Long Summer Nights (11 page)

For the next week, Aaron would risk Didi’s wrath and not worry about his writing. He would show Jennifer the town of Harmony Springs through unvarnished eyes. Hopefully there was enough material to keep her employed. Not that he was sure the material mattered. If her editor was sleeping with the other reporter, the decision might have already been made. Aaron knew that men could be bought off easily with sex. They could twist their principles into convoluted knots. And when great sex was involved, they could puff themselves up with self-importance and nobility. With the promise of a willing body underneath them, they suffered from delusions of grandeur and could be diverted from almost anything that was honest and true.

The great flaws of mankind. Sometimes fiction came from life, and sometimes—in a great screw of fate—life imitated fiction.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, J
ENNIFER
returned to her cabin, and there was a box outside her door. A very prosaic, cardboard box with a blue polka-dot bow. Instantly she attacked it.

Inside the box was a coffeemaker, some filters, a bean-grinder and a bag of dark roast Colombian beans. Giddy with excitement, she tore open the bag and inhaled, the magical aroma seeping into her senses.

It was a good ten minutes before the initial euphoria was over. Jenn moved the packages inside and laid them out in a line, debating the meaning behind the gift. She knew Aaron had given it to her. She knew playing Santa Claus didn’t come easily to him. So, either a) he wanted
something from her and was using bribery to get it, or b) he wanted to please her. She considered the implications of the first, but knew there wasn’t anything he could want from her that she hadn’t already given or was willing to give. Which left option B. He wanted to please her.

She hugged the coffee filters close to her heart and somewhere in the woods, the crickets began to sing.

Yes, he frustrated her, he infuriated her, he baffled her. But in spite of all that, she liked the burly edges to him, the socially awkward behavior, the hungry way he watched her when she was getting undressed, the dark light in his eyes when he moved inside her. All these things pleased her, but the coffeemaker touched her in other places. It wedged into the tiny cracks behind the intellect of her mind. It wiggled its way into little hollows that were precariously close to her heart.

Before this considerate gesture, she’d planned on going to town, planned on hitting the pavement in search of some angle for her article to achieve better job security, but now she wanted to say thank you. She wanted to watch the reaction on his face. Maybe see some flickering of feeling for her.
Maybe,
she thought.

Yes, Jenn was smart and wise in the ways of temporary men, and yes, she hadn’t considered anything beyond two weeks. Certainly he wasn’t the sort who did anything more than two weeks…but the idea of something more brought an idealistic smile to her face. The very sort of dreamy hopefulness that her parents had said had landed her with a Masters of Arts degree and a haphazard outlook on life.

As she ran toward his cabin, she nearly tripped over a rock, but she recovered her balance and slowed her pace. After she regained her composure and her breath, she smoothed her hair and rubbed her damp palms on her shorts.

The sounds of war were coming from his cabin; the typewriter was being pummeled. Aaron was hard at work, and would probably hate being disturbed. She knocked.

“Go away.”

“It’s Jennifer.”

There was a long silence, not the breathless race to the door she had imagined.

Eventually the door creaked open. “What?” he asked. Again, not the giddy can’t-wait-to-see-you-again she had imagined, but still, he’d opened the door. That counted.

“Thank you for the coffeemaker.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and then slammed the door in her face.

Instantly the typing started.

Once again, Jenn knocked on the door. Silence.

Eventually he opened it, after her knocking wore him down. “I said thank you,” she repeated.

“I know. I said you’re welcome.”

She peeked around him, staring at the inside of his cabin. It was a disaster. Paper balls littered the floor like a carpet, and Two was batting them around.

“You’re working,” she announced stupidly, wishing he could make this easier on her.

“You should be working, too,” he reminded her.

It finally dawned on her that she shouldn’t have come. She shouldn’t have thanked him. She shouldn’t have expected abrupt personality changes, and most of all, she shouldn’t care. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

She turned to go, not nearly so cheerful anymore, cursing her parents, cursing her poor career choices, cursing her poor men choices, and in general, cursing anybody that was happier than she was at the moment.

“Jennifer,” he called after her, but this time she was smarter and left. It was a lot better to hide her disappointment, to hide the hurt. He already thought she was gullible and foolish. Better to leave some doubt in the matter. “Jennifer?”

The terra firma of the forest snapped as he walked, so many living things breaking underneath his feet. The noise was a sharp reminder that although Aaron was a great lover and could seduce her mind and her body at will, he was also exceptionally talented at destroying things. “Wait.”

She stayed where she was, and sniffed delicately, solely to indicate her displeasure.

“I’m sorry. I was working,” he said.

