Outside, fog dripped off the pines.
We really should get a garage door opener, she thought, given how much it rained, but then, it wasn’t their house. Not one she’d choose to buy, really. A sixties ranch-style that hadn’t changed much since the sixties, with the exception of newer carpeting and paint.
It’s a house, she thought. And maybe it wasn’t as upscale as the one she used to have in Los Angeles, but it was a place to live, and it wasn’t bad. God knows, not too long ago, she’d wondered if she’d ever have a decent place, and this was more than decent, even if it was just a rental.
Not that her old house, when she thought about it, was ever actually hers.
Call it whose it was-her husband’s.
But not even Tom’s, really. The house had belonged to the bank, or to some obscure hedge fund in Iceland, to whoever it was who’d bought the mortgage.
This rental house was owned by a couple who owned a string of dispensaries in Humboldt and Trinity called “Green Solutions.” Three bedrooms, the master, an office and a guest room. A good-sized living room. A kitchen that could use some updating, with those “Colonial” knotty pine cupboards she couldn’t stand and a cheap electric stove, but after a ten-to-twelve-hour shift at the restaurant, the last thing she wanted to do was cook.
A hot tub out back, overlooking a stand of redwoods.
The hot tub sounded good. Between the day’s work and the session she’d had with her trainer at the gym that morning, she was both pleasantly sore and bone tired.
She used the controller on her keyring to deactivate the alarm. Unlocked the deadbolt and the doorknob key. Stepped inside the entry. Headed to the kitchen.
A glass of wine, she thought. Turn on the hot tub, soak a while, and go to bed.
The kitchen opened out onto the deck where the hot tub was. She flicked on the accent light above the butcher-block island-the one thing about the kitchen that she did like-unlocked the sliding glass door, and turned the dial on the stucco wall to start up the hot tub. The jets came on with a massive burp and a bubbling hum that settled into the wooden planks of the deck like a squad of aquatic mosquitoes.
What wine to have, she thought? Maybe the Sonoma Pinotage she was thinking about adding to the wine list at Evergreen.
She opened the bottle and set it on the butcher-block counter.
It would take about twenty minutes for the hot tub to heat up.
I’ll get out of these clothes, she thought. Take a quick shower, put on the thick terry robe, sweats and Ugg boots, and maybe start on the wine. Not too much though. Tempting as it was to just drink until she was ready to crawl into bed, it wasn’t a good idea, and she knew it.
Two glasses. That was enough.
She couldn’t afford to lose control.
As she stepped into the bedroom, an arm circled around her waist.
She almost reacted the way she’d been trained. Almost drove the heel of her palm into his groin, slammed the crown of her head into his jaw, stomped her heel on his instep, shoved her elbow into his throat, all the things she’d learned how to do.
“Hey.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t do that,” she said.
His hand paused briefly on her hip before letting go.
“Sorry.”
She turned. He wore a T-shirt and sweats, his hair damp from a shower, his face freshly shaved, but he still smelled like wood smoke. She could feel her heart beat in her throat, and she swallowed hard.
“Just don’t.”
He lifted his hands. “Okay.”
She knew him well enough to read the emotions: irritation mixed with hurt, followed by a sort of resignation, the half-smile that he wore like camouflage.
She struggled to smile back. To make her voice warm. “I turned on the hot tub,” she said. “And opened some wine.”
He stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds good. I’m beat to shit.”
Standing under the showerhead, letting the strong jets of water pulse against her scalp, she asked herself, yet again, what she was doing with him.
She thought that she knew the answers, but she couldn’t seem to stop asking herself the question.
Safety. That had been a big part of it. Security. He’d had all the money. Sure, he’d offered to give her something if she’d decided to go it alone, but how much would that have been? How long would it have lasted?
She’d taken the path of least resistance, again-staying with the man.
Things are different now, she told herself. She had the bistro. She had Evergreen. She owed him for that, but she could support herself. Was supporting herself.
She turned off the shower, wrapped herself in her terry robe, and went out to check on the hot tub.
He’d already gone in.
“Hot enough?” she asked.
“Getting there.” He leaned against the side of the tub, eyes half-closed.
“You want anything else with the wine?”
“Water’d be great.”
She brought out the bottle of wine, two glasses, and then the pitcher of water with a couple of plastic tumblers. Put them down on the redwood deck. Slipped off her robe and draped it on the Adirondack chair by the tub.
He watched her now as she stepped into the tub and sat on the bench next to him.
“I bet you could kick my ass,” he said.
She had to smile. “I doubt it.”
“Maybe I’d let you.”
He leaned over and kissed her. His lower lip had cracked, probably from the fire’s heat, and she could taste the hint of blood. She moved closer to him, and his arm circled around her back. His other hand came to rest on her breast, fingertips gently stroking her nipple.
Just the way she liked it.
This was one of the other answers.
Stupid, she told herself, and shallow. But true.
She couldn’t pretend that it didn’t matter. She liked looking at him, the long, lean body, the black hair shot with gray, the blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. He loved sex, and he was good at it. Good with her. And after the long drought that had been her marriage, well, why not?
Don’t ask that question, she told herself. But of course, she always did.
“I think I’m ready for some of that wine,” he said. The bottle and glasses had ended up almost behind him, and he leaned back and started to reach for the bottle. Drew in a sharp breath. “Shit!” he gasped, falling back against the side of the tub.
“Shoulder?”
“Yeah.” He managed a grin. “I think I’m getting too old to be a fireman.”
He wasn’t that old. He’d just turned forty-two. And he was in good shape. But she could see the scar from the injury even in the near dark: a jagged oblong the size of a large grape, bigger than it needed to be because they’d waited to treat it, white edges around a dark, red-brown hollow.
She poured the wine. They toasted silently. Sipped.
It was smooth. Smoky. Which seemed appropriate.
“So how was the fire?” she asked.
“Fun. You know. Worked our asses off. Lost a house by Junction City, but that was it in terms of structures.”
“Are you really thinking about not volunteering any more?”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I dunno. I mean, I need something to do.”
“The charter business…”
“Too slow. Not enough to cover the Caravan. Hangar rental’s going up next month.”
“Evergreen’s doing really well. You own the plane. We can cover the hangar.”
“It’s not enough.”
He poured them both more wine. “Bobby left me a couple of messages. Said he has a gig.”
She hesitated. She knew that he probably wouldn’t listen.
“Is it really a good idea?” she asked anyway.
“Minimum risk, maximum reward.”
“It’s not minimum risk,” she said, feeling a surge of irritation. “You know, the rest of the country isn’t Humboldt.”
“Compared to what I used to do?” He gulped some wine. “Look, setting up here took most of my bank.” Which might have been aimed at her. Opening Evergreen hadn’t been cheap. “And there’s no way I want to be without some real cash. In case, you know?”