by Tami Hoag
They sat side by side on the wide stairs of the porch, sharing morning coffee and a view of the ocean. Jake had just jogged past, with Dixie’s dogs cavorting at his heels.
In her sixties, Sylvie was trim and fashion-conscious. This morning she was decked out in a royal purple lounging outfit with a paisley silk scarf fluttering at her throat. Her small thin hands bore a load of jewelry and the spots and wrinkles of age, but her face was remarkably free of lines, thanks to her brother-in-law, a plastic surgeon from Scarsdale.
“My God, Dixie,” she said. “Is he gorgeous or what? You didn’t tell me he was so gorgeous!”
“He’s okay,” Dixie said grudgingly, absently stroking Cyclops, the one-eyed cat lounging on her lap.
“What’s the matter with you? He’s to die for!”
Sylvie smacked her again and Dixie’s coffee spilled. “Criminy, Sylvie, you’re giving me a bruise!”
Sylvie put on her wounded mother face and splayed a bejeweled hand across her chest. “Oh. I’m sorry. You completely miss that this man you’ve taken in is to die for, and this is my fault? Sometimes I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Dixie. I don’t know what’s the matter with your hormones. Maybe what you need is to see a good gynecologist.”
“There’s nothing the matter with my hormones,” Dixie grumbled, her eyes following Jake’s progress down the beach.
He had a beautiful stride. His long legs were dusted with just the right amount of golden hair. The muscled thighs and calves were displayed in all their tanned perfection by a loose-fitting pair of navy blue running shorts topped by a gray sweatshirt. Dixie couldn’t keep her eyes off those magnificent athlete’s legs. She watched until he and the dogs were just pin dots down at the south edge of the property.
No, there was nothing wrong with her hormones. They had been in a raging turmoil from the moment she’d met Jake Gannon. She’d crawled into bed the night before to seek the solace of sleep, but all she’d gotten were dreams of impossibly perfect men with golden hair and Robert Redford smiles. She had awakened ornery as a bear with fleas, cursing Jake Gannon and cursing herself. She’d come to Mare’s Nest for peace. She’d wrestled all her demons and settled into a life of comfortable routine. She didn’t care to have that routine disrupted.
“I don’t need this,” she muttered, glaring at Jake as he turned and headed back up the beach, dogs bouncing along around his ankles.
“Of course you need this,” Sylvie said, her voice becoming gentle with understanding. “You’re a lovely young woman. You need a man in your life. That’s nature. Who are you to fight nature?”
“Maybe I could use a man in my life,” Dixie conceded. “But not this one.”
“What are you—crazy?” Sylvie asked incredulously, slapping Dixie’s shoulder once again.
“He’s to die for!”
Dixie winced at the blow but didn’t take her eyes off Jake. Jake with the wind riffling his golden hair and color accenting his high cheekbones. He was just too perfect. Perfection to die for.
The thought brought a painful rush of memories. Memories of someone who had done just that in the pursuit of perfection—died. Her dear, sweet friend who had wanted so badly to please people who cared for nothing but profit, people who believed pretty perfect girls were a dime a dozen. How easily Dixie could have killed herself in pursuit of perfection. Other people had driven her mercilessly to achieve it, not for her sake but for their own. She thought of her cousin, hiding out in the attic because she had tried just a little too hard to achieve someone else’s idea of perfection. No, she didn’t need a man who lived and breathed the word.
Sylvie wrapped an arm around her and gave her a sympathetic squeeze. “You can’t tie everything to the past, doll. That’s all behind you now. You think I don’t know how you suffered? You think everyone who knows you here, everyone who loves you, doesn’t know how you suffered? That’s all over. Start living again, Dixie.”
“I’ve been living,” Dixie argued. “I’ve been living fine. I don’t need some California hunk to make my life complete.”
“No, but that’s some nice icing to put on the cake, isn’t it?” Sylvie said. Her gaze locked on Jake as he altered his route and jogged up the incline toward them.
“He’s a perfectionist,” Dixie hissed under her breath as if it were a religion on par with Satanism.