Working? Was that what he called the hundreds of crumpled pages on the floor? “You were killing trees,” she argued, admiring his dedication and resenting it, as well.

“I’m killing trees one large forest at a time,” he said, and his voice was very soft and very gentle making it very hard to remain unmoved.

“I’m glad you liked the coffeemaker,” he said simply, followed by nothing by silence. No sentimental “thinking of you,” no flowery “I wanted to make you smile.”

“Is that all?” she asked, knowing that she should have held her tongue, but she wanted a little more. She wanted to know that she was unsettling his life as much as he was unsettling hers. It seemed only fair.

Instead of looking unsettled, he looked at her, eyes puzzled. “I think that’s all. Shouldn’t that be all?”

Pasting an understanding smile on her face, Jenn pushed a hand through her hair. Inside her mind, her rational self patiently explained to her emotional self that Aaron was not Lord Byron nor was he remotely emo. He didn’t spend his hours contemplating the wonderfulness of her, and
conversely he wouldn’t understand why a woman would want to interrupt his work in order to spend a few more seconds in his not-so-comfortable company. It was that absolute lack of basic human norms that touched her so deeply. “You’re right,” she told him.

Slowly he took her hand, his fingers clasping and unclasping on hers, looking almost unsettled. “I don’t do this well. It’s why I’m in the middle of nowhere, alone with my cat, because I usually end up pissing people off. I don’t want to piss you off. I’m sorry.”

Her rational self studied him, saw the hard detachment in his eyes, saw the brittle tension in his shoulders and knew that Aaron Smith stayed alone in his world, and that was the way he wanted it. But her emotional self, that one that wasn’t quite so logical, noticed he held on to her hand a little too long, a little too urgently, and a little too much like a man who didn’t want to let go.

For now, it was enough, and Jenn walked away with a smile.

I
T WAS A HOUSE THAT
had been both heaven and hell. Aaron had returned to Harmony Springs to prove to himself that it didn’t matter, that he could live within a memory’s reach and yet never return to his old life again.

Until now.

The old mansion stood high on the hill, as lofty as the occupants that had once lived there. Now the sunlight was not so kind. The paint was peeling, the hedges were overgrown and there was an old Beware Of Dog sign that had been posted for over thirty years. The sign had been Aaron’s inspiration. The others had laughed as if he was the most clever boy.

Jennifer held his hand as they walked around the deserted grounds. He noticed that she often held his hand as if she enjoyed touching him, as if she needed to touch him. Often he would touch her, as well. He told himself it was because she expected it and not for his desires. It was a good lie and served his mind well.

“What is this place?” she asked, leaning against the white picket fence, where the roses had once bloomed.

“It’s the summer home of Lillian Bose.”

“The writer? I didn’t know she had a place up here.”

“She used to host these literary salons, and she and her friends would sit for days dissecting a book, a paragraph, a single line, congratulating one another on their own cleverness. An incoherent analysis of Faulkner or a loose-tongued critique of
Dubliners.
Every Sunday evening she held a limerick contest. The prize was a bottle of Red Label. The Scotch was the only thing fit for public consumption.”

Jennifer walked up on the porch, peeking into the boarded-up windows, her eyes alight with great possibilities. The reality was not nearly so worthy. “Seriously? Literary salons? I never knew all this.”

“No one did. It was a big joke among the Ephemera’s Lament, that’s what they called themselves. The group would come up here during the summer, pull out the port because beer was too bourgeois, and then proceed to out-quip each other, dream up new stories, and then, when they were too drunk to stand, they’d have sex with whomever was close.”

“How do you know about all this?”

“When you live up here, you learn.”

“Do they still have the parties?” she asked, pulling out her phone and taking pictures of the old place.

“After Lillian died, the estate went to her daughter. Her daughter didn’t like the group, thought they were morally bankrupt. The salon stopped. A few years ago, the daughter lost everything. I think the state is haggling over back taxes.”

“What a crime. It should be a museum or something. There should at least be a plaque.”

There was nothing worth remembering of this place, but no matter how he tried, Aaron could still hear the drunken laughter, the jeering commentary and the incessant whine of his own voice. He had ached for his father to approve of him, abating himself to please the unpleasable man. It was
a long, long time before Aaron realized his father wasn’t worth the pain, but even with that hard-fought knowledge, the pain didn’t go away.

Alcohol numbed it, fame had diluted it, a Pulitzer had stopped the flow of arterial blood in it, but even after all the palliative remedies that he’d tried, the need for approval was still there, shivering in the cold corners of his soul. “Martin Turner wrote most of
The Coldest Season
here.”

“Get out! I loved that book. Walter was my favorite. It broke my heart when he died at the end. I wanted him to win.”

