Authors: Gwen Jones
“Why?” Was he leaving? “Where are you going?”
“I have to take that raccoon carcass to the police station so they can get it tested for rabies, so I’ll—”
“Wait,” I said, suddenly wanting him to stay very badly. A bit of pre-guilt, maybe, for the little deception I’d commit while he was gone. “I . . . have a bite on my ankle I can’t reach.”
He sunk back to the edge of the tub, his hand skimming the water. “Where?”
I lifted my right leg, tea-water raining, exposing a particularly nasty greenhead chomp right above the anklebone. “There,” I said, waggling my foot, causing the water to ripple back and forth against my breasts. He cupped his hand under my leg and scratched at it; it felt so good I nearly purred.
He set my foot back into the water, his gaze caressing me. “You know, no matter what I put you through, you never look anything less than perfect.”
My goodness, the last thing I needed was another burn ripping through me. I pulled myself up, teabags plopping into the water as I leaned into him and curled my arm around his neck. “I’m just your poor comparison.”
“No. Never.” Andy’s arm slipped into the water and he kissed me, my chest soaking the front of his shirt as he pulled me from the water. His kiss felt subtly contemplative, as if each pass of his lips was a study in exactly how to please me.
But I was after something more. I unzipped his fly and slid my hands into his jeans, sliding them down the smooth slope of his ass.
“Christ . . .” he said, deep and throaty as he yanked me from the tub and set me atop the sink. He opened my still-streaming thighs and drove himself in.
“Ma femme,”
he said softly.
“Mon mari,”
I answered, to his apparent surprise.
When he kissed me I could tell he was smiling, which let me tell you, only made me feel worse.
I
WAS GETTING
vegetables anyway
. Which was how I’d justify snooping behind Andy’s back. I dressed quickly and, grabbing a basket, hurried out to the barn. When I got there I perched on an overturned bucket and, pushing aside the coffee cans, came face-to-face with a satellite phone.
The reporters in my newsroom would use them when they’d go overseas, and Richard, of course, had to have one. I turned it over and back, knowing this particular one was state-of-the-art, probably worth at least a couple thousand dollars, leather-encased, water and dust resistant, and capable of reaching across continents. In the private world it was a rich man’s toy, something I’m pretty sure Andy’s dad didn’t qualify for.
But what if it wasn’t his; what if it was Andy’s? This would explain why he didn’t carry a cell phone. So why would he need this? And why in the world would he hide it from me?
“Julie?”
I jumped, teetering on the bucket until I landed hard on one leg. “Ow! Uh—
Andy!” I cried, the phone to my chest. “What are—”
“I forgot to bring tomatoes for Jinks,” he said, staring at the phone he’d caught me with, red-handed. “Seems I kind of got distracted before I left.”
I coughed. “Yeah, well, uh . . .” I straightened my skirt. “I was going—”
“My father’s phone,” he said, glancing from it to me. “I see you found it.”
“No! I was just looking—” I sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not a very good liar. I got a glimpse of it this morning while getting Betsy’s feed, but I didn’t have time to look at it then.”
“So you waited until I left to look at it now,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“Yes—
no!”
I took exception. “You’re acting like I’m lying to you.”
“Are you?”
“Are
you?
” I countered, irked. I shoved the phone at him. “The cat’s out of the bag—you have a sat phone. Big freaking deal.” I brushed past him.
“Julie . . .” he said, catching my hand.
I turned, glaring.
He set the phone on a table. “I sent him the phone a year ago after Jinks wrote to me saying my father’d been diagnosed with liver cancer. Jinks had been trying to convince him to move to town, but he wouldn’t budge. Since there’s no service out here, I sent him this phone so he could call for help if he needed it.”
“Really? He needed a two thousand dollar Iridium phone, capable of calling around the world, to reach five miles into town?”
Andy exhaled, shaking his head. “No. But I had the vague hope maybe he’d also use it to call his son at sea.” He picked up the phone, staring at it. “I was wrong.”
I wanted to dive back into the lake. “Oh, Andy. Now I get why you married me for my body. You certainly didn’t do it for my brains.” I brushed my hand down his arm. “I’m so sorry for being an ass. I should’ve figured.”
“And I should’ve told you. Especially with no service out here, you’d need it in an emergency. I just wasn’t thinking. Here.” He handed it to me. “I’ll have it installed in the house.”