“So he’s got a little flaw,” Sylvie said through her teeth. “Men can be trained, you know. Make an effort. You can work that out of him.”
Dixie rolled her eyes. Sylvie talked as if Jake were a designer suit with a snag in the sleeve, a bargain at a Garment District discount store she should snap up and repair.
“Morning, ladies,” Jake said with a grin as he came to a stop at the foot of the stairs. He stood with his hands at his waist. The dogs all flopped into an exhausted heap around his feet, but he was barely out of breath, Dixie noted with disgust.
“So are you going to introduce me to your friend or what?” Sylvie asked, elbowing her in the ribs.
“Cripes, Sylvie, you’re gonna put me in the hospital,” Dixie groused. Rubbing her side, she scowled from one tormentor to the other. “Sylvie Lieberman, Jake Gannon. Jake is a writer.”
“Oh, really?” Sylvie beamed, displaying caps and pumping Jake’s hand enthusiastically. “My Sid, God rest his soul, was an agent. What have you written, Jake? I’m thinking maybe I’ve read you. There’s something familiar about you.”
Jake’s smile tightened. “Oh, I doubt it. I’m working on a mystery. Hasn’t sold yet.”
“Hmm…isn’t that funny? I could have sworn there was something…” She let the thought trail off and rubbed her knuckles back and forth across her mouth as she pondered.
Jake turned his attention to Dixie. “I was just out for a little morning exercise. Want to come along? I see you’re dressed for it.”
Dixie glanced down at the old gray sweatpants and maroon hooded sweatshirt she wore. “These aren’t exercise clothes. These are lounging-around-on-the-porch clothes. I don’t do exercise. It’s against my religion.”
“Come on,” Jake prodded. “It’s good for you. Everybody needs to get up and get their blood going.” And possibly get their tongue going about the person living in their attic, he added mentally.
Dixie sniffed, looking pointedly at Honey and Hobbit, who were doing their best dead dog impressions. Bob Dog rolled onto his back and whined. “You wore my dogs plumb out, now you want to start on me? No thanks.”
Sylvie smacked her on the arm. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve got something wrong with your legs now? You can’t go for a walk with the man?”
It was a tempting thought. She could walk with Jake, slow him down, start on that reformation project. It was too tempting. What could be in it for her besides trouble? The satisfaction of having tried to pull a man off the perfection mill and get him to smell the roses? Maybe, but he wasn’t going to be here long enough for any long-term changes.
Then that made it safe for her to try, though, didn’t it, a little voice whispered in the back of her head. In the few days Jake would be here maybe she could make a small impression on him. And there wouldn’t be enough time for anything catastrophic to happen to her heart, would there?
She thought of the lives she had seen ruined by that drive to attain the unattainable. Now she could do something to sway someone from that course.
She pushed herself to her feet with mixed feelings of reluctance and resolution. “I guess a walk along the beach might be nice at that. Beats the heck out of sitting here having Sylvie whup the tar out of me.”
“Great.” Jake grinned, turning and heading for the hard-packed sand just above the water line, his strides long and energetic. He glanced back over his shoulder at her. “Let’s go!” he said, clapping his big hands together enthusiastically. “Let’s get that heart rate up.”
The old spirit of competition prodded Dixie to quicken her pace, but she held back, forcing Jake to slow down.
“I used to jog,” she said matter-of-factly, bending over to snatch up a tiny shell. Strolling along, she examined the curl of the delicate piece, the soft polished pink of the inside. “I used to run five miles a day. Gave myself shinsplints and about ruined my knees. Walking is nicer anyway, don’t you think? I never noticed all the colors in the ocean when I was running past it.”
Jake looked out at the water rolling endlessly, the early morning sun streaking a river of molten gold across it, the ever-changing hues of indigo, aquamarine, slate, turquoise. It was beautiful and he guessed it wouldn’t hurt to walk along and enjoy it a little bit as he tried to pry some answers out of Dixie. He leaned down and grabbed a stick of driftwood and tossed it up the beach. Abby hobbled out from under one of the cottages to go after it, tail wagging happily.
