Summer's Freedom

by Samuel, Barbara

  The bell over the door rang and Abe Smith limped in. “Caught you talking to your tins again,” he teased with a shake of his head.

  Esther grinned ruefully. “You always do.” She watched him carefully, a tall man with thick dark hair he wore too long and the remains of an ache-ravaged childhood on his face. He moved stiffly, each step carefully measured. “Bad day?” she asked gently.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “I need some of that bath stuff you make for me.”

  “Well, you just sit yourself down. I’ll make you a cup of tea to drink while you wait.”

  “Real sugar.”

  “No problem.” She shot him an amused glance. The two of them shared a love of white sugar, although Esther tolerated honey in her tea when purists were shopping. “I’ve got some glazed doughnuts in the kitchen if you want one,” she added in a conspiratorial tone.

  He shook his head. “Not today, thanks.”

  When he settled with his tea, she measured herbs for his bath preparation. In spite of the fact that she’d found the recipe in a sixteenth-century text on herbal lore, it was hardly an exotic mixture—ordinary garden herbs.

  “Where’s Jeremy?” Abe asked, sipping his tea.

  “Outside, no doubt killing dragons or scaling mountains or slaying the enemy with his superior brand of martial arts.”

  “What a kid.”

  “Right,” Esther replied dryly. “What a kid. He’s a daredevil with all the caution of a kamakazi.”

  “But he’s got a great imagination.”

  “Sure. All I have to do as a mother is see that he makes it to adulthood in one piece so that he can do something with that imagination.” She rolled her eyes. “I have my doubts some days.”

  Abe wiggled his nose, a sure indication he was about to tease her. “Great soldier material.”

  “Not if I can help it,” she replied firmly and frowned at him. “Honestly, how can you even tease me about that?” He was so full of shrapnel he could barely walk some days.

  “Once a Marine, always a Marine.” He lifted a heavy eyebrow, amusement in his dark eyes. “And unlike soldier boy out there in the backyard, for me it was all in pursuit of the admiration of women.” His nose wiggled again. “It worked for all the guys in the movies.”

  She gave him the sealed plastic bag of herbs. “Good thing the good Lord invented women,” she said with a wry smile. “Otherwise, who would heal you?”

  “We’d figure something out,” he said.

  Esther grinned. They’d met when Esther was eight, Abe almost thirteen, and had been friends ever since. “How are you, really?”

  “I’m okay, Mom. Just a little stiff.”

  “All right. I’m going to go check on Jeremy, then.” But as she was turning toward the back of the house, the bell rang over the door. For an instant, she listened to see if she could hear her son’s voice. It came to her faintly, full of the undertones of command he used in playing his games. Reassured, she turned to greet her new customer.

  Him.

  The lion man from the dojo stood just inside the door, looking no less powerful than he had last week. Instead of loose trousers and bare feet, he wore a hand-tailored cotton shirt, open at the collar, and jeans that fit his lean thighs well. Light from the windows haloed his thick, curly hair and outlined the breadth of his shoulders. In his big, brown hands he held a white Panama hat.

  For an instant, all she could do was look at him in surprise, and he seemed as stunned as she. When the silence between them stretched to an almost unbearable length, Esther finally broke it.

  “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  Abe jumped up. “Esther, this is a friend of mine from the dojo, Alexander Stone.”

  The man extended his hand. “Hello,” he said. “Abe has been telling me about your expertise with herbs.” The voice was richly textured, as deep as a summer midnight, the edges and vowels of his words clipped with a British accent. Esther felt it flow over her spine as his strong, callused hand grasped hers firmly.

  Rattled, she shot Abe a glance. “He has?”

  Alexander dropped her hand. “I’ve been looking for someone to help teach a summer class. Abe said you’re the most knowledgeable herbalist in Boulder.”

  “He overestimates me,” Esther said with a smile. His eyes, she thought, were a very unusual shade of blue—a clear aquamarine that made her think of marbles.

