“Mathew says we can share,” Tiffany announced triumphantly.
“I don’t mind the company,” the man named Mathew said easily.
Danny scowled. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Unlike Danny’s deteriorating looks, and it was even more apparent when he peeled off his dusty tee shirt, this other man, Matthew, looked good. Very good. Metro-sexual good.
The day was getting sunnier. I smiled at Matthew and dropped my cooler and bags and bright towels. However, I had no illusions that even unencumbered, I could compete against the appeal of Pamela, Cindy and Tiffany, all of whom, even dressed in cut offs and little sports bras, looked more like exotic dancers than I did.
I, however, always look like the madam of the establishment. And the madam has all the cash.
Matthew gathered up his folding chair and towel and made room for the girls on his tiny stretch of sand.
I was familiar with this spot. I eyed the small beach. There was just enough space for the girls and boys to lay standard size beach towels edge to edge. And I didn’t want to be that close to well, any of them. So while they negotiated the beach towel space, I clambered over the large diving platform rock that partially thrust into the water, and slipped down the other side. I was rewarded with another small spit of sand, enough space for my own towel.
There was even some shade. Just to be certain that I would be alone, for at least a minute, I popped back over the rock.
“I’m setting up camp on this side,” I announced as loudly as I could over the roar of the water.
Danny and Jimmy waved and mouthed, have a good time. Danny pulled out a bag of chips and tossed them to me. He and Jimmy climbed onto the flat topped rocks from their side of the little beach and started to dare each other to jump first. Mathew and the girls stretched out on towels in the shadow of the rocks. I waved. They waved back. I slipped back down secure that I had an enormous boulder between me and civilization, and young skinny girls, and relaxed. Danny had given me the Ranch Style Doritos.
I nested my things together to make a pillow, snapped out the beach towel – New Century logo, picked up at the last conference – and settled down on my back to soak in the rays.
It took me ten seconds in the heat to realize my shirt was not going to work. Everyone seemed occupied, so I slipped off my tee and my sports bra.
Ah, heaven. The girls released to the sunshine. Oh sure, I knew it wouldn’t last. But I couldn’t resist a moment of pure nostalgia, me, the sun and the constant crashing, dancing, water-fall sounds of the river. When I was younger – much younger, I use to get naked every day. The sun would burn my breasts to a brilliant orange red so loud the color bust through the tan fabric of my bras. But did I care?
Only when they started to peel. My breasts, not the bras.
And since itching my breasts was not particularly professional, I didn’t plan to be naked for that long.
Just long enough to take a breath.
From where I lay, right next to the shore, I could hear nothing but the water.
I did breathe, the way Rosemary kept telling me to do. She was taking a yoga class or a class with a yogi, I hadn’t been listening that closely. Anyway, she told me that breathing and counting was an instant stress buster.
1, 2, 3, I breathed in and out, relishing the hot dry air swirling around in my lungs. I don’t know about stressful situations, but it was a lovely moment right now.
“So, this is probably the best natural resource I’ve discovered since I’ve come here.”
3,
I didn’t bother opening my eyes. “Touch them and you die.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to do with them.”
“Not many do,” I thought guiltily of Ben, who actually did know what do with them, but it wouldn’t do to dwell on that right now.
I pushed myself up and pulled down my sunglasses. The stare down is much more effective than the shriek and hide. Besides, I was very much between a rock and a hard place. Two rocks and a raging mountain river, actually.
And the hard place was this Mathew. He too was shirtless, I suppose in a gesture of solidarity. But I was not fooled. He met my gaze briefly, his eyes were deep brown – lovely really – but they were pulled like magnets to my breasts.
I did him a favor and pulled on my tee shirt.
“So, tired of the bevy of beauties? They looked pretty nice.” I was referring to the girls on the other side of the boulder, not my girls.
“Yes nice,” he shrugged. “They’re local, lived here all their lives.”
