Sand Witches in the Hamptons (9781101597385)

by Jerome, Celia

  “When eggth hatch, they go home. With thand.”

  Shit. “When?”

  “Full moon.”

  Halloween eve. When my mother will be here to hold the women’s convention on the beach, if there was any beach by then. I thought briefly of offering up Mom to the Andanstans. Just briefly, of course.

  “Can I talk to them myself? Maybe explain that we didn’t know your traditions, but we are very, very grateful, for the professor and the other passengers they helped save, for the village.”

  “And Moses,” Matt added.

  “Too big.”

  “Yes, Moses is too big to bring, but I could apologize for not knowing they existed. But I didn’t know, so I never asked for their help. It was you who called them, or M’ma, who wanted help to vanquish his own enemy. We cannot keep repaying favors forever, in circles.”

  “Oey athk.”

  “And tell them to stop with the rashes, too. They got our attention. Now we’ll try to negotiate.”

  Matt jumped up as if something bit him. I knelt down to see about thirty sand people climbing his sneakers to get to his bare ankle, all with shell shards or tiny twigs. A bunch actually worked together to jab him again with the end of a horseshoe crab’s tail. He jumped and cursed.

  “I don’t think they want to negotiate.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I had another message from my father. Matt had another rash.

  Dad told me to call him back.

  I got the back crap, already, I told the voice mail.

  Oey had disappeared, maybe to consult with the sand reallocation team or the honor system board, or whatever or whoever passed judgment among the Andanstans. I supposed they cooperated with each other long enough to form a government, maybe a war council. They united to build the sand bar, then steal it back. And to inflict a skin condition.

  Oey, in fish form, didn’t say good-bye, so I assumed we’d see him again.

  I didn’t see or hear any of the hordes of bitty barbarians. Neither did Matt. They might have shown up to talk to Oey about eggth, ’cause they sure as hell did not converse with me, too big or not. With no fishy parrot or sandmen or marshmallows, we decided to go home to Matt’s house, to put something on the horseshoe spear puncture before it got infected. The rash already blossomed around it. Nasty little bastards.

  I called the professor to tell him Oey’d be coming back as soon as her feathers grew in, implying her health or abilities suffered, not her vanity. He sounded relieved, excited about the molt and the eggs, asking questions in a stronger voice about gestation and nest-building, more answers I did not have. Then I told him the fledglings—or fingerlings—might be leaving in just a few weeks, possibly with our sand.

  “What a loss, for our world and our research.”

  He meant the baby hermaphrodite hybrids. I thought Paumanok Harbor falling into the bay or going bankrupt with no tourists could be a pretty big loss, too. When he said he’d try to convince Oey to change the plan of sending the young ones away, I didn’t bother to mention Oey’s pet issue. Yes, I was a hypocrite, not liking the idea of being a magic bird’s pet, yet at the same time hoping she’d solve our problems. Like Little Red hating being left home, but loving his regular meals and soft bed. Sometimes you just can’t have it all.

  Jimmie wanted to go back to his chess game with Carinne, a smashing good player, in his opinion. I said I’d see both of them tomorrow, at the council meeting.

  “Is that a good idea?” the professor asked.

  “It’s the best one I can come up with, unless you can convince Carinne to get on a plane for Royce in London.”

  “Did I mention she enjoys the same telly programs as Lily. Her cat is sitting in my lap right now. They are both much calmer and more content.”

  So was Jimmie. He only coughed twice.

  “And she is an excellent chess player.”

  I got the gist: no plane, no London. “Bring her to town hall in the morning, okay?”

  Next I returned my father’s call.

  “Did you tell her?”

  “No, I’ll see Grandma Eve tomorrow and introduce her to Carinne. She’ll have to tell Mom, out of loyalty and maternal feeling. There won’t be as much yelling.” Not at me, anyway. I knew my mother’d go ballistic. I intended to be in another county when she did.

  “The longer you put it off, the madder she’ll be.”

