Not Mine to Take

by C B Cox

  Martha sips wine. Her moist pink lips glisten. I’m watching the spectacle unfold.

  “I’m a literary agent. Modesty prevents me from saying I’m the best damn literary agent in New York. I was born in Atlanta. I live in Manhattan. Just like you, I’m single ... at the moment...”

  They’re ordinary words, but when Martha enunciates them in her rich southern drawl, they ooze sex. Curtis will be lucky to escape with his chinos intact. He doesn’t appear to care.

  The air crackles with sexual tension until my voice cuts through the static.

  I clear my throat. “My turn. As you know, I’m an author. The most successful female author on Martha’s list.” I say, tongue firmly in my cheek.

  “By a country mile, darling,” Martha interjects. “Though sometimes, it pains me to say it.” She wrinkles her nose at me. I stick my tongue out at her in mock petulance and continue.

  “I was born in New Jersey. Tern Lodge is my home, now. I’m getting a divorce. I’m citing adultery on his part. He’s a son-of-a-bitch. The End.” I babble – staccato fashion. It has the desired effect. I finally have my houseguest’s complete attention.

  “Anyhow, entertaining as Martha’s icebreaker game is, I’m famished. I’ll go fetch some snacks. We can get to know one another a little better while we eat. There’s ice cream for dessert, if anyone wants any. You two need cooling down,” I say.

  My guests see the funny side and laugh, restoring a relaxed atmosphere to our informal gathering.

  Before I have a chance to move, Curtis lifts from the sofa and stands over me. “Let me. I’ll play butler. You two young ladies probably need a catch up. I’ll fetch more wine. Do you have an ice bucket, Hope?”

  He’s stepped inside before I can object.

  “Somewhere … I think?” I call through the open door. “Try the bottom cupboard next to the trash can.”

  “Okay. Will do,” he calls. “Leave it to me.” He disappears into the kitchen, with Bella at his heel.

  Martha leans towards me. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman? I’d have been jumping his bones for weeks. He’s absolutely gorgeous. There’s something mysterious about him. He’s yummy. I could eat him up whole,” she whispers.

  I lean in. “It may have slipped your mind, but I’m in the middle of a divorce. I’ve enough on my plate already, without starting an affair with a guy ten years my junior.”

  “All the more reason, Sweetlips. Take my word, no strings uncomplicated sex is the best kind. Try it. It’ll do you good. You need to loosen up. Get your juices flowing. And I ain’t just talking ‘bout creative juices.”

  She knows she’s embarrassing me. She’s savoring every excruciating moment.

  “Lower your voice. He’ll hear you. Just so you know, I don’t believe for one minute, that there’s anything remotely uncomplicated about Curtis Jackson,” I whisper. “He’s a man of mystery, that’s for sure.”

  She chuckles. “He’s only a boy. Of course, he’s uncomplicated. If you’re not interested then…”

  The light dims as Curtis arrives in the door opening behind where we sit. Our eyes meet. I notice his cheeks are flushed. I suspect he’s overheard part of the conversation. Martha seems unfazed.

  As he passes between us carrying the wine bucket and a fresh bottle of wine, he makes a low humming sound in his throat. Martha makes a big deal of appraising his ass as he sets down the ice bucket on the low table. Two uncorked bottles of chardonnay float in a sea of ice. I’m convinced he’s overheard our conversation and noticed Martha admiring his ass. He smiles smugly. I’m sure I see him puff out his chest.

  He steps inside and returns a moment later carrying a tray brimming with cheeses, hams, olives, tapenade, plates and cutlery. It’s beautifully presented. He’s certainly found his way around my kitchen.

  “Let’s eat. When we’re through, I promise I’ll tell you all about me. I’m not that mysterious, Martha,” he says, fixing her with a knowing smile. “I’m just a simple country boy.”

  Did he overhear our conversation?

  He tops up our glasses. Flicks open another Bud. Settles back into the sofa. Sits within striking distance of the cougar.

  “Of course you are, darling,” Martha says, tilting her pelvis towards his thigh, licking her lips and doing the invisible ponytail thing.

  Curtis collects olive bread and garnishes it liberally with tomato tapenade and offers it to Martha. He licks his fingers and thumb, suggestively.

