The Lovers (2 page)

Why am I even noticing?

“Yes, beautiful. Come say hello, Bettina. Don't worry, I won't bite.” Audrey smiles, her lush mouth parting, a dimple appearing in one cheek, and she comes to wrap her arms around me.

She smells of lemons. And sex.

My body heats.

What is wrong with me? Must be that dream…

I pull back and Audrey is still smiling. “Yes, you really are a beauty, Bettina.” She reaches out and gives my cheek a small pinch, and I find myself blushing as she moves away and loops an easy arm around Kenneth's shoulders. “You behave yourself, now, Kenneth. What would your wife think of you surrounded by all these gorgeous girls?”

Kenneth goes a bit pink, but looks pleased. “She knows I
love only her. But I have enough of the artist's eye to appreciate you lovely ladies.”

“You're a shameful old flirt,” Viviane teases. “Come on, Bettina, let me show you where you'll be sleeping. I've put you in one of the cottages.”

My body is still buzzing with my unexpected response to Audrey's touch as I follow Viviane through the bright, airy house. It's all open space, the living and dining areas separated only by a graceful arch. The furnishings are heavy imported pieces, overstuffed sofas with piles of richly colored throw pillows, everything gorgeous yet livable, comfortable. A bank of tall windows framed by a pair of twisted cypress trees look out over the sandy dunes leading down to the beach.

The heavy front doors stand open. Every detail about this place is welcoming, and I tell myself again that everything will be fine, that coming here was a good decision.

We move through the doors and outside, where we cross a large patio tiled in terra-cotta. More bougainvillea climbs the walls, delicate, coral-colored blossoms littering the tiles. Enormous pots of rosemary and lavender are scattered around the edges of the patio, lending their fragrance to the salt air. Black wrought-iron chairs sit around a long wooden table, and there is an outdoor kitchen built into the far wall of the house. Sid is there, sitting on a dog bed by the door, but gets up to greet us. Viviane bends to scratch his big, grinning head. More tail thumping. I give him a pat, his fur short and coarse under my palm.

Standing, I look out to where the dark blue and green waves curl and crash on the beach. “This place is incredible, Viviane.”

“It is. It's my dream home. I came here looking for refuge after Malcolm died, and just…stayed. It soothes me, even now.”

“This isn't the kind of place anyone would want to leave.”

“I'm glad you think so. I've been hoping you'd be comfortable here. Okay so far?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Even after meeting Patrice?”

I laugh. “Yes, although I have to admit she scares me a little.”

“Oh, her bark is worse than her bite. She's a nice woman. She just has a flinty exterior. But she'll loosen up after she's been here a few days and I get a few bottles of Pinot Noir into her. Good wine is her Achilles' heel.”

“Thank God she has one.”

Viviane grins at me. “Come on, the cottages are this way.”

We follow as Sid trots down a path of loose gravel hidden between two cypress trees. On the edge of the sand two small wood cabins with corrugated-tin roofs sit close together. They each have a small porch hung with ferns and flowers in baskets. Grass grows in tall clumps here and there. It's all a little wild and primitive, but cozy. Adorable. Like something out of a storybook. Or maybe that's just the writer in me.

Viviane leads me to the one on the right and swings open the wood door, which is painted a bright blue. Inside, a queen-size bed covered in a handmade blue-and-white quilt dominates the small, homey space, flanked by matching bedside tables. Beneath a pair of paned windows, a double-wide chair done in white canvas and piled with pillows sits next to a round wooden table large enough to hold my laptop and a few books.

“It's perfect.” I move over the wide-planked wood floor to look out the window. The place smells of old wood and the salt of the sea. “Who's in the other cottage?”

“No one yet. We'll see where everyone wants to stay. I thought I'd give you one of the cottages, rather than a room in the house, so you'd have more quiet time. I had a feeling you might need some space away from the others now and then. But if you'd rather be in the main house I can switch people around easily enough.”

“No, I love it here, it's perfect. Thank you, Viviane.”

Viviane smiles, gives my hand a squeeze, and I'm so grateful to her. But I feel unable to tell her how much this means to me, to be invited here. To be safe with her while I'm trying to stretch my wings a little.

“You're welcome. And you look exhausted. Why don't you rest for a bit. I'll send someone down with your luggage before dinner.”

“I am sleepy, even though I napped on the train.”

My long, dreamy nap. My dream…

Don't think about that now.

“I'll see you at dinner, then. Come on, Sid.”

