“Hmm. Well, I should really get back to work doing the finishing touches on the back porch and getting started on a boat shed.”
“A boat shed?”
“Yeah.” He lets out a sheepish grin. “Figure I might try to get a nicer boat, and wouldn’t hurt to have an actual place to park it and keep it out of the elements come winter.”
Winter is months away, and I want to ask Jack if he ever thinks about going back to continue his work as a plastic surgeon or if this time away, working with his hands in a different way—building things instead of sculpting bodies—has made him want to leave that life in Seattle completely behind him. I, for one, don’t think I could ever go back there.
But I don’t ask, not right now at least.
“I think a boat shed is a great idea,” I agree, darting over to him and giving him one more kiss before stepping away and heading out for a few hours of independence.
I end up all the way in Medford, about a half an hour north of Meadow Brook, where I find an amazing nursery with an almost overwhelming selection of flowers. Walking through the many gravel rows of offerings, I feel a tad overdressed and even wobbly in my wedge heels and dress. One of the employees asks me if I’m looking for a houseplant inside the nursery’s store and is somewhat surprised when I tell her my plan is to get my hands dirty and to steer me in the direction of everything I’ll need.
Her demeanor relaxes, and she leads me through the rows, identifying annuals and perennials, native flowers, drought-tolerant ones and those who need full sun and others that are happy in part sun or shade. I’ve seen many of these blooms back at my parents’ house, but I’d only ever admired them, never gotten down on my knees and turned the soil myself to plant them. So, it’s with pride that I pick and choose lavender and cosmos, geraniums and pansies, having to put my back seats down just to accommodate the plants, compost, mulch and gardening tools purchased with money I’d earned myself. It’s really all quite satisfying.
I never got this feeling when I’d taken violin lessons or learned to ride a horse, when I’d gone to France the summer between my freshman and sophomore high school years to use my perfectly spoken, fluent French, or even when I’d gotten into pre-med. All of those were accomplishments, things my parents had pushed on me and expected me to do well in. None of them were hobbies or even first choices. If I’d had any say in them, I would have played piano or the flute, would have learned Spanish because it was Cynthia’s native tongue and much more useful here. I’d have liked to ride in go-carts or play put-put or even jump onto one of those rental mopeds they have at the beach instead of making horses jump over fences or make them dance in little circles. Those horses wanted to be free, just like I did.
Even when I was away at college, volunteering for the animal shelter or the nursing home, going to parties with friends and staying out half the night, I always knew the second I came home for the summer or Christmas, I’d be back under my parents’ thumbs. I was a hostage of their expectations, paying the price of privilege.
But now I’m on my own.
And I can do whatever the hell I want.
I’ve got the radio tuned on some random station on my way back to the cabin when Danny’s Song comes on, the very song I’d heard on my arrival to Meadow Brook, the song that had kept me from turning back to Seattle. This version is sung by Anne Murray, offering a more feminine point of view, but she sings almost all of the same words and offers the same sentiment, one that carries a message of enduring love, love that is more important than money. It feels truer now than it ever has before. I’ve turned my back on all of the physical luxuries my parents and Michael wanted me to have for something simpler and yet more powerful. For the first time in my life, I feel real love, both for Jack and from Jack, the kind of love they show in movies and write about in books, love you don’t think actually exists until you find it.
And it’s perfect.
It erases any of the intervening thoughts I’d had today about Will or Camille or how they’d ruined our perfectly good evening out in Ashland. And it also makes any thoughts about my parents or Michael fade to a sort of black, like I could worry about them tomorrow or the next day or maybe not at all ever again. As long as I have Jack, that’s all that seems to matter.
When I get back into Meadow Brook, I stop at a small deli in town and grab some sandwiches and snacks. My queasiness is gone, and it’s closing in on lunchtime, so I know that Jack will be hungry as well. Without a care in the world, I drive along the lonely country roads back to the cabin, window down, radio turned up, and feel a burst of happiness when I come up into the driveway, park my car in a shady spot and pop the hatch of the back, fully prepared to pull the flowers out and get them set in the yard before asking Jack if he’d like to take a break for lunch.
That’s the plan, but then I see Jack.
He’s shirtless and sweaty and offers me a wave when he sees me. I’m again reminded that he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life—that includes on TV and in magazines, in grocery stores or during my years in college. To me, he’s the most attractive man in the world, and I’m overcome by a desperate, propelling need.
I walk toward him, filled with a burst of heat and desire, a feeling that isn’t contained just between my legs but seems to spread to every cell in my body.
“You get your flowers?” he asks as I approach, one eyebrow raised and a grin spreading on his lips.
All I offer is a nod before I take hold of his warm hand and lead him behind the house.
“Wow…” he says when I stop us against the back porch and unlatch the tool belt hanging around his cargo shorts.
I look up at his face as I unzip him and lower myself to my knees. His lips part, but he doesn’t need to say anything more. He knows just what I have in mind.
