That Summer Place: Island TimeOld ThingsPrivate Paradise

by Susan Wiggs

  “Under the sink,” he said. “Take your pick.”

  She selected a large one. “So what are you going to do?”

  He tapped the cover of his computer. “It’s the information age. I can stay busy all day.”

  She sent him a wry smile. “Congratulations.” Switching on the flashlight, she went down a narrow hallway and headed for the stairs. As she opened the door that led down to the dark pit of the basement, she let out a sigh of relief. Breakfast had gone well. Exceedingly well. They had both been perfectly cordial, emotionally neutral. Exactly as they should be.

  Despite the recent renovations to the house, the owners had not gotten around to the basement yet. She trod carefully on the steps, wincing as they creaked and ducking her head well away from the cobwebs that draped the passageway. The dank smell of old concrete permeated the air. The basement consisted of four rooms divided by stout timbers. The first room was empty save for an abundance of spiders. Shuddering, she backed out and peeked into the next, finding a jumble of ancient yard furniture. The third room contained tools even older than the lawn chairs. The last room was empty. But just as she was backing out, the flashlight beam touched off a dull glitter low in the far corner.

  Curious, she crept forward. She had no idea why she was being quiet, but it seemed the thing to do. She found an old wine rack, hung with cobwebs. A half-dozen bottles lay on their sides. Gingerly, with her thumb and forefinger, she pulled one out and held it to the flashlight beam. To her dismay, she saw that the liquid had separated into something that resembled water and sludge. All but one of the other bottles was in the same condition. She took the one that seemed promising upstairs with her.

  Mitch sat frowning at the screen of his computer. He glanced up when she emerged. “Find anything interesting?” he asked.

  “Maybe.” She grabbed a paper towel and dusted off the old bottle. “What do you suppose this is?”

  He got up and looked over her shoulder. “It’s hand-labeled. Bootleg reserve from the twenties. I’ll bet it was produced illegally during prohibition.”

  “I wonder if it’s still good.”

  “We’ll find out tonight.”

  “You mean you want to drink it?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “It’s not ours.”

  “Finders keepers, isn’t that what they say?”

  “It’s probably gone bad.”

  “If it’s bad, we’ll have a great big salad tonight.”

  She laughed. “Whatever you say.” She flicked off the flashlight. “There was nothing else down there. Hardly anything. I thought I’d check the attic.”

  “Be my guest. I found a hurricane lantern. It gives off better light than the flashlight.” He struck a match and lit it for her, creating a soft golden flame.

  “Thanks, Mitch.”

  He sat back down at the table and she left the kitchen.

  This was getting easier and easier, she realized. They’d both gone a little crazy last night, probably because she’d stupidly broken down and cried in his arms and then she’d been euphoric because he’d saved her from financial disaster. Today everything was evened out, flat as the foggy light outside the window.

  She put a small stepladder under the opening in the third-story hall ceiling. She pulled the rope, and a ladder unfolded from the hatch covering in the ceiling. Climbing into the attic, she surveyed her surroundings. Each gable end of the roof had a fan-shaped window. Gray daylight slanted down over the cobwebby interior. In the center of the attic rose the chimney, made of fieldstone. Thanks to Mitch’s fire, the chimney gave off a kindly warmth that mingled with the glow from the lamp and created a cozy atmosphere.

  The contents of the attic were much more interesting than those in the basement. She felt as if she were in an antique shop or a jumble sale. Ancient furniture, wicker baskets, intriguing round paperboard boxes and old toys lay in heaps everywhere. In a stack of musty books from the twenties, she recognized only one title, The Sheik. She picked over the stuff, trying to imagine where it had come from, who had used it. What shy young couple had made the four-poster their marriage bed? Who had rocked her baby to sleep in the old chair? Who had pinned up the fading Notre Dame pennant? What child had spun the rusty metal top? Had some woman read The Sheik and fantasized about an exotic lover?

