Deliciously Obedient Page 2

  “Hello,” she said, walking up to him with a steady, purposeful stride that he recognized in Lydia’s hips. She reached up for a hug and he had to bend down, curled in a nuanced ninety-degree angle. “My goodness, you’re tall like Miles,” she said, and Lydia laughed.

  “The comparisons end there, Mom,” she said dryly, and Jeremy wondered what that was supposed to mean.

  As if they called for Miles, the little red golf cart appeared and out came a man who looked casually like Jeremy from a distance. There weren’t too many men he met with whom he could talk at eye level, and this one was decidedly less friendly than Pete and Sandy. With mirrored eyes, Lydia’s brother reached one hand out and pumped Jeremy’s as if he was starting a lawn mower. The brute strength was fierce, and it made Jeremy stand taller, some primal comparison putting him on guard. This was a guy with virtually no body fat, and nothing but long, lean muscles honed through hard work. With 160 acres he imagined that it wouldn’t be hard to put in a full day’s work with your hands, your legs, your body, all of it under the bright sun. Jeremy, on the other hand, was quite accustomed to spending a day in the sun—it just didn’t involve hard work. More like women and drink.

  Nothing wrong with that.

  “It turns out you brought a Viking home, after all,” Miles said slowly.

  “Jeremy and I knew each other before I moved to Iceland,” she said.

  “Really? How do you guys know each other? I’ve never heard about you before,” Miles said, eyes staying entirely on Lydia as he said the words.

  “We met through a mutual friend.”

  “A mutual friend?” Now his eyes moved over, trying to pierce Jeremy. “Which mutual friend is that?”

  “Krysta.”

  “Krysta? How do you know—”

  “Her sister’s autism causes. Jeremy’s one of the biggest donors.”

  Miles cocked one eyebrow. “Good for you.”

  The tension cut by half, but there had been a lot of tension. The fifty-percent reduction didn’t do much. Jeremy found himself breathing shallowly, and responded with great relief when Pete offered to show him around the grounds. Sandy pulled Lydia aside and made a hand motion toward the men that indicated that they’d catch up in a moment. Miles strode back to his little clown car and tootled off without a word.

  “We’ll put him to good use, don’t worry,” Pete called back to Lydia, and then he turned to Jeremy and said, “You a beer drinker?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “Thank God. Let’s go crack one open and then I’ll get to know you. You can tell a lot about a man by the kind of beer he drinks.”

  What’s the right kind? Jeremy wondered.

  The cabin that Pete led Jeremy to was a working man’s cabin. About ten by twelve, it was more of a shed, with two chairs, a sink, a small fridge and a little TV right next to a propane heater. This time of year, Jeremy imagined, the propane heater was starting to get a little use, especially during early mornings and late nights. Fall in Maine this far north meant crisper weather. Soon he’d pull out his ski coat, and it would be time to hit the slopes whenever he bothered to be in town, though he tended to ski in New Hampshire, not Maine. Perhaps that would change this year.

  He hoped that would change this year.

  Closing his eyes as Pete dug around in the refrigerator, Jeremy stopped that thought. Hoped. He wasn’t going anywhere. No need to hope. He just would.

  “You ever have blueberry beer?” Pete asked, pulling out two amber bottles.

  “Did you just say blueberry beer?”

  “Yessir. You’re in Maine, we’ve got blueberry everything.”

  That made Jeremy crack a smile. Pete handed him a bottle of Sea Dog Blue Paw. As he cracked it open and took a sip, Jeremy savored the feel of the cool liquid, and the taste, with a hint of blueberry, caught him off guard. He’d had his array of specialties from around the world. Everything from eating stir-fried cockroaches to drinking cat-shit coffee. The civets in Indonesia would eat the red coffee berries and then someone—Jeremy had no idea whom—would collect the digested berries, rinse them, roast them, and then sell the civet coffee.

  Cat-shit coffee.

  Blueberry beer, then, really wasn’t all that exotic. His second guzzle actually tasted kind of good. By the third he was nearly done with the beer and Pete cocked an eyebrow and asked, “That nervous, huh?”

