Her eyes popped open and she let go a big laugh.
Clay insisted on taking Lilly out for dinner, though she’d have been just as happy to pull on those soft yoga togs, stay comfortable and half-naked and finish the meal she’d started in the kitchen. He had a double purpose, he said. He wanted some meat and more condoms. Neither were items Lilly had on hand.
He took her to a Mexican place, a little hole-in-the-wall where the carne asada was fantastic and she could have her fill of beans, rice, tortillas and cheese. He wanted to know all about the man he was competing with, the man he meant to take her away from, but he used great restraint and didn’t raise the subject. Probably she had things to work out about that. There might be choices and decisions that weren’t easy for her. He wanted to say, “Tell him it’s over and we’re together now,” but he didn’t. They’d talk about it before too long. Until they did, he didn’t want to appear a brute.
He wanted her to come to him, not succumb to him.
Instead, he asked, “How long have you been in your little house?”
“Two years. I rent it. I had always lived with Yaz and I thought at twenty-five I was past due for a little space of my own. Yaz isn’t crazy about the idea, but I like it.”
“He wanted you in his house forever?” Clay asked.
“Of course he did,” she said with a laugh. “He might still be plotting my return.”
“I was thinking how perfect that little house seemed for you. And you need your privacy.”
“What I needed was independence, and sometimes solitude.”
He reached for her hand. “Do you need solitude tonight, Lilly?” he asked softly.
Her eyes twinkled and she smiled. “I think I’ll have solitude tomorrow. That’s soon enough.”
So Clay stayed the night with her and made sure she was very well loved. It thrilled him that she reached for him in the night and when he opened his eyes he saw that hers were glistening and bright; she hadn’t reached out of habit, but out of desire. He was quick to reward her longing, to satisfy her. She was so hungry, it couldn’t escape his notice. Hungrier even than he, and that made an impression on him. Lilly had been left wanting, and a woman with her passion and responsiveness should never have found herself in such a state.
In the morning he kissed her sweetly before leaving. “I don’t want to go, but horses aren’t known for sleeping in,” he whispered. “I’ll see you later, when you’re free.”
The hours dragged for him until the afternoon. Annie gave some riding lessons in the morning, Nathaniel went out to a couple of ranches to see about sick animals, Gabe came to the stable in the early afternoon to do chores, and finally at midafternoon she appeared. While they readied a couple of horses for a ride, he stole a few deep, hot kisses and then took her out on the trail. On the trail there was some desperate groping and kissing when they were away from prying eyes.
“Let me come to your house tonight,” he begged.
“But Gabe is here. Don’t you go to your sister’s most nights?”
“Most. Not tonight. Tonight I want to be with you.”
“Will you eat a veggie meal with me?” she asked, teasing.
“I’ll eat tree bark if it makes you happy.”
“Hmm. I think you might work out….”
When they returned to the stable, took care of the horses and Lilly departed, Gabe didn’t waste any time nudging his dad.
“Looks like something’s happening there with you and Lilly.”
Clay lifted a brow, peered at his son and asked, “How would you feel about that?”
Gabe shrugged and said, “To tell the truth, I really didn’t think she was too old for me. But you beat me to it.” When his dad went pale, Gabe laughed at him. “Lighten up, man. Lilly’s cool. Go for it.”
And Clay thought, I did, I am, and I will….
Lilly’s weekends till now had been very predictable and dull. She spent Saturdays shopping and cleaning, both her house and her grandfather’s. She made sure his laundry was caught up and his house clean. Yaz was far from helpless; he always made his bed, washed his dishes, swept his floors and put things away. But he was sixty-nine and no longer noticed the finer grit—the dust or smears or stains. He made apologetic comments when he realized she was cleaning something he had missed. “I didn’t notice the spill, Lilly.” “You could ignore the sheets for another week—they’re clean enough.” “I already mopped there—but I suppose I’m not as fussy as you.”
