Sun, Sand, Sex

by Linda Lael Miller; Jennifer Apodaca; Shelly Laurenston

  “Joanna, are you sure everything is all right? Where are you, anyway? We tried the main house, and the cottage, and finally resorted to Teague’s cell phone.”

  “We’re fine. We’re at the cottage, but the power is out, and the phone lines are evidently down, too. Put Caitlin back on, if she’s able to talk.”

  There was some shuffling.

  Joanna crouched to scoop up the soggy coffee grounds with the first thing that came to hand—Teague’s flannel shirt.

  “Mom?” Caitlin said.

  “Feeling better?” Joanna asked, directing the question not only to her distant daughter but to Teague, who seemed to be coming around.

  “Yes,” Caitlin said.

  “No,” said Teague.

  “When was the pregnancy determined?” Joanna asked. “And when is the baby due?”

  “We did a test yesterday,” Caitlin sniffled. “You know, with one of those drugstore kits? I saw my doctor today, and he confirmed it. It’s too early to pinpoint the actual due date, but he’s guesstimating it will be sometime in February.”

  “Are you happy?”

  More sniffling. “Of course I’m happy. So is Peter.” Then, bravely, “I guess we can have Christmas at your place one year and Dad’s the next.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” Joanna said gently, trying not to think about split Christmases and Thanksgivings because she knew if she did, she’d soon be sobbing as hard as Caitlin had been a few minutes before. “I promise.”

  “You’re cutting out, Mom,” Caitlin said, sounding more like her usual self.

  “Your dad probably forgot to charge his cell phone again,” Joanna said.

  “At least I carry one,” Teague said.

  Joanna hated cell phones, considered them intrusive. But with the regular lines down and Caitlin so upset, she was glad Teague didn’t share her sentiment. “Go back to bed, Caitlin. Get some rest. If the storm lets up, I can probably call you tomorrow.”

  “Wait a second,” Caitlin said. “You and dad are at the cottage together. Does that mean—?”

  “Tomorrow, Caitlin,” Joanna said.

  They rang off.

  “She’s a baby herself,” Teague said.

  “Caitlin is a grown woman, Teague,” Joanna reasoned, feeling the strangest mixture of joy and sorrow. “She has a college degree, a husband, and a good job.” My baby, her heart said. My baby. And she started to cry.

  “Come here,” Teague said, holding out a hand.

  Joanna let him pull her onto his lap. Nestled against him, she buried her face in the curve between his neck and shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent.

  She thought of separate Christmases.

  Separate birthdays and Thanksgivings.

  And she cried even harder.

  “Hey,” Teague said gruffly, stroking her back, “I think we’re supposed to be happy about this.”

  “I am happy!” Joanna sobbed.

  Sammy, laying his muzzle on the arm of the chair Teague and Joanna were huddled in, gave a low, worried whine.

  “It’s okay,” she told the dog.

  “I don’t think he believes you,” Teague said.

  Joanna stroked Sammy’s head, brushed some coffee grounds off his nose. “Really,” she said. “It’s all good.”

  Teague held her. “Right now,” he said, “I like it fine.”

  Sammy gave a doggy sigh, turned, and went back to his window seat, climbing the special carpeted stairs Teague had built for him when the vet first diagnosed his arthritis.

  “This is hard,” Joanna whispered.

  Teague propped his chin on top of her head. “Somehow,” he said, “I don’t think that’s a comment on my manly virtues.”

  Joanna giggled moistly.

  “Of course, I did bring you to three or four screaming orgasms—Grandma.”

  Joanna laughed and swatted at him.

  But he caught her face between his hands and suddenly, his expression was serious. “Joanna, about the sports car—”

  She stiffened. Teague had said he didn’t have a trophy wife waiting to plant a firm derriere in the passenger seat of his ridiculously expensive ride, and she believed him. But once the divorce was final and he was on the market, it wouldn’t be long. He was smart, good-looking, successful, and great in bed—or out of it.

