Dirty Dancing at Devil's Leap

by Julie Anne Long

  “So . . . are you going to give another little speech about how you shouldn’t do this?” He said this wryly, though. And still a little breathlessly.

  “Nope.” She’d fully realized the futility of this.

  And so they sat in silent contemplation. Perhaps awe.

  This. This was sex. The frantic surge of lust, the sweat and roaring breath, the grappling, the apparently infinite variety of ways her nerve endings could be strummed to produce umpteen degrees of pleasure. Nothing else in her life to date compared. Certainly not her polite and pleasant couplings with Corbin. All orgasms were good, of course. But . . . it was the difference between that long, flat, torturously dull drive on I-5 from San Francisco and then—ta da! You were in beautiful Hellcat Canyon, and taking the windy, spectacular scenic coastal road to Big Sur, a road that offered something new and splendid around every turn.

  “You know . . . this doesn’t need to be a big . . . thing.”

  He made it sound like an idle remark, but she was pretty sure it was studied. A foray. A man perhaps carefully negotiating for more hot sex in the future. Perhaps creating a safe space for her to agree to something she clearly wanted but thought she shouldn’t.

  “It can be just a thing we do, like trimming the blinds or rewiring the light in the upstairs bathroom? When the mood takes us?” she mused.

  “Yeah. Like a morale-boosting team-building exercise. Like . . . trust falls. Only a lot better.”

  She gave a short laugh. And then sighed and folded her head onto her arms and propped them on her knees. The peace of the moment was replaced with a tension. Between the idea of more of what had just happened, which made her even now feel weak with anticipation, and the fear that there was no way she wouldn’t emerge from this freshly scathed in some horrible new way.

  Even if Mac could partake in the whole thing the way he would a good meal or, say, volleyball.

  Even if it was bound to end.

  She ran through a swift bullet-point list of reasons why this was madness in her head: They didn’t want the same things, unless you counted this house. Corbin remained quite the loose end. Her life was still in San Francisco, as was her company.

  She kind of had a sense that Mac’s breath was held.

  “We are really good at it,” she allowed. Cautiously.

  “Yeah. I liked the way we kept affirming each other. ‘Yes, oh yes!’” he mimicked.

  She gave a quick shout of laughter.

  Her heartbeat was ratcheting up again when she looked at him.

  She wasn’t a masochist. She might be a little impulsive, but the object had never been to court pain.

  But maybe this was part of their battle, too: this was something she needed to prove to herself and to him. That her heart was a little more muscular now, thanks to the workout she’d put it through over the years. That she was strong enough to take what she wanted without giving up anything critical.

  “Nothing much has changed about what I said before . . .”

  He turned to her. Clearly aware that her sentence had ended with an ellipsis, not a full stop.

  “Let’s say . . . we won’t exactly add it to the schedule. But it’s not off the table.”

  He studied her a moment. Then the corner of his mouth tipped ever so slightly. “Understood. Wanna shake on it?”

  She hesitated, then gave her hand to him with a bit of an ironic flourish.

  He took it.

  But once he had it, it was almost as though he’d forgotten why she’d given it to him. He held it a moment; his face clouded slightly. He almost whimsically laced his fingers through hers, and he looked down at where their fingers joined and dragged his thumb lightly over the back of her hand, frowning faintly.

  And then he dropped her hand abruptly and pushed himself to his feet.

  “Guess I should go get started on the blinds, eh?” He headed for the doorway.

  He turned around and walked backward a few feet and added, wickedly, “And go hydrate.”

  She stared after him. Then back at her hand.

  She curled her fingers closed.

  Troubled and elated.

  Because she could have sworn his expression, that fleeting glimpse of his eyes before he stood, was an awful lot like the one she’d seen when she’d opened her eyes, flat on her back, that day in Whiskey Creek.

  Chapter 19

  Two days later, at around four o’clock in the afternoon, Avalon paced slowly through what was once the Grand Piano Room, and which she would from now on think of as the Sex Against the Wall Room, into the living room, where the giant bargelike sofa lived.