  “You’ve got the right woman,” Abe interjected from his seat by the tea table. “Esther is about to be modest and mild, but she’s the best there is.”

  Again she was about to protest, but a single scream pierced the air, cutting through the sound of the radio and their conversation. Without an instant’s hesitation, Esther turned and ran for the backyard, her heart pounding in fear. Jeremy was, in addition to being an eccentric little daredevil, very loud, and he was known to shriek in frustration. But the scream she heard had been one of pain and fear.

  As she slammed out the back door, she cursed herself inwardly. Her instincts had told her to check on Jeremy a moment ago. She should have listened—they’d proved true more than once. If anything serious had happened to him—He lay beneath the crab apple tree unmoving, flat on his back. Esther raced toward him and kneeled in the grass. “Jeremy!” she cried.

  He opened his eyes and coughed, then promptly burst into tears.

  “Are you all right, honey?”

  “I fell!” he wailed and sat up to throw himself into his mother’s arms. The tears were as much a defense from the wrath of the scolding he knew was coming as in fear.

  She hugged him for a moment, then loosened his grip around her neck to look at his face. “How many times have I told you to stay out of that tree?”

  “But, Mommy—”

  “Not a word, Jeremy. You could have broken your neck.” She paused to let the meaning sink in. “You can’t watch any television for the rest of the week.”

  His head dropped, the dark curls tumbling forward in glossy disarray, and his plump lower lip popped out. “Okay,” he said in a tragic voice. Then he realized the consequences of his actions. “That means I can’t watch Sesame Street!” He wept, and threw himself against her chest again.

  For a moment, Esther simply held him in her arms, reveling in the smell of little boy—sunshine in his hair and dust on his clothes. She felt the heat of his wire-taut limbs against her palms and the prickling of his hair against her shoulder. And in memory, she saw him lying so still in the grass.

  What was she going to do with this child?

  * * *

  Alexander fingered the tins on the shelf as he waited for Esther to return, and admired a row of jewel-toned jellies with hand-lettered labels: rose petal, chokecherry, crab apple. Curiously he picked one up. “I’ve never heard of anything like this,” he commented to Abe, who had returned to sipping tea in a rattan chair next to a huge fern.

  “You ought to give them a try.” He grinned and lowered his voice. “Esther would probably hang me for saying so, but you get the flavor best if you make the toast out of white bread.”

  Alexander smiled appreciatively, for he was no stranger to the fanatical devotion of many Boulderites to natural foods. He lifted the jar toward the light, admiring the pale ruby color. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Esther makes it.”

  “Do they have healing properties?” Alexander asked with a grin.

  “No. But they’ll do wonders for your attitude.”

  Esther breezed back into the room. Once again, Alexander felt himself riveted upon her. Instead of the bright yellow peasant blouse of the festival, she wore a brown rayon dress with buttons up the front. It was oddly old-fashioned, a dress from the forties, and it clung with demure but enticing exactness to her generous curves. “Abe,” she said with a toss of wild red hair, “would you mind sitting with Jeremy outside for a few minutes? He’s pouting, but he might like a friend.”

  “Maybe I’ll go tell him some soldier stories,” Abe said with a wicked gri
n and headed for the backyard.

  Esther turned toward Alexander, brushing wisps of hair from her porcelain face. “Would you like to sit down?” She gestured toward a rattan love seat.

  As he settled on floral cushions, he decided that she made him think of a goddess, but not those ethereal creatures artists were so fond of, with their flat blond hair and frail figures. Rather, Esther was more like an ancient goddess of fertility—laughing and lusty, drawn in robust hues, love and appetite flowing from her like sunshine.

  Oddly appropriate that she was an herbalist.

  “Since you’re English, I’m sure my tea won’t suit you,” she said, “but can I offer you a glass of lemonade?”

  Alexander had to gather his scattered thoughts to speak and it annoyed him. He was thirty-nine years old and in addition to having been married twelve years, he was no stranger to women. What was it about this woman that tied his tongue? “Lemonade is fine,” he said gruffly.

