Jar of Dreams

by Liz Flaherty

  She was about to get naked with a man. Oh, God.

  But first she was going to go on kissing him for a while. One of her favorite things about Boone Brennan was the way he kissed.

  And touched.

  And stroked.

  And made her feel like she was in one of those movies where the camera lens cruised around the perimeter of the room while sounds of panting and sighs of satisfaction came from its center.

  “I love that you wear dresses,” he said as he lifted hers over her head and draped it carefully over a chair.

  It was to her credit that she didn’t dive under the covers. Even in the late night, her room wasn’t that dark. She could see the glint of his eyes, his smile when he gazed at her, the brightness of the bracelets on her arm. She started to remove them, but he stopped her, sliding the metal up and down and kissing the inside of her wrist, lifting the chain from her neck and kissing the hollow at the base of her throat.

  “Dresses are cooler,” she said in a humiliatingly wobbly voice, though she didn’t know if she’d ever feel cool again. His touch—and he seemed intent on touching everywhere—left heat in its wake. Undulating, liquid heat. When she unbuttoned his shirt—at least, she guessed she unbuttoned it, because it was open and sliding off his shoulders—the heat became more intense, the tingle between her legs a steady throb. He freed her breasts from the silky confines of her bra, and she marveled at the heaviness of them as he kissed and shaped them in his hands and teased the tight buds of her nipples with his teeth.

  She wasn’t sure how they came to be lying down, but she was glad they were, because it was a definite that her legs wouldn’t hold her up any longer.

  He was already naked, and when he slipped her panties down her legs, following their progress with his lips and tongue and nipping teeth on the insides of the thighs, she was, too.

  It had been so long.

  She stroked the long muscles of him, thinking of the beauty there—he was darkly tanned, but it was a careless tan, his left arm a deeper color than his right, his legs having lines that coordinated with the lengths of different shorts and swimming trunks. His skin was soft beneath the roughness of the hair on his chest and legs, and she delighted in the feel of it. Her fingers trailed—ever so lightly—down his belly and into the vee of his legs, finding what they searched for and circling and stroking.

  His breath drew in, quick and sharp. “Careful,” he murmured, though he didn’t pull away even a little bit. “We’d like this to last at least a few minutes.”

  He kissed her, his hands slipping down her sides, shaping her hips, laying her on her back and teasing her knees apart so he could reach the throbbing core of her. His fingers found all the creases—behind her knees, between buttocks and thighs, inside the nest of curls—and stroked them lightly, causing her skin to shudder in response. When one finger slipped inside and his thumb began a rhythmic little rub near the entrance, she gasped and arched against him.

  “Boone?”

  “I’m right here.” He moved on top of her. “Show time?”

  She laughed, a gasping little sound, feeling the delicious pressure of his chest against her sensitized breasts, and welcomed him inside. Nothing had ever felt so good.

  But a few minutes later, when he said, “Oh, hell, come with me, Lucy,” and she heard a silvery, shivery moan that had to have been her, something felt even better.

  Happy birthday. Oh, yes, happy birthday, indeed.

  Chapter Ten

  “I didn’t give you a present last night and you didn’t even notice. I’m wounded.” Boone sipped morning coffee and peered over the cup’s rim at Lucy. There were certainly worse ways to start the day than sitting across from her.

  “There were a lot of presents there,” she reminded him, but her cheeks were pink. “I’ve never had so many. Even Kelly gave me a picture frame.”

  He liked that he could make her blush. That was probably another segue back into pubescence, but he could live with it.

  “What’s for lunch today?” he asked.

  “Chicken divan, which Gert’s cooking. I’m doing the salads, some of the contents of which I’m going to go pull out of the garden. Pumpernickel or wheat bread. Angel food cake and fresh strawberries or ice cream for dessert. We picked the strawberries, but bought the ice cream.”

  He nodded at the tall angel food cakes under glass domes on the counter. “So when are you going to start baking your own bread?” he asked facetiously, knowing she’d spent most of yesterday afternoon on the desserts, not counting the time consumed by baking the birthday cake that had been eaten by last night’s hungry hordes.

