look at her. , "You're embarrassed?"

"No. But ..."

"What?"

"It was …" She closed her eyes. Now she
was
embarrassed.

"Tell me, Rose."

"I know you do this sort of thing all the time, so it's not a big deal for you. But it is to me. I … this was special … to me."

"I beg your pardon?" He came up on one elbow. "I hope you're not trying to tell me it wasn't something special for me, too. I've had sex before, but I've never done it with a woman I loved. I feel as if I've been wasting my time all these years."

She smiled. "I know. I mean, me too. I feel as if I've missed out on so much. I hate you for not coming around sooner."

"Then what are you worried about?"

She sighed, searching for words.

"This is mine. Ours. It's too wonderful, too new to be public knowledge. I want to keep it close. Keep it a secret. Just between the two of us. I don't want to have to see the looks or answer the questions or endure the jokes. Not yet. Not now."

Leaving one arm around her, he rolled onto his back and flung the other out straight.

"I want to dance a jig. I want to scream it from the rooftops. Rose, I've never felt like this before."

"Me either."

He turned his head in her direction. No price was too high for the warm glow that made her emerald eyes

sparkle like gems. Her tender smile was a favor he would die for. Nothing in his world meant more to him, which was probably why he could sense the wariness in her. Not fear or shame, but a certain caution he felt he should respect.

"I suppose this means no overnighters? No long showers together? No free breakfasts?" he asked.

"I'll make it up to you." Coquettish, she wasn't. But she was more surprised than he was to find the vamp in all women, in her. Surprised and extraordinarily pleased. "I promise, you won't be disappointed."

"What. Right now? This second? You're going to make it up to me in advance?" He looked worried and brushed at the hand on his inner thigh.

"No. I'll do that later. Right now I'm making up for lost time," she said, rolling on top of him.

He groaned. "How much time?"

"A long time. A
really
long time."

EIGHT

The four summer months of May, June, July, and August are, in many people's minds, the most beautiful season the Pacific coast has to offer. In the winter it can be an ugly place, fierce and desolate. There is never anything gentle about the ocean; the gusty wind and crashing waves see to that. But in the summer when the sky is clear blue and the green-black water meets it on the horizon; when the whitecaps are rolling and the sun dances across the water like something magical; when the wind blows cool against your sun-baked skin and the gulls cry and God smiles down on what He has done, there is a certain calm and serenity to be found. Rose was never sure if it was its vast expanse or its never-ending rhythm that charmed her soul. Maybe it was the silent cliffs that had bravely faced the ocean's every whim since the beginning of time, and survived. Maybe it was simply the idea that a long empty stretch of pebbled beach was a flimsy barrier between the relative safety of the land and the certain possibility of death at sea.

People had flimsy barriers too. And they were never as safe inside their invisible walls as they thought they were. Rose knew this. The roof of her fortress leaked like a sieve; there were cracks in the walls and gaping holes in the floor. She lived in the constant fear that someone would figure out that her refuge wasn't as impregnable as she led them to believe.

"Oh, I know," Rose shouted, holding her arms out wide in frustration. "I'm the wicked old witch who stole you from your real mother when you were a baby. I keep you prisoner here in my gas station, and I never let you do anything fun. I heard all this when you were six years old, Harley. And I've got news for you, pal, your real mother wouldn't let you do this either."

Gary, walking into the middle of this heated discussion, looked from one Wickum to the other and didn't for an instant doubt they were mother and son. Carrot orange hair that would mellow to a golden copper color with age; two sets of dark green eyes lit with passion; similar pale complexions flushed with anger . . . there was no hocus-pocus involved in this relationship.

They both noticed him standing in the doorway but were too involved to do more than that.

"It's only a week I don't see what the big deal is," Harley shouted back, slamming the refrigerator door. He was always hanging on the refrigerator door, constantly searching for food.

"The big deal is three fifteen-year-old boys going to Portland alone."

"Paul's sixteen."

"With a brand-new driver's license."

"And his dad's car and his aunt breathing down his neck in Portland. It's not as if we'll be having all
that
much fun."

"Good. Then stay home."

"I wanna go. All my life it's been one long dead summer after the next. I'm bored! I'm going crazy here!"

"What about the Tackle Shack? You've got a job. You have responsibilities. What about that?"

"I asked Aldo if he could spare me for a week. He didn't have a problem with it. In fact, he wants me to stop at some wholesaler's up there and pick up some special lures. He wants to try and check out their new line of tackle . . . pulls over four hundred pounds. Can you believe that?"