Kiss Me Hello

by LK Rigel

  Maybe she didn’t look like Kristin Scott Thomas after all.

  The truck rolled on as if nothing had happened and made a slow turn onto Turtledove Hill Road. The workers in the back of the truck were laughing about the Lexus driver, and one at the back caught Sara’s eye. He made an exaggerated whew! gesture and draped his muscled arm casually over the tailgate.

  He was eighteen or nineteen with dark eyes, curly black hair, and a smile that sent a zing through Sara’s gut. She returned his smile just as the truck turned onto a side road and dipped out of sight. With butterflies in her stomach, she jogged another hundred feet or so to the ocean cliffs.

  The village of Pelican Chase lay on a peninsula to the north. Below her, waves pounded over the rocks in a small bay. A sandy beach stretched to the south, but the way down looked too dangerous. So much for the plan to explore the beach and collect shells.

  The breeze off the ocean blasted her face and whipped through her hair. She breathed the biting salty air deep into her lungs and began to relax listening to the surf. Her aunt was so lucky to live near the ocean.

  A seagull screamed by, and she jumped and fell backwards into a bush. The bird swooped down and out past the breaking waves to join its flock fishing in the water. All seagulls, nothing more exotic. No pelicans.

  Sara sat down and crossed her legs and picked bits of broken twigs out of her sweater. The horizon was a flat line, Pacific Ocean below and blue sky above. This would make a great thinking spot. If she had her backpack, she’d have a snack and read for a while. Or write in her diary. But she’d left the backpack and diary at home, and her book was in her purse at Aunt Amelia’s.

  She closed her eyes and pictured the guy in the truck. He’d been flirting with her—and she liked it. She committed his face to memory so she could write about him later. And the Kristin Scott Thomas woman.

  The English Patient was so great. As usual, Mom and Dad didn’t know what they were talking about. The Millers next door had HBO, and the movie came on last night while Sara was babysitting after the kids were in bed. She meant to change the channel when the trashy parts started, but before she knew it the whole thing was over.

  She honestly didn’t know what was so horrible about the movie, but Mom practically popped a vein this morning when Sara mentioned watching it. Her parents were such prudes. No objection to the cruelty and torture and death. It was the adultery they hated. The sex.

  Another car drove by on the highway, and Sara looked back at Aunt Amelia’s house in the distance. It looked like it was in a painting. Turtledove Hill had a few chickens, but it wasn’t a real farm. There were no cows, no corn, no strawberries or onions or cabbages. There was a barn, though. Maybe her aunt had horses.

  North and east of the house and barn, thousands of grapevines filled a couple hundred acres, rows and rows everywhere except for the eucalyptus grove at the bottom of the hill between the highway and the house.

  With a shock, Sara understood that Aunt Amelia must be rich.

  The house sat halfway up a hill, a big rambling two-story thing with lots of windows and angles and a veranda that stretched across most of the front. There was a widow’s walk above the second floor and a small third story that only looked big enough to be one room.

  She wondered where the house got its name. There didn’t seem to be any turtledoves at Turtledove Hill any more than there were pelicans in Pelican Chase.

  Sara got to her feet and brushed off her jeans. It was Mom and Dad’s fault if she’d gone too far. They were the ones who told her to “go play.” But stay away from the vineyards, Mom had said. That’s where the ghosts are. She said it with that smile that meant “just joking, kiddo.” Sara hated that. And it wasn’t a smile. It was a smirk.

  Going down to the beach was out of the question, and she didn’t care about the vineyards, ghosts or not. A bunch of bare sticks on trellises couldn’t be more boring. On the other hand, Aunt Amelia’s barn looked interesting.

  Sara ran across the highway and down Turtledove Hill Road and took a shortcut through the eucalyptus grove. It was colder there where the trees blocked the sun. Geese flew overhead in a V, and their honky-honks mixed with the wind in the leaves. Nature’s music. It made Sara feel alive.