  No, it wouldn’t be long.

  “Just for tonight,” she said, making herself relax, “let’s pretend we’re not getting divorced, okay?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Teague replied, sliding a hand up under her sweatshirt to caress her breast.

  Joanna was instantly hot. She swallowed a groan as Teague leaned forward to nibble at her neck, her earlobe, the base of her throat.

  An image of Teague’s next wife invaded her mind.

  Pretend, Joanna told herself silently, pretend.

  He began, very slowly, to undress her, and soon she was straddling him in the chair, her body already moving to the age-old rhythm, straining to take him inside her.

  But Teague would not be rushed.

  He took his time, fondling her breasts.

  He tongued her nipples, but only sucked them when she begged.

  He cupped her buttocks, squeezing them firmly.

  And then she felt his right hand sweep around, find the core of her, and part her to ply her clitoris between his fingers. Joanna was instantly transported back to college days; they’d made love like this then, in the backseat of Teague’s rattletrap car, in her dorm-room closet during a wild party, once on his parents’ bed, while they were downstairs, playing bridge with neighbors.

  In their first apartment, after they were married.

  Teague slid a finger inside Joanna and worked her G-spot until she was half frantic with the need to come. But he always withdrew, just at the crucial moment; he loved to make her wait.

  Once, he’d loved her.

  “Teague,” she murmured, throwing her head back, abandoning herself to his hands, his mouth, his damnably infinite patience. “Teague, oh, please—”

  “Not yet,” he told her.

  She began to buck against his hand, desperate for release.

  “Please—”

  “Too soon,” he said, taking most of her right breast into his mouth, then pulling back to tease her with his tongue.

  “Teague—”

  “Shh.” He worked his fingers faster inside her, then slowed.

  She rode his hand, felt his palm making slow circles against her clitoris even as his fingers worked her G-spot.

  And she shattered, broke apart into a million flaming pieces.

  It was over, then, she thought. Over so soon.

  But it wasn’t over.

  Teague shifted, opened his jeans, and she felt him, hard and hot, ready to take her.

  She sagged against him, her body still convulsing with soft climaxes.

  He eased into her, but the size of him made her draw in a sharp breath and push back from his chest, beginning another ascent even as she trembled with the last sweet, sharp climax.

  There was a difference, though. Joanna was in control now, even as she climbed inexorably toward another orgasm, one she knew would be brutal in its sheer force.

  Gripping Teague’s bare shoulders, she straightened so she could watch his face change in the dying light of the fire. Slowly, he raised and lowered his powerful hips in long, deep strokes, determined to set the pace.

  Joanna took over.

  She moved faster along his length, took him deeper, twisted her torso slightly every time his shaft was sheathed inside her.

  He groaned, tried to slow her pace with his hands, but Joanna would not be turned from her purpose. She pumped harder, faster, deeper, with a primitive grace that soon had Teague pleading, just as she had earlier.

  “Joanna,” he rasped, the muscles of his neck cording as he threw back his head, beginning to lose control. “Joanna—”

  She rode him ruthlessly.

  He came with a low shout
and a stiffening of his whole body, nearly throwing her off with the upward thrust of his hips. She felt his warmth spilling into her and savored his unqualified surrender.

  I love you, she almost said.

  He settled slowly back into himself, his breathing still quick and shallow, his chest and thighs damp with sweat against her own slick skin. He pulled her close, held her against him.

  And they slept.

  When Joanna awakened, she was still straddling Teague. The sun was up and the furnace was running, chugging dusty heat through the vents.

  The power was back on.

  Joanna sat back, blinking, and was chagrined to find Teague wide-awake, watching her with a tender, puzzled little smile.

  In the night, she’d been reckless, passionate, even wanton.

  In the daylight, she was forty-one.

  A grandmother-to-be.

  And the dog was whining at the front door, needing to go outside.

  She shifted to get to her feet, but Teague stopped her. Tightened his strong hands on her bare buttocks.

