Low Country Daddy

by Lexi Whitlow

  I squeeze her hand, smiling, trying to put her at her ease. Mama meant well, but this place is more than just an Inn. I knew it before we parked the car. The lot is filled with Cadillac’s, BMW’s, and Mercedes Benz’. Maddie may think my Honda is all that, but the valet laughed at it.

  “Jeb, this is… expensive,” Maddie says in a low voice, looking at me as if a mistake has been made. “Are we in the right place?”

  “Oh yeah,” I assure her. “We’re in the right place.”

  Mama’s trying to make an impression on Maddie; maybe on both of us. I’m not sure I approve of her methods, but at the very least, this will be interesting.

  A somewhat underfed, over-made young woman at the desk looks up at me as I approach. She starts to smile, then hesitates as she evaluates my salt and sun bleached Maiden Island Oyster Company t-shirt and frayed Ordinary Seafood baseball cap.

  “May I help you sir?” she asks politely, looking past me at Maddie, who is still taking in the grandeur of our surroundings. The place is resplendent with stonework, polished hardwood, and wrought iron, accented with fine Persian carpets and lots of pretty paintings and overstuffed furniture.

  “Ballentine,” I say. “Jeb Ballentine. If you need the confirmation number, I have it.”

  The young woman punches keys on her computer, then – eyebrows raising – comes back up to me with a sweet smile. “Yes, Mr. Ballentine,” she says. “You’re in the John Singer Sargent Suite with the upgrade package for an open Biltmore Estate and Winery Pass, meals in our private dining room, and a pair of Spa visits.”

  Spa visits? What the hell?

  “Everything has been pre-paid,” she says. “Will you need one key, or two?”

  “Two,” I reply, wondering what we’re going to do in a spa.

  “Wonderful.”

  She enters more information into her computer, then produces two electronic keys, laying them on the counter with a smile. “While you’re on the estate, there’s no need to drive. The Inn has shuttles for our guests every ten minutes. Show your keycard for access and skip the lines.”

  I’ll keep that in mind.

  She smiles up at me. “The bellmen will help you with your bags.”

  “That’s alright,” I say. “We’ve got ‘em.”

  I take our keys, then take Maddie’s hand in mine and point us toward the elevator. Maddie remains unusually silent, taking all this in.

  The floor we’re on is quiet, and every bit as elegantly appointed as the lobby. There’s a concierge at a table, ready to greet us. He smiles and bows. “Welcome Mr. Ballentine, Miss James. If there’s anything I can do for you while you’re with us, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  It’s creepy that he’s anticipated us, and that he knows our names. Maddie gives me a freaked-out look.

  “Play along,” I whisper in her ear, slipping the key card in the door, releasing the lock.

  Mama must have taken out a mortgage on Blanc-Bleu to afford this. Either that or she’s been holding out on me. This isn’t a hotel room. It’s an apartment, with a bedroom, a full kitchen, a living room, and a balcony overlooking a stunning mountain landscape.

  That, and it’s luxuriously furnished.

  “God,” Maddie cries. “This is bigger than any apartment I ever lived in. It’s huge. And it’s so… opulent.”

  ‘Opulent’ is the right word. From the crown molding to the original artworks on the walls, to the handmade bedspread and antique Persian carpets on the floors, this suite screams luxury. It’s such a departure from the way either Maddie or I are accustomed to living that it’s almost ridiculous.

  The first thing of genuine interest I spot is a fully stocked bar. I’m certain that some functionary comes in and measures consumption by the quarter-inch, but fuck-it, I need a drink.

  I investigate the supply of bottled amenities and am pleasantly surprised to find not one, but several exceptionally great varieties of Scotch. I pour myself a neat tumbler of LaPhroaig, asking Maddie what she wants.

  She sniffs my drink, wrinkling her nose. “Not that,” she says. “That smells of diesel oil.”

  I make her a Bombay gin and tonic garnished with a crisp lime, supplied from the bar refrigerator. “Drink that,” I say, “and then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

  Further exploration of our accommodations reveals a hot tub on the balcony, a kingsized, four-poster bed fit for a monarch, a bouquet of roses in a crystal vase, and a bowl of strawberries with warm chocolate dipping sauce.

