Soon, she felt lulled into contentedness by the repetitive action and the immersion with nature. She began to sing a favourite Aretha Franklin song, ‘Natural Woman’, as she worked.
By the last line, Dora was overcome by the power of the Queen of Soul. She leant back on her heels, squeezed her eyes shut and belted out Aretha’s heartfelt lyrics in a womanly growl.
And heard a quiet, distinctively male cough above her.
Dora lurched forward and looked up. A pair of huge booted feet, two bulky, hairy legs, a blue plaid skirt and, beside them, some pale gold paws greeted her eyes. The figure stepped back hastily, but not before Dora caught a glimpse of what was beneath the kilt. Those muscular legs stretched right on up to a gorgeous male package—semi-erect, thick and scrumptious.
“Oh my!” she gasped. “I didn’t see you there. Hello!” She stood, blushing wildly, and wished she had on something a bit more figure-flattering than an old pair of overalls. “Paul Matheson, I presume?”
The man, who towered over her and looked like he could lift a VW bug with his bare hands, appeared painfully uncomfortable. “Um, no, I’m afraid not,” he muttered.
Dora caught his eyes on her bosom—she knew its curves were clearly visible beneath her snug T-shirt—and he looked away swiftly. The golden lab next to him capered off and out of sight.
Dora drew her eyebrows together and stood. “Then it’s Mr Parker, I suppose? Randy, is that correct?”
“No, madam, I’m not Randy,” he replied.
Dora glanced downward, wondering what on earth this person was doing in her yard and whether she ought to start screaming bloody murder, when she saw that he was decidedly excited by their conversation. An erection, too impressive to ignore, tented the front of his kilt. “That is, I’m not Mr Parker, I suppose you might see that I am somewhat, well…” His voice trailed off miserably. He turned his back to her and crossed his arms over his chest. The back of his neck blazed a deep crimson hue. “I do apologise, madam. I suppose I ought to be on my way.”
He began to walk away, but Dora caught his arm and stopped him. “It’s okay,” she chuckled. “It’s actually flattering, and I’ll ignore it if you will. But what can I do for you, Mr—?”
“Mr Rossi,” he supplied. “I’m Lowell Rossi.”
“Oh, of course! I know you. I saw you at the Harvest Festival last fall at the Prescott Manor. We danced together for a minute or two. You look a little different now, though. Maybe it’s the beard, or possibly the kilt,” she mused. “Anyway, where have you been? Have you been travelling? I’ve been to the manor quite a few times with Carmen, and I came to the Valentines’ Ball, but I haven’t seen you at all. I hope you’ve not been sick?”
“Ah, well,” he mumbled, “I’ve been here and there, I suppose, but nowhere special. You, madam, are Dora, is that correct?” He turned back to her and, with effort, Dora avoided looking below his waist.
“Yes, Dora Fontaine.” She took off her gloves and offered him a hand. Lowell stared at it as though it were an alien life form, then shook it firmly. Dora felt a shuddery thrill at his grip—huge, callused and warm, he held her as though she were made of glass. It seemed like a hand that could uproot a tree and, then next minute, cradle a baby bird.
“Won’t you come in for some tea?” Dora asked. “If you can forgive my appearance, that is. I’d love to learn more about what you’ve been doing. Carmen is always so mysterious about Brock’s family.”
He nodded silently.
A man of few words,
she thought, and led him inside. “Welcome to Bohemian Rhapsody!” Dora swept her arm to indicate the curving staircase, vintage wallpaper and stained glass chandelier. “It’s no Prescott Manor, of course, but it’s my own little dream come true. You can see I love flowers and vintage fabrics, and I collect all sorts of Victorian stuff, from dolls to greeting cards to hats. My guests enjoy perusing my displays, you know.”
“It’s very nice,” Lowell replied. “Very floral and, ah, pretty, in a girly kind of way. I like it.”
“Have a seat in the breakfast nook while I heat the kettle.” Dora smiled to see his bulky form, redolent of testosterone and all things manly, ensconced on the yellow chintz cushions and framed by the crisp Battenberg curtains. “Do you like the smell of lilac?” she asked.
“Um, sure,” he answered. “As in the flower?”
Dora lit a pale purple candle in a mason jar and set it on the table before him. “As in the scented candle. I’m in the habit of burning one when I have a bite to eat. Sort of makes me feel as though I’ve got cheerful company, even when I’m alone.” The yellow flame danced on the table and a sweet floral fragrance permeated the room. “Plus it makes the place smell nice.” She placed teabags in her pot—one mint, one orange, one lemon—and withdrew two cups and saucers from the cupboard. An array of vibrant cups and saucers glinted on the shelves. “I have an eclectic set of teacups,” she said proudly. “Here are the Royal Alberts for you and the Crown Staffordshires for me. It’s like drinking tea from a different bouquet every time, you know?”
