Breaking the Rules

by Tinthia Clemant

  She drove to the end of the rutted dirt road and turned left, passing a mailbox with a number twelve painted on the side. Spruce and fir trees encased the long driveway, giving her the feeling she’d been transported to Canada and was driving in a boreal forest. Add about three feet of snow, and the image would be complete.

  At the top of the steep driveway, the road bent to the left. Time stopped as her vision and reality merged. In her mind, she’d stood on the porch of the quaint house many times; it was the very same house St. John had sketched on his palm.

  She turned off the car and ran the remaining length of the driveway. Jasper bolted past her and disappeared into the dense woods, but she continued to the center of the lawn. The magnificent tree beckoned her, and she moved slowly forward until she stood under the sprawling canopy of study limbs and burgundy-tinted leaves. To her, beeches were the most magical of all hardwoods, their strength and wisdom bestowed upon them by the goddess Freya. Having a beech tree on the property was yet another good omen.

  She dipped her hand into the space where the trunk separated and pressed her lips against the smooth, gray bark. The tree’s energy eased into her, and she whispered, “Thank you, Freya, for the bounty you have bestowed upon me and will bestow upon me. Blessed be.”

  At a sound akin to the snapping of a rubber band, she raised her face and found a pair of black eyes studying her.

  “Hello, little chickadee. Are you the welcoming committee?”

  Jasper bounded out from the trees, his coat dotted with mud.

  “I guess someone is having a bath tonight,” she said. “Let’s try the front door and see if it’s unlocked.”

  The weathered porch creaked under her sandals, and she turned the doorknob. The door swung in, and she sniffed. A subtle aroma matching her own perfume lived under the dust and age.

  “I’m home,” she called out.

  She stepped inside, and with her index finger resting against the faded wallpaper, traced along the wall of the living room until she arrived at the fireplace. She rested her hand on the sturdy oak mantle. It opened itself and in a hushed whisper offered, ‘Welcome home.’ Having lain silent for too many years, the house was ready to live again.

  Echoes of footsteps ran past and up the staircase located in the corner of the room. Jasper barked and followed the unseen feet to the second floor, and she followed Jasper.

  At the top landing she heard laughter, and she found Jasper wagging his tail as he stood in the center of the room overlooking the backyard. Someone or something had wiped away the dust from the windowsill, revealing two brown smudges and the words Blood brothers for life.

  A blanket of soothing energy enveloped her, and she gave a small nod. The two boys, now men, had mended their hearts. All was becoming as it should be; the house was finally at peace.

  “Shan, you up there?”

  Jasper returned to the first floor, and Shannon called, “Yes, coming.”

  Dee stood halfway up the steps, holding two take-out cups with the Beans logo. “How did you get in?”

  “The house.”

  “The house?”

  “The house let me in.”

  “Okaay… Can I have some of what you’re smoking?”

  Shannon took one of the cups and grinned. “It’s not pot, it’s magic.”

  Dee snorted. “Forget the voodoo stuff and concentrate on reality. What do you think of the place? It needs a load of work.”

  “I don’t care,” Shannon said, her tone emphatic. “Whatever the owner wants, I’ll pay it, even if I have to work three jobs. I want this house.”

  “St. John said you’d say that.”

  Shannon shook her head. “Wait a sec. I thought Malcolm O’Brien was the owner?”

  Dee responded, “Let’s go sit by the pond. We have a lot to discuss. But first, you carry the coffees, and I’ll be right back. I bought a box of muffins, and it’s in the van, along with the paperwork.”

  Dee arrived and handed Shannon the pastry box. “I only got corn figuring you’d want to feed the ducks.”

  Jasper laid his muzzle on Shannon’s lap and stared at the pastry box. “Be patient,” she said. Pulling off a section of muffin, she tossed it on the water. Jasper leapt straight into the pond, sending the mallards and two swans quacking and honking in a variety of directions. “Aw, Jasper,” she shouted.

