The Lovers (20 page)

I am aware that he's talking to me as if I'm a spooked horse, soothing me. But I find myself responding to it, wanting to open up. He does that to me.

I let the pillow fall away, and ask, “What do you want me to do?”

He smiles. “Lie on your stomach, yes, just like that, and tip your head a little so the light catches in your hair. Ah, that's perfect.”

He holds the camera to his eye, pauses to make some sort of adjustment and snaps a few shots, the camera making a tiny whirring, clicking sound.

“Good. Now roll onto your side, lay your head on the pillow. And just relax.”

I try, following his directions as he takes me through a series of poses. He's clicking away, and I'm beginning to feel panicky. Too naked. Too open to him, as though the camera can see even more deeply than he can. And some part of me wants him to see everything. But that's just too damn frightening to contemplate.

I curl up, covering myself. “You said just a few shots.”

“I did, didn't I?” He comes to the bed, leans over me and kisses me on the lips, softly. “Okay, we can be done. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me.”

His eyes are that deep, gleaming green that I love. Mysterious. Thoughtful. Do I trust him? I'm still not sure. Maybe I don't really trust anyone.

The sun is really going down now, but the room is still lit up in amber, the light gentle, a chiaroscuro mix of shadow
and color, everything a little soft around the edges. He kisses me again, and I melt, as I always do.

“Do you want to eat? Are you hungry?” Jack asks.

“Starving.”

I realize as I say it that it's true. I haven't had anything all day other than my coffee at the farmer's market that morning, which feels like a thousand years ago.

Jack kisses me one last time, then gets up and starts piling things on the bed: a bowl of red grapes, their ruby skin glistening with tiny droplets of water, a hunk of crusty Italian bread, a plate of cheese and thinly shaved slices of prosciutto, a bowl of dark green olives. There's also a bottle of red wine and two short, round glasses.

“I should get dressed if we're going to eat,” I say, but everything looks too good, and all I have here is my bathing suit, which is lying on the floor, crumpled and damp.

“Don't,” he says, unbuttoning his shorts and stepping out of them.

He is gorgeously naked underneath. He climbs up onto the bed, sitting across from me, the picnic between us. He slices the cheese with a small knife, pulls the bread apart and hands a piece to me, along with some of the cheese. I bite into it; it's a nice mild Fontina, a little smoky, and it melts on my tongue.

“Here, you have to try it with these garlic-stuffed olives,” Jack tells me. “Viviane gets them from a guy in town. They're amazing. That little bit of salt is the perfect accent.”

He pops an olive into my mouth and I chew, the flavor acrid and earthy and wonderful.

“You're right. It's perfect.”

This day is perfect. Too perfect, and I have a horrible feeling it's all going to be taken away from me somehow. But I try to ignore it, to distract myself with the flavors of the food,
the mild bite of the wine in my glass and Jack's naked body so close to mine.

“Jack?”

“Mmm, what?”

“It's your turn to tell me a true story.”

“Okay.” He smiles, then sits quietly a moment. “Okay. A true story. When I was a kid, my dad was my hero. I mean, I totally worshipped him. I followed him around like a puppy. Everything he did was gold. I realized later that some of it was because he wasn't around much. I didn't know then what he was doing, why he was gone so often. I just wanted to make him notice me. I wanted him to be proud of me.

“I did some pretty stupid stuff. Once I tried to mow the lawn while he was away, but I was only eight and the mower was too powerful for me, so the lawn ended up in patches and I took out half my mom's flowers.”

I smile at him. “That's sweet.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He stops, sips his wine in a sort of aggressive manner, as though he's tossing back a shot of whiskey. “But then I tried to teach myself to drive a few years later. I was twelve. Could barely reach the pedals of my mom's car. I wanted to show him that I was a man, you know? So I backed it out of the driveway. I didn't know that he was coming home, pulling into the driveway just as I was backing out. I ran right into him, smashed the front of his car. He sprained his hand, had a whiplash injury. He was furious with me.”

