Take It - Part Two (7 page)

We've driven to the lighthouse. There's no one around; it's just Harrison and me, a couple strolling up to the old structure standing guard against this treacherous coast. We walk hand in hand, a picnic basket in one free hand, two flashlights in the other. I recognize this lighthouse, though I shouldn't. Harrison and I haven't been here before. This one's different. Older, abandoned, the entire light structure at the top is removed, leaving behind a smooth cement platform basking in the light of the setting sun.

I stop, letting go of my lover's hand so I can tug up one runaway spaghetti strap on my sundress while I gather my thoughts. The sunlight is starting to fade; it's full dusk now. I'd never come here alone. It's only the man standing next to me who gives me enough courage to even dare.

"Are you sure? We really won't get in trouble or anything?"

"No, we won't. It's abandoned. Believe me, the local cops have enough worries with drug-dealers and drunken teenaged tourists; they're not going to bother with a couple of star-struck lovers."

"Is that what we are? Lovers?"

"Aren't we? Stop being such a fraidy cat. You're going to love this. Don't worry. We're not breaking any laws." He laughs. Seizing my hand again, he draws me forward toward the dark, suddenly ominous shaft thrusting itself up into the darkening sky. "Well, technically, we’re trespassing, but what the hell, right?"

"Sure," I manage, letting the word tumble out as I move the first of my suddenly stiff legs forward. "Trespassing. What could go wrong?"

"Where's your sense of adventure? The Jenny I know always loves to live on the edge, intoxicated by the whiff of danger."

My dreamy companion makes it look so easy, breaking into the old derelict lighthouse.  He is a pro at doing what shouldn’t be done.

"What's the matter, Jenny?" he asks, taking a flashlight and snapping it on. I do the same with mine, careful not to shine it in his eyes. I sweep the yellow beam around in an arc, catching cobwebbed, dusty Victorian furniture as forgotten as the lighthouse itself. "You look like you've seen a ghost. I can assure you, if there are any here, they don't bite. I on the other hand . . .”

I laugh off my unease and follow his broad back and cute butt up the noisy metal staircase slowly winding its way up to the empty light platform. What if somewhere down in the dark below us I hear a noise, something creepy, dragging toward the stairs, starting up after us. What if we're all the way up here and the damned thing is bolted shut? I feel my heart beginning to race with fear.

"There. That was easy," Harrison says as he shoves up the trapdoor and hoists the picnic basket over his head to disappear on the lightless platform above us. Reaching his freed hand down to me, he takes a flashlight and helps me scurry past him out into the moonlight.

He's right. It's beautiful up here. I shut off the flashlight and snuggle next to Harrison, letting my eyes sweep the starlit horizon. Far to the west, the last embers of a blazing sunset are disappearing below the horizon, while close at hand I can see scads of twinkling lights popping on in the rented summer cottages as a thousand visitors work through the routines of their hum-drum lives. Safe. Secure. Boring. Far out to sea, I see the running lights on an inbound tanker or container ship, heading for the Cape Cod Canal.

"God, Harrison, it's beautiful out here," I whisper hoarsely and melt into the solitude we have. This is what a date should be like.

Spreading out a thick woolen blanket, he rises and takes me in his arms. "You're beautiful," he says, melting away whatever resistance I thought I had. "But, I'm famished. Let's eat before the food gets cold. We can indulge in stargazing and other things . . . later.

He's brought an entire restaurant of food, right down to my favorite Cabernet Sauvignon. Cold fried chicken, potato salad, cucumbers with tomato slices, caviar, even strawberries with dipping chocolate.

We kick off our sandals, and Harrison unbuttons his shirt, letting me feast on the light sprinkling of curly hairs covering his broad chest. When he reaches across to free my thick red hair from its pins, his hand "accidently" brushes the thin strap from my shoulder. As if in sympathy, the other one slips down my arm, letting the bodice of my summer dress gape open like an offered invitation. Without apology, Harrison stares down at my exposed skin. I deliberately tug at my bodice, offering more bared flesh, all the while eager for his fingers to replace his hungry gaze.

"This place. It's beautiful up here, but I have to admit, at first it gave me the creeps."

"Why? You were expecting an elegant Victorian setting—maybe a fire roaring in a huge fireplace? Something sugary sweet like a Christmas card?”

"No, but I did get the impression if any place had ghosts, it would be here. I had a strong feeling somebody was watching us."

"I'll protect you," he says, kissing me on the cheeks, letting his warm lips stray to my mouth. Breaking the moment of intimacy, he rocks back on his heels, announcing there are ghosts.

