The Light Before Us

by Stephanie Vercier

  “You should take it as a compliment, not that I’d encourage you to do anything about it.” She twists her lips up and looks away.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I won’t.” That’s the last thing I need.

  We quickly move away from any discussion of Camille and instead talk about the cabin, some of her memories of what it was like when she was a kid and how it hadn’t changed all that much. Natalie tells me she never learned to fish, and while she skirts around actually saying it, she does at least infer that her parents were different people then.

  “I guess people change,” she says, looking blankly into the fire for a moment before snapping out of it.

  I don’t guess talking about it more is a road she wants to go down, so I share some of the visions I have for doing some remodeling. I kind of make it up as I go along, just ideas that come to mind. I’m not sure I’ll ever move beyond my anguish enough to get off my ass and actually do something productive again, but it all sounds good.

  She tells me she likes all of my ideas, and, “It wouldn’t hurt to give this cabin a new life.”

  As the fire begins to die down, so does our conversation, and I decide to call it a night by throwing sand over the last of the burning embers. Natalie helps me clean up, grabbing more than her fair share of beer bottles that we toss into a garbage can in the mud room. Once it gets filled up, I’ll find a place to recycle them, and at the rate I’ve been drinking, I’ll have to find a place soon.

  She flips the light on in the kitchen, then steps in front of the sink, turns the water on and starts washing her hands. Her slender arms move slightly as she does, her back arched and the curve of her rear pushing out.

  Like a switch flipping on in my head, Natalie becomes Marjorie.

  I used to sneak up on her sometimes back at our house in Seattle, grab her sides when she’d be at the sink doing dishes. She almost expected it, letting me bring my hands up and over her breasts while I buried my lips in her neck and pressed my hardness against her backside. It always led to something more, whether we took care of things in the kitchen or moved things upstairs.

  It’s like walking into a memory and doing something I’d done so many times before.

  Her breath catches as I hold her body, as I poke my stiff cock into her backside, close my eyes and breathe her in.

  But it’s not Marjorie—it’s Natalie.

  I remain still, not moving. Natalie feels good, my desire pushing back my shame and keeping me in place.

  Another soft breath moving between her lips, and she doesn’t recoil from me. She only turns her head slightly to the side, her lips parting ever so slightly.

  I know this isn’t right, and yet I can’t will myself to step away from her.

  She lightly touches the tops of my fingers until I loosen my grip on her. Then she turns within the confines of my body and the sink she’s pressed against and looks up at me.

  And god is she ever beautiful.

  Her smile is perfect, inviting and understanding, and when she draws her arms up and rests her hands on my shoulders, I feel like I’m done for. I’d sworn my lips would never touch hers, and yet I can’t help myself, pushing my tongue into her mouth while slipping my hands around the perfect curve of her ass. At this moment, all I want to do is gather her up, carry her up the stairs and take every last stitch of clothing away from her. I can almost feel the relief it would be to shove myself deep inside of her while holding her naked form close to me. So real, I can almost…

  “No,” I say once I’ve broken the seal of our kiss. I remove her hands from my shoulders and step back.

  She doesn’t argue, just closes her eyes and leans back against the sink, appearing to catch her breath again. “I’m sorry,” she finally says, fluttering her eyes back open and looking up at me guiltily.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say too loudly. We’d apparently knocked the cap off of my head, and now I drag a hand through my hair, feeling like an even bigger asshole than I did earlier.

  “Okay,” she says quietly. “I think I’m going to go upstairs.” She takes one last look into my eyes before brushing past me, and I’m so tempted to grab her arm and drag her back to me, but I know that wouldn’t end well.

  And then she’s gone.

  Did that really just happen?

  With her upstairs, I pace the kitchen, snagging another beer I waste no time in drinking. I’m trying to calm down while at the same time trying to figure out how I’m going to undo the damage I’d just done. But hell if I can think straight. I’ve still got a major boner, and it isn’t going away. I try to push the thought of Natalie’s lips out of my head, the sweet smell of her, the way my hands slipped around the curves of her body so easily and those fucking gorgeous blue eyes of hers. The idea that a woman other than Marjorie could seep into me, and so damn quickly, scares the hell out of me.

  Scares me, but doesn’t make me forget I’m a man.

  I nearly slam the beer down into the sink before making my escape through the mud room and into the cool night air, needing relief like I haven’t needed anything else in a long time. I don’t stop until I’m in a thick grove of trees, hidden away as the evening turns closer to night. And then, like a man I’d probably call a pervert in any other situation, I unzip my pants, pull my dick out and start stroking.

  Shame should hit me more than it does, even if it is pretty low to be jacking off in the woods to the daughter of a man I consider a friend. I keep going because I have to, and I don’t stop until my pain has been alleviated.

  Chapter Seven

  NATALIE

  Confused.

  It’s how I’m feeling when I wake up this morning. Sitting up in bed, I pull my hair into a ponytail and wipe the sleep from my eyes. If I were at Stanford, I’d be madly texting either Katrina or Elle right now, telling them a guy, not just any guy, but Jack Pierce, one of my dad’s business associates, had wrapped his arms around me, whipped me around and kissed me like I’ve never been kissed before in my life.

