Long Summer Nights (6 page)

“Right.” Aaron blinked and focused on the snake. It wasn’t that big. Not life-threatening. Although it did look slightly aroused.

With a pitying smile, he picked up the little guy and carried him outside where he threw it in the grass. “You’ve been kicked out, dude. Sorry.”

While he watched the snake slide away, he wondered what was he supposed to do now? More torn than he cared to admit, he stared at the open entrance to the showers, trying to decide if he was supposed to go back to the cabin and find the perfect metaphor for the protagonist’s final betrayal of everything that he believed in. Or was he supposed to return to the showers?

To check on her. To make sure everything was okay. See if she was calm or needed assistance.

Oh, yeah, Mr. Boy Scout. Who are you fooling with that one?

He walked in, all earnest concern. “Jennifer?” The water was still streaming, and there were no feet on the floor.

“Jennifer?” he asked, feeling something that could be panic lodged in his throat.

Quickly he pulled aside the curtain and took in her pale face. He sighed. No panic necessary. “It’s okay now.”

“I don’t want to touch the floor,” she muttered.

“Do you want me to help?” were the first words out of his mouth, which should have been a big clue that something was wrong. Thoughtful? Conscientious? Not in this lifetime.

“Please,” she said, and Aaron took a deep breath. He was
going to have to do this. He was going to have to touch her. He would be expected to hold her and there could be no gratuitous touching. This wasn’t sexual. This was comfort, and damned if he knew what that entailed. Some men were born with the knack of knowing exactly what to say and what to do. Aaron was not one of them.

“I’m going to step in, and I’ll grab you around the waist,” he said very precisely, talking to himself, as much as her. “Grab my neck. We’ll be fine.” He was very proud of that last bit. That was definitely comforting.

He stepped into the stall, water blasting his clothes, and very carefully he locked his hands around her waist. He did not look at the two pert mounds that he had groped under the moon. He did not look at the sun-touched nipples that made his mouth water. Determinedly, he dragged his eyes to her face.

She looked as if she was about to faint.

“Grab my neck,” he told her, and felt her arms lock around him in a death grip.

“I hate snakes,” she whispered.

“Apparently they like you,” he said, carrying her to the bench. He sat down, expecting her to move from his lap, expecting her to leap up and get dressed, but she didn’t move. Oh, God.

Then the tears started.

She had a nice face. A warm gold with splotches of freckles. The water had darkened her hair to the color of wheat at twilight. But it was the eyes that were killing him. Wide, glimmering. Vulnerable.

Aaron hated vulnerable.

He pressed her face against his chest, hiding those soul-destroying eyes before he turned into a man he couldn’t
respect. “It was a grass snake. No big deal. Couldn’t have hurt you if it wanted to.”

“It was slimy and it crawled on me,” she mumbled, her body shivering from fear, cold and the possible realization that Aaron wasn’t good at showing concern.

His hands did not palm her well-formed ass as they yearned to do. Instead they stroked her back. It was awkward and clumsy but she didn’t seem to notice. He could smell her shampoo, perfumed and vivid, probably with a name like River Flower or something equally silly. But the artificial smell didn’t roll his stomach as it normally would. He liked it.

It was a testament to his steely determination that he could ignore the two unsinkable nipples that were slowly burning a permanent scar into his bare skin until she moved away from him. And yes, finally realizing that modesty did have a prudent purpose in life, she reached for her pile of clothes and held them to her chest.

They almost covered her and a more honorable man might have politely looked away.

“Thank you,” she told him, sounding grateful and sincere, as if he had actually helped the situation instead of exploiting it for his own lurid benefit. Her gratitude was a plus.

“Not a big deal,” he said casually, all while thinking he’d love to do it again. His body badly wanted sex, but his mind knew better.

Since he’d lived in the cabin, sex hadn’t been one of his drives. Nine years ago he’d learned his lesson, learned what happened when the cock ruled the head, but not anymore. Now when he needed sex, he went to another town and found an anonymous naked blonde. For a few hours he would satisfy himself, before returning to his work. There were rules against creating a mess where you slept,
so he was careful never to bring sex into the sanctuary he’d made.

Aaron was a cold-blooded SOB that wouldn’t think twice about sleeping with Jenn, watching her leave and calmly returning back to his self-styled exile.

Still his gut—the very gut that told him when a scene was off—cramped badly at the thought and told him to leave her alone.

Normally he obeyed his instincts, and Aaron would hack and cut, not worrying about the amount of work that he lost. But not this time.