  Damn.

  Boy, had obsessively poring over paint samples paid off. That one fever dream about color choices notwithstanding.

  She’d noticed how the progress of daylight subtly altered the colors of the white walls in the house throughout the day, from cool shadowy mauve to palest blush to warm gold. She’d chosen paint colors that ever-so-slightly enhanced all those colors, so that walking from room to room was like progressing through a mountain day. And now most of the walls downstairs were done.

  Upstairs was homage to the gradual progress of a mountain nightfall, from sunset to twilight. Gray-mauve, terra cotta, gold, blue. All of them very soft, muted, one color per room.

  The effect was spectacular.

  Not only that, the whole project was going to come in under budget and ahead of schedule.

  And since they’d had their final progress huddle for the day and all the workmen had tromped out, she clapped her hands over her head in a self-five. Then she held her hand up to Chick Pea, who was sitting on the sofa, and Chick Pea paw-fived her.

  “Hey, Avalon! Come up here! I want to show you something.”

  She gave a start and spun around.

  For some reason she’d thought he’d gone, too. But Mac was standing on the landing at the top of the stairs, looking disheveled, sweaty, paint-speckled, and as alluring as any siren who had ever sung sailors to their deaths on a rock, if sirens had ever been male. He’d been working on fixing the attic stairs, she knew, which had entailed a certain amount of swearing and crashing. He’d assured her that absolutely nothing interesting was up there, unless she wanted to include the possum.

  But his face was lit up with some suppressed news.

  “I totally just saw you high-five yourself, by the way.”

  She laughed, even as her face went warm. “I deserved it. This place looks great.”

  He grinned down at her. “It does. I should self-five myself, thank you very much. But I think you should come check this out.”

  And he ducked back into whatever room he’d emerged from.

  Molten sex against the wall hadn’t caused so much as a blip in their brisk professionalism and the overall bonhomie. But every single second moment was fraught with portent and promise. The very molecules in every room seemed flammable. Simple exchanges were accompanied by smoldering gazes not usually shared when discussing which hinge one preferred to use for the kitchen door.

  Short of backing her butt up into his hand again, she wasn’t quite sure how or when that would happen. Only that it would. She had her reasons to be cautious. And so, it seemed, did he.

  But here he was beckoning her up the stairs. Damned if she would refuse that invitation. Her heart was already pounding as if she’d just finished running up a flight of them.

  “In here!” he called, as she was halfway up.

  He was in the master bedroom, the one that had once been his parents’.

  She hadn’t been in there in almost a week, so relieved was she to not have to deal with the black-and-gold wallpaper.

  She slowed, awestruck, as she drifted in.

  She prowled the perimeter of the room with ruthless eyes. The hideous paper was gone as if it had never been. The elegant, stately proportions of the room had indeed been freed; it was filled with light and air. The walls were now a pale gold that took on a touch of pinky apricot when the sun shone on
it full bore. Which it did late in the afternoon for an hour or so.

  Which it was doing right now.

  The color she’d chosen was called Nostalgia.

  “Wow,” she exhaled, finally.

  Mac watched her as she almost gingerly touched her fingertips to the wall.

  “It doesn’t look a thing like it used to,” she said finally. Just to say something.

  Because this was true.

  And yet it wasn’t quite true.

  She drifted over to the French doors and peered out to the deck, toward Devil’s Leap, jutting up from the swimming hole.

  Something about the direction the room faced, the way the old trees sifted the sunlight through their leaves, the French windows . . .

  If she turned around now she wouldn’t be surprised to see his parents’ big double bed, and a hologram of her and Mac entwined and madly kissing. That very last day she’d seen him before, of course, she’d wound up back here at Devil’s Leap.

  “It’s really . . . it’s just beautiful. Thank you.”

  She said it softly.

  And it was true.

  But there was an ache in her solar plexus.

