She leaned against a gray piling and studied her surroundings. A few feet away, swinging slowly in a white, cord-twisted hammock was a man. He was wearing faded, ragged shorts and sunglasses. A pair of flip flops and three empty beer bottles on the deck beside him completed the vignette. The mailbox seemed appropriate now.
She stood up slowly, brushed sand off her shorts and walked towards the sleeping man. She hesitated waking him. Instead, she spent a few heartbeats assessing him. He was tall and tanned. His wavy, sun-streaked hair was a bit long and unkempt. He had a broad forehead and a wide mouth. He kept in shape, she noted. His arms were large and heavily muscled. He had a spare tire, however, so if this was Spence he had forgone the crunches. The hair on his arms and legs was thick. A thatch of copper hair traced down his chest, snaking into the waistband of his faded Bermuda shorts. His feet were long and his large toes splayed and tanned. He must not wear shoes often, she thought.
"Do I know you?"
His slow, Southern drawl caught her by surprise. She thought he had been sleeping. Playing opossum instead. She took a step back.
"Mr. Spence? I'm Erin Andersen. I've been sent by Patricia McDowell to help you with your book."
He slowly lifted his sunglasses. Steel blue eyes squinted in the morning sun.
"Hey, move over here, would ya? Can't see who I'm talkin' to."
Erin picked up her purse and moved to the far side of the hammock, the afternoon sun shining on her face. Spence took in her sandals, her legs, shorts, and shirt. He stared at her chest a few seconds before moving up to her face. Then he grinned. His teeth were bright white against his dark skin.
"Well, howdy. I forgot you were coming. You want a beer?"
Erin hesitated, then decided she needed to make friends fast.
"Sure. It's been a long, thirsty trip," she lied.
Stephen Spence pointed to a bar against the back of the house and said, "Me too. Why don't you grab us a couple. What'd you say your name was?"
He hadn't moved out of the hammock. Just pointed a finger and dropped his sunglasses back into place. Erin placed her purse on the deck and walked to the bar. Behind it, she discovered a small refrigerator. She had to bend over to open it. Inside were Coronas -- at least two dozen and nothing else -- so cold they formed ice crystals when she pulled out two bottles.
"Opener's on the counter there. Limes, too."
She picked up the bottle opener. It was ancient and rusty. Glad I've had a tetanus shot recently, she thought. On the counter was a basket of limes. Recalling college days with tequila shots and lemons, she rolled the lime, softening its rind so the juice would flow. She pulled open a couple of drawers until she found a sharp knife. She thought about neatly tucking the sliced lime into the opening but decided she should just shove them into the long necks. Lime pulp clung to the inside of the bottle and the beer fizzed. She walked over to Spence and handed him one. The other, she upended. She was amazed at how good it tasted.
"Ahh, be still my heart," he said and drained half the bottle.
Fascinated, Erin watched as he licked the lime from his lips and smiled at her.
Well, I'm off on the right foot, she thought. She searched for a chair and, not finding one, headed back to the bar, brushed off a few stray crumbs and hoisted herself up onto the counter. Obviously, this was a one-person deck and guests had to make do. If he wasn't going to provide a chair, she would have to find her own seat.
"You know, sometimes that's my kitchen table."
"I don't mind. These are old shorts," she lied again. She lifted the bottle to her lips. Another shot of courage, she thought.
She heard him chuckle, a low rumble. "You're kind of feisty, aren't you?"
"Not really, Mr. Spence. I'm your assistant. I'm here to do whatever it takes to help you write your book."
She waited. She had learned that sometimes, in situations where the client didn't appreciate professional intervention, reaction was better than proaction. She would bide her time.
Unfortunately, Stephen Spence was the kind of guy who didn't mind the time spent biding. The hammock rocked gently as he occasionally put one of his big feet against the deck and pushed.
Erin was nearing the bottom of the bottle when she finally gave in. "Do you have any questions?"
