With an Extreme Burning (15 page)

“Graphic in parts, is it?”

“Not as graphic as a lot of novels.”

“Don't tell me you read sexy novels.”

“Sometimes. Don't you?”

“I confess: now and then.”

“Don't you think I'm old enough?”

“Do
you
think you're old enough?”

“Sure I do.”

“Then so do I. You're a mature young woman. And sex is a very important part of life, isn't it.”

“Yes.”

“Very very important,” he said.

He was leaning on the counter, casually, his face not more than eighteen inches from hers. Their eyes were locked. Amy couldn't have looked away if she'd wanted to, and she didn't want to. He had gorgeous eyes, with the longest, sexiest lashes. Looking into them, up close like this, made her weak.

“Aren't you going to let me have it?”

“Let you … what?”

“The book,” he said, smiling. “I can't buy it if you don't ring it up.”

“Oh … the book.”

She had to force her gaze to the used copy of
Thy Neighbor's Wife;
and she was fumble-fingered when she opened it to look at the penciled price on the front endpaper. Her cheeks felt hot. He knows how I feel about him, she thought. He must know. Why else would he have started talking about sex?

It was quiet in the bookshop, so quiet she could hear the quick beat of her heart. There was nobody else there; Mr. Hallam had gone out a little while ago to run some errands. Just the two of them, alone together. It was the second time he'd come in this week, and on Monday she'd been alone in the shop, too. As if he'd been hanging around outside for just the right time to walk in.

“What's the damage, Amy?”

“Damage? Oh.” She rang up the price; the computerized register added the sales tax automatically. “Eight sixty-three,” she said.

He gave her a ten-dollar bill. His fingers brushed over her palm, seemed to linger there for an instant. It was like being touched with something electric. She could feel her nipples getting hard as she made change, as she put the dollar bill, the quarter, dime, and two pennies into his hand. Her turn to do the touching and lingering, with the same electric results. He noticed without seeming to notice. He was just so cool. Except for his eyes. There was nothing cool about his eyes.

“I won't need a sack,” he said.

“You can have one if you want. We have lots of bags.” The words just popped out of her mouth. God, what a stupid thing to say!

“Not necessary.” He picked up the book, took a few steps away from the counter, stopped, and turned to face her again. “I just had a thought,” he said.

“Um … thought?”

“When I finish reading this, maybe we can discuss it—analyze it. Would you enjoy that?”

“Yes. I would.”

“Just the two of us.”

“Just the two of us. Where?”

“Oh, we'll find someplace quiet.”

“… All right.”

“And we can talk about you. I'd like to know more about you, your plans, how you feel about different things.”

“So would I. I mean, I'd like to know more about you, too.”

“Well, then, we'll definitely do it. As soon as I finish reading the book.”

“Are you a fast reader?” That just popped out, too.

He laughed. “Not too fast, not too slow. I like to savor things, the good things in life. Don't you?”

He didn't give her a chance to answer. He turned again and sauntered out.

There was a stool behind the counter; Amy sank down on it. Her nipples were still hard, her palms damp. The way she felt … it was like the first time she'd gone all the way with Davey, right before, while he was taking off her clothes. Pure body heat.

I really must be crazy, she thought.

She closed her eyes and imagined what it would be like making love with him, with a man instead of a boy.

It was a quarter after five when she turned her Honda onto Shady Court. Mom wasn't home yet; the driveway was empty. Amy parked in front in case she decided to go out again later on.

There was a package on the front porch. Wedged in between the screen door and the house door.

UPS, she thought, must be for Mom. She bent to pick it up, was surprised and pleased when she saw that it was addressed to Ms. Amy Bracco and Ms. Francesca Bellini. She didn't recognize the writing; it had been done with a black felt-tip pen in a funny kind of back-slanted block printing. There was no return address. And UPS hadn't brought it either. At least there was no UPS sticker on the brown wrapping paper.

A present for both of them? But from who … whom? It was about the size of a dress box and it had been sealed with filament tape. Whatever was in it, it didn't weigh much: the package was so light, it might have been empty. Maybe it was a joke. Amy shook it up close to her ear. No, she could hear something moving around inside. A mystery. Good, she liked mysteries. Especially the kind you could solve in about three minutes.

She let herself in, took the package into the kitchen, and set it on the table. In the utility drawer by the sink was a pair of scissors. She was about to start cutting the filament tape when the phone rang.

She turned toward it, caught for an instant between the lure of the package and the summons of the bell. Then she remembered Mom's orders to let all calls go on the machine, because of the weirdo. She stayed where she was, waiting. The volume on the machine was turned up as far as it would go, so you could listen to anybody leaving a message.…

Dad. When she heard his voice she felt a mix of pleasure and anger, the same as always. More pleasure than anger now—she'd pretty much forgiven him for walking out on her and Mom—but forgiving wasn't forgetting. And loving your father didn't mean you had to like him one hundred percent either, not the way you had when you were a little girl.

He was calling for her, not Mom. She moved fast and got the receiver up before he finished with his message. “Daddy, hi, I'm here.”

“Princess. Perfect timing.”

“Did you say something about this weekend?”

“Wondering if you had any plans.”

“No plans. Why?”

“Not going anywhere with your mother?”

“She has to work and so do I.”

“Well, how'd you like to spend part of the holiday with us at the Dunes?”

“You and Megan?”

“Tony's coming, too.”

Oh, God, Tony.

“He's driving up Saturday night,” Dad said. “With his new girlfriend, so you don't have to worry about him putting any more moves on you.”