Lowell picked up the dainty pink and green floral cup and nodded. “It’s quite beautifully shaped,” he said, deep voice rumbling. “Like you.”
He met her gaze with an earnest expression, and Dora caught a glimpse of colour rising in his cheeks. The kettle screamed on the stove. “Oh!” Dora started. “Water’s ready!” Heart pounding, she filled the teapot and brought it to the table, along with a squeeze bottle of honey, spoons, lacy napkins and a colourful tin box. “Lemon shortbread cookies?” she offered. “I made them myself.”
Lowell accepted a cookie and chewed thoughtfully. “Perfection.”
She removed her hat and fluffed her hair in the reflection in the stove door before joining him at the table. “I’m so pleased you like them.” She sipped her tea and cleared her throat. “So, Lowell, what is it that you do? Some sort of land management for the woods? It’s such a beautiful stretch of pristine woodland. We’re certainly lucky to have Prescott Woods close by. It makes the whole area seem magical, don’t you think?”
Lowell picked up another cookie and took a bite. He swallowed before answering. “Yes, that’s exactly right, Dora. I keep tabs on the animals and plants of the woods and conduct some studies, too. It, ah, turns out there are some unusual species in Prescott Woods.”
“Oh, you’re a researcher? A biologist? How fascinating! Are you going to publish your findings?”
“Ah, well, it’s possible, that is—”
Dora stood abruptly. Her mouth dropped open and she stared through the window behind Lowell’s head. “What? Are those my sheets? What in the world…? Excuse me, Lowell.” Shouting indignantly, she hurried outside with Lowell on her heels.
A pile of sheets lay in a muddied heap and a lone pillowcase fluttered on the lawn near the corner. The feathered blond tail of a barking dog disappeared around the edge of the house. Sputtering indignantly, Dora darted to collect the pillowcase and ran to inspect her clothesline. Every clean sheet had been plucked from the cords and the folding table and laundry bin were toppled on their sides.
“Well, you could knock me over with a feather, Lowell Rossi. What kind of a dog yanks down sheets from the line? What in the world could have gotten into Dax? He never acted like that when he lived with Carmen.” Her eyebrows scrunched and she shook her head. “I could have sworn I saw a bat for a second there, but I must be going crazy. Bats don’t come out in the daytime.” Dora exhaled and turned to the heap of damp cloth. “I’ll have to rewash all my linens and just hope there are no tears or stains.”
Lowell’s eyes narrowed and a low grumble resounded in his throat. “Strange behaviour for a dog, all right,” he scowled. Dax’s vocalisations dwindled in the distance. Dora picked up the table to right it, and Lowell darted to her side. “No, let me,” he insisted as he trotted over. “Don’t strain yourself.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” Dora chuckled, hoisting the piece of furniture up in the air. “I’m stronger than I look.” As he reached for the table, Lowell tripped over the laundry hamper beside it and fell in an heap at Dora’s feet. The table swung about overhead and Dora lost her balance. She fell squarely on top of Lowell’s lap, her forehead resting on the wadded fabric of his kilt and her face squashed on Lowell’s bared crotch.
“Wha—wha—wha—huh—” Dora stuttered. Lowell’s beefy package, framed by a dusting of hair, pressed against her lips and nose. She struggled to lift her chest up from his lap, but his agitated squirming beneath her made it difficult. “Gah!” Dora pushed away from him at last and rocked back on the grass. “Sheesh!”
Lowell, long legs outspread like a splayed frog, yanked his kilt down and scrambled to his feet. His face, Dora noted, was an alarming shade of red. “Ah, my apologies, madam,” he said. “How very awkward this is.” He took a step backwards and scrubbed his fingers through his beard.
Dora stood and dusted herself off. “No harm done,” she assured him. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled. “You broke my fall nicely.”
Lowell’s cheeks darkened until they were almost purple. “Oh.” He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze down to Dora’s chest. Dora pressed her upper arms against the sides of her breasts to deepen her cleavage and cocked one eyebrow. “Oh!” Lowell stared, transfixed. Dora noted the growing bulge in the fabric of his kilt.
“Wanna come finish our tea?” Dora asked. “I can do the laundry later.”
