The Short, Hot Summer

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  No, that wasn’t exactly right, Preston thought, taking a few involuntary steps toward her. Mamie was infinitely more beautiful than a pedestrian rose. She was…

  That thought—and his breath—suddenly got stuck, because she lifted her fingers to her forehead to push back a handful of damp curls. When she did, she arched her back into a stretch that was unbelievably erotic. Her plump breasts strained against their brief cotton confines, and any hunger for food Preston might have been suffering was immediately replaced by a ravenous need for something else entirely.

  He halted at the realization and found himself standing midway between Mamie and the house, totally paralyzed and unable to take a step further in any direction. Good God, he thought. He wanted Mamie. No, he immediately corrected himself. That wasn’t right. He wanted Mamie. He desired her. He craved her. More than he could ever remember wanting a woman.

  Even dismissing the reminder that he met her less than twenty-four hours ago—which was no small dismissal, granted—his appetite for her was staggering. He was hungry for a woman he had just met. With whom he had nothing in common. The heat must definitely be getting to him.

  Still, for some reason, he didn’t feel as if he’d just met her. Maybe because she gave so much of herself right off the bat. They’d talked for a long time as they swung the night away last night. He knew all kinds of things about her now. More than he knew about a lot of people in New York that he’d known for years. He knew she lost her parents when she was very young, that her favorite color was green, that she had been her high school mascot three years running and still missed wearing the badger suit sometimes. He knew she’d never traveled farther north than Nashville or farther west than New Orleans, that she’d seen the movie “Casablanca” sixteen times, and that her greatest ambition was to see Rock City. He also knew she was passionate about her roses.

  He was starting to feel a little passionate about her roses, too.

  His instincts clamored for him to turn around and run away, to escape this place, this moment, this revelation, before he did or said something he would regret later. But Mamie chose that moment to glance up from her botanical labors, and when she did, Preston knew—he knew—that she was experiencing the same strange sensations and revelations he was himself. And she didn’t understand them any more than he did.

  With the recognition that her condition mirrored his own, Preston’s paralysis eased, and he strode forward, slowly covering the distance left between them.

  “Good morning,” he greeted her, struggling to keep hidden the strange miasma of emotions rumbling through him.

  In response, she glanced briefly up at the sun. “It’s almost ‘Good afternoon,’” she said.

  “I don’t normally sleep so late,” he told her. “It’s the heat, I’m sure.”

  She smiled, and he knew she didn’t agree. After all, she looked as if she had been up since the crack of dawn. “If you say so.”

  “I missed breakfast, I assume.”

  She nodded. “But it’s not quite too early for lunch. There’s still some chicken ’n’ dumplins left over from last night, if you’re interested.”

  Preston was. Too interested. Even having enjoyed only a few bites before the heat ruined his appetite, the meal she fixed last night had given his taste buds a cataclysmic orgasm, even if it had shaved at least six months off of his life span. Still, it was almost worth dying young if it meant eating something that tasted that good every day.

  “Actually, I think a salad would be fine,” he replied reluctantly.

  She pushed herself up from the ground, and he chivalrously extended a hand to help her up—at least, he told himself he was only being chivalrous, even if, deep down, he just wanted to touch her again. She hesitated a moment before folding her fingers against his, then he tugged her gently to a standing position. As gentle as the tug was, however, something—he had no idea what, really—made him pull a little harder than was necessary. Just enough to cause Mamie to—accidentally, of course—stumble forward a bit. When she did, he caught her capably, but she still ended up leaning against him, her hands splayed against his chest to steady herself.

  It was, Preston decided, a very nice position to be in. Not quite able to help himself, he covered one of her hands with his, as if he wanted to keep it where it was forever. She glanced up at his gesture, her clear green gaze locking with his. He noted a faint sheen of perspiration dewing her upper lip, and, with the thumb of his free hand, he gently…slowly…wiped it away. His hand lingered at her mouth, and somehow he found himself grazing her lower lip as well with the pads of his index and middle fingers.

