CHAPTER 37
Sean was anxious to see the e-mail from Kevin’s teacher, so they went to Rebecca’s house. First he released the dog from solitary confinement and let her outside to do her business. The hair was up on the back of her neck until she got into the yard.
“That dog does not like you,” said Rebecca.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a cross between Ted Bundy and Michael Vick.”
“Have you been walking her?”
“Oh, God,” he said. “I completely forgot.”
“Sean, you promised Kevin.”
“I know! It’s just been so crazy around here.”
“We could take her now.”
“With the mood she’s in and the state of my back, one good yank on the leash, and she’d put me in traction.” Rebecca gave him a look. “I’ll walk her tomorrow,” he said. “I swear.”
As they drove in her car, she said, “So I had kind of an unusual thing happen yesterday.”
“Yeah?”
“I have an elderly client that I see in her home. She’s an artist—kind of funky for her age. Unfortunately, she doesn’t get around very well anymore. Anyway, her house is gorgeous. It’s decorated with this really beautiful furniture. Lots of natural wood and warm colors. Just the kind of stuff I would buy if I had the money . . . and a house to decorate.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It’s lovely.” Rebecca pulled into her driveway and turned the motor off. “And now she’s moving into an assisted living condo with much less room.”
“And you want to buy her furniture?”
“No.” She looked at Sean. “She wants to give it to me.”
“Great! When does the moving van get here?”
“I can’t take it,” she said, annoyed. “You know there isn’t an inch of space left in my house for more furniture. And I’d feel bad, like I was taking advantage of a sweet old lady.”
“Why does she want to give it to you in the first place?” said Sean. Then he held up a hand. “No, let me guess. First, you don’t charge her extra for the house call.” Rebecca made a no-big-deal face. “And second, you listen to her and sympathize and make her feel like she’s sixty again. Am I right?”
Rebecca looked away and gave a little shrug.
“Becky . . .” said Sean, but she didn’t face him.
She got out of the car, and he followed her into the house. “You’re taking that furniture, so help me,” he warned idly. “I’ll make the call myself. I’ll say I’m the moving company and I’m arranging a pickup. Then I’ll call your parents and say . . . uh . . . I’ll say there was a small fire and the house is fine, but all the furniture got smoke damaged and had to be thrown out.”
She sat down on the couch and folded her arms. He lowered himself gingerly next to her. “That could work, actually,” he said.
“I am not going to lie to my parents, Sean. That is some seriously bad karma.”
“Then for crying out loud, just tell them the truth! This is a perfect opportunity and you’re throwing up all kinds of ridiculous roadblocks. What the hell kind of karma is that?”
She scowled at him. “I really dislike you.”
He grinned. “No, you don’t.”
He watched her face soften from aggravation to a barely perceptible smile. And parts of him began to throb, none of which were in his back. If she held his gaze a moment longer, he was pretty sure things would start happening that he wasn’t entirely in control of.
She ran her hand through her hair and glanced at the hulking furniture pieces. “I need to get out of this room,” she said. “And I could really stand to meditate.”
He followed her downstairs, knowing he would have followed her pretty much anywhere—a bridal shower, a group therapy session, the mall—just to maintain physical proximity. She spread out a cotton blanket for him, knowing he’d be more comfortable lying flat.
And then the soft, atonal gonging music started, and she was saying something about sitting in the center of all things, and other stuff that had made a lot of sense the last time they meditated. But all he could really focus on was the occasional whiff of her scent—not perfume, he decided, more like really nice-smelling soap. And the way her legs had looked in those running shorts a few days ago. And that surging feeling between his legs.
Cut it out, he told his crotch. This is not good. He tried to think about patients he’d treated, emaciated babies and AIDS-infected mothers, but inevitably the train of thought veered off to the med student or volunteer doctor who’d helped him treat the patients, all of whom he’d later slept with.
Sex.
Such a good thing. A necessary thing for most people. And it sure had been a while since he’d had any. Was it that USAID worker who’d toured the area when the rainy season had turned the fields into swampland and they’d spent so much time indoors? Or maybe the assistant to that minor celebrity who had “worked” at the clinic for a couple of weeks?
He wanted Rebecca. It was pretty clear. But how badly would that screw things up—everything would get weird. She would feel hurt when he left. He cared so much about that, he realized—about not hurting her. The thought of his guilt and her sadness dialed back the activity down below. He could still feel it, but it was less like a steaming locomotive, more like the hum of distant traffic.
He opened his eyes and looked up at her sitting a few feet away, her eyes closed, her back straight. She had taken off her cotton jacket when they sat down, and her hair concealed the straps of her tank top. If he looked only at her shoulders and head, it was as if she were topless. . . .
Sean shut his eyes. What are you—sixteen? he chastised himself. She was beautiful, though. In a sort of an understated, easy-to-miss way. Not like Chrissy, who had that obvious, lingerie model, you-know-you-want-me thing going for her.
Oh, yeah. Chrissy.
It had been two days since their date, and he realized he was probably supposed to call her again. The idea evoked about as much interest as making a haircut appointment. How had that happened? How had the pinnacle of all fantasies been reduced to a maintenance task? She was as attractive as ever, but other than that . . . no juice. She was actually a little boring. And if he had to sit through one more stupid movie . . . Would things have been different if they’d had sex? Maybe. But then what? He’d be in even deeper, with those handcuffs getting tighter. . . .