I looked to the wall; the charging station, though unplugged, was already set up. “No. It’s fine out here. At least we know where it is.”
He set it into the cradle, grasping me by my shoulders. “Forgive me?”
I laughed. “You’re joking, right? I’m such an idiot I’m surprised you’re not already looking for an annulment.”
He took me in his arms, kissing my forehead. “Hmm . . . well, I think there’d be a slight issue concerning the consummation . . .”
The Price of Infamy
F
ROM
J
ULIE
K
NOTT’S
J
OURNAL
1 September
The sun’s barely up, and I’ve been awake and running around since four
AM
, putting into practice what I learned from my boots-on-the-ground tutorial on farmwifery yesterday. I’ve already fed the chickens and gathered their eggs, fed Betsy and her calf and led her out to pasture, picked more lettuce and tomatoes, as well as yanked out some rather persistent weedage from the herb garden I weeded just the day before. (Andy’s “herb garden” is a continent away from the potted mint I had kept on our sink for Mojitos). While I did this, Andy hauled vegetables to the truck, as we’re selling them at a farm market today, something we’ll do for every Thursday through at least October, or as long as the vegetables hold out. This was after spending the previous day picking, separating, sorting and crating them (and getting my shoulders scorched, shame on me), and after Andy introduced me to a particularly vile concoction of manure, gypsum and food scraps known as a compost. Thank God, this will be something he’ll take care of, at least at this stage, as it seems we’ll be growing mushrooms in it, and the compost has to be turned with a pitchfork by hand. Since it’s nearly ready, he hopes to move the process to the pasteurization stage by next week. I have no idea what that entails, but I’m figuring it has something to do with the nicest structure on the farm, a spotless, temperature-controlled shed next to the barn, which seems just the perfect place to cultivate a food grown in horseshit.
Like me, Andy’s flying by the seat of his pants, and the thing I’d like to know is why. The more time I spend with him, the more I can see that although he seems accustomed to a bit of ruggedness, there’s a definite worldliness about him that belies all this earthiness. For someone who’s lived abroad and on the high seas, it just doesn’t make sense why he’d want to hunker down on a farm in the woods. But that’s what I’m here to find out, not that it’s easy—I swear the man could win medals for caginess. I figure it has something to do with his parents, something he rarely talks about, perhaps when he moved with his mother to France, and the circumstances that led them to go there in the first place. I couldn’t help but shake my head, thinking of the numerous ways that parents screw up their kids. At this point, I can’t even judge how well he’s done for himself, as I really have nothing to gauge him against. He’s so tight-lipped about his past. Not like I’m not trying to wheedle it out of him.
Still, in spite of all my intentions and subterfuge, I can’t help feeling like I’ve drawn the short straw. Here I am, hardly two days married, and who’d have ever thought I’d be feeding chickens and cows, aching in places I never knew existed, and sunburnt not from falling asleep outside the cabana, but from picking peppers and tomatoes? Gone are my civilized TV star pretentions: pedicure, facial, manicure, silk sheath, and Ferragamos, stripped by nature and all her basic imperatives. Who needs a good mineral salts scrub when my blooming calluses are so much more apropos?
But enough whining. It’s time to get out of this bathroom and go rustle up some breakfast. More fruit and cheese, I’m suspecting, and right now I’d kill for a cup of joe. So I’m off to rub two sticks together and get the fire started. Ah, wilderness.
I
FELT LIKE
I was cheating on my husband.
Andy dropped off eggs for Uncle Jinks while I waited in the gas station’s parking lot inside a truck packed with more of the same. I took out my phone and, finally getting service, texted Denny:
Hey wanted to let you know I’m ok out here in the stix!
Half a minute later I got back:
THK GOD! how r u? fukit im callin.
Two seconds later my phone rang. “Christ, Jules, why haven’t you called!”
Damn, it was good hearing Denny’s voice. “I wanted to, but there’s no service out at Andy’s place. Plus I get the distinct impression he doesn’t like cell phones.” There wasn’t any way I could explain it that would translate, especially after the sat phone incident the day before.
“Why? He doesn’t have you chained in the basement or anything, does he?”
“As far as I know, he doesn’t have a basement.”
“Exactly where did he drag you off to?”