Even though she had moved into her own little house, she was still the only woman in his. If she didn’t chase away the dirt, no one would. But on this Saturday, after her chores, she had gone to the stable for a ride and later had that hard, strong Navajo in her bed all night.
On Sundays she shared a meal with her grandfather, a meal that she prepared at his house. He made his usual snide remarks about her vegetarian dishes; he said his doctor ordered him to have meat in his diet. She knew perfectly well he didn’t have a doctor. No amount of badgering would get him to go for a physical.
“When are you going to let it out, Lilly?” he asked her. “The thing that’s got you smiling to yourself and avoiding eye contact?”
She shrugged. “I don’t want a lot of crap about it,” she informed him.
“Take your chances. I’m a blunt old man.”
“You use age as an excuse. What if I told you I think I like the new man who works for Nathaniel Jensen? You know who I mean—the Navajo vet tech.”
He looked at her levelly for a long moment. “I could die a happy Hopi,” he finally said.
“See? What a pain you are! I just said I like him, that’s all!”
Yaz ignored her and became serious. “Lilly, when a man and woman are right together, the earth stands still for a moment,” he said, almost solemnly. “That’s how it was with your grandmother and me. Time stopped and a bright light protected us. We wore halos and could only see each other. There was impatience in every glance between us. Our fathers hurried our marriage to keep us from making a lot of big mistakes. She was not my first girl. I was not the first boy she had been attracted to, but when we met it was done. That was the last. The best and the last.” He had a lot of wrinkles around his eyes. He stared at her hard. “I never saw this with you and any young man. Never. If I saw you with that new man, that vet tech, is that what I’d see?”
She glanced away. “I doubt it. I just think he’s nice, that’s all. We have horses in common.” She shrugged and muttered, “It’s probably a mistake, but there it is. I like him.” She glanced over her shoulder at her grandpa. “Do you? Like him?”
“Ah, I think he’s all right,” Yaz finally said. “Nothing wrong with him that a little Hopi blood wouldn’t fix, huh? Truth? I don’t care who he is or what he is—I care about you. When we came here, you changed yourself as much as you could, making yourself as different as possible so you would never risk making a mistake. Shiyazhi, little one, don’t you know you can’t make a big enough mistake to turn me away from you?”
That’s what she had done and she knew it. Starting at an early age she chose discipline; feeling she’d failed her only family, her grandpa, with her dangerous fling, she pursued perfection. She studied, built her body strong, took perfect care of the house and meals. She even denied herself—she ate sparsely, rationed possessions and friends, worked hard since before she was fourteen, before it was even legal to employ her. She gave up horses. Her grandpa offered to find her a stable where she could do a little riding for fun, but she declined. It was a long time before she relaxed and even began to enjoy life. To let herself enjoy life.
Even now, she was denying how deeply she felt for Clay, telling her grandfather she just sort of liked him. Why couldn’t she just let herself go?
She couldn’t help the gathering moisture in her eyes, nor her smile. “I know that, Grandpa,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
He stood from their table and with a deliberate lack of sentiment, he carried his dishes to
the sink. “Don’t thank me. Do what you must. Before I die, if you please.”
She laughed at him. That old Hopi would be dancing on her grave. He might look weathered from too many years of work and too much sun, but he was healthy as an ox.
She was pulling into the drive of her little house at six in the evening when her cell phone chimed in her purse. She didn’t recognize the number, but answered. “Hello?”
“There is only your car in the drive,” Clay said. “Is it safe to assume the boyfriend is still down with the flu?”
She couldn’t help but laugh at him. “I imagine so,” she said.
“Can I come to you?”
She turned her head right and left, back and forth. “Where are you?”
“Down the block, being circumspect. Giving you time and space. But I just couldn’t stay away. Will you be on your own tonight or should I drive away?”
She got out of her car, looked over its roof and spied his big truck down the block. She waved and then she wiggled her finger at him, inviting him to come to her house, to park in the place he probably assumed her boyfriend usually parked.