  “I just met Carinne yesterday.” Lord, was it just Saturday when we set out? “You’ve known her for decades. Do you want Mom’s cell number?”

  Silence.

  Had they named the gene for chickenshit, lily-livered cowardice? There must be one called Tate, ’cause I’d definitely inherited mine from my father. “So have you had any more dreams? Ideas? Worries?”

  “Do you still have hives?”

  I looked over at Matt soaking his foot and ankle in a tub of some greenish antiseptic solution he’d fetched from the vet clinic. The rash went halfway up his calf now. “Yup.”

  “I think I dreamed about them.”

  Matt’s legs, that I couldn’t help admire? Not too hairy, with great calf muscles. His knees weren’t as ugly as most men’s, except for a scar from high school football days. That only added to his masculine image, I figured. And figured I’d dream about them, too.

  “Um, what did you dream, Dad, and does that mean there’s a serious danger in having the rash?” I was ready to go pound the beach, demanding a cure, if Matt got seriously ill.

  “I’m not sure. Burl Ives is singing along with the Irish guy.”

  “Who’s Burl Ives?”

  “He’s an old country singer, way before you were born. Big and fat. I think he played Santa Claus somewhere. I just figured Ives, hives.”

  “Is he singing ‘Danny Boy,’ too?”

  “No. He’s singing something called ‘The Wayfaring Stranger.’ They’re driving me nuts, trying to drown each other out, and the sound of the mustangs.”

  “Okay, I’ll watch out for strangers.” I always did, especially now, with Deni on the loose. “But did you get to the doctor? How is your heart?”

  “Sad when I think your mother will never forgive me.”

  “But, Dad, she never forgave you before she ever knew what you’d done.”

  He sighed. “I guess so.”

  I didn’t know what he had to be sad about. He had all his condo widows and golf course cougars. I was the one who’d gone to shrinks for years to recover from my parents. I was the one who couldn’t commit to a loving relationship, and the one he’d dumped his love child on. “Gotta go, Dad. Love you.”

  “Love you back.”

  “Enough with the back.”

  “Huh?”

  “Forget it. Just take care of yourself.”

  * * *

  We walked the dogs later—after Matt and Moses checked for stalkers—and tried to think what we could give to the Andanstans that didn’t involve sacrifices or lifetime servitude. I wanted some ideas to toss to the council tomorrow. Bring them rocks, to make more sand? Have everyone chip in a broken bit of jewelry in case they liked gold? Make tiny breechclouts and sports bras so they didn’t dangle or jiggle? I wrote a couple down while Matt went across to do one last check on the two recuperating dogs in the clinic’s kennel.

  When he came back, he asked, “How about a shower?”

  “Sounds good. You go first. I’m still thinking about repaying the sand people.”

  “I thought we could shower together. You know, save hot water. Do each other’s backs. Get steamy.”

  Ahh. I forgot about the list. What were paybacks, in light of soapy, slidy, sexy backs?

  Showering a deux was not as much fun as it sounded, not in Matt’s shower at least. It wasn’t huge, for starters,
so we were kind of cramped, with my back against the cold tiles. When I wrapped my leg around his, he groaned, and not in ecstasy, either. His ankle throbbed. He dropped the soap and I jumped away, so the metal safety grab bar jammed into my ribs. Then I slipped on the soap, of course. And we bumped heads bending down to retrieve it. How did all those romance novel heroines pull it off?

  I tried harder because I really wanted to make Matt happy. And me, too.

  When we finally had it all together in the center of the shower, trading long, hot kisses under the hot water, we remembered the sack from the drugstore.

  Matt swore. “Maybe we could work on making eggth?”

  “I already have eggs, Ace. Put a sock on your swimmers.”

  “Let me taste you. I don’t need a shower cap for that.”

  He did, and I would have slid to the bottom of the shower if he didn’t hold me up. Then it was his turn, except I looked up to see his grin and swallowed about a gallon of water and almost choked to death. And it wasn’t enough, for either of us. “I need you inside, now.”