  Hours passed as she happily explored, letting the old mementos sweep her away to another place and time. Her two favorite discoveries were an ancient steamer trunk with creaking hinges and a big Victrola phonograph with a stash of 78s in the storage compartment under it. She blew the dust off the disks, reading the song titles. “Stars in My Eyes.” “Picture Me Now.” “Harvest Moon Waltz.” They all sounded funny and quaint to her. She picked out “Dancing in My Dreams” and cleaned it off on the knee of her sweatpants, then set it on the turntable. She cranked the side handle and put the needle down on the spinning disk. To her delight, the trumpet-shaped horn crackled, then let forth a corny but oddly charming song. “I see you dancing in my dreams….”

  While it played, she pried open the steamer trunk and picked over the contents. A brittle fan with yellowed ivory ribs. A pair of lacy gloves. A slip or camisole. A hilarious-looking striped tank top and shorts that had probably been worn as a bathing suit. Hats, shoes—everything a lady from a bygone era might need for a summer at the seaside. When Rosie found the gold silk dress, she couldn’t resist. She had to try it on.

  Quickly stripping off her sweats, she donned the camisole first, feeling the warm whisper of old chambray against her skin. The sensation was sweetly sensual in a way she couldn’t explain. Then, careful not to strain any of the seams, she put on the old silk dress. It fit well enough for her to feel it smooth against her sides. Rows of tiny amber beads ornamented the bodice. The drop waist gave the skirt a natural swing that pleased her.

  Feeling like a little girl playing dress-up, Rosie quit pretending any sort of scholarly interest and dived in. She discarded the tie holding her ponytail and donned a fabulous hat with a spray of yellow feathers across the brow, the lace-up boots, the dainty gloves. Holding out a pockmarked shaving mirror, she inspected her image. She didn’t look anything like herself, but resembled a girl from another time, bathed in yellow from the lamplight, clad in delicate moth-light silk and lace, a shimmer of beads to catch the light, the brim of her hat framing her face.

  She gave the Victrola another turn and started the song again. Closing her eyes, she swayed to the music. Her imagination ran wild, and she thought of the way Mitch had danced with her last night, the way he’d almost kissed her. She imagined a time and place where she would have been free to let him, where she wouldn’t have been afraid of the consequences. After a few minutes she just thought of Mitch and pretended he was her partner. She heard the sweetness of the song through the roughness the years had scratched into the record. She heard the rain drumming on the roof, heard the hiss of the wind under the eaves.

  And then she heard Mitch Rutherford’s voice. “Who are you dancing for, Rosie? You look like you’re a million miles away.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes flew open and she froze. “Darn.” Feeling her cheeks flame, she blushed to the roots of her hair. “I guess I must look pretty silly to you.”

  He crossed the room, stepping into the golden radiance of the hurricane lamp and looking amused and sympathetic all at once. “Maybe you just look pretty.”

  She blinked in surprise, then blushed even deeper at his compliment. “I thought all these things were so charming, I couldn’t help trying—”

  “Rosie.” With incredible gentleness, his fingers came up and touched her lips, stunning her into silence. The song on the Victrola came to an end, and the needle bumped against the label. “You don’t have to explain.” Then his touch left her mouth and his hand traveled down her arm, tracing its inner length, fingers coming to rest at the pulse of her wrist. A pulse that had begun to race.

  “I don’t?” she whispered, nervously reaching back to lift the nee
dle from the record.

  “No.” He chuckled, the sound silky in the new silence. “After the Macarena last night, nothing could seem silly to me.”

  “Oh.” She gave a small nervous laugh. Yes, she was nervous, because as he stood there looking as relaxed and neatly groomed as a golf-resort poster, she wanted him with a fervor that bordered on madness. “I guess I’m the cause of that.”

  “Uh-huh.” He took a step closer, and she could feel the brush of warmth from him, and the tips of her breasts began to tingle. She remembered that she wasn’t wearing anything under the dress and camisole. “So what else did you find?” He picked up the stack of old 78s and flipped through them. “Let’s try this one.”

  She swallowed. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure of what?”

  “Sure you want to take time out of your schedule to listen to old records?”

  “Tsk, tsk, Rosie. You told me I was being a dull boy. I’m trying to loosen up.”

