by Kent, Julia
Sandy wouldn't let her forget it. Lydia knew that reaching out to home meant being love bombed. That seemed to be exactly what she needed. She knew it and Krysta knew it. Groaning, she reached for the phone. Krysta smirked and had the decency to fake needing to check her own phone. At the top of her “Favorites,” Sandy's number was one tap away.
“Hello? Lydia?” That flat midwestern voice, melodic and friendly, eager to hear her speak. Ah, Mom. Thirty years in New England hadn't changed her, the “r” intact in her words. Mainers thought her odd but warmed to her generosity and general can-do attitude. That she and Pete had created more than fifty much-needed jobs in their tiny community helped, too.
Knowing she needed to just get it out, Lydia sighed. “I didn't get the job.”
“The one you've been waiting to apply for now for over a year?” Control your glee, Mom, she almost said, Sandy's voice a mixture of fake commiseration and little-kid joy at the news. Here comes the onslaught.
“Yes. I came into work one day to find I had a new boss. Matt Jones.” Tears filled her eyes, and blood rushed to her cheeks. Elsewhere, too, making her squirm. Not now! Not now! Damn it, if Matt could have this kind of impact on her while just saying his name, what would –
“You didn't even get a chance to apply?” Sandy's voice changed to outrage. Relief flooded Lydia. Anger she could handle. Righteous indignation she could feast on. A riled-up Sandy would give her the ego boost she needed. What she could not, would not handle right now was being begged mercilessly to come home and manage public relations and social media for the campground.
Sniff. “Nope.”
“Bastards. Hey, Pete!” Lydia could imagine her mom, talking on her cell phone while manning the register in the little store on site, calling out to her dad, who was probably helping some guest with an RV question, or teaching a child how to play pool in the table in the hall behind the main store, or riding past in one of his blue golf carts that roamed at an ever-safe five mph that had bedeviled her and her brothers (we can run faster than those things, Daddy!).
Ruddy cheeks and a straw hat with a draw string under his chin, Pete Charles was a tower of a man, but a gentle soul who derived so much pleasure from growing a business with his children. Except Lydia.
And he, like Sandy, wanted her back in the fold, though his methods were a bit less obvious.
“Why won't they give her a chance? She's smarter than all of 'em!” she heard him shout. He was probably wearing paint-splattered Dickies that hadn't been washed in months, a nice, crisp button down, and that old hat. He was careful not to be too disheveled these days, though he refused to change his work pants. Always said it made it clear that while the campground was a place for travel and fun and frolic, he had work to do, too. The serious work of moving and maintaining and keeping an enormous “small” business functioning properly. Like biochemistry, if one enzyme went missing, one chemical went astray, the body would dissemble.
Pete used that against Lydia, for they were losing the battle in an increasingly-online world, and while her brother Dan was great at business software, he was lousy at online PR and advertising. Lydia would provide a key service if she were home.
She just didn't want that. A standoff of epic proportions, and calling home right now meant giving her parents some heavy-duty ammo for working every guilt button she possessed.
Her Matt Jones button, though, was big as well. Red, right now. Absolutely throbbing. Leaning forward to shift some of the renegade flesh in her nether regions, the wiggling only made her all the more aware of how helpless she'd become. One week with a guy who stole her job (not intentionally, but her emotional truth was as important as facts, right?) and she was turning into a puddle of sensual goo. Not fair. Not fair at all.
Home was starting to look pretty good, and that is what made her hair stand on end and turned the freak-out dial up a notch.
“Tell Dad he's more transparent by the day.”
“What do you mean?” her mother asked, all innocent and disingenuous. Sandy knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't going to give a millimeter.
“You, on the other hand, are a giant piece of Saran Wrap, Mom. I'm not moving back.” Her voice turned to a growl on the last sentence. “What I need now is an ego boost.”
“You're so amazing that Escape Shores needs your expertise! We pay a living wage and you get free muffins and espresso, hand-crafted by these brilliant men who live here.”