  “Fresh squeezed,” she said, sliding open the door of a glass-fronted cooler that displayed all sorts of exotic juices and soft drinks. She poured a tall glass of lemonade for each of them from a pitcher, then settled in the chair Abe had vacated. The pose put her against the light, giving her hair an edging of gold fire. Taking a dainty sip of her lemonade, she gave him a curious glance. “So, tell me more about this class.”

  Alexander fingered his beard momentarily, gathering his thoughts. “My specialty is the history of the dark and middle ages, and I’ve several students who need a touch of reality regarding their favorite time period.”

  She flashed that inviting, mysterious, goddess smile. “How interesting. What would you like me to do?”

  “We need someone to share the old ways of medicine with us. Abe said there’s no one who knows the herbal arts as well as you do.”

  Again she brushed away the compliment. “He’s much too loyal. But I love talking about herbs on any level.” Biting her lip, she paused. “I think I may even have a few books on the dark ages in particular.”

  “An honorarium would be arranged, of course.” He forced himself to look away from the glowing colors of the woman before him and sipped the pulpy lemonade.

  “Waive the honorarium,” she said. “It’s been a while since I’ve taken a class of any kind. I might enjoy sitting in on the sessions that I don’t teach.” She looked at him, a hint of shyness in her rich brown eyes. “Would that be all right?”

  “Of course.” He smiled to put her at ease and cocked an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

  “How many students are in the class?”

  “Only eleven—most of them very intense, I should warn you. The sort of students who live and breathe for history. All of them are very bright, eloquent, and—” he gave her a rueful smile “—absurdly certain that the world we left was a far better one than the one in which we live.”

  “You sound as if you know them very well.”

  “Oh, I do. I proposed the class with all of them in mind. Obsession can be dangerous.” He shook his head. “You’ll see what I mean soon enough, I’m afraid.”

  “Believe me,” Esther said with asperity, “I’m familiar with the syndrome.” She laughed. “I’ve probably even been one of those students.”

  “As have I, I’m afraid.”

  A group of little boys rushed up to the door. “Mrs. Lucas, can Jeremy play?” one called through the screen.

  “He’s around back, guys.”

  Alexander watched the gaggle of them run toward a parked group of trikes and tiny two-wheelers.

  “Do you have children?” Esther asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Somehow I didn’t think so.”

  “Oh, really? Why is that?” His question was more curious than anything.

  “You strike me as someone with an orderly life—and don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.”

  For a moment, he was surprised, then he laughed at how accurately she had pegged him. “As a matter of fact, I do have an orderly life.” He inclined his head, realizing with a small part of his mind that it had been literally years since he’d laughed out loud so spontaneously. “But would I still live amidst disorder if my children were grown and gone?”

  “Not a chance, Professor. That silver might fool some people, but you aren’t old enough to have children already sprung from the nest.”

  “Right again,” he said. He stood up. “I’ve got a feeling I’m going to like working with you, Ms. Lucas.”

  She inclined her head, as if taking his measure, a measure that somehow puzzled her. “The feeling is mutual.”

  “I’ll send you a syllabus for the class and you’ll have a clear idea of what I’ll need from you on that.” He stood up and extended a hand. “I’m listed in the university directory if you should have any questions—and I don’t live very far from here, either.”

  “All right. It was nice to meet you, Alexander Stone.”

  “Goodbye,” he said formally, and firmly placed his hat on his head. Outside, the day seemed bursting with life and energy. He decided suddenly to forego the work he’d had planned for this afternoon in favor of working out at the dojo.

  As he walked home to get his things, he found himself whistling.

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  LIGHT

  OF

  DAY

  (Excerpt)

  by

  Barbara Samuel

  One

  The car rumbled up next to Lila, a beautiful old Mercedes, black, with modest fins at its tail and a smoothly purring engine. It gleamed like polished glass in the silvery light of the overcast day. She’d loved the model since childhood, when the wife of a rich neighbor had driven one home from Dallas.