"Nope."
He upended his beer, savoring the last of it. He shook the bottle at her expressively and then set it on the deck beneath him where it joined the other three empties.
Erin exhaled a bit forcefully, blowing wayward tendrils off of her forehead. She lifted her bottle and drank its contents in a series of chugs, then licked the lime pulp off her lips. After setting her bottle to the side, she jumped off the bar and once again bent over to open the fridge. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Spence lift his sunglasses.
"Are you checking me out?"
"Yes ma'am. You sure have nice legs."
Erin shuffled her feet to the left, giving him a profile of her rear instead of full-on view. "Perv," she muttered. She pulled two more beers from the ice box and, again, slid lime slices into bottles. She walked to the hammock and put the icy beer into his hand. Then she picked up her purse and went back to the bar. She lifted her long neck bottle in salute and took a deep pull before hopping back up.
"I'm told you're having problems meeting your deadlines."
Spence did not reply, just rocked slowly in the hammock, the cold beer cradled in his right hand.
"You do understand why I'm here, don't you Mr. Spence?"
"Spence."
Erin felt a flash of impatience. "You do understand why I'm here, don't you?"
"Yep."
She pulled a small notebook out of her purse and clicked her ink pen, the tip poised over a fresh sheet of paper. "I think the first thing we should do is make a schedule."
Spence snorted softly and raised his beer to his lips.
"You think that's funny?"
He lifted his sunglasses and winked at her. "Honey, I don't have a schedule."
"Well, now you do, Mr. Spence. You've signed a contract to produce a book, and there are deadlines to meet. I'm here to make sure you do. And," she added, "I'm not your ‘honey.'"
"Touchy, eh? You married?"
"No. Not that it's any of your business," Erin said, stonily staring across the wetlands.
"Relax, sweetheart. Just don't want some angry husband knocking on the door next week."
"Well, you won't. And don't call me sweetheart, either."
"Don't you like men?"
Erin sputtered angrily. This conversation is getting way out of control, she thought. "Mr. Spence …"
"Spence."
"Mr. Spence! I'm here to do a job. My sexual preferences are none of your concern."
"So hands off, huh?"
"If I want a relationship, I'll get a puppy," she snarled.
"Hmmm. Sounds like the voice of experience," Spence observed.
Erin frowned. In the distance, the Pamlico Sound shimmered.
* * *
Four beers later Erin was sitting on the deck, her legs stretched in front of her, burning in the mid-afternoon sun. She felt loopy. Her continental breakfast had consisted of a plain bagel and a Styrofoam cup of bitter orange juice. She missed dinner the night before. She began chewing on lime rinds and peeking into the cracks of the deck for stray peanuts.
So far she had learned that Stephen Spence rarely got up before noon, and it was only because he fell asleep in the hammock late last night that she had the pleasure of his company now.
He also talked a bit about Ocracoke, telling her how his family came to the small island.
"I was born here. There's not many of us; about 800 or so year-round residents. My folks came to the Outer Banks in the ‘60s and opened one of the first dive shops in the area. My dad was in the Navy and learned how to dive. He taught my mom, and they worked together for years."
Erin nodded gently, relaxing at his soft, Southern accent.
"How lo
ng have they been married?"
"My dad is gone now. He died a few years ago."
"Oh, sorry to hear that."
Spence sobered. "He died of emphysema. He smoked."
"What about your mom? How is she?"
"She gets along. Still runs the dive shop. She's a tough old lady."
"How old is she?"
"Well, I'm the youngest, and she had me late. She was in her forties, I think. Surprised as hell when I came along. She's in her seventies now, but she doesn't act like it."
Finally, he swung his legs out of the hammock and walked over to his guest. She licked her lips. They felt swollen and more hairy than the kneecaps in front of her. He offered his hand. She put her left hand into his and waited.
"One, two, three."
He pulled her to her feet at "three" and smiled. Devastating, she thought, her gut clenching at his brilliant, white smile.