“I'm sorry, Jack.” I don't know what else to say. His face has frozen up a little, as though he doesn't want the hurt to be seen on the surface. But I see it. I do. And it makes my chest ache.

He takes a long swallow of his wine, slowly this time, and then another. “Yeah, kids do stupid things.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Sometimes adults do, too.”

He goes quiet, and I sit with him, silent for a bit, just sipping my wine, watching him. Shadows cross his face in a series, one after another.

Finally I ask him, “Are you thinking about Sheri, Jack?”

He shrugs. “Not in that way. Not like she's some lost love. She wasn't ever that to me, which was the problem, for her, anyway. But thinking about being an idiot, yeah.”

“You never loved her?”

“If I had, would I have cheated on her?”

“I don't know. People do.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I don't think that's what love is.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don't know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I guess I don't have an answer for that.” He lets out a short, sharp laugh. “Pretty ridiculous that I'm thirty-five years old and I don't even know what love is. All I know is what it isn't.”

This conversation is making me uncomfortable, and I'm not sure why. I usually adore this sort of philosophical challenge. Maybe it's the wrong topic for us.

“We don't have to talk about this, Jack. I'm sorry.”

“Ah, don't be sorry. I was the one getting morbid.”

He throws back another swallow of wine, emptying his glass. Standing, he refills it and tops off mine, even though I haven't asked him to, then he starts to pick up plates and bowls and sets them on the small table.

“Let me help you,” I offer.

“No, that's okay. I've got it.”

The sun is down now, and outside I hear the last calls of the gulls as night closes in. I can feel the evening fog, a faint layer of damp on my skin, and I shiver. Jack turns around, comes to sit on the bed with me, looping an arm over my bare
shoulder. His skin is hot, lovely. I breathe him in, his skin and the scent of sex, which I am really coming to love.

“Take a walk with me, Bettina.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“I'll have to go next door and get some clothes.”

“I have this big tunic shirt. It'll be like a dress on you. Wait one sec.”

He gets up, rummages around in the dresser, pulls out a long-sleeved white shirt in some light, gauzy fabric. He brings it to me, helps me slip it over my head, then pulls his shorts back on, along with a black T-shirt. “Come on.”

We go down to the beach, my hand in his, the dark sort of enveloping us. It would be lonely by myself, but with Jack I don't feel at all alone. Not as long as he's here with me. Tomorrow may be a different story. But for now, everything just feels good.

“It's beautiful here at night,” I tell him as we make our way down the dunes toward the shoreline. The moon shines down on the water, a flat half disc hanging in the velvet sky. The light on the water is silvery and mysterious, like some sort of elemental magic, something about the earth and the water and the air. “I've never hung out on a beach after dark before I came here. I like it. I like the sound of the ocean when I can't see it. I mean, it's out there, I can almost see it. But I can
feel
it more, if that makes sense.”

“It does.”

Jack's hand tightens on mine and he turns to me. In the dim moonlight I can see that he's watching me closely. And I feel that it means something, but I don't know what. And just as quickly I am doubting myself. I am being overly romantic. Girlish.

I am never overly romantic and girlish.

But when he leans in and brushes a kiss across my lips before turning to lead me down the beach once more, I sigh softly. I'm glad he can't hear me, that the heavy white noise of the ocean covers up my sentimental moment.

We walk a bit longer, toward the light shining down onto the sand from the next house over. Charles's house. It strikes me that maybe we should stop, and I don't know why neither of us does, but we both move on, closer and closer. As we approach it I can hear music playing, some sort of jazz piece. Jack and I both stop, finally, and stare up at the place. There's an enormous picture window overlooking the beach, taking advantage of the incredible view, and against the light coming through it we can see the dark silhouettes of Audrey and Charles sitting on the narrow front deck. They are seated at opposite sides of a table, a bottle of wine and some glasses between them, but they are leaning in toward each other. And over the music I catch the faint sound of Audrey's laughter.

My stomach knots up. I don't know why. Is it because I can see the magic of Audrey's attention focused on someone other than me? Or because I can feel Jack tensing beside me?