The fact that I’ve never given a man head doesn’t stop me from pulling the material of his shorts down and marveling at how quickly he’s become hard, the form of him underneath his boxers enough to make me wet. With my heart beating so fast that it has to be abnormal, I force myself to gently pull the elastic of his boxers down, first revealing the well-manicured hair around his member and then the prize itself. Staring at his thickness, I can’t imagine one that could look better or be as perfectly formed—just the right length and girth—as Jack’s.
I think I hear him telling me I don’t have to do this, but when I look up, there is a yearning in his eyes, and I can’t imagine he actually means it. And then I’m back to focusing on what’s right in front of me, wrapping my fingers around it, closing my eyes and hoping I’ll do it right.
His groan is immediate, a groan not of pain but of satisfaction, and I can feel the muscle of his member flexing underneath my grip. I continue on, loving the clean, sweaty, masculine taste of him on my tongue and the taught feel of him under my lips. I find myself just as lost in the act as he seems to be, his occasional groans and stiffening under my touch the only confirmation I need to know I’m pleasing him.
As much as I’m focused on giving him pleasure, the burning within me hasn’t softened and has brought with it an impulse to touch myself. I’m just about to reach for my center when things rise to a crescendo and Jack groans loudly as a burst of salty wetness hits the back of my throat. Surprised, I do my best to keep hold of him, for my lips to remain firmly planted around him, waiting out his orgasm until he gasps with relief. Only then do I slide my lips off of his cock and wipe my wet, bottom lip.
There is an expectation that maybe he’ll say thank you and then he’ll head back to work while I clean up before lunch. But I’m taken aback when he quickly yanks up his boxers and shorts, puts his hands underneath my shoulders and pulls me up, then motions for me to put my hands around his neck as he bends down. Before I can process much more, he slides his hands under my thighs and picks me up, my ass settling just above his cock that is already hardening again.
Without a word, he takes me up the back steps, pushing us through the partially
open back and mud room doors and then settling my rear on one of the kitchen counters.
“Jack…”
“Natalie.” He offers a crooked, hungry grin. He lifts my ass just enough to pull my panties down, the fabric of my dress keeping my rear off the cool counters.
He pushes the front of my dress up my thighs, tucking it to either side of me. And then his head is between my legs, and I don’t dare say anything to stop him. His tongue is warm and rough, unexpected but welcomed as his exploration causes shots of pleasure to pump through me. It only gets better, and I’m clutching onto his hair, curling my toes, biting my lips and tightening my ankles around his back. I close my eyes, and my head lolls back against a cupboard before I stiffen again, literally feeling my blood pulse through me, everything seeming to rush toward my center until I burst and cry out so loud that I wouldn’t even care if the neighbors heard… if we had neighbors that were close enough.
Everything feels fuzzy but perfect, and my hands are slipping from Jack’s head to his shoulders and then to his arms as he gets back to his feet, planting his lips on mine, the somewhat alien taste of myself still on him.
“I love you, Natalie. I love you so very much.”
“I love you, too, Jack. So. Very. Much.”
And there’s no doubt both of us mean this with every fiber of our being.
Having popped the hatch of my car before our rendezvous has kept our lunch from baking in the sun, and after we’d cleaned up, we’d enjoyed sitting by the lake and satisfying the hunger of our bellies, satisfying, but not nearly as much as the other hunger we’d satiated. Jack got back to putting some finishing touches on the back porch along with also starting on the boat shed. I, on the other hand, changed into shorts and a tank top and spent the entire afternoon turning the soil with the small shovel and spade I’d gotten at the nursery, filling it partially with compost before popping the flowers out of their containers. Massaging their roots to loosen them up like the woman at the nursery told me to do, I then placed them in the soil, covering the roots up and giving everything a thorough watering.
There is a tug at my heart once I’ve gotten it all done, the mix of colors and textures adding an extra layer of life to the cabin. On closer inspection, the flowers have attracted buzzing bees who go from one flower to the next collecting their prize of pollen as silent butterflies flutter and dance through the air. Birds have been attracted to the moist soil as well, eyeing and then snatching up small insects or worms that have come to the surface. There is so much life and beauty all around, and it nearly makes me cry. I can’t wait to tell Melissa and Barbara about it and hope their day with Camille is going well, that they too have made something very special happen today.
I tell Jack I’m going to clean up and make dinner, and after I’ve taken a shower and changed into clean shorts and a blouse, I find him in the kitchen.
“I thought I’d help,” he tells me with a smile. He’s all sweat and grime, and while nothing about him really smells bad, he’d probably be better off taking a shower instead of lending a hand with dinner.
“Go and take a shower. You can help me when you’re done.” I offer him a kiss before he agrees to head to the bathroom, and I have to actually force myself to keep from following him in for an extra look at his naked body.
While I think I’m at least a step closer to mastering gardening, I’m still not much in the kitchen. Instead of trying to get too fancy, I take some of the trout out of the refrigerator that Jack had caught and cleaned the other day and get to cooking it. I roast some potatoes and put together a salad, and by the time Jack is out of the shower and in clean jeans and a T-shirt, he’s wrapping his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder and telling me everything smells delicious even if I’m not so sure.
“You’re really spoiling me today,” he says once we’re both sitting at the dinette, him pouring white wine into our glasses. “First with that surprise out back and now with dinner.”
