That Summer Place: Island Time / Old Things / Private Paradise
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So he didn’t do what he wanted to. He turned and went down the steps and across the lawn. He heard the screen door slam shut.
“Michael?”
He turned around.
She was standing on the porch gripping the wooden railing in two hands and watching him. “I wrote you.
Several letters.” She waited, as if she wanted him to explain.
When he said nothing she added, “I never got any answer back from you.”
“I never got any letters, Catherine.” He turned then, and walked back into the woods.
Her father was shouting. They were in the boathouse, half-naked, their clothes askew, her hair tousled and her lips red and swollen. A foil Trojan wrapper was torn in two and carelessly thrown by their shoes.
Her father’s flashlight beam was shining on it.
Then the light went out. It was dark. So dark. He was in a VC prison camp, locked in a box with two other prisoners. He couldn’t move.
Something rattled the box. Opened it. Light pierced his eyes. His buddies rescued him. Suddenly they were half-dragging him through the jungle.
Go! Go….
Michael woke up fast and sat up in his bed in a cold sweat, panting like he’d been running from a sniper. Damn. He rubbed his face with his clammy hands. Those nightmares of Nam had stopped years ago.
Seeing Catherine tonight had brought it all back again—the scene with her father. Catherine and her mother disappearing from the island. Her father talking to his grandfather and to him.
He was not to call her. He couldn’t write to her. He was to disappear from Catherine’s life. Or he would go to jail for statutory rape.
Instead he’d gone into the Navy less than a week later and ended up in Special Forces, infiltrating into Laos or patrolling the Mekong Delta for weeks at a time. He’d been captured and spent three months in a dark box.
He drove his hand through his hair and took a few deep breaths, thinking for just a brief moment about a life he had left far behind him and never wanted to think of again, because it was like reliving hell.
He sat there for a minute, then threw back the damp sheet and pulled on his jeans. He shrugged into a jacket and shoes, grabbed a flashlight and left the cabin.
The moon had gone down and it was darker outside than his memory of the deepest jungle. There was silence, and a little rain, that misty kind that came on like soggy fog.
He walked down to the small dock where he moored his boat. He unsnapped the tarp and stepped inside, where he lifted the engine cover and shone the flashlight down into the engine compartment until he saw what he was looking for.
A few minutes later he was walking back down the dock and toward the cabin, the plugs and points jammed into his jeans pocket.
He went inside the cabin and headed straight to the refrigerator, took out a carton of juice and lifted it to his lips. He drank half of it, stuck it back inside without closing it, and took out a Mexican beer.
He grabbed something to eat from a cabinet and popped the cap off the beer as he crossed the room to sit down in front of the dwindling fire. He raised the beer bottle to his mouth, took a long drink and set the bottle down on the table next to him. The smooth flavor of the beer was on his tongue, but what he craved was egg-salad sandwiches.
There was nothing he could do about what he was feeling and wanting, so he did the only thing he could do—he ate a whole damn bag of barbecued potato chips.
Nine
At ten the next morning Catherine stood on Michael’s front porch, rocking on her feet, her hands clenched behind her back while she waited for him to answer her knock. She could hear his footsteps clumping toward the door, so she licked her lips, brushed her hair back, and took a deep breath before he opened it.
He stared at her from eyes that looked awake but tired.
“The toilet is plugged and the boiler pilot won’t light.”
He seemed startled, like he didn’t know why she was there. And he didn’t exactly look happy to see her.
“I tried to light the boiler pilot again and again and we used the plunger on the toilet. No matter what I tried I couldn’t get them to work.”
He didn’t say anything.
Perhaps she was speaking too fast. Her ex-husband used to chide her for babbling when she was nervous. And she was nervous. She tilted her head slightly and explained more slowly, “There’s no hot water in the house without the boiler.”
“I know what a boiler is, Catherine.”
What a grump.
He turned without another sarcastic word and took a tool belt off a hook near the door. Besides an annoyed look, he was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans that were worn almost white in spots and that time and wear had molded to his body. He might be a grump in the morning but he sure looked good for fifty.
What would he look like in a suit? Catherine was a sucker for a man in a suit. And if a man wore a tux, well, she got all weak-kneed. Heck, Bill Gates probably looked sexy in a tux.
Life was unfair. Here she had to hike up her bra straps and slather on alpha hydroxy creams with a trowel. Some days she had to lie down on the bed to zip up her pants. He was three years older, wearing a plain old pair of jeans, and he looked stronger and sexier than he had when he was twenty.
The faces of all the men who had aged so well flashed through her mind: Sean Connery, Nick Nolte, Robert Redford, James Garner, James Brolin, Michael Packard.