“I've washed their socks, Mom, and seen them hungover. One of them barfed in my car and I helped another one unglue himself from his own bike. My brothers aren't brilliant; they just stayed, so you love them more.” This was an ongoing joke in the family, ever since Lucas was IQ tested in third grade and declared a genius. To spare the others' feelings Sandy had announced that all of her children were brilliant.
Even the dogs were declared above-average, and for a while they called the campground Lake Wobegon Shores.
“I love all my children equally!” Sandy huffed. Lydia heard her dad laughing maniacally in the background. Whomp. Mom must have hit him. Then footsteps fading away.
“You're the Karl Marx of motherhood.”
“Did you call me to berate me, or is there a real reason? The lobsters don't cook themselves.” Ah. Thursday. The big steak 'n lobsterfest was starting in an hour. Lydia could smell the mesquite, taste the drawn butter, feel the steam from the pots as Dad and Adam boiled them in beer (the exact brand a family secret), her tongue imagining the juicy, sweet crunch of grilled corn on the cob.
“Beach bake night,” she groaned, mouth watering. Krysta's eyes widened and she smacked her lips.
“Come on up for next week,” Sandy said, her voice a taunting, teasing tendril of evil temptation. “You know we miss you something fierce.”
Tempting. Really, really tempting. She could taste the ocean water in the lobster, imagine that first bite of perfect, medium rare tenderloin, the night chill in the air tempered by one of her brothers' old college sweatshirts and a roaring campfire, people playing random instruments and everyone – octogenarians to three year olds – roasting marshmallows on a stick.
So different from the city, where people not only didn't make eye contact, they lived in little spheres of air influence, as if a bubble surrounded them. Chatting on cell phones like the Borg, ear pieces attached to nothing, they conducted business – personal and professional – with ruthless efficiency, from speed dating to minute clinics to in-cab web access.
Lydia needed both to balance her. Running home would be the easy way out.
Her mama didn't raise no wimps, and Lydia took this moment to remind her of that fact. “If I come home, it's for a visit. Not for good.”
Warmth spread through the phone as Sandy's smile could be heard – no, felt – through the thin, black, shiny phone. “Are you bringing anyone special?” Up the ante, why don't you, Mom?
“I'm bringing me.” So why did her mind flash to Matt? Already? C'mon, Lydia, she chided herself. You're not in eighth grade.
Sandy got it. “That is more than enough! We'll make sure to have Caleb make your special tarragon butter sauce.”
The word “tarragon” tickled some inner gourmet as Lydia's mouth watered again, and this time not at the thought of Matt. “Is he still making that?”
“With Stan Michaelson's special cream.” Michaelson's Dairy still delivered, and not the kind of delivery you get in Boston, with an impatient bike messenger or a shy, dour restaurant dude. Glass bottles, happy cows and free sugar cookies for kids who caught Mr. Michaelson as he filled the milk box. You couldn't get any more '50s.
Then why did it make her smile?
Groan. “Is she plying you with promises of hookers and blow?” Krysta stage whispered.
“Tarragon butter!” Sandy shouted through the phone.
“Even better!” Krysta shouted back.
“Traitor,” Lydia hissed.
“I'm a realist. You're insane for giving up a weekend back home.”
Krysta had been to the campground countless times and had a mild crush on Caleb. Or on his chocolate mint mousse. It was hard to tease out which she preferred more.
“I can't, Mom. I have to figure out where I'm going at work, and find another job there to set my sights on.” Disappointment practically took solid form and reached through the phone.
Deep sigh. “Fine. I understand. Your career is important to you.” Another deep sigh. “We're just your family.” Cough cough.
“The cough is a nice touch. You trying out for the role of Fantine?”
Gut-busting laughter. “You got me there, Hon. I just want to see you.”
“Cars and planes and trains work both ways, Mom. I'm only four hours away.”
“During high season?” Late July and early August was crazy, she knew. Her mom barely had time for this conversation, but if Lydia had asked for eight hours of silent weeping into the phone, Sandy would give it to her.
“Yeah. I know.”
“Wait a minute,” Sandy said, her voice suspicious. “Is there a new guy? Is that why you don't want to take a weekend off?”
