Unknown - Driving Daisy Crazy

"And that's the girl, right?"

"Looks like. And right next to her is Cranston, pointing at something."

"Right. I'd know that bald spot anywhere."

"That was yesterday afternoon," Vanessa observes.

"And this one-" handing her another large photograph, "is from this morning."

And there is Daisy, laying out bags of fertilizer, hoe and spade and two kinds of rake laid out, ready.

And there, on a chaise, Buck himself, sitting there, watching her.

"Looks like he's gonna take it stow and easy with her," Cynthia says.

"I'd say so," Vanessa concurs.

"That, or he wants to actually get a garden put in before he moves on to fun and games.

"Check this afternoon's photo."

There are definite rows, regular furrows running this way and that, a kind of miniature landscape of a full-scale farm.

There are plants beside stakes over about a fourth of the plot, obviously an optimistic view of a tomato planting.

And there is Daisy, barefoot, wearing shorts and a halter as she uses a large sprinkling can.

The chaise, on the patio beside the plot, is empty.

"So far, so good," Cynthia says.

"All we can do is to wait for the other shoe to drop," Vanessa says.

"Wait and watch," Cynthia agrees.

"At least," Nancy says, "he's limiting his focus to a single victim, this time."

"Mmmm, I doubt that," Vanessa says.

"More likely, he's establishing a pattern.

"This girl and the situation he's putting her in could be a prototype.

"If it works, if it gives him the kicks he's looking for, we can look forward to a parade of others just like her, way I see it."

"Which," Cynthia appends, every inch the Baroness now, "is precisely what must not be allowed to happen.

"I'm half tempted to call Captain Reynolds over at the state police barracks right now."

"And tell him what, Cynthia?" Vanessa asks.

"That Randy Buck has went and hired himself a gardener?

"Granted, Reynolds is no friend of Buck's, not after pulling off that rescue mission of the three of us from the Estate, but really, just what do you think he can do about your suspicions?"

"Not a damned thing," Cynthia sighs.

And Nancy too sighs.

Thinking, Here we go. again.

Because it is only a matter of time before the three of them will once more have to go into action against Randy Buck.

Meaning, once again, that they will have to risk life and limb in order to undo his latest plot, as opposed to hitting at the obvious root of the problem.

Risking her life, all their lives, merely to treat a symptom, rather than curing the disease.

And there is nothing she can do about it.

Because Nancy is committed to Cynthia, no matter where that commitment leads her.

Which seems, invariably, to be into the utmost danger.

By the pool.

And Daisy looks fetching indeed, in her string bikini.

Randy Buck comes out to the pool as well, clad only in a terrycloth robe and sunglasses.

He watches her for a while, now swimming with strong, even strokes, now jack-knifing gracefully from the low board, which rattles as she leaves it, making a triangle of herself before straightening out and torpedoing smoothly into the water.

"Water's great!" she says to Randy, draping herself on the edge of the pool, head floating on crossed arms, smiling at him.

"Take off your bikini," he suggests.

"You'll be more comfortable that way.

"Besides, I don't like to skinny dip alone." And he stands up, removing his robe.

"See?" he says, pointing to himself.

"No tan lines. Better that way."

She shrugs.

And hoists herself up on the edge of the pool.

And removes her top, then her bottom, revealing large, doorbell-like pink nipples on top, a thick chestnut triangle down below.

But, as though to cover herself, she dives from the side into the pool at once.

And Buck is right in there after her. The pool scene, just like in one of those paperback romances, she thinks.

Except that Buck seems to be ignoring her, intent on doing laps, as though he is on a regular exercise program of some kind.

Daisy has never considered herself forward or (to use the word in the novels) wanton, but still, a naked woman, a naked man, a beautiful day, a secluded pool-and nothing?

It can't be me, she thinks, it's got to be him. He needs a little encouragement, a little more inspiration, is all.

Because Cranston was right.

The more she thought about it, the less she liked the idea of another woman coming here, coming into Buck's life.

And it's not, she tells herself, that she is one of those viciously ambitious villainesses from a romance novel, but a matter of convenience, of practicality, of an opportunity begging for the taking.

In short, the there-ness of him, of her.

That, and the isolation.

So that for her to leave this chance go would be a waste.

Waste not, want not, she has always heard said.

And truer words were never spoken, their meaning never more clear, than at this moment.

No doubt, no question.

So that now, she joins him, swimming his laps side by side, matching him stroke for stroke, choreographing her actions to his own.

And we're man and woman, together, alone, and naked, naked, naked! she beams at him with powerful thought waves.

The shallow end.

And he stops.

And, therefore, so does she.

And they stand up, her large breasts high and paperback magnificent, heaving slightly with the exertion of the swim, as is his big, beefy chest.

They look at one another, she with her arms loose at her sides, he with his hands on his hips.

And suddenly, as though drawn by a mutual magnetism, paperback romance style, she is in his arms.

And he is covering her face and mouth and throat with his ardent kisses.

But there is nothing paperback romantic about the thick bar of meat which rises heavily, the plum of the head climbing her stomach until the eye stares upward, large and ruddy, the mighty organ sandwiched between their bodies.

And now, he breaks away from her, leading her by the hand up the steps, out of the water, over to the heavy, redwood chaise, covered with padding and a towel.

And she closes her eyes and allows him to lower her on her back until she is lying there.

And her legs are spread and raised, bent at the knees, as she lets her body assume the position, almost by reflex, as she used to do with her farm boy schoolmates out of curiosity.

Nor is her longing for Buck that of raw, sexual desire.

Because there is here too a note of curiosity.

Will he be the same as the boys down home?

That, and a touch of pretense, of being the actress, playing the role of temptress and vamp to the wealthy, older plantation owner.

As though she is configuring her body to flush out, to complete the soft porn allusions in the paperback novels.

So that her action is not even so much personal or individual as archetypal, the fulfillment of the patterned action, the detailing of the stereotyped sexual encounter.

In which a thick, crude, artless piece of tumescent meat ploughs her snatch.

No such words will be found in the romances, true.

No such action will be undertaken in such intimate detail, true.

But this is interpretation, an expounding, an insight and an understanding, an amplification of the romances, in short, not what they say but what they mean when they say it.

So she chooses to believe, and she does not think herself in any way incorrect.

And surely the thrills given, the thrills received bear her out.

Surely this is the feeling, the complex of sensations which will carry the day, which will prove the essential feature and the factor which sways the balance, which achieves the objectives of the temptress.