  Jeremy caught his eye, finished the bottle without breaking contact and then asked, “That obvious, huh?”, which garnered a friendly laugh that put Jeremy at ease. Without hesitation, Pete reached into the fridge, pulled out another one, handed it to Jeremy and then stopped. “Wait, you wanna try something different?”

  “You have something different?”

  “You into Flemish red ales?”

  That got Jeremy’s attention. Pete rummaged around, put the blueberry beer back in and pulled out a lovely, small bottle of what Jeremy could imagine would be considered truly exotic here in the backwoods of Maine.

  “Tell me how sour ales came to be popular around here.”

  “Famous brew pub in western Maine. The guy has every kind of Belgian ale you can imagine on tap.”

  “On tap?” Jeremy made a low whistle.

  “Devoted guy. When you find your passion, you create whatever it takes to live it.”

  Pete cracked one open, handed it to Jeremy, cracked his own open and then clinked bottlenecks. “Cheers. To finding the unexpected.”

  Jeremy dipped his chin down in deference to the many layers that the toast resonated through. “To finding the unexpected.”

  Two beers later, and Jeremy felt at home. Pete was taking him through one of the many fingers—the roads throughout the campground off the main one—where campers, and tents, children and the melee of activity was centered.

  “We’ve got plans to put in another smaller hall here,” Pete explained, pointing to another wooded area that looked untamed. “But that’s gonna be a little while; we’ve gotta cover the expansion of the new twenty acres.”

  And as Pete explained all of the plans for the future, Jeremy found himself wondering whether there was a role for him in any of this. Should he be more attentive to the specifics that Pete was laying out? What was Lydia up to right now? He imagined her mother grilling her, and what would Lydia say? “Well, Mom, the job in Iceland didn’t work out, but now I’m sleeping with Michael Bournham’s best friend, who Michael sent to watch over me.” That would go over about as well as a Yankees sweatshirt up here, he imagined.

  Pete poked his forearm and said, “Hey, you, too many beers?”

  His curious face was trying to get Jeremy’s attention, and he realized that Pete had been talking to him and expected a response. “No, sorry, uh…lost in thought.”

  Pete’s eyes narrowed. “This is a lot for you.”

  “No, no,” Jeremy protested, “it’s not a—”

  Pete interrupted him again. “We can be a lot. The whole family is a bit overwhelming, a little too much for people. You raise a big family like I have, and when the one girl brings the first guy ever back home…”

  Ever. The word rang through his head like a gong in a Buddhist temple. Ever?

  Pete’s voice continued. All Jeremy could hear was that word. Ever.

  “I can’t believe you’re back!” The squeal of joy, and the feel of Krysta’s arms around her neck, made Lydia wonder if she was in a different reality.

  “What are you doing here?” she mumbled into Krysta’s ear as the two embraced. Sandy’s beaming face told Lydia exactly what had happened. She looked at her mother and said,“You planned this?”

  Krysta shrugged. Sandy owned it: “Of course I planned it. Your best friend needs to come to one of our famous talent shows.”

  “But you have a family reunion,” she said to Krysta.

  “This was more important.”

  Tears sprang to Lydia’s eyes. The day was emotionally difficult, full of joy and also full of failure, of loss, of not knowing. Right
now she pushed all of that aside and smiled at her best friend.

  “And you brought Jeremy here,” Krysta whispered, giving Lydia one of those looks that only your best friend can give you. The kind that combines a thousand-mile stare with a cocked eyebrow and a no-bullshit expectation.

  If Sandy hadn’t been there, Lydia could have given her the real answer—but she was there, looking at Lydia with an expectant expression that made Lydia realize that her mother was practically wedding-dress shopping in her mind. Because Lydia had never brought a man back to the campground. Ever.

  “He must be special, if you’re bringing him here,” said Sandy.

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” Lydia hissed.

  “Well, he must be special if you brought him home,” Sandy insisted. “He’s out having a beer with Dad and getting the grand tour.”

