by Meg Napier
Never mind.
Mom carried my tote bag into Room Two and unlocked the connecting door to Room One. These were the only two rooms on the lower level. The other four bedrooms, each with its own beautiful balcony, were upstairs, where the view over the wetlands was even more serene.
“Don’t unpack that,” I told her. She was moving with purpose toward the zipper of my tote. “The super told me that we might have a bed bug infestation. All that needs to go into the wash.”
Where it went was out the sliding door, over the little Juliet balcony, and down onto the grass below.
“Mom!” I shrieked. “I have breakable things in there!”
She stalked after me as I backtracked through the inn and down the stairs to retrieve my luggage on the lawn. “We do not say that word in this establishment!” she hissed.
“Right,” I muttered. “I’ve given up my entire life to take care of you and Dad if you get the Coronavirus, and help you take care of your sick guest. And what do you do? Throw out my luggage. Good thing my laptop is still in the car.”
She caught up to me on the lawn outside my window. Darren’s benevolent influence had been forgotten and I remembered that I was angry. “And who told you to take guests, Mother? You know you’re supposed to be shut down. And now one of them definitely has it, and all of them are probably carriers, and you and Dad are OLD, and I’m going to have to take care of you, and I’m pretty sure Chris is cheating on me.”
There. That was a lot of “upset” that I’d now cleared out of me. I collapsed on the lawn in defeat.
Mom, agile as always in her retirement, folded up and sat beside me.
“First of all, they needed a place to stay. Second, Dad and I are very healthy. We’ll be fine. Third, thank you for coming to help. And fourth… what was fourth?” She looked out over the inlet, the still green water reflecting the trees on both banks. “Oh. Who’s Chris?”
I shrugged, suddenly out of words. “He’s my…” Boyfriend? Was that the word for the guy who I’d gone drinking with, slept with, worked with? I felt pretty sure Chris wouldn’t call me his girlfriend. To him, we were “hooking up.”
“He’s a guy I’ve been seeing,” I finished. There’s only so much you can say to your mother.
“And he’s cheating?”
I seesawed my hand back and forth. “Well, he’s definitely not exclusive to me, but that might not be cheating. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know we’re dating.”
“Oh, sweetie. That doesn’t sound good.”
I didn’t bother to tell her that he was quite a bit younger than I was. Chris was fun to be with, and I felt as though I could teach him to be better at sex. If he stuck around, anyway. Which seemed unlikely at this point.
“What makes you think he’s cheating?”
“New York has been on lockdown since March. It’s been almost four months, and I haven’t seen him except on a screen.”
“He’s not seeing anyone else, then,” Mom said consolingly.
“He’s cheating the stay-at-home. He keeps inviting me to parties, but I refuse to go. So he’s going to friends’ places. And he’s not the kind of guy to…”
“Deny himself,” Mom nodded. She didn’t want to discuss details any more than I did, but every woman knows the type. “Well, don’t worry. He’s obviously going to get the virus, and that’ll teach him.”
“Mom! That is not a charitable thought.”
“Oh, pish. How about that Darren, huh?” She grinned at me and I grinned back.
“He’s handsome,” I acknowledged, but then I remembered I was angry. “What the hell is he doing here? How can you have customers?”
“Now, dear, Virginia lifted the stay-at-home, and these people needed a place to stay. You know your father. He’s watching the books. He says we need the business.”
I nodded, my jaw stuck out just like my father’s when he got a bee in his bonnet. “Oh, fine. And look what happened. You’re shut down now for 14 days at least, and you’ve been exposed. How’s that going to look on the books?”
“That poor Mr. Rubenstein. A nurse comes every day from the healthplex to check on him. You should hear him coughing. I do hope he’ll be okay.”
“You’re staying away, right?” I glared at her sternly.
“Yes, dear,” she answered with mock meekness. “His colleagues bring his food to his door and check on him through the door and by phone. No one goes in or out without full protective gear. We’ll be fine.”
“Huh. We’ll know in fourteen days. Who are these people?”