  If she heard the teasing in his voice, it didn’t show in her response. “In the fall. We’ll sell loaves and half-loaves, too, along with dinner rolls. Oh, and honey and jams and jellies from Miller’s Orchard. We’d sell wine by the bottle too, but Gert’s picky about getting arrested.”

  “Really? I thought she only minded it when she had to go down to the jail and get someone out.” He got up, going to put their breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.

  Maggie had been a terrible cook. She’d been a great first grade teacher, a superb athlete and a talented musician—he’d finally donated her parlor grand piano to the elementary school where she’d taught because he couldn’t bear the sight of it—but anything domestic had eluded her. “I’m the only person in the world,” she used to say, “who can dust wrong.”

  They’d eaten out most of the time and hired someone to clean the apartment twice a week. It had never mattered if there was dust under the furniture or if the bed wasn’t made or if the dining room table was completely covered with papers—as it often was. They had been so involved with each other that the rest of the world went largely unnoticed. They’d nearly missed Kelly’s law school graduation because the invitation had been buried in a stack of books on the bedside table.

  Life with Maggie had been fun and exciting and intellectually stimulating. Their mutual devotion was so all-consuming that it had occasionally been exhausting. There were long days when he worked behind closed doors. Other times, Maggie retreated to her parents’ home in Florida to spend time with them and her sister as just herself instead of part of a married couple. When they came back together after those separations, the reunions were joyous, with a sense of life going back on its track again.

  That reflection drew Boone back into the present. Maybe it was happening again, that whole life on track thing. It was a good thought.

  He refilled their coffee cups and returned to his seat across the island from Lucy. He thought about how she dusted, being so careful with Aunt Gert’s collection of figurines. He remembered that she’d waxed the hardwood floors on her hands and knees and that her favorite thing on Monday morning was drying the bedding outside. When she woke in the middle of the night, she cooked.

  She was so different from Maggie. So very different.

  Damn.

  For a moment, he felt an unreasoning and unusual anger with his dead wife. Why can’t you get out of my mind?

  “Would you tell me about her?” Lucy asked.

  “What?” He met her eyes, startled.

  “Maggie. Would you tell me about her?”

  Talking about Maggie had always been painful, so he didn’t do it. It had taken all the fortitude he had to have the discussion with Crockett, and so far, he wasn’t doing that well with the letting go part of it, either.

  Except for when he was with Lucy. When he’d held her in his arms the night before, he hadn’t closed his eyes and wished she was someone else. He hadn’t compared her compact body to Maggie’s lissome one. She hadn’t been a replacement he’d made love with out of physical need—she’d been Lucy.

  “Tall,” he said finally, “and she played piano and sports. She had a higher vertical jump than I did, and Crockett said she landed better too—as in it was almost always on both feet. She told bawdy, nasty jokes, and she told them better than most guys I know. We had a good life together
. Now it’s over.” It surprised him when the words didn’t have their usual sharp effect. Maybe Crockett was right. Maybe it was time…

  He smiled at Lucy. “Do you want to go to the movie tonight? It’s one of those chick flicks where the girl’s strong and brave and gets naked and the guy’s a total idiot. I always feel at home at those.”

  *

  Lucy tore salad greens into easily manageable pieces and distributed them among mismatched glass bowls. She added radishes, carrots, and cucumbers, then ground fresh pepper into the bowls before adding a spoonful of chopped peppers and celery to the mix. She loved making salads. They were never the same two days in a row, which had earned them the name Lucy’s Adventure on the blackboard menu.

  The thermometer in the kitchen window declared solemnly that it was in the nineties, and even in the air-conditioned house, Lucy perspired while she worked. She filled a large insulated glass with ice and lemonade and took it outside.

  “Drink this,” she called to Jack, who was weeding flowerbeds. “Are you hungry?”

  He shook his head. “Too hot to eat, but thanks for the drink.”

  “Well, don’t work too hard. Gert will yell at you if you faint in her lilies.”