  Soft. She was so soft…

  Her lips parted slightly at the contact, and color bloomed in both her cheeks. The rich scent of the roses intoxicated him, and Preston began to lower his head toward hers. Close… Closer… Closer still… He was so, so close…

  The hands spread open on his chest suddenly tensed, and before he realized what was happening, Mamie pushed. She didn’t push him away so much as she pushed herself away from him, but the result was the same—they parted. Still, somehow, Preston was reassured that what he’d done might very well happen again, and that next time it might end a little differently.

  “I, uh…I think I have some tomatoes that are ready for picking,” she said as she disentangled herself. “They’re looking to be pretty yummy this year, too,” she added quickly. “They love the heat and the humidity, you know. So when we do have these unbearable heat waves, at least we get some good tomatoes out of it. That’s something, I suppose.”

  Mamie knew she was beginning to babble, but honestly, what else was she supposed to do? She’d just nearly kissed a man she barely knew.

  Of course, it didn’t feel like she barely knew Preston. On the contrary, the hours she’d spent with him felt more like years. From the moment she laid eyes on him, she’d been attracted to him. And after all the talking they did last night on the porch, he felt like an old friend. She certainly knew as much about him as she did some folks. More, in some ways. Like she knew how he’d had his appendix out when he was fourteen. She didn’t know anyone else in Butternut who’d had that done, but someone must have at some point. And she knew his favorite dessert was tiramisu. She didn’t think anyone in Butternut could say the same. Hey, she didn’t even know anyone in Butternut who’d even made tiramisu. Just what was tiramisu, anyway?

  Although she had no idea why it was so, Preston Atherton IV, for all his strange ways and odd customs, still felt as if he’d been in Butternut for a long time. The fact that he’d spent all that time with her just somehow made him feel even more familiar. Still, that didn’t mean she ought to go around kissing the guy. Even if she was the proprietress of the Bide-a-Wee Bed and Breakfast, kissing the clientele sorta put professional hospitality into a whole ’nother light.

  “I think I have some cucumbers ready to come out, too,” she tossed over her shoulder as she made her way toward the small vegetable garden on the other side of the yard. “Benedictine sandwiches sound really good on a day like this.”

  Belatedly she realized cucumbers probably weren’t the best thing to be discussing at the moment. Not when she’d just felt Preston’s, um, cucumber pressing against her thigh. And quite the blue ribbon winner it was, too, she thought before she could stop herself.

  She halted near the garden and hoped the blush she felt firing her face hadn’t traveled anywhere else on her person—well, nowhere that Preston might see, at any rate, seeing as there was little she could do about the heat, um, down there.

  “I love cucumbers,” he said, coming to a stop beside her.

  So do I, Mamie thought involuntarily, squeezing her eyes shut tight as the idea became far too graphic for her comfort. “Okay,” she muttered. She scanned the garden quickly until a plump, ripe cucumber caught her eye. Oh, no. She was going to have to reach down there and pick that up while Preston was watching. Hold it in her hand. Carry it into the house. Then take a knife and—r />
  “Here’s a good one,” she said hastily, bending down to scoop up one that was a less, um…well-endowed.

  “Oh, no,” he countered, stooping beside her. “That one’s much too small.” He pointed to the larger one that had reminded her of their embrace. “That one would be much more appropriate.”

  The way he lingered over that last word made her brave a glance in his direction. She found him smiling in a way that suggested maybe, perhaps, possibly his own thoughts were mirroring hers. Quickly, she dropped her gaze back to the garden, to the tomatoes. But those, too, suddenly seemed so sensual, so erotic, that she just couldn’t quite bring herself to touch one.

  Once more Preston seemed to know exactly what she was thinking, because he said, “I see two luscious-looking tomatoes over there. Why don’t I just go and help myself?”

  Mamie closed her eyes and just rolled with the sexual wave of pleasure that washed over her. What else was she supposed to do? If handling suggestive vegetables was as close as she was going to come to pleasures of the flesh this summer, then by God, she would enjoy it as much as she could.

