The Short, Hot Summer

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  Instead of polka dots, Miss Mamie was dressed in short—good God, they were short—cut-off blue jeans and a brief—good God, it was brief—red halter top. Her hair was a riot of dark auburn curls spilling out of an unsuccessful attempt to bind them, made more riotous, no doubt, by the intense humidity. Her shoes… Well, her shoes were nonexistent. Her toenails, however, sported bright red polish he had to admit was kind of fetching. On her hands were what appeared to be gloves, which she was wearing—just a shot in the dark—for gardening and not because of the temperature outside.

  All in all, she was in no way the kind of woman for whom Preston normally experienced an immediate—and very profound—sexual reaction. Oddly, however, Preston experienced an immediate—and very profound—sexual reaction to her.

  It was odd not just because she was a complete stranger—though he didn’t usually go around being immediately and very profoundly aroused by complete strangers on a regular basis. It was also because there wasn’t a single quality present in or on her person that normally attracted him. He was drawn to women of a more sophisticated, elegant nature, not voluptuous and earthy. Women who dressed in streamlined, efficient suits and wore their hair conservatively, who worked in positions of corporate power and lived in sleek Manhattan abodes, and who enjoyed tasteful, expensive pastimes. Going out with women like that was like going out with… Well, it was like going out with himself.

  Miss Mamie, on the other hand, was…not. Not like the women he normally dated. Not like Preston. Still, there was something about her. He just couldn’t quite say what.

  Mamie Calhoun eyed the man standing in her lobby with much apprehension. Although she’d been expecting him—and only him, since she didn’t have any other reservations for the night…or, you know, the entire summer—she’d thought the big-shot corporate guy from New York City would look like… Well, like old Jack Butternut. Jack was the only other businessman Mamie knew, and even though he wasn’t a big shot—not by New York City standards, anyway—she just pretty much assumed they all looked like that. This guy, however…

  Well, he was kind of cute, she decided. In a rumpled, confused, sweaty sort of way.

  “You must be Mr. Atherton,” she said as she strode toward the registration desk.

  He smiled, seeming relieved to be identified. “Yes, I am.”

  “You got here a littler earlier than I thought you would. I wasn’t expecting you until late this afternoon.”

  He looked a little insulted by the comment for some reason. “On the contrary, I’m exactly on time.” Under his breath, he added what sounded like “Give or take five minutes.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you were—”

  “What?”

  “Uh…irregular,” she said, unable to remember what the word for “not on time” was just then because she was too busy noticing what beautiful brown eyes he had.

  He arched one eyebrow in a way that was both elegant and annoyed.

  “Uh, I mean…” she tried again, scrambling for another term. “Not punctual,” she finally told him.

  In response to that, he only jerked impatiently at his wilting necktie, and said, “I believe I have a reservation.”

  Mamie nodded as she circled to the other side of the registration desk, tugging at a gardening glove as she went. “You sure do. For two nights. Am I right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “At least, I’m hoping it won’t be for any more than that. If it is, will that be a problem? Or are you booked up?”

  She laughed as she pulled off her other glove and dropped both on the counter, then reached beneath for her registration cards. “No,” she told him. “It won’t be a problem at all. You’re sorta my only guest.”

  Then again, she thought, he looked like the kind of guest who could keep her as busy as two dozen more. And not just because he was a guest, either. With that dark, unruly hair and those puppy-dog brown eyes, he could melt a woman’s heart quicker than butter on a hot knife. It didn’t help that the shoulders and arms beneath his wilting shirt looked broad enough and strong enough to pull a barge. Nope, he was nothing like Jack Butternut, that was for sure. But then, not too many people were.

  “Summer must be your slow season,” Mr. Atherton said as she began filling out a registration form for him.

  “Yessir, it is,” she said. “But then, so is fall, winter, and springtime.”

  She spun the card toward him and made a quick X for his signature. Automatically, he took the pen from her and scribbled his name along the line.

  “The place looks prosperous enough,” he said.

  “That’s ’cause I’ve been working my fanny off for the past two years—ever since inheriting it from my aunt Gert. Who raised me up to make sure it does. Look prosperous, anyway,” she clarified. “The actual being prosperous part, well…” She shrugged. “That depends on whether or not the Butternut town planning commission—”

  “You actually have a planning commission here?” he interjected. His expression was lightly incredulous.

  “Well, yeah,” she told him. “Jack Butternut organized it himself. They’re trying to build Butternut into a major tourist attraction.”

  Mr. Atherton eyed her curiously. “A major tourist attraction?” he echoed dubiously.

  “Sure,” she insisted. “You may not know this, but Danny Jim Robinson himself was born right here.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” he told her. “Nor do I know who Danny Jim Robinson is.”

  This time Mamie was the one to look incredulously at him. “Danny Jim Robinson just so happened to be a very famous hero of the frontier.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Well, that’s ’cause you’re not from Butternut,” she said. “He’s very famous around here. Shot himself a bear when he was only three.”

  “I thought that was Davy Crockett.”

  “Danny Jim did it first.”

  “I see. And you think that this being his birthplace will bring in tourists by the droves?” Mr. Atherton asked, clearly unimpressed.

