Improbable Solution

by Judith B. Glad

  "Yeah, well, I hope they got their money's worth," Lyle said, "'cause they're going to have to take it down, if it takes them all night."

  Gus agreed, because he believed it would do the boys more good to have to pick up their own marbles than have the cleanup committee do it for them.

  "Do you know where they are?"

  "I'll pick 'em up during the dance. You want to help?"

  Oddly flattered he had asked, Gus said, "Sure. I'll have to take Sally home—"

  "No, you won't," she said. "I have no intention of missing anything."

  "But..."

  "But nothing, Gus Loring. It's not as if those boys are desperate criminals, is it?"

  "No, but..."

  "She can come along," Lyle said, stopping Gus's continued protest. "It won't be the first time Sally's helped out. Besides," he said over his shoulder, as he led them back toward the park, "I have a hunch it wasn't just boys."

  He showed them a hair ornament that, even in the early twilight, looked suspiciously like that worn by the May Queen.

  INTERVAL

  Energy.

  Rich, lavish.

  Pattern indicates ceremonial bonding follows physical bonding. Interim frequently protracted.

  Potential dissipation of energy.

  Perhaps additional nudge...

  FOURTEEN

  Gus walked Sally home about eleven. She was so tired, she felt as if she could fall asleep walking. She woke when he kissed her goodnight with thoroughness, a kiss that nearly buckled her knees.

  She leaned against him, reluctant to let him leave. When he did, this wonderful, glorious day would end. "You and Lyle will probably be up half the night while those kids clean up their mess." She yawned, a real jaw-cracker. "I should feel guilty for not staying to help."

  "You're already half-asleep. Go to bed." He kissed her again, this one a promise of passion to come. Without releasing her, he murmured against her mouth, "I'd like to come back and join you, but I think we've given the town enough to talk about for one day, don't you?"

  So, he had heard Georgina. Sally could have strangled the café owner at supper when, in her usual straightforward way, she'd said, "From the looks of you, Sally, you've already had dessert."

  Since Gus had been several people behind her in the line for baked beans, she'd assumed he hadn't heard it, or her own whispered, "Shut up, or I'll stuff a napkin in your mouth."

  Georgina had shut up, but Sally knew several people had heard her and were smart enough to know exactly what she meant.

  It wasn't that she was afraid of what her neighbors would say, but that she wanted to wait a while before giving them reason to say it.

  She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob, remembering he'd told her earlier that he'd grown up in urban Boston. "Does it worry you, the way everyone in town is watching?"

  "Not really bother, but I have to admit I'm not crazy about the way everybody's minding my business." He kissed her once more, a brief peck on her mouth. "See you tomorrow?"

  "We'll have to stay close," she warned, "so I can hear Pop if he—"

  "I know. But that doesn't mean we can't sit in the backyard and drink lemonade, does it?"

  "Sounds wonderful," she said, and slipped inside.

  Through the screen, she watched him stride away into the night. As he passed under the streetlight at the corner, she smiled. He still had the best rear view she could remember seeing, and she'd seen a fair sample, what with costuming dancers for so many musical productions.

  * * * *

  Back on Main Street, Gus oversaw the removal of the flagging tape, and Lyle directed traffic as the remaining out-of-towners dispersed. While the teenagers were undoing their handiwork, Gus listened to their comments.

  The flagging tape, he learned, had been found at a garage sale by Lucie, whose mother was an antique dealer of sorts. Lucie had bought the entire box—worth close to a hundred dollars at a surveyor's supply—for seven bucks. Decorating the town with the brightly colored streamers had been Ben Kemp's idea, all right, but Gus wondered if he would have done quite so thorough a job of it without the encouragement of the other three.

  From overheard comments, Gus had formed the impression that Buster was a quiet, hard-working boy and Rhoda an airhead; but the pretty little May Queen was actually the brains of the foursome, and Buster was the brawn. Ben was merely the most visible, because of his energy and his quick wit. While the other kids wanted to be the usual things—Rhoda a veterinarian, Lucie a dress designer and Buster a landscape architect, Ben wanted to be the next Billy Crystal.

