Rusty Nailed

by Alice Clayton

  We picked up the rental car, threw our bags into the back, and headed to the hotel. With the trip cross country, it was already dark by the time we got to the part of town Simon grew up, but he lit up when he began to call out places he recognized. And places he didn’t.

  “When did that bike shop close down? Oh man, this was the place I got my first bike without training wheels. Why is a minimall there; when did that go up?”

  “When’s the last time you were here, Simon?” I asked.

  “Um, a few weeks after graduation, I think,” he said distractedly, his eyes going back and forth on both sides of the street.

  “You really haven’t been here since you were eighteen?” I asked, astonished.

  “Why would I have been back?” he asked, making a turn and taking us right into the middle of the town square.

  When Simon said he grew up in Philadelphia, that wasn’t technically true. He grew up in one of the many feeder communities, the smaller townships that made up the outlying areas. I knew he came from money, but I didn’t know he came from Moneyville, USA.

  His hometown was plush. And darling in the way all northeastern towns looked to anyone who grew up in California. There was something to be said for growing up in a town that was almost three hundred years older than the one I grew up in. Most of the houses we passed could only be described as estates.

  The town square was quaint, with tidy little shops framing City Hall in the center. Two story mostly, with a few turreted three stories on each corner. People were shopping as the lightest dusting of snow fell, sparkling on the wrought-iron railings and—oh my God—honest to goodness real iron horse head hitching posts! Like, where people used to tie their horses to! Like, in olden times!

  “Simon, we have to walk around a little, look how cute your town is! Look at all the shops, and, oh, look at the Christmas tree in the middle!” I cried, pointing. In front of City Hall was a large tree, bedecked with red bows, gold ornaments, and white lights.

  “Babe, they put up a Christmas tree in front of City Hall in San Francisco every year.”

  “This is different; this is so stinking cute! Everything is so old! What’s that?” I asked, pointing to an old Gothic house with a plaque outside. Each window had a wreath; the windows upstairs even had candles too. It was so pretty, it must be of some historical significance.

  “It used to be . . . Yep, it’s still a Subway.”

  “Station?” I asked, confused.

  “No, like the sandwich shop,” he replied, laughing at my fallen expression. “I can’t believe it’s still open; no one eats there. Not when there’s Little Luigi’s. You still want a cheesesteak?”

  “Am I breathing?”

  “One cheesesteak coming up,” he said, turning the car down the last corner of the town square. “You gotta understand, everything here is old. Every building used to be something else; every building gets reused for something else,” he explained, pulling into one of the parking spots that was diagonal along the square. “Except for that stupid strip mall where my bike shop used to be.”

  He turned off the car and walked around to my side. Stepping out, I breathed in the snowy air, feeling it prickle in my lungs. The cold felt good after the long plane ride, and it was nice to stretch my legs a bit as we walked down the block.

  As we walked, he pointed out the different shops: the bakery where they made the best sugar cookies, the place where he got his new shoes every year for school, and as we walked and he talked, he seemed less and less nervous.

  “Thank God, it’s still here. Little Luigi’s,” he said, where there was a line out the door into the cold night. It moved fast though, and soon we were inside. It was a hole in the wall, with only three tables and a counter. They were grilling the steaks on a big black griddle, peppers and onions sizzling. People were barking out orders, wrapping sandwiches, and the smell was heavenly.

  When it was our turn, Simon ordered for both of us. Two steaks, cheese, onions, mushrooms, with both sweet and hot peppers on the side. And the funniest thing happened. When he ordered? This accent came out of nowhere. I’d never heard it before. Not New York or New Jersey; this was very specific. As I listened to everyone around me, they all had it. Some thicker than others, and Simon’s was fairly light, but it had definitely popped up. Huh.

  Grabbing a handful of napkins, he spied a family leaving one of the tables and was able to nab it. Leaving me with the table, he went back up for the sandwiches. I’d seen Simon order from a man with ten baskets of spring rolls on his head in Saigon. I’d seen him order sausages from a giant woman in an apron in Salzburg. And nowhere had I ever seen him more at home than he was in this sandwich shop in suburban Philadelphia.