  As he turned and cranked the Victrola, she watched the sinuous fluid motion of his arm and whispered, “It’s working.”

  “What?”

  “Um, nothing.”

  The music turned out to be a waltz. Mitch turned to her, holding out both hands. “Shall we?”

  “I don’t know how to waltz.”

  “Neither do I, so we’re even.”

  She laughed, suddenly getting past the nervousness and starting to enjoy herself. “Since we’re pretending, let’s pretend we know this dance.”

  He took her by the hand, and his other arm slid around behind her. They lurched along clumsily for a few steps. “You forgot to feel the rhythm,” Rosie pointed out. “We can learn this if you’ll just feel the rhythm. One, two, three, one, two, three…”

  And within a few moments, it began to work. Perhaps it wasn’t a perfect waltz—they wouldn’t win any prizes—but they moved together in time with the music, which, after all, was the whole point. Round and round the attic they went, with the rain drumming down and the trumpet of the Victrola spilling out a song no one had heard in decades. For Rosie it was magical, like something out of a dream or a fairy tale.

  By the time the record ended, Mitch had danced her into the far corner of the attic where shadows hung and the ancient bedstead stood. She felt one of the posts of the bed pressing into her back and suddenly it wasn’t so much fun anymore. It was like last night, when desire had started raging through her and she’d felt herself falling, tumbling headlong in love with Mitch Rutherford. She told herself to duck beneath his arms, to make some excuse, but instead, she just stood and felt his hands slide up her arms to cup her shoulders, then slide down slowly, evocatively, massaging the back of her neck and then her shoulder blades and then lower.

  “Why, Professor,” he said in a voice that was rough with teasing and desire, “I believe you’re naked under this dress.”

  “I believe,” she whispered, falling and falling and now not caring, “you’re absolutely right.”

  After the initial exchange, he was quite deliberate and matter-of-fact in his seduction. With focused and unhurried movements, he pulled out the hat pin and let the broad-brimmed hat drift to the floor. Next he took first one hand and then the other, removing each glove with almost clinical precision. Finally he cradled her face with his fingertips, lifting it up so that she looked him in the eye.

  “I want you,” he said, his tone neutral but his gaze intent.

  “I know. I want you, too.”

  “That’s what I hoped.” His mouth quirked in the briefest of smiles, and then, still so slowly she nearly screamed, he bent and kissed her.

  It was everything she had imagined his kiss would be. No, it was more than that. Her appetite whetted by days of unrequited attraction, she was so ready for this kiss that she moaned into his mouth and pressed forward, feeling the hardness of his chest even as she savored the softness of his mouth. She skimmed her hands over his arms and shoulders, then down his back. The fabric of his shirt was warm and taut over his muscular frame.

  He ended the kiss when she wanted it to go on forever. He lifted his mouth from hers, and she made a small sound of protest, but he only laughed, so softly. It was the sexiest sound she’d ever heard. Then he amazed her by going down on one knee in front of her. Perhaps what amazed her most was the slowness of his movements. He was controlled, yet at the same time sexy and compelling. He took one of her shoes, cradling the heel in his hand while he unlaced it, then slid it off, setting her bare foot on the plank floor. He did the same for the other foot, but instead of setting it down, he held it in the palm of his hand and bent his head, kissing the sensitive bare inner arch.

  Rosie steadied herself by holding the bedpost. Mitch’s hand slid up her leg, smoothing along, up under the hem of her dress, higher and higher, and then his lips followed, tongue flicking, touching her ankle and calf, the back of her knee, and then when he straightened up, she nearly implored him not to stop.

  Shouldn’t they talk about this? she wondered wildly. Shouldn’t they debate? Plan? Come to a conscious decision like the adults they were?

  It didn’t help matters that his hand was buried under the gossamer hem of the dress. It didn’t help that suddenly her legs felt as if they were made of butter. When she sank helplessly back onto the bed, she clutched at him so hard that they both wound up reclining, speechless with wanting.

  And she knew then, as his hand slipped down her back undoing the buttons one by one, that they had considered this. They had made this decision. They had decided to be lovers yesterday, though neither had acknowledged it. They’d landed their kayak at a remote cove and she’d wept in his arms.

