Then we go back to the room and make love again, this time slowly. At the end I fall asleep in his arms, exhausted and happier than I have ever been.
Chapter Ten
A thin band of sunlight falls across the room and onto the blue comforter we must have kicked to the foot of the bed. The blue and green striped drapes are open just a sliver. Austen, still sleeping, is wrapped around me—warmer than any comforter. I could stay like this forever, but I need to take a shower. I feel sticky all over. I don’t want to wake him, so I lie still and think about last night. He was amazing. The whole experience was astonishing. I have never felt like that ever in my life. I never in my wildest dreams imagined that my body could feel that good, that satisfied, that relaxed—and all because of him. And I want more.
Then his breathing changes and I realize he is awake. He nuzzles my hair.
“Morning, baby.”
“Good morning.”
“How do you feel?”
“Sticky. Good, but very sticky. I need to take a shower.” I slip out of his arms, get out of bed, lean over and give him a chaste kiss. With my toothbrush and tooth paste in hand I go to the bathroom. The sun is shining through a small, high window onto the pale blue tiles that go up to the ceiling.
The turn on the shower and the water warms up rapidly as I brush my teeth. Better. My mouth tastes much fresher now. I step under the warm, almost hot, water and it cascades all over my hair and body. It feels heavenly. The soap I take out of the white paper wrapper is scented lightly, citrus and floral. I rub some on a washcloth and begin to wash my face and neck.
Then I realize Austen is leaning against the doorway to the bathroom watching me with a honey smile on his face.
“You are so beautiful, Julia.”
He walks across the bathroom and steps into the shower with me.
“Let me wash you, baby. Turn around and stand still.”
He rubs some more soap into the washcloth and starts rubbing my shoulders and my neck. I feel my muscles relax even more. He washes one arm, then lifts it and washes underneath and down my side to my hip. Then he washes the other arm and my other side. With a circular motion, he scrubs my back slowly down to my behind. His hand and washcloth are caressing me as he circles around one cheek, then the other. Then he reaches between my legs and circles round and round.
I gasp.
“Are you sore?”
“A bit.”
“I’ll try to be gentle.”
But he doesn’t stop massaging me, probing into me. My hips begin to move with his hand. I am so aroused, just by being in the shower with him, just by seeing how erect he is already.
“Not yet, baby. Not yet. Be still.”
His hand moves the washcloth down my legs to my feet, cleaning every inch. The warm water pours over us, washing the soapy lather off my body.
“Turn around now.” He whispers, his voice thick.
I do as he says. Again he takes the little bar of soap and lathers it in the washcloth. He starts washing my skin gently at my neck, then across my chest to my shoulders. He kisses me lightly on the lips.
“Are your breasts tender?”
I nod my head. He lightly circles once around each breast—not touching my now hard nipples—then washes down across my stomach and through my pubic hair. Again, his hand enclosed in the washcloth circles around and around between my legs, arousing me even more. My legs begin to feel weak; I am trembling. I don’t know how much longer I can just stand here while he does this to me. Then, suddenly, he drops the washcloth.
“Put your legs around me, babygirl.”
He puts his arms around me, lifts me up as I wrap my legs around him and he slowly eases me onto his erection.
“Oh yes,” I sigh as he fills me.
My back is against the tile wall as he begins to move in and out of me, gently at first. Then he drives into me harder and harder. I want to move my hips but I am pinned against the wall as he rams into me again and again. My arms are around his neck, my head against his rough cheek. We are both breathing faster, panting. He thrusts again and again.
“Ohh. Ohh. Ohh,” I gasp as I feel my orgasm building inside me. It is happening fast again. My legs tighten around him. He drives into me over and over. Then I climax, my hips thrusting forward, the tension inside me suddenly becoming pure release. He comes at almost the same moment, calling my name as he does.
My legs, my body go limp. With me still in his arms, we slide to the floor, the warm water from the shower still pouring over us. I ease off his lap and onto the tile floor beside him. My eyes are closed and I am smiling as I let the water wash away the last of the stickiness.
