One Sexy Daddy (8 page)

“Some things are more precious because they are once-in-a-lifetime things,” Stacy said.

The trio went upstairs to the two adjoining rooms. Stacy helped Karen into her pajamas and sent her into her father's room to say good-night. He had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. In front of him on the bed were his time sheets. From the previous year. With six-month-old Post-it notes from his secretary saying “Urgent!”

“We could hire a real baby-sitter tomorrow night,” Adam said as Karen ran past him to the other room. “Go out. See a show. Have some dinner.”

“You have a business meeting on Saturday?”

“Actually, no. But we could stay another day. I'd like to take you someplace worthy of you.”

Stacy shook her head. “Today was enough. It was wonderful just the way it was.”

“Are you really going to leave your nails that color and your hair piled up?”

“What do you think?”

The next morning, Stacy packed away her linen dress and wore jeans and a cotton T-shirt. She brushed out her hair and put it back in a scrunchie. Karen protested having any sort of comb put through her hair but she was happy to have the bobby pins taken out.

Adam thought they both looked beautiful and he said so as they got in the limo to the airport.

 

T
HAT WEEK
, Karen and Stacy built a kite and flew it over the Smithers' fallow field. Stacy wondered if Adam had forgotten about her asking to make love.

Stacy made up a photo album for Marion—Karen used glitter glue to decorate it. Stacy thought about whether she had been too bold, but concluded it didn't matter because their relationship was strictly business now.

Stacy and Karen divided a border of hostas in her garden and distributed them to gardens throughout Deerhorn—Karen's nail polish chipped off and Stacy bought polish remover for both of them. Stacy checked things off her list and looked
at Old Man Peterson's house late at night—when only the second-floor study light was on.

Deerhorn folks thought it was nice that Stacy had a job, and some groused it would be even nicer when the Deerhorn elementary school got built. The ground hadn't been broken and school was already out for the summer. Adam spent all day in front of his drafting table—the pile of crumpled paper got higher and higher.

Meetings with Lefty Pincham left him grouchy. Conference calls with J. P. Lasser provoked long walks. The crew was told to sit tight in Chicago until further notice—every day they didn't work cost Lasser & Thomas money, a fact that J.P. made certain Adam was reminded of.

“I'm having some trouble with the school,” Adam told J.P. after a week of drawing and not drawing and crumpling up drawings.

“Get over it,” J.P. said harshly. “Where's that Adam Tyler I used to know so well?”

Thinking about a neighbor who just happens to be a virgin and just happens to be beautiful
.

He thought about Stacy in her black strapless dress with her hair piled high on her head. He thought about Stacy in overalls with her fingernails stubby and her hair wild around her face. He thought about Stacy in the pale sundresses she wore to church and around town with a strawhat tied with a wide black ribbon. He thought about Stacy when he wanted to. He thought about Stacy
when he didn't want to. He thought about Stacy when he was sleeping and when he was awake. He thought about Stacy when Amber called and asked if he could come to New York for the weekend. He declined as gracefully as he could, all the while thinking about Stacy.

One thing he couldn't keep his mind on was the Deerhorn Elementary School.

One evening, when Karen was tucked into bed, the laundry was folded in soft piles on the kitchen counter and the plate Stacy had left for him lay untouched, he broke a pencil. Picked up another one. Broke it.

And gave up.

He took out the Deerhorn directory and looked up a number.

“Betty, I have a favor.”

“Will it help get that school built?”

“Sort of.”

“Then, sure, honey. You just ask.”

While waiting for Betty, he pulled a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator and a soft jazzy disc from his CD collection.

“You can't say a word,” he said.

“My lips are sealed,” Betty said, making a zipping movement across her mouth. “Now go on. And get back by 6:00 a.m. because I gotta do my hair before work.”

He ran across the dark lawn.

“I can't stand it,” he said when she opened the door.

“Can't stand what?”

“You know.”

She looked fearful, and he didn't want to scare her. But she had to know how much he wanted her.

“We shouldn't—”

“Oh, but we should.”

She put her lips together tightly. “Where's Karen?”

“Fast asleep,” he said.

“Who's…?”

“Betty Carbol.”