Alone, I pull in a deep breath, then another, trying to calm down from the excitement of meeting everyone as I drop my tote bag on the end of the bed, then sit next to it. I turn to look through the sheer curtains at the glorious view outside. The sky is beginning to go a little hazy with the late-afternoon fog, but through the small stand of cypress trees is a clear view of the dunes and lower down, the beach. Waves crash on the shore in shifting tones of blue and gray and green, bits of seaweed caught in the foam, golden-brown against the white. The sun is cutting through the deepening fog, touching the crests of the water in dazzling light. The beach is deserted, peaceful.

I let out my breath, feel my shoulders drop. I'm so tired after my long night on the train. Maybe a short nap, or even just lying still for a few minutes, wouldn't hurt.

Pushing my bag aside, I lean into the pillows, letting myself truly relax for the first time since I left my apartment in Seattle. The bed is soft, the hypnotic rhythm of the ocean lulling. I close my eyes. And remember my dream on the train. The same one I've been having off and on for months. Always that sort of orgy, where I can't tell one person from another. Just hands and mouths on my flesh, desire rising in my body like pure heat. And always, I wake at the very last moment, needy, dazed. At home I would reach into my nightstand drawer for my vibrator, bringing myself to orgasm alone in my bed.

Too much alone. That's what Terry says, and I know she's right. But those empty relationships have worn me down and I don't feel ready for another one anytime soon.

Still, my body is pulsing with need now, just thinking about the dream, my breasts aching subtly.

It's been too long since anyone has touched me. Months. And I don't miss it so much in my day-to-day life. But I've been having the dream more often. It's becoming more and more real to me. And even when I use my vibrator, as I do almost every night and sometimes during the day, even after I make myself come, I am left needy.

Why did I leave it buried in my suitcase?

Just calm down.

But knowing I am without release makes it even worse.

My own hands have never done anything for me; I need the vibrator. It was an epiphany when I bought my first one, furtively ordered over the internet at twenty. I spent an entire weekend with that purple, buzzing phallus between my thighs, coming and coming. The next one was pink and textured. The next shining chrome. Oh, yes, I quickly became a connoisseur of sex toys. Anything that moved, vibrated, pumped. So much easier than dealing with a man I wasn't really interested in. No boring dates, where I had to stretch to find something to
talk about. Just my plastic friend, a little lube, maybe a sexy book. And now these dreams, where I wake on the verge of climax, my thighs damp with my juices.

My body is going hot and tight all over. I want to close my eyes, to rest, but all I can think of now is my favorite vibrator, packed away and out of reach, and the damn dream.

Bodies pressed close together, skin to skin, a little sweat. Yes, even in my dream I can smell the earthy scent of sex. Smooth hands touching me, skimming over my belly, between my thighs, clever fingers pinching my nipples, my clit, everything going hard and taut. Clever tongues on my skin, lapping at my wet slit…

Oh, yes…

The door swings open and I bolt upright. Audrey stands there, looking almost as flushed as I feel. My heart is a hammer in my chest.

“Whatever do you have packed into these little suitcases?” she asks as she drags them both through the door.

My vibrator.

“I'm sorry. I know they're heavy. I have a lot of books…” I trail off. I can barely talk.

She leaves them in the middle of the floor, flops down on the bed next to me, panting a little with exertion. She is close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin. And there's plenty of skin. She's wearing the bikini top and a pair of short white shorts. Her legs are thin and long, her bare feet in rubber flip-flops, the toes painted a glossy red, which seems incredibly erotic to me for some reason.

I look up and find her watching me. Not looking at me.
Watching me,
as though my staring at her toes is fascinating to her.

“Thank you for bringing my luggage, Audrey.”

“Sure. I wanted to spend a little time with you, anyway,
before everyone gets here. I wanted to have you to myself for a while.”

She smiles at me, as though she's my best friend. My sister. We've talked online, but we've never been close, not the way I am with Viviane. But in person, she's different. Warmer. Charming.

She takes my hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. “This will be just like summer camp. We can make popcorn and hang out on your bed, talk about…everything. Our movie-star crushes. Our dreams. We can talk until the sun comes up, and fall asleep on the floor like a litter of puppies.”

I smile at her. Impossible not to. “That sounds great.”

“You're going to love it here. This is my third year. I always come back. We all do. You will, too. I'll personally make sure you have a wonderful time.” She's smiling again, and I notice once more the dimple in her left cheek.

“So, you know everyone in the group?”

“Oh, yes, I know everyone.”

It sounds as though she's intimating something more.