  Gus rather thought he might make it.

  These kids needed adult mentors, he mused. He'd had one—old George Shaw, who'd done the engineering for many of Boston's tallest buildings. And wouldn't George have a fit if he could see you now?

  He shoved that thought back to the deepest recess of his mind. While he wasn't intending to stick around long, as long as he was here he might as well see what he could do to aim these kids in the right direction. They all had potential. Lots of it.

  Maybe Sally, with her dressmaking skills, would be able to advise Lucie. He could take Buster under his wing. He'd worked with landscape architects on a fair number of projects at L/B Engineering.

  Wait a minute! Since when was he going to be in Whiterock long enough to take anybody under his wing? If he had any brains at all he'd leave now, before he and Sally got too deeply involved.

  Lyle returned while the kids were still working on the last block. Gus had to laugh at the way they'd decorated the constable's office, cattycorner from the Post Office, with shiny metallic bows from someone's stored Christmas wrap and a big sign that read "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here" stretched across its door and windows.

  Lyle was obviously amused as well, although he did his best to hide it.

  "I told your folks I'd bring you home," he said as Rhoda and Buster pulled the sign down. Lucie and Ben were across the street, taking the last of the neon yellow tape from the handrails on the Legion Hall steps. "But first I think we'd better have a little talk."

  Both kids groaned.

  "I've got a better idea," Gus said, checking his watch. It was past midnight, and he'd had a long and tiring day. He would be willing to bet Lyle's had been even longer. "Let's take these kids to Vale tomorrow morning and feed them breakfast. Then we can talk about what they'll need to do in restitution."

  Lyle looked at him curiously, but he agreed.

  "Eight o'clock? That way we can be back in time for church."

  Again the groans, but this time from all four.

  "It's Sunday!" Ben protested.

  Lucie turned enormous, innocent blue eyes on Lyle. "I don't know if my folks will let me."

  "Or mine," Buster echoed.

  "We always go to early Mass," Rhoda said, piety strong in her voice.

  "How early?" Gus said.

  "Well, actually, nine."

  "Fine," Lyle said. "Be at my office at seven. Lucie, I'll pick you up on the way to Vale, seven-fifteen." It was not a question.

  While the kids were putting their garbage sacks into the dumpster behind the Town Hall, Lyle said to Gus," I don't know what you have in mind, but it had better be good. I usually sleep in Sunday morning."

  "So do I," Gus admitted. "But they need to pay, and I think what I'm planning will be just the ticket."

  He waved at Lyle as the police car pulled away, four not-very-repentant kids inside.

  God! What had he let himself in for? Now he'd have to get hold of Roy Gilbert, or the May Fest chairman would think he'd skipped out on his responsibility of cleaning up the park and the town.

  Tomorrow afternoon with Sally looked more and more like a couple of hours in the evening, if he was lucky.

  * * * *

  "You did what?" Sally caught her breath, doing her best to contain her laughter.

  "Well, I noticed that the old motel—you know, down behind the drugstore—was about the only place in town that
looks like it hasn't been painted in years. So, after we picked up the park and along every street in town, I took 'em down there and explained what they were going to do next."

  She wished she'd been there. Lucie McEwen was the most perfectly turned-out girl she'd ever seen. Sally remembered her own mother's comments, years ago. "Maureen McEwen is ruining that child. She sends her to school dressed up like a perfect little doll and has an absolute conniption fit if she comes home dirty. What kind of a prissy little twit is she going to make of that poor girl? I ask you?"

  Sally had agreed with her mother, unable to imagine what a childhood in dresses rather than blue jeans would be like. And now she knew that, somehow, Lucie had managed to grow up full of life and mischief, and not at all prissy or twit-like.

  She was still the best-dressed child in Whiterock, though.