“He was based on the gardener’s son,” Aaron lied. Actually, Walter had been based on Aaron. “The
Times
came up here in the early seventies to do a profile.”

“They knew about it?”

“Hiram Miller, book reporter. He’d gotten a whiff, and wanted to see what it was about. He ended up drunk, naked and photographed in various compromising positions. The article was never written. The world chose to turn its back on the darker side of literary genius.”

“I could see that. Any witnesses I can talk to? Something more than vague recollections?”

Aaron looked away from the hopeful light in her eyes. Usually he liked to bask in the luminance, but sometimes, too much light was a bad thing, illuminating shadows that should stay in the dark. He coughed to cover his pause.

“I think most of the parties involved are either dead or would elect not to incriminate themselves, but talk to Mrs. Oliphant who runs the liquor store. She can give you some material. She’s old, but she’s still got a good memory.”

“You’re doing this for me? Thank you,” she told him, sounding so happy, so grateful, as if he’d done something special just for her. Her eyes watched him as if he’d just handed her the best present yet, and he felt an unfamiliar
twinge in his chest. The sort of twinge that reminds a man that he isn’t noble or heroic. In the end, he’s still the same selfish, self-protective turtle of a man that he’d always been.

When he was little, his imaginary world was a safe haven where he could go in peace. But as he got older, the shell had grown, hardened and turned into the wellspring from where he drew his art.

Back in the day, when his name was whispered with awe and respect, Aaron had prided himself on being as big and arrogant a bastard as his father. He acted without guilt or conscience because people knew Aaron and expected no less.

But Jennifer expected more from him, a hell of a lot more than he was capable of giving. Sometimes at night, when she was asleep in his arms, he dreamed and he wanted to be that man that she imagined him to be.

Because he wanted to make her happy, he pulled her into his arms and pressed his face to her hair. When they were alone together, he almost believed in the happy endings she sought.

T
HAT NIGHT THEY ORDERED
Chinese. He argued that MSG wasn’t healthy, but she hiked up the rock to the one shining spot where she could get a cell phone signal, then found a restaurant that was MSG-free. Aaron assumed the restaurant was lying, and Jenn finally convinced him when she explained that the real world was a much nicer place than the wasteland in his stories.

They ate in his cabin, and he told her about the summer of 1990, when Ephemera’s Lament had adopted a puppy because they wanted to contrast the pointless life of a dog to the pointlessness of man. When he talked about those days, he never expressed happiness or sadness or anger or
any emotion at all. There was no affection, no respect, no sense of presence, even though he had obviously been there. Another person might have colored the stories, exaggerated them for dramatic effect, but not Aaron. His eyes were carefully flat, and he talked in a narrative that conveyed absolutely nothing.

“What happened to the puppy?” she asked, wondering about the words left unsaid.

“He disappeared three weeks later. Lillian said that he ran away.”

“Did anyone look for him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Idly he picked at his noodles, while at the same time dodging her eyes. “They moved on to other things, horse racing at Sarasota, the physics of a bong and whether they could transform the housemaid into a princess and fool the governor with the charade.”

It all sounded like great fodder for her article, but she wasn’t interested in that right now. Instead she wanted to dig at the detail that seemed to bother him most. “What was the dog like?”

“Four legs. A tail. Ate.”

“Fuzzy?”

“No. It was some beagle mix.”

“I like beagles,” she told him, wanting him to tell her more.

“It’s only a dog.”

“Yeah,” she answered while she stared at the cat sitting atop the maze of bookcases, swishing his tail. “Why don’t you get a dog?”

“Dogs are a pain in the ass,” answered the man who spent four hours twice a week chopping up organic ingredients for an ungrateful cat that didn’t like to be petted.
She chose to withhold her psychological analysis of this contradiction in terms.

After dinner, she pulled out her computer, worked on a few articles, and let him help her. He liked to help her with her writing, and most of his suggestions were spot on. Perhaps there were people in the world who would refuse help from someone else, choosing to go it alone, and succeed on their own merits. Jennifer was not one of those people who she felt made up extra work for themselves when they could be getting more out of life.

And when she finished her work, one hour earlier than she had hoped, she pulled out a Scrabble game that she’d borrowed from Carolyn in the office.

“Do you play?”

At that, he looked more intrigued, his eyes narrowed. “Why don’t we make it interesting?”

“Betting?”

“Possibly.”

“For what?”

She could read all sorts of answers in his eyes, but he stayed silent, and she knew that this move was up to her.

“We could play strip Scrabble.”

He considered the option, and seemed to find it acceptable. “All right.”

