Wanted: Wife

by Jones, Gwen

  He reached for the tie of my robe. “C’mon.”

  I took a step back. “What if someone sees us?”

  “Like who? We’re in the middle of the woods. And even if they could, who gives a damn?” He came closer. “I sure as hell don’t.”

  “If I looked like you I wouldn’t give a damn either.”

  “If you looked like me,” he said dryly, “you wouldn’t be standing here.” He tugged the tie, the robe falling open. “Now come on. The swim will do you good.”

  I knew it would. And I knew I was being silly. So I tossed my hair over my shoulder and let my robe fall, Andy’s gaze gliding down me as it slid to the dock.

  “Merde,” he breathed. He grabbed my hand and we jumped in.

  The water was deep, over my head, though not so deep I didn’t touch muck before shooting back through the chilly depths to the sun-warmed surface. Andy met me as I popped through the water, grasping my waist and pulling me toward him. Instinctively, my arms hooked around his neck, my skin goose-fleshy as it met the slipperiness of his chest. He lay back, paddling slowly as I lay atop him—my own personal raft.

  “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said, his wet eyelashes sparkling in the sun.

  “Freaking c-cold, I said, shivering.

  He stopped. “Let’s swim out to the float,” he said, looking to it about fifty yards away. “You can swim, right?”

  I thought of the thousands of laps I had clocked in the pool at the Y. “I can swim,” I said, pushing off him. “And I won’t even say anything as corny as ‘Race you.’”

  “A foregone conclusion,” he said, diving in.

  There’s something to be said about swimming in the buff, about gliding through the water without the hindrance of Lycra or fashion statements. I felt liberated and decadent and slick as an eel, my body cutting through the lake like hot through cold. I was so enjoying the sensation, my normally competitive self didn’t even care if Andy was beating me, not that he made a big deal about it. Six feet from the float he cut behind me and once again clasped my waist.

  “You swim well,” he said, twisting me around to face him. “You damn near beat me.”

  “You’re just saying that,” I said, wrapping my legs around his waist. I lay back against the water to catch my breath. “Like I could beat a sailor.”

  “Not every sailor can swim,” he said, his hand on my belly, his fingers swirling the little pool that had collected.

  “Well, it’s pretty damn obvious this one can,” I said as he turned me about, one foot braced on the float’s ladder, my body stretched out before him.

  Off in the distance I could hear birds calling. The sky above me was clear blue and poofed with the occasional cumulous. Beside me the lake lapped against the wood, the top of it warm, slightly tea-colored, and fragrant with something I’d yet to identify. As I kept my gaze skyward, I was achingly aware of Andy’s taut belly nudging my most intimate region, how his hand skimmed over me, past my black curls wavering like water rushes, around my hips and up my sides to my breasts, his fingers circling the hard peaks of my nipples.

  “What do you want from me, Andy?” I asked, in spite of my own reasons.

  He palmed my breasts, wet and bobbing, before he lifted me from the water onto the float. As I lay back atop it, the water draining from me down the slats, he hefted himself from the lake to my side, one arm flung over the other to cage me.

  “I want you to be my wife,” he answered, water dripping from his body to mine.

  “How do I do that? How will I know what you want?”

  He shifted, bracing himself on his elbows. “We’ll work it out.”

  I sat up. “Do have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?” I wrapped my arms around my legs, dropping my head to my knees.

  After a long moment, he said. “If you’re saying my ideas are ridiculous, then you’re saying I’m ridiculous. That’s never a position I like finding myself in.”

  I lifted my head. He was looking toward the shore. I’d insulted him, something I figured didn’t happen very often. “That’s not what I meant. You could never be ridiculous. But your method does confuse me. Why did you pick a wife this way?”

  He turned to me, impassive. “What you’re really asking is why I picked you. That’s simple. I wanted you.”

  Not really what I wanted to hear. “There has to be more to it than that.”

