Wanted: Wife (18 page)

“Rocky’s going, right?” I said, covering my nose as the front door swung open, the taxidermied raccoon wavering from the ceiling, where it hung upside-down. I recoiled from its malevolent, glassy-eyed glare. “Somehow this place attracts bad raccoon karma, and the sooner he’s gone the better.”

“No shit,” Andy said, his gloved hands yanking it down. “I’ll bury it in the woods.” Bucky followed, barking his head off all the way. I imagined he thought he cornered another of its rabid peeps, and no way was he letting this one go without a fight.

While Andy attended to Rocky’s internment, I took a few ginger steps into the living room. Andy had already ripped down the ratty curtains and dropped a sheet of plywood over the spot in the floor I had fallen through, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Although he had also removed most of the piles of various crap, he’d left me to decide which of the dozens of pieces of furniture in this much-abused room we’d keep. One thing it did have going for it, beside a gorgeous stone fireplace, was its wealth of windows, and I threw open every one of them on my way to the kitchen at the back.

Again, lots of windows, and like the rest of the house, full of junk. But at least it was sunny and there was, much to my surprise, another bathroom off to the side, with not only a sink and a toilet, but a washer and dryer. A serviceable utility closet lay just outside it, and along the back wall, a gas stove, a stainless steel sink, and a long countertop that bent with the wall to end at a space for a refrigerator. Opposite the closet sat what looked a sturdy wooden table, chairs, and a hutch. At least that’s what I could see under piles and piles of newspapers, old mail, flattened food boxes and, in a plastic milk crate, innumerable bottles of pills and vitamins. Then, underneath it all, I found a photo.

It was in color, but severely faded, so I took it to the window for a better look. What I saw was an elegant man dressed in a white blazer and a stunning woman, sitting at a table in most likely a café. Spent mussel shells lay on a plate at her elbow, a cocktail glass and cigarette in her fingers. And even with the aged fading, her eyes, cat-like and decidedly wary, shone a vibrant blue.

She had to be Andy’s mother. I turned the photograph over.
Viviane Fontaine
was typed on the back.
Marseille-1983
.
Typed
. How very odd.

“Where’d you find that?” Andy said over my shoulder, an unreadable expression on his face.

“In this pile of junk. Is that your mother?”

He set down the wheelbarrow he’d brought in for the trash, taking the photo from me. He turned it over and back. “Yes.”

He seemed transfixed; who wouldn’t be? She was to rampant femininity what her stallion of a son was to male prowess. “She’s gorgeous.”

“She still is,” he said dryly. “My mother’s looks are simply part of her toolbox. As essential to what she does as a camera used to be to you.”

“I take it that’s not much of a compliment.”

He sniffed. “Take it as you want. It’s simply a statement of fact.” He flipped the photo to the counter.

“Who’s the guy? Your dad?”

“No,” he said flatly.

I took another look at the man; where Andy was raw masculinity polished at the edges, this man appeared the bon vivant, a hipster Mr. Smoothie perennially popular with the ladies. Much, it irked me to think, like Richard.

“Is he the ship’s captain?”

He peered at me, almost as if he were loath to say. “Right. The ship’s captain.”

“Do you want to tell me about it? Like, how they met?”

“They met in a bar. She met my father in a bar. Actually, it’s pretty commonplace. I’ve met a few ladies in bars myself.” When he finished with the table, he pushed the wheelbarrow to the counter, tilting it up to scoop more papers into it. I snatched the photo from him just in time.

“But did you ever think
I
might want to find out a little more about the family I married into? I think I have a right to know where you came from.”

That got his attention. He set the wheelbarrow down and looked at me. “What do you want to know?”

“How should I know? Every time I ask about your family you’re either vague or you change the subject.”

“Maybe because I don’t find them as fascinating as you do.” His eyes narrowed. “Or as interesting a topic for your book.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but the book is supposed to be about
my
experience, not about your crazy family.”

“And what would that experience be without me?”

“What a colossal ego! If I didn’t know better I’d say you set this whole mess up for plot!”

He stretched his arm across the doorway. “But you
don’t
know better, do you? And if it’s not about my family, then why do you keep asking about them?”

“Are you saying I have an ulterior motive?”

“I don’t know.” He leaned in. “Do you?”

Damn; I didn’t have a logical thing to answer with beside a frustrated,
“Ooooh!”
I shoved an armful of junk mail into the barrow.