Stacy stared heavenward. “Well, I suppose if there's somebody who can keep a secret, it's Betty. But what about you? Are you ever going to say a word about me?”

“Never,” he promised.

“You'll leave when you're supposed to leave?”

“Baby, that's an easy one. I'll be happy to leave. No offense, but I'm not made for Deerhorn.”

“And you'll show me
…everything?
” she asked, adding quickly, “but nothing too weird?”

“We'll do everything once. And the stuff you like we'll do again and again and again. As for kinky, I've always found myself excited enough by women that I don't need nothin' strange.”

“Come on in,” she said, crooking her finger.

She slammed the door behind him. And put her palm on his chest to feel his strong, primitive heartbeat.

She reached to the button at her dress and then realized there was no dress. Her nipples strained against the filmy nothing of a nightgown, and she moved to cross her arms over her chest. He stopped her.

“We should take our time.”

“I'm so scared. And excited at the same time.”

He took her hand and gently placed it on his groin.

Her eyes widened and then a womanly smile stole across her face.

“I'm scared, too,” Adam said. “I'm not used to wanting a woman so much, so strongly. Even when I don't want to want you, I want you.”

He swept her up into his arms, sending one of her needlepointed slippers flying.

“Hey! Put me down.”

Her feet hit the floor, one strong hand steadied her. And then, nothing. Bereft. Alone.

“I'm sorry,” Adam said, ducking his head. “I should have asked. I was acting like a primitive caveman. I'll never do it…”

“Pick me back up!”

After all, she'd never again have a big, strong, handsome man pick her up as if she were a delicate, fragile flower. Never again would a man take the lead and know how to pleasure her and in pleasuring her take his pleasure.

Oh, it was not the sort of thing she was proud to confess to enjoying, but she was so hopelessly beyond doing or talking or acting in a manner she was proud of that she didn't care.

And besides, there was only this once. Just this once.

He picked her up and she threw back her head, laughing as he opened the first door at the top of
the stairs, the linen closet, and slammed it shut with his foot. The next door on his left was the bathroom, the door to his right the sewing room which had once been Marion's bedroom.

He growled.

“There,” she said, pointing to the very end of the hall. She was surprised that she even possessed the capacity to speak.

Her bedroom was an airy sunporch on the southern side of the house. The oak tree outside scattered cool dappled moonlight through the oatmeal-shaded sheers. Her maple sleigh bed was warm from her body—she had just gotten into bed with a cozy mystery, which now lay on the floor. Her nightstand light was on. A glass of milk was on a saucer with a half-eaten cookie.

And then, as he laid her so gently on the bed, pulling the covers down to the footboard, she clapped her hand to her mouth.

“I'm sorry, Adam,” she moaned. “I, uh, just thought of something.”

“I know what you thought of,” he said, tugging off his shirt. He stood at the end of the bed, his chest smooth, firm and tanned like caramel. “I've taken care of it.”

He pulled a small plastic package from his back pocket.

“How did you know?”

“I just put it in my pocket in case,” he said. “I wasn't expecting anything.”

“Do you carry that with you everywhere?”

“Only to your house.”

“You understand it's just once.”

“I understand. In fact, it's a good idea. See, I can't concentrate on my work any more, but if we make love, maybe it'll get it out of my system.”

“And if I make love once, I get what I want. But I don't have to deceive anybody.”

“So it's best for both of us,” Adam said. “Once. Just once.”

“Shake on it.” She solemnly held out her hand.

“Sure, baby.”

They shook.

“Now let's get over each other,” Adam said.

She stared, drinking in his flesh as if she were parched. He had never been so closely observed, and yet, it did not make him self-conscious. Though he was ordinarily a modest man not given to vanity, he enjoyed her appraisal. He lingered at the scrolled footboard.

Although he had always enjoyed lovemaking, he had when considering her proposition anticipated that he would act exclusively for her pleasure. That she would cower, touch only tentatively, and that years of repression would interfere with her sensation. She might even stop him mid-act, and he could only be thankful that on the other side of thirty he had more control than he had had at eighteen.

Now he understood that making love to her
would be his pleasure as well, if only because her gaze was more bold than virginal. She was a woman who would take every ounce of pleasure and give back as good as she got, even if she was learning everything for the first time.