On the porch of the northernmost cottage a bare-chested man with long blond hair crouched, pointing and staring off into the distance. Jake’s step faltered a little. The guy was built like an all-star wrestler and had a face that belonged on a slab of granite.
“That’s Fabiano,” Dixie said. “Doing his t’ai chi. He claims it’s a balm to the soul.”
“So I’ve heard. I used to know a major who swore by it.”
“What about you?”
“My soul doesn’t need soothing. I run out all the kinks. What about you?”
Dixie’s step faltered as she looked up at Jake. There was a genuine concern in his eyes. He wasn’t just asking to be polite; he really wanted to know. He studied her with those steady eyes, waiting. Maybe he wasn’t just another pretty face. Maybe she hadn’t been fair in labeling him as shallow, concerned only with surface appearances.
She was on the verge of giving him an answer when Fabiano spotted them. He broke his meditation, leaped off the porch and charged toward them, his long hair flying behind him, his dark eyes burning as bright as a zealot’s.
Jake turned toward Dixie, ready to fling her aside and protect her. The madman coming at them loomed larger and larger. He was dressed in skintight black leather knee breeches and a wide leather belt he had undoubtedly cut from the hide of a woolly animal. He came to an abrupt stop two feet from Dixie, reaching a hand behind him like a pirate going for a knife.
Jake stepped between them, bracing his broad shoulders back, estimating how best to take the other man out without hurting him badly. Fabiano had the size advantage, which made a couple of well-placed kicks seem the best way to go. He spoke to Dixie over his shoulder in a tight voice. “Run for the house. Call 911.”
Her tinkling laughter almost broke his concentration. She slipped around him, insinuating herself between the two men, and gave the hulking giant a bright smile.
“Morning, Fabiano. Don’t mind Jake here. I think you kinda took him by surprise,” she said. “Jake is staying for a few days.”
The big man eyed Jake severely, looking for flaws, then smiled slyly at Dixie and winked, bringing bright dots of color to her cheeks.
“Is good,” he said with a thick indeterminate accent. “’Bout time.”
Dixie raised up on tiptoe, trying to fix him with her most pointed look. “Was there something in particular you wanted?”
He ignored her and held out a meaty hand to Jake. “Fabiano. To meet with you is good, Jake.” He tilted his big shaggy head at Dixie, grinning. “Our Dixie, she’s some cookie, ya?”
Jake grinned back, extricating his hand from a grip that could have cracked stone. “Yeah.”
“Men,” Dixie muttered. “Is that all you ever think about? For cryin’ out loud, there’s more to life than sex.”
“But not so much as good for you.” Fabiano’s expression declared the subject closed. He reached behind his back again and with a short formal bow. presented Dixie with a sand dollar. “For your collection.”
She gave a little gasp and accepted the flat round sea urchin. “Oh, my, you don’t find these around here.”
The big man made a thoughtful face and gave a shrug that was distinctly Continental. “Sometimes we find what we do not know we are looking for, ya?”
Dixie sniffed, but leaned up and kissed his cheek just the same.
“I must return to my work now,” he said. He jammed his hands at his waist and grinned again at Jake. “Jake, my new friend, you break our Dixie’s heart, I will kill you, ya?”
Jake smiled back. “I’d like to see you try it.”
Dixie rolled her eyes. “Criminy.”
Laughing, Fabiano bid them adieu and strode back to his cottage. Dixie gave the sand dollar a final inspection and tucked it into the pouch of her sweatshirt.
“Interesting guy,” Jake said, amused and astounded, his curiosity about the artist rising now that his protective instincts had gone off red alert.
“What is that accent?”
“His father is Greek and his mother is Swedish.”
“An interesting combination, but then I’d say there wasn’t much about him that seemed run-of-the-mill.” They started up the beach again. He took a big breath of sea air and exhaled. “I thought he was going to try to tear my head off.”
“He looks a little intimidating.”
Jake gave her a look. “Your gun is a little intimidating. He looks like a homicidal maniac on steroids.”
Dixie clucked at him in disapproval. “People aren’t always what they look like. A mystery writer ought to know that.”
