Beach Town (16 page)

He fit a key into a door recessed into the wall behind the counter and flipped another switch, which illuminated a wide stairway.

The landing at the top of the stairs faced a tall set of heavy wooden barn-type sliding doors. Eb yanked a metal handle and the door rolled back. He flipped another switch and gestured inside.

“My crib.”

She was looking at a long, wide, open space. If they'd been in Greenwich Village she'd have called it a loft. But here, in Cypress Key, it was just the space above the Hometown Market.

The walls were of exposed, whitewashed brick with plaster still clinging to some portions. The floors were of wide dark pine planks, and were gouged and scratched and grease stained in spots.

Stuff was everywhere. The walls held at least a dozen worn and rusted metal trade signs. A huge, billboard-sized yellow and red
SUNBEAM
bread sign was tacked to the wall just inside the door. She spotted a four-foot-diameter
COKE
button sign, a neon-scripted advertisement for Salem cigarettes, and a large wooden cutout of an ice-cream cone, listing eight different flavors.

Greer turned to Eb. “I'm speechless.”

He shrugged. “I guess you could say I'm a pack rat.”

She walked around the room, pausing to take it all in. In front of a black potbellied stove, a pair of tufted black leather Chesterfield sofas faced each other across an Oriental rug so worn you could see patches of floor in some places. The coffee table was a stack of wooden pallets topped with a thick slab of irregularly shaped marble. Lamp tables were made of what looked like upended wooden produce crates.

“Where?” Greer asked. “Where did you get all this amazing stuff? You've got an entire movie prop house, just in this living room.”

“Most of it's just junk,” Eb said. “Lots of times, when I sell a house, the owners just give me stuff they don't want to take with them. Or people leave stuff in rental houses when they move. That rug there, I found rolled up underneath an abandoned house. The signs, most of them were behind the market, in a storage shed, when I bought the place. The
COKE
sign was downstairs in the market, but people kept bugging me to sell it, so I finally brought it up here.”

Greer set her hand lightly on a vintage milk glass Sinclair gas pump with the original green dinosaur logo. “How on earth did you get this up here?”

He pointed to another doorway she hadn't even noticed, at the back of the room. “That's the old freight elevator. Comes in handy.”

She ran her fingers across the buttery leather of a sofa. “You didn't find this in a shed.”

“No,” he said ruefully. “I had to buy it. Aside from my mattress, I think that's the only new furniture up here.”

Adjacent to the living room was a rectangular oak table, its top deeply scarred and marred with cigarette burns and carved graffiti. Arranged around the table were five high-backed rolling stools.

“There must be a story behind this,” Greer said.

“The library was getting ready to throw out the table, so I took it. I bought the chemistry lab stools for five bucks apiece right before they tore down the old high school.”

Greer sat on one of the stools and swirled around on it until it faced the kitchen. There were no real cabinets in the space. An industrial stainless steel counter contained an integrated sink, and above it, Eb's thick white dishes were arrayed on simple wooden shelves. There was a commercial glass-front refrigerator, and a hulking fifties-vintage white porcelain stove with double ovens, six burners, and gleaming chrome knobs. An old wooden ladder was suspended by chains from the ceiling, and a battered assortment of pots and pans hung from it.

“Did you build all this?” she asked.

“Nah,” Eb said. “I mean, I dragged the boards up here from the boatyard and nailed them to cleats on the wall for shelves, yeah.”

“And everything else?” Greer asked.

“I got the sink and counter and refrigerator from the plant cafeteria, when the paper company shut down. I think I paid a hundred bucks for all of it.”

“Tell me about this stove.” Greer bent over to read the chrome nameplate. “Wedgewood? They made stoves?”

“I found that at the dump when I was hauling off some ruined wall-to-wall carpet from a rental house. Took me a week to get all the grease and rust off of it. It cleaned up all right.”

“It's amazing,” Greer said. “I've seen stoves like this at the Rose Bowl, fully restored, for like two thousand dollars. Does this one work?”