She would be leaving soon and he might as well take advantage while he could.

While he was still congratulating himself on his new plan, she stood, and again he got that kick in the gut. Okay, Jenn was not shy about her body. What happened to modesty? Modesty was good. Modesty was smart. Modesty kept his cock from forgetting its place.

“I’ll get dressed,” she said, grabbing a pair of jeans, raising one leg to step into them, her legs splaying in a thoughtless, ordinary manner that caused him to moan.

She stopped, her efficient fingers poised at the base of her fly. “Problem?” she asked, her glistening breasts defying him to utter meaningful words.

Mute, he shook his head. Then, because no, that wasn’t enough torture for him, she pulled the thin T-shirt over her wet head, over her still damp flesh, over her perfectly formed breasts.

The useless material dampened to what could only be called transparency, clinging to her curves as faithful and true as his hands longed to do.

“Don’t you have a towel?” he croaked.

“Nope,” she replied before heading out, leaving Aaron
staring at the space her bare body had occupied only moments before. It was a long time before Aaron could move.

Hell.

T
HE COBBLESTONES THAT
rimmed the main square of town would have been hell on tires—if cars were allowed.

The main thoroughfare of Harmony Springs was closed off to all but walking traffic. Possessing a keen marketing skill that Jennifer could admire, the townspeople had long ago suspected that city people would adore walking without horns honking or the fear of being sideswiped from the sidewalk.

The townspeople had been right, Jenn thought. It was a great day for aimlessly walking in the warm sun. Today she’d worn a sleeveless tank, partly playing the role of the wide-eyed tourist, and partly because a little color on her pale arms would be nice. Maybe she wouldn’t have a job when she went home, but she’d have a tan. It wasn’t going to put food on the table, but she clung to the thought.

Actually, while she strolled through the town, it wasn’t too hard to be a tourist. The store windows were strategically designed to attract the eye with richly colored glass of blues and reds and greens. Old-fashioned toys spilled out of paisley-lined trunks.

Diamonds and gold gleamed in the window of the local jeweler. And then there were the clothes. A woman could
spend a fortune in this town on clothes. And most required washing by hand.

What a crock, what a scam…what a great little skirt in royal-blue, and it would be perfect against the new tan that she was developing. She was just contemplating the overpriced tag, wondering if food was really a necessary requirement for survival, when her phone rang.

Oh, yes, yes! Oh, brave new world that hadn’t forgotten her.

On the other end was Martina DiCarlo, a coworker at the paper, sometime drinking buddy, longtime friend in times of misery and need.

“You’ve got a problem,” Martina stated, a happy way to kick off a conversation.

“Worse than my existing problem?”

“A gazillion times worse. Quinn’s given Lizette the Palermo scandal.”

Martina was right. It was worse. “My story on the Harmony Springs Summer Nights Festival will be measured against the shocking downfall of one of the most beloved members of the city council?”

“Looks that way.”

“Tell me why I wanted to do this job?”

“You wanted to right the wrongs in the world. You wanted to fight for truth, justice, and the American Way.”

Yes, Martina was making a joke, but there was a certain truth in it. “God, I was a sap.”

“When you said it, I thought it sounded noble. Sappy, naive but noble.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Enjoy the vacation, plot new career strategies.
That,
my friend, is the American Way.”

“I’m getting a tan. Freckles.” Objectively she studied
her arms. “Okay, it’s a slight sunburn. You know, I would enjoy the vacation part if my cabin was a little nicer. We have community showers,” she started, then trailed off as she remembered the events of this morning, the sight of her hero fumbling his way into a rescue, the dazed shock in his eyes as she shamelessly flaunted her nakedness in front of him.

Those were good times.

Little did she suspect that one-star accommodations could actually be fun.

Suddenly a sneaking suspicion occurred to her, probably only because of its very deviousness. “Did Lizette have anything to do with my travel reservations?”

Martina hummed for a bit, the way she did when she was thinking. “Well, Alfonse handles the bookings. He likes short skirts and see-through blouses, and I’d lay odds his professional ethics could be bent.”

Yes, another woman using her seductive wiles to get what she wanted. That hussy. “She did it. I know it. Lizette sidled in there, asking for a little favor, all while leaning over his desk, fluttering those come-hither lashes like he was the sexiest man alive. Poor Alfonse never stood a chance.”

“Want me to confirm?” asked Martina, ever the intrepid reporter.