"At least there's a story and rumors of things that go bump in the night. Typical nineteenth-century hogwash. Young married light keepers. Pretty bride, bored out of her skull. She falls head over heels for a handsome lobsterman who she spies daily, working his traps just offshore. They meet every chance they get, conducting a hot and heavy secret affair. Not so secret: husband finds out and shoots the lover in front of her, right here on this platform. Out of her mind with horrified grief, the light keeper's bride flings herself over the rail and dashes herself on the rocks far below. Looking over the railing, the distraught husband takes one look at his wife's broken body far below. A single shot shatters the still night just before he falls to his death, lying next to his bloodied bride on the rocks. With his last breath, he reaches out for her hand. One final touch, just one. He fails. Their fingers almost touch, just like Michelangelo's hand of man reaching out to touch God. Their cooling fingers touch. Almost.”

I wipe the tears from my eyes and snuggle into Harrison's embrace. "That's horrible—they all died. It's so tragic."

"And pure hogwash," Harrison murmurs into my hair as I press my face against his, seeking his lips.

"It's a lie? You made it up?"

"Completely, Jenny. I'm a man of many shades and talents. Perhaps I should've been a writer."

"You already know about breaking hearts," I throw at him as I pull myself away and take a sudden interest in food.

After a few minutes of silent munching, a naughty imp whispers in my ear. Using the drumstick I've just stripped, I use the rounded end to poke Harrison in his patrician nose, leaving a greasy smear across the tip. He smiles, reaches down into the basket, and comes out with an ice cube, which he thrusts down my dress. I squeal and backpedal rapidly, spilling my wine glass and almost toppling over the edge of the deck.

"Easy there, Princess. It's a long way to the ground, and you don't want to spoil the picnic. The fun's just beginning.

"More wine?" he asks, already filling my resurrected glass to the brim. Finished doing the same for himself, he raises his glass as if offering a toast. I find myself mimicking his actions, eager to hear his romantic words.

"Here's to starlit summer nights and warm women. Cool breezes and gentle waves. And to our wives and sweethearts. May they never meet."

I choke on the wine I'd begun to quaff, disappointed that his toast wasn't anything like I'd expected. He's suddenly at my side, patting my shoulders, seizing my face. "It was a joke, Jenny. An old Navy toast, usually given far out at sea and well beyond the hearing of any of the ladies involved. You've got to lighten up. Don't take yourself so seriously. Things have a way of working out. Take a chance. Live a little."

“Will you just take off your pants already?” I tease.

"That's more like it. See, Jenny, you can be a wicked woman when you let yourself go,” he says, moving to obey me, a big shit-eating grin sweeping across his handsome features. "And what'll you give up? What are you willing to surrender?"

Wickedness shaping the curve of my lips, I remove my swaying necklace and two bracelets. I look up, daring him to object. He doesn't.

Our eyes fuse to each other as we blindly place drinks and chocolate-dipped berries between our lips. It's so obvious the last thing on our minds is food. I stare over at Harrison, knowing he'll provide the most delicious of desserts. Judging by his stare and the slow, deliberate swipe of his pointed tongue, he views me just the same. We're starving for each other. But we hold ourselves in check, restraining our yearning to devour until that one special moment. In a short while most of the food is gone, the empty wine bottle now useless glass. Harrison rises, stretches toward the heavens, and turning from me, begins to strip off his bright blue boxer briefs. I love the sight of his bare body. He turns, smiling, and I can see his cock is primed and eager. He squats down before me and asks if I'd like a little special dessert. I know, in that instant, our moment has come.

It's so nice to know you're appreciated; Harrison’s expression changes as he takes in the special lingerie I’ve chosen. I play to the moment, seductively slipping the ribbony straps of my bra down my arm and holding my cups against my breasts after I unclip the back. Playing at being a tease, I try tantalizing him with quick flashes of my breasts. When I finally toss the bra aside, I start in with my panties, coyly easing them down past my hips. I've never heard a man growl before, but I swear Harrison lets loose a throaty growl as he begins stalking closer.

I become a demanding minx in the next five minutes, throwing all caution to the wind as I spread my legs and draw this man I've missed down into my body. Harrison, oh God, Harrison, I feel like a crack addict—unable to deny the craving.

In the next few minutes we shed every stitch of clothing. For a few seconds we just stand facing each other, each enjoying the sight, occasionally reaching out to touch one another. Gradually, we melt into one being, totally entwined and entranced with each other. A few heartbeats later, Harrison's in me, buried to the hilt, and we're going at it like crazed, starving lovers. I long to try every position in the Kama Sutra, hopefully adding one or two Harrison and I create ourselves. Glistening with moisture from the warm summer air, we touch, caress, and gently nibble on whichever of our partner's alluring body parts begs our touch. I close my eyes, imagining the hottest, steamiest love scene I've ever dreamt of, and in seconds, swear to God, Harrison is touching me in just the right places, his thrusting cock filling me with the right pressure as the two of us writhe together, slowly building toward an explosive release. Ever so gradually the heat of passion builds, our mutual need growing as the tempo of our lovemaking rises rapidly toward climax. I may never truly be a good girl, chastely doing what's right for me. Harrison is right for me, even with all the heart-rending toxicity he brings to our bed. I cling to him for dear life as we move faster and faster, burning toward—

"Time to get up, dear. I put coffee on and breakfast will be ready in five minutes. You have time for a shower."