  “Don’t worry about it; they’re used to dogs. When St. John is over here, Sadie terrorizes them.

  Shannon dusted crumbs off her fingers. “Okay, it’s time to tell me what’s going on. Who owns this house, really?”

  Dee finished swallowing her bite of muffin. “First let me give you a brief history. St. John’s grandfather built the place—”

  “I already know that.”

  “Feed the ducks, Shan, and let me finish. He built the house in 1934 and sold it, along with twenty acres, to a young widow from Derry for the whopping price of fifteen dollars. The sale raised some eyebrows, and after the widow—her name was Sadie—moved in with her young son, tongues started wagging about infidelity and an illegitimate child.”

  “Who’s Merry?” Shannon crumbled more muffin and tossed the pieces to the newly arrived ducks near her feet.

  “Merry was married to David, Sadie’s son.”

  “And now I’m officially confused.”

  “Give me a chance to get it all out before you start asking questions,” Dee said. “David was Sadie’s son, the one people believed to be Chester St. John’s illegitimate kid. He, David, married Meredith Sullivan, and they lived in this house. David died in a logging accident, and his widow, Merry, who was pregnant at the time, gave birth to Malcolm. This is where history repeats itself. Merry became St. John’s father’s mistress. After his mom died, Merry adopted St. John. He was ten or eleven. He lived here with her and Malcolm until he married Coleen.”

  “This is incredible!” Shannon’s exclamation sent the ducks flying back to the water and got Jasper running along the pond’s edge. “This is better than Peyton Place.” She took a moment and then said, “I still don’t get who owns the house: St. John or Malcolm?”

  “Malcolm.

  “Then where does St. John fit in?”

  “It’s convoluted, Shan, but right now St. John is in New York trying to mend his relationship with Malcolm.”

  “Which they have already accomplished,” Shannon added.

  Dee looked surprised. “You’ve talked to him?”

  “No, the house told me.”

  “Okay, never mind. I did talk to him, and he managed to convince Malcolm to rent the place to you with an option to buy. I can’t believe he pulled it off; he’s a better negotiator than I thought.”

  “Why did he and Malcolm stop speaking?”

  “I don’t know the details, and believe me, I’ve tried to get them. St. John doesn’t like sharing. Good luck with that part of his personality.”

  Shannon left the bench and stood at the water’s edge, alternately tossing muffin chunks to Jasper and the birds. As she faced the pond, she said over her shoulder, “St. John has a lot more baggage than I realized.”

  “I told you so,” Dee replied along with a chuckle. “Sorry, I had to say it.”

  Shannon returned and sat again, responding with her own good-humored laugh. “It’s about time. The suspense was killing me.”

  Dee poured the last portion of her coffee into the grass and picked up the manila envelope at her side. “I have a list of the repairs the house needs. St. John already said he’ll take care of them. This preliminary contract spells out most of the details.”

  Shannon studied the papers. She reread the selling price three times. “I can’t believe the house is so cheap. Why?”

  “Talk to St. John.”

  “I need to know something.” Shannon returned the papers to the envelope. “Why is St. John doing this for me?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No, I’m not. He’s made it clear—”

  �
�The two of you are driving me batshit.” Dee stood and poured out the remaining coffee in Shannon’s cup and dropped both cups and stomped them with her foot. “I feel like locking you guys in a room and not letting you out until you’ve both duked it out.”

  “What did I say that was so bad?”

  “St. John loves you.”

  Shannon tossed the last pieces of muffins into the water. “No, no, no. He said—”

  Dee’s face reddened. “Screw what he said. You’ve done the impossible—you got Adam St. John to break his stinking rules and let someone into his life. I’ll ask you the same thing I asked him: what are you going to do about it?”

  Chapter 39

  “Being happy doesn’t mean that everything is perfect, it means that you’ve decided to look beyond the imperfections.”

