Wanted: Wife (13 page)

He flinched, grunting, but I had just begun. I started out slow, teasing, flicking and circling as he groaned, his fingers slipping through the slats to hold on. Then steadily I went faster until my speed was almost cruel, and he raised up, half-sitting, one leg arched, one stretched out beside me.

“Julie . . .” he groaned, his hand on my cheek. “Stop—let me take care of you.” I could hear him heaving, his breath coming hard. “Stop or I’ll—”

His hips jerked and his whole body spasmed, my mouth filling with warmth and salt and the most delicious sensation. I pulled on him, greedily swallowing, revelling in his release. When I finished, he stared at me wide-eyed. But before he could catch his breath I twisted off the float, diving into the water.

I swam no more than a few dozen feet before I heard the splash. I felt the turbulence from his powerful body when he came up behind me and twisted me around, opening my legs wide. But I wouldn’t allow it, springing from his chest toward shore, my arms slicing through the water like a paddlewheel. By the time we reached the dock we were both panting.

“W-Why did you do t-that?” he heaved out, the water lapping against his chin.

I coughed, flinging my hair over my shoulder. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I reached for the ladder.

He caught my wrist. “Okay, look, I won’t lie to you. I’m attracted to you. That’s hardly an insult. And I do like you. As far as the rest, it’s a bit complicated.”

“Complicated . . .” I said, slipping my arm from his grasp. “You said it was simple. You wanted me. Well, here I am. So tell me, what’s next on the list?” I grasped the ladder and hauled myself up.

Within seconds, he was in front of me. “What’s simple is my wanting you, but I’m well aware that my
keeping
you will be just short of miraculous. If you think I’m underestimating you, you’re wrong, because as much as I want you . . .” He lightly brushed my cheek. “. . . If you didn’t want me just as badly, you wouldn’t be here.”

He was right, but that was hardly what was so perplexing. It was having a man look at me the way Andy did just then, which didn’t only have to do with my nakedness. It was more to do with how he made me acutely aware of my own femininity, and how that basic fact would always be as apparent and divergent from his own rampant masculinity as night was from day. Coming off of Richard’s languid maleness, it was quite a shock to the system, but not something that was either unpleasant or unwanted. Just disconcertingly hard to get used to.

“You never answered my question,” I said, slipping into the robe he held out for me. “What’s next?”

He looked confused. “As in . . .?”

“I don’t know . . . the farm, maybe?” I tightened the robe around myself. “Believe it or not, I am good for something else.”

“Oh I’m
sure
.” When he smiled, I felt the air lightening between us. “How about feeding, watering, and pasturing the cow? Mucking her stall? Feeding the chickens and gathering eggs, cleaning out their roosts? Hoeing and watering the garden, picking and sorting the vegetables, packing them for market? Checking the generator, the water levels, cutting back the blueberry bushes, picking peaches, turning the compost—”

“Hey, I didn’t even get my coffee yet.”

“And I barely even got started.” He pulled on his jeans, and then pulled me into his arms. “Julie, I hardly know what I’m doing myself, so it’s not only me and you that’s a work in progress. I never said it would be easy, but in the end, I promise, it’ll be worth it. That is, if you’re not ready to sneak out of here in the middle of the night.”

“No, not quite yet.” Though it got me thinking about what it was that was so
complicated
.

I glanced back to the lake as we walked toward the farm, knowing there was a lot more than water running deep. I lay my head against Andy’s shoulder, and he kissed it, wondering what it’d take to get inside his.

Chapter Nine

Shiny Objects

“A
ND THEN THERE’S
the roof,” Andy said, flicking a rotted cedar shake into a pile of trash.

“One question,” I said, eyeing the porch, the rusty tools, the teeming barrels of who-knew-what, not to mention the miasma of filth and assorted desiccation that lay beyond the front door. “Why is the bedroom of this house straight out of
House and Garden
, and the rest of it so ghetto?”

He shook his head slowly. “And here I thought you had such a grasp of the obvious . . .”

I tied my robe tighter around me. “Silly of me to ask,” I said, turning to the barking, squawking spectacle of Bucky chasing a hen into its coop. Then he stopped dead, turning to eye me menacingly, before he barked again and ran off.