All that mattered was that he parked and walked toward her. Time stood still while she took in the sight of him. It was dusk, but he seemed to walk in a beam of light.
Oh, God, she thought. I’m already in love. In love and so done for.
Every night for three long nights, Lilly slept in Clay’s arms, whatever little sleep they actually got. Before sleep, he’d work her out in a way she had never experienced before, then hold her trembling, satisfied body close until she calmed, until she dozed. Invariably, she would reach for him, her hands begging him for more. With a groan of helplessness, he’d make love to her again and again. And again.
When his hands were on her, when he was inside her, she went to a place she could never remember being before. The man had a way with her body that defied reality. And from the sounds he made and the sheen of perspiration that covered him, she was not disappointing him.
She fought his hair during sex; he bound or braided it to keep it under control and she pulled it free, letting it flow. When he was above her, it fell like a curtain around her; when he was on his back, she found herself lying on it as if it were a soft mat, sometimes tugging it. It was a constant battle, but she wanted that thick black hair that marked his ancestry all around her, beneath her, over her, beside her. She caressed it as if it were a pet.
While he held her close on that third night he whispered, “I haven’t wanted to ask…”
“You’d better. I can’t read your mind.”
He paused a moment to form his words. “Is your… Is what’s-his-name still under the weather?”
Lilly chuckled. “I’ve spoken to him a couple of times. He’s getting better. He’ll be fine.”
“I want to know about him,” Clay said. “I want to know how you met him, what you like about him, if you’re going to tell him that you’ve been having days of endless, mind-bending sex with me?”
“I wasn’t planning to tell anyone,” she said. “That would be indiscreet.”
“I tried not to ask about him,” Clay said. “I lasted as long as I could. Tell me some things. Like—is he Native? Did your grandfather pick him out for you?”
She burst out laughing. “No!” she said. “He might be German—I can’t remember. Listen, I gave you the wrong idea. He’s not a boyfriend, not technically. He’s my best friend. His name is Dane, he owns a coffee shop near my yoga studio. I’ve known him for a few years, since he opened the place. We go to movies, sometimes we hike, we have long talks, political arguments, discuss books we like. When there’s live music around here, we try to go. He has a sister, niece and nephew I love. I can talk to him about anything. We have the same kind of education and—”
“What kind of education?” Clay asked.
“We enjoy the arts. Music, literature, theater, art. My degree is in classical studies.”
“But you’re the accountant for your grandfather’s store!”
“Well, not exactly,” she said. “I’m the bookkeeper. My grandfather taught me and I’ve been doing it for a long time, since before college. I didn’t exactly need to study it in college. I already knew what I needed to know.”
“Do you love him?” Clay asked.
“My grandfather?” she asked, confused.
“The boyfriend,” Clay said impatiently.
“I do, as my closest friend,” she said with a smile. She brushed his hair back from his brow. “I adore and admire him—he’s such a good person. But please don’t think of it as… I know I called him my boyfriend, but we’re not a couple. We’ve never been and never will be lovers. He’s gay.”
“Gay?” Clay asked.
“Totally. I tried to get him to switch—we’re so compatible and neither of us was attached. But switching—not an option.”
“Good. I can deal with you loving the guy as a friend. You having another man in your bed is what I can’t deal with.”
“Believe me, that’s something you don’t have to worry about,” she assured him.
“I should meet him,” Clay said. He turned toward her, pushing her dark hair over her ear. “Even though you’re not lovers, I invaded his territory. I should meet him and talk with him. I could let him hit me or something.”
A burst of laughter shot out of her. She gave him a slug in the arm. “Could you be any more old-fashioned?” Then she planted a kiss on his beautiful mouth. “Besides, I would never put you in that position.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “Put me in that position. You’ve had me in every other position imaginable.” He smiled lazily. “I’m not complaining, just making a statement.”