  Unknown

  “I own a house in North Conway, one in Windham, and a third on Cape Cod down in Mass. I also have…….”

  Shannon nodded every few seconds. She imagined her eyes glazing over as Larry or Barry—she forgot his name—droned on, but she wasn’t being fair to him. She was at Pappy’s to see only one man.

  Giving the bourbon in her glass her attention, she once again mused about why he hadn’t called, or at the least texted, when he got back to town. By now he had to know she’d spoken to Dee and learned how he felt.

  “Do you know that guy?”

  Her companion nodded toward the far end of the bar, and she thrilled at the pair of shockingly blue eyes directed her way. She offered a smile.

  He returned the favor with a wide grin of his own and, with a quick jerk of his head, indicated the hallway. Then he blended into the crowd of bodies.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Larry or Barry. “I have to…” She grabbed her purse and followed St. John.

  The hall led to the bathrooms and the kitchen. She tried the door for the woman’s room. “Wait your turn,” blasted through the wood. The men’s room door wasn’t locked, but after she opened it, she blinked and yanked it closed.

  “What’s your hurry?” the guy called out.

  “Sorry,” she shouted and continued on her way. St. John wouldn’t have gone into the kitchen, and he hadn’t evaporated into thin air, so where…? At the end of the hallway, steps entered a darkened stairwell. At the top, a slice of light escaped an open door.

  This was it, the moment of truth. Since Jimbo and Dee might be wrong, she’d be smart to play it cool and see where St. John took things.

  She climbed and entered an office consisting of a couch, two well-stuffed chairs, a file cabinet, and a desk, against which he was presently leaning. He looked relaxed, ankles crossed, hands tucked into a pair of faded jeans. He didn’t speak or move.

  She closed the door. “Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to bring those lips over here?”

  “We need to talk first,” he replied without moving from his spot.

  She reached over her shoulder and freed her hair from the rhinestone clip holding it in place. “Okay, so talk.” She gave her head a shake, hoping her hair looked tousled in a sexy way and not like she’d just gotten out of bed.

  He stepped away from the desk, and her pulse doubled, tripling as he moved close and quadrupling as he fingered the lace ruffle draping from the off-the-shoulder neckline of her dress.

  “First,” he said, “you look great.”

  His fingertips grazed the exposed skin of her chest, sending her pulse rate off the charts. “What’s second?”

  “Excuse me?” His right eyebrow arched.

  “You said first, which indicates there’s a second as in ‘first, second, third.’” It was his closeness that was turning her brain to mush. First, second, third: what was she even talking about?

  He nodded. “Got it,” he said and walked behind her. The click of the lock told her the talking would eventually end, but not fast enough. Soon he’d have to make love to a puddle.

  “Second, you smell incredible.”

  She wasn’t sure if his breath near her ear had caused it or if it was the way he’d inhaled along her skin, but a warm trickle slid down her inner thigh. “And third?”

  Strong hands, roughened from physical labor, held her by the shoulders and guided her against his chest. He angled her head back and stroked the length of her neck. Each pass of his fingers bringing them closer to her breasts.

  “Number three is I’ve missed the feel of you,” he said and moved his hand under the dress’s material and stroked her nipples.

  There were two things she wanted: to hear that he loved her and to feel him inside of her. At the present time, she didn’t care one bit about the words; she needed some action. She spun and faced him. “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

  He gripped her by the waist and kissed her. Then he flashed his cocky grin, said, “No,” and let her go.

  ******

  “You’re a tease, St. John,” Shannon told him while straightening her dress.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Shannon,” St. John said. “I plan on having you multiple times tonight but not here. Would you like something to drink?” He walked over to the file cabinet and removed a whiskey bottle and two paper cups. “On second thought, water for you.” He bent under the desk and reappeared with a bottle of spring water. “I hope you don’t mind room temperature. I could run downstairs and get you some ice if you want?”

  “Why can’t I have a drink?”

  “Because you had three down in the bar.”

