Long Summer Nights

After she left, he calmed his oversexed blood and his undersexed cock, leaning back in his chair, breathing in the florid scent of rose like smelling salts.

In a few minutes, Aaron returned to his normally disagreeable state, and he smiled with relief, almost happy that Didi was late.

It was over an hour later when Didi finally showed, not that he should be surprised. There were many words to describe Didi Ziegler, punctuality not among them. She peered at the world through her owlish round glasses in a flamboyant red. People whispered that it was undiagnosed dementia to wear red past seventy. But Didi, who had broken hearts for nearly half a century, ignored the whispers and went airily on her way. And Aaron, who knew gossip to be only the most perverted form of the truth, chose to ignore them, as well.

“You’re late,” groused Aaron, obediently holding up his head as she kissed the air somewhere next to his ear.

“I like to see you squirm, darling. What sort of agent would I be if I didn’t torture my client?”

“A humane one.”

“You don’t want a humane agent. You want a viper, and we both know it. Save the lies for your pages. Speaking of …” She raised her pencil-line brows until they disappeared into the silvery wisps of her crisply styled hair. “Do we have progress yet, or are you still twiddling your thumbs? I suppose twiddling is preferable to other, more colorful activities. But the isolation, the provincial wilderness … the mind assumes the worst.”

Didi always knew the exact way to restore him back to equilibrium, and he flashed her a grateful smile. “Before you start the interrogation, I’d like to eat first. After the plates are cleared, we’ll progress to pointless chitchat wherein you tell me all sorts of frothy drivel, and I’ll pretend to care. Then I can complain about the state of the world, and the melting of the ice caps and ponder the fates of little baby seals.”

She cocked back her head and laughed, a rich belly laugh that caused heads to turn, and Aaron’s mouth twitched in amusement. “One of these days I will fire your worthless, delectable ass.”

“I’m the client, Didi.”

“And you keep bringing that up. A convenient truth that only muddies the patent unhealthiness of our business relationship.”

“Bite me,” he said with not a trace of malice.

“It’s a good thing I don’t have a full set of teeth, instead of these giant moons they call veneers. Tell me, Aaron, what happened to natural teeth, and natural boobs, and natural wrinkles? Ugly is a dying art form,” she said, patting her beautifully coiffed hair slyly.

“You wear it well.”

“If you call me Broom Hilda, you will die.”

“You always look lovely.” It was true. In his eyes, Didi represented the very best of the female sex. Razor-sharp, loyal, but with a large heart that few would ever see.

“I am not lovely, merely eccentric and egotistical. In the past, the men fell for it in droves.”

“They still do,” he said, and she beamed with approval.

After they ordered, they ate, and she dished the latest in the publishing world. Some old names, many new, and Aaron was glad he was longer a part of it. Moving north, “fleeing” as Didi termed it, had been the best decision of his life. Too bad she didn’t see it that way.

“I saw your father.”

“So?” he asked easily, shaking pepper over his plate, not really caring how much he used or where it landed.

“It was the Scribner dinner. He asked about you. He’s getting old and scrawny, much like the rubber chicken you are condemning to your well-seasoned hell. He looked heartbroken, as well. I thought you would want to know.”

“That’s the Scotch.”

“I could give him a message, although it would be a horrendous waste of my time and talents because I am not some plodding delivery service, especially when you could do it so easily yourself. However, because I am an exceptional agent, dedicated to my clients needs, I would. But only this once.”

Aaron sawed at his chicken with excessive force. “Tell him the usual.”

“It always makes me happy to spew vulgar obscenities and watch his eyes narrow to toothpicks. Martin is waiting for the manuscript,” she added, daintily picking at her salad, turning from one unpleasant topic to another.

“I’m not ready to write again.”

“Yes. I know. You are too emotionally frozen, devoid of all feeling and heart, and even worse, unable to plot your way out of a paper bag. Blah, blah, blah. You are becoming tedious.”

He stared at her silently, as any self-respecting heartless, emotionally frozen man would do.

Unamused, she shot him a withering look.

