So she opened the first box…and immediately found a box of CDs. Robert’s CDs. Like the songs he’d played the first time he’d made love to her…and the music he always picked when they were dressing up for a night on the town…and the music he’d played the day they’d painted the kitchen. Her hands jumped back as if burned. She tried to realistically remind herself that she’d never even liked Robert’s music-any more than he’d liked hers. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was the singe of memories.
She pushed that box aside and determined, cracked open a giant-sized crate. This one held kitchen supplies- only not the usual array of practical pots and pans-but wedding gifts. Sterling silver cake plates and fondue pots and butter warmers and waffle makers-still as new as the day she’d opened them and warmly promised the gift givers that she’d cherish and use their gift every day of their married lives.
Okay. So that was another throat-tightening box, but stubbornly she reached for a different one. This carton should have been memory-safe, because it held nothing but clothes-winter sweaters, hers, nothing that belonged to Robert. Except that the first item on top was the green sweater he’d bought for her last birthday. She remembered opening it, remembered saying, “Oh, I love it, you darling!” but she also remembered having the traitorous thought that Robert couldn’t possibly really know her, because she’d never be able to wear that vomit-green color in a thousand years.
Camille slammed down that box, too, making Killer jump. “We’re going to throw all these things out tomorrow,” she told the dog. And when Killer didn’t look particularly believing, she said, “Come on! I’m not being a coward. It’s not like that. For heaven’s sake, it’s almost eight o’clock and we’ve been running all day. It’s ridiculous to start anything this huge this late at night.” But when Killer still looked skeptical, she said a four-letter word and knuckled under.
She couldn’t just throw out boxes without looking at the contents, because there were serious belongings in some of them-things she’d need once she got around to putting her life back together. So she sorted, then put box after box in the trunk of her car, then carted two entire trunk loads to the dump. That was all she could possibly handle, though. When she drove back home after the second trek, the sky was midnight-black; the wind had a scissor-sharp chill to it, and she was so whipped that her head was pounding.
She pushed her shoes off at the door, peeled off clothes as she walked, and then simply threw herself into bed. There was no doubt in her mind she’d sleep like the dead.
Or that was the plan.
It didn’t seem to quite work out that way.
The dream started with memory flashes from her wedding. Her mom, Margaux, was fluffing her hair, fixing her dress, looking at her with serious-mom eyes. It was her mom who’d waited until they were alone to give her a private present of some lethally sexy French satin lingerie. And her mom who’d said, “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. But if you’re not sure, we’ll stop this right now, darling.”
And then her dad was suddenly in the dream, Colin with his far-seeing blue eyes and the pipe he sneaked away from his wife. To her dad, she’d never been able to do wrong, yet it was her dad who wrapped her in a burly hug and said gruffly, “I never thought a city boy’d make you happy, Cam, not you, but if he’s what you want, I’ll love him. Just so you know that I’ll shoot him if he isn’t good to you.”
She kept tossing and turning in the dream, because she wanted her dad so badly. She wanted her mom. Just once she wanted to be young again, a girl, safe in her parents’ secure arms, Margaux with her wildly emotional nature, and her dad who’d tromp the woods with her, rain or shine. Daisy was suddenly there- Daisy, who was always so exotic and sexy and striking compared to her and Vi. “Don’t go to Boston,” Daisy said. “He’s nice, sweets, but there’s just no way he’ll hold you for long. Pick a man who opens your world. Don’t go to Boston, don’t go to Boston.”
The dream turned dark so fast. The wedding suddenly became a wild thunderstorm, and the beautiful white dress somehow turned into a devil-black cloud that choked her, pressing tight, smothering he. Suddenly there was an explosion of pain, when a fist slammed into her face. She heard Robert’s helpless cry of pain, heard the judge’s voice say, “First offense, first offense. Let’s not compound this by making more of a tragedy than it already is.” She woke up in the hospital, knowing he was dead, knowing her life was over. She heard the scrape of her broken ribs when she tried to move, the fear, the sickening fear of those men in the dark; she could still hear their drug-crazed laughter…
“No, no, no. Cut that out. You’re not alone.”
Even though it was a dream, she recognized Pete faster than a snap and thought
“Well, you’re not going to have it anymore. I’m right here. We’re going to chase it away.”
A swoosh of a kiss made her head fall back into the pillows. That kiss…it seemed so real. She could taste Pete, smell his night-cool skin, feel the flannel of his shirt, the weight of him in the bed next to her. Somewhere, a window seemed to let in the drift of cool air-real air. Somewhere, Killer grumbled at the intrusion and jumped off the bed-as if the dog had really been snoozing at her feet.
It was amazing, how real some dreams were. Even better, though, was knowing that she could do things, say things, in a dream that she obviously could never do in real life.
“I’m afraid, Pete,” she whispered.
“Of course you’ve been afraid.”
“And I just can’t seem to stop feeling…guilty. That he died and I didn’t. That he tried to fight them off for me, and I couldn’t fight them off for him.”
“We’re not going to talk about him,” Pete said, and kissed her again.
Naturally she’d had erotic dreams before-who hadn’t? But nothing like this. There was another mysterious dream kiss, than another-each hotter than passion, wetter than a river, kisses that flowed and waved and ebbed all around her. His flannel shirt disappeared faster than a poof, just like magic. She heard some vague shuffling sounds-like his boots dropping-then felt the whoosh of cold night air when the sheets were skimmed off her bare body.
For an instant, she was disorientingly aware that maybe this wasn’t a dream, because she really was cold. But then, so swiftly, so easily, she wasn’t. Pete’s long, strong body covered hers, wrapped her up in his long limbs and warm torso. He showered her with more kisses-kisses like presents, each wrapped differently, each packaged like a surprise. Some were pretty and tender, some soft and bright, some so erotic and exotic they took her breath away.
Some skimmed down her body with his tongue, taking in everything, breast, tummy, navel, thigh, one lick at a time. A night beard teased her tender skin, inflamed her senses. He kept whispering, whispering, “Forget everything, Cam. Just think about this. Just be. Just let me love you.”
Something was suspicious.
Mighty suspicious.
Still, she was almost positive the only thing intruding on this extraordinary dream was her conscience. It was terribly disturbing to realize that she’d never felt this way with Robert. This wicked. This thrilled. As if she could soar, just from the lush sensations of wanting and being wanted, loving and being loved.
Damn it, she’d
Tonight she desperately wanted this dream. She wanted…
Pete.
No one and nothing but him. The lush, wicked sensations of being taken over, taken under. His mouth, teasing hers, taking hers. His hands, moving her to madness, coaxing her to want, to need, to hunger, to feel, to sense, to touch back. To feel alive.
In the velvet shadows, he climbed over her. She felt his thighs, tight, hard, when he coaxed her legs around his waist. He tested her for readiness, found her hot, wet, impatiently more than ready for him, before he plunged in, taking her or maybe her taking him by then-who could possibly tell the difference? They were part of each other, inseparable. Each strained for the next height, climbing together, both furiously wanting by then, not having fun, not