I roll over and hide my face, unwilling to face my mom and admit what Harrison and I just had was only a dream.

"Dress comfortably this morning, sweetheart. I've circled some job openings on the paper by your coffee. After breakfast, you can make a few phone calls and set up some interviews. Then, if you've time, we can stow those boxes of yours in the attic. Are you sure there's nothing in there you'll want later, dear?"

"Yes Mom. Quite sure."

"Okay. Well, anyway, it'll give you a few minutes to tell me about your date with that wonderful man, Pierce. I suspect you'll have an interview or two this afternoon and need time to get ready."

"Sure, Mom," I say, barely managing not to groan or roll my eyes in exasperation.

As I take a final sip of my coffee, my eyes drift down the column of job openings, scanning the eight my mom has circled with a pink highlighter. Five I wouldn't even consider; the job requirements are something totally alien to me or the pay scale’s a joke. There are two I find absolutely laughable.
Really, Mom—a gasoline station attendant? Just the smell of gasoline makes me sick to my stomach.
The second is just as ridiculous. A short order cook in a local greasy spoon. I eat food, hell, I savor it, but I do
not
cook it. Ever.

"See anything promising, dear?" Mom asks from across the table, munching on an English muffin smeared with plum jam.

"Not really. I appreciate the effort, but there's really nothing here that fits my qualifications."
Or financial needs.

"Well, I'll check again tonight. Maybe there'll be something in the evening paper."

"I'm not sure I'm ready to go back to work yet—wearing this boot and all," I lie, mildly disturbed that the lies seem to be coming easier and more frequently. "Let's just have a nice breakfast and then pack away those boxes. I'm looking forward to a nice leisurely day with my mom." Another lie.

"Oh, I'm sorry dear, but I've got to go in today and open Happy Endings. Phoebe called in sick yesterday, so I'm on my own. Why don't you come along with me? You know, if you're interested, we could use another person manning the store. You always loved to read when you were a child."

I haven't the heart to tell her I don't have time to read much of anything but case studies anymore, and when I do read for pleasure, it's always eBooks.
Besides, Mom, I'm not a child anymore.

"You know, sweetheart, I have a friend who's looking for help. You remember Mr. Burton. When you were a little girl, he and your father were best friends. He used to let you sit on his lap and puff out of his pipe. Do you remember him, dear?"

I do. As I look across the table at Mom, I realize she has a life I know nothing about. There's a glow to her heart-shaped face, a certain sparkle in her large eyes, and an uplifting of her lips that shouts Mr. Burton has become far more than an old friend of my father's. Mom has an admirer.

I get an image that I'd rather not see. Suddenly, the dregs of my coffee taste bitter as I envision my mom, still a very attractive woman for her age even if most of the red in her hair these days comes from a bottle, and old Mr. Burton with the pregnant paunch, man boobs, and thinning brown hair
doing
it. Yuck!

"Vaguely, I remember him being around a bit when Daddy left. Are you still friends?"

"A bit more than friends, sweetheart," Mom says, blushing bright red. "Alex has been . . . wonderful these past few years. I'm sure he'd give you a job in a heartbeat. If I remember right, you've always loved animals."

Now, I remember Mr. Burton. He was nice. As a typical kid, I always wanted a dog or cat. Dad was allergic to fur, and Mom wouldn't hear of the mess. So, I went petless through most of my early years. Until I was old enough to catch turtles and frogs in the pond near our house and keep them in a secret menagerie hidden in the crabapple orchard behind our house. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, but it kept me fairly well-satisfied—probably even started me down the pharmaceutical path, caring for the creatures living in the rows of fish tanks and jars. I remember Alexander Burton as a kind friend of my dad's, secretly sneaking me the occasional fish tank from his store when my parents weren't looking. My God—so he and Mom are an item.

"So, Mom, does Mr. Burton still own that mom-and-pop pet store?"

"
Wagging Tails.
Yes, dear, he does, though Alex has updated it quite a bit since you moved away. And wipe that smirk off your face. Alexander Burton is a very nice man. He was here for me when I was going through some very rough times. Oh, don't worry. I'll always miss and love your father. If you only knew how many nights I've lain awake pining for the man." Something in Mom's face melted my stony, self-centered heart a bit.
She still loves him.. God, is this what I've become over Harrison? No! Don't let it be so!

