Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing)

by Maggie Dana

  Dammit, now I want dessert as well. Pushing Colin to one side, I open the fridge and pull out a tub of vanilla pudding left over from Anna’s last visit, a can of whipped cream, maple syrup, and more jam—apricot, I think. Or maybe it’s marmalade. I dump it all on the counter and reach into a cupboard. What about this jar of honey, and who left that bottle of Grand Marnier in here? My hand curls around a packet of ladyfingers. Probably stale, but if I soak them in—

  Colin pours syrup down the back of my neck.

  “What the—?”

  He spins me around and pours more down the front. He’s laughing, the sadistic sod. My blouse is soaked. I wrench it off and Colin squirts whipped cream across the swell of my breasts. Syrup dribbles between them. He shrugs off his shirt and unsnaps my bra. The one that fastens in front. I knew it’d come in handy one day. Grasping my shoulders, he bends to lick the syrup off my breasts. He sucks the cream off my nipples and I have to lean against the counter because my knees are about to give out.

  “Let’s continue our feast upstairs,” he says.

  We load our loot on a tray and take it to my room.

  We’ve perfected the art of shedding our clothes in a hurry and my panties hit the floor at the same times as his briefs. My green robe is draped across a chair. Colin reaches for it, removes the belt, and winds it around his hands.

  “Lie back,” he says. “Relax.”

  I sink into the pillows and Colin ties my wrists to the bedposts and there’s nothing I can do about it, nor do I want do. Fingertips dripping with honey, he draws cat’s whiskers on my breasts and eyelashes above my nipples. He paints a smiley face on my belly with vanilla pudding. I twist and squirm, but the green silk holds firm and I’m about to explode when his tongue travels south to lap up the apricot jam he smears on the inside of my thighs, and I know I ought to be worrying about the mess we’re making on the linen sheets he bought me last week and paid a fortune for, but multiple orgasms have a way of making one cavalier about the laundry.

  He releases my hands, kisses my wrists, my fingers, but refuses to let me tie him up.

  “No fair.” I tickle his chest with emerald satin.

  He slides both hands beneath his back. “I promise not to interfere.”

  I massage him with Grand Marnier, shampoo his hair with whipped cream until it stands up in stiff spikes. I dribble honey on his lips and savor the sweetness of him. But when I write I love you with maple syrup on his erection and lick the words off, Colin forgets his promise. He rears up and crushes me so hard I stick to him like Velcro. We pull apart to a chorus of slurpy, sucking noises and try to make love, but we’re laughing too much. He can’t keep it up and I can’t stop giggling and we desperately need a shower. I climb off the bed and head for the bathroom.

  Colin grabs my arm. “I have a better idea.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s go for a swim.”

  “Like this?” I say, looking down at my naked, sticky body.

  “Why not?”

  “Someone might see us.”

  “At this time of night? Don’t be daft.”

  We wrap ourselves in towels and race out of the house, across the back yard, and onto the beach. I jump over a piece of driftwood and my towel falls off. Colin knocks me down with a flying tackle and we roll toward the water, over and over, laughing and screaming, till we look like two Krispy Kreme doughnuts after they’ve been glazed and coated with sprinkles. Not exactly my movie fantasy, but close enough, I think.

  I sit up and spit sand from my mouth.

  “You’re a mermaid,” Colin says, plucking a shell from my breasts.

  I pull seaweed from his groin. “So are you.”

  “Hardly,” he says, looking down.

  He pushes me over and climbs on top.

  “Not here,” I whisper.

  “Please.”

  “I can’t.”

  He slumps on top of me and groans and I know how he feels, because I want it too, but not out here. Not on the beach. I’m about to shove him off when something large and hairy and definitely not human blunders into us, kicking sand in my face and digging its claws in my legs.

  “What the fuck was that?” Colin says, struggling to sit up.

  I look left and right. “Watch out!”

  Too late.

  The second Lab crashes between us. Its tail slashes my face and another set of claws rakes furrows in my thighs. Colin puts his arms around me and I burrow into him. Our towels are way up the beach.