  "I can't imagine Maureen McEwen letting Lucie get covered with paint and ruining her manicure," she said, and smiled at the prospect. It would be good for Lucie. Too bad it would never happen.

  "Trust me." Gus reached across the space between their lawn chairs. "I'll get some dirt under her fingernails. You know, this means I'll be busy after work for a while."

  She extended her hand to meet his. "That's all right. Five-thirty of a weekday afternoon is probably not the most discreet time for a romantic tryst."

  Catch her going up those stairs to his apartment at the time of day when there was more foot and automobile traffic on Main Street than any other hour!

  The monitor on the wrought-iron table beside her emitted a sudden sound. Sally stiffened to attention, but when the sound was repeated, she relaxed. Pop was merely snoring.

  "I thought I could bring you here sometime, Gus, but I don't think I'll be comfortable doing it. I don't mind Juana knowing about us, but I just don't want to...well, rub her nose in it, I guess."

  "Are you having regrets, then?"

  He sounded almost uncertain. It touched her. Before this she'd heard anger, resentment, impatience, and desire in his voice, but never before had she thought he might be as unsure about what they were doing as she was.

  "No regrets." She tugged on his hand. "If you'd like to scoot a little closer, I can show you what I think about a return engagement."

  Instead of bringing his chair closer to hers, he came to her. As he pulled her out of her chair, he said, "Arms are too wide." And before she knew it, he was sitting on the ornate white iron loveseat with her perched on his knees.

  She had to bend slightly to kiss him, but she didn't mind. Starting at his forehead, she worked her way down, leaving a moist trail across his temple, down his cheek and to the corner of his mouth. Before he could capture her lips with his, she went back to her starting point and gave equal attention to the other temple, the other cheek.

  Gus's arms tightened about her as she made her slow and provocative way toward his mouth. One hand stroked up and down her spine, the other crept under her shirt and found her breast, free of a bra this warm May evening. He kneaded and plucked until she forgot what she was doing and simply let her mouth slide along his cheek to its final goal. She felt a cool draft as he unbuttoned her shirt, and she arched her back to bring an eager nipple closer to his questing fingers.

  When he at last released her mouth, she was jelly-like, shimmering and quaking in urgent need. She tangled her fingers in his thick hair, feeling the heat of him even there. His arousal pressed against her hip and she ground herself against it, loving his moan of pleasure-pain.

  Seconds later, she responded with her own moan as he took her nipple into his mouth and suckled. Sally felt something inside her follow the pull on her breast, yearning to join with him now, not later.

  "Gus," she gasped. "Oh, Gus."

  "Oh, yes!" He lifted her, turned her until she was astride his legs. His fingers sought the hem of her cotton skirt and she was glad it was wide and full. "Can you...?"

  He showed her what he wanted, and she cooperated, pulling her skirt up until her barely clad bottom was against the soft denim of his jeans.

  While his hands stroked up and down her thighs, coming ever closer to her center with every cycle, she found the snap of his jeans, released it. Her fingers stumbled on his zipper, partly from her own blistering urgency, partly because his erection strained the limits of fabric and zipper alike.

  When she finally released him, she felt herself lifted, positioned so that with one motion she could take him in.

  And she did, feeling him slide slickly and tightly into her core. Conscious thought fled, leaving only indescribable sensation. Sally gave herself up to it, moving in concert with him, holding to him because she never wanted to be anywhere else ever again.

  When she knew she could endure no more pleasure, she cried out. Her mouth might have formed words, or it might have emitted pure sound. All she knew was that his muffled shout of completion followed almost immediately, when he thrust against her one last time, holding himself rigidly as he found release.

  Still gasping for breath, Sally collapsed against him.

  "My God!" she said, when she finally could speak again, "That was incredible."

  "Yeah," he agreed. "Incredible." His voice was faint, and he still breathed as if at the end of a marathon.

  She relaxed against him, waiting while strength returned to both of them. He again stroked the length of her spine, gently, with affection but no passion. She felt him withdraw from her, but they might as well have been still joined.