  So he left to grab the condoms. And the hot water ran out.

  Beds are better anyway, except for the two dogs sound asleep in Matt’s big king size.

  The bed in the guest room was smaller, but adequate until Matt misjudged the size and we rolled onto the floor, which wasn’t half bad, especially when Matt let me be on top.

  We laughed and sighed and urged each other higher, hotter, faster, deeper. Making love with Matt made the world shrink down to here and now and us and feeling, not thinking. Passion rose and ebbed and crescendoed, without a single care for pesky sand-nappers or stalkers, just wet bodies, slick and shiny with soap and sweat and arousal.

  We got it right.

  “I missed you.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Will you stay?”

  I couldn’t move if I wanted to.

  “But after Halloween? Give your mother her apartment back. Stay with me.”

  I brushed his damp curls off his forehead. “It’s not fair to ask now. I’ve got a limp body, a limp brain.” I kissed him. “Thank you.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask in the morning over pancakes.”

  “You’ll make me pancakes?”

  “I’d make you waffles with whipped cream and berries if I thought that would keep you here.” He sat up. “Hey, I can put the whipped cream to a lot better use.”

  He shooed the dogs off the big bed. Little Red growled, but found my clothes to sleep on, maybe a shoe to piss on to show his disapproval. Matt lifted me onto it and pulled the sheets around me, then left.

  I was half asleep when he came back with a bowl of strawberries, a spray can of whipped cream, and a tub of that chocolate you can melt in the microwave. And more condoms. “So soon?” I asked coming out of a satiated fog to note he was naked, and needy.

  “I really missed you.”

  “Nah, you missed the sex.”

  Matt sat beside me, suddenly serious. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

  “No. Well, not entirely. Maybe a little.”

  He shoved me over to one side of the bed so he could lie down without our bodies touching. “Okay, no sex until you trust my love. If it takes abstinence to prove it, that I want to spend my life with you even if I cannot make love to you, that’s what it’ll be.”

  “Are you kidding?” He was obviously ready.

  “Yes. I’ll give you about ten minutes of abstinence. How’s that?”

  He put a chocolate-dipped strawberry in my mouth. When I bit down, he finished the rest. Then he kissed me, tasting of my two favorite things: chocolate and Matt. “Works for me.”

  The no-sex rule lasted about five minutes, not ten, unless you count seduction by strawberries as sex. That worked for me, too. And the chocolate sauce, and the whipped cream.

  We needed another shower. And fresh sheets. And maybe mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  “Mine,” Matt said, when we could speak. His hand still cupped my breast, his thigh rested across my legs, pinning my lifeless body to the mattress. “Mine.”

  I roused enough to mumble that I was not a pet.

  “Tell that to Oey.”

  “Oey’s from another world. Heaven knows how her mind works.”

  “It works well enough to think we’re good together.”

  “Mmm, we just proved that, didn’t we?”

  “But not enough to make it official? You know, planning for the future?”

  That woke me up. “Like babies and weddings and moving in together?”

  “Maybe not in that order, but yeah. I want you. I want it all.”

  Now I put distance between us, philosophically and physically. It was a really big bed. And I had a really big yellow streak. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all that.”

  “When do you think you will be ready? When we’re old and gray and shuttling between your rest home and mine because you won’t move in?”

  “I mean I’m not ready to say forever. Or to be a mother. I know you want kids, and I know I am getting to now or never in that category, but I might never be ready to juggle a baby and a career. Or to have a child with paranormal potential. How can I raise a kid without inflicting my own hang-ups on it, raise it right so he or she will be a good, happy person? Hell, I can’t even get my dog to stop pissing on my shoes.”

  “I promise our kids won’t piss on your shoes. And you’ll be a great mother, simply because you care so much about doing it right. And because you can’t help but love them, weird talents or none at all, your heart is so big. Besides, everyone in Paumanok Harbor will give us advice.”