  She came to a pond made where a fallen tree had dammed up a stream. Early flowers bloomed all around, pink hyacinths, blue crocus. Hundreds of snowdrops made a frilly white collar around the water. A slab of slate jutted out over the pool. Mom would love it here. She’d been so nervous since she got pregnant. So overprotective. This place would calm her down.

  Under the soothing whoosh of wind in the trees, Sara picked some snowdrops to take back. Tons of unopened daffodils peeked up among the snowdrops. These weren’t wildflowers. Aunt Amelia must have planted them. Maybe this was her thinking spot.

  At the house Sara dropped the snowdrops on Mom’s seat in the car. She wanted to go in to ask to see the widow’s walk on the roof, but Dad would just tell her to go back outside. They’d driven hours and hours to have an Important Talk with Aunt Amelia. Sara didn’t know what it was about, but she knew it was bad. On the whole drive Mom barely spoke, and Dad had on his the-world’s-going-to-hell face.

  She might as well go check out the barn.

  There were horses—or at least evidence of them, bales of fresh hay stacked all over, and tack hanging on the walls. There were even two saddles, but the stalls were empty. So disappointing. Sara ran her fingers over a saddle and gripped the horn. She imagined riding through the vineyards. She’d stop where that boy was working and offer him a canteen full of cool water. Their fingers would touch, and he’d smile at her again.

  Her gaze fell on an old trunk in the corner. It was like something out of an Indiana Jones movie, bound by leather straps and pasted all over with faded and scraped up stickers that said things like Baggage Dept London and Cunard Hold. Below the latch, stenciled in large black letters, it said J. MONTAGUE.

  How romantic! Sara ran her fingers over the lettering. What faraway places had the trunk been to? What magical things were inside? She slid the straps off the sides. The latch was unlocked, and she lifted the lid.

  The trunk was full of old-fashioned men’s clothes, clean and neatly folded. On the left the satin side pockets held cufflinks and suspenders. Socks and cloth handkerchiefs were tucked into the pockets on the right side.

  One pocket was stuffed with old postcards. There was a picture of palm trees and a beach that said Pearl Harbor. Neat handwriting on the back side said December 8, 1941. Not so serene today. Another card pictured a distant mountain and had Japanese writing down one side. On the back, the same neat pen had written Mount Fuji, October 1945.

  She felt the fabric of a white linen shirt, soft and elegant. The buttons were carved ivory chrysanthemums. It was all of much finer quality than anything Dad wore, ever. A brass bell lay under all the clothes. She lifted it out by the leather thong tied to the ring on the top. Cutwork snowdrops surrounded the rim and sparkled as they caught the light.

  There was no clapper. She looked around for something to use to strike the bell and found an odd-looking iron knife stuck in one of the barn’s support posts near the trunk. The knife was short, the distance between her thumb and little finger if she stretched them as wide apart as she could.

  She held the bell by the leather thong and struck. Ah, lovely! Not a clang but a pretty, musical tone that dissipated slowly. She struck again. Vibrations permeated the air and passed through her with a tingling sensation.

  She had to show this to Mom. Crossing the courtyard, she couldn’t resist striking the bell again a few times. She’d gotten as far as the car when the back screen door flew open and slammed against the wall. Aunt Amelia burst out of the house.

  The old lady came running down the porch steps, a stocky woman with dark gray hair in a long braid draped over her shoulder. “Stop!” she screamed. “Stop!”

  Sara froze, stunned. Aunt Amelia tore the bell away and pressed it against her st
omach to stop the sound. “You’ll scare the hens.” Her face was as pale as if she’d seen a ghost. “Make them stop laying eggs.”

  Mortified, Sara looked up at Mom and Dad. They were together at the top of the porch steps, but their attention was on a big white pickup truck pulling a horse trailer that just turned into the courtyard. Mom looked like she was having a bout of morning sickness, and Dad scowled at Aunt Amelia.

  “Sara, get in the car,” he said. He took Mom’s arm and guided her down the steps with no care for how unsteady she was. “We’re going.”

  “I have to get my purse,” Sara said. Now they wanted to go. Now that the horses were here. Why was everyone acting so crazy? She didn’t wait for Dad’s answer but bounded up the steps and into the house.

