Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

“I don't have a suit,” she said with a mischievous smile.

“I was counting on that,” he replied. “Lord, you look good, Sarah.” And stopping, he pulled her close. Her arms lifted high around his neck, sliding over the silk collar of his tuxedo, their eyes meeting under the spring moon. “You feel wonderful,” he murmured, pressing her warm body intimately near. The silk beneath his hands was smooth and heated.

“You feel… interesting,” she whispered, her face lifted to his.

“I hope you don't have to be home early.” He was moving her slowly back and forth in languid arousal.

“The servants will manage.” Her eyes were half closed, her voice low.

“Till next year?” Carey lightly kissed the top of her winged brow.

“Not without a raise,” Sarah breathed, her mouth brushing slowly over the cushion of his lower lip.

“I'll talk to my business manager,” he murmured, enticing her lips with gentle, tugging nibbles.

It didn't matter that Sarah spent most of her life chauffeuring her children to dance lessons, riding lessons, music lessons, Little League games; chairing the Junior League, volunteering at the museum two afternoons a week-in short, taking motherhood seriously. It didn't matter that Carey knew he was leaving tomorrow. Tonight was joyful friendship and pleasure and sweet lust. They stood under a bright yellow moon after a day of victory, absorbing each other's happiness. Their kiss was long and luxurious, the taste of each other triggering lush memories of lazy summer days.

“Why is it always so delicious with you, Carey? Like a dear treasure that never loses its luster.”

“I think it has something to do with being fifteen at the time, Sarah. And agreeing then that we never had to go home. Some blood pacts last for centuries with undiminished gilding. Trust me.” His fingers glided gently over her bare shoulders, his dark eyes alive with passion. “You were enchanting at fifteen. Beautiful,” he whispered, his finger tracing a slow path downward until it reached the heavy curve of her breast. “Always will be…”

“Are the daffodils in bloom at your mother's?” Sarah's hands drifted slowly down Carey's back until they rested just below the base of his spine, then splayed over the taut muscles of his lower back while her hips moved in a slow, undulating rhythm.

He groaned very low, like a contented lion, and nodded twice in time to her intimate dance. “You feel like you need a daffodil shower,” he murmured, his voice husky with desire. And then a smile of remembrance creased his lean face.

Sarah laughed softly. It was a private joke, a private keepsake shared by only two people in the world. “Do you ever wish you were fifteen again?” she asked, her fingers moving upward.

Carey thought for a minute. “Yes, for the summer with you. No, for the lack of control over my life.”

Sarah tilted her head in a small, graceful inclination. “Are you in control now?”

“As much as a horse-mad, iconoclastic dreamer can be. We're talking simulated control.” And he kissed the tops of her fingers that had crept over his shoulder and drifted across his cheek.

“My therapist says I should be less passive, more aggressive, take charge of my life more often,” Sarah softly declared, tapping a fingertip on Carey's lower lip for emphasis of each word.

Carey knew how unstable Sarah's childhood had been, how her father had remarried four times. Her extended family was a byzantine snarl of half-brothers and sisters, step-mothers and shared vacations. Hardly a lesson on how to take charge of your life. “Therapists usually have a few ex-wives or ex-husbands in the woodwork. Don't take everything they say to heart. If they were so great in dealing with relationships and the world, they'd be celebrating silver wedding anniversaries instead of raising their third family. If you're satisfied, who cares? Do you like your kids?” He was not so tactless as to ask the same about her husband.

“Love them.”

“Lucky for them,” he replied with solemn gravity.

“You don't have any children, do you?” Sarah said, reading the traces of regret in his tone.

Carey shook his head.

“Why not?”

His hands dropped away from her shoulders, and, slipping his fingers through hers, he resumed their journey toward his mother's house. They walked several steps before he responded to her blunt inquiry. “After Vietnam and all the Agent Orange problems,” he said very quietly, “I didn't think it was wise. We were drenched in that stuff up in the jungle. They were spraying round the clock. No one mentioned side effects, but several of my buddies had children with severe problems. You want to cry when you see those babies struggling to do simple things every child takes for granted. I couldn't deal with that.”