  With a wide grin, he returned to the table. He showed me how to spread out the paper to catch the drips, added salt and pepper, then how to hold it so it didn’t spill out over the sides. Then he bit down, and pure bliss came over his face. And he made a sound I’d only ever heard him make once. And he was very happy when he made it.

  • • •

  “Simon Parker?” a voice said from behind, and he turned with a mouthful of cheesesteak. He quickly swallowed, and stood. An older woman with a sleek silver chignon and a strand of pearls that could choke a horse was looking at him in amazement.

  “Mrs. White?” he asked, running a hand through his hair.

  “Oh my goodness, it is you! I never thought we’d see you around here again!” She pulled him into a hug. “Where in the world have you been? Last I heard, you were off to Stanford.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and I’m still out on the West Coast—San Francisco, actually. How are you, how’s the family?”

  “Oh fine, fine! Todd’s with the firm now and practicing corporate law. He’s married, with their first little one on the way, and Kitty just got married last summer, and— You must be here for the reunion; I just can’t believe it’s you!” she said again, hugging him tight. He rocked forward on his feet, off balance, while I looked on, grinning.

  She spied me over his shoulder, and looked me up and down with shrewd interest. “And who might this be, Simon?”

  He ran his hand through his hair nervously again. “This is Caroline Reynolds. Caroline, this was our neighbor from next door, Mrs. White.” He patted me on the shoulder so hard that I almost took a nosedive into what remained of my cheesesteak. Which was basically just a grease stain.

  I reached a hand out to her. “Mrs. White, it’s lovely to meet you. You must be the one to go to for stories about how much trouble Simon used to get into, am I right?”

  “I remember everything, Caroline—my mind is like a steel trap,” she said, tapping her temple. “But tonight I forgot to remind Arthur to grab the chicken out of the freezer, so it’s hoagies in the TV room,” she said, waving at the counter man who was holding up two torpedo-looking bundles.

  Looking at Simon carefully, she patted him on the cheek. “Simon, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. You’ll stop by while you’re in town? I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Well, Mrs. White, I’m not sure if we’ll have time since the reunion is tomorrow night, and before that I was going to show Caroline around a bit more. We’re leaving on Sunday, so—”

  “Lunch.”

  “Lunch?” he asked.

  “Lunch tomorrow. You have to eat, right?”

  He nodded. I smiled. I liked her.

  “Then it’s settled. I’ll see you at twelve.” She nodded, settling the matter. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell Arthur you’re coming over tomorrow; he’ll be so pleased!”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he agreed.

  “I’ve got to run, see you then!” she called over her shoulder, heading out into the night.

  “She’s great,” I remarked, watching as Simon balled up the remaining papers and napkins and threw them into the wastebasket.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “That was good,” I said, patting my stomach.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

&n
bsp; “So what now?” I asked, raising my eyebrows at the sudden change. The nerves were back.

  “What? Oh, um, let’s head to the hotel, get checked in? Yep, let’s do that,” he said, ushering me out of the shop.

  We walked silently to the car in the lightly falling snow. This trip was a big deal for him, and I’d just realized what lunch meant: he was going to be next door to the house he grew up in. For the first time in ten years.

  He reached for my hand, and into his it went.

  • • •

  I took a few minutes to clear out my in-box when we got back to the hotel. I was trying really hard to leave the office behind, so I limited it to a few moments here and there, answering only the questions I couldn’t put off until Monday. Then I took a shower, wanting to get rid of the airplane and the cheesesteak smell, both of which lingered. Still damp, I padded out to the bedroom in my towel with another on my head, finding Simon lying on the bed. Hands clasped behind his head, he was staring at the ceiling.

  “Hey,” I said softly.

  “Hey, how was your shower?”

  “Fantastic, they’ve got one of those rain showers? You should take one before bed.”

  “I might.”