“You know, that dog needs something else to do besides scaring the crap out of the chickens.”

“Especially when we’ll be collecting it later.”

“The chickens?” I said, following him toward the barn.

“No—the crap.”

I stopped him. “Excuse me?”

“I guess I haven’t shown you the compost yet.”

“You haven’t shown me much of anything besides your—”

“It’s behind the barn,” he said smoothly, opening the door to it, “but first we have to . . .”

He didn’t have to say anything more. The inside of the barn was humid with the scents of manure, dirt, and something definitely milkified. There stood Betsy the cow with her issue, munching hay while her calf suckled, her cartoonishly large eyes blinking obliviously at me. The two of them were so darned cute together, visions of Caldecott Medals danced in my head.

“Awww . . .” I said, scratching her behind the ear. “You know? We have to give the baby a name.”

“Go ahead if you want to, but don’t get too attached.”

“Why? Are you planning veal scallopini for dinner?”

He tossed me a wry look, snapping a lead rope to the mama cow’s halter as he inclined his head to the left. “Feed’s inside that trash can over there. Dump a couple coffee cans into that bucket and bring it outside.”

I opened the can to a rich scent of corn, oats, and what I suspected was molasses. I hadn’t eaten anything since a bit of fruit and cheese the night before, and after all the sexual gymnastics, pouring some of that concoction down my gullet seemed entirely reasonable. I reached overhead to a neat row of coffee cans. When I pulled one out, something shiny and metal behind it reflected back, partially obscured by jars of liniment, vitamins, and more cans. I craned my neck, pushing up on my toes.

“Julie!” Andy called. “The feed?”

“I’m coming!” I yelled, dropping down. I scooped the feed into a bucket and went outside.

When I met up with Andy, he was letting Betsy and her calf into a fenced square of scrubby grass alongside the barn, hay, and what looked like food scraps shoved up in the corner. But my mind was distracted by shiny objects. Whatever they were, they didn’t look like they belonged there, and something told me now wasn’t the time to ask Andy about it. I’m sure his father had left many things lurking about, and Andy had barely scratched the surface of finding them. Perhaps I’d leave it to him to tell me.
Or
, as he came toward me,
not
.

He reached for the bucket dangling from my fingers. “I can’t believe I’m standing here half-naked and barefoot, holding a bucket of cow food.”

“Cow
feed
,” he corrected me, pouring it into a rubber tub. “And you’re the best looking farm wife I’ve ever seen.”

“You’ve met how many at sea . . .?” I asked, taking the bucket from him.

He hoisted himself up and over the fence. “Now you know why you’re the best.” He grasped my waist, giving me a quick kiss. “Next, the chickens.”

“Chickens? Andy!” I cried as he hauled me along. “I’m
starving
!”

“So are the chickens. But they eat before we do.”

I sensed a distinct air of indifference to my visceral needs. But then again, it was hardly fair to demand special attention when he was in the same condition as me, his hair still dampened from the lake, his feet also bare (and probably bearing the residue of something dubious from the barn). And, using another of his appetites as a logical gauge, he was no doubt hungry enough to put any fair-sized animal within shooting range in jeopardy. I cast Betsy’s calf a wary glance. Maybe veal scallopini wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

“Here, take this,” he said, handing me a well-worn straw basket.

“Don’t tell me—for gathering eggs?”

He grinned. “Perceptive, isn’t she?”

I slung it over my arm. “Shall I put on my milkmaid dress next?”

“We’ll be leaving Betsy to her calf for the next few days, and since you asked,” he winked slyly, “what you’re wearing is working for me just fine.”

“It would,” I said, bending to peer into the henhouse. “So where are these eggs anyway?”

“They’ve been laying either in the coop or under these bushes around it.” The wooden coop was about six feet long and about three feet wide, its two levels a little higher than my shoulder, built about three feet off the ground, hen-sized holes covered with plastic flaps at either end. It was clearly handmade, and probably pretty old, too, its weathered exterior soaking up many coats of whitewash over the years. Andy flicked back a latch then opened a windowed lid covering its front, revealing two straw-covered shelves. Several brown eggs were scattered here and there.

