That Summer Place: Island TimeOld ThingsPrivate Paradise

by Susan Wiggs

He reached out and touched her cheek. “You used to know how.”

  “How ungallant of you to remind me.”

  “You realize that to answer your question we have to decide which one of us wants to be on top.” He looked to be having a great time with this conversation.

  She crossed her arms and raised her chin a notch. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “Then tell me what you mean, sweetheart, in plain English.”

  “AIDS.” That was all she could say.

  His face grew serious and his manner was no longer teasing. “I’ve lived with two women in thirty years, both were for long term monogamous relationships. Since then, I’ve chosen my partners carefully. I’ve been tested. They’ve been tested.”

  “Oh,” she said, unable to find another word. He had spoken so matter-of-factly, and she knew how important this was, but felt as if she had been living on another planet. “I haven’t been tested.”

  “Why would you? You’ve been celibate for years. Was you husband unfaithful?”

  She shook her head. “Just irresponsible.”

  He tilted her chin up with his knuckle so she had to look at him. “You have nothing to worry about. I don’t have sex, sweetheart, without protection. For you and for me.”

  “The way we’re talking about this, openly. It seems so cold and clinical. So planned.”

  He was quiet for the longest time and she had no idea what he was thinking. Finally he placed his hands gently on her shoulders. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

  She nodded, but she was still hugging her arms, a nervous habit she could not even think of breaking at this moment.

  “I’m not cold. Are you?”

  “No.” She was on fire. He could do that to her. Just burn her up with a look or a touch.

  She felt as if she had been waiting for this for longer than eight years. For thirty years. “Kiss me, Michael. Just kiss me now.”

  And he did, kissing her deeply and tenderly, until things got too hot, then his hands began to move over her. To her breasts, her waist, and between her legs.

  Minutes later their clothes fell away, and she didn’t even care. With Michael she couldn’t seem to get close enough. His mouth was moving over hers. His tongue was inside her mouth and driving her nuts. His fingers moved inside of her, then moved slowly up and down her body.

  One minute she was standing there, the next he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bedroom. He set her on the bed, and for one long, awkward moment she lay there while he slid on protection.

  Then he was crawling over her on the bed, between her legs, his lips exploring her breasts and her belly. Her hands threaded through his thick hair. He raised up on his forearms and just looked at her, as if he needed to.

  He entered her slowly, easily, kissing her with those quick, nipping kisses she adored, watching her in that intense way he had, loving her as she hadn’t been loved in so long.

  They spoke in half-finished phrases, because a hot intense passion stole away their words, their thoughts, their breath. It went on forever, this loving, an eternity with him inside of her.

  Soon they weren’t doing it slowly, but rolling together—her on top, moving with him, then him driving her forward, their legs tangled at first, then changing positions again.

  She could feel her release coming on. He gripped her hips, held her still and thrust into her hard and fast because she begged him to.

  His name was on her lips when she came. He held onto her, said her name, too, in a long, drawn-out breath and came hard and fast.

  Then they lay there, each lost in a world of dreams that come true. His chest was heaving, his heart pounding against her own. He rolled off her, then pulled her against his shoulder and stroked her head with a hand.

  She sighed, then curled into him, her cheek resting on his chest.

  “Catherine?”

  She felt his lips on her forehead. “Hmmm?”

  He shifted and his mouth closed over hers. Then the whole thing started all over again and again and again, as if in this one single night they had to make up for thirty lost years.

  Seventeen

  The rain was coming down so hard it sounded as if there was thunder right on the roof. Michael stood at the kitchen stove with Catherine, eating clam chowder from serving spoons. When he noticed the clean bowls and flatware still sitting atop fresh placemats on the dining table, he smiled to himself.

  She dipped the spoon in the pot and held it up to his mouth, so he ate it. She was wearing his flannel shirt and nothing else. He slid his hands down over her bottom and pulled her closer.

  She leaned back and looked up at him. “I can’t believe I’m standing here like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Half-naked in your kitchen.”

  He laughed. “You could always take off my shirt.”

  “No way. The lights are on.”

  He paused, then began to unbutton the shirt.

  She grabbed his hands. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking back my shirt.”

  “You have on jeans. You don’t need this shirt as badly as I do.”

  He slid his hands to her wrists and pulled her fingers away. When she tried to pull free, he wouldn’t let go.

  “Michael,” she said with a warning in her voice.

  He switched tactics and started at her neck, moving his mouth over her soft skin. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt skin so soft. He used his mouth to taste her, to skim over her neck, along the solid bones of her shoulders.

  He breathed in her scent. She smelled like Catherine, light and musky and female, like his dreams and memories and youth.

  And all over her was the scent of the sex they’d shared. The scent of himself on her, the mixture of them, together. It made him hard and made him want her again. He wanted to hear that little cry she gave when he entered her, wanted to feel the way her breath would pick up when she was close to coming.

  There were five empty Trojan wrappers next to his bed. That hadn’t happened in over twenty years.