  She smirked at him, which did little to stem the blood flowing to his groin. “Were you spying on me?”

  “It’s my job to keep an eye on what’s happening in my establishment. You didn’t look as if you were enjoying your friend very much.”

  “I was enjoying him just fine.” She grabbed the water bottle. “Why can’t we fool around? I’m sure you’ve screwed lots of women in here. What’s your favorite spot: the desk, the couch and the chairs, the door?”

  He poured himself a shot and tapped his glass against her water bottle. “Mostly the door, never the desk or the couch. The chairs are too uncomfortable and only a few times on the floor.”

  “You are a cocky bastard.”

  “Yes, you’ve told me.” He sent the bourbon into his throat. “And now I want you to tell me what you’re doing here.”

  She sat on the desk and opened her legs. “I heard the chicken wings are pretty good, so I thought I’d come by and see.”

  “Stick to the wings back in Wexford, and sitting like that isn’t going to change my mind.” He’d promised himself that the next time he made love to her it would be in a bed, not against a door, not a counter, not the floor, but a proper bed that was comfortable and where he could take his time exploring her.

  “I bet I can get you to change your mind.

  She lifted the hem of her dress and fanned her open legs, giving him a clear view.

  He ran his hand over his face. He could barely hear his own thoughts his heart was pounding so loud. The chances of him waiting to make love to her until they were someplace less seedy were lessening by the second. “Denise told me about Justin and how you stood up to him. You should be proud of yourself.”

  She bent her leg and placed her sandaled foot on the desk. “What about you, St. John. Are you proud of me?”

  “Stay with me tonight.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she said. “That’s not a very polite way to ask.”

  “Will you to stay with me tonight, please.”

  “I’d love to stay with you.”

  Then she touched herself, and his resolve crumbled.

  ******

  Once their sexual appetites were satiated, St. John descended to the kitchen and brought back a plate of BBQ chicken wings, coleslaw, and a stack of moist towelettes. While they ate, Shannon detailed Shelby’s phone call and Justin’s visit. When St. John asked, she also described the condo where she was now living and added, “I came here tonight to thank you for what you did with the house.�
��

  “You’re welcome. Merry would be happy to know you’re living there.” He extended a napkin and wiped the corner of her lips.

  He might think she was crazy, but she told him, “She knows.” A sudden thought came to her, and she assembled the words, realizing if she’d didn’t clear the air, they wouldn’t stand a chance. “I have something I’d like to say.”

  “I think I know what you’re going to say, and I’d like to go first,” he said, wiping his hands.

  “Why do you always get to go first?”

  “My office, my rules.”

  She cleaned her fingers and then stood, placing her hands on her hips. “Big deal, Mr. Cocky. You don’t get to go first because you don’t know what I’m going to say.”

  “I bet I do. Here…” He tore a slip of paper off the pad on the desk and wrote something. Then he handed her the pen and her own piece of paper. “Write down what you want to say, and we’ll compare notes.”

  She agreed. “Ready?” she asked when she finished writing.

  He returned to his original position of leaning against the desk. “Go.”

  “I apologize for what I’ve said about your business practices. I understand what you’re saying about people and the land. You’d think I’d be okay with progress, having grown up in a city like Boston, but whatever. Anyway, I do get that you build around the natural landscape, and I’m sorry for accusing you otherwise. I promise, no judgment ever again. Okay, show me your slip?”

  “It can wait. Come here.”

  When he reached for her hand, she shook her head. “First show me what you wrote.”

  “In a minute. I have something else to show you.” He led her around the desk and removed a cardboard tube from on top of the file cabinet.

  “What’s this?” she asked as he unrolled a blueprint. “Meredith Memorial Park,” she read. “Wait, is this the old Hancock farm?” She studied the architectural blueprint and then his pleased expression.

  “Yup. I’m the new owner. Last Saturday night, I presented these plans, along with my offer, and Hancock’s daughter accepted.”