  Silence fell once more, and I crossed to the bed, sitting down beside him.

  “Thanks for bringing me here. It’s nice, seeing the place you came from.”

  “Sure,” he said, looking at me for the first time.

  I laid my hand on his chest gently. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he whispered back.

  I leaned down slowly, watching his eyes. I gently grazed my lips over his, light and quick. When he didn’t pull away, I kissed him again. He let me, my lips taking his for a third time. I pressed a little harder, and he let me in. I stroked his tongue with my own, feeling him respond as we tangled and twisted. His breathing deepened, his pulse quickened beneath me, and I propped myself above. Not removing my mouth from his, I let my fingers undo his buttons, exposing the skin beneath. Kissing along his jawline, I let my lips tease just below his ear, feeling the sandpaper scruff. I knew what that scruff felt like on the inside of my thighs, and how great was that?

  I felt him tense as I flicked my tongue against his earlobe, eliciting a hiss. His hands came up to my waist as I crept back along his neck, kissing lower along his collarbone. Pulling at his shirt, untucking it from his waistband, I threw it wide, pressing myself along his torso. His skin was warm; it felt divine against my own. I needed to feel more of it.

  Standing, I kept my hands on him at all times while I gently removed his shirt, then belt, then socks and pants, until I had him naked and wanting. Standing in the moonlight, I dropped my towel.

  “Caroline,” he breathed, and I crawled back on top of him. Straddling him low on his legs, I took him in hand. His hands came up to my breasts, needy and kneading. I stroked him, grasping the base and working upward, swirling my hand over the head and letting his hips tell me what he needed.

  He panted, his chest rising and falling as I worked him. Up and down and swirly twirly, he was hard in my hands and the single most erotic man I’d ever seen in my life. I gently grazed one finger along the underside, and he thrust hard.

  “Not going to last long if you keep that up.” He groaned, his fingers teasing at my nipples.

  “That’s not what this is about,” I answered, rising above him. I positioned him, and slid him inside. Slick from just the way he was looking at me, I sank down inch by perfect inch, slowly. Exquisitely so, as he strained to stay still.

  Once he was seated fully inside I gave one slow roll of my hips, gasping as I felt him grow harder and thicker. Impossible.

  “What’s . . . impossible?” he grunted, every muscle taunt and lean. I didn’t know I’d spoken aloud. No matter, he should know.

  “That I will ever get tired of this, of what it feels like to have you inside me,” I said, shuddering as he thrust up. I leaned backward a bit, resting my hands on his thighs for leverage as I took him in again. Rising onto his elbows, he watched in fascination at the sight of him sliding in and out of my body. One of his hands swept my hair back from my face, then dragged down my neck, between my breasts, down my tummy and dipped down below.

  That hand, making those perfect circles, right at the center of my world, and my hips took over. I rode him hard, rising up and down, as he watched me writhe above him.

  “Simon. That’s. Perfect!” I called out, feeling my orgasm approaching. He sat up underneath me, wrapping my legs around his waist, pistoning into me in an unrelenting rhythm, crushing me to him. I shook as I came, his own release chasing him down in a fury.

  I held him to me, not letting go, not letting him get away, my body molded to his in a mess of sticky, sweaty skin, sliding and thrusting together, frantic and furious.

  He was silent when he came, his eyes burning into mine as I held him to my breast, as he shattered. His head threw back, his strength washed over me, then he fell into me. I held him, rocking, still feeling him inside me as he softened, cradling him against my skin.

  “It’s impossible for me to love you more,” I whispered, kissing his forehead.

  He clutched me even tighter.

  • • •

  He was white-faced when we turned onto his street the next day, his lips in a tight line. And speaking of tight, with the grip he had on the steering wheel, he was close to tearing it off. When I wasn’t looking at Simon, I was gaping at the houses we were passing. This was old-ass money, moldy blue-blood money. Not a McMansion in sight, only actual estates. Tennis courts, pool houses, and miles of fencing. Still a neighborhood, though; the houses weren’t so far apart that they were isolated. Just a neighborhood lined with stately oaks and gas lamps.