  Lydia knew what she should say. The right thing to say was that he was special, and that this was an amazing event in her life. But all she kept thinking about was Mike. Where was Mike? Why had he disappeared? Was she using Jeremy as some sort of replacement, or did she really want Jeremy on his own, as he was, for who he was? Was Jeremy with her for the right reasons, or was he just a playboy who was babysitting a fellow playboy’s toy?

  The whirlwind of her life meant that she never got to slow down on the inside or the outside, to just see things for what they really were. Here, at the campground, she had a shred of a chance of that, and maybe that was her answer. She brought Jeremy here so that she could make time stand still just long enough to figure out what she was doing.

  “So, Sandy,” Krysta said, winking at Lydia. “Tell me about your talent show.”

  Oh, thank God, Lydia thought. You are my best, best, best, best friend. Lydia gave Krysta’s hand a squeeze and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  Krysta mouthed back, “You so owe me.”

  “I’ll buy you a ticket to the show, front row. That’s where they pick people out of the audience and make them do skits in the improv performances,” Lydia hissed in Krysta’s ear.

  Sandy looked at the two of them with a skeptical expression and then said, “You have no interest in the talent show.”

  “Sure I do,” Krysta argued.

  “No, all of her interest is in Caleb,” Lydia answered. That got her an elbow in the ribs—two, in fact. Somehow her mother and Krysta both managed to nudge her. Sandy’s elbow was decidedly more friendly.

  “Besides,” Sandy said, “Caleb’s not here.”

  Krysta looked stricken. “What?”

  “He’s in Boston, helping my mother.”

  “Your mother?” Krysta asked.

  “My mother owns a diner.”

  “Oh, that’s right, Madge. Madge is your mom.” Krysta shook her head as if clearing it.

  Lydia frowned. “Why’s Caleb in Boston?”

  “He’s helping get the diner menu in shape.”

  “He’s done that before. Why would he need to actually go there?”

  Sandy shot Krysta the most subtle of glances, but Lydia picked up on it. “I don’t know, but he’s been staying there while you were gone. Wasn’t he at the apartment when you got back from Iceland?”

  Lydia shook her head slowly. “No, and Grandma didn’t say a word about it.”

  All of the blood in Krysta’s face drained out. “That means he’s with someone.”

  Sandy’s eyes lit up with a mix of glee, confusion and cunning.

  “If anyone knows where Caleb is, it’s my mother, and I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this.”

  “Caleb’s a grown man. He can live his own life,” Krysta huffed. “You should respect that,” she said, turning on Sandy, who took the comment in stride and nudged Lydia once more.

  “Speaking of brothers, where are Adam and Dan?”

  “Off at some campground industry thing in Texas,” Sandy huffed. “One of the rare opportunities to have all my kids together and they have to miss it.” Sandy’s quick wince made Lydia all too aware of the other missing brother. Luke.

  “Bummer. They’re never around these days when I’m here.”

  “Then maybe you need to be here more,” Sandy said, a happy smile reaching her eyes.

  “If the right man’s here, then maybe I’ll stay.” She smiled right back.

  “If we’re gonna talk about love lives and men,” Sandy said, “I’d rather talk about your Viking.”

  “He’s not a Viking.”

  “He’s quite attractive.”

  That stopped Lydia short. Sandy didn’t talk about physical attraction and other men. Lydia generally avoided the subject.

  “He is, in his own bizarre sort of way,” Krysta said, as if she were shocked that the words came out of her own mouth.

  “You two done talking about how hot the guy I brought home is?”

  “No,” they said simultaneously, laughing.

  “Speaking of hot,” Sandy said, waving an imaginary fan in front of her face, “we have a new long-term camper here who—oh my, oh my.” She grinned at Lydia. “If you hadn’t brought someone home, I’d be rushing to introduce you to him.”

  “You say that every season, Mom.” Lydia just shook her head.

  “This time I mean it, Lydia. You don’t know what you’re missing out on. You’ve always been so afraid to take risks with your heart. But then again, what am I thinking, pushing someone on you when you’ve found Jeremy?”

  An uncomfortable silence stretched out between the three women, and as it continued Lydia became more tongue-tied.

  Sandy peered closely at Lydia, and then her eyes flicked to Krysta, and back. “You two have some catching up to do.” She patted Lydia’s shoulder. “I’ll catch you later.”