Audrey leans over, lifts her hand to take a strand of my hair, curls one end around her fingers. She's looking at it with curiosity, examining it, as she seems to do with everything. And as she crosses her arm over her body to get to my hair, her breasts push together, beautiful, golden-brown cleavage.

“You have the prettiest hair,” she says, but all I can think about is the dark crescent of areola peeking from the edge of her floral swimsuit top. I am still damp from thinking about the dream, but everything in me goes liquid and hot.

God, I have to get ahold of myself.

I've never been attracted to a woman before, not really. Oh, I've thought about it, dreamed about being with a woman, and there are always women in my orgy dream. But I've never met one I was specifically attracted to. Until now.

Audrey gives my hair a small tug. “What's on your mind, Bettina?”

Shit.

“I…nothing, really. I'm still a little dazed from traveling. I'll wake up after dinner, I'm sure.”

“If not, just go to bed early. I'll come and tuck you in.”

Pulling a little on my hair, she leans in and brushes a kiss across my cheek.

My body burns.

I'm sure it was completely innocent, that she's just being friendly. But Audrey oozes sex. I've heard that expression before, but I've never come upon anyone like her. That must be it, just her natural aura of sensuality, and my leftover dream state. Because I've never really wanted to have sex with a woman, have I? Never yearned to touch a woman's skin, to take her lush breasts in my hands, into my mouth. To have her touch me with her soft fingers.

I pull in a long breath, force my pulse to calm. Tell myself that I do not want Audrey. Not like that.

Why does that feel like the biggest lie I've ever told myself?

It's time for dinner and I leave my cozy little cabin with some trepidation. Already it feels like some sort of refuge to me. I can see the ocean from my windows, smell the scent of the sea, the scent of summer, even with the windows closed, although I opened them all up and left them that way until right before I slipped into my sandals to go up to the main house.

I unpacked my suitcases, put my clothes away in the small closet, set my laptop and a small pile of books on the little table and tucked my vibrator away in the drawer of the nightstand, I felt immediately at home, all of my things fitting perfectly.

I have the strangest sense of being secure here, protected, of fitting as perfectly as my belongings do, as though this place was made just for me. But there is also this sort of strange tension that makes me all loose and shaky inside. Maybe it has something to do with what happened with Audrey earlier. Even though nothing
happened.
Except that I am beginning to think I want it to.

God, I don't even know what I'm thinking!

I shut the door behind me and make my way back up the gravel path. Everyone is on the patio, which is dominated by
a long table covered in a white cloth that flutters in the small breeze coming off the water. The table is already set with big bowls and platters of food, dishes in bright blue and yellow and stark white. There must be half a dozen bottles of wine on the table, along with baskets of bread, glass carafes with what I think is olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Everyone is still in casual clothes: Viviane in her jeans, Kenneth in his shorts and Hawaiian shirt, Patrice in cropped cargo pants. And Audrey in her shorts and bikini top, with a sheer white blouse hanging open, moving in the breeze like the tablecloth.

Audrey spots me first and, smiling, comes to take my arm possessively in hers as she leads me to a chair.

“I'm claiming Bettina tonight,” she announces, then, turning to me, whispers in my ear, her breath warm and tickly, “I always sit with the newest arrival. It's a tradition.”

Why do I feel as though she's paying me special attention?

Maybe I need it that badly.

Everyone sits, with Viviane at one end and Kenneth at the other, and Patrice across from Audrey and me. Sid circles the table, stopping to grin and wag his stump of a tail at each place, hoping for table scraps, perhaps. I reach down and give his big head a scratch before he moves on.

The open wine bottles are passed around, and I fill my glass with a California Chardonnay, cold and crisp, and take a sip. Audrey chooses a Cabernet, I notice.

“Let's make a toast,” Viviane says. “To our newest summer-retreat member, Bettina Boothe.”

“Hear, hear,” Kenneth says.

Everyone raises their glasses. Audrey winks at me as her glass clinks mine, smiles, dimpling. She has gorgeous teeth, almost perfectly straight except for one on the bottom row that's the slightest bit crooked.

Why am I noticing everything about her in such minute detail?

I am all nerves again, suddenly. Too aware of that delicate female flesh next to me.

“Bettina, what did you bring with you to work on over the summer?” Patrice asks.

“Oh, well, I'm halfway through a book about a girl who's orphaned and raised in these awful foster homes. But I've been stuck…”

“Ah, the sagging middle,” Patrice says, nodding her head sagely. “That's always the time to up the stakes. Make something exciting or tragic happen.”

“I usually blow something up,” Kenneth says, grinning.

