First Things First

by Barbara Delinsky

  She grunted, but she took the pill anyway. “I think you enjoy playing doctor. How do you know so much, anyway? Isn’t Lomotil by prescription?”

  He shifted to put the glass on the floor and reach for the fresh shirt. “Um-hmm. And I know so much because I’ve been there. I remember precisely how bad it was, and I didn’t even have someone to sponge me off.”

  “You? You were sick?”

  “When I first got here, yes.” He shook the shirt out and turned it in his free hand, trying to see what was where in the dark.

  “I can’t picture you sick. You seem so hale and hardy.”

  “You’re forgetting the pictures you saw. When I got here I was pale and tired and overworked. Like you. Spending three days on my back was the cold-turkey withdrawal I mentioned. It was the buffer I needed between that life and this.”

  “Three days? I thought you said I’d feel better in one.”

  “If you don’t fight it. I did. I was used to constant activity and couldn’t seem to slow down, and there wasn’t anyone to tell me to shut up and lie still. I was too dumb to listen to what my body was saying, so it got worse. Then I had no choice.” He began to slip her arm into the sleeve, then reconsidered and pulled it out.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think you could use a little streamlining here.” With loud, prolonged rips, he tore off one arm of the shirt, then the other. “There. That’s better.” When he had the shirt on her, he eased her back in the hammock and fastened the buttons. “Close your eyes now and try to sleep. I’m going to sponge down your legs, then let you be.”

  Realizing that the rub-down had helped, Chelsea did close her eyes, but she had one thing to do before she slept. “Sam?” she whispered. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For taking care of me and all.”

  He paused for a minute, and she knew he was looking at her. His voice was soft and sincere. “I should be the one thanking you. I’ve never had the experience of taking care of someone before. I think I like it.”

  Chelsea had no answer for that, so she simply nestled into the pillow and let the pleasure of his words and the cool touch of the cloth on her limbs lull her to sleep.

  She was up twice more during the night, and each time Sam was there to bathe her heated skin. By the time dawn came, her stomach had settled. She still had a fever, and she felt weak and tired. But shifting experimentally in the hammock, she decided the worst seemed to be over.

  Slowly she opened her eyes and directed them to Sam’s side of the room. He was in his hammock, stretched out full-length with his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded beneath his head. He was wide awake and looking at her.

  “You must be exhausted,” she murmured, as though in the middle of an ongoing conversation. She guessed it had only been an hour or two since he’d last ministered to her. “I’m really sorry, Sam. You couldn’t have gotten much sleep.”

  He swung out of the hammock. “If you say you’re sorry one more time, I might give you something to be sorry for.” He pretended sternness, but even that fell away as he approached her. “How do you feel?”

  She took a minute to decide. “Better … I think.”

  He felt her forehead. By comparison, his skin was cool. “I’ll get you more aspirin. Wait here.”

  She wanted to laugh. He kept saying that, as if she could actually go away. She wasn’t going anywhere!

  As soon as he’d left, she looked down at herself. The shirt she wore was loose and comfortable. She recalled how Sam had tended her, removing the wet shirt, sponging her body, redressing her, and she felt a blush warm her already warm cheeks.

  “You still look flushed,” Sam observed when he reappeared at her side.

  “Blame it on the shirt,” she grumbled. “If the armholes were any larger, it’d be obscene.”

  Sam chuckled. “That’s okay. We’re treating this thing clinically, aren’t we?”

  “Hmmph.” In avoiding his gaze, she made the mistake of letting her own fall. “Sam? What are you wearing?”

  He looked down at himself. “Shorts.”

  She continued to stare. Shorts, as in beach-type shorts? No, there was something missing, namely a fly. Or rather, there was something there,—a placket that lay flat enough to reveal the absence of either snaps or a zipper.

  “Boxer shorts?”

  “Heeey. Don’t knock’em. They’re damned comfortable. Far cooler than those cotton things that cling to every—”

  “I’ve never seen boxer shorts like those,” Chelsea announced impulsively. “Aren’t they usually baggy and kind of shapeless?”