“Did you like that?” He smiles.
“Yes,” I say, opening my eyes. I lean over and kiss him, lightly on his lips. “Very much. It was a wonderful way to start the day.”
He stands up, turns off the shower, then reaches down and pulls me to my feet. “I’m hungry. Let’s go have breakfast or brunch or whatever they are serving now.”
Warm sunshine bathes the flagstone terrace outside the inn where there are a dozen round, glass-topped, wrought-iron tables with chairs. In daylight I can see the shimmering blue-gray ocean not far away and hear it too, but the terrace is sheltered from the ocean breeze. The crisp scent of nearby eucalyptus trees fills the air.
Austen is disappointed that they don’t have steak and eggs on the brunch menu, but we decide on omelets with ham and avocado. And Mimosas.
The waitress brings a glass pitcher of Mimosas to our table immediately and fills the champagne flutes.
“You really love steaks, don’t you? Do you come from a ranching family?”
“Nope. It’s a Texas thing, I guess. My daddy is a Baptist preacher.”
“You’re the son of a preacher? Isn’t there a song about that? Is it about you?”
I take a sip of the Mimosa. The combination of orange juice and champagne tastes very refreshing. I take another sip.
He laughs. “I don’t think so. Dusty Springfield sings it. I never met her.”
“There was a minister’s son in my homeroom in high school. He was always in some kind of trouble or the other.”
He takes a drink of the Mimosa.
“I was, too. I thought I was really hot stuff when I was 17. Got drunk as often as I could with some rowdy friends, a bunch of small town nobodies I realize now. But we drove around in souped-up cars and raced on back roads late at night. And I screwed every girl I could get my hands on. I almost didn’t graduate from high school because I missed classes so often that last semester. My grades were good, though. Then I refused to follow my brother Matt into college.”
I am surprised by this revelation. Well, maybe not entirely surprised. It fits with his comments about Tommy being as bad at 22 as he was at 17.
The waitress brings our omelets with home fries, slices of fruit and buttered English muffins. She tops up our Mimosas from the glass pitcher.
He takes a bite of the omelet. “Good. Not steak, but good.”
“What did your parents think about all this?”
“They were furious. I think the Reverend John Raneley was embarrassed as much as anything. He couldn’t tolerate the idea that everyone knew that one of his sons was a guitar player, singing in run-down bars across the county. My mother was very disappointed in me and made a point of telling me that—often. She told me I was setting a bad example for Mike. I didn’t care.”
The omelet is delicious: in addition to the ham and avocado, the cook has stirred in some herbs into the eggs. It lifts this omelet out of the ordinary. I eat it all and empty my drink. The waitress refills both our glasses again.
“So you packed up your guitar and came to California?”
“No.” He pauses, pensive. He seems to be thinking about the past.
“If you don’t want to talk about this, that’s okay. I didn’t mean to pry.” I say, taking another sip of my drink.
“No, I’ll tell you, Julia. Let’s fi
nish lunch first and go back to the room.”
Housekeeping has been to our room, made the bed and hung fresh towels in the shower. Room service has also been there. Beside the bed is a small rolling table with a bowl of red ripe strawberries, a bowl of fluffy white whipped cream, a bottle of champagne and two champagne flutes.
“Oh, I love strawberries,” I say.
“I hoped you did.” He smiles at me, as he piles the pillows against the headboard. “Come sit by me, Julia, and I will tell you the story of my life.”
I crawl onto the bed beside him. He takes one strawberry and dips it into the cream and feeds it to me. The berry is sweet and very juicy. I run my tongue over my lips, licking away the cream.
“Delicious.”
He eats a berry dipped in the cream, and opens the bottle of chilled champagne. He pours it into the flutes, not spilling a drop.
“To the future.” He toasts.
“The future.” I echo.
Another berry for me. Another for him. A drop of cream is on his face by his mouth. I lean over and lick it off. He grins at me as I sit back and wait for him to continue.