“I need more time,” he lied. Actually there were ten completed manuscripts under his bed. In fiction, Aaron believed in total honesty. In life, not so much.

“I’ve been telling him that for eight years. Eventually he will grow old and possibly die, and you will have squandered your opportunity. Not that I care.”

Aaron shrugged, feeling the pecking bites of guilt, and he hated guilt. Guilt was usually directly followed by stupidity. “I’ll have something when I have something.” It was an empty promise, Didi knew it, and she moved aside the bud vase, the better to scowl at him.

“Show me what you have, Aaron. Give him a morsel, something to dangle in front of his greedy little eyes, and let them remember the vibrant talent that you are.”

Aaron fought the urge to put the vase back in place and hide the disappointment in her eyes. “When I’m ready. The perfect book takes time. It’s nearly impossible to do it twice in a lifetime.”

“You will never be ready if you spend all your time in this dreary little ghost town. You should be in the city.”

She spoke with all the arrogance of Aaron’s father, some acquired from her two short years as Cecil Barksdale’s mistress, but there was one important difference between the two—Didi actually looked at Aaron with affection. Aaron’s father only looked in the mirror with affection. In the end, it was the same reason that both Didi and Aaron had left him.

“Since hell has now frozen and your will has fossilized into something large and beastly usually found in museums, I have no choice. For the next week, I will be slumming here for a short respite.” She coughed, not so delicately. “If you feel a warm, relentless wind breathing down your neck, it will be me doing my job as I should be paid to do, if you were actually writing.”

As he considered the horrific idea of someone sitting there, waiting for him, expecting to actual read his words, Aaron’s fingers began to tap once again. His father had always said true genius could never be forced. There were few things that Aaron and Cecil agreed on. That was pretty much it.

He considered the lethal determination in Didi’s face and knew that soon he would have to come clean. But not yet.

“Oh, you are the sly one,” she murmured, her mouth curved in a Cheshire grin. “I know you’ve been writing. It’s there in your face, your restless fingers.” Delighted at his obvious misery, she rubbed her hands together. “There. I’ve decided. Every day we will have lunch, and you will report your progress.”

“You can lunch wherever you choose. You’ll lunch alone.”

“You would treat me so shabbily, Aaron?” she asked, watching him with those piercing black eyes that knew him better than anyone.

“No,” he said with a resigned sigh. With a single-minded efficiency, Aaron had chased away everyone in his life. Nine years later, it was only Didi who stuck beside him. He wasn’t sure if it was his commission check that kept her in his life, or some stubborn desire to needle him to life. He suspected the later. Money had never been Didi’s raison d’être.

“It would break my heart if you chose to brush me away now.”

“You don’t have a heart,” he reminded her.

“True. But if I had a heart, it would break.”

Aaron pushed at the chicken on his plate, seeing too much resemblance in himself and not proud of it. “As long as we don’t eat here again,” he told her, then swallowed a bite, doubts lodging in his throat like a bone. This was going to be a disaster and Didi’s victorious smile didn’t help.

Airily she waved her knife with as much skill as flair. “Of course, darling. Whatever you want.”

2

“A QUIET TUESDAY NIGHT in Harmony Springs. Day One in this reporter’s quest to find something interesting in this picturesque town where absolutely nothing ever happens. Did Quinn need to send me on this assignment? Do I have sucker stamped on my head? Do I need to keep asking these stupid rhetorical questions?”

Jenn clicked off the phone’s voice recorder, and leaned back on the hard surface of the giant boulder. Above her was the night-dark sky. And stars. She’d heard the rumors of their existence. She’d seen pictures in books, but as a lifelong resident of New York, she’d never observed them in their natural habitat.

Out here in the solitary woods, there were other creatures in their natural habitat. She could hear them scuttling and slithering, and she told herself not to panic. Cute, furry things scuttled. Mouselike things. Mickey. Minnie. Mighty.

And then of course, there were the not-so-nice ones with devil-red eyes that glowed like the fires of hell. With large teeth that could chew on human flesh … and she could almost feel something crawling on her.