  “Not really. I took one look at you and saw everything I wanted, right then and that quickly.” He shifted, his shoulders blocking the sun. “Call it desire, call it lust—call it whatever you want. But it didn’t take a minute before I knew I wanted you on your back and myself inside you.”

  My mouth went dry; the only thing ridiculous now was the memory of his reticence. “But what about all that talk about partnership? About our marriage being a business relationship?”

  “That hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s probably more important than ever. It forces me to look beyond the attraction to the long term.” His eyes darkened. “And it gives me some protection if I can’t.”

  I’m not sure I knew how to take this. “You mean after the spell breaks so you can get out?”

  “Not only me. You too.”

  “And that’s all there is?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “Huh.” Was I really hearing this? “So all you really wanted to do was fuck me?”

  He shrugged. “Well—then.”

  “And now?” I asked, my hackles fully up.

  He kissed my shoulder, grinning. “Now I’d much rather fuck with your head.”

  I slapped his chest. “Andy!”

  “Okay! Okay!” He laughed, falling back. “I’m joking!” “No you’re not,” I said, looming over him.

  “You’re right,” he said, a finger trailing my jaw line, “I pretty much still want to fuck you, too.”

  Suddenly everything faded into the background, and there was only Andy and my hand pushing against him. He stretched back atop the float, his body still slick and gleaming, as I threw my leg over him and laid my body atop his. I savored his solidness, his arms around me in a seemingly unbreakable clutch. But I wouldn’t kiss him. I lifted myself and slipped down, lower and lower, until I faced the obvious evidence of his admiration. I grasped it and took it fully down my throat.

  He flinched, grunting, but I had just begun. I started out slow, teasing, flicking and circling as he groaned, his fingers slipping through the slats to hold on. Then steadily I went faster until my speed was almost cruel, and he raised up, half-sitting, one leg arched, one stretched out beside me.

  “Julie . . .” he groaned, his hand on my cheek. “Stop—let me take care of you.” I could hear him heaving, his breath coming hard. “Stop or I’ll—”

  His hips jerked and his whole body spasmed, my mouth filling with warmth and salt and the most delicious sensation. I pulled on him, greedily swallowing, revelling in his release. When I finished, he stared at me wide-eyed. But before he could catch his breath I twisted off the float, diving into the water.

  I swam no more than a few dozen feet before I heard the splash. I felt the turbulence from his powerful body when he came up behind me and twisted me around, opening my legs wide. But I wouldn’t allow it, springing from his chest toward shore, my arms slicing through the water like a paddlewheel. By the time we reached the dock we were both panting.

  “W-Why did you do t-that?” he heaved out, the water lapping against his chin.

  I coughed, flinging my hair over my shoulder. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I reached for the ladder.

  He caught my wrist. “Okay, look, I won’t lie to you. I’m attracted to you. That’s hardly an insult. And I do like you. As far as the rest, it’s a bit complicated.”

  “Complicated . . .” I said, slipping my arm from his grasp. “You said it was simple. You wanted me. Well, here I am. So tell me, what’s next on the list?” I grasped the ladder and hauled myself up.

  Within se
conds, he was in front of me. “What’s simple is my wanting you, but I’m well aware that my keeping you will be just short of miraculous. If you think I’m underestimating you, you’re wrong, because as much as I want you . . .” He lightly brushed my cheek. “. . . If you didn’t want me just as badly, you wouldn’t be here.”

  He was right, but that was hardly what was so perplexing. It was having a man look at me the way Andy did just then, which didn’t only have to do with my nakedness. It was more to do with how he made me acutely aware of my own femininity, and how that basic fact would always be as apparent and divergent from his own rampant masculinity as night was from day. Coming off of Richard’s languid maleness, it was quite a shock to the system, but not something that was either unpleasant or unwanted. Just disconcertingly hard to get used to.

  “You never answered my question,” I said, slipping into the robe he held out for me. “What’s next?”

  He looked confused. “As in . . .?”

  “I don’t know . . . the farm, maybe?” I tightened the robe around myself. “Believe it or not, I am good for something else.”