“Lawyers. From Manhattan.”
“Manhattan?! You accepted guests from the Corona hotbed??”
“Hush. Get over it. It’s done. I’ll tell you about the four of them.” She shifted on the grass and began ticking them off on her fingers. “You’ve met Darren.” She waggled her eyebrows in appreciation. “He’s the junior member of the team.”
“Well, I’d hope they didn’t hire anyone younger. Is he twelve?”
“Twenty-seven. Just right for you, dear.” Mom tended to forget how old I was, and I liked to keep it that way. “Then there’s Mr. Rubenstein. He’s terribly nice. But you won’t meet him for a while.”
She was right about that.
“And Kumiko Wheeler. Eurasian. Absolutely lovely. Makes me wish I could paint. She’s got a sweet smile, but I know she’s a shark. Just what you’d expect from a lady lawyer working for Big Oil.”
“They work for Big Oil?” My ears perked up; after so long as an investigative journalist, it was hard for me to remember that I didn’t do that anymore. “No, don’t tell me. It’s better if I don’t know.”
“They’re here to take depositions about that oil spill in Little Hell. Such a sad story.” She looked out at the waterway again, as if checking to make sure it was still running clean. “She’s got her eye set on the boss, Philip. That’s Mr. Blackstone.”
Mom nodded to the honeymoon cottage. From this angle I could just see that someone was sitting on the deck, shaded from the July sun by the dappled trees. Actually, I saw a leg in dark suit pants and a dress shoe propped up on the table. He must have been awfully hot.
“And the Eurasian lady is after him?”
“Kumiko,” Mom nodded, satisfied with her gossip. “Not that he’s noticed. But I can tell. She’d like to be the next Mrs. Blackstone.”
“What’s she going to do with the current one?”
“Oh, I don’t think there is one. He’s quite good looking, for an older man. Not like Darren, though. Let’s get these damned bed bugs into the washer and then we’ll work on your hair.”
“Mom, stop.” I swatted at her hand, an action that I knew would have no effect. I loved her anyway.
Seven people sequestered for fourteen days while we waited to see which of us would come down with the Coronavirus. One of them already sick, one a golden god, one looking to upgrade her title. What could possibly go wrong?
Quarantine: Day 2
I set up a folding table at the bottom of the driveway with a quarantine notice; the Amazon deliveryman left his parcels and waved from afar. System working.
The biggest box was addressed to the law partner in the honeymoon cottage.
“Is that for Philip?” I jumped a foot; Kumiko had appeared from thin air. “He ordered summer clothes,” she went on. “ I’ll take it to him.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I’d met them all the night before at dinner. We were living on the decks as much as possible, fresh air and summer breezes thought to be the best way to cut down on virus transmission. The three lawyers sat at one table with a Zoom call on a laptop on the fourth place setting to ensure Saul Rubinstein, coughing upstairs, could be hounded for lawyer-type answers. I sat with Mom and Dad.
Kumiko, as advertised, was stunning. There were hints of a Japanese ancestry in her delicate face, but her features were the best of both—a European beauty in an Asian frame. I envied her shining black hair, thick and curly in e
ffortless waves.
Philip was a blade of a man—the exact opposite of Darren’s football-god goldness. Dark hair with flecks of gray at his temples, deep-set dark eyes, and a hawk of a nose. He looked a bit like a bird of prey, eyeing his staff with unflinching focus. I was glad I didn’t work for him.
And then there was Darren, who, I’d discovered, looked as if he was sitting in a sunbeam even at night. Broad chest tapering to a narrow waist and those long legs… mm. Very nice.
And, I was pleased to discover, he wasn’t indifferent to me, either. I made eyes at Darren, and he made eyes at me… and the next morning, he managed to get out of work and come with me and Dad on the party barge while Dad checked his crab pots.
“Now, this is more like it!” he said, stretching out in a folding chair as Dad puttered us out to his crab pot floats.