“Let's go back,” Jack says, gripping my hand for a moment.

“Does it bother you?” I ask him quietly. I can't help myself.

“I…” He stops for a moment. “Maybe it's an automatic reaction. Because I'm here with you. And I want to be, Bettina.”

I nod my head. “Okay. Okay.” I pause, thinking, trying to figure this all out. “It's okay that you still want her, Jack. So do I. I can't help it. You can't, either. That's just Audrey.”

“Yeah. It's not the same anymore for me, though. I don't buy into it as much as I used to. Into her charm.”

“But it's still there. And it's undeniable.”

“Yeah. But maybe you and I just need to accept this about each other, about her. Because sometimes I feel like she's always here with us, even when she's not.”

I've felt that, too, as though Audrey is a sort of obstacle between us, even though she's what drew us together.

When did I start to worry about there being obstacles between us? It's not like this is going anywhere. This is a summer fling, just as Audrey was for me, just as she always is for Jack, and now for Charles. When this retreat is over, I won't see him until the next one, if even then. And meanwhile, he and Audrey may see each other, be together.

Why does that make my stomach hurt?

But it is suddenly crystal clear to me that while I still have desire for Audrey, it's not the same at all as my feelings for Jack. It's Jack I am absolutely aching over.

Fuck.

“Bettina?” His hand is on my face, cupping my cheek, and I don't want to read any more into this gesture than might be there. “Can we just let it be?”

He's asking to keep things simple. Okay. I get that.

“Yes. Sure.”

He draws me in closer, his arms around me. “Let's go back to my cottage. Get into bed together again.”

I nod my head. I don't want him to hear the emotion that's clogging my throat, so I don't say anything. But I don't need to. He takes my hand and we move back the way we've come. The surf is pounding in my ears, or maybe it's my blood, which is heating again, despite the emotions. Or maybe more so because of what I'm feeling.

He pushes his red door open and I follow him inside. He hasn't let go of my hand for a moment.

“Jack? Are you going to close the door?”

He shakes his head. His eyes are glittering, dark and unreadable in the faint light from the bedside lamp. “I'm going to take you outside, Bettina. I want to smell the beach and the night. Okay?”

I smile. I can't help myself. “Yes. Please.”

He grins at me then, and even through that almost boyish expression I can see the lust in the softness of his face, his mouth loose and lush, and a shiver runs up my spine.

He lets me go long enough to grab a condom from the drawer in his nightstand and takes my hand once more, and we go out into the night, passing by the stand of trees at the edge of the property. And that's when we hear it: Audrey's high, tinkling laugh, like fairy dust floating on the sea breeze, soft and sultry. We both know that laugh. And it stops us in our tracks. His grip tightens around my hand, and he pulls me closer to the trees, to a space where we can peer through, where we can see Charles's house.

The light is on in the living room, still, and they are on the front deck. It's dark, but with the light coming through the window I can see he has her bent over the railing, and she is completely naked. I can just make out the outline of her plush breasts, her slim torso, the curve of her back. Behind her, Charles is all fine, smooth muscle. And my sex heats, desire making my legs weak.

“Jack, we shouldn't…”

“Yeah, but you want to as much as I do. I can hear it in your voice,” he whispers. He comes up behind me, his arms slipping around my waist, and before I can think about it, his hand slips beneath the hem of the long shirt I'm wearing, his fingers finding my cleft immediately. “Ah, you're wet. I knew you would be.”

“We can't just watch them.” I know my argument is weak,
but I feel that I should state the obvious. “We shouldn't be doing this.”

“Which is exactly what's going to make it so good,” he growls in my ear.

A small whoosh of air escapes me as his fingers find my clit.

I will do whatever he wants at this moment, and he knows it. He knows he's got me. But I don't care. All I want is him, any way he wants me. I just don't care.

“Do it, Jack,” I whisper as he moves my hair aside and draws his tongue up the back of my neck. “Just do whatever you want to me.”