He has a kind face. I think I'll like him much better than Patrice. I don't know how to get past my intimidation with her.

“Well, this entire story is a bit tragic,” I tell them. “I need to…think about it some more.”

“This is an excellent place to think,” Viviane says.

“Yes, I believe it will be.”

If only I can think of something other than Audrey's smooth, gold-touched skin, the citrus scent of her hair.

“What about everyone else?” Viviane asks. “I'm working on a contemporary romance, an older woman, younger man story. Forbidden fruit and all that. Absolutely sad and desperate love.” She sighs happily.

Patrice gestures with her wineglass. “Mine is a murder mystery with a dark twist.”

“They always are,” Audrey says, sipping her wine slowly. I can see the ruby liquid pool on her lower lip through the dome of the glass before she swallows.

“True. But that's why we're all together, isn't it?” Patrice says. “We each understand the dark side of a story. The
darkness in people. In the world. That's what brought us all together.”

“Who started the online group?” I ask, suddenly realizing I don't know.

“You don't know about Angela?” Audrey asks.

“Angela?”

“Angela Moore,” Viviane says, her voice low. She casts a furtive glance at Patrice. I don't know what it's about.

“I know the name. She wrote those really intense psycho logical thrillers, didn't she? Whatever happened to her?”

“She died,” Patrice says, her tone flat. She picks up her glass and takes a long swallow, then another.

“Angela was Patrice's partner,” Viviane says quietly, watching Patrice. But her features are as impassable as ever.

No, looking closer, I can see the clench of her jaw.

“I'm sorry,” I say, feeling completely inadequate.

“It happens,” Patrice says, reaching for a thick chunk of sourdough bread from the basket. She picks up the bottle of olive oil and makes a small puddle on her bread plate, then adds a few drops of the balsamic. “Let's not sit around like a bunch of mourners. It's been five years already. I'm perfectly fine.”

“Of course you are,” Viviane says, her eyes going soft. After a moment she reaches for a large wooden salad bowl, serves Patrice, then herself. “So, Leo should be here soon, and Jack.”

“It'll be nice to have the boys here,” Audrey says, turning to wink at me.

“You do like the boys,” Patrice mutters, forking a piece of lettuce from her plate.

“Yes, I do, Patrice,” Audrey says, her tone a little forceful, tense. She swigs her wine again, drinking it down fast.

Why are they baiting each other? Or is it only the sort of family banter that goes on in most people's houses?

I wouldn't really know. My family never had that. No siblings, just me and my parents, who were never really quite there. Living with two professors is an isolating existence for a kid. We spent dinners with everyone's heads buried in a book. Which is, perhaps, why I'm so lacking in social graces myself. And that is one reason why I've made this trip. To learn this stuff. But they're all talking again, and the tension at the table is dissipating.

“I thought we should have a Mary Shelley night,” Viviane is saying. “You know, sit up all night drinking wine and writing the darkest stories we can come up with.”

“And that's different from what we always do how?” Kenneth asks, laughing.

“I know, but it would be more of a formal arrangement. Maybe we can write our own versions of
Frankenstein,
each in our own genre? Oh, I'd love to write Frankenstein's love story. He's always been such a tragic figure.”

“He's a monster, Viv,” Audrey says. “He's meant to be tragic.”

“Yes, but even a monster deserves love. Look at
Beauty and the Beast.
”

“You're such a romantic,” Patrice accuses.

“Yes, I am.” Viviane smiles at her and pats her hand. Patrice frowns, but as she looks away I can tell she's trying to hide a small smile behind her napkin.

Dinner passes with the same sort of meandering conversation, wonderful food, perhaps a bit too much wine. When it's over we all help take the empty plates into the big kitchen, but Viviane shoos us out, not allowing anyone but Patrice to help her clean up. Kenneth settles into a chair on the patio with a pipe, Sid sitting in a lump beside him.

“Bettina, why don't we go down to the beach,” Audrey says, taking my hand. Hers is small, birdlike, the bones so delicate I feel as though I could easily crush them.

“Oh, I don't know. It's so dark.”

“There's plenty of light from the house, and from the porch light on your cottage. And you haven't been yet. Come on.”

“Okay. I guess it'll be…fine.”

“We'll just take this with us.”

She grabs half a bottle of red wine from the island counter and heads out the back door. I follow her around the house, down the gravel path between my cabin and the other one, which is dark, empty. A half-moon hangs in the sky, its silver glow reflected in the water, helping to light our way, and it's not nearly as dark as I'd thought it would be. Audrey is a black silhouette in front of me as we make our way over the dunes, her white shorts standing out, catching the moonlight.

