Bringing Up Baby New Year & Frisky Business

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  To her surprise, Darcie discovered that she wanted to tell him about it. She seldom had the chance to reveal the sad story to anyone because few people in this part of the country, except for the hospital personnel, had known her father.

  She concentrated on cleaning as much of the paint off as she could, which made the moment easier. She wanted to tell him, but she didn’t want to get all choked up doing it. “He had asthma, probably made worse by the chemicals he used as a janitor. We moved out here from New York to see if that would cure him, but he was too sick. He…died two and a half years ago.”

  “That’s rough.”

  The lump in her throat was there no matter how much she tried to be matter-of-fact about those events. “I really miss him,” she admitted.

  “That might help explain Bart Junior,” he said gently.

  “Maybe.” She glanced up from working on her paint-stained hand to find that he’d laid down the brush and was watching her, that light in his eyes again.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

  “About what?” Her heart beat faster.

  “About your hand.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed.

  His gaze fell to where she clutched the paint rag. Slowly, he took it from her and dropped it to the floor. Then he took her hand in his and examined it. “I’d really like to get this off, but I hate the idea of putting paint thinner on your skin.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, which was no longer black, but a funny shade of gray, almost as if she’d just died.

  She wondered if she might in fact die, her heart was beating so fast. She should take her hand away right this minute. Right now.

  They drew closer, as if they’d been tumbled in a clothes dryer and filled with static electricity. She felt the tiny hairs on her arm lift the nearer he came.

  The moment stretched between them like taffy until she thought she might go out of her mind. She had to say something, do something, or she would fly apart and blow away in the wind like the seeds of a dandelion. “It was my own fault. The way I was tossing paint around, you’d think I was a countryman slopping his hogs.”

  The glow in his eyes deepened. “Forgive me, Darcie.” And with no further preparation than that, he pulled her into his arms and brought his mouth down over hers.

  It seemed as if she couldn’t resist him, either. She fastened herself to him like a burr. With a moan of happiness, she opened her mouth, inviting him in. And in he came, making himself right at home as if he planned to stay for a good long while and drive her crazy with pleasure.

  She believed that he might. That body of his felt as magnificent pressed close as she’d imagined it would when she had watched him from afar. Her hands wandered over his brawny shoulders and lower down until she was shamelessly clutching the backside she’d admired while he painted.

  His hands did their share of wandering, too, until he was plastered against her tighter than a mussel to a jetty. His intentions were no mystery at that point. She feared that hers weren’t, either, with the way she whimpered and tucked herself against that lovely promise he was silently making.

  He lifted his mouth away from hers, and his breath came quick and fast as he kneaded her bottom with strong fingers. “Can you stop what’s happening? Because I don’t think I can. I should, but I can’t.”

  Her brain wouldn’t function properly, but the rest of her was tuned up just fine, running smooth and hot. “I…don’t think I can, either.”

  His breathing roughened. “Here? In the garage?”

  Fire leaped through her and settled at the spot where they were squeezed so desperately together. She opened her eyes and gazed at him. She’d never seen a finer sight in her life. “It’s where we met.”

  “No, it isn’t.” He slid his hands up beneath her T-shirt and unhooked her bra while her heart beat in triple time. “We met in the driveway.” His voice grew husky as he eased his hands around until he cradled her breasts. “And from that first moment I saw you, I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

  She sighed with pleasure and leaned back to enjoy more fully his attentions. “Joe, that’s so lovely,” she whispered.

  “You are what’s lovely,” he murmured. “You feel like velvet.” He gently released her breasts and cupped her face in his hands to feather her mouth with a kiss. “And we’re not going to do this in the garage. I’m taking you upstairs to bed.”

  “No.” Something told her that between the garage and his bedroom she’d lose her nerve or come to her senses, and she didn’t want to do either. She wanted to be swept away and deal with the consequences later. “Here.”