  Behind me, someone whistles.

  Shit!

  Tom Grainger.

  Oh, God. I can see the headlines now—Local woman frolics naked on public beach with lover. Village tongues will be wagging for weeks. Bad enough I’ve screwed myself with Elaine Burke, I’ve probably screwed myself with the neighborhood as well.

  * * *

  It feels like an hour but it’s really no more than a minute before Tom and his dreadful dogs go back where they came from. I scramble to my feet and plunge into the water with an urgent need to wash myself off. Not just the sand and the syrup, but the sheer embarrassment of it all, the feeling of utter helplessness over being caught naked on the beach at two A.M. by a neighbor I dislike and knowing there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  Colin charges in behind me, laughing and splashing. He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by all this. And why should he be? He doesn’t live here. He won’t have to wonder, like I will the next time I walk to my mailbox, if that accusing look from the old biddy who lives two houses down is because she heard from her neighbor that Jillian Hunter—you know, the woman with the odd-looking cat—was on the beach at midnight, naked, yes naked, as in no clothes, not a stitch, with a man and they were, well, doing it. I mean, it’s obscene, that’s what it is. Just think, it could’ve been me that found them, and let me tell you, if it had been, I’d have told that hussy a thing or two.

  Of course, I’m being totally ridiculous because I don’t even know the woman who lives on the other side of Tom Grainger and I doubt she’d recognize me in full daylight, let alone in the dark, naked or otherwise. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, I try to wash. I scrub and scrape at my skin with my fingers, but discover that salt water doesn’t cut it when it comes to removing apricot jam, maple syrup, and honey.

  Or shame.

  Colin grabs me from behind, runs his hands over my bare rump.

  Ducking away, I try to explain I’m not in the mood for fun and games anymore, that what just happened is really bothering me. I remind him he doesn’t have to live here, and I do.

  “Then let’s go to New Zealand,” he says.

  I stop scouring. “Are you serious?”

  He nods.

  “When?”

  “Late October, or maybe early November. It’ll be spring down there. A perfect time to go,” he says, wiping sand from my cheek. “We’ll take a month. Five weeks, maybe. Can you get away for that long?”

  I nod, because of course I can. Colin doesn’t know about the mess I’ve made of my business. His check, dammit, is still in my purse. I never did get to the bank, but I will, the minute he leaves. I’ll take care of my overdue bills and make arrangements for others to be paid while I’m gone. I can take four weeks, five if I want. No problem. Except for my cat. Maybe Harriet will have him. Anna would love it.

  Shyly, I ask Colin if he’s ever taken Shelby to New Zealand.

  “She never wanted to go,” he says, hugging me. Water, black as ink, swirls around us. His arms tighten. “Jilly, say you’ll come with me.”

  “Of course I will,” I mutter into his wet chest.

  * * *

  Harriet calls to reschedule our Friday-night barbecue. “I’m sorry, but Bea’s on a business trip. Could we come Saturday, instead?”

  I hesitate because Colin leaves on Sunday and I don’t want to share our last day with anyone. On the other hand, I’m anxious for him to meet my friends again, to get to know them properly this time. When I told him H
arriet and Beatrice were coming over, he asked if Fergus and Lizzie were coming too, and I lied and hated myself for lying. I said they’d gone to Virginia and were sorry to have missed him. No way can I tell him the truth about my fight with Lizzie, not after what happened last night.

  We were in bed. and although it wasn’t exactly the best time to bring it up, I couldn’t help myself. I asked when he was going to make a break with Shelby. Not that I was pushing him, mind you. I just wanted to know because, well, I had to figure out a few things for my business. Then, of course, I went whole hog and told him how I’d canned Elaine.

  “That wasn’t very smart,” he said.

  At first, I thought he was kidding. I pretended to be indignant which wasn’t easy given I was naked and straddling his belly. He pushed me off and turned away. I still didn’t think he was serious, so I wrapped my arms around him and snuggled into the small of his back.

  He stiffened, then told me I ought to mend my fences with Elaine.