  Maddie stumbles around the place, trying to process it, eyes wide, jaw slacked.

  “This is all really nice,” I say, “And I’m looking forward to dinner. But what do you say we catch that shuttle and go see Biltmore House? I hear it makes this place look like a third-rate motor lodge.”

  Maddie stops, staring at me. “Can we?” she asks, her expression animated like an excited kid.

  I nod. “Oh yeah,” I say. “Let’s be tourists.”

  I grew up with Blanc-Bleu, thinking she was the grandest house ever built. I grew up thinking that the view of her, approaching from either the road or the water, was the grandest introduction to a grand house, as ever was contrived. I was wrong.

  Biltmore House is newer than Blanc-Bleu, and not nearly as pretty, given Biltmore’s somber, gothic, gray stone architectural style, but the view of the house on approach from the mountain road rivals anything I’ve ever seen. That, and Biltmore is huge. They could fit ten or fifteen Blanc-Bleu’s inside the footprint of this place, at least.

  Maddie peers through the shuttle’s windscreen, craning her neck to take in the view of the house, her eyes wide, filled with wonder.

  Once inside, we gaze up into the vaults of the lofting, spiral stairwell reaching the full height of the place. Maddie stands beside me, peering up.

  “It kind of makes Blanc-Bleu pale in comparison,” I admit, considering the fancy stonework beneath our feet, the stained-glass windows surrounding us, reflecting rainbow colors all around.

  We tour the house with hundreds of others, all gawking in awe. The house was built as a monstrously large party house at the end of the Gilded Age, but its owner lost most of his money when the markets crashed in the late 1920’s. When the property passed to a new generation, they decided to open it to visitors. This is the reason Maddie and I are able to linger, taking in the scenery, admiring masterwork paintings, over-the-top furnishings, and stunning views of the mountains beyond the house’s expansive covered porches.

  I like old houses, but I tend toward the kind of house that has real history, not just the kind money can buy. Biltmore is stunning, but also ridiculous.

  Maddie pauses to study the fireplace in the main dining hall; a room that could almost accommodate a football field. The fireplace is large enough for an entire family to stand up straight inside of. Our tour guide informs us that like many other pieces of stonework, art, and architectural elements here, this piece was purchased from a castle in Europe and shipped across the Atlantic. She says the builder of the house wanted to recreate the feel of a 15th century Gothic castle in America. I’d say he missed the mark. This place is an earlier-era version of Graceland. It’s a showplace to obscene wealth on a scale that defies decency.

  It’s not lost on me that Blanc-Bleu, in it’s day, was exactly the same. Today it seems quaint – even tragic – by comparison. Still, I think my house is at least more authentic. It was built by hand, using local materials and the craftsmanship of people who lived and worked on the land.

  After the house tour concludes, we’re turned out into the gardens to wander. Maddie hasn’t said much, and I’m honestly bored. I slip my hand into hers, pulling her close.

  “What do you say we go back to our room, order some good food, and check out that hot tub on the balcony?”

  Her expression brightens. “That sounds nice,” she replies. “This place makes me feel… small. Let’s get out of here.”

  Our suite at Biltmore Inn has improved after viewing the
house that inspired it. It’s almost restrained, by comparison.

  I review the fancy, gourmet fare from the room service menu, noting silently there are no oysters on their ‘fresh catch from the sea’ offerings. At some point I might have a world with the chef about that omission, but just now, I have better things to do. I’ll order something for us after we have a few drinks and relax.

  While I was studying the menu, thinking about oysters and orange roasted duck, Maddie has slipped out of her jeans and into a slinky little bikini I hope she never wears in public. Then she slipped into the hot tub. I discover this happy fact when I come out to the balcony, looking for her.

  “Grab a beer, or another one of those fancy drinks you made before,” she says, leaning back against the edge of the bubbling cauldron of warm water, stretching out her legs. “And then get naked with me?”

  She doesn’t need to ask twice.