“That’s why they’re here at the river. This is what we do.” Although why I was defending grown women wearing tractor hats, I do not know. They could share my poison oak addled tee shirt if they liked. I glanced down on it, dirty from all the hits during the hiking. I could share, or just vigorously rub it on one of them.
I glanced back to my interloper, and uttered the classic line, “so you’re not from here, are you?”
“Oh I live here, I’m renting a house up off of Red Dog road, just past Jimmy’s, which is why we’re such close friends.” He put his sunglass back on, Gucci. I was impressed. I wouldn’t wear something that nice out here; things get lost so easily.
“I’ll bet.” I said. But he wasn’t listening to me.
“But really, I’m from Sacramento, more of a city guy really.” He leaned back and gazed at a point above my shoulder, past me to the churning water. Not fully engaged, but I had covered myself with my shirt so the obvious distractions were gone. “But you’re here on the Yuba, not bobbing down the American River with two six packs and an inner tube.” I pointed out.
“You’ve been.” He smiled easily and found it far easier to meet my eyes once the breasts were under wraps.
“Just once,” I said.
“This is interesting for other reasons.” He glanced back to the rocks and river. “It’s so quiet here. No one can get hold of you.”
Just the thought made me cringe. I automatically reached for my phone. Of course there was nothing, no signal at all. Which was a blessing really, what would I say right now if Peter Christopher did answer his phone? Which he never did, but it would be my luck to get through and he’d say, “So, Allison what are you doing for your client?”
And I’d say, “Peter, I’m sitting by the side of the Yuba River, the site of many past indulgences best forgotten, half naked, trying to keep the interest of a strange man, which means I’m doing nothing for my clients except for harassing you.”
That would be the truth. But when it comes to working with the Christophers, the truth will not set you free. It won’t even result in a return call. Yet they were a big office and a big player in Rivers Bend.
Lucky me.
“You’re worried about a call now? In the middle of nature?” He asked.
“I’m concerned about a deal.” I put my phone carefully back into the bottom of my clothing bag, away from the direct sun.
“What do you do?” He leaned back on his elbows and raised his tan face to the sun.
“Realtor.” I summarized. “What do you do?”
“Bunch of different things.” He shrugged and his stomach muscles did not move. They were lovely, his muscles, I believe they are called a six pack, I’ve never seen a six pack in real life - only in photos in Men’s Health magazine.
“A man of many talents?” I tried to prop myself on my elbows but a rock dug into my soft flesh and I had to give it up.
“Enough people think so,” he countered.
Great, just like Ben Stone, not really saying something, but sort of indicating something. What was I doing with another elusive man? Nothing, that’s what.
I sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees. Nope, too hot. I was sticky in a nano-second. Well, I was the person who wanted some hot summer sun.
I tried sense the chemistry. The privacy of the river leads to all sorts of misaligned connections, that was part of the charm. In the old fashio
n days some of us may have had sex with people we wouldn’t ordinarily speak to in a more civilized setting. Some of us. A long time ago.
Mathew was awfully nice looking. But he wasn’t putting out much in the way of good vibes.
I was better off with a book.
I struggled up and gingerly made my way to the water. The river is so cold that I only had to sink in up to my ankles for my whole body to cool. I splashed droplets on my tee shirt.
Mathew didn’t move. He rested in the sun, not speaking or even watching me. I thought about ripping off my tee shirt, or better, plunging into the water to create that popular wet tee shirt look – something I’m quite suited for. But I realized it wasn’t worth the effort. Perhaps he took a while to warm up.
“Well,” I decided to cut my losses. “It was nice talking to you, thank you for stopping by, but I do like my privacy. And you have the girls,” I nodded toward the boulder surface. It blinked with Fools Gold. As if on cue Tiffany – I think – popped her head over the rim of the rock and pouted in Mathew’s direction.
“Mathew, the rock is too hot, come and cool us off.”
