by P. J. Fox
Ash found her a moment later. He took her into his arms and held her, silently. She could guess what he was thinking; she was thinking the same thing. She’d spent her life running. She knew she had to stop but she didn’t know what else to do. Running from Maine. From her mother. From expectations that felt humiliating and unfair. And now her mother was discussing the subject of her virtue with Frank Terriault of all people….
“I hate him. “She sniffed. “And I hate her.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” There was a trace of amusement in Ash’s voice. “I rather like Frank. He’s certainly honest. And he’s right, you know; if you hadn’t felt such a compelling need to run away, I never would have met you. But,” he added, “I’m glad I did.”
“Me, too.” She stared at the parking lot, half-filled with mid-range cars in need of a wash. “But I don’t want to go back inside.”
“I don’t blame you.” He offered her his arm. “But I’ll be there.”
NINETY-FIVE
She was glad they weren’t staying with her mother. Not that there was anywhere to stay, really. The house was tiny. Before, she hadn’t thought it so. But she’d gotten used to bigger things—inside, as well as out. Was it her old home that was so confining, or Scarborough?
Scarborough might have been its own place once, but now it was just a suburb of Portland. And, like all suburbs, ever-expanding. So why did it feel like it was shrinking, instead? Portland, too, felt like it was shrinking. They’d walked along the waterfront after lunch and all Belle could think was, my father died here.
Neither her mother nor Frank appeared to notice. They seemed to feel that Ash needed some sort of tourist experience, as if to make up for the fact that he was here for a funeral. A funeral for a man he’d never met; he, at least, was allowed to admit that he was bored by the experience. Except that he appeared to be the only one who wasn’t.
He’d booked them into a place she’d never been to, until tonight: The Black Point Inn, an exclusive hotel that existed to serve the even more exclusive community of residents surrounding it. Summer people, from Boston and New York. The place was a massive shingle-style sprawl, left over from the heyday of Victorian excess. Residing on a ridge atop Prout’s Neck, it commanded a panoramic view of Garrison Bay. Perfectly landscaped lawns led down to the beach, where one could walk back and forth for hours and never see another soul.
She sat in a chair near the window, watching the fiery ball of the sun touch down onto the ocean in a riot of color: vermillion and rose madder and even lilac.
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. My father used to say that.”
Ash sat down next to her, in the other chair. Their room was beautiful, more like the guest room in an estate than a hotel room, and furnished with an eclectic collection of antiques that made it seem homey. There were just twenty-five guest rooms, anyway, along with a living room, dining room, and library. It was open all year, too, a rarity in Maine.
“Red sky in morning, sailors take warning,” Ash finished.
“Winslow Homer painted, here.” Belle smiled slightly. “My father told me that, too. Homer apparently came along on his brother’s honeymoon, and was quite taken with the place.”
“I might like Frank, but I refuse to take him on our honeymoon.”
“My father would have laughed, to see me engaged.”
“He sounds like an interesting man.”
“Interesting is one word to use.” She sighed. “He was full of stupid old rhymes. All about weather sign. Another of his favorites was, seagull, seagull, sit on the sand; it’s never good weather when you’re on land. Because seagulls hate hanging around, doing nothing. They’re most at home in flight, over the ocean, and actually prefer to sleep on the water.”
“Huh. I didn’t know that.”
Her voice broke. “I miss him.”
“What can I do?”
“Make me forget.”
She was angry at her father, for dying. For dying without ever really having lived. She was angry at herself, for not being here. To help him. Someone could have helped him. Someone should have helped him. But most of all she was detached. Void of emotion. She was like a single nerve rubbed raw until it stopped working.
Which, right now, was fine with her.
She wanted to be an object. A collection of parts, used for pleasure. Anonymous. Even now. With the man she loved. Especially now. Especially with him. She couldn’t stand the thought of making love. She wanted greed: his greed. To feel her pleasure ripped from her by an unheeding partner, with whom she had no history.
