Wild in the Moonlight

Eight

When Violet walked outside, the morning fog was magical. Pink dawn hues swirled in the mist. Drenched flowers and grass made the whole world sing with scent and color. It was her favorite kind of morning.

Today, though, she clumped toward her Herb Haven in mud boots and a scowl. She’d had hiccups twice already. Her stomach seemed to be doing a nonstop agitated jitterbug.

The Haven’s parking lot already had four cars, even though it was barely seven. Customers were waiting for her. She gave an early class on Wednesday morning before the store opened, a class she normally loved to bits. But this morning her mind was entirely on the night before.

She’d never had casual sex before. It wasn’t her fault. She’d always meant to fool around tons, but she’d fallen in love with Simpson young and there’d never been a chance. Now she was perfectly thrilled to throw her morals out the window, only it was all so awkward. She’d gone into her bedroom first last night, but she assumed Cameron would join her. Instead he’d gone into the spare room. And stayed there.

When you had mind-blowing fabulous sex with a lover, didn’t you get to spend the night with him? What the hell were the rules to this deal, anyway? Cripes, it would resolve so many problems-and so much heartache-if she could just privately love someone and not have to worry about his caring about her long term.

Only, so far, this wasn’t working at all. The sex part had been terrifyingly stunning. Only, she hadn’t slept all night, first waiting for Cameron to come into her bed, and then worrying why he’d slept in the other room. And then there was that other tricky little problem.

She was crazy about the guy. More crazy than she could ever remember feeling before-even about Simpson. Cam was warm and funny and accepting and interesting and honest and everything she loved in a guy-not counting that naked-to-naked had been better than anything she’d ever dreamed of.

The love word had been on her mind even before they’d done the Deed. Making love had just made that worse.

She knew better than to let that love word enter the picture.

Glumly she opened the door to the Herb Haven. Lights were already on. Four women sat on the wooden table in the back, all talking at once and sipping her best coffee brew. They all knew where the key and coffeepot were; they knew the whole routine. Betsy and Harriet were farmers’ wives; Roberta was a freshly divorced teacher; Dinah was a college student home for the summer with energy to burn. The women had nothing in common besides a history in White Hills-and wanting to make natural cosmetics at home.

“We’re making cold cream today, right? Cold cream, aftershave and an herb bath.” Violet heeled off her mud boots, plastered on a cheerful smile and charged in. Work would get her mind off Cam. It had to. “Did you ladies hear that Dora Ritter is pregnant? And everyone says it’s Tom Johnson’s, and his wife is pregnant at the same time.”

“No!” Betsy said in delighted horror, and the women were off. Aprons were donned. Bowls and pots and measuring devices gathered from the cupboards, and then the core ingredients brought out. Lanolin. Beeswax. Almond oil. Naturally Violet started making herb water first, and each of the women had chosen their favorite: lavender, rose, mint and lemon balm.

Smells pervaded the back room. Violet kept both the gossip and the work flowing, but no matter how fast she ran, her mind kept sneaking back to Cameron. She kept thinking, I want that man. I want to sleep with him. Love him. Laugh with him. And why shouldn’t I? What’s so wrong if two consenting adults both simply want to have a good time together?

“Violet, how long does this mess have to cook?” Betsy asked her.

Violet peered over the edge of the double boiler. “You’re not trying to cook it. You just want the lanolin and beeswax to melt together. After that you add the almond oil.”

“Gotcha.”

“And at that point you call me, and I’ll show you how we whisk in the herb water. You wanted the lemon balm, right?”

“Yeah, that was me. Harriet wanted the mint.”

“Okay,” she said, and thought: I can change. She didn’t have to be a wife and mother. She could be an immoral, carefree lover who lived for today.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized how long she’d allowed the problem of her narrow fallopian tubes to get her down. So she’d been devastated to know she’d never likely conceive. So she’d been further crushed when Simpson had taken such a fast powder for another woman-a fertile woman-when Violet proved to be less than perfect.

I could do wicked, she figured. Obviously she’d have to work at it. She’d have to know the rules. She’d have to find someone she wanted to be wicked with-such as Cameron. In fact, specifically Cameron, since she’d never found anyone else she wanted to be wicked for…or with.

Turning into an amoral, immoral tramp would solve so many of her problems. Men were like perfume. Some had staying power. Some didn’t. Counting on a guy to stick around just because he claimed to love you was the height of lunacy. It was far better to pick a guy from the get-go where you didn’t have to feel bad about not being perfect.

“Hey, Violet. Come see how this is coming!”

Firmly, she turned her attention back to her class. Betsy, at the table’s far end, was exuberantly slathering on her newly made almond cold cream. She’d come dressed today in a baseball cap, Jack Daniel’s tee, and her favorite sequined tennis shoes. And then there was Harriet, who’d been married fifty-two years and could have starred in the infamous portrait of the two farmers carrying the pitchfork. Harriet had so many lines from the sun that the first three layers of cold cream seeped into the crevices and were never seen again. Roberta had been showing up for the classes ever since her divorce, wearing five pounds of mascara, a bra that pushed her boobs up to her throat, and fire-engine-red nail polish. And then there was Dinah.

“Hokay,” Dinah drawled, “I think this aftershave lotion is finished. It was fun to make and all, but now I don’t know what to do with it. Or how.”

Harriet, ever wise, piped in, “Trust the one virgin in the group to make something for a man.”

“Hey, who said I was a virgin?”

“The point, dear, is that we obviously need someone to test the aftershave on before you try giving it away as a present. Anyone have hairy legs? I mean, someone who’s willing to admit it?”

Betsy, who always played Harriet’s straight man, promptly burst out laughing. And because Betsy’s laughter could make anyone laugh, within seconds the whole room was cracking up, holding stomachs and gasping guffaws and sputtering coffee-made worse as bare legs were lifted in the air as proof of their recent shaving-or lack thereof.

Silence fell as suddenly as a light switch. God knows how the rest of them realized there was a man in the room, but Violet sensed Cameron’s sudden appearance from the instinctive change in her own heartbeat.

She whirled around to see him standing in the doorway, a steamy mug in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other, looking wrinkled and sleepy and sexy. Wild. Wantable.

His eyes found hers as if there was no one else in the room. Last night suddenly danced between them-that surge of wanting, of urgency, of belonging, like she’d never felt for any man or anyone else. She’d never given herself that easily, that intimately.

And suddenly she wasn’t so sure she could manage being as wicked and immoral as she wanted to be. Suddenly she sensed she could risk more with Cameron than she’d ever risked before-if she wasn’t very, very careful.

The other women pounced on Cameron for entirely different reasons. “My God. He’s the ideal test case,” Dinah said.

Cameron tore his eyes off her and seemed to swiftly take in the others in the room. He may not have heard the gist of their earlier conversation, but he seemed to pick up fast that he was in trouble. He said, “No!” as if hoping