The blush that I feel warming my face isn’t from embarrassment but comes in remembering our afternoon together. “And you spoiled me right back,” I tell him.
“Not a bad thing we have going then. Us spoiling each other.”
We could moon over one another all evening, and we do to a point, but as I drink more wine and we finish our meal, I unexpectedly think of Marjorie, along with what feels like an overdue need to discuss her.
“What was she really like?” I ask him, setting my fork across my plate.
A look of surprise comes over his face, and yet I’m sure he knows exactly who I’m talking about. He swallows whatever food was in his mouth, takes a small sip of wine and then sets his glass down.
“She was so many different things to me,” he says, a small sigh escaping his lips as his face relaxes into a gentle, remembering smile.
I don’t attempt to dispel the jealousy I feel but rather force myself to feel it, force myself to look back to who Marjorie was to me in hopes Jack will tell me more of what she was to him.
“I always looked up to her,” I say, remembering how easy a person she was to talk to. “I realize I didn’t know her—or you—as well as I might have liked, but there was something about her that made me wish she were my older sister or a really cool aunt. I feel like she would have understood everything I was feeling without judging me for it, someone who wouldn’t have forced me into doing things I didn’t want to do like my own mother did. Being around her made me feel like a real person, like I mattered.”
Those brown eyes of his brighten despite the sheen of moisture covering them. “You’re right, Natalie. And she saw something special in you too. She’d be proud of what you’ve done, the way you’ve fought for your own happiness.” He nods ever so slightly, taking a moment, his eyes beginning to well.
“Jack.” I reach across the table and take his hand.
“She was always thinking about other people,” he continues, pushing through his emotion. “The call I had to take when we were in Ashland last night was for the foundation she’d helped to set up before she passed away.”
I’d nearly forgotten about that call.
“A foundation?” I squeeze his hand, my heart filling with hope.
“To help kids go to college, artists like she was. She used to teach art classes at the community centers around Seattle, and we created a scholarship program that anyone who’d ever attended those art classes could apply to.” He can’t seem to help but to smile at the thought of his wife’s legacy. “This will be the first year we’ll be awarding the scholarships in her honor. Her sister, Katherine—the one I told you about? Well, she’s been the one facilitating and planning the ceremony. She was calling me to fill me in, and I didn’t think it was right to let it go to voicemail. If I’d known there was going to be any trouble with Camille or Will, I wouldn’t have left you.”
“Jack… no. That wasn’t your fault.”
My limbs tingle, and a soft chill rolls down my spine as I consider how generous Marjorie remained as she lay dying, thinking of others instead of herself and wanting to leave the world a better place than how she’d found it. My jealousy fades, and while I have a passing thought that I should feel unworthy to follow in her footsteps, to be the woman Jack loves, I let go of it, allowing the awe I feel in this moment to rise to the top.
“I still love her,” he says, his eyes casting downward, the grip of his hand on mine loosening. “It’s not fair to you… but I do.”
“But you love me too.” It’s a statement, not a question. I’m at peace in believing there is a place for both of us in his heart.
“More than you know.” He lifts his head, his eyes lighting again. “I never thought I’d feel this again, never thought I could love someone else while I still… while I still love her.”
And perhaps I never imagined I could be in love with a man who remained in love with someone who is gone, someone who will remain a perfect memory, but I am.
And maybe that’s all because of
Jack, because of the way he makes me feel, that he’d never give me less of anything.
“Are you okay with that?” he asks after I don’t respond, gripping my hand tighter now.
“I am.” And that’s all I need to say.
Still holding my hand, he gets up and out of his chair, walks over and coaxes me to my feet. “You don’t know how grateful I am for you.” He pulls me toward him, the smell of him clean and fresh, the feel of him hard and protective.
“I have an idea,” I say, just letting him hold me, letting his love saturate my soul.
Chapter Twenty
JACK
Life ends up in ways we least expect it to.
I’d purchased Natalie’s family cabin and come to Meadow Brook as a means of hiding away from the world with a hope that I’d get over Marjorie and somehow contain how much her loss had affected me. It was a place I could go where I didn’t have to see other people going on with their lives like nothing at all had happened in mine, where I didn’t have to be constantly reminded by well meaning people telling me how sorry they were that I’d lost the love of my life. It’s the place I’d finally taken my wedding band off because I didn’t want anyone I came in contact with to ask me about my wife, to make me explain she was gone.
And I didn’t have to face the pressures of work and the constant reminders from Louise and Lincoln of how much more we could grow our clinic, how fitting in just a few extra surgeries a week would draw in enough money for the ski lodge Louisa wanted to buy in Whistler or the yacht Lincoln had his eye on. At one point, I’d told them I’d do the extra surgeries if they’d support me taking on more clients who generally couldn’t afford our services. I wanted to offer a sliding scale for women who needed reconstruction after mastectomies or trans-guys who needed top surgery to feel good in their own skin. There were always children born with deformities and adults whose lives were altered by accidents. There was no shortage of people who needed help, help we could offer.
The Light Before Us Page 23