  “I dunno,” Mamie answered. “But it wouldn’t have to be that many droves of tourists. Just one good drove would fill the Bide-a-Wee right up.”

  For a moment, he said nothing, only focused on her eyes, looking at her as if… Well, as if she were something worth looking at. It was an expression that put Mamie on alert for some reason. His scrutiny was so, intent, and so lengthy, that she began to grow uncomfortable.

  Okay, she knew she didn’t look as great as she probably should for greeting a customer, but she hadn’t expected Mr. Atherton to arrive for another couple of hours, and the rosebushes out back had needed a trim real bad. Maybe she didn’t look or smell as good as the roses out there, but that was no reason for him to stare at her like she was some kind of animal that just wandered out from under the porch.

  Feeling self-conscious, Mamie lifted a hand to her hair and brushed a few errant curls off her damp forehead. Even so, her guest continued to gaze at her face, focusing his attention on her eyes.

  “Mr. Atherton?” she finally said. “Is there something wrong?”

  Instead of breaking his spell, her question only seemed to compound it. He shook his head slowly, then parted his lips slightly, as if he were going to say something—but he said nothing at all. Mamie was about to speak again, when finally, finally, Mr. Atherton replied.

  “You have the greenest eyes,” he said softly.

  Okay, granted that wasn’t exactly the reply she was expecting. It was a nice thing for him to say. It was a very confusing thing for him to say, but nice. Funnily, it made her feel hotter than she’d been out in the yard, under the glare of the afternoon sun, something she wouldn’t have thought possible ’til now.

  “Um, thank you,” she said, her voice as quiet as his. “It’s, uh…it’s nice of you to say so.”

  Still his gaze lingered on her eyes, and still he seemed overcome by some kind of hazy, vague trance. “No, really,
” he said, more insistently, but still softly enough to send a ripple of something warm and pleasant down her spine. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that color before in my life. It’s like the water off St. John in the Virgin Islands. Just…gorgeous.”

  Mamie swallowed hard. She wasn’t the most knowledgeable woman in the world when it came to the opposite sex, but she was pretty sure Mr. Atherton here was coming on to her. Though, to be perfectly honest, she had to admit she wouldn’t mind having him come on to her. And he could stay on her for as long as he pleased, too.

  For a minute neither of them said a word. Mr. Atherton just continued to gaze into her eyes, and Mamie just continued to do her best not to melt into a puddle of ruined womanhood at his feet. She’d hate to mess up those nice shoes of his after all.

  Fortunately, that didn’t wind up being a problem. As quickly as Mr. Atherton fell into his trance, he snapped right out of it again. When he did, he turned back into that upright, forthright, do-right kind of businessman she had expected him to be from the beginning. Just, you know, a lot cuter. Because now, on top of looking yummy, he was blushing, as if he were embarrassed by the things he just told her about her eyes. Which was just as well, ’cause Mamie felt a little embarrassed, too.

  Nice to know they had something in common, she thought. Still, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to start thinking along those lines. Even if he was cute, he would only be in Butternut for a couple of days. It was pretty clear that, except for the embarrassing thing, there was nothing to bind the two of them together.

  True to form, when he realized what he just said to her, his back went ramrod straight, and the dreamy little smile that had begun to curl his mouth went flat. The wistful, faraway look in his eyes turned focused and piercing, and he didn’t look at all happy to be where he was. Really, Mamie supposed she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to be here. There wasn’t a whole lot to Butternut. Heck, pretty much the only way to arrive here was by getting lost or getting born. Those who got lost in Butternut eventually found their way out again. Those who got born here, like Mamie, well…they tended to stay.

  But that was okay with her. She liked the slow, languid pace, the leisurely days and indolent nights, the simple ways and down-to-earth people. She wouldn’t trade her existence here for anything. Not even a bright-lights-big-city slicker like Preston Atherton.

  Now that she thought more about it, though, Preston Atherton was neither lost in Butternut, nor had he been born here. He’d come here on purpose. This might just be a first for the community. It oughta be real interesting for the next couple of days.

  Smiling for the first time since his arrival, Mamie took the registration card back, filed it neatly away under A, and said, “Mr. Atherton, if you’ll follow me, I’ll just show you right to your room.”

  Three

  Room, Preston realized as he entered the one to which Miss Mamie led him, was a deceptive term. In a connotative sense, it suggested large size, and in relation to a hotel or other such establishment, it was generally meant to indicate more than one room. At least, it meant one room and a bathroom. At the Bide-a-Wee, however, a bathroom didn’t seem to come with his room. Nor, he realized, much to his dismay, did room seem to come with his room.

  But first things first.

  “No…facilities’?” he asked Mamie, striving to mask his dismay and voice his concern in the most polite way he could.

  When he glanced over at her, it was to see her was looking back at him in clear confusion. “Facilities?” she echoed.

  “Yes, the, uh, the bathroom?” he tried again.

  “Oh, that,” she said, clearly relieved.

  Well, that made one of them, Preston thought. He wouldn’t feel relieved until he knew the actual location of the facilities. “Actually, I was more concerned about a shower,” he lied.