  “Darcie, you deserve—”

  “A garage adventure. I’ve never had one before.” Grasping the waistband of his jeans, she sank to her knees, guiding him down with her.

  “Darcie—”

  “Kiss me, Joe. Your last kiss is wearing off.”

  With a groan, he delved into her mouth again, which made her delirious, but she tried to keep her wits about her enough to unfasten his jeans.

  He lifted his mouth from hers. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to get rid of your jeans.” She slid the zipper down and reached inside the denim to stroke his erection through his cotton briefs.

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “I guess it’ll be the garage.”

  “Good.” As she caressed him and felt him tremble, she felt herself moisten with growing anticipation.

  “God, I’ve been going crazy. I’m still going crazy.” Raining kisses over her face, he unsnapped her jeans and worked them over her hips.

  She continued to explore the impressive length of him, even slipping her hand beneath the elastic of his briefs, which made them both gasp. But although she was fairly engrossed in discovery, she began to realize that while she remained on her knees, he’d end up with an engineering problem as he tried to get her out of her jeans. He felt so silken and firm that she hated to lose hold of him, but she would have to help him with the clothing problem.

  She released him reluctantly and eased away from his kisses. She was having trouble catching her breath, but she needed to explain the situation. “You need…to let me sit down…so I can take my shoes off and get these jeans off properly.”

  His breathing was ragged, too. “I knew…we should have gone upstairs.”

  “No. This will be fine. You’ll see.” Even with the drop cloth over the concrete and her panties still on, the floor was cold and hard on her bottom, but she didn’t mention it as she stretched out her legs…and kicked over the paint can. “Watch out!”

  He moved surprisingly fast for a man half-in and half-out of his pants. Moving crablike on his knees, he scrambled away from the spreading paint, but she was not so fortunate. It soaked right into her running shoe and the leg of her jeans before he could grab the can and set it upright again.

  “Oh!” She glanced up at him. “What now?”

  He gazed at her, his eyes still somewhat glazed, his breathing labored. Then slowly, after what seemed like an eternity, the dazed look cleared. He stood and gave her a rueful smile. “I guess I need to help you out of your shoe and your jeans.”

  “And then?” She knew the answer. She’d never heard of anybody making passionate love after spilling a can of black paint on their leg. Had it been something sexy, like chocolate fudge sauce, then maybe the moment could have been saved and some interesting variations included in the resulting activities. But black paint was a different matter altogether.

  “And then nothing.” His voice was heavy with regret and recrimination as he zipped up his jeans. He looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Darcie. More sorry than I can say. It was a bad idea from the beginning, but after you told me about your dad, and you were there, so close, so sweet…” He sighed. “It’s your good luck that you kicked over the paint.”

  Because she was Irish, Darcie believed that good luck was a natural part of her heritage. She could vouch for having experienced good luck many times in
her life. But this definitely did not feel like one of those times.

  12

  MADGE HAD FINALLY SHUFFLED Herman off to the garage to put the finishing touches on the yard display and was preparing to go upstairs to the sewing room. She had a pretty good idea when the thumping would start, and she didn’t want to miss a single night of Joe’s strange baseball murmurings following a bout of wild sex. Darcie, however, was the most silent bed partner Madge could imagine. Never let out a peep, not during the thumping and not during the baseball portion of the event, either.

  Madge was halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rang. She returned to the first floor and opened the front door to find a distraught Trudy Butterworth on the other side. Her usually sleek hair was windblown, her mascara smudged, and she even had her Ralph Lauren wool jacket buttoned up wrong.

  “He doesn’t care,” Trudy said. “I sent him the thumping tape and he just doesn’t care!”

  Madge drew Trudy inside and closed the door. Herman had the garage door cracked open and Trudy’s wailing might carry in there. “You’re sure he understands that the mother of his child is engaged in steady sex with another man?”