How to answer that? “Mmmm, nope.”
She could hear Sandy's eyebrows shoot up. “That's a weak 'no.'”
“But it's a no.” Please don't question it.
Random words, then shuffling, the her dad's voice shouting mild obscenities. “Hon, I have to go. Someone just pumped gasoline in their septic tank.” Saved by a new RV owner.
“Your dad's fit to be tied,” Sandy added. Lydia could imagine the mess.
“OK.” Whew. “Love you, Mom.”
“Save the date! August 22. Talent Show.” Click.
That she wouldn't miss for anything.
“Did she say 'talent show'?” Krysta asked, saying the last two words as if she were talking about feces.
“Oh, yes she did. She said talent show. The talent show at the Escape Shores Campground in Verily, Maine is the absolute, hands down, most exciting, thrilling professional talent show you’ve ever been to. Didn't I take you?” She and Krysta had been friends for years.
Krysta shook her head. “Nope. If it's in late August, I'm at my mom's for a family reunion.”
“Then that explains it.” Lydia shook her head in mock sadness. “You're missing the greatest show on earth. My brothers, Dan and Adam, are famous for their nose marshmallow trick.”
Krysta made a sound of disgust. “Do I want to ask?”
“Of course you want to ask!” said Lydia. “You take a mini marshmallow and stick it up one nostril, and then your partner – ”
“Partner? You have a partner in this?” Krysta grew more disgusted by the minute. Lydia reveled in it.
“And then your partner,” she continued, ignoring the interruption, “stands about twenty feet away, maybe ten if you’re just starting, and you close the nostril that doesn’t have the marshmallow in it.” Lydia’s voice developed a nasal tone as she demonstrated the motion. “And you take a deep breath...”
“Oh, God!” Krysta grabbed her stomach.
“...and you blow as hard as you can, shoot the marshmallow in an arc, across the air, and the other person stands there with their mouth open – ”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” shouted Krysta, waving her hands wildly as if fanning herself. “OK, OK, I get the point. So that’s what passes for talent in the middle of nowhere Maine.”
“That’s pretty much the...claim to fame for a...well, yeah.” Lydia stumbled over that one.
Krysta sat up on her elbows, leaned across the table, looked Lydia dead in the eye and said, “How in the hell did someone like you from someplace like that end up in Boston?”
Lydia leaned in as if to tell her a secret, waving her closer, cupping her palm over her mouth, and whispered, “That’s exactly why I ended up in Boston.”
A zing of thrill shot through her as she waited for her elevator and watched the doors open slowly, finding Matt already on board. That zing shouldn't have thrilled her. Horror at her own inappropriate feelings for her boss should have been her response, but instead it was her clit that dominated, heating with a fire of excitement that turned into a deeper throb, making her pulse race and her heart slam against her ribs, every bit of her throat feeling her hot breath as it escaped.
“Morning,” he said, his mouth stretching into a big grin. Lydia had avoided him since that closet kiss, hoping she could just – what? Forget it? He had come to her, once, and seemed like he wanted to say something, but she had been so flustered she had jumped up and found some files to scan, scurrying off, too uncomfortable to talk.
“Good morning,” she replied. What she wanted to say was Kiss me. Or, worse, Take me.
How about: Fuck me silly.
Good morning would have to do.
Everything about this man turned her on, from the hint of aftershave he wore, to the way his biceps pressed against his oxford shirt. Those arms had been around her just days ago, and his body rested in a relaxed, but aware state, knees slightly bent, hand holding a briefcase, eyes perceptive and watching her. As she stepped into the elevator she hoped no one would join them, the pneumatic hiss of the doors closing like an answered prayer.
Out of habit, she reached over and pressed the floor button, feeling his eyes crawl over her, like a hot laser she could feel in every pore. A flush covered her cheeks and she felt a climax rising, just from this. Being in an enclosed space with him, the air electric with the tension of touches not yet completed.
She wasn't imagining the tension, either. He gave it right back, his eyes intent on her, body tight now, shifting his weight toward her, surveying every inch of her skin with his eyes.