I grinned and he had the decency to look chagrined. I waved him off and settled back down, unconcerned about him or the girls dancing on top of the rock. My girls were staying under wraps.
“Wear shoes next time,” I said in Tiffany’s direction.
I used to spend what seemed like the entire summer of my high school years down here. I either got high with my summer friends and acquaintances or in stark contrast, read alone. There was a phase during my college years when I’d spend spring break up here (in Chico the spring break gestalt is difficult to distinguish from any other weekend, so I was not losing anything by “missing” a week of drinking and yelling in Chico). I came here alone with a bag full of novels from the library and happily plow through them as I soaked my hot feet in the cold swirling water. For me, it was enough change from reading deadly business books to be considered a vacation.
Like most activities in Claim Jump, hanging out at the river was something my mother condemned wholesale. She would never venture down to the gorges, too dirty. Every week she regaled my brothers and me with the same stories of people who dived directly into shallow water, broke their necks and lived on, an example of idiocy for the rest of the village. She had memorized the names: Mike Childers, paraplegic; Anthony Islington, quadriplegic; Greg Simpson, dead; Mark Warren, dead; James Fantle, dead; Richard Burle, missing. Mom rattled the names off at the breakfast table, and was always prepared for an encore as soon as I announced I was going to the river. For her, the names stood as examples of hedonism gone bad. I don’t think she knew a single one of those people she named, but since every year someone is hurt and some one else dies, she always had fresh material.
I realize now that it was fear that drove her, maybe some specific motherly concern, but I think that was directed more towards my favored brothers. After a while I realized that all the people my mother listed as injured or dead or missing, were boys. I was a girl. Which meant I had better odds and apparently, better sense. Just the same when I returned home from my summer with Grandma, I told my mom I tanned in the back yard.
But I was out of practice. A person has to be in condition to weather seven hours in the hot sun, shaded only by a random man on top of her and cooled by harsh jug wine. After the first hour I had soaked in the heat, after two hours I had already exposed myself in public, and by hour three I realized that I had forgotten to bring a book.
So by mid-afternoon I was finished with the whole experience including reminiscing about the men I had, and what those men had become. I was done, emotionally and literally. Plus I think I cooked my skin a little too much.
I clamored around the main rock and joined the group. The three girls and three boys were sitting in a circle, knees touching, elbows banging, passing around a joint.
“So,” Tiffany sucked down a lungful of smoke, held it and kept talking as she exhaled. “My friend says they were all burned inside their houses, some even in bed, there was no time to escape.”
“Wow,” Cindy took the joint.
“That’s just a rumor,” Matthew said. He was drinking beer.
“Yeah but it’s true, they all died, how may houses?” Danny said.
“Ten,” Jimmy took the joint from Cindy. “Went so fast, ten houses were gone by the time the fire trucks made it up the hill.”
“Slow trucks,” Mathew took a swig and noticed me. “Allison, come an join us.”
“Yeah,” Danny echoed. “Come on and take some Allison.”
Danny’s belly pouched over his shorts, his legs were stark white, his arms were dark tan, his neck was, yes, red with sunburn. Oh lord, I’ve slept with a red-neck.
I shook my head. “Nope, I’m good, but thanks.” Didn’t want to offend the hosts.
Mathew nodded and stood. Then stretched, the better for me to admire his flat belly. Considering how the competition had evolved and considering my own round globe of a belly, he didn’t need to preen that much.
I glanced at Tiffany, she was following Mathew’s every move. She tried to catch his eye, but she wasn’t quick enough. She was quick enough to glare at me.
I ignored her.
One of them, not Tiffany, Cindy I think, leaned back against the rock and began to run sand through their fingers with hypnotic consistency. Tiffany dragged her attention from me and focused on her friend. In a second she joined Cindy in the sifting of sand. The contrast of white sand against one of the girl’s blue nail polish was actually quite interesting. And if I were high, I’d watch those nails for hours. Really high and I’d consider painting my nails the same blue and silver color.