Instantly she brushed at her jeans and came away with nothing but embarrassment. Sometimes an overactive imagination was a plus, and sometimes, like now, it was a definite problem. Taking a deep, focusing breath, she stood up, and held her phone to the moon like Excalibur.

Two bars. Almost enough to make a connection.

Standing on tiptoe, she reached for the stars.

At the sight of three magical bars, she squealed with delight, nearly dislodging her feet from terra firma.

Still, the near-death experience was worth it.

Her phone’s display finally lit up, showing a map of the constellations above her head. Virgo and Centaurus. These were the twinkling constellations that were normally obliterated by the bright lights of the city. They seemed so low, so deceptively close, as if you could throw out your arms and touch them. It seemed that stars, much like New York politicians, were born to deceive.

She repeated the line in her head, liked it, and recorded it, a mental reminder of her literary prowess. And they thought journalists couldn’t write.

Below her notes, the day’s headlines crawled across the screen. All the things that happened in New York without her. A humbling experience, which proved that yes, the world did not revolve around Jenn.

But, her reporter’s brain argued, wasn’t that the whole point of being out here, at one with nature? It was a giant screw you to the concept of being at the center of everything. To say that you don’t care. To say you don’t need the rest of the world. To proclaim—a bit too loudly—that you’re satisfied with only the company of me, myself and I.

Deciding the philosophical overtones weren’t newsworthy, she sat down on the rock, reading over the day’s headlines, getting distracted by the goat-rodeo they called Albany politics. She was deep into an op-ed piece on the latest budget referendum when she heard a new noise. Not scuttling, rustling. A large rustling, then a quiet oomph.

Not alone anymore. Quickly she closed her eyes in case the creatures had returned.

“Hello,” drawled an annoyed voice. Not a mouse, she thought with relief, and opened her eyes, blinking twice in case her imagination had kicked in again.

No, not imagination. It was the uncooperative man from the inn. The same man who had dazzled her loins and piqued her curiosity. Yet no matter the pique or the dazzle, Jenn knew at a gut-deep level that this man would be another mistake.

His black hair was worn long, a man who didn’t care about the opinion of the world. Tonight the cool blue eyes were arrogant and detached, missing the burning intensity of this afternoon. His nose was Romanesque, the profile of dictators and emperors and rulers. Nothing sensitive there. It was only the slight dimple in the center of his chin that made her wonder about the accuracy of her assessment.

But all those warning signs didn’t mean she couldn’t have fantasies, didn’t remember the shot of excitement that chased through her this afternoon. The marvelous thing about dreams was that they were harmless, as long as you remembered they were only dreams.

Mr. Habitual Scowler sat down next to her, long legs stretched out in front of him, and she told herself there was nothing remotely dreamy about him.

“Your phone is very distracting,” he said in a completely undreamy voice.

Surprised, Jenn looked at the innocent device in her hand. Yes, cell phone users were capable of many sins. Since she was intolerant of most of them, Jenn knew that both she was and her phone were being unjustly accused. “My phone?”

“I was trying to work, and I kept seeing this flash from my window. I told myself to ignore it, but I couldn’t. So I walked over, looked out onto the normally darkened night sky, and I saw you sitting up here, performing some odd ritual.”

“You could have ignored me,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but then I kept telling myself that you might be some pagen worshipper, and might get naked and things went downhill from there. I couldn’t work, and I needed to work, so I climbed up here to ask you to return to your cabin where you belong.”

Immediately she realized who he was, and her heart bumped happily. Never a good sign. “You’re in cabin number three, aren’t you?”

“You’ve been spying on me?” he asked, sounding not as disturbed by that thought as most normal people would be.

“I don’t spy,” she said, defending herself. “I was warned not to disturb you.”

“Too late. You’ve disturbed me.” He pushed a hand through his hair, disturbing that, as well. It only added to his sexy quotient, and Jenn tried not to smile.

“I’m sure many mental health professionals would tell you that you were already disturbed long before I wandered onto this rock. And by the way, innocent rock-wandering would not be considered a disturbance by the population at large.”

“At this campground, I’m the sole population at large. It’s not a busy place.”