Darren’s strong neck rose from the collar of a button-down shirt, now draped half-open over a truly lovely swimmer’s chest. He had khaki shorts and boat shoes (surely not standard issue for a lawyer on a case?) and he looked like a king surveying his kingdom. Yes, your highness. Whatever you like, your highness.
“Okay, Joanie,” Dad said, “you’re pulling up the pots. Ready?”
With strong Darren at my side, the task was a delight. We brushed shoulders more than was strictly necessary, and laughed while transferring the crabs from trap to cooler. He objected strongly to re-baiting the pot with chicken necks, dead fish, and whatever else Dad had scraped up (crabs aren’t picky), which led to a lot of flirtatious teasing. It went as well as any romantic scenario could with my father watching from the wheel, his mouth twisted into his “I’m not so sure this is a good idea” face.
Darren looked at the scuttling population in the cooler. “You know, I no longer want to go swimming.”
“City boy,” I scoffed. I grew up in the marble and asphalt corridors of Washington, DC, but I was quite prepared to assume the role of Unrepressed Child of the Wilderness here. “There’s great swimming right off the dock. If you had a bathing suit, we could go when we got back.”
“You think I’d come to the Eastern Shore without a bathing suit?” The look of challenge in his eyes gave me a little thrill. “I’m totally ready. Unfortunately, the Puzzle Master is going to have my nose to the grindstone as soon as we get back.”
“Is that Blackstone? Your boss?”
“My taskmaster. The world is nothing but one legal case after another to him. Let’s go check some more crab pots! Can’t you abduct me for just a few more hours?” He appealed to my father, who announced that unlike others, he had work to do and was heading back. Darren and I grimaced to each other; it felt like high school… but it also felt like opportunity. Exciting!
Quarantine: Day 3
At dinner last night, I mentioned that I’d be going for a run this morning, hoping that Darren would decide to join me. He’d grinned and nodded. But then he’d put a pretty good dent in a bottle of Scotch during the evening movie on the deck (Mom’s turn to pick; we watched Smokey and the Bandit while Kumiko watched Philip and I watched Darren). By the end of the movie, Darren was loose and giggly and staggered off to bed, still holding the bottle.
So I was pretty surprised to hear footsteps crunching behind mine as I headed down the gravel driveway this morning. My hero!
Nope. I turned. It was Philip, a dark thundercloud of a man, dressed in brand-new running shoes, shorts, and a t-shirt. He was fitting earbuds into his ears and saw me looking. He waved me on.
“Go ahead. I’m just going to follow you.”
I waited politely for him to catch up, but he stopped, too. “Go ahead,” he said curtly.
Fine.
I have a three-mile loop I usually run when I visit my parents, but having him behind me inspired a somewhat competitive response; I took him on the long loop instead. I thudded along, at first annoyed that the wrong man was following me, and then I sort of forgot about him. The morning was still cool and the air was moist; it smelled good in this part of the state and I began to relax into the run.
By the time the shady parts of the road were feeling better than the sunny parts, we were back. At the front steps, he pulled out his earbuds. “How long was that?”
“About five and a half,” I said, a little out of breath and glad to be done.
He nodded. “Good. Thanks.”
He left abruptly and Darren emerged from the front door. “Don’t you look sweaty!” But he said it with a flattering little leer so I was pleased, not insulted. “I’m sorry I didn’t join you; I slept in this morning.”
“Yeah,” I laughed. “I guessed.”
“Now that the Puzzle Master’s back, I’ll have to go to work. But what about you and I meet at the dock at lunchtime for a swim?”
Oh boy.
The water was cool and delicious—and Darren, looking like an ad for Abercrombie & Fitch or Ralph Lauren, used the excuse of a brand new crab phobia to grab on to me so he could keep his feet up.
It would have been better, I thought, if I’d been the one clinging to him while he protected me, but wet skin against wet skin, clinging arms wrapped in intimate places, it’s all good. I pulled him through the water and admired the sunlight glinting on his shoulders, his jawline, his eyelashes…
…and then we were in the shade of the party barge and out of sight of the house and he turned in my arms. “God, I’m glad you arrived,” he murmured. “This was going to be a very boring quarantine without you.”