Good question
. “Hard to say. It’s out in the middle of the woods. If you need to get ahold of me you could always leave a message on my phone, and I’ll pick it when I come into town. Or if it’s really important call that gas station number I gave you. Uncle Jinks will give us the message.”
“Uncle Jinks? Sound like a friggin’ cartoon character. Why don’t you just say to stop in Western Union and send a telegram? Or maybe get a homing pigeon and strap a message on its ass?”
“Denny, honestly, I’m fine. Andy has been more than . . .” I searched for the right word. “. . .
accommodating
.”
“Ohhh, now I’ve got it. You’ve just been too busy getting on it to call. I should’ve figured. After two years with that limpdick it’s like leaving the convent. And what a dick he actually is. Wait’ll I tell you what I heard.”
A door slammed; Andy was coming. “Oh damn—look, I got to go. You take care, and I promise to stay in touch.”
“Jules—what a minute—”
“Bye!” I rang off just as Andy opened the door.
He eyed the phone in my hand. “Letting them know you’re still alive?”
“I was just telling Denny where to find the body.” Damn; I was down to one bar. I dug into my purse for the changer. “Hey, you wouldn’t mind if I charged my phone, would you?”
“Why would I mind?” He eyed me curiously. “And why would you have to ask?”
“Well . . .” I shrugged. “I know how you feel about phones.”
“And how’s that?” he said, starting the truck.
I tried for diplomacy. “That they’re non-essentials. That you’d rather I didn’t use mine.”
“Really.” He seemed amused. “Have I ever said that?”
“Actually . . . no. But it’s the vibe I got.”
“Vibe.”
He pondered that a moment before he looked at me. “Julie, whichever way I feel, it applies to me, not to you. If you feel the need to stay connected with your people—for lack of a better descriptor—
back home
, go ahead. As for me . . .” He leaned over and, brushing his lips against my neck, whispered, “You’re all I need.”
I’d like to have melted into the seat. I dropped the phone back into my purse, my hand on his rock-hard thigh. “Well, when you put it
that
way . . .” I gave it a little squeeze. “Perhaps I’ll worry about it later.”
He gifted me with the barest of flinches. “The least of your worries, I’m sure.”
Shameless, he was, giving me a look that smoldered. “So, how’s Uncle Jinks?” I said, godawfully steady for someone ready to rip her clothes off.
Andy raked his hand through his hair. “Just fine. He says he has a surprise for us, a wedding present, but we won’t get it until next week.”
“Really? Did he say what it was?”
“Now what kind of surprise would it be if he had?” he said, pulling from the lot. “He did say it’s supposed to be delivered next Friday.”
“Hmm . . .
delivered.
Sounds big.”
“Well, you’ll have a week to speculate,” he said as we drove out of town.
Which didn’t take long. Iron Bog was no metropolis. We entered again into thick woods, the Pines enclosing us in dissipating early morning cool. I could tell it was going to be another hot one, but with Labor Day Weekend nearly upon us, I knew days like this wouldn’t last for long. Not that in this pre-air conditioned world, I would mourn the sweat already collecting on my chest. Still, the breeze felt good through the opened windows, whipping my haphazardly clipped hair against my neck, the air currents ruffling my skirt. I put a hand to my thigh, staying the cotton from riding higher.
Andy’s hand closed over it. “You look very pretty today,” he said, squeezing my fingers. “But then I haven’t noticed a day when you didn’t.”
I almost laughed. “Sunburnt, no make-up, hair a wreck, covered in bites and starting to sweat—you sir, haven’t the highest of standards.”
“Beauty in the raw.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. “I prefer it in its most unadulterated form. Plus . . .” His hand slid to my skirt, lightly skimming my inner thigh. “I know what lies beneath.”
I shivered—trying to ignore the unintended metaphor. Better to focus on where his implication would trail to later. I caught his hand, lightly shuttling it away. “Down, boy—don’t drive us off the road. And by the way, just where is this farm market?”
He flashed a portentous smile, so effortlessly sensual it was a wonder I didn’t swoon. “On Route 70. A big market with lots of different farmers, where you rent a table by the day. My father had always gone on Thursdays, so they saved the same spot and day for him every week, and now for us. You’d think with the Shore traffic he would’ve gone more than one day, but . . .” He shrugged. “Guess it cut in on his drinking time.”