And then – a jolt. Black. Disoriented, a little scream escaped from her throat, hands gesticulating wildly, searching to grab onto a wall, or something to steady herself, to find herself in space. Reaching the side of the elevator, she spread her hands out against the side, now attuned to her surroundings.
Lydia stood bathed in pure darkness, the only light in the elevator shining from the tiny red emergency light on the panel of buttons. A flicker of movement as Matt reached over and pushed the emergency button, setting off an alarm, a loud bell that filled the tiny elevator's interior with enough noise to drive her mad, but not enough noise – unfortunately – to drown out the pounding of arousal and overwhelm in her body, in her veins, in her –
“You okay, Lydia?” Matt asked, his rich baritone like a caress in the dark, making him seem everywhere and nowhere all at once. She heard scuffling sounds, and realized he was trying to find her in the dark. Well, fuck me, she thought. Racing thoughts filled her mind – images, touches, hopes, fantasies. Who didn’t want to have sex in an elevator at least once in her life? And here she was, with opportunity screaming, the alarm filling her ears, the darkness blocking her senses, and then she felt Matt's hand on her breast, soft and searching, as she stifled a moan.
“Oh, there you are.” He seemed not to understand what he was touching – or, she hoped, he knew exactly what he was doing – and Lydia shifted just slightly, out of instinct. Not that she didn’t want his hand on her there, and in fact she most desperately did, but she was so unused to being touched in such a manner like this, by a stranger who was her boss, her boss in the job that she had so wanted for the last two years, and now she began to feel something more than the primal fear of being trapped in a completely dark elevator with a stranger.
Boldness. The word bold was the last word anyone would ever use to describe Lydia. Fierce? Sure. Intelligent? Of course. Determined? Absolutely.
Bold? Overt? Sensual? She wasn’t a risk taker. Not by nature and not by volition. Yet here she stood with chance screaming at her in the form of an emergency alarm, and something inside her tipped. She reached for Matt and found the top button of his shirt, a sprinkling of chest hair under her fingertips. Feeling her way up over his throat to the slight roughness of his clean shaven face, up to his nose, she stood on tiptoe, and kissed him.
Pulling apart, their lips warm and wet, he silently reached for the emergency button and pulled it out, ending the alarm.
They needed as much time as they could steal.
Their breath sounded like tortured gasps in the elevator. Bold. Deciding that she was going to be the Lydia that she had never been before, she took. Took his lips, his tongue – she took control.
Until he rose up, standing taller, his arms around her as if he stretched every muscle in his body, all of them toward her, all of them toward this kiss, everything and every part of him concentrated instantly on her. Tortured gasps for air and him made her breath ragged, his mouth on her neck, hands hungry for skin as he reached under her skirt and slid up, raking her thighs, claiming her body for his own.
“Lydia,” he murmured in her ear as he pressed his hips into hers, giving her a full-on sense of his arousal, pushing against her and making her want him in her. Rough kisses turned deeper, his hands sliding her panties down, her mouth and body afire.
“What are you – ” she asked, alarmed that something so intimate would be so public, yet dripping wet with need and wanting every second of this.
“Shhhhh,” he commanded, shoving her panties in his pocket and then, oh, his fingers were in her, on her, as he turned her around, hot breath in her ear, his erection pressing against the cleft of her ass, his hands on her clit, fingers in her, making her practically lick the elevator wall.
“I wish it were my mouth, Lydia,” he whispered, her breath shifting, hips bucking against his hand, rushing to find the climax she wanted him to give her. “And if we weren't about to get caught, it would be.”
“Caught?” She panicked, grabbing his hands, which he held firmly in place, immutable, like steel.
“Not yet, my sweet,” he insisted. “Not until I've given you this pleasure, and you've given me your abandon.” His fingers stroked her, the faint hint of stubble rising up her neck and cheek, lips and tongue tasting her as he drove two fingers inside her aching pussy, clit on fire from his tongue. “Let go, Lydia,” he whispered, grinding into her from behind, his words an urging she didn't need to hear twice.