  I don’t own a swimsuit, and I don’t see the point. I make our drinks, putting an iced glass in Maddie’s hand. Then I shed my clothes, slipping into the water buck naked while Maddie giggles.

  “I’ll make you laugh,” I say, reaching out, pulling her toward me. I turn her in water, drawing her back to my chest, snuggling her between my legs, wrapping myself around her.

  “This isn’t so bad,” I observe, laying down a line of kisses along her neck and shoulder. “I never really thought much of swimming pools or hot tubs, since I have the whole Atlantic Ocean out my front door, but maybe I need to reconsider.”

  She relaxes against me, her free hand dropping to my thigh, running her fingers along the outside length of it, under the bubbling water. Her body feels good against mine. We fit together. I slip my hand around her belly, letting it rest there, feeling her soft skin and the gentle roll of sexy fat just above her bikini line.

  I’m not exactly sure how I managed to wind up here, in this place, with this girl in my arms, but I’m glad we’re here.

  “It’s okay with me if we just stay here,” Maddie says, her voice quiet. “At Biltmore, I kept hearing all those people marvel about how great it would be to live in a house like that. They must have really extraordinary lives to need a fantasy that extreme. As fantasies go, I’m pretty satisfied with room service and a hot tub.”

  “Me too,” I concur, “As long as you’re in the hot tub.”

  For the first time since we’ve been together, Maddie and I make unhurried love. We take our time, unconcerned with kids, or schedules, or getting caught. It’s amazing what you discover, when you’re able to take things slow, paying attention to the details. She’s receptive and open-minded, if slightly insecure. When I go down on her, she bites her lips, giggling shyly, until I slip fingers in, filling her up, reaching for those little moans and cries I know will come pouring out when she comes. When she comes like that, she always looks surprised afterward, like she can’t believe it; like it’s a brand-new thing that’s never happened before.

  “You really like that,” I observe, licking my lips, rising up to kiss her, sharing her flavor with her in teasing laps and nibbles. “And I really like doing it.”

  Maddie considers me with a glazed expression, her lips turned in a contented smile. “I like everything you do to me,” she whispers, touching my chest, playing her fingers across my skin. “Nobody’s ever made me feel like this.”

  “That’s a shame,” I reply, but glad for the fact of it. I tease her slit with my cock, staying outside, rubbing against her clit, spreading her wet lips. We’ve been at it for two hours, but I’m hard again after going down on her, after watching her come.

  She presses firmly against my chest, pushing me back a little. “I’m going to be sore,” she says almost apologetically.

  Damn. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” I pull away, rolling to my side to give her space.

  Maddie sits up slowly, stretching. “I’m very good,” she says. “Except I’m thirsty, and maybe a little hungry.”

  “I can fix that,” I tell her, rolling out of bed, pulling on my jeans, willing my cock to cooperate.

  I fetch her a glass of iced water from the kitchen, then order room service, complete with carrot cake for desert.

  “Dinner will be here in forty minutes,” I say, settling down beside her on the bed. She’s sitting, knees pulled up to her chest, covers pulled high to conceal her nakedness. “And I hope we can eat naked. I enjoy looking at you. You’re beautiful.”

  She grins at me. “You’re sweet,” she says, then sighs. “And so unexpected.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re a little too good to be true, like the hot tub, and the room,” Maddie says. “It means this is the fantasy, and it’s unexpected.”

  It doesn’t have to be a fantasy.

  I reach out, threading my fingers into hers. I can’t explain what I feel. It’s fascination, and attraction, friendship, with just a slight spice of sheer terror. This feels so perfect, and so right, but my life has changed so much over the last few months – and hers too – something tells me if I push it, I’ll push her away. Maddie always feels like she’s second-guessing everything, just hanging onto the periphery, like she might bolt in a blink.

  “Just enjoy it,” I say. “Let yourself be adored, and pampered, and know you deserve it.”

  One eyebrow arches high in question. There’s that doubt creeping in.

  “Why do I deserve it?” she asks.

  I lift her hand, kissing her fingers. “Because you may just be the best thing that ever happened to me, and if I’m not careful, I might spend the rest of my life trying to make you feel the same.”