  “Depends on what shape’s filling them,” he responded with a grin.

  Then she did raise her eyes, and her cheeks reddened all the more. She promptly pressed her lids shut, but the image remained. Sam’s boxer shorts may have been more roomy than briefs, but not by much. They looked … marvelous. He looked marvelous.

  “I must be better,” she mumbled under her breath. Hours before she hadn’t been able to conceive of anything the slightest bit sexual. Her body was still immune, but her mind sure wasn’t.

  “Hmm?”

  “Nothing.” She opened her eyes, but kept them trained well above his waist. “You have something for me?”

  Sam closed his fingers around the aspirin and grinned. “You bet I do.” His voice was enough of a drawl to convey the double meaning.

  “Sam …”

  He snapped his hand open and held out the water. “Okay.” He bent forward and helped her sit up. “Here we go. Down the hatch.” When she’d swallowed the aspirin, he dragged the table close and set the half-filled water glass on it. “Drink as much and as often as you can. You may be a little dehydrated.”

  She was up on an elbow, which was tricky because her elbow kept slipping through the open weave of the hammock, but she persisted. “You’re not leaving me alone, are you?”

  He was stepping into his pants. “Only for as long as it takes me to tell Tonia you’re sick. She’ll make you some te de manzanilla.”

  “It sounds alive.”

  “It’s chamomile tea, and it’s not alive … . Are you always this edgy?”

  She sagged back into the hammock with a sigh. “I’m not used to being sick.”

  His eyes softened, as did his voice. “I won’t abandon you, y’know.”

  “I know … but it’s been years and years since anyone’s taken care of me.” His words of the previous night came back to her. “I think I like it.”

  Sam was quiet for a minute. He dug his hands into his pockets, which tugged the waistband of his pants down past his navel. Chelsea darted a quick glance there, then away.

  “Were you always alone—once you left home to go to school?”

  “There weren’t any men, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No men? Ever?”

  She felt he had a right to know. She wanted him to know. It somehow compensated for what she wasn’t telling him. “I’ve never been married, or even engaged. I’ve dated, and had some pretty deep relationships, but I’ve never lived with a guy—certainly not one who’d have been willing to take care of me this way.”

  “What were they like—the guys you dated?”

  She thought for a minute. “They were nice. And intelligent. But shallow. Self-centered is a better word, I guess.”

  “You don’t sound bitter.”

  She shrugged, feeling tired again. “I’m not. It wasn’t as if I’d been in love. It might have hurt then, but it didn’t.” She closed her eyes, and her voice came softer. Her meager supply of energy had been exhausted. “There are other things to do in life. I keep busy …”

  “Mmmm. Well, you’re not going to today.” He reached for his shirt and put it on, then stepped into his sandals and headed for the door. “See ya in five.”

  She raised a limp hand to wave, but he was gone, so she rolled over and went to sleep.

  6

  IN FACT, Chelsea’s recuper
ation took two days, which, Sam claimed with an accusatory scowl, was because of the run-down condition she’d been in. The first day she felt ill enough not to mind the inactivity. By the second day her fever was down, but she still felt weak and tired. Her mind was back to full pace, however, and she might have grown restless had it not been for Sam’s presence. He wasn’t with her constantly—he took time out to chop firewood and do other chores around the pueblito—but he was always nearby, pampering her whenever possible.

  They both enjoyed the pampering. He brought her tea, tea and more tea. Then, when her stomach was ready, he let her try pan tostada or dry toast rusks. He sat with her for long hours, talking about the Maya as he knew them, telling her about things he’d show her when she was better and they could take off and explore. He spoke in great detail about the friends he’d made in Mexico, and his respect for them was as apparent as his fondness. Only once did he mention the disagreement he and Chelsea had had on the day preceeding her illness, and then it was in a gentle, almost beseechful tone.