After a few moments of this he intercepted. “Julie, stop,” he said, his hand staying my arm. “Stop—listen to me.”

“What?” I said, shooting him my iciest glare.

He pulled me to him and I hardly resisted, the warmth of his chest like some burly siren song. I breathed him in, no longer conscious of clutter and dust, but only of his scent, becoming as familiar as my own. I sighed, closing my eyes.

“It’s just that I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “Except for that bar in Elizabeth, I haven’t seen my father since I was thirteen. I mean, you can ask me what you want, but I don’t know if I can help you. He’s pretty much a stranger to me.”

“Which is a shame, because you should know where your roots are.” Lord knew I heard enough about my own. “You should know where you come from.”

“I come from here. And after I left . . .” He paused. “It’s like I didn’t exist here anymore. Anyway, if I need any more roots, I’ll grow them with you. Now.” He kissed my forehead, letting me go. “Is there anything else you need to know?”

How could I answer that? My head swirled with a thousand more questions. All of which I’d probably have to figure out on my own. “Hey, I thought you said you didn’t do the whole ‘meet chicks in bars’ thing.”

“Well, not for a potential wife anyway.”

“Then for what?”

He eyed me, as if obvious. “What do you think?”

I dropped my jaw, feigning outrage. “You
slut!
” I cried, flashing a breast.

He laughed out loud.
“Tu es méchant!”

“I have no idea how that translates, but if it means—”

“It means back to work.” He twirled me around, sending me on my way with a slap to my behind. “I’ll be bringing in a load of lumber from the truck.”

“As if I need more wood,” I said, rubbing my rump. Andy snorted over his shoulder as he tromped into the yard.

B
Y THE END
of the afternoon we managed to clear the living room, kitchen, and a bit of the second bedroom (which seemed to serve as dump for most of Iron Bog) of the surfeit of trash, recyclables, dead appliances and furniture left in the house. As for what I’d keep, the dining set in the kitchen seemed fine, if not crusted with years of neglect, much like the grease-coated knotty pine and wallpaper that covered most of the walls. Andy assured me the set was solid maple and nothing Murphy’s Oil Soap and a good polishing wouldn’t cure. Much to my absolute delight the stove fired right up, but the bottled gas that fueled it ran out as soon as it proved its worth. Andy’d replace it on the next run into town. Of course, being adverse to
E. coli
, I’d have to scrub free the ossified pasta, indefinable vegetables and meats, and the bubbled remains of several failed attempts at baking before I could use it.

At least the water worked, both hot and cold, though the sink itself was barely recognizable as stainless steel with all the food gunk, grease, bugs, and bottles crowded together with POISON! XXX marked on them. Hands gloved, I cautiously pinched them out, letting Andy haul them off to wherever one disposed of chemicals that were not only toxic but HIGHLY COMBUSTIBLE! or carried the warning, USE ONLY WITH PROPER VENTING! or the graphic of a hand being eaten away by acid. Needless to say, I didn’t argue the advice, DO NOT DRINK!

The water also worked in the sink in the half-bathroom off to the side. The toilet, though, was clogged with something that appeared . . .
furry
. Ever since the raccoon’s burial, Bucky had attached himself to my hip, and after spying whatever occupied the toilet bowl, he went into a barking frenzy. I quickly dropped the lid, but he kept on barking.

“It’s okay, boy,” I said, tentatively petting his head, “Andy will get rid of it—okay? Now, quiet. Quiet, boy . . .” I scratched him behind the ear and he whined, giving me that toothy doggie-smile before he licked his chops and sat, pressing against my leg. It surprised me how soft his fur really was, and how happy my petting seemed to make him. Maybe he really liked me. Or maybe he was just hoping I’d fry another omelet for him to steal. I turned back to the washer and dryer, Bucky rising to follow.

The kitchen cabinets I left for last, where I was rewarded with some decidedly new-looking crockery. After I waded through a five year supply of tea, coffee, and condiments, I found some rather dusty Emile Henry plates, bowls, and cups, a simple, everyday pattern in a perky yellow shade. Surprisingly, not a single piece was cracked, chipped, or stained, which amazed me since mostly everything else showed at least a modicum of hard use. There were place settings for eight and upon further inspection I even found serving pieces, including a lovely soup tureen which Andy caught me examining.

“Last thing I’d expect to find here,” I said, thumbing off a bit of film to reveal a shine beneath. The effect made me feel like a kid on Christmas morning. “Will you look at this, Andy? Just like new! I must say, your father had the oddest taste.”