  Later that night they’d underscored the decision by sharing. She had given him her finances—a gesture of deep trust by any definition—and he, who never danced, had danced with her.

  And at the moment, any conversation or debate would be superfluous, so she didn’t even try. She wound her arms around his neck, studied the dreamy glow of diffuse lamplight on his face, looked deep into his eyes and said, “Now.”

  He had an endearingly awkward moment of befuddlement, as if he’d been braced for rejection, but the hesitation ended quickly and he stood, drawing her to her feet and removing the dustcover from the bed to reveal yellowed linens and embroidered pillows redolent of ancient lavender sachets. He parted the shivery-light fabric of the dress, watching as it slipped down and pooled around her bare feet. He tugged at the ribbon of the camisole, inching it down her body.

  The look on his face—his controlled, disciplined, businessman’s face—told her everything she needed to know. The small nonverbal sound that came from somewhere in the depths of his throat paid her a higher compliment than any pretty flattery she’d heard too often from gaping undergrads.

  He shed his clothes and took her in his arms, and she burned up with awareness of him. He had a body that was naturally athletic. She’d never been an admirer of the pumped-up look; it only meant a man spent too long sculpting his own body. A shallow pursuit and one practiced by too many of her students.

  Mitch was simply a creature smiled upon by fortune—good bones and good genes. The passion that had been building in her for so many days made him look like a god to her.

  They fell back on the bed again, and the old perfume of antique fabric and dried flowers surrounded them. She found it heady and erotic—the brush of old bed linen against her bare skin, the slow drag of his fingers down the length of her, then up again, circling and brushing over her breasts, then reaching around to skim her back, starting at the nape of her neck. He put his mouth to her ear and whispered a suggestion that made her dizzy, and he kissed her neck where his hand had been and then traveled lower, his moth-wing kisses, his feathering touch chilling her with an eroticism that took her breath away.

  He was as inventive with his foreplay as he was conventional in the rest of his life. She felt stunned, and maybe even a smidgen betrayed, because nothing about him had prepared her for this. How could
she have known he would turn out to be the Sheik in bed? The Sheik in pinstripes. But he was, in the way he touched and stroked and coaxed her, and she was possessed by the urge to explore him, to know him. She caressed and kissed him everywhere, filling her senses with him and feeling so warm and connected and aroused that her senses whirled in wonder.

  The endless minutes spun out into honeyed strands of desire, and when finally they joined, she felt the silky-moist fit of their bodies, and everything came bubbling up to the surface, rising, roaring, and she clutched his shoulders and cried out his name and felt her own spasms trigger his. There was a moment, a breath, a heartbeat of complete and utter mutual shock, and then he poured into her, holding and cherishing her and then kissing her long and languidly while their bodies kissed, too, sweetly, but with an edge of pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain.

  Rosie couldn’t move, and with Mitch lying atop her, even breathing was an effort. This was usually the awkward moment, the oh-God-what-have-I-done moment, but the regrets didn’t come. Instead, she savored the heavy warmth of his body collapsed on hers.

  After a time he cradled her in his arms. She studied the antique pillows, perfumed and tied with ribbon, one of them embroidered with the woman’s words to her bridegroom: For you, for always. The beautifully embroidered pillow, redolent of ancient roses and filled with the promise of a magnificent love, brought tears, foolish tears, to her eyes.

  She blinked them away quickly, and at the same time Mitch braced himself on his arms to kiss her, long and deeply. It was that particular kiss that undid her, because it was so heartfelt and so unexpected.

  When he moved away she saw him discard the condom and she was confused. She hadn’t even remembered him pausing to take precautions. But she was grateful he had; it was typical of him to be discreet. Considerate. And always prepared.

  He slipped on his boxers and twill slacks, then, with a gentle smile playing about his lips, he sat on the side of the bed. “You look incredibly beautiful,” he said softly.

  Suddenly too conscious of her nakedness, she pulled an old quilt over her. The delicate fabric released a wafting of cedar and lavender.