  “Yes,” she finally managed to say. “Why don’t you? Help yourself, I mean. To the tomatoes, I mean.”

  Preston had already done just that, she saw when she opened her eyes. He was standing beside one particularly fruitful vine, fingering two round, rosy tomatoes as if they were the most erotic handful he’d ever had the pleasure to grope. Her mouth went dry as she watched him gently squeeze first one and then the other, rolling the pad of his thumb over their dark centers near the stem before plucking them delicately from the vine.

  Damp heat flooded her, and she closed her eyes again to wait it out. She really was going to have to get a grip on herself. Otherwise she was going to wind up letting Preston get a grip on her that would lead to infinitely more trouble.

  “These look good,” he said as he returned to her side, gently palming one of the fruits in each hand. “Plump. Full. Tasty,” he added, not even trying to hide the sexual innuendo in the comments.

  At least, she thought he was the one inserting the sexual innuendo into their conversation. Could just be that, at this point, Mamie was so turned on even a garden gnome would seem sexual.

  Preston ran his thumbs over the skin of the tomatoes again. “Yeah, I think I’d like to…have…these.”

  It was too much for Mamie to tolerate. Her fingers convulsed on the cucumber she still held in her hand as she thrust it toward Preston. “I just remembered I have to run into town,” she lied. “I hope you don’t mind fixing your own lunch. I know that’s terribly rude, to make you do that, but I…I…I…” She took a giant step backward. “I really do have to…run.”

  And then, making good on her promise, Mamie spun around and bolted for the back door.

  Six

  Preston eyed the two tomatoes sitting side by side on the kitchen counter, then took another bite of his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. The big cucumber likewise taunted him from nearby, and he shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, hoping to alleviate some of the tension in his own cucum—

  Oh, for God’s sake, he thought. When was the last time he’d indulged in something as adolescent as turning vegetables into sexual double entendres? Actually, thinking back, he couldn’t recall ever indulging in anything that adolescent, even when he was an adolescent. Which was probably why it had been so much fun doing it with Mamie. Well, that, and the fact that she was just so damned cute when she blushed.

  He grinned when he recalled the look on her face as he told her he wanted to have her tomatoes. If she looked that scandalized at the mere suggestion of him tasting her tomatoes, he wondered how she’d look when he actually did open his mouth to savor her full, plump, naked—

  He inhaled deeply and forced his gaze away from the full, plump, naked tomatoes that sat on the counter teasing him. He wondered where Mamie had run off to in such a rush. He supposed he had no one but himself to blame for her hasty departure. Still, it would have been nice if she’d hung around a bit longer and played juvenile games with him for the rest of the afternoon. It had been a long time since Preston had had this much fun.

  Come to think of it, he couldn’t recall ever having this much fun. Which was doubly odd, since he hadn’t even scheduled it in.

  And speaking of schedules, he thought, he’d completely abandoned his. Of course, with Jackson Butternut AWOL, there wasn’t much of a schedule to maintain. That didn’t mean Preston should simply throw his schedule away. On the contrary. He just needed to adjust it so it included his newfound priorities.

  Instinctively he glanced down at his watch. 1:33. All right. He could work from there. Starting at 1:35, he would have lascivious thoughts about Mamie Calhoun. Then, at exactly 2:00 he would fantasize about her. Nothing too graphic—he’d save that for the evening hours, where it would be more appropriate, not to mention more productive—but a quarter hour…no, make it thirty minutes…of good fantasizing wouldn’t be out of place.

  At 2:30, he thought, he could pencil in a snack. All that fantasizing and lascivious thinking would doubtless require refueling—he was, after all, only having a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich for lunch, seeing as he hadn’t had it in him to chop up the vegetables—it would have been inhuman. Not to mention mentally painful. After his snack, at 2:50, Mamie ought to be back from running her dubious errand. So 3:00, he decided. Was the time he would strike up a suggestive conversation. That, naturally, could go on for hours, so he’d better leave the remainder of the afternoon free. Dinner at 6:00—with Mamie this time. He would disregard her protests this evening and help her with the cleanup afterward, which should bring them to roughly 7:45.