  Lydia knew she meant that—she really would catch her later. Relief swept over her. Talking about the past few weeks with Krysta would be hard enough. Trying to explain it to her mother would be nearly impossible. And then there were the dreams. The dreams hadn’t stopped plaguing her, not once, not even with Jeremy’s arms wrapped around her. His seemingly endless nude body pressed against hers, their combined heat a cloud of comfort each night that she sank in to. Even then, the dreams came. That was one thing she wouldn’t talk about with Krysta, and certainly not with Sandy. Who the hell could she talk about it with? Mike?

  You can’t talk to a ghost.

  As Sandy walked down the path toward the store, Krysta found an old stump littered with yellowed leaves and sat down on it, stretching her legs out. It gave Lydia a chance to take a really good look at her. “You’re…looking really good, Krysta,” she said, trying to keep the tone of amazement out of her voice, worried that she might offend her bestie.

  “Thank you.” Krysta’s beaming face told Lydia that she’d said the right thing.

  “What’s going on? You have a new guy?”

  Shaking her head, Krysta’s smile diminished by half. “No, just getting into running.”

  “Running?”

  Krysta nodded. “That whole ‘Couch to 5k’ thing that’s all over Facebook, and people do it for two or three days and then you never hear about it again…”

  Lydia laughed.

  “I stuck with it.” Krysta shrugged. Her legs were definitely more muscular, and while she’d always been curvy, like Lydia, now there was more definition to her.

  “Maybe I’ll join you,” Lydia said.

  Krysta looked around, staring up at the giant oaks with their burnished copper leaves. “If you just lived here and worked here,” she said, “you’d get all the exercise you needed, wouldn’t you?” Krysta gestured toward Sandy’s fading figure. “Your parents must walk miles every day.”

  “Mom isn’t exactly slim,” Lydia cracked.

  “But she’s fit.” Krysta’s nose crinkled on the last word, the rebuke a bit sharper than either of them expected. “And fit is what counts.”

  When did we get on this topic? Lydia wondered. All she’d done was try to give a compliment.

  “Besides,” Krysta sai
d, pursing her lips and taking a deep breath, “I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about you and your threesome.”

  “My what?” The dreams smacked her across the face.

  “Your threesome. I mean…love triangle.”

  “There’s a big difference between a threesome and a love triangle, Krysta.”

  “Not from the outside.”

  Blink. Lydia didn’t know what to say in response to that. “There’s no threesome, first of all,” she finally croaked out. “And second of all, there can’t be a threesome when one of the people is completely missing.”

  “Do you know anything about what’s going on with him?”

  “I assume you mean Michael Bournham.”

  “No, Lydia, I mean the Pope.”

  “The new Pope’s kind of interesting.”

  Krysta shot her a smirk. “Not as interesting as Michael Bournham.”

  “I don’t know where good old Mike is. It’s a mystery.”

  Krysta picked up an enormous leaf, bigger than the span of her hand, and played with it in the sunlight. “Everybody’s talking about it at work. Emails went out last week about layoffs.” Lydia’s heart raced suddenly on Krysta’s behalf. A job loss right now would be damn hard for her friend. She didn’t have a big family to fall back on.

  “It looks like I’m safe,” Krysta assured her. She rolled her eyes. “Of course, I’ll end up taking on the work of another person and a half just to keep my same job and salary.”

  “That’s nothing new,” Lydia said.

  Krysta gave her a wry smile. “Yeah,” she said, shredding the leaf in half and then picking it into tiny little pieces, dropping it on the ground. “It’s not new, but the sense we all have is that once Michael Bournham left…”

  “He didn’t leave, he was kicked out.”

  “Okay, fair enough. Once he was gone,” she said archly, “the whole tenor of the company changed. And now there are layoffs, questions about entire divisions—the whole Iceland experiment is being shut down entirely.”

  A flash of memory of Siggi lying on the ground outside the nightclub, with the imprint of Jeremy’s knuckles smashed into his nose, made Lydia start to giggle. Siggi would be in the unemployment line then, right along with Lydia.