His arms were at my waist and suddenly he was the one doing the holding. Nice move, big fella.
And then he was kissing me.
There was a moment of blazing excitement—and then a lot of teeth.
Some guys know how to kiss; some guys need to be given some subtle instruction. Darren, clearly the prettiest boy in any group he was in, had never had anyone explain that it’s less than optimal to bump teeth with your partner. But he was a sweet guy, and I was entirely ready to become his “lead from behind” teacher. After all, no guy wants to think he kisses poorly; you can’t just come out and say it. It takes finesse and time and lots of practice. LOTS of practice.
His hand was on my rump. Copping a feel or holding me up in the water? Could go either way. And suddenly I wasn’t sure I wanted to go that fast. Sure, being a quarantine fling was exciting. But could there be more with this handsome hunk? He lived in Manhattan and I lived across the river in Jersey. We could see each other when this was over, right?
And if that was a possibility, then I needed to slow him down a little—without looking like I was slowing him down. Keep it casual and fun while paving the way to serious and long-term. My specialty (not that it had worked too well in the past).
I pushed back with a laugh and splashed him. “So, you’re looking for a little adventure on your quarantine, huh?”
His eyes lit up and he came after me. We had a little splash-and-tickle in the water, sneaking kisses and caresses as we floated effortlessly in the coolness. He forgot about his fear of pinching blue crabs and put his feet down. Then he was holding me and it felt great. Knowing that my parents were just up the hill added to the illicit deliciousness. Once again, I felt like we were in high school (with the ghostly shadow of “real world romance” lurking in the background).
We played throughout his lunch hour and then Kumiko was sent to fetch him back. She stood impatiently on the dock and watched us. “Come on, Darren. Don’t keep us waiting.”
Darren scooped me against his chest and whispered in my ear. “Good thing I’ve got a towel at the ladder; my trunks don’t leave much to the imagination right now!” He ground his hips against me and I gasped—oh, my—and then he was gone, broad shoulders flashing through the sunlit water.
I stayed there floating for a bit to cool down.
Quarantine: Day 4
That evening during the movie (Kumiko’s choice; she selected some incomprehensible Swedish film that no one much followed), Darren whispered that he wanted to make out in
the hammock after everyone went to bed.
“In the hammock?” I didn’t want to immediately throttle that idea, but a hammock is a surprisingly unforgiving space for two bodies. “What about a blanket on the grass?”
“Hammock,” he growled in my ear. “I’ve always wanted to.”
“Okay,” I said gamely, feigning enthusiasm.
It was as tangled and torturous as I remembered to make out in a hammock; it calls for tremendous muscle control and unnaturally flexible spines. I took a break from holding myself far enough above him to be teasing and tantalizing (as opposed to lying fully on him with nothing to push against; a hammock is a dreadful make-out spot) and propped myself up on his chest.
“So, you live in Manhattan, huh?”
“Oh, we’re talking now, are we?” He reached up and kissed my neck, licking my skin wetly. I tried not to wince.
“I live in Hackensack.”
“Is that right?” He was clearly uninterested. I tried again.
“What’s the case you guys are working on?”
He sighed and settled back. “Pollution and agricultural run-off in the Chesapeake leads to dead oyster beds. But the locals in the tiny town of Little Hell, Virginia insist the cause was leaking oil tanks. They’re suing Kemper Oil. That enough?”
His hand slid upward from my waist heading for second base territory, but now I was fully distracted. Too many years as an investigative journalist.
“And you represent…?”
“Kemper Oil. Big damned client. Paying us a boatload to keep them out of piddling little stuff like this.”
He was after my neck again. “Four Manhattan lawyers end up in Little Hell and you think it’s piddling?” He grunted, and I pushed a hand against his chest to rise up farther. “You wouldn’t be here for a few dead oyster beds.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t know. But I do. Why are you here?”
He sighed and pushed me off so he could sit up—which immediately threatened to tip us out of the hammock. “Some kids got sick. A rash. It’s nothing.”