He fleetingly wondered how she would return to being a quiet Deerhorn spinster, for even if she thought she could open the door to sexual pleasure, he knew of no one who would willingly shut that door again.

She roused herself, kneeling on the bed and reaching over the footboard to touch the swell of muscles that met at his breastbone. He threw back his head as an involuntary ripple of sensation coursed through him. He had less control than he thought…

“I don't know what I'm doing,” she said, biting her lip.

“Oh, yes, you do, baby,” he said, groaning from deep inside his chest. “You're doing what you're doing just fine. But you can't touch me like that so soon.”

“Why not?” she asked, with a pout that made all the starlets in Hollywood seem trashy.

“Because fair's fair,” he said, tugging at the hem of her night dress. He didn't want to tell her that he had vastly misjudged his level of control over himself. “It's your turn.”

The dark of her eyes widened as she stared—
with something not quite defiance and not quite boldness and not quite fear.

“Let's take that off,” he suggested and when she gave the barest nod of assent, he lifted it up over her head and tossed it on the floor.

Her breasts were round, firm, and untried. Her nipples were the sweet rose-pink of a woman who had not yet given birth. She tilted her chin up.

“You're the only man who's seen me like this,” she said. “Other than Dr. Smith, twice a year, and then I'm wearing a paper gown.”

“Dr. Smith's a lucky man.”

He leaned down and kissed each pink-tipped breast in its turn. When he looked up at her, she grabbed him around the neck and tugged. Hard.

He landed on top of her. Her laughter mixed easily with his deep groan of pleasure.

“I feel like I'm in a secret heaven,” he said.

“It's the trees,” she replied.

“Trees? I think not. I think it's you.”

“Trees,” she corrected. “The oak tree, the maple on the corner, even the buckthorn, make a canopy over this house. It's magic, don't you think?”

“You're magic,” he said. And then he guided her panties down to her outstretched ankles, gasping once at the beauty that was offered to him.

“Will it really hurt or is that an old wives' tale?” Stacy asked. “I won't mind if it does a little.”

“It only hurts if the man doesn't take care. And I'll take care.”

He kissed her pale stomach and the delicate curls of pale hair of her womanhood. His tongue sought and found the most secret part of her, scented of talc and tasting of honey. He teased and caressed, keeping her thighs spread, even when sensation made her reflexively contract.

And when she was nearly, nearly but not quite, at the brink—he roused himself, tugging free his jeans as soon as he had taken the crinkling plastic packet from his pocket.

“Now?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. And taking care first, he entered her, watching her eyes dilate, blinking once as he met resistance. And then she smiled as he came fully into her flesh. He kissed her forehead, thinking at her first delicious cries that he had never been so happy to make love to a woman.

“Heaven,” he said a few minutes later as they watched the play of shadow and light across the ceiling.

“Trees,” she corrected, amending herself quickly as he gave her a playfully stern look. “All right, heaven.”

 

“I
'VE GOT TO GO HOME
,” he said behind her shoulder. They lay spoon-wise on her bed, after dozing, making love and then dozing again. “I've got to get those plans for the school done.”

“I'm going to my sister's house to baby-sit my nephews for a few hours this afternoon so she can get some paperwork done. Karen might have fun playing with them.”

“Maybe I'll just he here like the kept man that I am and gather my strength so that I can make love to you again.”

She stood up, walking across the room to pick up her skirt and blouse. She tossed his jeans into his line of vision.

“Not a chance,” she said. “It was once.”

“Stacy, there's no reason to make it just—”

“No, that was the deal. I want you, don't get me wrong, but this is going to be a secret.”

“Betty knows.”

“Betty knows when to keep a secret. But it's not going to stay one for long if I have the builder of the town's new elementary school locked away in my bedroom.”

“You don't want me again?”

“I want you again. And again and again. But get your clothes on and get out. Use the back door since the mailman usually parks out front and drinks his morning coffee on my bench.”

She dressed quickly as he reluctantly pulled on his jeans.

“By the way,” she asked. “I heard someone say that you can tell if a woman's just made love because she'll walk differently. Is that true?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good,” she said briskly. “I'll drop Karen off at your house around three o'clock. Try to get some work done.”