  I wasn’t expecting that.

  “It’s for your own good, Jill,” he said.

  Behind him, I buried my face in the pillow to muffle my sobs. I couldn’t figure out what had upset me the most. The way he avoided the issue of telling Shelby about us, or what he said about me dumping Elaine. Or was it because he’d just stepped off his pedestal and I couldn’t handle it? I closed my eyes and tried to will him back on it. I needed him up there where he belonged. Then he turned toward me and wiped my eyes and we tried to make love, but it kind of fizzled out.

  Or rather, he did.

  Harriet’s voice hauls me back to the present. “Jill? Are you still there?”

  “Let’s make it lunch instead of dinner, okay? Colin’s flying home the next day, and—”

  “I promise we’ll leave promptly at four.”

  I let out a sigh, grateful for friends who understand.

  * * *

  Harriet and family show up at noon armed with beach chairs and blankets and a positively sinful dessert with strawberries, meringue, and whipped cream. I shove it in the fridge and pull out the salads and chicken I prepared, and we take them outside where Colin is firing up the grill. He offers to cook.

  “I see you’ve got him house-trained already,” Beatrice says.

  “He mowed the lawn as well,” I say.

  Anna tugs at my sleeve. “Jill, can we go find that giant snail?”

  “Giant snail?” Harriet raises her eyebrows. “Should I be worried?”

  “Absolutely. These guys grow to eight, nine inches or more,” I say, winking at Anna. “They vacuum up clams and steal bait from lobster pots.”

  “Impressive,” Beatrice says, “for a measly old mollusk.”

  Ever since I showed Anna a picture of a channeled whelk, she’s been determined to find one. She wants to hum at it the way I’ve taught her to hum at smaller snails, like the periwinkle she’s just found beneath a plant pot and is now handing to Colin. He puts down his spatula and examines the snail.

  “Would you like me to cook this for you?” he says.

  Anna squeals and snatches it back. “No, you have to hum.”

  Colin shoots me a puzzled glance, so I tell him that if you hum, in a boring sort of monotone, the snail will eventually poke its head out of its shell.

  “Will it say hello?” Colin asks Anna.

  “Don’t be silly,” she says. “Snails don’t talk.”

  “But if they did,” he persists, “what would they say?”

  She ponders this for a minute while the rest of us struggle to keep from laughing out loud. “I think,” Anna says, with a perfectly straight face, “they’d ask what the snail said when it rode on the turtle’s back.”

  “Wheeeeee?” Colin says.

  * * *

  After lunch I invite Beatrice for a walk because I want to ask her something and don’t want Colin and Harriet to hear. We settle ourselves comfortably on a pile of smooth rocks and let our feet dangle in the shallow, sun-warmed water of a tide pool teeming with small, darting fish and dozens of hermit crabs.

  “If this is out of line, tell me to shut up.”

  “Okay,” Beatrice says. “Shoot.”

  “What’s it like, moving into a house owned by someone else?”

  Beatrice doesn’t even hesitate. “Difficult.”

  “Suppose you bought half of it?” I ask, thinking about Harriet’s painted lady on Bay Street. It’s a pearl gray Victorian, with a rose pink front door, green and lavender trim, and a turret. Anna calls it their gingerbread house.

  “We’ve discussed it,” Beatrice says, “but it doesn’t work because everyone, including me, always thinks of that house as Harriet’s.” She bends to scoop a hermit crab from the water. Its shell is at least six inches. Maybe more. “Is this one of those giants you were talking about?”

  “Yes, and Anna will be thrilled,” I say. “Even if the whelk is long gone.”

  “D’you suppose the crab ate it before taking over?”

  “More likely an angry lobsterman. They get pretty pissed at these things for pinching their bait.”

  Beatrice tosses it back. “We’ll show it to Anna later. It’s not going anywhere, at least, not till the next tide.” She wipes her hands on her shorts. “So, where were we?”

  “Sharing a house.”

  “The only way it really works is for the couple to sell both their homes and buy something together. Fifty-fifty. Equal partners.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  There’s a slight pause. “Harriet and I just started looking.”