She stops and plops down on the sand, and I sit next to her, a foot or two away, and stare out at the water, like swirls of ink, the foam barely visible in the night. The sound is awesome, exhilarating, as the waves rumble and crash. The ocean feels kinetic, powerful.

So does my awareness of Audrey next to me, her long, bare legs stretched out before her.

“I love this place,” she says to me.

“I think I'm going to.”

I'm more relaxed than I should be. Too much wine. Or maybe just enough. Audrey takes a swig from the bottle, then hands it to me. I sip more carefully. It's the Cabernet, a little strong and rich for me, but I like it. I kick off my sandals and dig my toes into the dark sand. It's damp beneath the surface, a little cold, but it feels good on my heated skin.

“Tell me about your life, Audrey.”

“What would you like to know? I'll tell you whatever you want. Anything, my darling Bettina.”

She's a little drunk. But then, so am I.

“Tell me about your family.”

“Really? Wouldn't you rather hear about my sordid sexual history?”

I laugh. “Maybe after.”

She sighs, takes a long pull from the bottle, hands it to me, and I drink as she begins to talk.

“They live in Richmond, Virginia.”

“That's where you're from?”

“Yes, originally, although I've lived all over. It's a staid, solid place, Richmond. Big banking town. That's what my daddy does, banking. That's what every good citizen of Richmond does. That's one of the reasons I was so fucking desperate to get out. You can imagine how well I fit in there.”

“So, you're not close with your family?”

Audrey laughs, a short sort of humorless bark. “My mother is the second wife. I have two half brothers and a half sister, but they want nothing to do with us. No, they're just worried that Daddy will die and leave all his money to my mother, which he probably will. Daddy dotes on my mother, and she dotes on him. Which left very little room for me. They come a few times a year to visit Daddy. I always try to be gone then.” She takes another long sip from the bottle of wine while I sit, quiet, not knowing what to say. “Actually, I try to be gone most of the time. It's better that way. Especially for me. I got tired of being invisible.”

“God, me, too.”

Audrey turns to me then, and I can see her eyes glittering in the moonlight. “Are you invisible, Bettina?”

I nod. “Yes.” It comes out as a whisper. My heart is pounding.

She stares at me for a long moment. “
I
see you.” Audrey lifts a hand, strokes my hair from my face, her gaze hard on mine, her dark, elegant brows drawn together. “We understand each other, you and I. I knew right away we would.”

I am warm and shivery all over. I lick my lips, which have gone dry in the breeze coming off the water. I have an odd sensation of being grounded to the earth, suddenly. And my attraction to Audrey is part of it, although the knowledge that we share this bit of our histories is part of it, too.

“I do understand,” I tell her. “My parents haven't been aware of my existence since…maybe ever. Or maybe only vaguely, as though I'm at the edge of their consciousness. It's better not to be there, not to have to feel that. Easier.”

“Yes, exactly. I don't want that in my face every day. I don't want to have to feel that exclusion. I can get that shit anywhere in this world.”

“But you…you never do, I'm sure. Not from anyone else.”

“Why would you say that?”

She looks truly puzzled.

“Because,” I start, having had too much to drink to censor myself, “you are the most amazing person, Audrey. Fascinating. And I don't mean that in any sort of patronizing way. Not like some zoo animal to stare at and study. But you make me want to…be with you. And I think everyone must feel that way.”

She smiles brilliantly, leans over and kisses my cheek. Her lips leave a hot, damp imprint on my skin. I want to lift my hand, press my fingers there, but I don't do it. Instead, I cross my legs, trying to ease the sudden ache there.

I really shouldn't have drunk so much wine.

“Sweet Bettina,” she says, pulling her hand back to swig from the bottle once more. The wine is nearly gone. “But it's
not true, you know. The world at large rejects me. Always has.”

There is pain behind this simple statement. I want to make her feel better. But I don't know how.

Yes, you do…

God, what am I thinking? She is not flirting with me!

Is she?

“We should get back,” she says. “I want to get up early tomorrow and hit the beach before I write.”

“Oh, okay. Sure.”

She stands, and, taking my hand, helps pull me to my feet. I'm a little dizzy with the wine. And she pulls me in, her arms going around me. The wine bottle is still in her hand and it presses, hard and cool, against my back. And against the front of my body, her breasts are warm. My nipples harden instantly, my sex going damp. She hugs me tightly, briefly, then lets me go.