  The room without the paper didn’t feel quite the way she’d thought it would.

  Because it wasn’t different enough.

  Suddenly Mac looped his arms loosely around her from behind. Her body couldn’t help itself; she melted back against his warm torso the way water has no choice but to sink into earth. But her mind resisted the easy capitulation. She glanced down at the arms encircling her. The hair on his arms glinted copper, just like it had on that day.

  He rested his cheek against the top of her head. A gesture so yearning, so intimate and whimsically tender her breath stopped.

  He lifted it only a second later.

  Perhaps he had unnerved himself.

  Or didn’t want to give her the wrong idea.

  It was also possible she’d tensed.

  His arms fell gently away a second later.

  They were quiet a moment.

  “Guess I’ll get going,” he said.

  She had a hunch they’d both thought a little wallpaper-vanquishing celebration sex on the drop cloth might have been in order. A little voice in the back of her head urged, His zipper is right there. You hardly even have to stretch out your arm to get it undone.

  But suddenly the air was aswarm with unspoken things and, like wasps at a picnic, they were getting in the way of the impulse to get down, so to speak.

  In other words, they weren’t going to be doing each other up against Nostalgia.

  He flicked her with a glance that neatly undressed and savored her. His eyes met hers, searching for something. His were dark with some emotion. Not only desire. Sort of rueful. Sort of guarded.

  She knew, and he knew, that he was still leaving for the day.

  Lust was a complicated thing.

  “See you tomorrow,” she said, just as lightly. “Thanks for all the hard work.”

  “You bet, Harwood.”

  He turned to go, then turned around and walked a few backward steps, as if he wanted to see her bathed in that amber light. Just to make sure she was real, and not the ghost of the girl she’d been back then.

  She’d desperately wanted that wallpaper gone from the wall of the room. And now she thought she more fully understood why.

  But suddenly it was pretty clear a few other layers still needed to be scraped away.

  But for some reason that aborted gesture—his head resting atop hers—haunted her. She kept trying to analyze it as if it contained layers of coded meaning, like a dream.

  And the moment he left, the beautiful house seemed unnervingly filled with echoes, memories, and questions. So she impulsively invited the least ethereal people she knew, her mom and dad, over for dinner, which they insisted on bringing. Hamburgers and salad and cake. They ate out on the deck. She basked in their pride and praise when they saw the house; they made an appropriate fuss over Chick Pea the way you would over any new member of the family. She relished the homely conversation about the day-to-day at the Misty Cat.

  She didn’t mention Mac.

  She wore her Peace and Love sweatshirt to eat outside with her parents. The nights were getting chillier even if the days were still full of sunlight. It was hard to shake the sense of something winding to an end. Which it was, naturally; she’d known it would. That had been the plan, to fix and flip this house. But her nerve endings were ever-so-faintly twanging with panic, picking it up like a radio signal from outer space. She wasn’t quite certain yet why.

  Only that she’d begun to wonder that she was still keeping Mac’s presence on the down low, because it was possible the whole thing was going to be, a year from now, a page in her diary.

  She knew work would suck her in when she returned to San Francisco. And because that’s where the jobs were and she needed an income, that’s where she was going, Corbin or no Corbin.

  “Knock knock.”

  A little family of deer strolling by stared at her with limpid unblinking eyes and kept going.

  No one answered the door.

  “MAC?” she called.

  “Avalon? Hey! Out here! Robert Plant has ear mites!”

  It was entirely possible it was the first time in history anyone anywhere had uttered that sentence out loud.

  She followed the sound of his voice and of bleating and found Mac out in the little goat paddock, getting nuzzled and bumped by his little goat posse. He was stuffing a tube of something back in his jeans. Clearly he’d just been administering to Robert Plant. Raaaaabert Plant.

  “I got a text from Eden,” she told him. “She was wondering if the Hummingbirds can come here and meet your goats.”