  “You’re not leaving the village, are you?”

  “Of course not. We love it here. We want something with a bit more land, enough space for a garden … and a barn. Anna wants a pony,” Beatrice says, massaging her legs, “and I want a house without stairs. I can’t handle them any more.”

  “Have you put Harriet’s house on the market yet?”

  Beatrice shakes her head. “We’re turning it into a professional center for attorneys, dentists, and doctors, with a sexy robot at command central for email and faxing.”

  We laugh, and then I describe Colin’s lodge in the Cotswolds.

  Beatrice sighs. “Sounds utterly divine. How can he bear to leave it?”

  “I asked myself the same question, but he is. He’s coming here to share mine.”

  “Big mistake.”

  “Colin loves my house.”

  “And I love Harriet’s,” Beatrice says, “but it just doesn’t work. Trust me. I’ve been there and done that. Sell your cottage and buy something else with Colin.”

  I’m about to argue when Anna runs up with a bucket, followed by her mother. Beatrice points to the giant hermit crab, tucked up against a rock.

  Anna flops into the pool. “Jill, what’s it called?” she asks, poking it cautiously. The crab’s claws are out and they’re big enough to bite a small finger.

  “A hermit crab,” Harriet says, peering over Anna’s shoulder.

  “No, the shell.”

  “This,” I say, pulling it from the water, “is a channeled whelk.”

  “I know that,” Anna says, eyes widening at the sheer size of this precious monster. “What’s the shell’s other name?”

  I grin at her.“Busycotypus canaliculatus.”

  “Bet you can’t get your tongue around that one,” Harriet says, ruffling her daughter’s unruly curls.

  Anna sniffs. “Mom, it’s Latin, and Jill’s been teaching me.”

  “Really?” Harriet pretends to look surprised.

  After promising Anna more lessons the next time she’s over, I walk back up the beach to join Colin. He’s sprawled on the blanket, eyes closed, one arm bent above his head, and his face is flushed. I rummage in my bag for the sunscreen and smooth it over his forehead, across the tops of his cheeks, and down his nose. He rolls toward me, deliciously rumpled and smelling, faintly, of the sex we had this morning. I instigated it. I don’t normally, but after what happened the othe
r night, I wasn’t taking any chances. And the sex was fine. In fact, it was quite marvelous, despite Colin’s rolling away afterward and turning on the TV. He wanted to watch the news. I wanted to cuddle, but made breakfast instead.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, sitting up.

  I lean against him, feel the weight of his arm across my shoulders, the heat of his thigh pressed against mine. He takes my hand and circles my palm with his thumb. Pleasure zings through my body, turns into an ache between my legs.

  Would anyone notice if we sneaked upstairs?

  What will it be like when we’re together all the time? Will the urgency fade? Will the humdrum of daily life turn us into a couple who has sex on Saturday nights and once every other Thursday? I can’t imagine not wanting his body, his mouth—

  Squeezing my legs together, I gaze at the water and count five sailboats, seven windsurfers. Two jet skis making more than enough noise. Beyond them, the tip of Long Island hovers like a mirage just above the horizon. Colin shades his eyes and looks toward my friends by the rocks, still heavily involved with the hermit crab. Anna’s holding it up, quite confidently now, and Harriet’s shaking her head, no doubt hoping to convince her daughter it’s not okay to bring it home … that this creature needs to live here. On the beach, with its buddies.

  Anna drops her crab in the pool.

  “She’s a sweet kid,” Colin says. “What does her father do?”

  I hesitate. “Anna doesn’t have one.”

  “Come on, Jill. Everyone has a father,” Colin says. “Even if they don’t amount to much.” He shudders. “Like mine.”

  “Harriet chose Anna’s father, carefully, and—”

  “She did a damned fine job,” Colin says.

  I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “Anna doesn’t see her father, because—”

  But Colin interrupts. “Then I feel sorry for him,” he says. “Not knowing what a great little girl he has.”

  “He doesn’t want to know.” I pause. “He isn’t allowed to know.”