She leaned against the bar and burped.
"Oh, my gosh! Excuse me," she said. "I'm not used to drinking beer for lunch." She valiantly swallowed the next burp.
"Don't apologize. I'm impressed. " Stephen Spence smiled again, disarming her. "Let's go inside. You've had too much sun."
He picked up her purse and slung it over his shoulder. Then he put a hand on her shoulder and steered her towards a sliding glass door. Once inside, her head began to clear. It was at least ten degrees cooler and she spied a large, white sofa.
"Sanctuary!"
"I take it you're not from the South?"
Erin slumped on the couch and, uninhibited by the alcohol, stretched out and sighed.
"No. I live in D.C. but I'm from Pennsylvania."
"You tired?"
"Mm hmm."
"How ‘bout I let you take a nap while I shower? You mind if I leave you alone for awhile?"
Erin snored softly.
"I'll take that as a yes."
He stood in the middle of his living room a few moments and watched her sleep. Honey blonde hair spilled out of her ponytail and covered her face. He was tempted to brush it back.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Erin woke up and realized she had to pee. She sat up and immediately felt woozy. Whoa, she thought, what have I done? No matter; her bladder was more important. She walked slowly down the hall and opened every door she came to. She found the bathroom on the fourth try. She frantically pulled her shorts down and sat on the toilet. Relief was immediate. She put her elbows on her knees and began rubbing her eyes. They were filled with salt.
"Could you hand me that towel?"
Her head snapped up and she looked towards the shower. Stephen Spence, half hidden behind a fogged glass door, had turned off the water and noticed that his guest had found him once more.
She hid her face in her hands and muttered, "Good lord." She shook her head slightly then, reaching to her left, picked up the towel he had asked for and proffered it in his direction.
"Thanks. ‘Preciate that."
He closed the shower door and turned away, whistling "How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?"
Erin peeked through her fingers and watched through the foggy glass as he rubbed down with the towel, his back to her. Despite her best intentions, she let her eyes slide down, taking in the wet curls against his neck, the broad expanse of his back tapering into a slim waist. A few seconds later, she was slipping through the door but not before stealing one last peek at the man in the shower. He finished drying off and wrapped the towel low around his waist. As he stepped out of the shower, she quickly closed the door and sprinted towards the living room.
Spence didn't bother dressing. He followed her into the living room and collapsed into one of the large armchairs. He exhaled loudly.
"That's a chore. You ever notice that taking a shower is a lot like work?"
Erin looked away.
"No. I, um, generally take showers early. I find it very refreshing."
"That so? I don't generally get up early."
Erin laughed. Embarrassed, she attempted to act and converse normally, though she still looked away. "Mr. Spence, I apologize. I didn't mean to intrude. I had to use the bathroom and didn't realize you were there also."
"Spence. Call me Spence."
"I don't think I've gotten off on the right foot here. I …" Erin trailed off. She stared out the sliding glass doors at the back bay and licked her swollen lips. "If you want me to leave, I understand. I'm sure I can find a hotel on the island."
"Are you thirsty?"
"What?"
"Are you thirsty? You keep licking your lips like you're thirsty."
She bit her lower lip, confirming the fact that they were still there although she still couldn't feel them. Alcohol did that to her. "I am. I could use some water."
He stood up, retied his towel, and walked into the kitchen. Now she was looking.
Erin heard ice clinking into a glass followed by a stream of water. He brought her the glass and, as she reached for it, sat down next to her. She downed it in several large gulps. He watched as her throat jiggled. She lifted the glass to her forehead and closed her eyes.
"It's so hot here. It feels like summer already."
Smiling, Spence took the glass from her.
"Why don't you lie down and relax. You got a little burned out there. You may have sun stroke."
"Really? Is that serious?"
"Can be. Some people die from it. You're probably just dehydrated."