  I shake my head, as if I’m trying to rattle the memory around and admit that maybe it was just a dream and that it couldn’t have possibly happened. The Jack Pierce I’d known back in Seattle was polite, respectful, kind, compassionate and protective. That Jack Pierce wouldn’t have pressed the hardness between his legs against me.

  But it did happen, warm butterflies floating through me at the thought of it. Still, I should really just forget about it, and maybe that will be made easier as I remember that the Jack Pierce who kissed me is the Jack Pierce without Marjorie, a man who is still nursing a broken heart, a man who still misses his wife. That keeps me from reading too deeply into what we’d done, but it doesn’t stop my body from reacting to the memory.

  Closing my eyes, I’m tempted to slip my fingers below the sheets and continue what Jack had started last night. I hadn’t thought it possible that a man could turn you on that fast, that his touch could send electric currents through your body and that you’d want nothing more than for him to keep on doing it. Even with the shame I’d seen in Jack’s eyes when he pulled away from me—and the humiliation he might have seen in mine—I’d still wanted him to come back to me, to take me up to his room and finish what he’d started. Just the thought that we could have taken things further sends a pulse of pleasure through me, a pulse strengthened when I imagine him slipping my panties down and pressing his hardness up and into me.

  “Ohh…” I bring a hand to my heart and shake my head again. “Stop, just stop,” I whisper to myself, knowing that even fantasizing about Jack like this will just make things more difficult when I have to face him.

  I jump out of bed, sneak through my door and listen for signs of life down below. Hearing none, I make my way downstairs. There’s no sign of Jack and no note, but his truck is gone, and I find myself utterly relieved. As I toast some bread and pour out some juice, I try to imagine what I’d even say to him. Do you just pretend it never happened or do you somehow mention you
wouldn’t be opposed to it happening again?

  I’d always known Jack was an attractive man, but I’d never allowed myself to be attracted to him. For one, he had to be like fifteen years older than me, and two, he belonged to Marjorie. They’d been such a perfect couple, and I’d liked and respected her too much to allow her husband to live within my fantasies. I don’t think I’d ever even had an erotic dream about him, my subconscious just as resolute.

  But that sure as hell changed last night.

  Relief morphs into wondering as I sit at the small dinette, looking out the front window and wanting his truck to drive back up even if facing him would be impressively awkward. Could I look at him knowing that when I’d gone upstairs last night, I’d eventually succumbed to my desires and touched myself the way I hadn’t this morning? Or had he done something similar to relieve whatever pressure he’d built up and would find it uncomfortable to face me too?

  “Uggh!” My conflicting feelings, the thoughts that keep bouncing around in my head, are beyond frustrating.

  Whatever mixed up emotions I’m feeling now are at least better than what I’d be enduring if I’d gone through with my marriage to Michael. God, it’s hard to even imagine how I’d be getting through sightseeing, tourist shopping and days at the beach next to a man I don’t love. Even the thought of having to sleep with him makes my stomach churn, and I drop the toast I’d been taking small bites of back onto my plate.

  Not every woman feels the same way I do of course. There were plenty that had made themselves available so that Michael could cheat on me. He isn’t bad looking per se, but he’s a carbon copy of so many of the other guys I’d gone to school with, tall enough, fit enough and handsome enough, but with the added smarminess it took for him to cheat on me when I’d only ever been faithful to him. It made him so much uglier.

  When I picture Michael now, I can only see a boy, especially considering the man who I’m now sharing a space with. I doubt very much that Michael could grow a beard like Jack’s even if he tried. He’d probably end up with one of those sad little porn mustaches and not much else. But even boyish, women would still spread their legs for Michael, some of them girls I knew or had gone to school with. In our circle, my ex- fiancé was somewhat of a prize, his parents so successful and Michael such a brown-nosing suck up that they knew he’d go far in life. One or two had tried to steal him away from me, a fact Michael reminded me of, as if to say I should be grateful he’d chosen to remain with me. They wanted to be Mrs. Michael Eldridge a hell of a lot more than I did, and things would have been a lot easier if he’d made it happen for one of them.

  Because for me, Michael was more like a life sentence, the kind of man you very begrudgingly accept you’ve been matched up with and make the best of it. You imagine your future children will at least look nice and hope you can keep them from being philanderers like their father. You do this, remaining virginal while he steps out, because you hope it will please your parents, his parents, your friends and your larger family. You do it because you don’t want to carry on some secret relationship the way he does and cause waves. And because no matter how uncomfortable it feels to be engaged to a man you don’t love, it’s the only thing you really know.

  Pathetic.

  Thinking about all of the time I’d lost on Michael makes me completely lose my appetite, and there’s no hope of picking my toast back up and finishing it off. I take the remnants out back and throw them into a patch of long grass, half expecting to see that black cat sauntering around, but he–or she—is nowhere in sight. I head back in, wash the few dishes I’d dirtied up and then take a long, hot shower. I’m again tempted to relieve the pressure within my body the way I’d done last night, the only reason I think I’d actually gotten any sleep. But there is a danger in fantasizing about the wrong people, and I’m sure the more time that passes between last night and today, the easier it will be to distance myself, sexually at least, from Jack. The kiss, the touching, his hands on me—well, it was an obvious mistake that I’ll just have to accept.