  Her purse was where she left it on the kitchen counter by the archway to the hall. She slung the strap over her shoulder and turned to go, but something stopped her. Was that a movement? There was someone in the hall, a man sitting at the bottom of the stairs, watching her. She moved toward the hall arch. His eyes met hers, and he stood up.

  The sight made Sara catch her breath.

  He wore dark pants and suspenders over a white shirt with an open collar, the long sleeves unfastened and rolled up partway. He was a grown-up man, but younger than Dad. He was like Heathcliff, with wild hair and hungry dark eyes—no. He was like Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre.

  He tilted his head. “Hello?”

  His voice was gentle and low, and cautious, as if he knew he shouldn’t speak to a strange young girl. There was something sad about him, even tragic. Sara’s hand flew to her throat. Her heart pounded violently, but she could look at him all day.

  “Hello.” She smiled to show she was cool, ready to like any friend of Aunt Amelia’s. If this was the reason her parents were in high righteous mode, she was on Aunt Amelia’s side.

  And then he was standing in the archway. How did he move so fast? He touched her hand, and she pulled it away reflexively. An icy thrill of fear and eagerness raced through her. Run! her brain screamed. But she was frozen. She looked up into his brown eyes, and it was like falling into eternity.

  “Sara, let’s get going!”

  That worked. At Dad’s call she spun on her heels and blasted out the door and down the porch steps. Aunt Amelia looked at her closely with alarm—no, with fear.

  I’m not supposed to know, Sara realized. I wasn’t supposed to see him. She ran to Aunt Amelia and grabbed her arms. Quietly, just between the two of them, she said, “I saw him.”

  Aunt Amelia paled and her eyes widened. Sara stood up on her toes and kissed her aunt on the cheek and gave her a knowing, encouraging smile.

  The horn blasted. Dad was behind the wheel with the engine running, staring straight ahead. Mom held the bouquet of snowdrops to her nose at the front passenger door. Beyond the car, a black and white pinto was tied to a hitching post. The woman who’d driven the truck and trailer led a palomino to the barn. She gave Aunt Amelia a sympathetic look.

  So unfair! Sara wanted to be sympathetic too. She wanted to stay and ride a horse and go up to the widow's walk and look at the ocean. Why did her parents have to be so closed-minded? She shot a last exasperated glance to her aunt and glared at Mom. That was the extent of her power to protest.

  Safe in the back seat, excitement bubbled inside her. Everything fell into place, why her parents were in such a snit. Aunt Amelia had a lover! Worse, he was younger than her. What was she, fifty? Sixty? He could be twenty years younger. More.

  The tires screeched as Dad drove around the horse trailer and out of the courtyard. He was so angry. Mom was crying quietly. No wonder they objected to The English Patient. They had forbidden lovers on the brain.

  Lover. Lover. Sara rolled the word around in her mind. Was there ever a more delicious word? A lover wasn’t about cooking breakfast or making the house payment or making better chocolate chip cookies than Cindy at church. A lover was all about skin against skin, warmth on warmth, soul mingled with soul. It was about the passion.

  The sex.

  The image of the boy in the truck filled Sara’s mind. What if he’d jumped out and crossed the highway to her with that brilliant confident smile? What if he’d taken her hand and led her to that bush at the cliff? What if he wanted to kiss her?

  But the boy in the truck was nothing to the man in the kitchen—that gothic hero. As intense and mysterious as Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester.

  What if he had wanted to kiss her? Sara’s heart fluttered. She imagined his mouth on hers, firm and warm, his hand on her cheek, moving to her throat, her shoulder, and further down. He probably knew all kinds of things to do with girls, things she wasn’t supposed to know about. She wouldn’t care.

  “She’ll burn in hell,” Dad said.

  What? Sara felt her face go hot.

  “Don’t say that,” Mom said. “She’s your flesh and blood.”

  “Pastor John won’t let her through the church doors,” Dad said. “No one decent will have anything to do with her.”

  In the back seat, Sara made herself small. She was secretly scandalized. How creepy was that? Crushing on an older man…an older man her even older Aunt Amelia was in love with?