“If I get my work done, we'll stay on deadline and I'll have to leave.”

“If you don't, the kids don't get their school.”

She blew him a kiss at the door and left.

 

S
O THAT'S WHAT ALL
the fuss was about! she thought as her little compact car roared out of the driveway. There should be more of a fuss. Every love poem, every romance novel, every movie, every television show she had watched—they weren't enough. They didn't come close to capturing how good it was.

She had used up nearly all her self-control in getting up from her bed. While she was ordinarily quite clear-headed and alert, she now could only think about when her next chance to make love would happen. She barely waved to the mailman who chewed his sandwich in melancholy contemplation on her granite bench. She remembered only just in time that there was a four-way stop on her corner. And she almost forgot where the schoolhouse was though it was the very same building where she had gone from kindergarten through eighth grade.

As she drove through the center of town, she stared at people who were friends but nonetheless objects of awe and wonder. How could they calmly
walk to the grocery store? How could they pause at the window of the hardware store, contemplating their choices in grass seed? How could they get any work done if they had even once experienced lovemaking with a man only half as satisfying as the one she had just left? It was a wonder the human race got anything done when there was such ecstasy to be enjoyed!

At the corner of Oak and Elm, she stopped for a full minute to contemplate the mysteries that had been solved for her. Now she understood why her second cousin Blake had traveled half-way across the world to follow a girlfriend who joined the peace corps. Now she understood Marion and Jim being so unwilling to wait until they could get an education before marrying. Now she understood a half-dozen human stories that heretofore had struck her as lapses of self-discipline or plain silliness.

She only began driving again when the pickup truck which had come up to the intersection honked its horn—and when the terrible truth of human frailty hit her full in the face.

“I'm not going to be like that,” she muttered, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “I'm not going to do anything foolish. Too many people rely on me—and besides, I have more sense.”

Maybe, maybe not
, declared a heretofore silent, but very sneaky voice inside her head. The voice was quiet when she pulled into the cemetery.

She parked her car and walked up the hill,
touching the headstones of relatives as she went, a sort of hello.

At the top of the hill was a double stone, marking her mother and father. Her father's side had not yet been dated.

“Dad, what do I do?” she asked, absently pulling out a patch of crab grass. Her dad would be so upset with weeds. “Is it so terrible to want something—just once? Just once in my life?”

A heavy footstep trod up the hill beside her. A thin, unshaven man wearing a blue work shirt with his name stitched on the pocket approached the headstone.

“Hi, Jim.”

“Hello, Stacy,” he said, pulling a trowel from his back pocket. “I brought some clematis. Your dad always liked clematis. Thought I'd plant it right over here where he could appreciate it.”

“Sure, want me to help?”

He handed her a six-inch pot with an abundance of lush white and green leaves. She tapped out the plant while he dug a hole.

“You know, I'm always so grateful to your dad. He was the one who persuaded Marion to get hitched. He told her to do it, even buying the ring for me 'cause I didn't have the money.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Yeah, oh yeah. She would have waited. Maybe waited so long I would have lost her—you Poplar girls being so pretty, like zinnias to the honey bees.
Some other man would have come in and grabbed her right outta my hand. But your dad knew how much we loved each other and knew I'd never be untrue, so he put up a big fuss to get her to agree.”

“Didn't know any of that.”

“And it was the best thing,” Jim said, tucking the clematis into place and patting down the soil around it. “He wanted the same things for you. Husband, kids, all that. And he had his heart set on you one day taking over the business.”

“I'm not as talented as he was.”

“Oh, yeah, you are.”

“Thanks, but no.”

“Listen, Stacy, don't let Marion and the folks 'round here scare you off of getting a chance to go to Chicago. Or whatever,” he said, looking down at the ground. “Your dad would want you to have a life—and if you make mistakes, heck, we all do. Marion's just depended on you so long—it's almost as if she won't let me be her husband. Not in every way.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged, tapping his trowel up against a tree to get the mud off. He walked back down the hill to the blue van that advertised Brandweis Plumbing Services & Supply Company. He drove away and Stacy was left to ponder the family gravesite. The flowers that had been planted in the last two months were carefully pruned and perfectly ar
ranged. Jim was a careful gardener and that fit with his reputation as a plumber.