  “Oh I’m sure.” When he smiled, I felt the air lightening between us. “How about feeding, watering, and pasturing the cow? Mucking her stall? Feeding the chickens and gathering eggs, cleaning out their roosts? Hoeing and watering the garden, picking and sorting the vegetables, packing them for market? Checking the generator, the water levels, cutting back the blueberry bushes, picking peaches, turning the compost—”

  “Hey, I didn’t even get my coffee yet.”

  “And I barely even got started.” He pulled on his jeans, and then pulled me into his arms. “Julie, I hardly know what I’m doing myself, so it’s not only me and you that’s a work in progress. I never said it would be easy, but in the end, I promise, it’ll be worth it. That is, if you’re not ready to sneak out of here in the middle of the night.”

  “No, not quite yet.” Though it got me thinking about what it was that was so complicated.

  I glanced back to the lake as we walked toward the farm, knowing there was a lot more than water running deep. I lay my head against Andy’s shoulder, and he kissed it, wondering what it’d take to get inside his.

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  Shiny Objects

  “AND THEN THERE’S the roof,” Andy said, flicking a rotted cedar shake into a pile of trash.

  “One question,” I said, eyeing the porch, the rusty tools, the teeming barrels of who-knew-what, not to mention the miasma of filth and assorted desiccation that lay beyond the front door. “Why is the bedroom of this house straight out of House and Garden, and the rest of it so ghetto?”

  He shook his head slowly. “And here I thought you had such a grasp of the obvious . . .”

  I tied my robe tighter around me. “Silly of me to ask,” I said, turning to the barking, squawking spectacle of Bucky chasing a hen into its coop. Then he stopped dead, turning to eye me menacingly, before he barked again and ran off.

  “You know, that dog needs something else to do besides scaring the crap out of the chickens.”

  “Especially when we’ll be collecting it later.”

  “The chickens?” I said, following him toward the barn.

  “No—the crap.”

  I stopped him. “Excuse me?”

  “I guess I haven’t shown you the compost yet.”

  “You haven’t shown me much of anything besides your—”

  “It’s behind the barn,” he said smoothly, opening the door to it, “but first we have to . . .”

  He didn’t have to say anything more. The inside of the barn was humid with the scents of manure, dirt, and something definitely milkified. There stood Betsy the cow with her issue, munching hay while her calf suckled, her cartoonishly large eyes blinking obliviously at me. The two of them were so darned cute together, visions of Caldecott Medals danced in my head.

  “Awww . . .” I said, scratching her behind the ear. “You know? We have to give the baby a name.”

  “Go ahead if you want to, but don’t get too attached.”

  “Why? Are you planning veal scallopini for dinner?”

  He tossed me a wry look, snapping a lead rope to the mama cow’s halter as he inclined his head to the left. “Feed’s inside that trash can over there. Dump a couple coffee cans into that bucket and bring it outside.”

  I opened the can to a rich scent of corn, oats, and what I suspected was molasses. I hadn’t eaten anything since a bit of fruit and cheese the night before, and after all the sexual gymnastics, pouring some of that concoction down my gullet seemed entirely reasonable. I reached overhead to a neat row of coffee cans. When I pulled one out, something shiny and metal behind it reflected back, partially obscured by jars of liniment, vitamins, and more cans. I craned my neck, pushing up on my toes.

  “Julie!” Andy called. “The feed?”

  “I’m coming!” I yelled, dropping down. I scooped the feed into a bucket and went outside.

  When I met up with Andy, he was letting Betsy and her calf into a fenced square of scrubby grass alongside the barn, hay, and what looked like food scraps shoved up in the corner. But my mind was distracted by shiny objects. Whatever they were, they didn’t look like they belonged there, and something told me now wasn’t the time to ask Andy about it. I’m sure his father had left many things lurking about, and Andy had barely scratched the surface of finding them. Perhaps I’d leave it to him to tell me. Or, as he came toward me, not.