  “Yes, ma’am, your princess-ship.” He smiled politely before returning to his task, and she wondered, not for the first time, what made a sixteen-year-old boy work so hard. She was almost certain he helped his family with the money he earned, since he didn’t seem to spend any of it on himself, but when she asked about them, he said little. He did mention having younger brothers, so she always made sure to send cookies home with him for them.

  The day seemed anticlimactic after the excitement of the night before. Even the lunch crowd in the tearoom seemed lethargic and overly quiet. When the last of them had gone, Lucy loaded the dishwasher and tossed the day’s tablecloths into the laundry room. They could wait until tomorrow morning to be washed—she was tired. She gave the contents of her apron to Gert and dropped the customary handful of change into the pickle jar.

  “I think I’m going to take a nap,” she said. “I’ve never really gotten fully awake today.”

  Her landlady’s eyes were merry and extraordinarily blue. “Something keep you awake last night, dear? I figured you’d slept through since there wasn’t any baking done this morning.”

  Lucy felt color rise in her face. “I’m just tired.” She fled up the back stairs, not wanting to see the knowledge in Gert’s face.

  She opened her bedroom door and shared a surprised stare with the tiny tuxedo kitten that sat on her bed. “Well,” Lucy said. “Hello.” She picked up the ball of black and white fuzz and held it in front of her. “Who are you?”

  The kitten didn’t blink, just lapped Lucy’s thumb with a rough little tongue and continued its earnest blue-eyed gaze.

  A wicker laundry basket was on the bed, too. It held a litter box and litter, food bowls, and kitten food, along with a miniature jeweled collar and a bag of toys. “She’s six weeks old,” the note in Boone’s sprawling handwriting read, “and doesn’t have a name yet. Hope you like her. Happy birthday!”

  “Well, of course you have a name,” Lucy whispered past the lump in her throat. Had Boone gone through her pickle jar? Even knowing he probably had, she couldn’t summon up any indignation over it.

  “Gert, did you see?” She thumped down the stairs, her heart feeling as though it were dancing in time. “Did you see what Boone left for me? Is it all right? I know she’ll have to stay upstairs or in the sunroom most of the time, but isn’t she beautiful?” She held the kitten up for Gert’s inspection. “Kitty Kinsale, meet Gert Taylor. You have matching eyes.”

  “Kitty Kinsale?” Gert scratched the cat’s chin, sending it into a squirming writhe of ecstasy. “That’s a lot of name for such a little cat.”

  “We’ll call her Kinsey,” Lucy decided, “but my parents were from County Kinsale. Where’s Boone? I have to thank him.”

  “He’s working at the station.” Gert glanced at the clock. “I thought you wanted a nap.”

  “I thought I did too,” Lucy said dismissively, “but, Gert, I’ve wanted a cat since I was little. How did he know?”

  “You’ve never had one?”

  “Dad wouldn’t let me when we lived over the restaurant, and when I got my own apartment, I couldn’t have pets.” She shrugged, cuddling Kinsey. “It wasn’t a deal breaker or anything, but I always wished for one anyway.” She went to the counter and dug through the pickle jar, coming up with a wrinkled and coin-marked piece of a green and white customer’s check from Dolan’s. “See?”

  The strip of paper merely said, “Kitty Kinsale.”

  Gert laughed. “If anyone had found that, they wouldn’t have known what it meant. It would be a good name for an exotic dancer.”

  Lucy grinned. “For when we open the bordello?”

  “Right.” Gert took the cat. “If you want to go over to the station, I’ll take care of Kinsey. We’ll chat about leaving hair on the furniture and climbing curtains and things like that.”

  Lucy hurried out, not even bothering to search for the bicycle helmet she tried to remember to wear, and rode her bicycle to the gas station. She regretted the decision halfway there when sweat was dripping off every part of her.

  Boone, wearing perspiration better than anyone had a right to, was refilling the soda machine when she pedaled onto the lot. She dropped her bicycle and threw herself into his arms.

  “Wow,” he said, dipping his head and finding her mouth. “What’s all this? Whatever it is, I’ll do it again.”

  “The cat,” she said between kisses. “I love the cat.”

  And you. I love you too.