"Oh, I know what you're thinking, dear. Alexander isn't as handsome as your father, but he's the kindest man I know. And he was there when I needed someone. I can assure you, young lady, I do need someone. We all do. Besides, I may seem old to you, but I'm far from dead. It's awfully nice to know you can always count on a good man who loves you." Finished with her sermon, she blushes all over again, and turns away.

I'm wondering if Alex Burton would be here, sharing her table if I hadn't stumbled in. Maybe I'm more of a burden than I know. It's impossible to think of Mom having a romantic, sex life.  Don't get me wrong. What decent looks I have, did
not
come from my father. Pictures of Mom as a younger woman show she was gorgeous. And of course she's entitled to be loved . . . and have sex. It's just—she's Mom.

"So this job, Mom, would be working in his pet store? Selling dogs and cats?"

"Yes. Plus birds, lizards, and fish. He has lots of those—rows and rows of tanks. He's even selling saltwater fish now. Oh do go talk to him, dear. I think you'd be perfect for the job. In fact, I have a better idea. Why don't I invite him to dinner tonight?"

There’s a look of determination gleaming in her blue eyes, and in all honesty, I can't find a good reason to object. With my mom managing
Happy Endings
, a bookstore allowing her free reign to indulge her obsession with gooey romance novels, I am curious to meet her own special heartthrob.

"Sure mom. Sounds great. I'd love to meet Mr. Burton. I'm expecting a call from Pierce. We might be going out, but I should be home in plenty of time to have dinner here."

"Another date with your fine young man. So soon. Sounds serious."

"Just an afternoon together, if it happens."

"Trust me, sweetheart, everything is special when you're in love. I should know. I've devoted my entire life to
Happy Endings
."

"Mom, that's bad.
Even for you.
Besides, we're not going out or in love, as you put it. Pierce is just a very nice man who happens to have saved my life and feels responsible for my recovery."

"Uh huh, if you say so. If you're finished with your breakfast, let's go tackle those cardboard boxes, and you can tell me all about your night out with Pierce."

I've never been fond of movie ratings or censorship. I want to do what I want and I don't want anyone telling me not to. I realize parents trying to raise young kids appreciate the ratings and censors because they're responsible for seeing their children aren't disturbed by what they're exposed to. In my case, it's the reverse. As Mom and I work in the hot attic storing away the half dozen boxes of childhood junk, I find myself quickly censoring every word between my lips and making damned sure I give Mom the most sanitized G-rated version of my night with Pierce and Tracey at the bar that went horribly wrong. Without meaning to, I turn passionless Pierce into some kind of superhero savior in Mom's eyes.
Great!

"The next time you see Pierce, invite him for dinner. He made a very good first impression, and if he's to be someone special in your life, dear, I'd like to get to know him."

"Sure Mom. I will. I-it could be tonight."

"That's fine. I'm sure Alex wouldn't mind another man at the table to change the talk to something men like."

Luckily, Mom and I finish packing things away in under a half hour. It's so hot in the attic. Mom really needs one of those circulating fans to cool things off. My father was too cheap to do it, and Mom would never think of it. I know Pierce would give her a fireman's lecture if he knew. It'd almost be worth telling my heroic crusader just to see the look on her face
. God—where do such wicked thoughts come from? I love my mom. Really!

Of course she found something. Two outfits from my high school days. At the time, the lemon yellow one with the full skirt and pleated bodice was my favorite. I was such a geek. Surprisingly, both still fit me, though they're light years out of style. Unbidden, I get a flash of Pierce bending me over an old tree stump, a wicked grin on his face as he tears the old dress off me and has his way with me.
God, I'm starting to sound like a character in one of Mom's favorite romances!

Sweaty and covered with dust bunnies, we've wandered back to the kitchen table when the phone rings. Mom busies herself getting a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge. Beginning to fill two Star Wars tumblers, she shoots me a glance that shouts it's not
her
phone. I'm slow to realize it's mine, the new disposable cell phone I picked up to carry me until an iPhone won't completely drain my bank account. If dreams of an iPhone conjure up a vision of an ego-friendly, sports car that drives itself, the reality of the cell phone in my hand conjures a Model T Ford with a stick shift and a dashboard choke. I feel so deprived. Pierce is on the phone.

We make plans for him to pick me up around twelve thirty. He won't tell me exactly what we're going to do, but he assures me it won't put any undue stress on my foot. I can tell he's excited. Passionate. Deep inside, I hope it's because of me. Before he hangs up, I mention I have to be home by dinnertime and that we'd love to invite him. With a naughty gleam in my eye, I extend the time an additional half hour, convinced Mom and Mr. Burton will find
something
to do if I'm a trifle late.

When we hang up, I realize I'm actually feeling warm and fuzzy. Pierce really is a good man. I
am
lucky.