  Only after she’d admired the car in all its detail did she notice the man behind the wheel—and he startled her. The lines of his face were as spare as those of his automobile. Harsh, slanting cheekbones cast shadows over the lean flesh of his cheeks. A broad, high forehead met straight slashes of brows even darker than the heavy black of his hair. His nose would have overpowered another face, but on this man, it was the only possible nose to balance the square, hard chin.

  Lila grinned. If she’d been one to admire severe and arrogant men, he’d have been a prize. Instead, she thought he looked in need of a little whimsy to chase the scowl from that intelligent brow.

  She flicked her wrist on the accelerator of her bike, revving the engine of her motorcycle into harmonious vibration with the car. He still didn’t notice her next to him, so with a toss of her head, she whistled, loud and long, in admiration of the car.

  Black eyes, fathomless without the mark of a pupil, met hers. Lila felt her heart do an odd thump, and was suddenly thankful the helmet she wore hid most of her face. He lifted his chin in the slightest of acknowledgments, and Lila saw there was danger in his eyes—danger and power, and something else she couldn’t even name.

  An impatient honk sounded behind her, and Lila glanced, startled, at the traffic light. Seeing it had turned green, she let go of the brake and pulled ahead easily.

  It was impossible to resist one peek in her rearview mirror at the man in the finned Mercedes. Maybe, she thought as her heart thudded, there was something to be said for that darkly elegant type, after all.

  A light rain had begun to fall from the Seattle sky as she pulled into the parking lot of The Shell and Fin, an elegant seafood restaurant she’d formerly managed with some success. A year ago, unable to placate the alcoholic owner, she’d quit to become a free-lance dessert maker, and now she sold tortes and other rich delights to them.

  Rather than clip the helmet under the seat as she ordinarily would have, Lila dashed for the kitchen door to the restaurant. She hoped the storm would blow over. The Pacific Northwest boasted a great many advantages, but the weather was definitely not among them. One day she’d give in and buy a car.


  In the kitchen, confusion reigned. Three women, dressed in the slacks and neat blouses that made up the uniform of the waitresses, huddled around a steam table, trading short bursts of murmured outrage. Off to one side, Lila saw another woman throwing clothes from a locker into a plastic bag. “Georgia,” she said in surprise. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m fired,” Georgia spat out. “Along with half of the crew.”

  “Who fired you?”

  “Oh, that big shot that took over.”

  Confused, Lila frowned. “What big shot?”

  Georgia slammed the locker and pushed past Lila. “Ask somebody else to fill in the details, sister.”

  Lila glared at the retreating back. “Good riddance,” she murmured to herself. Georgia had never been the best employee. Hired in an emergency, she’d managed to hang on to her job only through a kind of dogged ingenuity. But half the crew? Who else was fired? And who’d done the firing?

  “What’s going on?” she asked the cluster of people around the steam table.

  The head waitress, Charlene, a fiftyish woman with a rock-solid group of faithful customers, said, “A new owner took over Monday morning. He’s turned everything upside down.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “Damn good,” said Gerald, a portly man in chef’s whites. “I think he could turn the place around. They say that’s what he’s done everywhere he’s gone.”

  Lila nodded, crossing her arms. “Great.”

  Another waitress rolled her eyes. “But he’s fired almost everybody.” She ticked off the problems on her fingers. “We’ve got no bartender, one bus kid and one dishwasher to see us through the weekend. How are we going to get through on that?”

  Smiling good-naturedly, Lila lifted her hands, palms open to signify her distance. “I’m just here to check on the desserts.”

  The three women exchanged a strange glance. Lila narrowed her eyes. “What is it? Am I going to be relieved of my responsibilities, too?”

  A deep voice, with the nasal but somehow sensual undertones of a native Frenchman, interrupted with the answer. “Actually, no, Miss Waters. If I may have a moment of your time, I’ll explain my hopes for you.”