  “Please, Chelsea. Don’t do anything to encourage Reni to leave.”

  “I wouldn’t do that!” she countered quickly. She was hurt that he’d think she would, yet she supposed he had good reason, given the content of their argument that day. “It’s not my place to try to sway her one way or the other. And I do see your side, Sam. There’s a lot of beauty here, a centuries-old rhythm I wouldn’t dream of disturbing. You may well be right, that Reni would suffer if she left. In the end, though, it’s her decision to make, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I just don’t want her helped along the way.”

  “What am I supposed to do when she asks questions? If she wants to know about movie theaters and posh restaurants and fancy clothes, should I lie?”

  “Just downplay it. That’s all I ask.”

  Chelsea didn’t want to argue any more than he did. Things between them were too good. “Trust me. That’s all I ask.”

  “I’d like to,” he said even more softly. His gaze held hers in a searching kind of way. “It’s just that I don’t really know you all that well, do I?”

  “You know more than most,” was the only truthful answer she could give him. Then she felt guilty and unsure and filled with regret, so she forced a teasing grin. “It’s not every man who’s bathed me the way you did.”

  He sat back and gave her a punishing stare. “Hmmph. For all the good it did me. I hope you know that I’m suffering. You lie around here all soft and warm and tempting … it’s not every man who’d exercise the control I have.”

  Chelsea reached out and patted his hand. “And I adore you for it,” she quipped. “I do admit that you’ve been a saint.”

  Grabbing her hand, he pressed it to his thigh. He was wearing cutoffs again, favoring them, for the sake of coolness, over long pants when he was planning to be around the hut. “This saint is destined for a fall,” he growled, then leaned forward and put his head close to hers. “It’s just a matter of time. You know that, don’t you?”

  She felt a tingling in her breasts and knew she was definitely on the mend. But how to answer his question? “It frightens me.”

  “Frightens? Oh, no. It’ll be beautiful.”

  “But then what? What after, Sam? I won’t be here forever. At some point I’m going to have to go home, and you’ll be here.” At least, that was what he was supposed to believe at this stage. “What then?”

  He shrugged off her worry. “You’re a writer. You can be flexible with your time.”

  “Not as flexible as all that,” she answered. She was thinking of the fall and of the graduate program she hoped to be enrolled in. She was also thinking of what she had to accomplish if she was going to be able to afford that program. She wondered if she should be prodding Sam more about returning to Boston, but instinct told her he wasn’t ready for it yet. First, she had to cement their relationship … . Again she remembered his words—about it being only a matter of time before they made love. She sensed he was right, but she was still at war with herself. She could never sleep with him simply for the sake of the job she’d been hired to do. No, what made her want to make love with him went far beyond that, and she suddenly realized she might well have more at stake in securing Sam’s return home than Mrs. London’s payment.

  “Well,” Sam said, straightening with a sigh, “we’ll deal with all that when the time comes. I’m just not up to worrying about the future.”

  “You’re not up to it? I thought I was the one who was sick.”

  “But getting better by the minute,” he said, eyes sparkling once again. “I may even let you eat something tonight.”

  “Oh, Sam. Won’t I get sick again?”

  “Hopefully this little bout will have built your antibodies. You can take it easy for a few days, but I think you’ll be okay.”

  SHE WAS. By the next day she was able to join the rest of the villagers for dinner, and was warmly welcomed back. It appeared that the work she’d done with the women that first day had secured her acceptance among them, to the extent that they were disappointed when, several days later, Sam announced he was taking her to Chichen Itza.

  Chelsea was thrilled. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the women, or that she minded working alongside them. Rather, she wanted time alone with Sam. Since she’d recovered, they’d spent little more than evenings together, and those had been restrained as they both sought to temper the desire sparking between them. Chelsea wondered if Sam was pushing himself harder during the day simply to work off the sexual tension that built each night. For her part, she found him all the more attractive as the days passed.