  He nudged the shirt over her shoulder with his chin while he was kissing her. Her head drifted back and he dragged his mouth along the vee in the neckline, then nipped at her through the fabric.

  He pulled a button through with his teeth, then quickly moved to her mouth to distract her.

  She kissed him back the same way she had all night, with her mouth and lips and tongue. God, but she tasted of everything he remembered.

  He moaned her name and slid his arms under her, lifting her and letting her head fall back over his other arm. He buried his face in her breasts, licking and kissing, and every so often, unbuttoning his way down the shirt.

  He walked around the kitchen and carried her to the fire, where he bent slightly and set her feet down on the rug. “Stand up for a second, sweetheart.”

  She did stand up, and his shirt fell right off her. He snatched it away before she could cover herself.

  “You rat!” She reached for the shirt. “Give that back!”

  He grinned at her and shook his head.

  So instead of trying to cover her body, she buried her face in her hands. “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I’m embarrassed.”

  “Tell me why.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, then admitted, “Because I’m old.”

  Old, my ass, he thought. God, but she was a beautiful woman. The firelight cast her skin in a golden glow. Her figure was curved and lush and womanly. Her breasts were full, not a young woman’s breasts, but ones that had fed her daughters when they were babies. He regretted the fact that he hadn’t been there to see it. He wished he could have tasted her afterward. “Catherine.”

  “What?” Her voice was still muffled by her hands.

  He pulled out foil pack number six, opened it with his teeth, slipped off his jeans and kicked them away. “Come here.”

  She spread her fin
gers a bit and peeked out at him.

  He was sitting on the arm of the chair, ready and just watching her.

  Her shoulders sagged with regret or defeat, he wasn’t sure which, and she let her hands fall away.

  He leaned toward her and grabbed a hand, then pulled her to him.

  She looked down at him as he pulled her into his arms. “Why did you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Take the shirt. Make me stand there in front of the fire. Naked.”

  “Because you’re a beautiful woman.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I believe you are beautiful.”

  “Then you must be blind.”

  He stood and turned her around, then leaned her back against the chair and slipped easily inside of her. “Okay, then, I’m blind,” he said against her lips. “And I like old things.”

  A cell phone was ringing in her ear.

  Catherine opened her eyes and stared at a strange ceiling above her. Then she remembered where she was. She turned toward Michael, who was sound asleep next to her.

  The phone rang again, muffled, but nearby. She turned toward the sound, opened a drawer next to the bed and pulled out the ringing phone.

  She flipped it open. “Hello?” She listened. “Just a minute, he’s right here.” She turned to Michael and nudged him awake. “You have a phone call.”

  He shot up, scowling, then blinked at her and reached for the phone, his eyes suddenly sharp.

  She turned away while he answered the man on the other end in brisk, one-word answers. In the open drawer where the cell phone had been, there was a DayTimer, a palm pilot and laptop, a key ring and a leather portfolio.

  The rental agent had told her that the island telephone lines weren’t at this side of the island yet, which was why she’d brought her own cell phone. She supposed it was the only way anyone on the island could reach him if they needed to. She stared at the contents in the drawer—business items. Then she shrugged into his shirt again and went to the bathroom.

  She stood at the sink, washing her face and hands while something bothered her. He had a business. Why shouldn’t he have those things in his drawer? He must have regular clients and pay tax bills and such. She was being silly.

  And suffering from a definite lack of sleep, she thought, then smiled an evil, little satisfied smile.

  If you were going to go without sex for so long this certainly was the way to end those celibate years. Well, Catherine, you ended them with a bang! she thought, then giggled.

  “A bad pun,” she told the mirror. She drove her fingers through her hair, grabbed a bottle of mouthwash and took a swig, then swished it around her mouth.

  When she went back to the bedroom, he was off the phone and sitting on the bed in a pair of worn jeans. The pillows were wadded up behind his back and head, and his feet were crossed at the ankles. He watched her with an unreadable expression. He was drinking a beer. “You want one?”

  She shook her head, “No, thanks. Do you have to leave?”

  “No.” He frowned, “Why?”

  “Oh, I thought perhaps the call was because someone needed you.”

  “I can take care of it tomorrow morning.”

  She stood there. “I should leave, now. It’s almost midnight.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I have a big project I was supposed to be working on this month.” She turned around and smiled. “We’ve been having too much fun. I’ve hardly opened a file and I have an important presentation with Letni Corporation early next month.”

  He started to choke on his beer.

  “Are you okay?” She rushed toward him, but he stood and raised a hand to ward her off.

  “I’m all right.” His voice was strained and hoarse. His face and neck were red. He set the beer down, his back to her. “Who do you work for, Catherine?”

  “Carlyle Relocations. We specialize in handling the relocation and moving of companies and their employees. I’ve been trying to get the Letni account for years. They have huge expansion plans into other states. It will really put Carlyle on the map if I can land this account.” She looked around the room, then turned back to him. “Where are my clothes?”

  “In the kitchen.” He stood up and followed her out of the room.