  Not such a simple boy after all. I think.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  To my relief, Martha, seeing where this is going, dials down the sexual overtones and injects polite chitchat. Judging by the intensity of their flirting they would have been having sex right there on my porch, within minutes, had I not intervened.

  Martha settles her hand on his forearm. “You’re an enigma, Curtis. Tell me… Why do you live alone in such a big old house in such a remote area? A young man like you, shouldn’t be shutting himself away in a place like this,” she says. “Ours is a world of endless possibilities.”

  I ignore her critique of the area. At least getting some food into her seems to have calmed her ardor. For the first time, she seems interested in our guest’s intellect, not just his good looks and what’s inside his pants. I’m dying to dig deeper, too. Perhaps it was a good idea to invite him. It’s certainly an opportunity to get to know him better. To date, I’ve only had secondhand tidbits and they haven’t painted him a good light.

  Give the guy a chance. I tell myself.

  Curtis has the good grace to follow Martha’s lead and tones down the flirting. He looks pensive. Thoughtful, even. He cups his chin between his thumb, and forefinger, massages stubble. It sounds like grit paper on metal.

  “I don’t plan on staying here much past fall,” he says, flatly.

  I find myself surprised. “Really?” I don’t know why, but it’s not what I expected him to say.

  “I came back to settle my parent’s affairs. Paperwork, legals, they’re taking much longer than I expected. My parents, they died in a skiing accident. Father’s will was straightforward. His instructions were explicit. ‘Sell the house. Settle every debt. Take what’s left. Go back to Montana. Don’t return. Ever.’ Father was a stickler for organization.”

  “Sounds so absolute… So final… Didn’t you get on with your parents?” says Martha. She’s been running her finger around the rim of the wineglass. She brings it to a halt.

  “That’s very perceptive of you. We never saw eye-to-eye. We were estranged. My father, he never cared for me. He was a cold man. Scrub that. His heart was made of ice. Father never got used to having a child around. He was too strict by half. Mother just went along with him,” he says. “She was weak, spineless.”

  I decide he’s being candid – matter of fact even. Martha has that effect on people. She compels you to open up, even if you’ve no intention of doing so. Our inhibitions dissolve as the alcohol flows.

  “Why Montana?”

  “I went to boarding school there.”

  “Did you grow up here? In that house?” Martha’s talons dig deeper into flesh.

  “My father worked in corporate finance. He was an equity partner. He came home only very infrequently. Split his time between here and New York,” he says, sipping beer. “I hardly ever saw him.”

  “That must have been hard on you?” I say. I want to get to know him. He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Martha nailed it. He’s mysterious. Call it author’s curiosity. One day, he’ll probably feature in one of my books.

  Curtis shrugs. His eyebrows lift. “Not really. It made me self-sufficient. Resilient. My father said I was feral. What did he know?” There’s bitterness in his voice. “My mother … she tried her best. She overcompensated when he was away. I ran wild. There was no one to instill any discipline in me. I had the run of this place.” He waves his bottle in the air, points it towards the cove. Chews his lip. “Father was never around to take me fishing or h
unting. I can’t recall a single occasion where we shared quality father and son time, together. I taught myself how to tie a hook on a line, how to set animal traps, skin rabbits, and bushcraft.” He stares ahead. Grips the bottle of Bud so tight his knuckles turn white. I fear the bottle may explode. Martha doesn’t pick up on it. He falls silent.

  “You’re quite the Daniel Boone,” Martha says, sipping more wine. Moving in a little closer.

  I watch her close. Wonder if she’s being completely sincere?

  “It sounds like a wonderful childhood for a boy. That said, you must have been pretty pissed with your parents when they sent you away to boarding school? Maine has some excellent schools. Montana is a long way to send a child,” Martha says.

  Martha’s curiosity is well and truly aroused. It’s obvious she finds him fascinating.