“So,” I ask, “there you were in No-Where Texas being a bad boy guitar player. What happened next?”
“This story now takes a turn for the worse. Or maybe the better—depending on how you look at it. The Reverend Raneley came up with a solution—I found out about it a couple of years later. He went to the local draft board—a bunch of small-town big wigs, most of them were members of his church—and told them to put me Number One on the next draft.”
“Your father did that?” I gasp, shocked. “Most fathers try to keep their sons out of the draft. But yours deliberately got you drafted?”
“He sure did. Six months later I was marching to the Army’s tune. After Basic I was shipped off to Germany.”
“At least you didn’t get sent to Viet Nam. That would have been horrible.”
“In ’61 Viet Nam was nothing, Julia. A few Special Forces were there in those days. The Soviet Union was the big threat—maybe still is.”
He empties his champagne flute, refills it and tops up mine.
“It turned out Army life wasn’t all that bad. We had plenty of time and a little money so I drank buckets of beer, screwed every Fraulein I could get my hands on—pretty much continued what I had been doing back home. The big difference was that the Army didn’t give a damn. All I had to do to keep them happy was show up at roll call, march straight and shoot a rifle.”
He feeds another strawberry to me. The cream drips onto my chin. He wipes it off with his fingers then leans back against the headboard and pillows, smiling at me.
“My NCO noticed that I could shoot better than most. Shooting was no big deal for me—I’d been bird hunting with my uncle Will since I was 11. So the Army decided to give me some sniper training. Then they issued me a sniper rifle. I never had to kill anyone, though.”
He pauses, thinking.
“Since Viet Nam has blown up I’ve wondered if the Army was going to come get me again because of that training. They haven’t—so far.”
“You could be drafted back into the Army?” I am dismayed.
“Yep, although I am close to being too old for them now. Anyway, one day I met an American girl who told me she had saved for three years so she could travel around Europe for the summer. She really chewed me out for ‘wasting an opportunity’—that’s what she called it. She pointed out that the Army gave me free travel to Europe, free room and board and even some spending money. In her opinion I was throwing away what she had to work so hard for. I realized she was right. I never saw her again, but after that I began to visit places—mostly in Northern Europe. I’ve kept on doing that ever since. Go places. Meet new people. It was good advice.”
Another strawberry for me. More champagne for him.
“What was your favorite place in Europe?”
“Paris,” he grins. “Everyone loves Paris.”
“What did you do there?”
“I went to the Louvre—that place is huge—and saw Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa. Looking at miles of pictures didn’t interest me, though. Saw Saint Chapelle—an old old church built by one of the French kings back in the 1200s. All stained glass windows, no solid walls. Then I went over to the Left Bank and drank wine at Les Deux Magot—it’s a bar, a bistro—a famous hangout for French intellectuals. I hoped I could see Jean Paul Sartre, but I didn’t. I bought one of his books in English and one by Albert Camus, too. Then it was back to the base in Germany. I was only in Paris a few days.”
“So after the army, did you come to California?”
He grins and shakes his head. “No. Nashville was the next stop. I went there after I was discharged and they wouldn’t give me the time of day. ‘You’re too rock ‘n’ roll for us,’ they said. So I got in my old Chevy and drove to L.A. They said: ‘You sure have a lot of country in you, but we like you anyway.’ John and I got together to start a band a few months later and I never looked back.”
He slides down so he is lying on the bed, his head on a pillow. “Lay down with me, beautiful Julia.”
I do and he begins to unbutton my blouse.
Sunday evening and we are parked on the street outside the cottage.
“Thank you for a lovely weekend,” I say, and then kiss him lightly.
“Glad you liked it, baby.”
He runs his fingers into my hair and pulls my face to him and kisses me again, hungrily. Yes, yes. I can feel myself melting inside as I yield to him. I slip my hands inside his jacket and around his sides. Oh yes. Yes. More. Then he pulls away, holds my forehead against his and takes a deep breath.