However, Jenn knew a good opportunity for self-pity when she heard it. Right now, in absence of chocolate-fudge-brownie ice cream, she needed it. “No need for verification. Even if she didn’t, I’d feel better thinking she did, so let me savor my petty grievances.”

“She
is
sleeping with Howard. That’s not so petty.”

“You’re right. That’s downright shitty. See? You cheered me up. Be proud, Martina. You’ve done your good deed for the day.”

“So, any great leads up there? Something exciting?”

“The exciting kind of something that will move papers?”

“Does that question to a question indicate there is something exciting?”

“No, there’s nothing,” answered Jenn, not wanting to sound defensive but sounding defensive.

Martina, being a good and true friend, knew denial when she heard it, laughed in that mocking scoffing you-can’t-lie-to-a-good-and-true-friend sort of way. “There are only three things that can make a woman sound like that—going overbudget on clothes, gorging on food or going down on a man.”

“My emotional happiness is not dependent on the influence of a man.”

“Is your name Gloria Steinem? Do you own a vibrator? If the answer to these questions are no and no, then yes, your sexual happiness is dependent on a man.”

“I own a vibrator. And you said sexual happiness,” she argued. “I said emotional.”

“Which is an excellent point, diverting the conversation from the more important questions, who is he, how did you meet him and is he providing you with sexual happiness?”

“You’re such a slut,” shot back Jenn, a diversionary tactic designed to hide her recent foray into diversions.

“Please, you are so transparent. Gratuitous name-calling will not sway me from my purpose, and only make me more curious about what you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” protested Jenn.

“Has he seen you naked?”

“Does everybody have to keep talking about naked?”

“Aha! He has seen you naked! Now who’s the slut, slut?”

“We haven’t had sex.”

“Full-frontal foreplay without stealing home? Fascinating. It gives him depth, character, mystery. Where does he live? Lower East Side? Tribeca?”

“Harmony Springs.”

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. Does he have all his teeth?”

Jenn snorted in disgust. Why, it sounded exactly like her two days ago. “Do you know how shallow and prejudicial that sounds? There are many people in this town who have excellent dental health. More so than the city frankly.”

“So why does he live there? Why doesn’t he live in Manhattan?”

“I don’t know.” It was the mystery to end all mysteries. He didn’t have the small town vibe about him, that easygoing friendliness that populated small towns all over America.

“Maybe he likes the small town life better?”

Jenn considered it for a minute. “Is that possible?”

“I don’t think so.” Martina was silent, mulling the idea. “What the hell. Ask him. Unless you, Ms. ‘I Live To Poke In People’s Lives,’ have suddenly gotten shy.”

No, shyness had never been her problem. “I asked. He avoided.”

“Do you need help? I could take the train up there,” Martina volunteered, because in many ways she was just as nosy as Jenn. “We could do good cop, bad cop. I’ll be good cop, you can be bad cop. You’re a lot meaner than I am.”

“Don’t come up here.”

“Why?”

“I have work to do. Real work. This isn’t a vacation. This is my life. What am I going to do if I get laid off?”

“It’s going to be okay. Labor numbers are looking good.”

“What about the April circulation numbers for the paper?”

“Eh…. They could be better.”

“Thank you for being honest. Depressing but honest.”

“You’re going to be fine, Jenn. You’re good at what you do. Worst case, if Lizette ends up staying and you’re cut, you’ll land somewhere else.”

Martina made it sound too easy, but Jenn had clawed and schlepped her way up the ladder, and her nature did not lend itself to clawing and schlepping. She was better at shooting the breeze and chewing the fat.

“Do you know the lectures I’m going to get from my parents? The unsaid I-told-you-so’s which are so much worse than the real I-told-you-so’s because you both know they’re thinking it, so why not say it? Since I was eight, I’ve had to listen to ‘pick a viable career.’ And what’s journalism? Chopped liver? I tell you, it’s enough to make me whine and kvetch incessantly, repetitively and every other -ly adverb that I’m supposed to avoid.”

“You do get redundant when it comes to your parents, repeating the same thing over and over, ad nauseum et cetera.”

Jenn started to laugh, glad that Martina had called. Friends were good. Friends were comfortable. Friends reminded her not to second-guess herself. As opposed to family, who made her question herself on a regular basis.

“Sorry for the replay. I suppose I’m wasting your minutes. I’ll shut up now and go seek out cool and interesting things to write about.”

“You sound stressed. You know what works for stress? Sex.”

“Hanging up now,” Jenn said, and pressed the disconnect button.

Immediately her phone beeped again. No call, just a text message. Get laid.

Jenn popped her phone into her purse and sighed.