Erin's head swam. She closed her eyes and sank into the cool, white sofa. Spence stood up and, after placing a pillow under her head, went into his bedroom to dress.
* * *
Hours later, Erin woke up. For a moment she felt lost. She blinked to clear her vision then sat up and straightened her clothes. She heard music in the distance and followed it down the hallway. She found him in his studio, standing at one of his canvasses.
He frowned as he concentrated, then glanced back and forth from the painting to several photographs he had clipped to the corner. A tackle box filled with paint tubes sat on a tall table next to his hip. He had pulled out the tackle box tray and was using it as a palette. The table top also served as a palette with layers of dried oil paint stacked one on top of another like an artistic archaeological dig. He had a brush behind one ear and was chewing on another. He didn't move for several minutes, studying the scene before him. He didn't notice Erin, her footsteps muffled by the carpet.
He glanced first over his shoulder at the sun now sinking into the Pamlico Sound then back at his canvas before he spied her. She didn't move.
"The light's wrong now." He put his brushes in a bottle of linseed oil and the tray on a table behind him, then sauntered towards her. "How ya feeling?"
"Fine. I think I should find a hotel on the island and freshen up."
"Thought you were going to stay here?"
Erin backed up as he came towards the door. "I think you and I need a bit of privacy and maybe a fresh start." Even as the words came out, she realized they did not sound convincing.
"Nah, no worries. I've already put your suitcase in your room. It's at the end of the hall," he said, taking her arm and escorting her to the opposite side of the house. He opened a door and Erin was dazzled by the view from the large windows. The room seemed to float in light as the mirrored closets on the far wall reflected the blues and browns of the wetlands. Centered in the middle of the room was a king-sized bed covered with a champagne silk spread. Minimally decorated, there was no other furniture in the room other than mahogany floating shelves attached to the walls. He moved to one of the mirrored doors and opened it.
"See? Your own bathroom." He emphasized the word "own" and his smile was overly bright.
Erin cringed. She was embarrassed but it was the memory of his wet, tanned, muscled body that flushed her cheek, not his gentle teasing.
"I unpacked for you," he added, stepping towards the built-in dresser and opening the top drawer. He pulled out a lacy bra and swung it around his index
finger.
She gasped. He had retrieved her suitcase out of the SUV while she slept and put her clothes away? She blushed furiously. He dropped her bra, closed the drawer and changed the subject.
"Hungry?"
"Yes," she replied, disarmed by the simple question.
"I don't have much in the way of vittles here so we'll go out. I suppose you'll want to take a shower? You might want to lock the door. You know, to keep out intruders."
He stifled a laugh, backed out of her room, and closed the door.
Functioning on auto pilot, Erin stepped into the bathroom. It was exactly like the one she had barged into earlier, except this room had her toiletries on the counter, her shampoo and conditioner in the shower. She opened the mirrored medicine cabinet and found her toothbrush, her floss and even her birth control pills.
She stepped out of the bathroom and into the closet area. Pulling open drawers she found her lingerie, her stockings, shorts and shirts. Her dresses hung on satin-padded hangers. He had left out her red La Rok, a short-waisted cocktail dress with a cut-away back and short tulle skirt. He had even arranged her silver Stuart Weitzmore slingback sandals, with their corsage straps and four-inch heel, beside the dress. So, he had even decided what she should wear tonight.
Erin sat on the bed and fumed at the invasion of her privacy. She thought about calling Patricia. Instead, she went back into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
"It's on," she growled.
Soon Erin was sleek and polished. The skirt of her strapless red dress flared high above her knees in baby-doll fashion. Her high heels made her legs appear long. They were a bit sunburned from her morning on the deck so she decided not to wear stockings. Instead, she slathered them with fragrant lotion. She used makeup sparingly, but the dress called for a bit of war paint.
The casual, tomboy approach hadn't worked. Sharing a few beers on the deck had been a bad idea. Maybe the glamour puss would succeed.
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