Beth Ciotta: Out of Eden

Ten minutes later he zipped by Max Grogan’s place. The antique fire engine parked in the drive had been in the old man’s possession for more than twenty years. He wondered if Red Rover still ran. He relived a few choice memories regarding that red hook-and-ladder truck while keeping an eye out for Kylie’s house. A half mile past Max’s place, she’d said.

He was about to wake her when he spied a lone mailbox and rolled to a stop. Brightly colored shoes were painted up and down the white post and McGraw was scripted on the box alongside #312. He turned his SUV into the crushed-stone drive that led him into the woods and soon after his headlights flashed on a mobile home. Not only did she live alone in the boonies, she lived in a disaster waiting to happen. Eden was smack in the middle of Tornado Alley. If a twister touched down, she’d be gone with the wind. What was she thinking? Why hadn’t Spenser intervened?

She stirred along with his annoyance. “You found it,” she said in a slurred, husky voice. “Great. Thanks for the lift.” Then her lids drifted back shut and Jack smiled in spite of his unease. Damn, she was cute.

Three seconds later he sidestepped potted flowers and carried the dozing woman toward her green mobile home. Moonlight bathed the tended lawn. The warm evening breeze rustled the leaves of the surrounding oak and maple trees and the bamboo wind chimes hanging from a wrought-iron pole rooted next to a bird feeder. He smelled earth and flowers and perfume. “Kylie?”

“Hmm?”

“Keys.”

“Purse.”

“Where?”

She furrowed her brow.

“Let me guess. You left it at Boone’s.”

“No problem. Mat.”

“Who’s Matt?”

“Doormat. Hey, it’s like a knock-knock joke. Funny,” she said with a loopy smile, then slipped back into la-la Land.

If he hadn’t been pissed about her obvious hiding place for the spare key, he would’ve laughed. The joke wasn’t funny, but she was. “When you’re sober, you and I are going to have a talk about home protection, Tiger.”

He fished the key from under the mat and unlocked the door, no easy feat while juggling a living rag doll. Once inside he flicked on a wall switch, bathing the compact living and dining area in muted light. “Spotless” was his first thought, quickly followed by “sparse.” Minimal furnishings with an oriental flair. He noted the framed prints on the wall. Japanese temples and landscapes. A movie poster of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Huh.

He located her bedroom, wishing she hadn’t mentioned her agility, compliments of yoga. Oriental images of an erotic nature flashed in his mind as he laid her on her black-and-red comforter.

Time to leave.

He took off her glasses and placed them on the nightstand, noted a book on Zen and travel brochures on China and Japan. Spenser had never mentioned her obsession with the Orient. He wondered if he knew. He thought about what she’d said earlier. “I have dreams, too.” After one peek at her living quarters, any idiot could deduce her dreams involved Asia. He filed away the knowledge, slipped into the bathroom and nabbed a glass of water and two aspirin. He returned and nudged her awake. “Take these and drink this. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

Bleary-eyed, she complied, then fell back on the pillow with a groan.

“Sleep tight, kid.” I’m outta here.

Warm toes skimmed up his T-shirt and across his lower back. “Jack?”

Wary, he turned back and nabbed Kylie’s adventurous foot. The wide pant leg slid toward her body, revealing a toned thigh and a glimpse of red panties. Damn.

“I’m not getting any younger,” she said.

Hit the road, Jack. “Meaning?”

“Meaning if I wait for what I want, I’ll never get it. At least that’s the way it’s worked so far.” She shoved her hair out of her eyes, then wagged a finger in his direction to emphasize another thought. “Although, I did grab the bull by the horns once, if you catch my drift, and I know you do, and I didn’t get what I wanted that time, either. I gotta tell ya, life has been one big-butt disappointment.”

She sounded pitiful and angry at the same time, and he cursed himself a pig for imagining the pleasure zone beneath those satin panties. He released her sexy foot and tugged her pant leg back past her knee. Against his better judgment, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Today in particular stunk.”

“Want to tell me what Spenser said or did to ruin your birthday?”

“It’s what he didn’t say or do.”

“You’re losing me.”

“It’s not about my birthday, but my life.”

“Definitely lost.”

“But it is what it is so I need to make the most of what I have, which isn’t much. I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

He pressed a finger to his temple, rubbed.

“Creative visualization is a beautiful thing. I will have my adventure, just you wait and see.”

“Back to shaking up things in Eden, huh?”

“I was planning to start tomorrow, but you know what they say…” She quirked a brow, waited.

“No time like the present?”

Her full lips curved into another of those loopy grins. “For the past year, I’ve spent every night in this bed alone. It would certainly break my blah, boring routine if you—”

“No.”

“—kissed me.”

Shit.

“It’s the least you could do.”

“For?”

“Refusing to be my first.”

He scratched his forehead, reflecting on the episode he’d sworn to take to his grave. “You were fourteen.”

She scrunched her brow. “So? How old were you when you first—”

“That’s different.”

“Why? Because you’re a guy? That’s a stupid argument,” she slurred, “but I’ll let it slide and point out that I am now thirty-two.”

“You’re also blitzed.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What if I was sober?”

“You’d still be Spenser’s little sister.”

She heaved a dramatic sigh. Then she stretched like a languid cat, teasing him with thoughts of Gumby flexibility.

“I know,” he said, only half kidding. “My loss.”

“My stinky birthday.” She stuck out her lower lip in a contrived but alluring pout.

He knew when he was being played. His ex had been a master manipulator. Not that Kylie was in Amanda’s league. Kylie was drunk. He scrambled for a graceful exit without hurting her feelings.

She mistook his hesitation as an invitation. “A pleasurable distinction,” she whispered, then pressed those pouty lips to his.

Soft. Sweet. Hot.

Holy shit.

He froze.

She sighed. “Thanks for the birthday kiss, Jack.”

He grappled for a casual response.

“Too bad I didn’t feel anything.”

ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE.

Hell would have been preferable.

As was his routine for the past seven years, Travis Martin rose at 6:00 a.m. He showered—using bargain-brand soap, shampoo and shaving cream. He dressed in Lee Dungarees Carpenter Jeans, a plaid shirt and beige work boots. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal, white toast and a cup of Folgers. He scanned the local newspaper while he ate. The only upset in this routine was the absence of his wife. She’d died three months earlier. Life had been difficult before. Now it was painful.

Still, Travis stayed the course.

At 7:00 a.m. he pinned on his name tag and tugged on a cap embroidered with his employer’s logo: Hank’s Hardware.

At 7:05 he was out the door of his run-down farmhouse and behind the wheel of his 1995 Chevy pickup. The truck, like his clothes, was nondescript. He blended with the male population of Eden. He was just another hardworking, blue collar stiff who occasionally attended church on Sunday mornings—not that he got anything out of the preacher’s sermons. Now and then he dropped by Kerri’s Confections where he indulged in doughnuts and coffee. What he really wanted was a cannoli and espresso, not that he ever asked. Once in a while, like most of the men in these parts, he made an appearance at Boone’s Bar and Grill, where he tossed back a couple of beers. Last night he’d been sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a bottle of Pabst and craving a glass of Chianti, when Kylie McGraw, who was typically as unassuming as himself, went a little oobatz. Unlike anyone else in Boone’s, Travis had empathized.