  “When I was ten my father sold his share of the company. He retired. He continued to play the markets, though on a much smaller scale. His trips to New York stopped. Him being around meant he could see what I was doing with my time. He didn’t like what he saw. He expected me to follow him into the City to work in finance. I wanted to follow my heart. I love the great outdoors. I’d go stir crazy stuck in an office all day staring at a screen. As a boy, I’d read and watched TV programs about cattle ranching. I set my sights on Texas. Father and I, we’d have fierce arguments about it. Mother would try her best to keep the peace. It was tough on her. Me, I’d take off alone. I’d spend days and nights hiding out here, in my shack,” he says, twirling the beer bottle around two fingers, directing a smile, first to me, then at Martha.

  Does he mean the old shack we’d demolished to make way for Tern Lodge?

  I shudder when I remember the spider’s web above my head, the night Charles and I slept in the shack.

  “Is that why he sent you away to boarding school?” I say. In my head, I’m replaying Dorothy Wiley’s account of the day of Levi’s accident – the day he’d allegedly been thrown over the cliff. Now that I have Curtis Jackson on my porch, I need to hear his side of the story.

  “When my teachers started bitching about poor grades, he gave me an ultimatum. Either I had to sort my head out, or I’d face the consequences.”

  He gazes straight through me. He’s role-playing the past in his mind’s eye. His expression suggests the memories are painful.

  “I rebelled. Thought, screw that. Screw them. I wasn’t used to having anyone tell me what to do, or push me around. It must’ve been a nightmare for my mother. I pushed every boundary. The harder I pushed, the more stubborn my father became. Mother elected to toe the line. It did nothing to improve matters. I became distant. It was never going to end well. My relationships with my father and mother were tenuous at best.”

  He slugs beer. Martha and I hang on every word. It’s a dark narrative.

  “So what caused the final schism?” Martha won’t let go until she’s squeezed every last ounce of his story out of him.

  “It was the summer that Levi Wiley jumped off the cliff. Asshole almost killed himself. He broke his legs real bad. Cracked his skull open,” he says.

  I gasp. Lean closer.

  “Levi jumped?” I query. I can’t help myself. This isn’t what Dorothy told me. I need to hear this first hand. Martha is staring at me.

  “Yeah, asshole jumped. We were dicking around on the cliff top, throwing stones at seagulls and cormorants, stuff like that. The cormorants take a lot of fish. The fishermen hate them. The tide was coming in. Levi got bored and dared us to jump in. I told him to do one. I wasn’t that stupid. He was. He’s a fucking retard. He threw himself over, hoping to land in the waves. The tide had just rolled out. He hit the rocks. We thought he was dead. We panicked and took off. I hid out for days. I was ten. I knew they’d blame me. Everyone always did. It was Levi’s fault. The other kids lied. I had a reputation for being a bad apple, and, with Levi in a coma, unable to tell everyone what really happened, they pointed their goddamn fingers at me. Eliah Wiley wouldn’t let it go. He drove the families of the other kids out of town. My father tried to placate him. Tried to pay him off. Offered him a lump sum to help with hospital bills. Eliah wouldn’t take it. He went around blackening my name to anyone who would listen, particularly with the police. Mother had a nervous breakdown. They sent me away to boarding school.” I notice that he’s clenching his teeth. His breathing has quickened.

  He’s reliving every painful moment.

  “And you never returned until your parents passed?”

  Jeez, Martha. Let it go.

  “I used to come home during the summer recess. Not that I spent much time with my folks. I’d live here, in my shack, alone. I love this place. I’d keep my head down until it was time to go back to school. I’d return to the big house for meals. For a while, it worked out well. We rubbed along until my father lost his money and sold the island to you. We would have killed one another had we spent any time together,” he says, with a huff.

  “Of course, I’m exaggerating. Age fifteen, I left home and started sofa-surfing. Worked evenings and weekends, so I had someplace to be. My parents continued to pay the school fees. Then the money, and any residual love they had for me, dried up. I was on my own. Then they died in the skiing accident.”

  I suck a breath. Hold it in. I feel like I’m in a vacuum.

  This is his island. We’re sat on the site of his shack.

  No one speaks. Minutes pass in silence.

  I hear a voice. It’s miles away at the end of a tunnel. It’s Curtis’s rich baritone.

  The pressure normalizes.

  “Eh, you two, you’ve stopped drinking. I’ll go get another bottle of wine. Can I use the bathroom?” Curtis says.

  I hear his question, though it doesn’t register.

  “Hope?”