“Look at that,” I said. “So that’s where brown eggs come from. From brown chickens.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he said, plucking one out and depositing it into my basket. “Actually, they’re New Hampshire Reds.”

I fetched one myself, cradling the still-warm egg. “So why isn’t it red?”

“Wouldn’t that be just what you’d expect? Now, a couple dozen chickens should get you at least twenty eggs. Why don’t you check under those bushes there.”

I squatted to the low-lying shrub creeping alongside the weedy base of the coop. With the branches bent like over-reaching arms, it was a perfect refuge for an agoraphobic chicken. I leaned in and rooted around the dried leaves, fetching two eggs.

“Look!” I said, producing them. “Breakfast!”

He was decidedly unimpressed. “There should be at least two more. Look again.”

I was just about to push aside a couple of rocks when something slithered over my hand. “Andy!” I cried, falling back, a flash of red and brown zipping through the brush.

“Oh, it’s just a corn snake. They’re harmless,” he said. Its swath uncovered two more eggs. “Look what he found for you.” He slipped his eggs into my basket and reached for the newly uncovered ones.

“
Ugh
, I hate snakes,” I said, scrambling to stand.

“Ever eat them? Actually, they’re not bad.”

I grunted. “Well, if you’re thinking about feeding them to me, you can forget it.”

“I’m done feeding you,
ma petite
,” he said. “I’ll provide the raw materials, but as a proper farm wife, it’s your job now.”

The Julie of two weeks previous would’ve laughed out loud and opined
You’re joking!
at such an old-school statement, especially with that mischievous twinkle in his eye. But he was right—I had to do
something
to prove my worth around this farm. And cooking was a good place to start.

As he lowered the lid of the chicken coop, I was well aware that’d be no simple task, especially considering I’d always been better at making reservations than I was at preparing anything past microwavable. But as starving as I was, I’d happily dip into my limited repertoire and concoct something. Good thing what I had at hand was within it. “How about I whip up an omelet?” I hefted the egg basket. “Though, we’ll hardly need all these. Where’s the refrigerator?”

Andy swiped his hands on his jeans. “No refrigerator. My father’s wouldn’t get below fifty degrees, so until I get a new one, we’ll be eating fresh.”

“You’re joking.” I thought of that little buffet Andy had set up the night before, right before we had . . . My stomach did a little flip. “What about that cheese we had last night? That must have been refrigerated.”

“Refrigerate cheese?” His face squinched. “Spoken like a true American. A hard cheese doesn’t have to be.” He prodded the egg basket. “And neither do these. You just don’t wash them until you use them. If you don’t they’ll keep for a couple of weeks.”

“A couple of weeks!” I looked into the basket. “There’s close to three dozen eggs here, and if you’re getting them every day . . .”

“I’ve sold some to the store in town, but on Thursdays there’s a farmers’ market outside of Chatsworth. I was planning on going this week.”

“But that’s tomorrow,” I said. I held out the basket. “You have to have more to take than just this?”

His face lit. “Exactly. Come and see what I’ve gathered so far.”

We went to the far end of the barn, where we entered an airy, concrete-floored room with a drain, and lined with wooden bins groaning from all kinds of fruits and vegetables. “Right before my father died he had the pickers in for the peaches, and over the weekend I gathered what was left.” He tapped two wooden bushel baskets stacked next to dozens of empty ones on the floor. “The rest of the stuff I got from the kitchen garden, but there’s still more coming in, so much I can hardly catch up with it. And now the apples are just about ready to pick.”

“Jesus . . .” I said, my gaze washing over a wealth of fruits and vegetables. “My God, look at all this stuff! You picked it all?”

He returned a couple of red potatoes that had rolled from the bin. “Yeah,” he said, as if the very thought exhausted him. “What we can’t sell or give away to the food bank, you’ll can for the winter.”

I thought of the lone, dusty can of olives that had been in what was, basically, a condiment larder in Philly. “Canning? I don’t know anything about canning!”

“And what do I know about farming? Look, why don’t we eat, and then I’ll give you a dollar tour of the place, but first . . .” He reached for me. “Let’s go clean up.”

Clean up
, of course, being a subjective term. “You mean the lake wasn’t enough? Or do you just want to get me naked again?”