  And three security cars. So far.

  But it was beautiful. We pulled up to an elegant fieldstone and brick home, Tudor style with black shutters. The little bit of snow that had fallen was neatly shoveled, the path and drive neatly edged. Christmas lights twinkled from inside, hinting at a mammoth tree, and a wreath as big as my bed was on the front door. The house to the left must have been Simon’s, as it was the one he was avoiding looking at entirely. Pine trees along the property line softened the view, but it looked like a brick center style colonial, as grand as the rest of the neighborhood. There were bikes in the driveway. Kids’ bikes.

  As we walked up the pathway to the house, Simon let out a chortle. “I can’t believe that’s still here.”

  “What?”

  “They redid the pavers when I was in elementary school, and her son and I wrote our names in the cement. Boy, did we hear about that one.” He pointed to the first step, and on the corner I could just make out his name. Simon Parker.

  “You wouldn’t have made a very good vandal; you signed your full name, for pity’s sake,” I said as he rang the doorbell. I reached out and gave his buns a squeeze, and as he looked at me in surprise, the door opened.

  “There you are, right on time!” Mrs. White sang out, opening the door and hurrying a blushing Simon inside. He insisted I go first and I got my own bun squeeze. “It’s so cold out, look at your cheeks, bright red! Good thing I had Arthur make a fire. Arthur, come down here!”

  Exchanging hugs and kisses on the cheek, we were ushered into a formal but very comfortable sitting room, where there was in fact a fire crackling. I made small talk with Mrs. White while Simon surreptitiously took everything in: the picture window, the antique desk, the ship in a bottle on the mantel. I saw him take a deep breath, turning as Mr. White came in.

  “Simon, so great to see you!” he said, walking right up and shaking Simon’s hand, then pulling him into a one-armed hug.

  “Mr. White, good to see you too, sir.”

  “I can’t tell you how Penny went on and on about seeing you when she came home last night. How’ve you been?”

  “Good, I’ve been good. I heard Todd is married?”

  “Oh yes, nice gal. But more importantly, how are you? What have you b
een up to all these years? Photography we heard, tell me all about that.” Mr. White clapped an arm around Simon’s shoulders and walked him into the library, which was all wood and full of books, enough to require one of those sliding ladders.

  As they disappeared around the corner, I looked over at Mrs. White. She was smiling, but her eyes looked a bit damp.

  “Mrs. White, your home is beautiful,” I started, and she turned her glassy gaze to mine.

  “Call me Penny.”

  “Not until Simon does.” I grinned.

  “Mrs. White it is, then; that boy will never call me anything but. Can I get you something to drink, dear?” she asked, gesturing for me to follow her over to where there was lemonade, coffee, and—

  “Is that a Bloody Mary bar?” I asked.

  “Oh heavens, yes.” She nodded, sweeping under her eyes a bit with a manicured hand. “Olive or celery?”

  “Both?”

  “I always knew Simon would end up with a smart girl.” She winked, and poured. Lots of Mary in that Bloody . . .

  We sat on the couch and chatted, keeping things light. We discussed the design of her home; she was fascinated by interiors and had helped with every room in the house. We talked a little bit about the town, and how many years her family had lived here. Many. And since the men seemed to be taking a while in the library, we eventually moved on to Simon.

  “I can’t tell you how good it is to see him. Everyone here had resigned themselves to never seeing him again, after he graduated.”

  “I didn’t realize he hadn’t been back since . . . Well, since.”

  “No, he left that June and that was the last anyone saw him. He kept in touch with a few of his friends for a little while, but he seemed to need the break. We all understood, losing his family so suddenly.”

  “I’m glad he came back; this seems like a lovely place to grow up.”

  “It was, and it is. Gail and Thomas, his parents, were wonderful people. So tragic . . .” She trailed off, then turned toward the desk. “I think I have some pictures of them, out on their farm. We spent time out there with them almost every summer. Did you know the Parkers had a farm?”