  “Joanna,” Teague said.

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  He let her up and propelled her in the direction of the bathroom.

  By the time she’d finished her shower, squirmed into a pair of jeans that reminded her of the five pounds she’d gained, and added a bra and a T-shirt, Teague and Sammy were back from their walk.

  Teague was in the kitchen, whistling.

  Coffee was brewing.

  “Let’s have breakfast out,” he said as she entered. “Unless you want kibble or leftover salad.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Joanna lied. Didn’t he know she was fat?

  “Well, I am,” Teague said.

  Sammy munched happily on his kibble.

  And the telephone rang.

  “Mom?”

  “Hello, Caitlin,” Joanna said, feeling oddly embarrassed.

  “I guess the storm must be over, huh?” Caitlin asked.

  Joanna glanced at Teague and found him watching her. The expression in his eyes was not grandfatherly in the least. “Yes,” she said. “The storm is over.”

  “I was pretty hysterical last night,” Caitlin said softly.

  “You’re allowed,” Joanna replied.

  Teague made a face.

  Joanna made one back.

  “But you and Dad are at the cottage. Together.”

  “Caitlin—”

  “There’s hope, then.” A frown entered Caitlin’s voice. “Isn’t there?”

  “We’re here to—talk.”

  Teague waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “To decide things,” Joanna said, blushing. She turned her back to him.

  “What things?”

  “Caitlin.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll let you off the hook. For now. But I still think it’s intriguing that you and Dad are—”

  “We got stuck here,” Joanna answered.

  “Poor choice of words,” Teague whispered, suddenly behind her, his breath warm against her nape, causing her skin to tingle.

  “Maybe if you just—talked. You know, communicated?”

  “I’ve heard of it, yes,” Joanna replied dryly. “Are you feeling better today, Cait?”

  “Lots better,” Caitlin said. “It was probably just hormones.”

  “Yes,” Joanna agreed, turning to glare at Teague because he was trying to turn her on and she was talking to their daughter. “It was probably just hormones.”

  Teague pulled an invisible dart from his chest. “Sammy and I are going to the store for breakfast-type food,” he said. “Tell Caitlin I love her and congratulations.”

  With that, he took the keys to his sports car from the countertop and whistled for Sammy, and the two of them left the kitchen, headed for the front door.

  Joanna relayed the message, adding that Sammy and Teague had gone to the supermarket.

  “Good,” Caitlin said. “Then you can talk.”

  “Caitlin, we are talking.”

  “About you and Dad, and your marriage. You know, the sex part.” A silent eew shrilled beneath Caitlin’s words.

  “Caitlin Marie, do not go there. You are my daughter and I adore you. But your father’s and my marriage is off-limits. Especially the ‘sex part.’”

  “So you’re admitting you do have sex?”

  “I’m not admitting anything of the sort. Your father and I are getting a divorce, Caitlin. I know that’s hard for you to accept, but it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. We made it very deliberately and gave it a lot of thought first. We’re both going to be a lot happier in the long run.”

  Maybe the very long run, Joanna reflected.

  “Is there another man in your life, Mom?”

  Joanna nearly choked. “No!”

  “Does Dad have a girl on the side?”

  “He says he doesn’t, and I have no reason not to believe him.” Except for the sports car. “Caitlin, why are we having this conversation when I made it perfectly clear about five seconds ago that what goes on in your father’s and my private lives is patently none of your business?”

  “I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Caitlin said, sounding hurt. “That’s all. You don’t have another man. Dad doesn’t have another woman. What is so terribly wrong that you can’t work it out?”

  “We’ve grown apart,” Joanna said. “Your father wants to build a sailboat. I want to write a novel.”

  “And those things are mutually exclusive?”

  For a moment, Joanna was stumped for an answer. She could say they’d tried to save their marriage, she and Teague, but it wouldn’t be true. They hadn’t really tried. One day, one of them—she couldn’t remember which—had said, “Maybe we should just call it quits.” And the other had replied, “Maybe so.”