“Oh yeah,” Eb said. He walked over and turned a knob, and a blue flame sputtered to life. “It runs on propane.” He held up a copper teakettle. “How about a cup of tea?”

*   *   *

While they waited for the kettle to boil, Greer stood in front of a bank of steel-frame windows that looked out on an alley. The rain pounded on the roof and lightning crackled in the navy blue sky.

She heard the clicking of nails and looked down. A plump black and tan dachshund with a graying muzzle waddled across the floor, stood at her feet, and barked furiously.

“Who's this?” Greer called to her host.

Eb peered out from the kitchen partition. “Oh, that's Gunter. He's nearly deaf, but I guess the lightning woke him up. Just ignore him, okay?”

Greer bent down, extended her hand, palm forward, and the dog sniffed suspiciously. She scratched his ears, and when he wagged his tail his whole body followed suit.

She walked into the kitchen with Gunter sniffing at her ankles. Eb had two thick white mugs on the counter and was digging around in a large glass Planters peanuts jar for tea bags. He plunked a bag in each mug.

“Funny. You don't strike me as a dachshund kind of guy.”

“Gunter's cool. And he's low maintenance. Mostly he eats and sleeps and farts. He'll take a walk every day, if I really insist.”

The dog sat down on Greer's shoe-top, looked up at her, and whined.

Eb sighed and flipped him a dog biscuit, which the dog greedily inhaled.

“Just how old is he?” Greer asked.

“Maybe nine or ten?”

“You don't know how old your own dog is? What kind of dachshund guy are you?”

“Not a very good one. Gunter's kind of a rescue. I found him last winter, rooting around in the trash behind the store. I tried to find his owner, or give him away, but he had mange and some other unpleasant issues, which makes for a lousy adoption candidate. You want some cookies or something? I could go downstairs and grab something. One of the perks of living above the store.”

“No thanks.” Greer wiggled her toes, and gently bumped the elderly dog off her sandal. She looked around the loft. “So. You rescue motels and old stoves and dogs. And casinos. Very noble.”

Gunter whined again, thumped his tail on the floor, and looked up hopefully at Greer with large, sincere brown eyes.

“No more,” Eb said sternly. “You're supposed to be on a diet.”

The dog stood up, gave three short barks, and ran a couple of slow, sloppy circles around Greer's ankles, yipping and barking as he went.

“Ignore him,” Eb said.

“Aww. Why would I do that? He's adorable.” She picked up the dog and cradled him in her arms.

Suddenly she felt something wet and warm on her shirt.

“Oh no!” she cried, looking down at the yellow puddle on the floor.

Eb gently took the dog from her, set him on the floor, and fetched a roll of paper towels.

“Gunter also has what the vet calls situational incontinency. Which means, when he gets excited, he piddles. Sorry about that.”

He took a paper towel and dabbed gingerly at the growing damp spot on her chest. But when his hand brushed her right nipple, he blushed beet red and jerked his hand back as though he'd touched a hot stove.

“Christ! Sorry. I swear, that was an accident.”

Greer narrowed her eyes. “That's what they all say.” And then she burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Gunter sat back on his haunches, looked up, and gave a sharp bark of disapproval, which made her laugh that much harder. Eb started to laugh, too, which somehow tickled her even more. He threw his head back and straight-on guffawed. Gunter was not amused. He barked furiously and began running circles around them, peeing as he went.

Greer laughed until tears streamed down her face. She laughed until her sides ached, and she stumbled toward one of the lab stools, but when she went to sit down, the chair went spinning out from under her and she fell flat on the floor.

“I can't…” she sputtered, fighting to catch her breath, “stop…”

Before she knew it, Eb sprawled down on the floor beside her, gathered her into his arms, and kissed her hard. His lips were warm. Greer was so surprised she stopped laughing and kissed him back.

She felt a little dizzy. Martinis did that to her. Or maybe it was just having Eb Thibadeaux kissing her stupid. Greer decided she didn't care which it was, because it felt so damned good.