  “Sorry … yeah … of course … it’s upstairs … second door on the left…” I say. Curtis disappears inside. Martha gives me a look. Mouths a WOW.

  “I told you he was mysterious. Quite a story, don’t you think?” Martha says.

  “I suppose so… Are you warm enough?” I say.

  “Ugh? Sure. What do you think? He’s fascinating.”

  I shrug. “He’s certainly had an interesting childhood.” I shake off the uneasy feeling. I’m overreacting, again.

  “And to think it all happened here,” I say, joining in Martha’s game. We’re whispering like schoolgirls. Conspiring. Martha is drinking in his story – every fluid ounce of it.

  “It’s a tragic story. Makes him more attractive, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t think it does. It’s tragic, I agree. He’s creepy… By the way, he’s not my type. He shouldn’t be yours, either. Need I remind you, I’m supposed to be the romantic one here, aren’t I?” I say, stabbing her arm playfully with a finger.

  “Romance? Did I mention romance? Watch and learn, my little rug rat. Before the night is out, I’ll have him eating out of my cleavage. You’ll see,” she says, miming a tiger pawing. She’s the living embodiment of a cougar.

  “Martha. Stop it.” I feign disgust. It’s a pitiful attempt. We giggle so much I’m sure I pee my panties. I fail to notice that Curtis has arrived in the door opening behind where we sit.

  “Eh, you two, what’s so funny? Do share,” he says. There’s a hint of paranoia in his tone. His nostrils flare.

  I roll my gaze to him. “Sorry. It’s nothing. We’ve drunk too much. We’re getting a bit silly,” I say. My cheeks reddening. He shrugs. Hands out two crystal glasses brimmed with ice-cold vino. Bubbles cling to the crystal. Drips of condensation land on my knee.

  “Enjoy. Choosing wine isn’t my forte,” he says.

  I believe I see him grit his teeth.

  “Don’t mind us, Curtis, darling. It’s only girl talk,” says Martha. She sips from the crystal glass. “By the way, this wine … is divine.” Martha purrs like a cat being stroked under the chin.

  Here we go…

  “Thank you, Curtis. It’s lovely,�
� I say. “Are you having one?” I raise my glass and take a sip. The glass is overflowing.

  “I’m good with beer, thanks. I don’t do wine. It doesn’t agree with me,” he says, settling on the sofa beside Martha. She slides against him. Chinks her glass against his beer bottle. The cougar moves in for the kill.

  “Impressive house you’ve got yourself here, Hope. Did your husband build it?”

  I can’t decide whether he’s bored with Martha’s advances or simply making small talk. It seems to be a conscious attempt to keep me in the loop.

  “Yes, he briefed the architect. Charles – good though he is at most things – wouldn’t know one end of a hammer from the other.”

  Martha’s scowling. “Hold it right there… We are not, repeat not, going to talk about that loser.” She waves her glass and spills a little wine over Curtis’s lap. “Oops, sorry,” she says, brushing his lap, stalling her hand there.

  “Yes, please. Let’s change the subject,” I say. “Let’s drink to us. To new found friendships. To new beginnings,” I thrust my glass forward. We chink a three-way toast.

  “To new beginnings,” Curtis says.

  “I’ll second that,” Martha purrs. “New beginnings.” Curtis refills our glasses. Bella’s doggy snores echo off into the night.

  Another hour passes, the alcohol continues to flow.

  For the first time in months, I feel mellow. I grin like I’m high on something white and powdery – not that I’ve any actual experience with drugs. My breathing slows. The stars rotate. I’m trying to remember when I last drank more than a glass of wine in one evening. I realize we’ve drunk the best part of two bottles each. I clutch my brimmed glass against my chest and stare dreamily, into space.

  It occurs to me, I’m watching Martha and Curtis swoon over one another. They’re whispering. Their words wash over me like the low incoming tide across the shore. Through the blur, I watch their mouths connect. They kiss. Martha’s lilac kaftan rises on the breeze. I glimpse tiny, ivory breasts. Erect bullet nipples. She doesn’t seem to mind. Curtis has his hand on her hips. She’s floating. Weightless. She’s beautiful. Angelic. I sip wine. I’m enjoy the spectacle. I want it to be me.