He stood up and held out his hand.
She took it.
Silently, he removed her clothes. There was nothing sexual about it. His movements were brief and businesslike, stripping her down as efficiently as if she’d been a messy child. She let him, not moving.
And then she let him lead her into the bathroom, where he reached into the shower and turned on the water.
The bathroom had been updated since 1878, when the hotel was built, but wasn’t what even the most charitable soul would call modern. Chrome fixtures accented a rather plain tub-shower combination, only a little bit nicer than what Belle had grown up with. But the water felt wonderful. Belle stood under the shower head for what seemed like a very long time, just luxuriating in the feel of the warm, pelting spray.
She didn’t know where Ash had gone, and she wasn’t really thinking about him. Or anything much at all. Mechanically, because she was, after all, in the shower, she washed and conditioned her hair. And then began to wash the rest of herself.
Which was when Ash reappeared.
Pulling the curtain back, he stepped into the shower with her.
Taking the shower gel from her, he began to rub her in smooth circles. At first, his attentions were purely practical: she didn’t know how long it had been since she’d actually taken a shower but she felt like she hadn’t taken one in years and she certainly needed one. The feel of his hands on her skin was wonderful. Smooth circles became gentle pressure as cleaning became a massage, and then deeper pressure as he worked out the knots in her neck and shoulders. She sighed, leaning back against him.
His hands slipped down over her shoulders. One rested on her breast, toying with her nipple, as the other disappeared. His other hand reappeared a moment later, holding the detachable shower head. He held it at an angle to her, so the spray wasn’t too strong, moving it up and down over her stomach. And then lower.
Her back was pressed against him, her cheeks separated by the hard member between them. Instinctively, she rubbed back and forth. The water pelted down onto her most sensitive places as his fingers continued to pull and twist her nipple.
She mewed softly.
He didn’t make her ask for it. She wasn’t sure if he cared whether she wanted it, and that was what she wanted. In a single swift movement he spun her and pressed her against the tiles. Her rock-hard nipples ached. And then he was inside her.
He twisted his fingers in her hair, pulling her head back. She gasped as her back arched, thrusting her bottom out, forcing her to take him more deeply inside her. He had her like that, taking her for his pleasure and not hers, using her. The need inside her grew, becoming painful, and still she found no release. Even as she thrust herself back against him. She needed—needed this. The small noises in her throat became noises of frustration.
He groaned, collapsing against her. She felt him spasm deep inside her, pinned as she was on his cock. She squirmed. She was so close, so close—
He wrapped his arms around her waist and, stepping back, lifted her out of the shower. But instead of drying her off, he knelt and laid her down on the floor. There was a rug: French blue. It smelled faintly of laundry soap. The air smelled of lavender, from her shower gel.
He pushed her legs apart.
She felt his tongue, delving into her. Separating the lips of her perfectly smooth nether regions. Circling the engorged bud there. Teasing it. Tapping at it. Flic
king up and down along the sensitive slit, using only the very tip.
He tormented her, bringing her to the edge of release and then, just when she felt herself approach the final climb, the climb from which there could be no return, easing off. Concentrating his attentions elsewhere. Every square inch of her skin was alive to his touch. His kissing her labia, taking the sensitive skin into his mouth, teasing and suckling it, was the most extraordinary sensation she’d ever felt but it wasn’t enough.
Again and again, just to the edge of release. She moaned again, arching her hips in a futile effort to bring relief. She was nothing except the core of pleasure at her center, nothing but the inexpressible need that it felt.
And then his mouth was on her again, not holding back. He concentrated on that most sensitive bud, rolling it back and forth with his tongue. She screamed, tensing, her shoulders rising off the rug as sweet-sharp release exploded through her. Again and again the lightning struck until finally, worn out, she collapsed in a heap.