  “No need to be concerned,” she told him. “Shower and toilet both are down at the end of the hall.”

  That wasn’t supposed to concern him? “I see,” he said, even though logic dictated such a thing was impossible, because he saw neither understanding nor facilities. The latter, after all, were at the end of the hall, and the former was, to put it simply, not there.

  He sighed his resignation and considered his alleged room again. It was somewhat cozy, he reluctantly conceded. The antebellum ambiance had carried from the first to the second floor, and the room was similar in style and furnishings to what he’d seen below. There was more flowered wallpaper, though a bit less faded here, and more old furniture, though a bit more worn. One reason the room seemed small, he noted, might be because the bed was so enormous. Enormous enough to require stairs to get into it.

  Ah, well, he reminded himself, he’d known going in that this was going to be a foreign culture. He told himself he shouldn’t be surprised by anything he encountered.

  He was still surprised by Mamie, though. He hadn’t expected her at all. Likewise unexpected was his reaction to her. Certainly she was a reasonably attractive woman in her own, folksy, earthy, y’all-come-back-now-ya-hear kind of way. Oh, all right, she was an extremely attractive woman, he conceded, no matter which way he looked at it. Or her. Whatever.

  In fact, upon further inspection—which he completed in the most unobtrusive way he could—he realized she was actually, well, beautiful. Her complexion was as golden and flawless as raw honey, and her eyes were the color and clarity of an ocean view. And her mouth…

  Well, best not to think too much about her mouth, he decided. It was a very hot day. No need to make matters worse.

  There was just something about her that spoke to something in him that had never before been addressed. And the language the two things were speaking was kind of extraordinary. Mamie was…unusual. Different. Exotic. She was utterly removed from the refined, well-groomed, perfectly attired women he normally met in his other life—his real life.

  That, he told himself, could be the only explanation for why he was so captivated by her. It wasn’t, he assured himself, because of anything else. Something like, oh, say, a soul-deep, life-altering emotion for another human being that must be present before one could even consider tying one’s life to that person forever.

  Nah.

  “Will you be wanting to eat your meals here, too?” Mamie asked, stirring him from his, musings.

  Preston shook his head, hoping to clear it of the few clouds left lolling about. “I was under the impression that it was bed and breakfast. It does say so on the sign out front.”

  She grinned, and he was taken aback by how the skies opened up just then, and how the angels lifted their heavenly voices in chorus, and how all the planets aligned themselves into total and complete harmonic convergence.

  Wow. That didn’t happen often. Or, you know, at all.

  “Oh, heck, yeah, it’s breakfast,” she told him. “All the breakfast you can stand. Lunch and dinner, too, if you’ve a mind to enjoy those here, too. ’Course, there’d be an additional charge for the two extra meals.”

  What Preston wanted to enjoy—with or without additional charge—Mamie didn’t want to know. Bad enough he was entertaining such ideas himself. It was with no small astonishment that he realized just how wayward his thoughts had become in the last few minutes. And it was with no small effort that he pushed them away and cleared his head for more important matters.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve a mind to enjoy…those.”

  Damn. He really had been trying to keep his mind on track.

  “Meals?” Mamie asked innocently.

  Preston nodded vigorously. “Yes, those as well.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “As well as what?”

  Quickly Preston spun around and made his way to the open window. “Is it always so hot here?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. Then again, introducing the topic of heat probably wasn’t much changing the subject.

  “It is in August,” she told him. “But never in June like this. This summer seems to be worse than most
. I’m sorry the Bide-a-Wee isn’t air-conditioned,” she added, reading his thoughts. “Most times it truly isn’t necessary. The house is well shaded, and the ceiling fans blow off the worst of the heat. When it gets like this, though…”

  She left the statement unfinished, since it really didn’t need it. Obviously, when it got this hot, there was nothing to be done but grin and bear it.

  Or grin and bare it.

  Damn, it happened again. Preston was going to have to have a little talk with his libido. Before his thoughts could stray too far, he did what he always did when he felt lost. He glanced down at his watch.

  Good God. Was that really the time? He’d veered nearly twenty minutes off his schedule. If he didn’t get his laptop up and running in thirty seconds, there wouldn’t be any way to recoup his temporal loss.

  “I really have to get to work,” he told Mamie. “I have a tentative arrangement to meet with Jackson Butternut at six-thirty for dinner.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “I guess it would be a good idea to touch base with him beforehand, to make sure the time is still doable for him. I sent him an e-mail before I left…”

  His voice trailed off as another thought occurred to him. If there weren’t facilities in his room, there most certainly wouldn’t be any—

  “WiFi?” he asked hopefully anyway.

  Mamie looked confused.

  “Wireless internet?” he asked less hopefully. “Does the hotel have it?”

  “Oh. No. Sorry. The closest public wireless is at the library up the street.”

  So much for checking his E-mail on his regular hourly schedule, he thought, hastily recalculating his daily agenda. Still, that might buy him twenty or thirty extra minutes a day for business matters. With a few more quick calculations, he realized the added time might potentially be very profitable.