  “I’m sure he understands, although it’s not the sort of thing I like talking about to my son, especially on a trans-hemispheric phone call.” Trudy’s shoulders sagged. “After I hung up, Bart Senior wanted to know what was wrong with me. I couldn’t exactly tell him since he’s already quite disgusted with Bart Junior. So I pretended it had to do with the festival committee. I walked over here so I could work off some of my frustration.”

  “I’m sorry, Trudy. Children can be a trial.” Or so Madge had heard years ago, which was why she’d elected to forgo the experience.

  “Bart Junior was always a joy until now. I really thought he’d come back when he heard that tape. I thought he’d sweep Darcie off her feet and marry her. Then she’d take French classes and become an interior decorator, and we’d change the baby’s name to Bart Butterworth III, and I could hold up my head in this community again.”

  “There, there.” Madge patted Trudy’s shoulder. “The residents of Tannenbaum won’t blame you because your son turned out to be a worthless piece of slime.”

  Trudy’s head snapped up. “I did not say he was a worthless piece of slime. He’s a free spirit! I should have known better than to try to chain him to conventional behavior.”

  “Well, I suppose that would be the wrong thing to chain him to,” Madge said. Personally, she’d never liked the kid and thought Darcie was better off with Joe Northwood, even if the guy did have a baseball fetish going on. But if Madge’s tape had been able to bring Bart Junior home, Madge might have become chair of the Tannenbaum Christmas Festival and Good Cheer Committee in perpetuity.

  “Anyway, I came by to tell you to stop taping. It’s no use.”

  “Stop taping?” Now that Madge had learned how to use the listening device, she couldn’t imagine life without it. In fact, she needed to get up to the sewing room soon or she’d miss tonight’s episode.

  “Yes. I’ll pay you for that machinery you bought, unless you think you can return it and get a refund.”

  Madge waved a hand vaguely. “Don’t worry about that.”

  Trudy frowned at her. “You won’t continue to use it, of course.”

  “Oh, of course not.” Madge hoped she looked innocent. “What use would I have for something like that now that I know you don’t want the information?”

  “Exactly.” Trudy sighed. “Well, I’d better toddle home and see if Bart Senior has our display finished. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “I’m sure you have something wonderful, as usual.”

  “Oh, yes.” But amazingly, Madge realized she didn’t much care. In fact, she wasn’t sure why she wanted the chair of the festival committee in perpetuity. The whole yard decoration business was pretty boring, come to think of it. At the moment, all she wanted was to get back to her sewing room.

  “Well, see you later, Madge.”

  “See you later, Trudy.” Madge did her best not to slam the door in the woman’s face. Once she’d closed it, she nearly ran up the stairs.

  In thirty-five years of marriage, Herman had provided better-than-average housing, enough money to eat out at Denny’s whenever they wanted, a new Lincoln every three years and a big-screen TV. He had not provided bedroom experiences to curl her toes. She’d never imagined in a million years that she’d say this, but she envied Darcie O’Banyon.

  Closed safely in her sewing room at last, she put on her earphones. Then, as she fine-tuned the control knobs on her listening device, she heard a thump. And another thump, and another. They were at it again. Insatiable. Such naughty behavior. Deliciously naughty. She strained to hear voices.

  At last she was rewarded.

  “You’ve got it in too deep,” Joe said clearly above the sound of the steady thumping. “That’s what caused the problem the last time.”

  “That’s how I like to do it,” Darcie replied, bold as brass. “Besides, we don’t have a lot of time to work on technique. Morning will be here before you know it.”

  Madge leaned forward, her heart going like gangbusters. At last, Darcie was going to say something about the experience. Goodness, but she was an impatient little thing. And Madge couldn’t comprehend how putting it in too deep was a problem. She’d never have to deal with that problem in Herman’s case, that was for certain.

  “You’ll make a bigger mess that way,” Joe said, sounding patient and loving, but very, very sexy. Thump, thump, thump.