I was not that high. I wasn’t high at all. Pity.
Danny watched Mathew in his sun god routine. “How does it feel to be such a bastard?” Danny asked with no rancor at all, of course he couldn’t very well summon up rancor in the state he had smoked himself into.
Mathew was not offended.
“I just do my job,” he offered.
“I think you’re lovely.” Tiffany said. But it wasn’t clear if she was addressing Mathew or her own hands.
“Me too,” Pamela added.
“Then come with me as my dates,” Mathew invited.
“Hey,” Jimmy wasn’t as sanguine as Danny. “It’s my party.”
Mathew nodded. “And I’m bringing a date, you said I could,” he searched his mind, “earlier.”
Jimmy nodded as if that was a good explanation. It was like watching an argument in slow motion. I was the only person in real time here.
“Then you come too, Allison,” Danny said after some consideration and another pull at his joint.
“Come where?” It was out before I considered the implications of my sentence. And I had nothing to smoke.
“To Jimmy’s house,” Danny explained, fortunately too high to pay attention to double entendres. But Mathew brightened up at my comment. I ignored him.
“It’s just above your grandmother’s, off Red Dog Road.” Tiffany explained.
“Way past your grandmother’s,” Jimmy commented. “Like you need to drive fucking forever to get to my place. Like you’re in the forest man.”
“It is the forest,” Mathew pointed out. “Tahoe National Forest.”
“You live in one of Lucky Master’s places?” I asked.
Danny snorted and joined the girls in the sand sifting exercise. He too fell quickly under the spell of the activity. Once he issued the invitation, that was that, take it or leave it, it was up to you.
I remember that about him.
“Oh no, not in one of Lucky’s places. You turn right before one of the driveways, I’m like, behind the Lucky Masters’ places, it’s not official or anything.” Jimmy explained about as coherently as you’d expect. How many joints had they shared before I clamored over the rocks?
“The party isn’t official or your place of residence isn’t official?”
&n
bsp; “Just the house,” Danny offered.
“You’re a squatter.” I addressed Jimmy, but he became distracted with the sand sifting activity and was lost to the conversation.
“Not in so many words,” Danny struggled to explain, then dropped the subject.
“I’ll put out some balloons for you,” Matthew offered. “We’re all meeting at eight o’clock or so. Still game?”
“Oh yes.” I said.
I crawled out of the river bed and took my time hiking back. Nope, nothing happened to my car. The tragedy was that I wasn’t even worried about it, which meant I could spend the half hour walk concentrating on avoiding long resilient branches of poison oak, burrs, painful spiky yellow plants and the sweat and dust clinging to my sweaty skin instead of worrying about my car.
I opened all the doors of the Lexus and let some of the hot air out before I inserted myself. I placed a clean towel on the seat and paused just one more moment.
The parking lot was devoid of human life. This was a prime hour for the river: dead center of the afternoon, the rocks as hot as they will get, the water as cold as anyone could stand. The silence shimmered around me like the heat waves reflecting off the trucks and late model cars. Everything was covered in that fine brown dust from the trails.
I gingerly touched the steering wheel, rolled down all the windows and took off. Had my romance with the river finally played out? Is it possible to out grow the river? Had I turned into my mother? No, I wasn’t ready to scare off the next generation, but there was something missing, I wasn’t as satisfied as I used to be.
When I arrived home I found Pat and Mike, Grandma’s best friends, along with Peter, lounging on the back patio like a scene from The Great Gatsby. Although the only person really dressed for the part was Peter.
“There you are!” Peter toasted me with his martini glass. “Join us!”
Peter was dressed in a silk smoking jacket and cravat. Prue wore shorts and a tee shirt, her legs were as white and wrinkled as her face. I had not considered wrinkled legs. I glanced down at my solid thighs, nope couldn’t imagine at all.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 02 - Time Is of the Essence Page 6