He cleaned her gently, mindful of the fact that every nerve still sung out from overuse. He wrapped her in a towel and, sitting her down on the room’s one stool, brushed out her hair and massaged her scalp. Her eyes began to drift closed. But for the first time since Charlotte had shown up at their doorstep to give her the news, it was toward the sleep of honest exhaustion. Not forgetfulness. Not escape. She wanted to curl up in their marvelous hotel bed with Ash, the man she loved, and recharge her batteries in advance of the ordeal to come. An ordeal she knew now that they’d face together.
He gathered her into his arms and, with her sagging against him, carried her into the bedroom.
Seconds later she was nestled under the down comforter, a small smile on her face as she drifted toward true sleep. He slipped into bed next to her and pulled her to him. She wasn’t happy, not right now, but she was content. Being here with him, like this, made her feel safe. Made her feel like, even if things weren’t right now, they would be.
Soon.
NINETY-SIX
Belle was consumed with entirely inappropriate thoughts of sex.
She couldn’t believe what she’d done the night before—what she’d let him do. Ash said he liked tasting himself on her. They’d woken up late, ordered room service, and had sex again before it arrived. Tickling her until she shrieked, he’d pushed himself into her and told her that she’d better let him have his way or he’d still be fucking her when the maid showed up. He wasn’t entirely joking.
He had distracted her.
But then, inevitably, they’d had to clean themselves up and come here.
To the funeral home.
Luna had packed a couple of subdued numbers, or what passed for subdued in the world of Belle’s closet. They’d seemed entirely normal back home, when she’d bought them, but they made her feel like a fish out of water here in Portland. A city of little more than fifty thousand souls that didn’t even properly deserve the name, where the most high fashion clothing available came from JC Penney.
She was wearing a suit that had been custom-cut for her figure from the finest lightweight wool and that draped her beautifully. Black, of course: a single button blazer and pants that had been pressed with a crease. They hit at exactly the right height over her Prada pumps. Prada shoes weren’t an indulgence; they were comfortable. The most comfortable shoes available in the world, more comfortable sometimes than wearing nothing at all. And under her blazer, a subdued dove gray shirt.
She’d left her hair loose and foregone any jewelry, except for her engagement ring. That, she’d never take off. If her mother thought it was too ostentatious, well then, she could pry it from Belle’s cold, dead finger.
She tried not to glance over at the coffin.
Speaking of cold and dead, a naughty voice said. She tried not to listen. There was something—something wrong about funerals. No matter how upset you were, you always wanted to laugh. And at the worst things, too. Or perhaps because you were so upset, you wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or throw something.
And this wasn’t even the funeral; it was only the viewing.
Belle had expected a small, family affair and been shocked when half the city showed up. All of their neighbors in Scarborough, even though most hadn’t known her parents when they were married, and most of Owen’s erstwhile coworkers in Portland.
None of the other women were wearing pants. Belle wanted to kick herself and did, mentally. How could she have forgotten? She hadn’t been away that long. To the women—and men—of Scarborough, and for that matter Portland, she must have looked like an alien. She’d already gotten a few doubtful looks, as though the mere fact of pants signified a lack of remorse.
She stood with Ash, and her mother—and Frank—in what she’d come to think of as the family viewing area. A display place that had been carved from the endless floral tributes, the edges of which were dictated by an oriental rug. On that rug sat a couch that no one used. Families, by common consent, all seemed to stand in front of whatever furniture had been offered for their convenience.
And, kitty corner to their left, was her father. A viewing area for the family, a viewing area for the body. Owen hadn’t been Catholic but some of his acquaintances were and they knelt to pray before his casket.
Belle felt like she was at the zoo.
“I knew your father.”
Belle’s eyes focused on the little man in front of her. He was fat, with a comb-over, reeked of stale beer and wore an olive-colored suit. It didn’t fit him.
“He was a good man.”
Belle took the proffered hand. It was damp.
“Thank you.”