  They started off early in hopes of getting a head start on the heat. The sky was clear, and he insisted she wear her hat, which she held on to with one hand when the Jeep picked up speed on the highway.

  “This feels strange,” Chelsea commented when they were well on their way.

  “The wind?” It was whipping through his hair, but he didn’t seem to mind. Chelsea thought he looked marvelous that way, very free and relaxed and rakish. Of course, it helped that he’d worn his cutoffs and a T-shirt. His physique did justice to the outfit.

  “No, no,” she said. “Leaving the pueblito. It’s like a little haven. You really get used to being there, don’t you?”

  “I have, but I’d been wondering if you felt penned up.”

  She turned down one side of her mouth. “Only when you kept me prisoner in that hammock.”

  “Whoa! The sickness did that. Don’t blame me!” He was grinning, as was she.

  “Don’t you ever get restless? I mean, it’s only been one week for me. You’ve been there for four months. Surely you think of home once in a while.”

  “I try not to.”

  “But … does it happen? Don’t you ever wonder what’s going on back there?”

  “I get letters from the office, sent via Rafael. They tell me all I need to know.”

  “That the business is going well?”

  “That I’m glad I’m here.” His correction was accompanied by the reckless slash of a grin.

  But Chelsea wanted to know exactly where she stood. “Do you think you’ll ever go back?”

  “I don’t think.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “Well, not about that. I told you before. I don’t want to go back to the kind of life I had.”

  She tried to sound as innocent, as nonchalant as she could. “But don’t you miss some of the things? Your competitive instinct can’t have just … died.”

  “There’s no need for it here. I don’t miss it.”

  “Do you think you will … two, four, six years down the road?”

  “I’m not thinking that far.”

  She let out a breath. She was going to earn her money the hard way, that was for sure. Sam refused to think about the future. It was going to be up to her to give him reason to think about it.

  In time.

  WHEN THEY REACHED Chichen Itza, Sam parked outside th
e Mayaland Hotel.

  “This is beautiful,” Chelsea said, climbing from the Jeep to look at the high, round arches leading into the large stone structure.

  Sam came from behind, put his hands on her shoulders and reversed her direction. “Look there.”

  “Oh, my!” She saw another, more distant stone structure. It was domed, recognizable, but so obviously ancient that an involuntary quickening touched her pulse. It was a quickening that could well have been helped along by Sam’s touch. “The observatory?”

  “Right on. It’s unbelievable. I’ll tell you all about it when we get there.” He released her to dip into the back of the Jeep for the bag he’d stowed there. “First things first.” He fished around in it and presented her with a plastic bottle of insect repellent. Then a tube of suntan cream. Then a pair of worn sandals.

  “Huaraches,” he explained. “They’re Tonia’s, but she insisted you have them. They’ll be easier on your feet than your own sandals. I happen to agree with her—” he arched a brow “—seeing as I was the one to doctor those blisters you had when you first arrived.”

  “Point taken,” she acceded, though not without remembering how good he’d been at doctoring. “Y’know, maybe you should have gone into medicine,” she teased reflectively. “You’ve got the bedside manner for it.”

  Sam twitched his mustache and pulled himself straighter. He was so close to her that she could all but feel the outline of his body. “You like my bedside manner?”

  She took the insect repellent and squirted some on her arm. “On second thought, scratch the idea of medicine. You’d be in trouble with your lady patients.” She looked him in the eye. “You’re not clinical enough.”

  Suddenly he had his hand on the back of her thigh, then her bottom. She’d worn the shorts, which were very short, and the T-shirt, which was very long, but neither could insulate her from his heat. “Do you like my bedside manner?” he repeated softly.

  “It’s … okay.”

  His hand fell and he mocked injury. “‘Okay’? Whaddya mean‘okay’? I thought it was damned good!” He threw up his hands and began muttering to himself as he took back the repellent and squeezed a glob onto his thigh. “‘Okay’? Hmmph. Shows how much you know. ‘Okay’? It was masterful …! Oh yuck …”