She wound her arms around his neck, and he gently pushed her backwards until she was flat on the floor. He stretched out beside her, kissing her again, working his tongue into her mouth and his knee between her legs. At some point she heard a thud, as he kicked off his loafers.

Greer ran her hands beneath his shirt, sliding them from his narrow waist to his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex as he turned toward her. His lips wandered away from hers as he nuzzled her ear, then dropped lower, feathering kisses on her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone.

“You smell nice,” he whispered in her ear, running one hand beneath her damp top.

“Motel soap,” she whispered back. “Courtesy of the Silver Sands.”

His thumb brushed her nipple, came back, brushed again, and she arched her back in pleasure, so he did it again.

“That was no accident.”

“Definitely not.” He pushed the lace of her bra aside, found her nipple, and teased it with his tongue. “Neither is this.”

She sucked in her breath, let it out slowly.

“Allie.”

“Hmm?” He raised his head and gave her a quizzical look.

“Your niece. What about Allie?”

Eb kissed the tip of her nose. “Relax. She lives with Ginny. We've got all night.” He returned to what he'd been doing earlier.

Greer dug her fingers into his shoulders. He slid one hand down her belly and expertly unzipped her capris. He worked the waistband of her panties slowly downward, touched her tentatively, and then again, stroking inside her, as she gasped from the ripples of pleasure.

“Wait.” She pushed herself away from him, hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt, sliding the sleeves from his shoulders. She kicked off her shoes, while she was at it.

When she turned back she found that Gunter had wedged himself between them. He licked her arm.

“Go away,” Eb said. “Get your own girl.” He scooted the dog backwards and reached for Greer, tugging her top over her head. He frowned when he saw the camisole she wore beneath the tank. “What's this? Two tops?”

“It's a conspiracy,” Greer said, with a throaty laugh that died down as his lips found hers and his hands worked at undressing her. She propped herself up on her elbows and he pulled the lacy camisole over her head.

She ran her hands up his chest, teasing his nipples with her fingertips, and he pulled her closer, so his warm flesh was touching hers. He kissed her, and she inhaled the scent of him, something salty, something cedar-like. With a finger, he traced the outline of her lips.

“Anybody ever tell you that you have great lips?” he whispered. “I've been wondering since the first morning we met if they'd taste as good as they look.”

She flicked her tongue inside his mouth. “And?”

“Better.” He worked his hands down her hips, pushing at her capris for a moment, then stopping to bring his hands up, stroking her back.

In the dimmest recesses of her mind it occurred to Greer that things were getting out of hand here. Literally.

But it felt too good to stop. Eb suckled her nipples, and she groaned with pleasure

He kissed his way south, the stubble of his beard rasping on the tender skin of her abdomen. She curled her fingers into his hair as he licked into her and she felt an electric warmth flooding her body.

At some point she heard the teakettle whistling.

“Eb?”

He nipped her with his teeth, licked again, and she forgot all about the tea.

She worked her hands around to his waist and lowered the zipper on his fly with one hand as she tugged his briefs downward with her other, struggling to free the fabric from his impressive erection.

“Oh God,” Eb moaned, pushing her hand away.

“What?” She looked up at him in surprise.

“Condoms.”

“Oh God,” she moaned. She sat up. “Absolutely.”

He raised one eyebrow. “I don't suppose you…”

“What? Keep a stash of condoms in my purse when I go to a city council meeting, just in case I decide to sleep with the mayor?”

He sighed and reached for his discarded pants.

“Where are you going?” She pushed a stray curl out of her eyes.

He kissed her and brushed his fingertip against her jaw before standing and pulling on his slacks.

“Downstairs. Aisle six. Top shelf. One of the perks of living above the store.”

She smiled. “I could make the tea while you're gone.” She searched around on the floor for her clothes.

“The hell with the tea. I'll be back in two minutes. Stay right there.”

She shook her head and stood up. “This is a terrible idea.”

His face fell.

“That floor is cold and hard, and I've already got a splinter in my butt. Don't you have a bed or something a little softer?”

That big grin creased his face. He pointed toward the living room. “Right behind that sliding barn door. Two minutes. I swear.”