Nah. He was glad he’d left early. So much simpler. So much less to regret. In fact, he was proud of himself that his head had won out over its downstairs neighbor. A sign of maturity. And it would be the same with Rebecca. A month or two from now, when he was at his next foreign post, he’d be glad he hadn’t screwed things up with her. Because she was beautiful and kind and smart and good. And he wanted her in his life. More than anything, he wanted to be able to come back here and hang out with her and know things were okay between them.
As she meditated Rebecca had occasionally murmured a comment or suggestion, such as returning to the sensation of breathing when the mind began to wander. This was clearly for his benefit, though his mind had wandered like a frustrated teenager with a boner for most of the time. Now she began to murmur again, a summation of sorts, or in any case, notice that the meditation was about to end. Sean was fine with that, since his had never actually begun.
She glanced over at him. Her face was serene, glowing like a saint in a medieval painting, and he thought that if he looked hard enough, he might see the aura of a halo around her head.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” he responded. And the surging and throbbing started up like a band that had come back from a break.
“Can you hand me my jacket,” she said. “My cell phone’s in the pocket.” When he gave it to her, she pulled out the phone and dialed. “Mom, it’s me. . . .”
Holy smokes! he thought. She’s doing it!
Pleasantries were exchanged. Apparently the air conditioning in their condo had been turned off one morning when they’d gone to Sanibel Island for the day. Mom blamed Dad, Dad blamed Mom, but he then admitted it could have been him, however he refused to plead guilty until evidence could be produced. When they came home, the place had smelled like a cave.
“A cave?” said Rebecca. “Oh, mold . . . Are caves moldy? . . . No, I’ve never been in one, either. . . .” She glanced over at Sean, and he fixed her with a gaze that was meant to imply, Enough with the moldy cave. Get down to business.
She took a deep breath and reached her hand out to grasp his.
“So listen,” she said into the phone. “I have this really unbelievable opportunity. . . .”
Sean marveled at her diplomacy. While the old furniture had been such a smart buy, she told them, it had probably come to the end of its reasonable usefulness. Her hand gripped his, squeezing occasionally when they balked or came up with yet another reason to keep everything the same. Though quite a bit smaller than his, her hand was strong, and the squeezing sent sensations up his arm. Her olive-toned skin, slightly tan, especially across the knuckles, looked like caramel against his freckled paleness. He wanted to pull her hand up to his face and smell it.
“I was thinking I could store the old furniture in the garage,” she said. “And if there are pieces you want, they’d be handy for you. . . . Of course, I’d have to have it all out of there by winter so I can pull my car in.”
He nodded at her encouragingly. Smart thinking! he mouthed. She squeezed hard and practically broke his pinkie.
“You’re sure?” she was saying. “That’s so understanding of you . . . no, really, you guys are the best . . . I love you, too . . . so much. . . .”
When she closed the phone, she looked at him, eyes wide, face lit up with surprised joy.
“I am so proud of you!” he said.
She let out a squeal and launched herself at him, hugging him, knocking him over. His back twanged in protest, but every other single part of him welcomed her body like a long-overdue homecoming. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheek, and she kissed his.
“Sean,” she whispered in his ear, “Sean, I’m so happy!”
“You deserve it,” he murmured back. “You deserve everything.”
Sprawled on top of him, she pulled back and looked down into his face. “You do, too,” she said.
It should have been impossible for him to lean up to her—his back should have stamped that move “access denied.” And it may have tried. But all Sean knew was that he had to have his face near hers, breathing her in, kissing her lips. Had to taste her and smell her and feel her stomach against his.
“Rebecca,” he breathed. “Rebecca . . .” Her name felt so good in his mouth. Her real name. How had it taken him this long to use it?
She seemed to hesitate at first, her lips soft but closed, kissing but not pressing. Once he said her name, though, her lips opened and invited him in, and her arms slid behind his neck and cradled his shoulders. Her legs slipped around his hips.
Her legs . . . that was when every nerve ending rose up against his skin, straining to feel every single part of her. His hands moved down her back, around her bottom, down her thighs and back again, and she let out the slenderest moan of agreement.
That sound. Good God.
She was pressing into him, rocking slightly, and he felt as if he might burst the metal fly of his shorts. His hands came up, slipping her tank top off, tugging at her bra clasp until it flew open. He rolled to the side, lowering her to the cotton blanket so he could get rid of the bra completely. Her breasts, several shades lighter than the rest of her, were soft and warm under his hands.
She tugged off his T-shirt and explored him as if she’d never touched him before, and didn’t already know the contour of every rib and muscle. Their kissing became needier. The shorts and underwear came off. And they were naked, stroking and pressing and wanting with a desperation Sean couldn’t ever remember feeling before.
When he slid inside her, they let out twin moans. “Sean . . .” she murmured in his ear. It sounded like a plea. “Sean . . .”
He was able to hold off until she cried out, but just barely. And then the world exploded in warm and wet and good and release. There were loud sounds—his own, it turned out—and she gripped him harder, rocking against him from below until he was spent and loose, with only enough strength to take in air.