  He reached for the bucket dangling from my fingers. “I can’t believe I’m standing here half-naked and barefoot, holding a bucket of cow food.”

  “Cow feed,” he corrected me, pouring it into a rubber tub. “And you’re the best looking farm wife I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’ve met how many at sea . . .?” I asked, taking the bucket from him.

  He hoisted himself up and over the fence. “Now you know why you’re the best.” He grasped my waist, giving me a quick kiss. “Next, the chickens.”

  “Chickens? Andy!” I cried as he hauled me along. “I’m starving!”

  “So are the chickens. But they eat before we do.”

  I sensed a distinct air of indifference to my visceral needs. But then again, it was hardly fair to demand special attention when he was in the same condition as me, his hair still dampened from the lake, his feet also bare (and probably bearing the residue of something dubious from the barn). And, using another of his appetites as a logical gauge, he was no doubt hungry enough to put any fair-sized animal within shooting range in jeopardy. I cast Betsy’s calf a wary glance. Maybe veal scallopini wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

  “Here, take this,” he said, handing me a well-worn straw basket.

  “Don’t tell me—for gathering eggs?”

  He grinned. “Perceptive, isn’t she?”

  I slung it over my arm. “Shall I put on my milkmaid dress next?”

  “We’ll be leaving Betsy to her calf for the next few days, and since you asked,” he winked slyly, “what you’re wearing is working for me just fine.”

  “It would,” I said, bending to peer into the henhouse. “So where are these eggs anyway?”

  “They’ve been laying either in the coop or under these bushes around it.” The wooden coop was about six feet long and about three feet wide, its two levels a little higher than my shoulder, built about three feet off the ground, hen-sized holes covered with plastic flaps at either end. It was clearly handmade, and probably pretty old, too, its weathered exterior soaking up many coats of whitewash over the years. Andy flicked back a latch then opened a windowed lid covering its front, revealing two straw-covered shelves. Several brown eggs were scattered here and there.

  “Look at that,” I said. “So that’s where brown eggs come from. From brown chickens.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” he said, plucking one out and depositing it into my basket. “Actually, they’re New Hampshire Reds.”

  I fetched one m
yself, cradling the still-warm egg. “So why isn’t it red?”

  “Wouldn’t that be just what you’d expect? Now, a couple dozen chickens should get you at least twenty eggs. Why don’t you check under those bushes there.”

  I squatted to the low-lying shrub creeping alongside the weedy base of the coop. With the branches bent like over-reaching arms, it was a perfect refuge for an agoraphobic chicken. I leaned in and rooted around the dried leaves, fetching two eggs.

  “Look!” I said, producing them. “Breakfast!”

  He was decidedly unimpressed. “There should be at least two more. Look again.”

  I was just about to push aside a couple of rocks when something slithered over my hand. “Andy!” I cried, falling back, a flash of red and brown zipping through the brush.

  “Oh, it’s just a corn snake. They’re harmless,” he said. Its swath uncovered two more eggs. “Look what he found for you.” He slipped his eggs into my basket and reached for the newly uncovered ones.

  “Ugh, I hate snakes,” I said, scrambling to stand.

  “Ever eat them? Actually, they’re not bad.”

  I grunted. “Well, if you’re thinking about feeding them to me, you can forget it.”

  “I’m done feeding you, ma petite,” he said. “I’ll provide the raw materials, but as a proper farm wife, it’s your job now.”

  The Julie of two weeks previous would’ve laughed out loud and opined You’re joking! at such an old-school statement, especially with that mischievous twinkle in his eye. But he was right—I had to do something to prove my worth around this farm. And cooking was a good place to start.

  As he lowered the lid of the chicken coop, I was well aware that’d be no simple task, especially considering I’d always been better at making reservations than I was at preparing anything past microwavable. But as starving as I was, I’d happily dip into my limited repertoire and concoct something. Good thing what I had at hand was within it. “How about I whip up an omelet?” I hefted the egg basket. “Though, we’ll hardly need all these. Where’s the refrigerator?”