“These were my mother’s,” he said, lifting a plate. “From what I remember, we only used them on special occasions. Not that there were lots of them.” He set it back with a tiny
clink
.

I found some little dishes shaped like scallop shells. “Why? No holidays in the deep Piney woods?”

“Sure, but it’s not so much the deep woods as the deep woodsmen.” He took my hand. “Come on, I want to ask you something.”

I followed him into the living room and nearly lost my breath. I’d been so immersed in the warren that was the kitchen, I didn’t pay attention to what Andy had accomplished. With the curtains gone and the bright light streaming in, unencumbered by greasy rugs, fishing gear, and stuffed raccoons, I could almost see what the living room truly was—a sunny, rustic space full of possibilities. Except, of course, for the myriad broken and filthy furniture.

“I’ve divided it into three camps,” Andy said as I regarded the three groupings. “Keep, repair and Dumpster.”

I eyed the keep pile: two pine end tables and a matching coffee table, dirty but relatively scratch-free; a free-standing lamp and a table lamp; a short, square stool that fit near the hearth. The next group consisted of an overstuffed sofa with clawfoot legs, one of which was lay on the cushions which left it leveled by a cinderblock; a carved rocking chair missing a rail; and a corner china cabinet stuffed to the gills, whose front glass had cracked. The last contained something that had once been a recliner, but now resembled a chaise lounge; a pair of very uneasy-looking chairs; a half-dozen tables, folding and otherwise; and some completely unidentifiable stuff.

“Anything you don’t agree with?” Andy asked.

“No . . . I think you did a pretty good job. Though I think even the “keep” camp is wishful thinking.”

He slapped his hand into the sofa’s blue embroidered cushion; a plume of dust wafted out. “Look at that etching around the top. Top quality, and probably an antique.” Then he gave the arm a punch; it resounded with a deep
thunk
. “See? Solid. Celia told me about an upholsterer over at Dulles Corner who does really nice work. We can have it restuffed and get the leg fixed. Then a good shampooing and it’d be like new.”

I eyed it dubiously; I had a feeling Celia also had champagne taste. “If you say so.” I looked to the scuffed and filthy wooden floor. “I’m glad you got rid of the rugs, but what about this? It’s falling through.”

He stomped it, hard. “This is oak planking. The only reason you fell through was because my father chose that spot to set up his taxidermy studio, and the constant run-off ate through the floorboards. Three or four new planks ought to fix it right up. Then we can sand it down and varnish it and it’ll be good as new.” He turned toward the stone fireplace, fingers framing it. “Maybe a nice hearth rug right there and, with a roaring fire on a cold winter’s night, well . . .” He looked to me with a definite smolder. “Ought to be downright cozy.”

It ought to be; it even seemed like it right then. So much so, I was already feeling the heat. Or maybe it was just the way he looked at me, warming me down to my toes. I gave the front of my t-shirt a flap, feeling the sweat trickling down between my breasts, the scent of a full day’s worth of tugging, hauling and tossing making itself apparent. An unlikely remedy came to mind. Unlikely for me, anyhow.

I turned toward the door. “Will you excuse me?” I said, thumbing the hem of my t-shirt as I headed outside.

Bucky followed, and so did Andy, though not trotting beside me as the Collie did, but slowly, a dozen yards behind. To make it easier for him, I left a breadcrumb trail of my clothes to the lake, first a shirt, then each sneaker, shorts, my bra, and just before I reached the dock, a tortoiseshell clasp, where I slowly let my hair unfurl. It was there he stopped, maybe to watch it sway across my back as I stepped onto the planking, or slide over my shoulder as I stripped away my panties, just before I pushed up on my toes and dove into the lake.

Did I hear a hiss as the water hit my skin? Sure felt like it, the contrast of cool and heat puckering each pore into gooseflesh, cooling me instantly. I glided under the surface like an arrow just shot, as slinky as an eel. I felt swift and reckless and decadent, never more conscious of my body and how lethal its effects were. He wanted me—oh boy, did he ever—and even if my mind had not yet enraptured him, his desire for me was irrefutable, and that alone made me invincible. No matter how this escapade would play out, I’d always remember this small slice of time when what I
was
was just enough, and suddenly my arms became electric, propelling me with superhuman strength through the murk, my lungs nearly giving out before I broke the surface to the bright sky overhead. When I looked toward the shore I saw Andy on the dock, simply watching. I took a deep breath and swam toward him.