Orgasms should have counted as stress-busters, but somehow the anticipation of more only made the stress worse.

L
ATE THAT AFTERNOON SHE
discovered Frank’s Ice Cream and Carbs. At first she thought it was a slap in the face to dieters everywhere, but once inside she discovered that the carb in the name referred to carburetors, not carbohydrates.

Clever.

Already she liked Frank, whoever he was.

She was.

Frank was actually Frankie, a crusty old redhead with grease on her coveralls and a pink bandana in her hair. Instantly Jenn was curious. The store was a small ice-cream parlor with a working garage next door. Apparently Frankie was not only chief mechanic, but also head ice-cream scooper, as well. Dual-career opportunities. Smart, very smart.

Frankie was buried under the open hood of a car, and Jenn ducked her head low in order to see…a lot of dirt and grease and car stuff. “So how did you end up as a mechanic?” she asked.

The woman poked at the engine, and then wiped at her face, leaving two streaks of grease. Jenn realized that if she took up auto repair, her parents would have a heart attack. “Got started by necessity more than anything. Had a 1976 Opal. Piece of shit car that always broke down. I was working four jobs to keep the car running, but eventually I told myself, ‘Self, you need to rise above this one. You need to learn to fix cars.’ Now, in Peekskill where I lived,
there was quite a few mechanics, but in Harmony Springs? Nada. After very little debate, I decided to buy out the ice-cream parlor, build out a few bays and ta-da. Originally it was Frankie’s, but the town patriarchy was nervous about entrusting their precious wheels to a woman. Sexist pigs. So I changed the name to Frank’s, and eventually my multitude of skills won them over.”

She rubbed her hands on the blue coveralls, looking comfortably knee-deep in grease. Another contented resident. A cheery bell dinged, signaling a customer in the store. Jenn followed after her, watching as Frankie washed her hands, put on a red-striped apron and then dipped two scoops of Rocky Road for a freckle-faced kid. Inside the store were a small group of metal parlor tables, and two old men playing chess, and in the far corner, someone was hidden behind a copy of the
Times.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Long enough. Too long.”

“You know anything about an old literary group that used to meet up here? Some famous book types is what I heard. Is that true or just marketing spin?”

In the corner, the newspaper shook, and Jenn looked over, wondering exactly who was behind the newspaper and then told herself to get back on task.

“Book people?” Frankie laughed, not an encouraging sound. “Don’t know that. I usually didn’t ask who did what or how the engine gaskets get blown. You got some names?”

“No. Just some old articles that made it sound like some hush-hush weekend gatherings.”

Frankie brushed a strand of hair from her face and then thought for a minute. “There was a group of psychics. A metaphysical guru, but they didn’t believe in cars. If you ask Sheriff Phelps, he might help you out.”

“Psychics? Real ones?”

“Is there such a thing?” she asked, one hand cocked on her hip.

“I guess not,” answered Jenn, not that she wanted to believe in psychics, but the plausibility of a paranormal reality made for great reading. She leaned over the glass ice-cream case, eyeing the flavors, and realized that it was almost time for lunch.

“You have chocolate-fudge-brownie ice cream here?”

“I have chocolate fudge. I have brownies. Want me to smash them up for you?”

“Yeah.”

“And if you write this one up, make you sure you get the name right.” Frankie dipped the scoop in hot water and prepared to make some high-fat paranormal magic. It wouldn’t make news, but it made happiness. Jenn would take what she could get.

D
IDI SHOWED UP
precisely at noon, which was proof of her more bloodthirsty nature, but today Aaron was prepared. Today he’d fought a harmless snake and won. Today he’d braved a naked Jennifer, and nearly survived the experience.

After all that, Didi seemed almost mundane. But to be on the safe side, he’d scattered papers here and there, marked up pages and opened the Oxford English Dictionary to the letter
M.
In short, he looked like a writer buried in his work.

“You have been busy, I see,” she pronounced, picking up a discarded page, before he grabbed it out of her hands. “How can you abide this prison? There are no skyscrapers, no pastrami, and…you’ve forgotten to shave. Are you chopping wood and wearing flannel, as well? Oy.” She dusted the seat of his battered rocker, but eventually gave up and
stood, casting him a damning look in the process because being uncooperative was what Didi did best. They had that in common.

“Did you bring the food?” he asked.

“Squash, ground lamb and the bone meal. A diet without calcium is not good for your bones. You should take supplements, too. I brought you a bottle, but I’m sure you’ll only throw them away.”