  She picked up her clothes, feeling awkward and anxious, but well-loved. She could feel him watching her as she switched his shirt for her sweater.

  “I need to talk to you about something.”

  She pulled her sweater down over her head and shook out her jeans. “What?”

  He looked serious.

  Suddenly her mind flashed with all the things he could say to her. Goodbye. Thanks for the sex. It was fun, but a fling. I don’t love you. I do love you.

  “I’ve made a mistake,” he said.

  She froze. Oh Michael, don’t do this to me.

  “I should have told you before.”

  She stiffened. “Are you married?”

  “No,” he said sharply. “What do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me what you’re talking about.”

  He ran a hand over his eyes and then looked at her. “I’m not a handyman, Catherine.”

  She let his words sink in. She stared at the fire for a moment, her mind racing a mile a minute. “That’s what was wrong,” she muttered to herself.

  “What?”

  She ignored him and went into the bedroom. She pulled open the drawer and looked inside. She picked up the keys and stared at them, then turned around.

  He was standing in the doorway watching her.

  “You drive a Porsche?” She held up the keys with the car emblem.

  He nodded.

  She felt like an ass. “I suppose it’s a red Porsche.”

  “A black Carrera.”

  “You drive a hundred thousand dollar car?”

  He nodded.

  She threw the keys on the nightstand. “Just where is this car, Michael?”

  “At my house.”

  “Where?”

  “On Carillion Point.”

  She knew the area. It was exclusive and ungodly expensive. She crossed the room, but he was blocking the doorway. “Move.”

  He stepped aside.

  She marched over, grabbed her shoes, then stuck them on her feet. She hopped in a circle, so angry she couldn’t tie her shoelaces fast enough.

  “That would be easier if you would just sit down.”

  “I don’t want to sit down.” She glared up at him. “I want to leave.”

  “I’m telling you the truth and you’re angry.”

  “Because you lied to me!”

  “I never said I was a handyman. You jumped to that conclusion all by yourself.”

  “Well, you didn’t correct me, now, did you?” She walked to the door.

  “No. I was too busy watching you try to liken a handyman’s job to that of the Surgeon General.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. I did no such thing.”

  “I bet you watch ‘Home Improvement,’” he threw back at her.

  “What the hell was I supposed to do? You wouldn’t answer my questions. All you did was grunt. I felt like Jane Goodall.”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “Or Fay Wray.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Don’t talk to me as if I’m a child.”

  “You’re acting like one.”

  “Oh? And lying is so adult. For heaven sakes, you fixed my toilet and you couldn’t say, Catherine, I’m not a handyman?”

  She spun around and jerked the door open. “Stay there, Michael. Just stay far away from me.” She could hardly look at him, but forced herself. “I’m sorry I came here. Sorry I saw you again. And I’m really sorry I flushed those socks down the toilet!”

  Then she slammed the door and ran into the woods before he could see her cry.

  It only took her two hours to get packed up and ready. Then she sat on the sofa for hours, w
atching the sun rise and the clock tick away like a counter, adding up every stupid thing she’d ever done or said or believed in.

  She told the girls to pack, made up some lame excuse. It was the longest day of her life; she felt like such a fool.

  By the time the boat arrived, she and the girls were standing on the dock. Within minutes they were loaded up and motoring away.

  “I wish we didn’t have to leave, Mom.” Aly sat Indian-style on one of the molded seats as the boat moved away from the island.

  Catherine faced her. “I know, sweetie. I know.” But the truth was that Catherine couldn’t have gotten out of there soon enough. Her girls would never know it, though.

  “Do you think Mike will call sometime, since he had to leave so suddenly?”

  Not if he’s smart.

  “We didn’t even get to thank him.”

  “Mom! Quick! Look!” Dana said, saving her from having to answer that question with another lie.

  Catherine turned toward Dana, who was sitting in the aft of the boat, pointing at the western sky where the sun was beginning to go down through a thick wall of oncoming rain clouds. The sky turned rich and bold—purple and red and as orange as Myrtle’s hair color.

  Dana turned back to Catherine, her eyes as bright as the sunset. “Isn’t that the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen?”

  Catherine found a smile from somewhere and slid her arm around Dana. “Yes, honey, it sure is.” She just stood there with her girls on either side of her and watched the island shrink and fade away like yesterday’s dreams.

  Michael watched the boat take off toward the mainland. He turned and walked back to the cabin, went inside and slammed the door. He swore viciously.

  Then he began to pace the room, thinking. He stopped and looked at the moose antlers on the wall. Her jacket was still hanging there. “I’m not waiting another thirty years,” he said, as if her jacket could understand him.

  He crossed the room in three long strides and picked up his cell phone off a bookcase. He called his office, his fingers tapping impatiently on the bookshelf.

  His assistant answered.

  “Jim? This is Mike. I’m coming back. No, just some unfinished business I need to take care of. Right. When is that presentation meeting with Carlyle Relocation?” He paused, then said, “Move it up a week. That’s right. Call them immediately. I’ll be in the office tomorrow morning.”