“And now there’s me. I’m looking at the stars, and I’m going to continue gazing at the stars, so if I’m disturbing you, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to stop.”

“You’re not gazing at the stars. You’re gazing at your phone. There’s a perfectly good sky up there. You should try it.”

“I don’t know all the constellations. I’m learning. I suppose you know them all,” she asked carefully. He didn’t look like a romantic stargazer, she thought, not wanting anything else to add to his sexy quotient.

“No,” he answered, and she sighed with relief. Although secretly she admitted that she liked the lack of fog in his eyes.

She pointed to the stars on her phone. “If you had a star app, you could learn them.”

“Spoken like the commercially brainwashed American consumer that you are. Obsessed with convenience, purveyor of a thousand bits of minutia to manage an already hurried world. Devices that fool you into believing that you can rule time and have some control over your life. And in the end, those very things only make you a slave instead of the master.”

Instinctively she knew it wouldn’t be smart to laugh. If he hadn’t sounded so completely sure of himself, she might have felt sorry for him. Instead, because perhaps there was a shred of uncomfortable truth, she crossed her arms over her chest and raised her brows in her best imitation of smug superiority. “This coming from a man who left his solitary cabin and climbed up on a rock, solely in hopes of a little gratuitous nudity? You’re in no position to cast stones.”

Sadly he didn’t look the least bit ashamed. “I’m a mere man. Tethered to the weakness of the flesh and damned to experience life at its worst.”

That was the problem with weakening flesh, she thought, wishing that this time her body could be a little smarter. Instead she was noticing the long, length of his thighs, the rangy breadth of his shoulders and the sexy way he looked at her when he didn’t want to look at her. She’d never realized conflicted men could be so arousing.

“Who said that?” she asked.

“It’s no one you’d ever heard of.”

“He sounds overwrought.”

“That’s the polite term,” he said, his teeth flashing in the dark, and she was shocked at how normal he looked. How appealing. How completely unromantic and yet still hot.

“Why are you here?” she asked, now completely overwrought herself.

“Because I thought you were going to take off your clothes. I thought you would look nice without them.”

Her eyes narrowed only because if he asked nicely, she might have considered. “You think that line will fool me? Leisure Suit Lothario doesn’t come easy for you. In fact, you probably had to scrape the dregs of your social vocabulary to come up with that one. Ergo, the actual answer to my question is even worse than being branded a mere man.”

As insults went, it was convoluted and scattered, mainly because her mind was still stuck back at taking off her clothes.

He looked at her sideways, his eyes amused. “What are you? Psychologist, or just nosy?”

“I’m a reporter.”

At her words, the change in him was visible. The humor in his eyes faded, and his mouth tightened to a forbidding line. “Bottom-feeder.”

Jenn was used to the lack of respect. As a journalist, she had trained herself to be immune. “You are a charmer. I bet your complimentary ways go over well with all the ladies. What do you have against reporters?”

“Do you want specifics, or are the broad, generalized sins of the species enough?”

“Specifics. I like dealing in truths.”

“There is no truth, only whatever is convenient to whomever is speaking.”

She didn’t like his words, didn’t like his bitterness, didn’t like that he was correct. Since she was a kid she’d wanted to be a reporter, but she wasn’t blind to the narrow line that a journalist had to walk. Integrity versus news.

Instinctively she changed the subject to something safer. Like sex. “Is this your idea of seduction? It’s not working,” she muttered, relieved when the tight smile appeared again.

“No. It’s my idea of trying to get you off this rock.”

He looked strangely content for a man who was disturbed, but she understood. He provoked her, but she could feel the answering thrum in her blood, the tightening of her skin, the brooding pulse between her thighs.

Frowning, she crossed her legs and his eyes followed the movement with a knowing awareness that didn’t help the situation. “That didn’t work with the pilgrims at Plymouth. It’s not going to work with me. I have an assignment. I’m going to do my assignment, and I’m sorry if my presence disturbs your man-in-the-bubble existence. Actually, no, I’m not sorry. It’s a lot of fun to irritate you.”

He looked at her, his eyes a little too stunned. “Do you clip the wings off butterflies, as well?”