A few days later, Lilly went to the Loving Cup for lunch after her yoga class. She jumped up on her favorite stool at the counter, leaned elbows on the bar and rested her chin on her clasped hands. Dane was standing in front of her in a matter of moments. He’d been away from work with his cold or flu, and although they’d talked, she hadn’t seen him in almost a week.
“Greetings, little sister. The usual?” he asked.
She nodded and he went for the green tea.
“I’m sorry I stood you up Friday night,” he said. “I didn’t think the scourge would ever pass, but I guess it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, given what I’ve heard about the swine flu. Darlene said whatever I had was definitely the whine flu. Frankly I—” He stopped suddenly, looked at Lilly closely. He took in her sparkling blue eyes, her flushed cheeks, her secret smile. Yoga wasn’t singularly responsible for this new look of health and happiness. “Whoa,” he said. “Someone is back in the saddle.”
Ten
In the early fall, when the pumpkins were still green and the Halloween costumes hadn’t yet been sewn, when the Valley High School football team was practicing for their homecoming performance, when the leaves on the trees that stood dwarfed under sequoias had barely started to color, the biggest item of interest in Virgin River was Hope McCrea’s house.
The Presbyterian Women got the job of sorting, cleaning up and organizing, but half the town wanted in that house out of sheer curiosity. Of course, either Jack, Preacher, Paul or Mike Valenzuela stood like sentries at the door making sure whoever showed up worked. Those who wanted to satisfy their curiosity about what Hope left behind had to pitch in. Noah turned out to be a better tour guide than sentry, but he wasn’t afraid of work himself.
Since the town meeting, the friendly neighbors of Virgin River were a lot less cordial toward Jack than they had been before he’d been named Hope’s executor. They were a little surly, in fact, and there was the occasional snide comment. “That a new shirt, Jack?” “I notice the truck has new tires…you didn’t get a low-interest loan for those, did you?”
And Jack, being Jack, responded in his ever-patient way with comebacks like, “Wanna bite me, Lou?” and “Up yours, Hugh.”
It was fair to say that certain relationships were strained these days.
As for Jack, the usually helpful, loyal friend was just a mite put out with his neighbors.
This spirit of Open House lasted only a few days before it had to be shut down, and not because of Jack. Hope had been a collector of sorts and no one was sure of the value of some of the things she had rat-holed away. The women found odd and interesting items they just didn’t know how to handle. There was a huge wardrobe stuffed with old china pieces, mismatched, some even cracked and chipped. She had a shoe box full of odd-looking, colorful stones, for example. There was an attic full of paintings, oils and watercolors, protected with cheap grocery store plastic wrap. This was art that Mel and Paige agreed they would have let go in a garage sale but then Preacher looked up the name of one artist on the Internet and informed them his paintings had actual value. It wasn’t a Van Gogh, but it was probably worth a few grand—the artist was a Northern Californian watercolor impressionist from the Depression era. They found an old spiral notebook stuffed with crinkly paper that held odd, illegible signatures. She’d had first editions of popular novels, some of them signed. There were ancient photos, postcards and very retro jewelry. Hope had never worn jewelry that anyone could remember. There was an entire closet full of what appeared to be old teapots. Hope left behind tons of silver flatware and no one could remember a time she’d ever had a guest to dinner. And that didn’t even include odd pieces of well-built furniture that the women suspected were valuable antiques.
Even though Mel had a nagging feeling that some of this old stuff was valuable, she had no experience with this sort of thing. Mel was good with five-star chefs, designer clothing and posh vacation spots—at least in her past life, before moving to Virgin River and marrying the owner of a bar.
But Muriel St. Claire, a local who had restored her hundred-year-old farmhouse, spent weekends antiquing and scouring the mountain and forest towns for “finds.” In her house she had period paintings, tintype photos, refurbished fixtures, dated needlework and antique furniture. So Mel called her.