Lowell glanced back at the door. The front of his kilt lifted farther away from his body and the hemline drew up to mid-thigh. “Tea does sound nice,” he answered. “I am fond of your cups, after all.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, well, you know, the china ones, that is—”
“Hello-oo!” a female voice sang out. “Paul and Lucy Matheson here. Anybody home? Did we find the right place? We’re a bit early.”
A couple in identical royal blue tracksuits and black vinyl fanny packs emerged and stood next to Dora’s budding peonies. “Is this Bohemian Rhapsody?” the woman asked. She caught a glimpse of Lowell, his erection undeniable, and elbowed her husband. “I think we’re interrupting something, Paul,” she chuckled in a stage whisper.
“Oh, arrggh, urrrm, well then,” Lowell mumbled, sounding every bit the flummoxed pirate to Dora’s ears. “I’d better be going.” He lowered his head and started to slink past the chortling couple, then paused by the rose-festooned wall. Blushing fiercely, he plucked a bloom and placed it in Dora’s hand with a stiff nod.
“It’s a blaze rose,” she told him. “They’re my favourite.” She tucked it behind her ear.
“Well, it’s pretty, Dora,” he said gruffly, “and, uh, it smells nice. Just like you.” He waved awkwardly at the newly arrived couple before disappearing beyond the zinnias.
Dora sighed. “Welcome, Mr and Mrs Matheson. I’m so glad you arrived safely. I can show you your room, but unfortunately the bed isn’t made yet. I pride myself on freshly washed linens for my guests, but my laundry had a run-in with a naughty puppy and will have to be rewashed. I’ll have it ready in a couple of hours.”
“No problem,” the woman chirped. “We’ll just drop off our bags and check out the town square. My friend Connie was raving about a shop there. Something about Tie Dyeing, I think?”
“Yes, yes, my friends Marcus and Deb own it. It’s called ‘Tie Dyed and Gone to Heaven’. You should check out Groovy Grounds, the coffee shop, and Patchouli Pets, too. I heard they have a couplecouple of of rescue chinchillas available for adoption now.”
“Oh, I just knew we’d love Charade!” She bounced on her toes and turned to her husband. “Thank you, honey bunny. Eskimo kiss!”
“Anything for you, turtle dove,” the man replied. Dora watched as the man lowered his face to his wife’s. Both shut their eyes, wrinkled their noses and rubbed the tips of their noses together.
Dora bit back a laugh, but beneath the amusement she felt a pang of jealousy.
She showed the Mathesons to the Morning Glory room—
the flowers match their tracksuits, after all
—and returned to the backyard to gather up the dirty sheets.
* * * *
Lowell, seething, paused silently at the arched entrance to the bathing cavern. Above a tub of warm, liquid earth, a mud-crusted head, still as carved stone, leaned against the rim. Twisted locks of hair, also coated in a layer of silt, coiled like Medusa’s snakes into the rippling contents of the pool. A brazier on the limestone floor lit the small chamber with flickering golden light. The lips on the dirt-crusted face parted. “Ahhhhhh.”
Her languid posture enraged him further and he charged into the room. “Goddammit, Paloma!” he shouted. “Why did you have to meddle? What does it matter to you if I pay a visit to a human?”
The eyelids of the muddied statue flew open. Black eyes sparkled in the midst of the drying clay. “Have you finally lost your mind, Lowell? I suppose it was inevitable.”
He folded his arms over his chest and jutted his chin at her. “Who else would have followed me to Dora’s home? Who else would have turned into a bat and made a mess of her sheets? Who else has such contempt for humans?”
Paloma’s eyes fell shut and she sighed loudly. “Give me a fucking break, Lowell. I have better things to do than stalk you and interact with some woman’s laundry.” She curled her lips. “That’s just nasty.” She lifted her hand from the opaque contents of the pool and tapped its surface, creating plops and splashes in the mud. “Come on in, brother. You sound like you could use a soak.”
“Why should I believe you, Paloma? I know about the tricks you play with Calvin. You’re a vindictive wench at times.”
A mud-flecked Bantam rooster crowed and strutted to the edge of the tub. He tilted his head at Lowell and flapped his wings before rubbing the side of Paloma’s dirt-caked head with his beak. “You’re pissing off Spare Tyre,” she mumbled, eyes still closed. “Just get in here, okay? You’ll feel better.”
“Fine.” Fuming, Lowell undressed and tossed his clothing and boots aside. He sank into the warm mud bath across from his sister. “Ahhh,” he breathed. “That’s nice.” Lowell’s head disappeared beneath the surface, then re-emerged, slick as a seal and coated in silt. Lowell wiped the mud from his eyes and rested his shoulders on the side of the pool. “Well, then,” he asked, “who do you suppose did it?”