  Things had escalated from there.

  A tear slipped down Joanna’s right cheek, but she managed to keep her tone normal. Bright, perky, everything’s-fine ordinary.

  “Okay,” Caitlin said, “just tell me one thing, and I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

  “Okay,” Joanna agreed, a split second before she realized she’d just taken the bait.

  “Do you love Dad or not?”

  An enormous, painful lump formed in Joanna’s throat. She tried to swallow, but it wouldn’t go down.

  “Mom? Are you still there?”

  “I’m—here,” Joanna managed.

  “That’s what I thought. You still love Dad, don’t you?”

  Joanna realized she loved the man Teague used to be, but he’d become someone else over the past few years. As for last night, well, that had been—what? A time warp? Some kind of primitive reaction to being stranded together in a storm?

  “Mom?”

  “Caitlin, not now. Please.”

  “I’m coming up there,” Caitlin said decisively. “Someone has to talk sense into the two of you.”

  Joanna drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, silently reminding herself that she loved her daughter. Caitlin was only trying to help. “You’re expecting a baby, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You have a husband and a nice apartment and a very demanding job. You can’t just pick up and leave.”

  “Peter and I talked it over last night,” Caitlin said. “We want to take Sammy.”

  “Take Sammy?”

  “You know, give him a home.”

  “He has a home.”

  “A broken one.” Caitlin gave a small, stifled sob.

  Again, Joanna’s eyes stung. “Yes,” she admitted, suddenly imagining all of them—herself, Teague, Caitlin and Sammy—picking their way around the storm-tossed wreckage of some once-great ship, unable to reach each other. “A broken one.”

  “I guess Sammy wouldn’t be happy in this little apartment,” Caitlin admitted.

  Suddenly needing to move, Joanna wandered out of the kitchen and into the living room to stand with one bent knee resting on the window seat cushion. Sunlight danced, dazzling on
the water—it was as if there’d been no storm in the night, as if she’d dreamed it.

  While Caitlin talked on, Joanna, only half listening, stared out at the sandy, stony beach in front of the cottage and remembered Teague and Sammy playing there. Teague throwing sticks, Sammy chasing them, bringing them back.

  “Sammy needs your father,” Joanna said.

  And deep in her heart, a silent voice added, And so do I.

  Three

  By the time Sammy and Teague returned from their supermarket mission, Joanna had brought the bumpy conversation with Caitlin in for a safe landing, gathered up the quilts from the living-room floor, and opened several windows to the warmth of the day.

  “He’s jonesing for a walk,” Teague said with a nod toward Sammy as Joanna stepped outside to help carry in the bags of groceries stuffed into the tiny trunk of the sports car. “Think breakfast could wait?”

  Joanna smiled even as her heart splintered inside her. Why couldn’t life always be like this—simple, easy, glazed in sunlight? “Sure,” she said.

  So they left the groceries, and Teague caught hold of her hand, and they went across the dirt road and down the bank to the beach, Sammy gamboling joyfully ahead of them.

  Joanna bit her lower lip, watching him, trying to stay another spate of tears. They would have this one last glorious weekend together, she and Teague and Sammy. She envied the dog because he couldn’t know just how short the time would be.

  “What?” Teague asked, noticing what she was trying so hard to hide.

  “I was just wondering—do you think we tried hard enough?”

  Teague looked puzzled.

  “To save our marriage, Teague,” Joanna prompted.

  “No,” Teague said. He bent, still holding Joanna’s hand firmly, and picked up a stick. He tossed it a little ways for Sammy, who shot after it, a streak of happy, golden dog catapulting down the beach.

  “What could we have done differently?”

  “Talked, maybe. Instead of always assuming we already knew what the other was thinking or feeling and proceeding from there.”

  “Talked,” Joanna mused. “Tell me about your boat, Teague. The one you want to build.”

  “You hate boats. They make you claustrophobic and seasick,” Teague reminded her.