  I pulled the sheets over my head. “That’s worse than having a para-prodigy.”

  He laughed. “They’ll all be honorary aunts and uncles. We’ll never need to hire a babysitter.”

  “I haven’t decided about moving here.”

  “You wouldn’t want to raise kids in the city, would you? Breathing soot and smog, when we have oceans of clean air and open space to play?”

  “We also have wizards and witches and otherworldy visitors.”

  “Isn’t that great? Where else can a kid see fairy tales come to life, know that true magic exists, that anything is possible?”

  “You always look on the bright side of things. I tend to look for the danger, the difficulty.”

  “See? We complement each other. Rose-colored glasses and dark clouds. Just like life. You’ll keep my feet on the ground, and I’ll show you the heights.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “You make it sound so hard. Chances are, we can find somewhere in the middle, like all compromises.” He pulled me back to the middle of the disheveled bed. “But speaking of hard . . .”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I had empty arms, an empty bed, and an empty stomach. Matt had an emergency.

  I’d have to think about that, when my brain wasn’t mush. It wouldn’t be as bad as engaging myself to Grant, who traipsed around the world at the drop of a Bigfoot’s foot. Or Ty, who rode, rescued, and talked to horses across the globe. Nowhere as bad as getting attached to Piet, who raced off to fight wildfires. I never understood how the wives of policemen and firemen and soldiers lived through their partners’ tours of duty or shifts. Matt wasn’t going away or into danger. He just had a lot of patients who needed him, day and night. He’d be that kind of committed, caring veterinarian wherever he lived, which was good, right?

  I told myself I could get used to it. Look at all the spouses of doctors and snowplow operators who get called out in the middle of the night. They rolled over and went back to sleep. I rolled over and bumped into Little Red licking chocolate off the pillow.

  “No! Bad! Chocolate can kill you!”

  Or me, i
f sex didn’t. I staggered into the bathroom, which looked like baboons had partied there. With hot water and one of Matt’s T-shirts, I woke up enough to make it down the stairs. I wandered around with time to kill before Harris arrived to take me to the council meeting. I knew I’d have to find clean sheets, find something to wear, figure out where to leave Red, straighten the bedroom, the guest room, and the bathroom before Matt’s housekeeper arrived to see what a shameless shambles we’d made. First I found a yogurt in the fridge, likely left over from the ex. It wasn’t pancakes, but it was a start, while the coffeemaker did its thing.

  I checked my notes, then carried them upstairs to the attic room where I’d placed my computer and printer. The pitched roof really was too low. And the window looked out on a big tree, nothing else. The card table was rickety.

  I couldn’t share Matt’s office, which was about as big as a closet and filled with technical veterinary medicine journals and reference books.

  The spare bedroom faced the back of the vet clinic and the outdoor runs for the dogs, which I could hear barking. If I used it for an office, the noise would drive me crazy, and then there’d be no extra room. I was not thinking nursery, only guests, and the dogs.

  Downstairs, the furniture fit Matt, big and sturdy, comfy. Someone had chosen nice enough colors, if you liked neutrals. I liked bold colors. And a yard and privacy and a short walk to the beach, like from my mother’s house. Mom’s place sat on a big lot on a secluded private drive that led to the farm stand. It had more rooms, more gardens, more color and more fenced-in areas for the dogs. Mom talked about putting in a pool, more for water therapy for dogs than for her own recreation and exercise, but she hadn’t done it yet. Matt’s house lot didn’t have space for a kiddie pool or a hot tub.

  Matt’s back deck had a grill and an umbrella table, nothing else, while my mother had a wraparound porch so you could always find sun or shade, whichever you wanted.

  Not that I wanted to live on Garland Drive near my grandmother, or share my mother’s home. No way. But this house? That claustrophobic shower ran out of hot water again, and the bathroom had nowhere for me to unpack my shampoo, conditioner, mousse, spray, et cetera, of which I had a lot. And the sick dogs sounded distressed. Red kept barking back at them, which did not help.