  The perfect time to retire to the porch swing, he thought. Two hours more of conversation—some suggestive, some not—along with a bit of seemingly innocent, but very electrifying, touching, and then the sun would be well down. Then, at exactly 9:45…

  Well. That would be a good time for him to lean forward and kiss her, he decided. Then, if he was lucky—and Preston prided himself on being a remarkably lucky man—maybe, just maybe, he could carry Mamie upstairs to his room, just like Rhett with Scarlett. Then up more stairs to his bed, where they could both schedule in a night full of passion.

  ‘Who said schedules had to be dull?’ He thought. This one was promising to be exhausting.

  Glancing down at his watch, he realized it was time for him to have his lascivious thoughts, so he closed his eyes. He did, after all, have a schedule to keep. He only hoped Mamie was as good at keeping time—or, rather, making time—as he was.

  Unfortunately, he was forced to realize late in the afternoon that Mamie Calhoun seemed to have no concept of time—or, worse, schedules—whatsoever. Because she didn’t return from her errands at the hour that Preston had assigned for that. Nor did she return the hour after that. Fearing he might never see her again, he took it upon himself to go looking for her. This task, however, required him to go out and explore—he sighed his resignation—Butternut.

  Fortunately there wasn’t that much of the town to explore. He ought to be able to cover all of Main Street in, oh… He glanced as his watch and did some mental tallying. About half a minute ought to do it, he decided. Even if it took as much as half an hour—hah—he could still squeeze in dinner with Mamie at the allocated 5:30. Since there would be no time to cook anything themselves, however, they’d have to make do with Fern and Moody’s home cookin’ at the café across the street.

  Strangely, though, as he pushed the screen door open and stepped out onto the front porch, he realized that home cookin’ sounded considerably less dissatisfying than it had at this time yesterday.

  Even with the sun hanging low over the trees and the porch steeped in shade, stepping out the front door of the Bide-a-Wee felt very much like walking into a bowl of soup. Despite his short sleeves and the lightweight fabric of his clothing, Preston was immediately overcome by the heat and dampness. But the heat and d
ampness wasn’t quite as intolerable as it had been yesterday, so maybe the weather was about to break. Either that, or he was starting to get used to it. Or maybe he was just beginning to understand that it was something of a trade-off. The heat itself was bad, but some of the things that resulted from the heat were very good.

  Like brevity of clothing, for example, he thought, recalling Mamie’s snug cutoffs and even snugger tops. And like wild, unruly auburn curls that begged for a man’s touch. And misty lips that lured fingers to intimate touches. And iced tea sweeter and more savory than the most full-bodied wine. And raging rosebushes riotous with color and rampant with intoxicating scents. And nights so still, so quiet, so peaceful, that nobody wanted to do anything except sit on a porch swing and enjoy the company of another human being.

  Yeah, he decided. There was a lot to be said for hot summers. Come to think of it, there was a lot to be said for Butternut. Suddenly he wouldn’t mind so much if Jackson Butternut wanted to add even a few more days to his fishing trip. Because strangely enough—and it really was strange—Preston was in that big a hurry to get back to New York.

  He strode to the end of the walkway that meandered through the front yard, then drove his gaze up one side of Main Street and down the other. Amazing, he thought. Not a soul in sight. Were this Broadway, at this hour, thousands of people would be spilling into the streets, heat wave or no. Taxis would be honking, trucks would be rumbling past. All manner of movement and sound and sensation would combine to create Preston’s world. Yet here in Butternut, Alabama, the world had come to a halt.

  Oh, no, wait. Not quite a halt, he noted. There, at a white frame house toward the end of the street, a brown-speckled dog ambled out from beneath a porch and into a shady spot at the edge of his yard. Preston smiled when he realized he’d just witnessed rush hour in Butternut.