  Eventually she said, "I wasn't entirely kidding about timing, Gus. But I'm not sure I can come to you for my...uh, my sexual fix every day or so."

  "Your 'sexual fix?' Are you sure you don't want to be a little more blunt?"

  If she'd ever heard an outraged male, it was now.

  "Well, what do you want me to call it?" she said, and reared back so she could look him in the face. In the deepening twilight, she couldn't make out much more than that he had two eyes, a nose and a mouth—a mouth that was a tight, straight line.

  "In those terms," he growled, "how about a good f—"

  Her hand over his mouth stopped the word.

  "Gus, I'm not trying to put this..." She waved her hand, not entirely sure herself what to call the compelling attraction between them "...on a tawdry level. But we aren't making love. I don't love you. I can't love you."

  "Nor I you," he agreed.

  "And I certainly am not going to tell you lies about forever after. When Pop goes..." She bit her lip, not wanting to say aloud what she'd been saying to herself since her father's health had deteriorated so badly. She had finally admitted out loud—but only in the privacy of her bedroom—that he hadn't long to live. Swallowing, she forced herself to sound insouciant. "When that happens, I'm outta here." She slid her hands together, showing him exactly with what speed she would depart. "I'll stay long enough to close the house, then it's bye-bye, Sally.'"

  "Fine with me." He sounded less affronted but not entirely won over. "I wasn't intending to settle here myself."

  "Good. Then you shouldn't be insulted when I tell you that I've never had such great sex. As long as you're willing to cooperate, I'd like to be with you as often as I can."

  She'd equated good sex with love once before, and when the haze of passion cleared she found there wasn't anything else. Jeff and she had been—still were—good friends who happened to turn each other on, but they hadn't found enough for a lifetime together. After three years of trying to make a marriage, they'd parted amicably.

  She didn't regret the parting, but couldn't help feeling as if she'd failed. She should have been smart enough to see what was missing in their relationship before they made it official. Instead, she'd gotten caught up in the excitement of planning the wedding, never thinking very far beyond it.

  Never again would she let her hormones tell her she was in love. Marriage was a lot more than great sex, and she hadn't given up on finding the man she could spend the rest of her life with. She was certain, though, that she wouldn't fin
d him in Whiterock, Oregon.

  Gus felt indescribable relief when Sally told him of her intentions to leave as soon as her father passed away. He was safe. She wouldn't come to depend on him to take care of her—outside of bed, that is.

  He could handle that kind of need.

  He pulled her back against his chest, liking how she felt in his arms.

  "You're right," he said. "It was the greatest." He kissed her neck, burrowing against her, liking the honeysuckle smell of her, mixed with musky, satiated woman-scent. "How about more?" he said against her throat.

  "More?" Her voice sounded slightly breathless. "Are you serious?"

  "Never more so," he said, feeling himself tighten again. Impossibly, for he had never believed the tales of sexual stamina he'd heard and read. Never before.

  Perhaps he'd never before met a woman who incited such passion in him. There was no question he wanted her still. Again. And yet again.

  A harsh, wordless cry came from the monitor. Immediately, Sally was alert, her body tense. Again the cry, like an animal in pain, followed by a crash.

  "Pop!" she said, pulling free of his embrace. Without closing her shirt she ran across the lawn and up the back steps.

  Gus replaced their tipped-over lemonade glasses on the silver tray. With his free hand, he picked up the monitor and followed her at a slower pace. He would see if she needed his help with her father before he left.

  Now that she wasn't so close that lust overpowered his better judgment, he knew it was time for him to step back and take a long look at what he might be getting himself into.

  Great sex, indeed. But was there a woman in the world who could be satisfied with nothing more from a relationship than great sex?

  Could he be, for that matter?

  INTERVAL

  Patience.

  Carruthers and Loring procrastinate. Resisting formalization of bond, despite recognition of unique synergy.