  He smiled crookedly at her. He hadn’t shaved yet, and the stubble was really working for him. “Tell the truth. You wanted to meet the goats.”

  She couldn’t resist the smile. “Well, yeah, that, too.”

  And she kind of wanted to see his house, too.

  “Come in here.” He called to her. “Hold out your hand.”

  He cupped her hand in his so he could pour, to her astonishment, what looked like Cheez-Its into it. Another gesture, superfluous but tender, an excuse to touch her. A touch that lingered a little, then ended too soon, leaving her glowing like a radiator. And pensive.

  The goats swarmed her as she entered their paddock. Their funny sweet faces were so full of character, by turns mischievous, dignified, witty. She divvied up the snacks while they bumped her hands for pats. She peered into their eyes and communed with their little goat souls.

  Mac leaned on the fence and narrated.

  “Janis has some pipes on her. She’s a sweetheart but she’ll nip you a little if you don’t give her snacks fast enough. She’s the one going for your pockets right now. John is dignified. Maybe cuz he’s getting older and fatter. He’s kind of the boss, if I had to pick one. Simon is Janis and John’s baby. I have Alpine, a LaMancha and one Toggenburg. Bob’s the Toggenburg.”

  “I don’t think I ever asked you how you ended up with goats.” She scratched Simon’s head.

  “Morty Horton. I finished my national guard stint and I’d been traveling around Europe, when I had a chat with Morton Horton. He knew the groundskeeper was leaving this property and he had a couple goats and needed someone to look out for them, and, well, I met the goats, we hit it off, so I got some more and . . . what?”

  “What what?”

  “You’re looking at me all . . .” He didn’t complete that question.

  “I just think it’s . . . it’s a pretty cool story.”

  She had an embarrassing hunch about what her expression must be. Because she was frankly rather enchanted. By his unselfconscious, charming easiness. By his whole backstory, frankly. I always knew animals would be your downfall, Harwood, he’d said wryly.

  He’d be one to talk, she had a hunch.

  “Um . . .” He looked away, swiped a hand through his ha
ir. “I have some coffee left. Want some?”

  “Sure.”

  The invitation slightly cautious. Maybe even a tad reluctant. She knew he was a guy who liked to be in control, and giving her an impromptu tour of his bachelor pad hadn’t been on his schedule this morning.

  But suddenly her heart was beating like a teenager’s who’d been invited for a ride in the hot bad boy’s muscle car.

  He vanished into the door and left it open; she followed him inside.

  It was basically a studio, a large main room and a kitchen, maybe a thousand square feet, if that. Cozy, though. And snug. It was lit by a long transom window that ran nearly the length of one side and another window that faced the road.

  A truly gigantic bed, a California King, covered with a basic white box-stitched comforter that appeared to be about five inches thick, so fluffy was it, was sandwiched between two walls with only a few inches to spare on either side. About eight pillows clearly punched into softness bulged at the top, divided into two stacks. She actually liked a crapload of pillows, too. It was the crack of dawn but he’d made his bed quite tidily. That’s what the military will do for you, she thought.

  She wondered what he would do if she tipped herself facedown onto the bed. A little rush of lust made her head swim, imagining it.

  It was funny, though, what just a few seconds’ worth of hovering in the doorway of someone’s house could reveal. And she found herself gathering up these details the way she’d hoarded everything he’d told her about him once before.

  The little kitchen was pristine and remained 1930s vintage, which was probably about when this cottage was built. The tiled counters were salmon pink edged in burgundy, the white cupboards edged in scallops, the sink a deep farmhouse variety. A few pots and pans hung from hooks. The fridge was old but handsome, eggshell-colored with rounded corners. She’d be willing to bet it was temperamental.

  Along one wall was a bookcase featuring a Kindle, an iPad, and a laptop, all charging, and a series of mysterious little black oblong boxes, all stacked. She didn’t see any photos or artwork.

  A shotgun was hung over the door.

  “Gosh. I like what you’ve done with the place.”