It was fascinating the way he drifted into insults so easily, using them like a shield, parrying anything that cut too close. “A butterfly, are we?” she said, raising a faux superior brow.

“I like to think in objectifying metaphors, dehumanizing as much as possible. It makes dealing with people much easier. Generally I like to avoid most people.”

Not quite sure how to answer that one, not quite sure why he seemed content to sit with her on the rock, Jenn elected to remain silent, her legs firmly locked.

It was a beautiful night not to be thinking about sex. The sounds of nature weren’t quite so forbidding when he was beside her. Somewhere an owl was hooting, and she realized she’d never heard the hoot of an owl. Crickets played and the stars shimmered in a velvet sky. When he didn’t think she was looking, he would glance at the display on her phone, matching the constellation to the one’s overhead. But she was always secretly looking, always watching him.

She liked him, she admitted. He was the best sort of man. Brutally honest and unafraid to speak his mind, dark and twisted such as it was. But it was that honesty that was refreshing.

He leaned back on the uneven surface of the stone, his chest rising steadily, his face turned up to the sky. He had a nice chest. He chose to hide it, much like he seemed to hide everything, a complete opposite of most of the other men she met who wanted to drone on about every aspect of their existence as if she couldn’t wait to hang on each and every second of their day. Frankly a little mystery could be very sexy.

Maybe she should do this. Maybe she should have an affair. Maybe she should lean over four inches and kiss him. Feel that sharp mouth on hers. Slide her hands under the buttons of his shirt, and see if his heart would beat faster. At the moment, so deep into her own dreams, she thought that it would.

“What’s your assignment?” he asked, which was the very worst question to ask while she was contemplating seduction.

Turning back to the matters at hand, which weren’t nearly as exciting as her current thoughts, she wiped sweaty palms on her jeans. “Harmony Springs. The Summer Nights Festival. The city-goers’ annual mecca to a quiet upstate community that offers very little in comparison to the myriad wonders of the five boroughs, so why the heck do all these people come here?”

Perhaps he noted the snark in her voice. “Which do you work for? Fear-mongering scandal-chaser with a penchant for yellow journalism or overpriced glossies perpetuating an idea of beauty or wealth that no ordinary person could achieve? “

She looked at him sharply, surprised by the anger. These days people were cynical about government, business and international diplomacy. But the media had been defanged long ago.

“I work for a newspaper. Large. Manhattan-based. Many Pulitzers among the staff. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

Beneath the sarcasm, she still felt the thrill, the fierce pride in her job, which warred with her marginalized female propensity to remain humble. Usually the pride won out.

His mouth curved, and not in a happy way. “They give the Pulitzer to every journalistic rabble-rouser who spent their college years watching All the President’s Men.”

After all her bragging—completely deserved in her eyes—the man didn’t look nearly as impressed as she’d hoped. Secretly she wanted to make that disdainful gaze flash with admiration and respect. Some of it was her own defensiveness, her own not quite deserved pride in her career. And some of it was because he belonged to the world of the intelligentsia and the literati. It was a nut she wanted to crack, a place she wanted to belong. At the paper, the halls were filled with people who dropped rhetorical devices at the drop of a hat. Instinctively she knew he lived in that high-brow existence, as well. His careful assessment of his surroundings, his use of language, his absolute moral certainty. So, who was he?

“I’m assuming you’re not a reporter. What is your job?”

He waited a long time before replying. But eventually he met her eyes casually. Too casually. “Writer.”

“Journalist?” she asked, not because she believed he was, but merely to see him dump all over the profession again. There was much to be gleaned from a person’s prejudices.

“Fiction. Not so different.”

A writer? Sure, there was something bohemian about him, but he seemed a little more intense than the unambitious dreamers who sat alone in their cave, waiting for the muse to come down and strike them with brilliance. No, this man would beat his muse senseless before he depended on someone else for his words.

He belonged somewhere else. Like Brooklyn, for instance.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “Why aren’t you out among the teeming masses, mingling with the great unwashed dregs of humanity, obsessed with the eight million stories in the naked city?”