  His expression was bemused when he met her eyes, and she thought for a moment she’d said the words aloud. She drew away, embarrassed. “She’s beautiful and her name’s Kitty Kinsale only we’ll call her Kinsey,” she said, her words tumbling over each other, “but how did you know she was the perfect present?”

  “Well, I didn’t, but I did engage a personal shopper,” he admitted, “Lindsey St. John told me if she was as old as you, a cat was what she would like.”

  Lucy laughed. “I’ll have to thank her.”

  “Don’t bother. Eli and Jessie told her the kitten population was going to have to decrease at their house, so Lindsey was pretty much going door-to-door. Kinsey has siblings and cousins all over town.”

  A car was pulling up to the gas pumps. “I’ll let you get back to work. Thanks for the cat.”

  “You’re welcome. We still on for tonight?”

  “The chick flick? You bet. If Gert and Sims will kitten-sit, that is. I don’t want her to be lonely.”

  “We can’t have that.” He grinned at her, stepped close enough to kiss her hard on the mouth, then closed the soda machine before sprinting to the waiting car.

  Lucy waved to the driver and got on her bicycle, thinking she might ride a little slower on the way home to try to beat the heat. Although she wasn’t actually sure all the warmth she was feeling was weather-related.

  *

  Boone wondered if Lucy wore a dress to the movie because he’d told her he liked her in them. This particular one was green, which matched her eyes and contrived to make her hair brighter. “It’s redder,” he said, tugging at a curl that had come loose from its clip.

  “That’s because we had a spa night at Landy Walker’s and everybody’s hair ended up a little different color than when we came.” Lucy gave him a mock-severe look. “That was over a week ago. It’s good to see you’re so observant.”

  “Oh.” He remembered that. It had been on Thursday, poker night, and a few of the guys had been wondering what all they were supposed to notice when they got home. Micah had been smug, being pretty sure “the girls” would leave lots of food he’d be compelled to finish up.

  Boone ran his fingers under the complicated strap system on the back of Lucy’s dress, her skin warm and soft beneath his touch. “I like this, b
ut how on earth do you get it off?”

  “Oh, I don’t.” She fluttered her considerable eyelashes at him. “I wear it to protect my virtue.”

  “From what?”

  She laughed and preceded him through the door of the theater.

  The old Roxy, which had once been an ornate building complete with balcony, had been divided into two separate screening areas since he’d last been there. The balcony seemed to have disappeared altogether. When they’d found seats in the cramped room, he watched as Lucy took careful stock of their surroundings. She was, he realized when she relaxed beside him, checking for fire exits.

  “I liked the building better the old way,” he murmured. “You could sit in the balcony and make out. People in those days knew what movie houses were for.”

  “Not for watching movies?”

  “Oh, well, sometimes, if you couldn’t think of anything else to do.”

  Boone enjoyed the film, though the strong and brave heroine never did get naked. “Not even once,” he complained to Lucy when the lights came up. “There wasn’t even a decent nipple shot. And there was plenty of chance for one, because all of her tops were too small.”

  “You noticed that, huh?”

  “Just in passing. It wasn’t important or anything.” He pushed open the heavy door of the theater. “What a relief. I think the humidity level dropped below a hundred while we were in there. What would you like to do now? We could find a drink somewhere or do a couple of laps on the River Walk.”

  “Let’s do that. It’s nice being outside.”

  They walked for over an hour. Boone pointed out old haunts and confessed to adolescent sins that had her covering her mouth to stop her laughter from bouncing across the surface of the Twilight River.

  “We lived in Louisville before my parents died,” he said. “When we came here, to a town that’s smaller than our neighborhood was, I had no idea that if I sneaked into the theater for the Saturday matinee, the Methodists would be praying for my deliverance the next morning and passing it along to the Catholics at St. Charles. Uncle Mike went to one church and Aunt Gert the other, so the parishioners had us well covered. We’d probably been here six months before we knew it was universal—they prayed for all of us, not just the new kids from the city. Whoever first said ‘it takes a village to raise a child’ must have grown up in a place like Taft.”