  Maddie regards me without expression. I see her swallow, trying not to react. She breaths, collecting her thoughts. Finally, she smiles awkwardly. “Jeb, you’ve obviously had too much to drink. You’re getting ahead of the fantasy. Never a wise thing to do.”

  “No one ever accused me of being wise,” I acknowledge, wishing she’d give me a little more encouragement. “But, like I said at the beginning of this thing, I’ll follow your lead.”

  As it turns out, there’s a lot more to do in Asheville than get massages in the spa or hang out around Biltmore House, which Maddie and I agree is better left to a different kind of tourist than us. We discover the Blue Ridge Parkway, and Mount Mitchell, and a place called Crabtree Falls, which is amazing. I’ve been to a lot of places and seen a lot of things, but I’ve never seen a place quite as lush and primaeval as the forest we hike through to get to the waterfall.

  Growing up on the water, my idea of a forest is a swamp, dense and tangled, teeming with mosquitoes and snakes; a place to avoid if possible. The mountain forest is nothing like that. The trees – ancient things, like the oaks in the side yard of Blanc-Bleu – are countless, and widespread, creating a canopy that blots out the sky, allowing only enough light to filter through to permit ferns and other low ground cover to flourish. The effect is cathedral-like; cool and quiet, almost sacred to behold.

  Maddie and I spend our days hiking the forests, finding trails on the Biltmore grounds and along the Parkway. We spend our evenings exploring the city of Asheville, people-watching, sipping, snacking, but mostly talking and listening.

  I learn about her parents, and what happened when she was a child, and the elderly grandfather who tried to care for her, but who died when she was still a teenager. I learn about foster homes, and running away from them, being dragged back, and abuse and neglect and a stolen childhood that ended too soon. I learn things I never would have imagined. She wanted to go to college, and maybe become a teacher or a librarian. Those dreams were scuttled early, never to be reclaimed.

  I find Maddie easier to talk to than I ever imagined. She draws my past out of me like unwinding a spider’s web. She listens to my recollections of my father and how he drove me from home, why I still feel like I’ve got to work harder, be smarter, always trying to prove something, never quitting, even when I should. I talk about my mother, and how she’s flourished since my father
died, as if she’s reborn into another life.

  I talk about the war, and the Marines, and the bad dreams that haunt my sleep. Talking about that with Maddie, I realize I haven’t had any of those dreams in a while. They seem more remote than they once did, as do the memories they always brought right back to me, in vivid, living, technicolor, sound, and sensation.

  Finally, I talk about Emma, and how she’s changed me, and changed everything.

  “Before Emma it was just about getting up, going to work, and making sure the bills were paid. It was about not ever being anything like my father. After she came, I realized there’s no risk of me being like him. That was just my own fear. Emma showed me it’s possible to love somebody without needing them to be something. I love that little girl. I’m lucky to have her.”

  Maddie sips her coffee, listening, smiling slightly. “I feel exactly the same about Justin,” she says. “It’s hard, sometimes, watching him grow up so fast and need me less and less. It’s good though, watching him grow up to be a good, decent person. He’s so different…”

  She halts, stopping mid-sentence. That’s the one subject we haven’t broached this week, her ex. She won’t go there, and I’m willing to respect her desire not to, as it’s clear the subject hurts.

  “He’s a good kid,” Maddie says, taking another tack. “I’m proud of him.”

  “He is a good kid,” I agree, leaning forward, touching her fingers with mine. “You’ve done a good job all by yourself, despite being dealt a really shitty hand.”

  Maddie takes a deep breath, producing a small, forced smile. “My hand has improved since coming to South Carolina,” she says. “It feels like my luck has turned around.”

  Chapter 17

  Maddie

  Oh, sweet Jesus, you feel good,” Jeb purrs into my hair, pulling me tight against him. His hand slips down to my hip, circling around, pressing my ass into his impressive, early morning erection.

  It’s nice to wake up like this, wrapped up in Jeb Ballentine, feeling him want me even closer. I lean into him, not even opening my eyes, just slipping my hand around the back of his head, encouraging him. “Good morning,” I say, feeling my own smile. “You’re up early.”