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Clinton had a house on the beach, because one of his uncles was paying him to watch it. Normally, his relatives spent summers there, but this year they were going to Alaska, did not want to leave the cabin vacant during the tourist season, and had paid him to live there and keep an eye on it until they retuned in the fall. “Tough duty,” he had quipped as he accepted the assignment.
His uncle owned four small banks around the state and had done well for himself. The house was spacious and nicely furnished. Downstairs sat a baby grand piano.
Clinton straightened the place up, skipping breakfast, wondering if Belinda would really show. As the morning wore on and the sounds of families on the beach began to drift through the windows, a knock came at the door. He opened it and saw Belinda standing in the bright sunshine. She wore what she had worn last night except she sported a pair of flip-flop sandals. He opened the door and welcomed her in. Before he could speak, she pointed.
“I need to take a bath.” He noticed she carried a backpack. He recovered from his reaction to her abruptness, nodded, and led her to the bathroom.
“I think everything you’ll need is here.”
She nodded. He walked into the living room. After a moment, he heard the water came on. He walked over to the TV and turned on the local news. Sitting down, glancing toward the bathroom, he noticed Belinda had not closed the bathroom door all the way.
Big news on the local channel was the drug bust over on Armstrong. Thirteen people had been arrested. He was sure they had nailed Jerry, the friend who had talked him into going and given him a ride. If he had not gone in the back yard and met Belinda, he thought, he would have been busted. And if Belinda had not thought of the ruse of sitting on someone’s front porch like a couple of courting lovers, he might have been arrested despite his initial escape.
Clinton turned off the television, hesitated, and then walked to the door. He tapped lightly. “Come on in,” she said.
He walked. She lay back in the water, shaving her extended right leg. He glanced down, trying not to stare, taking her in. She had big breasts; he had not noticed them as much last night in the dark and with the fear of arrest hanging over him. She looked strong and athletic. Maybe she ran, he thought, or did yoga or something weird like that. Her upper body sloped down on a strong stomach and slender waistline. In the soapy water he could see the tangle of black hair between her legs. The sight made his blood jump. Her thighs and knees were well-developed. Once more he thought she must be an athlete. She finished shaving her legs, shaved under her arms, and then handed him a cloth.
“Wash my back,” she said, sitting up.
As he washed her, he noticed the lattice of muscles that crisscrossed her shoulders and the strong slope of her lower body.
“Are you a dancer?” he asked, water splashing as it ran down her back.
“I used to dance, yes, when I was in high school. I ran track, too. I don’t any more.”
“What do you do?”
“I follow my dreams.”
Her answer startled him. “What are your dreams?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll find out as I follow them. Do you have dreams, Clinton?”
“I want to —”
“I didn’t ask you what your dreams were. I asked if you had any.”
Again, her abruptness took him aback. He felt rebuked.
“I guess I do.”
She did not reply. She took the cloth from him, washed the front of her body, and stood. He held her hand as she stepped out of the tub, picked up a towel, and dried her back. She dried the rest of her body. “Let’s see the bedroom,” she said, hung the towel on the bar, and walked out into the living room. He pointed. She walked without inhibition down the hall, past the open front door and open windows and went in. The queen-sized bed in which — Clinton tried not to think of this — his uncle and aunt slept during their summer sojourns — filled up most of the room. A small chest and dresser sat in the corner.
“Nice,” she said. “Do you have what we need?”
He gave her a puzzled look.
“Condoms. I don’t want to get pregnant. Lotion, too.”
He had all of these things in a dresser drawer. Clinton’s sexual adventures had started early. He was popular in school, played football, and had good looks. He had already spent the night with two of his old girlfriends in this very room. He got out condoms and a bottle of lotion.
She nodded, turned, pulled back the covers, and climbed in. He stood there a moment, gaping stupidly as she lay there looking up at him, one hand behind her head, and then he slipped out of his clothes and climbed in with her.
When he made love to her that day and every day afterwards, he felt she kept something back. A part of her remained concealed. She never gave herself to him entirely — or at least he never felt she did. Yet he had experienced more pleasure and more satisfaction from her than he had from any other woman. He had rolled with lovelier women who had more beautiful bodies, but Belinda’s mystery and the enigma of her behavior made her exotic and forbidden. He sensed he had been admitted into a zone of enchantment, into the bed of a goddess or a princess, a place where no other men, or very few, had been privileged to come. He remembered what she said about living with guys so she could have places to stay. Still, he imagined the singularity of her embrace.
When they were finished, he fell asleep. He woke to piano music.
He lay in bed and listened. A line of notes, delicate yet powerful, sounded from the front room where the baby grand sat. He listened, trying to name what she played. He had heard the number but did not know his classical music well. The music continued its magical lines, tunes, rhythms. He felt its rapture and beauty — played by the women to whom he had just made love. After a quarter-hour of listening, he slipped his clothes on and went into the living room.
She had changed into a black skirt and blue blouse. She was barefoot. He watched her fingers move over the keys. She played with dexterity and ease. He stood and listened. She finished the song, flipped the page on her music score and began a new number. After a while, he spoke.
“Beautiful. What was the first piece you played?”
She did not answer. She finished the tune she was playing and turned to him.
“The piece I just placed was an Irish folk tune called ‘The South Wind.’ The first was a solo version of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21 in C Major.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you, Clinton. I’d like to play a little longer if you don’t mind. Will you be home today?”
“I’ve got to go to work.”
“Where do you work?”
“I work at the country club as a caddy.”
“Do you like doing that?”
He paused thinking she was judging him. He decided to simply tell the truth.
“I do. I like it a lot.”
“Why?”
“I like being outside. The golf course is beautiful. The people I work for are interesting and I get to know them. It’s never the same. There’s a lot of variety in what I do.”
She nodded. “Good.”
“Too bad I can’t do it for a living.”
“You might do something like it.”
“I might.”
She sat down at the piano and began playing once more.
About David W. Landrum