  And it isn’t as if I don’t have other things to occupy my mind. Staying hidden from Michael and my parents has to be my first priority. The second, perhaps even more important one, is to figure out just what I’m going to do with my life beyond the time I spend in Meadow Brook. Not being tethered on a leash is a freeing feeling for sure, but it’s also a scary one, like drifting in the wind and hoping you don’t get blown away.

  Part of me is worried Barbara won’t remember me, but she’s waiting on the living room couch after I’ve let myself in and called out to her so as not to surprise her by my entrance.

  “Good morning, Natalie,” she greets me, the word search from yesterday open in her lap and a pen in her hand.

  “Hi, Barbara. Good morning.” I can’t help but to smile and then bend down to give both Maxie and Dougie quick pats on her their heads as they jump excitedly around my legs.

  “They’ve really taken to you,” Barbara tells me, looking at the pugs and then back up at me. “You should see them around Camille. They think she’s the devil.”

  “Oh?” I stand up, then walk over to the chair I’d sat in yesterday and take a seat at the edge. “You really don’t seem to care much for Camille, do you?” It’s pretty obvious since she’d called her a whore yesterday. It must also make for an awkward living situation, as I’ve been filled in that Camille currently occupies the lower level of the house.

  Her mouth tightens. “She’s earned it, believe me. That girl is more like her father than anything. He was a real smooth talker, got what he could out of Melissa and then ran when things got real.” Barbara closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I don’t recall his name though.”

  I’m about to tell her maybe that’s for the best, but I don’t think she’d agree since her stroke is likely the reason she’s forgotten.

  “I don’t have the best relationship with my own family,” I say instead, “so I can understand.”

  “Damn shame, isn’t it?”

  I nod in agreement.

  Barbara tells me Melissa had already gotten her breakfast, so I help her to the restroom—waiting outside the door until she tells me she’s ready for my help—do some light cleaning and take the dogs out for a potty break. The morning has run as smoothly as I could have hoped, and when things settle down I find myself sitting on the couch next to Barbara.

  An old movie, this one with Katherine Hepburn, plays on TV while we work through another word search. I’ve already promised Barbara I’ll pick up some puzzles and crosswords too, easy ones of course, as she seems to be getting bored and a little frustrated trying to find the words.

  “There’s something different about you today,” she says after finding the word LOVE all on her own.

  “Is there?” My cheeks warm, and Jack immediately comes to mind as the reason Barbara notes some change in me.

  She gets a twinkle in her eyes and nods. “I barely know you, but you’ve got a new light in you today. Some man catch your fancy?”

  Now I’m sure my face has gone beet red, and I’m also pretty positive it’s showing an odd expression as I try to figure out just what to say to that—she’s really caught me off guard.

  “Well, is there?” she prods. “Or is it a lady? I know you can take your pick these days, and I’m all for it.”

  I laugh at that and allow myself a sigh of relief that comes along with a cooling of my cheeks. “There is a man,” I confess. “I’ve known him for a long time and… well, he kissed me, and I wasn’t expecting it.” Just saying it out loud to someone makes my heart beat a few ticks faster.

  “Oh… well…” Her eyes fade, and she turns her attention to the TV, as if she’d just forgotten where she was or what she’d been saying. I’m about to ask her if she’s all right when she jolts back into awareness, eyes me and asks, “You’ve known this man for a while then?”

  I nod. “Yes, but I’m just now seeing him again.”

  “And he’s here in Mea
dow Brook?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, didn’t you say you were new to town? How could you have known him for a long time if he’s here?” She looks somewhat confused at the idea and maybe even a little irritated.

  “He’s visiting,” I quickly answer, wanting to make it simple and precise for her.

  “Oh.” She relaxes. “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

  “I’ll be more careful next time, Barbara,” I assure her.

  The day continues with me doing a load of laundry and helping Barbara out onto the back deck so that she can at least get some sun. I make a lunch I hope is palatable, and then I suggest it might be fun to look through some old photo albums to give us a break from the word searches. During my time as a volunteer, I’d learned that going through photo albums was a good way to trigger memories, especially of the family events and holidays often captured in photographs.

  “If you’d like to,” she says, pointing toward the large bookcase against the wall. “Over there, bottom shelf. You see those big albums there? Pick any one you want.”

  I head over to the shelf and pull the first one out, a green album with gold star-like designs on the spine and front. As far as I know, there isn’t a single album in existence at my parents’ house. Instead, there are perfectly choreographed framed photos adorning the house, photos taken by professional photographers and not a single one with either of my parents behind the camera. It might not have always been like that—I seem to remember Mom snapping pictures of us during those summers at the lake, of me holding first Pedro and then Peco back home—but if those pictures are still in existence, I’d have no idea where to find them.

  “You picked the biggest one,” Barbara says with a grin.