  Herman never used that tone of voice in bed. He never used any tone of voice. During his performance of The Act, he was as dumb as a stone. Which actually made it easier to pretend he was someone else, so muteness had its advantages.

  “You can’t do this without making a mess,” Darcie said as the rhythmic thumping continued.

  Madge started to hyperventilate as she imagined the scene. Herman hated messes of any kind. Neat as a pin, that Herman. And hung like one, come to think of it.

  “You can minimize the mess, though,” Joe said.

  “But the way I do it saves all that going back and forth,” Darcie said.

  Good gracious! Madge had always thought going back and forth was the whole point. Her sexual knowledge obviously was too limited. But Joe socialized with jetsetters and Hollywood insiders. He probably Knew Things.

  “Here, let me show you what I mean,” Joe said.

  Heavens, he was instructing her in the art of love! Madge thanked her lucky stars she was getting this on tape. Maybe Herman could be reconditioned.

  “Put it halfway in, like this,” Joe said. “Then bring it back out and press it gently as you bring it up against the rim. See?”

  “If you say so. But I think it’ll take a lot longer that way.”

  “I predict you’ll finish up about the same time as if you did it the other way.” He spoke in such an easy voice, as if they weren’t thumping away at the same time. Amazing.

  “Oh, all right, then. But don’t expect me to like it.”

  The little ingrate! Here she was getting expert lovemaking instruction from a man who was personal friends with people like Dolly Parton and Robin Williams, and she was giving him an argument about technique.

  Joe’s amused chuckle gave Madge goose bumps. What a man. Patient, understanding and well endowed. You couldn’t get much closer to heaven than that.

  “Try it for a while,” Joe said. “I think eventually you’ll see what I mean.”

  Madge knew she would, that was for sure. She turned up the volume knob, anticipating some moans of pleasure. Then, her deluxe listening device, the one that “professionals swear by” according to the brochure, cut out on her, giving her only static.

  Madge bellowed a word she’d never said in her entire life. She turned knobs and adjusted wires, but only fizz and crackles came through the earphones. She yelled the swear word again. It was the only one th
at fitted the situation.

  Herman pounded up the stairs and burst into her sewing room. “Sugar cakes, what’s the matter? I heard you yelling an…an obscenity!”

  “Perhaps I did, Herman. What of it?”

  “Well, now you’re all red in the face! I’ve never seen you red in the face from listening to Barry Manilow. Should I call 9-1-1?”

  Madge put her hand to her chest and forced herself to take several deep breaths. “No, Herman, do not call 9-1-1.”

  “Is there anything I can do, cherry blossom? You look so upset.”

  She gazed at him. Well, any port in a storm. She’d heard enough to give her some ideas, and for the rest, she’d improvise. She stood and walked toward him. “Yes, Herman, there is. There most certainly is.”

  JOE’S ARMS ACHED from painting, but they were nearly finished with that part. He figured Darcie was in the same cramped condition. At least after agreeing to adopt his methods, she wasn’t splattering as much paint on herself as she had in the beginning.

  They’d worked ceaselessly, grabbing moments to gulp coffee and eat most of the package of chocolate chip cookies he’d found in the back of a cupboard. He’d hoped to get the lights in the pegboard before he went to bed, but he was dog-tired and might louse up the job.

  He dropped his brush in a can of paint thinner. “I’m going to call in sick tomorrow so I can finish the lights and get everything put up in the yard before it gets dark.”

  Darcie paused and wiped her arm over her forehead, leaving a smear of black paint there. “I hate for you to miss work.”

  He winced at the smear of paint on her skin. “No problem,” he said. “I can do it easier than you. I have the sick days coming, but if you don’t clean, you don’t get paid.”

  “True enough. And during the holidays, my clients plan their parties around my cleaning schedule so the house will look good.” She glanced up at a clock mounted on the garage wall. “We still have a couple of hours before sunrise. Why don’t I help you put the lights in now?”

  Joe shook his head. “I know you must be exhausted. Go on up to bed.”