She watched him strap and buckle the tool belt low on his hips the way Paul Newman had strapped on his guns in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
It seemed like such an earthy, male thing—a man doing up his belt buckle; it was sexy and suggestive and made her mouth a little dry.
He stuck a pair of work gloves into his back pocket and turned back around. She quickly looked away.
“I need to find the toolbox. I’ll be right back.” He grabbed a key and walked past her.
She nodded without looking up, then decided to follow him. She didn’t suppose luck would be on her side and there would be a tux in the shed, but heck, he might undo the belt buckle again.
She smiled a wicked little smile as she crossed over to a small shed he had already unlocked.
Heaven be praised if he didn’t bend down to search through it. His jeans pulled tight over his thighs in a way that made her give thanks to Levi Strauss.
Then he knelt on one knee and leaned inside. If she stepped back just a foot or so she had a great shot of his backside. The work gloves stuck out of one back pocket and looked like fingers waving at her. It was almost as if they were calling to her, “Look here.”
“Here it is.” He stood up with a battered old red toolbox.
She quickly looked up at the sky. After a slight pause she said, “Nice day. No clouds.”
He followed her gaze upward, then frowned. “The radio said it was supposed to rain today.”
There was one thing different about this Michael Packard; he was no Mr. Sunshine in the morning.
She walked ahead of him on the gravel path between his place and hers. The silence just about drove her nuts.
Her mind was going a mile a minute, wondering what he was thinking, wondering if they could go the whole day without bringing up the past.
When they were about halfway there she braved the beast. “I wrote you five letters.”
“I never got any letters from you.”
She stopped, spun around and planted her hands on her hips. She looked him straight in the eye. “Are you saying I’m lying?”
“No. I’m saying I never got any letters.” He paused, looking squarely at her. His expression grew tighter. “What I did get was a promise from your father that he’d press charges of statutory rape if I tried to contact you.”
“Oh God. Michael…” She sagged back against a tree, staring at the ground. “Did he really do that?”
“Yes.”
“He was upset. I don’t think he would have sent you to jail.”
“Yes. He would have, Catherine.”
There was nothing between them but a lapse of tense silence.
She looked at him again. “Did you really think I could just walk away after that summer together and never have any contact with you again? Didn’t you know me better than that?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You thought I would ignore your letters.”
“Give me a break, here,” she snapped. “I was seventeen.” She straightened and started to walk away.
He dropped the toolbox and touched her shoulder. “I know. And I was twenty, just drafted, and in love with a seventeen-year-old girl.”
She stopped, but she didn’t turn around. He had truly loved her then, all those years ago. Many times over the years she had wondered about that, if he had cared or if she had just wished he had.
His hand was still on her shoulder. She bit her lip because she thought she might do something silly like cry. “I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath and turned around.
His hand fell away.
“When time passes by and you can’t understand why something happened, I guess you make up excuses. You blame others.” She looked at him then. “I was hurt and scared. I blamed you. After a while, when I didn’t hear from you, I believed you were just lying to me about how you had felt so you could—” She stopped because she didn’t need to say anything more.
“Get into your pants?”
“Thank you for sugar-coating it so nicely.” She gave a laugh that wasn’t amused. “But you’re right. That was what I thought.”
He only stared at her, not saying anything.
So she did. “It’s stupid to stand here in the middle of the woods and argue over something that happened so long ago. We’re different people now. It’s 1997 not 1967.” She looked back up into those blue eyes of his and stuck out her hand. “How about a truce?”
His gaze dropped to her outstretched hand.
“Friends,” she said emphatically.
A moment later his hand closed over hers and she almost melted into the ground. It was like she was seventeen all over again. She stared at their hands so she could hide her eyes from him.
Just for good measure she gave his hand a firm shake.
When she looked up he was staring at her face not at their clasped hands.
He pulled her against him, clamped his free hand to the back of her head, and kissed her.
Oh God…She felt like Silly Putty. Her hand fell away from his and moved to his shoulder.
His other hand grabbed her and pulled her against him in one of those hot, eating kind of kisses you see in the movies, all wildness and heat, where an instant later they’ve unbuttoned half their clothes and they’re doing it against a wall.
His hands ran over her back, pressed her closer. There were tools pressed against her belly. A hammer, a flashlight, screwdriver—lots of long, hard things.
One second his tongue was deep inside her mouth.
The next…the damn idiot let her go.
She stood there seeing stars and trying to keep her balance.
“Friends.” He whacked her on the backside with one hand, picked up his toolbox and sauntered on down the path toward her place.
Ten
She caught him from behind, which surprised the hell out of him. The toolbox slipped from his hand and she shoved him back up against a tree with both hands.
“Catherine?”