“Oh babygirl, we better stop or we’re going to get arrested for public indecency.” Then he smiles and lets go of me. “I’ve got a long drive. I’d better go now.”
“Drive safely.” I open the car door and get out, carrying the big pink straw handbag I used as an overnight bag.
I stand and watch him drive away, still glowing from the experience of this weekend.
Chapter Eleven
In the cottage I find Ali in the kitchen doing her ironing. ‘Whole Lotta Love’ from Led Zeppelin’s new album is playing on the radio. No sign of Drew anywhere.
“Well, how was it?”
“Wonderful. Romantic. Carmel is a beautiful place. No wonder it’s been an artists’ colony for so long.”
“You look happy.”
“I am,” I answer, but that’s all I’m going to say so I quickly ask: “Why aren’t you out with Drew?”
“Drew is ancient history since Friday night.”
“What happened?”
Ali takes a deep breath and shakes her head.
“Julia, you will not believe this. We were at a meeting where there was some man from back East. At first he talked about the marches across the country planned for October. The idea is to mobilize the whole country—old people, students, office workers, factory workers—everyone. Show the government—the Pentagon—that the whole country is against the war. Of course we all agreed. Then he went on to say that if the government won’t stop sending boys to Viet Nam the next step should be taking some kind of violent action. That it is the only way to get the establishment’s attention. He didn’t say what violent action he had in mind specifically, but that was too much for me.”
“Oh my god,” I gasp, frowning.
Ali shakes her head as if she still cannot believe it.
“Marching in a demonstration is one thing, but I don’t want any part of any violence. There is enough violence and death in Saigon and Da Nang; we don’t need it here. And to make it worse, Drew was just eating it up. Agreeing with him. I couldn’t believe it. Well, that was the end of Drew. It seems as if the antiwar movement is his whole life—that and his job.”
She shakes her head again, this time sadly. “Now that I know him better I’m surprised that he stopped to talk with me that day in Union Square. He is so involved with the antiwar peop
le. Drew didn’t seem to be like the others—so many of those guys in the movement are obviously power hungry—but …anyway it was ‘Goodbye’. Forever.”
“Did you ask him why he supported violent action?”
“I did and he simply repeated what that other man said: it’s the only way to get the government’s attention and make them stop killing our boys. He was so intense about it. Then he said Nixon’s so-called ‘secret plan’ to get out of the war is a hoax. He is right, but the whole thing was too much for me. Anyway, I’m still against the war but no violence, no more Drew.” Then she sighs: “The war was almost all he ever talked about.”
“That’s so odd. Mr. Nice Guy Drew encouraging violence.” I am puzzled by this. “Did you actually tell him Goodbye?
“Not exactly, but I don’t want to see him again. He is so deep into it and it scares me now. I told him I had plans for the rest of the weekend and I’ll just tell him I’m busy when he calls again. ‘If’ he calls again. He may have figured it out from my reaction to it all. I don’t want any big scene.”
Ali takes a big breath and sits up. She still looks puzzled and a bit sad. “I don’t understand Drew—the whole situation at all—but there are other fish in the sea, I guess. No more lawyers, though. Ever.”
I agree.
* * *
Monday morning at Voices I feel as if I have just returned from a long vacation somewhere else—some other life—instead of two days in Carmel. Dan comes breezing in, smiling and cheerful. He looks like he had a good weekend, too.
About an hour later David walks into our office and drops a newspaper—or is it a magazine—on Dan’s desk.
“Have you seen this?” David asks.
Dan shakes his head and opens the paper.
“I don’t know who’s putting up the money for it. The editors are two women I think I heard of in New York. I didn’t even know they were out here.” David continues, and hands a copy to me. “I wonder if it is self-financed.”
It is a fashion magazine printed on newsprint, not glossy paper stock. The masthead reads Rags. The photos are not from glamorous fashion salons of New York and Paris, but of young women here in San Francisco—photos of street fashion. I turn the pages, looking at the photos and reading the captions beneath them. This is fabulous!
Playing for Julia Page 7