“Maybe that’s why I haven’t sold the book yet,” Jake said. Once again he wanted to defend himself. After all, he made a living out of delving beneath the surface and bringing to light all the different facets of human beings. But he bit his tongue. He snatched up a small stone and flung it out into the ocean. “What kind of artist is he?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Dixie admitted. “He’s real superstitious about having folks see his work, and I respect that. I know he paints, but I haven’t seen any of it. He comes here every November and leaves in May for who knows where.”
“Maybe he’s exploring the possibilities of excessive hair growth as an alternative medium,” Jake suggested with a chuckle.
Dixie made a face at him, suppressing a giggle. “Oh, sure, you like all that hair on a woman, but on a man it’s sissy.”
“I wouldn’t call it sissy. Not to his face, anyway.”
“What a sexist you are.”
Jake scowled. “I am not.”
“Are so,” Dixie declared. “You think women should all be skinny and top-heavy and have lots of hair. You said so.”
Jake raised his hands in disbelief, looking aghast. “I never said such a thing!”
“I just described your version of the world’s most perfect woman,” Dixie said shrewdly, kicking herself mentally for being a masochist. “You can’t deny it.”
He shook a finger at her. “But I never said all women should look like Devon Stafford. Just that she was an ideal.”
Dixie stopped and turned to face the ocean, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “An unrealistic ideal.”
“That’s your opinion.” Jake stood beside her, watching her closely. “I happen to believe people can improve themselves. I read somewhere that Devon Stafford works very hard to maintain her figure.”
“She could afford to. She made a zillion dollars a year. And to make that money she had a trainer come in and work her like a horse three hours a day and maybe she got to eat a rice cake afterward if she did a few extra sit-ups.”
Jake held himself very still. He studied Dixie’s expression with a curious light in his eyes. “Could afford to? Made a zillion dollars? Why are you talking in the past tense? She’s not dead.”
Dixie dodged his gaze. “Well…no…of course not,” she said haltingly. “But she’s gone, isn’t she? It’s past tense if she doesn’t do those things anymore.”
“How do you know she doesn’t do them anymore?”
“You’re missing the point,” she snapped, still refusing to face him. “The point is for most folks with regular jobs and regular li
ves and friends and families, it just plain isn’t worth it to be slaves to some Hollywood version of what people should look like. I, for one, have better things to do with my time than torture myself with leg lifts. I mean, I may not have the greatest hips, but I have time to take notice of the world around me.”
She moved a couple of steps down the beach and bent to retrieve a beer can that had washed in, giving Jake a clear view of those hips that curved outward like a bell from her waist. They looked just fine to him. In fact, his palms itched to cup those womanly curves. That fast, his blood went racing. One little thought of touching her and he was chomping at the bit, forgetting all about his objective in taking this little walk with her.
Rein it in, Gannon, he thought. It hasn’t been that long since you’ve enjoyed the company of a lady. It hadn’t been long at all. Willing women were not among the problems of his life. But as he looked at Dixie with the sea wind tossing her hair around her head, a pensive frown on her ripe mouth, he couldn’t for the life of him recall the name of the lady he’d been seeing off and on for the past several months. Karen? No. Kelly? Tall, slim. She was undoubtedly gorgeous, but she suddenly seemed a pale example of womanhood compared to Dixie with her lush curves and plump breasts.
“I like your hair short,” he said, the words finding their way out of his mouth without permission from his brain.
She looked up at him like a startled doe, as if she would have expected him to speak Latin before complimenting her. It threw her off balance, something the primal male in him took perverse pleasure in. He grinned and lifted his hand toward her short wild mane.
“It’s very…perky.”
“Perky,” Dixie repeated flatly.
The man was going to drive her to violence. First she was a good sport, then she was a pal, now she was perky. Her temper simmered irrationally. Poodles were perky. Cheerleaders were perky. She didn’t want Jake Gannon to look at her and see perky. She wanted him to look at her and see—what?
The question stopped her cold. What did she want Jake Gannon to see? The anorexic sylph with collagen-enhanced lips?