There were problems with the Scrabble pieces. An over-abundance of the letters
E
and
N
but Jenn was on the case. Rather than having them draw from the pile, she split up the entire bag of letters, because frankly, rules were for losers. This was cottage-version Scrabble, so they’d use whatever tiles were in the bag. After a few moments she proudly submitted her first word.

E-M-B-I-T-T-E-R-E-D.

She grinned at him. “You owe me a shirt,” she said,
and watched with avid eyes while he efficiently pulled his cotton T-shirt over his head, and then stared at her blandly, which took some of the fun out of the game. Still, a shirtless Aaron was a feast for the eyes and she wasn’t going to complain.

“Your turn,” she told him, and he laid out his letters.

E-N-S-N-A-R-E-D.

“Very clever,” she said, leaning over the table, making sure he didn’t cheat, because he seemed like the type.

“You owe me a shirt,” he pointed out, and yes, she knew that, but she wanted him to say it.

She met his eyes, and her fingers went to her buttons, and slowly she slid them free, one by one, liking the way he watched her, liking the heaviness in the air. With elaborate presentation, worthy of the world’s best striptease, she slid one arm free, then another, until she stood there in a white lacy bra, that to be fair, was more revealing than not.

He didn’t seem to mind, and at the sharp tension in his face, she felt her body respond, felt her nipples peak. He noticed.

She cleared her throat, focused on the small tiles in front of her, clearing the fog from her vision. Eventually she found a word.

E-N-R-A-P-T-U-R-E-D.

Proud of her efforts, she raised her brows. “Pants, please.”

He stood, shucked his pants with the same calm efficiency as before. Okay, not there yet. Still, there was something very vulnerable about a man in plain white briefs. For instance, the heavy bulge that showed through, peeking out the band at his waist. She stared at his cock, stared at his face, and was pleased to see a slow flush before he sat down.

“My turn,” he said, rearranging his tiles, pretending complete concentration. She wasn’t fooled.

E-N-G-R-O-S-S-E-D.

He stared, smiled slowly, cruelly. “Pants, please.”

She unzipped her jeans, pushed them down, not as elegant as going topless, but he didn’t mind. The tiny scrap of lace that covered her crotch seemed to be a big hit, and she noticed the way his fingers tightened into fists. Very tense fists.

She sat in her chair, leaned over the table and stuck one finger in her mouth, sucking mildly. His look was not amused.

“Can we play?”

“I thought we were,” she answered in transparent white lace and a transparent lack of sexual scruples, looking as innocent as physically possible.

She looked at her letters. Laughed.

E-N-L-A-R-G-E.

“Your underwear is mine, mister,” she bragged, leaning back in the chair, feeling more confident than she should.

Instead of standing, he bent down and removed one white athletic sock, waving it like a flag. “Not yet.”

“Spoilsport,” she muttered, and Two, not liking the tone, hissed from above.

He laid out his letters on the little wooden tray.

E-N-S-L-A-V-E-D.

He raised a brow. “Do you have socks? Oops. Now, if had you dressed with more practical footwear, you might be feeling a little less naked.”

She glared at him, and removed her bra with more malice than seduction. There was a nice moment when she saw him swallow at the sight of her bare breasts. Feeling spiteful, she brushed at one heavily aroused nipple, clearing
away a not-so-imaginary speck of devilment. Aaron stared, heavy lidded, and she politely refrained from peeking under the table. The man was on his last legs. She knew, he knew it. The American people knew it.

She picked at the tiles and fluffed at her hair, before laying them out.

E-N-D-E-A-R-I-N-G.

“If you were a brave man, you wouldn’t worry about that extra sock.”

He didn’t answer, but took off his second sock and gazed impassively.

She locked her thighs together and shifted in her seat.

E-M-B-U-G-G-E-R.

She looked at the letters and frowned. “I don’t think that’s a word.”

“Marquis de Sade, eighteenth century. To bugger. There’s an
OED
in the corner. You can look it up.”

Feeling more than a little miffed, she stood up, shucked the last scrap of silk and sighed. “You win,” she pronounced, never having claimed to be a gracious loser.

“You still have more tiles.”

“Look at me,” she protested, casting her hand down her body in case he missed that fact. “I don’t have anything left to lose.”

He sat, silent and thoughtful. “There are options,” he finally said, at last getting into the spirit of what strip Scrabble was supposed to be about.

Somewhat mollified, she sat down, squirmed in her seat, realizing that perhaps there was something arousing about playing Scrabble in the nude.

E-N-T-R-E-Z V-O-U-S.

She shot him a flat look, daring him to protest.

He cleared his throat. “Foreign is allowed?” he asked.