  And another thing. She’d forgotten all about hell. There was love, and there was lust, topic of many youth group discussions. One, sanctioned by marriage, led to heaven. The other most certainly did not. She’d always had the smug confidence she was good. Why would anyone risk God’s love for lust? Even in The English Patient it was obvious where the illicit lovers would end up.

  But light years separated theory from practice. Suddenly everything was different. Something had happened in Aunt Amelia’s kitchen. Sara had been dreaming all her life, and now she was awake. Whether she liked it or not, the man in the kitchen had touched her hand and looked her in the eye—and opened a window into her soul.

  It was terrifying.

  - 3 -

  Where Are We Going?

  TWO YEARS LATER, THE new guy walked into Biology 2, and Sara’s breath caught in her throat. Her knees forgot how they were supposed to work. She grabbed the lab table for support, and her books crashed to the floor. No one noticed—except Bram.

  He looked right at her. A slow smile spread over his face, and his gaze fixed on her. Oh, crud. She sank to the floor for her stuff, glad her long hair fell forward to hide her embarrassment.

  Two huge Nikes appeared next to her. “Let me get that.” He squatted down beside her and scooped up her massive Elements of Biology textbook with one hand. With the other he took her elbow. “I’m Bram.” He lifted her to her feet.

  His jock-hard good looks were made to order from her dreams: that generous smile, laughing cornflower blue eyes, messy dark brown hair. Six-foot-whatever and muscles from here to eternity. He commandeered the lab stool beside hers and looked around the classroom. He seemed eager and ready for everything sweet the world had to offer—and absolutely certain it had all been laid out just for him.

  He looked at Sara as if she were one of those sweet things.

  “Sara,” she managed to get out. “My name.” She never let boys affect her like this. Passion was too delicious—and too dangerous.

  Bram leaned close and whispered, “Sara, huh?” The warmth of his breath on her neck and the low buzz of his voice made it hard to focus on his words. “I don’t broadcast it,” he said, “but Bram is short for Abraham.” He moved back into his own space with a knowing look. “Get it? Sara and Abraham? You must be my density.”

  The Bible humor made her feel safe, and the Back to the Future reference made her laugh. They’d been together, off and on, since that day.

  Bram finished his teaching credential first. Sara went on for her master’s—paid for, oddly enough, by Aunt Amelia. They were on the verge of drifting apart again when Sara got pregnant. Bram said it proved she really was his density. They laughed and drove up to Tahoe and got married. Bram was already on track to be head varsity coach. When Sara was
hired at the same school, life seemed perfect.

  Then she had the miscarriage. Bram was wonderful about it. He told her they’d have other children one day. He said he was just thankful she was okay. Sara had begun to think it was time to try again when Bram’s layoff notice came. They hadn’t talked about having kids since.

  Actually, they hadn’t had sex in months. It seemed the only time they saw each other long enough for a conversation these days was when they met for these early dinners after her work and before his.

  “Bram Blakemore dot com,” Bram was saying to two girls in the next booth.

  “Here it is!” One girl squealed and showed her friend her smart phone.

  The girls obligingly drooled over his author picture. “You look great!”

  Sara slid into the booth across from Bram and groaned inside. He was talking about his book. After losing his teaching job, he’d self-published his perennially rejected novel. It was great something made him happy, but since putting the book up online it was hard to talk to him about anything else once the subject of Hot Heat came up.

  It was supposedly a thriller. Sara thought the story was cheesy and the title was stupid, but what did she know? People seemed to like it. Bram pictured himself as the next Richard Castle. When people asked what he was doing these days, he never said waiting tables. He was a novelist.

  He turned around and picked up his menu, but he dropped it and looked at her more closely. “What’s up, babe?”

  “Aunt Amelia. Can you believe it? She wants me to come see her.”

  Before Bram could respond, the waitress showed up. “So what’s my favorite author having?” She’d bought his book months ago and raved about it every time they came in.

  “That depends,” Bram said. “What’s my favorite waitress serving?”