Dave Friar - Bonnie

I invited Mark, my cousin, to bring his family out to my summer place on Long Island for a weekend. He hesitated, saying he had to arrange a sitter for the younger kids. I told him I expected them to come, too. I had plenty of room and it would be good to have some youngsters making a racket in the place. It was too big and empty for a 40-year-old guy who liked kids, and the house and grounds demanded the patter of little feet busily raising Hell.

Let's get one thing straight: I'm not crazy about Mark, who's five years older than me. He's okay, and sometimes fun, but he's prone to self-pity. Still: He's family. And I remembered more than a few times – when I was a loner kid – when Mark went out of his way to pal around with me. Now he was on some hard times, I was doing pretty good for myself and I figured it was payback time. He'd been essentially solidly established and was making good money working for a financial paper – until the big crash. His income went from Real Good to Unemployment and to Mark, the job was everything. A little fresh salt air and sunshine and barbecuing – not to mention, a change of scene – would do him good.

Besides which, I genuinely liked Kate, his second wife, and his kids – one by her and two by his first wife. Kate had a wicked deadpan sense of humor; always welcome. I'd been a little suspicious of her, at first. After all, she'd essentially broken up Mark's (already crumbling) first marriage and quickly accepted the proposal of a man 14 years her senior and from a totally different background. But Kate had Stood By Her Man when it hit the fan, and all three kids happily called her "Mom." In fact, if Kate weren't married, I could have been looking forward to her visit for more than friendly chatter and companionship. She was a damn good-looking woman, in the full bloom of femininity, and with all the self-assurance and sexiness that comes with it. And she still had a helluva fine figure and a great, strong face and -

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Anyhow, about a week before they were going to come out – for the third weekend in August, an excellent time to get the hell out of Manhattan – Mark called me. He was sheepish and uncertain and I finally wormed it out of him:

"Well, Kate's kid sister is going to be in New York for a couple of days, and we hate to leave her alone in the condo…"

Kid sister? Yeah, I was beginning to remember – and then it all came back in a flash, from the wedding. Kate's kid – but not "little" – sister, one Miss Irene Marie Pound.

Yes!

"Well, there's plenty of room, Mark – bring her along." I tried not to drool on the phone, all the time figuring: Irene was six years younger than Kate, which would make her about 24 or 25 now and she had been an absolute knockout at the wedding at which time she'd been no more than 15. Yes, I had done a good job of burying that memory; every time I'd looked at her, I'd had an instant physical reaction and had been growling to myself, "Jailbait – Down, boy!"

"Are you sure it's not too much trouble?" he whined.

And I was thinking: If it is, you and your clan sleep in the pool, but she is*definitely* invited.

"No, no problem. Let her tag along."

In fact, I suggested they come out on Thursday night and plan on returning Monday evening. A nice, long weekend.

I hung up and found I had the same physical reaction to the thought of Irene. I told myself she'd probably not handled the ensuing years well. Most women who are stunning at 15 are, er, somewhat less than appealing 10 years later – as if they've burned out all the `beautiful' assigned to them much too early. Or she was still stunning, but was going to take one look at a 40-year-old guy and immediately begin ignoring him, when possible. Or had gone dyke. Or turned nasty. Or was embittered.

None of it worked. At 40, I had to take the time to jerk off before I could concentrate on anything.

It didn't help.

I heard Mark's car crunching on the gravel around 4:30 on Thursday afternoon. The sun was still high and strong and I was out by the pool with a cold beer and the latest Spenser novel. I almost wished they'd been stuck in traffic; I hate being interrupted while reading Parker.

I trundled myself out of the chaise lounge and wandered across the semi-landscaped yard to meet them. I've got three acres, but only one was cleared. The house sits in the middle of that. Most of the property is as it was before cars were discovered. The local wildlife also knew it was a safe place. A couple of huge hares were standing on their hind legs to see who the intruders were.

The little circular driveway is surrounded by brush, so I heard the car doors opening and closing long before I saw the first signs of their arrival – in this case, Dolores, the 15-year-old. She was carrying a duffel bag and one of those pouches that holds cassette tapes.

"Hi, Uncle Dan!" She was still very pretty, with a mischievous smile that brightened dark rooms. All long legs and auburn hair…she was going to be a beauty. She was showing that first glow of blossoming into womanhood, and there were some outstanding secondary sexual characteristics asserting themselves under her NKOTB tee-shirt. She'd inherited her Puerto Rican mother's complexion and smile; she got her blue eyes and hair color from Mark.

"Hi, Dolores! Glad to see you! Need a hand?"

She giggled. "No – but Mom does."

"What do you mean?"

More giggles. "You'll see! Where should I put these?"

"Just drop 'em in one of the bedrooms downstairs. Your choice."

I stepped through the brush into the little clearing that is my one and only concession to cars on the property. Parked next to my van was Mark's Subaru.

"Hey, Mark, Kate, Penny."

All waved and grinned abashedly and I soon saw why. Kate's seatbelt clasp was stuck and she and Mark were trying to free it. Which reminded me: Between the two of them, danger lurked in every mechanical device. Penny was sitting stolidly in the backseat, biting her lower lip and trying not to laugh as she watched the fun.

When I saw the cause of the problem, I did bark out a quick laugh, which I immediately tried to cover by clearing my throat. Somehow, Kate had managed to buckle the snap with a piece of her pretty, lightweight printed summery dress caught in it. Naturally, the first time she'd moved more than a few inches, it had ripped a sizable portion of the dress, exposing a sizable portion of her torso.

"Don't you dare laugh, Daniel," she warned, eyes bright with mirth. "This is serious business."

"I can see that."

Penny coughed. She was going to lose it in a moment.

"Did you say something, honey?" Mark asked. He was kneeling on the driver's seat, bent over the imprisoning buckle. He raised his head to look at Penny and, of course, banged said head on the roof of the car.

"Say, Mark – why don't you go down to the basement and get my red toolbox so we can free the prisoner of fender here."

Rubbing his head, he nodded and said, "Good idea, and, oh, yeah, great to see you." He started to offer his left hand – he was rubbing his head with his right – realized his malaprop, switched hands and in the process smacked himself in the eye. Same old Mark.

We managed to wait till he was a decent distance away before breaking into muffled guffaws.

"'Prisoner of fender'?" Kate repeated. "I'll get you for that!"

Penny scrambled out and around. "Want to take a crack at this?" I asked.

She looked at me with that look only a kid can give an adult. "Are you kidding? I've got both their genes. I'd probably blow up the car."

"Watch your mouth, young lady!" Kate barked, but there was no bite in it.