One palm was flat against his chest; the other slid up to grip the back of his head.
“What the hell are you doing?”
A second later she was kissing him the way he’d just kissed her. Hard and fast and wild.
He bent his knees, hooked his arms under her butt and picked her up. Her hands drove through his hair, gripped his head and tilted it, then she thrust her small tongue into his mouth the same way he had done to her.
He pushed away from the tree, turned and pinned her against it, holding her there with his body so his hands were free. He slid one hand across her shoulder, pushed her sweater aside and tried to pull down her bra strap.
He couldn’t get his finger under it. Damn. It was so tight you’d think it was made of iron.
He slid both hands to her waist and up under her sweater to cup her from beneath. She moaned against his mouth and their tongues switched places.
God, but she tasted so good. She felt so good. Her nipples grew hard from his fingers and her breasts were heavy and soft and felt just about as good as a woman could feel.
He slid his hands around and grabbed the back of her bra to unhook it.
“Harold!”
They both froze.
“Ohmygod! It’s Aly!” Catherine wiggled out from between him and the tree trunk, jerking at her clothes and taking big gulps of air. She looked up at him. “Bend down. Quick!”
He did and she used her fingers to comb back his hair.
“Harrr-old!”
“Hurry!” she whispered, still straightening her clothes which looked fine. “Get your toolbox!”
When Aly came down the path a few seconds later, they were both walking casually with no signs of the passion that had burned between them just moments before. No outward signs.
“Mom!” Aly ran toward her mother with tears in her eyes. “Harold got out. I can’t find him anywhere.”
Catherine opened her arms and hugged her daughter to her. “Hey, sweetie, we’ll find him. He won’t go far. It’s Harold. Remember? He never strays far from where we are.”
“But this is a new place and remember when we moved that time and how the vet said animals can get lost because the smells are new and they get confused and can’t find their way back.”
Catherine pulled Aly away from her shoulder and held her head in two hands. “We’ll find him. I promise you.”
Aly sobbed.
“Tell you what. I’ll cook some bacon. That ought to bring him running back home.”
“You will?” Aly looked a little brighter.
“Of course I will.” Catherine wiped the long strips of blond hair out of her daughter’s eyes and smiled. “We’ll look for Harold while Michael fixes the plumbing. Okay?”
Aly nodded, then cast a quick glance at him. “Hi, Mr. Packard.”
“The island’s small,” he reassured her. “Your cat won’t go far.”
“Thanks.” She sniffed again.
He walked past them and stopped. He wiped a tear from Aly’s chin with one finger. “Don’t worry there, Little Squirt. We’ll find your cat.”
Then before she could say anything about what he’d called her, he walked on down the pathway.
“Little Squirt?” he heard her whisper to her mother.
“I’ll explain later,” Catherine said.
He didn’t look back but from behind him he could hear the two of them following at a slower pace, beating the ferns and woods and calling out for the cat.
He kept walking. He might make over a half a million dollars a year in salary and another mil in stock options, but hell, he had a toilet to fix.
He walked out of the woods and into the clearing near the house. Dana was walking from the front door along the crooked porch.
She turned the corner to the side of the house and froze.
A second later she screamed so loud it sounded as if she had cracked the sky.
He ran toward her.
Harold was back, proudly sitting on the porch. He had a two foot long garter snake hanging from his mouth.
Eleven
“Dana!” Catherine came running toward the house just as she saw Michael hop over the porch railing and put his arm around Dana. She was huddled into a frightened stance, looking too scared to move.
Aly was about to run past her toward the porch, so Catherine grabbed her arm. “Stop.”
“What’s going on?” Aly frowned at her.
“I don’t know, but don’t move.” Catherine looked up. “Michael?”
He was still talking to Dana, then he turned to her.
At that same moment Aly called out, “Is it Harold?” She already sounded like she was crying.
“It’s Harold and he’s fine so don’t start crying. He brought home a present.”
“Stay here,” Catherine ordered Aly and she walked to the porch. It had been years, but she could smell the snake before she got there. She stopped where she was and peered over the porch railing, then up at him. “I forgot how much those things stink.”
Aly was suddenly right next to her. “Oh, yuk! Harold! Get away from it!”
Catherine looked at her. “I told you to stay put.”
“Is it poisonous?” Aly asked.
“No.” Michael pulled his gloves out of his back pocket. “It’s only a garter snake.”
“Oh.” She watched it a second. “Why do they smell?”
“Oh, who cares!” Dana snapped from around the corner. “Just get rid of it! Hurry! Please!”
The whole time Harold just sat there with the black snake hanging out of his mouth. He was waiting for praise.
Michael put on the work gloves, then he squatted down in front of Harold, who immediately dropped the snake.
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