“That'll make it pretty cramped.”

“We'll manage. How about it, princess?”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning. You could drive here then, or come up tonight and stay over.”

“Don't
you
have to work tomorrow?”

“Nope. Job site's shut down until Tuesday.”

“I wish Hallam's was shut down, too, but it's not.”

“Call in sick. Tell old man Hallam you've got the flu or something.”

Mom was right: Same old Chet Bracco, no sense of responsibility. When he wanted something—or somebody—he told lies and made excuses so he could get it, and he thought everybody else should do the same. “I don't know,” she said. “I don't think so. Besides, Mom wouldn't like it.”

“Lot of things your mom doesn't like. Me included.” He laughed. “We'd really like you to come, princess. I know how much you love the Dunes.”

She did love the Dunes. The cottage was on a remote part of the Mendocino coast, near Manchester State Beach. Nothing much around it but sand dunes and ocean for miles and miles. Supposed to be part of a big development twenty years ago, like Sea Ranch; streets had been laid out, all paved, with names and signposts, but most of them didn't lead anywhere because the developer had gone broke after putting up just a few cottages. The Dunes was set off by itself, on high ground so you had a view of the ocean, with the nearest neighbor several hundred yards away. Funky and kind of eerie, especially in foggy or rainy weather. Not a place you wanted to live in year round—you'd be bored out of your skull after a while—but for a few days or even a week it was super fine. Walk on the beach, read, or just sit and think, and nobody around to hassle you.

She'd been six when Mom and Dad bought the cottage. They'd stayed up there four or five times a year back then, before Dad started messing with other women. Or anyway, before he quit trying to hide the fact that he was messing. Then they stopped going so often, and in the year or so before he moved out they hadn't gone at all. Sometimes she wished Mom hadn't let him keep the Dunes as part of the divorce settlement, even if it had helped buy them this house. Not only wasn't it
theirs
anymore, it wasn't
hers
either. Three times she'd gone with Dad since the divorce and it was as if she were a visitor, a person in a rented place. Megan was part of the problem, too. She didn't like Megan. Big phony blonde with tits out to there and the dirtiest laugh … it didn't take a genius to figure what Dad saw in her. But God, she was such an airhead. All she talked about was clothes and food and what she liked on the tube, and all she'd done the one time the three of them went to the Dunes together was stare at a battery-operated TV she'd brought along so she wouldn't miss any of her soap operas or
Oprah
or silly sitcoms. Then there was Tony, her son by some guy in the navy. He was
such
an asshole. Five minutes after they met he'd started coming on to her. Another five minutes, if she hadn't blown him off cold, he'd have had his hand down her blouse. Four days at the Dunes would be good if it were just her and Dad. But with Megan and Tony and Tony's new bimbo … a weekend from hell. The walls at the cottage weren't all that thick. She could just imagine the sounds at night. A regular symphony of moans and groans and grunts and squeaks …

“Amy? You still there?”

“Yes, Dad. Just thinking.”

“So how about it? You coming?”

No, she thought, and I'll be the only one who isn't. She stifled a giggle. “I'd better not. Mr. Hallam's counting on me, and with school starting on Tuesday … Another time, okay?”

“Okay. But if you change your mind …”

“Maybe you and I could go sometime,” she said impulsively, “just the two of us.”

“Sure we can.”

But she could hear the faint hesitancy in his voice, and that was what made her say, “Like we used to when we were a family, before you left home.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, “I've got a new home now. Another family, too, maybe. Megan and me, we may get married one of these days. How about that?”

“Great.” Shitty.

“Well … you take care, huh? Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Amy put the receiver down. He doesn't want to be alone with me, she thought, at the Dunes or anywhere else. He doesn't know what to say to me when we're alone. He doesn't know me and I don't know him, not anymore.

What if I never did?

The thought depressed her. Better think about something else, something pleasant…
him
? No, not him. Whatever happened would happen, and fantasy-tripping wasn't going to make it happen any faster. All fantasy-tripping did was get you horny. The package. Maybe there was something in the package to cheer her up.

She picked up the scissors, cut the tape at both ends, and stripped off the brown wrapping paper. Inside was a gift box wrapped in fancy gold paper. No bow, and no card either. Probably a card inside, she thought. She pried one end of the gold paper loose, being careful not to rip it. It was expensive-looking and it could be used again.

Mom was home. She always came zooming into the driveway, gunning the wagon's engine like Richard Petty or somebody.

Amy thought: Oh, no, I've done all the work opening it, I get to look first. Quickly, she slit the Scotch tape on the other end with her fingernail and peeled off the gold paper. Then she lifted the lid on the box. Tissue paper, wads of it. Smiling, eager, she pulled it apart, spread it so she could see what was hidden inside—

She was staring into the box, not smiling anymore, when Mom came in. The sound of the back screen door banging made her jump. But it didn't make her stop staring.

“Amy? What's the matter?”

“Look.”

Mom came over and looked. Amy heard her suck in her breath, make a noise like a dog growling.

“For God's sake! Where did you get this?”

“It was on the porch when I got home a few minutes ago. It was addressed to both of us, so I—”

“Your name, too? Where's the wrapping?”

“Right there on the chair …”

Mom found it, uncrumpled it so she could look at the block printing. Amy kept staring into the box; she couldn't seem to take her eyes off the three things in the nest of tissue paper. There were goose pimples all over her.

A white bra with embroidered rosettes, one cup almost completely burned away, the rest of it scorched and smoke-streaked.

A pair of blue monogrammed panties, torn, burned like the bra.