“We knew each other from the tavern.” He paused, apparently considering. The line behind him stretched out the door and down the narrow hall, the funeral home packed with people who hadn’t known Owen in life and hadn’t cared to but were here for the same reason Belle was. Guilt. The same thing that bound them all together and was, at the same time, driving them apart. “He…he was my friend. And he spoke awful highly of you, too.”
Belle smiled slightly.
“He wanted you to be happy.” He looked up at Ash. “This your husband?”
Belle nodded. Husband, fiancé. Close enough.
The little man shook his hand, too. To Belle he said, “seems like a fine fellow. Doesn’t talk much. Your father approved of that in a man.
“And he would’ve been glad he never met him,” the little man added, who still hadn’t introduced himself. Nor did anyone else, including the other barflies, appear to know him. “Elsewise he might’ve frightened him off. But you know, he was glad that you left. Got to see the world, that’s what he told us. He was proud of you, and your adventuring ways.”
“Thank you,” said Belle, and this time she meant it.
The little man nodded, and was gone.
Belle didn’t have time to contemplate how strange their interchange had been, because the next mourner was Billy Meyers.
“You’re wearing pants.”
“You’re wearing a uniform,” she blurted in response.
“I’m in the Air Force.” He seemed proud of that fact. Good for him.
“Oh,” she said faintly. “Congratulations.”
“It’s Captain Myers, now.” He looked up at Ash. Billy had always been on the short side. Most pilots were. “This the boyfriend?”
“Fiancé,” Ash interposed smoothly.
“Boyfriend, fiancé, same difference.”
“It’s good of you to come, Billy.”
“Your father was a good man. Even if you couldn’t see that.”
Ash tensed. Belle blinked, unsure of how to respond.
But then Donna stepped in front of Belle hugged him. She’d always loved Billy. “Oh, Billy,” she enthused, “it’s so good to see you.” Donna had been half sobbing, half enthusing all afternoon. Where Belle had always been contained, Donna verged on the histrionic. Which was, Belle supposed, probably one of the reasons that she was so contained.
“Hi Donna. Mom. I always wanted you to be my mom.”
Donna glanced at Belle, but said nothing. “Oh, Billy, you know you’ll always be part of our family. And Owen—Owen looked to you like a son. I hope you know that.”
Belle told herself that this time she wouldn’t run.
Billy, thankfully, moved on.
More people came. Someone brought her a glass of water, for which she was thankful. Her lower back began to hurt. Her head began to pound. The one thing that no one ever told you about viewings was that they were boring. She’d enjoyed herself more waiting in line at the DMV.
Most people were more polite than Billy. A few people narrowed their eyes suspiciously at Ash and asked if he was from Boston. When he said no, they seemed satisfied.
Ash, too, looked like he’d arrived from another planet but that was more acceptable in a man. At least around here. He’d selected a charcoal gray suit that, like all of his clothes, fit him perfectly. With that he’d paired a white shirt and a charcoal gray tie. Most of the men who greeted him weren’t wearing suits. Some looked like they’d just come off the docks. Some smelled like it.
Donna was wearing some sort of a muumuu, cut from black crepe. She’d always been a generously proportioned woman but she could’ve done a little more to jazz herself up. She didn’t have to look that bad. And then Belle caught herself and wondered what she was thinking. Donna’s husband had just died. Except he hadn’t been her husband for years and Donna seemed to be getting by well enough with Frank Terriault.
Frank had an annoying habit of looking perpetually hopeful. He did so, now, as if he were waiting to be given a treat for good behavior. Belle wanted to punch him.
He’d scrounged a sportcoat out from somewhere. It smelled like mothballs. He’d paired it with jeans.
Eventually, the crowd began to dwindle. If it weren’t for Ash, Belle was sure that they all would’ve been hurried out hours ago. Each, what the funeral home called room of remembrance rented out for ninety-five dollars and hour and the standard package only included two hours.