“How terrible!” Sarah exclaimed. Regardless of her ambivalent feelings toward Edward, her children were her greatest joy. “Oh, Carey,” she said, sympathy reaching out in her voice, “I'm sorry. How awful for you.”

“Hey.” He pulled her to a stop. “It's not that big a tragedy. The world will get along just fine without any more Ferstens. Now,” he went on, tugging on her hand like an insistent child, “if this conversation doesn't lighten up, I'm taking back my offer of a daffodil shower.”

“I won't let you!” Sarah cried. “A promise is a promise, Carey Fersten! You have to!”

“Make me,” he teased.

“With pleasure,” she cheerfully replied.

And it was.

Juliana's driver took Sarah home the next morning after a late breakfast poolside. Carey took a second breakfast with his mother before leaving for Minnesota. She only mentioned the daffodils once in passing, a casual remark about how “boys will be boys.” Carey apologized. “It must have been the spring moon. I'm sorry, Mother.”

“Sarah's a sweet girl,” was all she said. “Will we be seeing you again soon?” she asked with a motherly inquisitiveness.

“You will be seeing me again when I've finished shooting. Probably in two months. Maybe three if the weather doesn't cooperate. Come up though, if you're interested in a starring role. We'll write you in,” he said with a grin.

“As if I'm inclined to be a movie star at my age. I can't even remember a telephone number, let alone pages of dialogue.”

“Just so you don't forget mine. Call me.”

After saying his good-byes, Carey boarded his plane at a small local airstrip and slept the few hours it took to reach his father's.

The next day, production began on the film Carey had been wanting to make for eleven years. It was a personal indulgence he hadn't been able to afford until now. But his last two films had grossed so much money, his accountants were scouring the tax laws for hidden loopholes.

He'd always wanted to do an immigrant story.

He'd always wanted to explore the beginnings of the union movement in the iron mines.

He'd always wanted to bring the diverse ethnic mixture of the Iron Range to the screen.

It was an ambitious project. Some of his advisors had warned him that it was too ambitious, too self-indulgent.

“Not commercial enough,” they'd said, now that he was considered “commercial.”

“Not my first priority,” he'd replied. “Nor my forty-ninth, either,” he'd added.

“Too esoteric,” they'd cautioned.

“Bull,” he'd retorted. “Give the audience some credit, guys.”

“Immigrant sagas don't sell,” they'd protested.

“Good stories do, though,” he'd pleasantly responded.

“Carey, fella, you're going to lose a bundle on this concept.”

“But it's my money, isn't it? We start May first. Everyone be ready.”

“There's not even a decent restaurant in that outland,” one assistant director in a foul mood and a stylish leather jacket had muttered.

Carey gave a thin smile. “I just want to remind everyone this is not a corporate decision. And to those uncertain of the structure of Golden Bear Productions, Allen will fill you in. Bon appйtit.”

T he decibel level had been rising steadily since the cocktail hour at the class reunion began. Molly was smiling at one of Marge's facetious remarks about girls' field hockey. Years ago they had all agreed that field hockey was the pits, and their opinions were unaltered by time.

It was comfortable, genial, like old home week, back with the group that had shared every bit of whispered high school gossip. The five friends had kept in touch with the usual Christmas cards, birthday cards, and birth announcements, but this was the first time in ten years they'd all been together again.

In the course of the last two hours, all the pertinent information had been exchanged: who was married, divorced, remarried, moved, working, happy, unhappy, bored, ecstatic. Husbands and ex-husbands had been thoroughly dissected. With a relaxed sigh, Molly leaned back in an antiquated leather chair in the Moose Club's old-fashioned, blatantly masculine interior. Immune to the decorating fads of the last sixty years, the board had resisted change with a stalwart stubbornness that was somehow comforting, Molly decided, gazing at a room untroubled by the passage of time.

“Molly, do I have a piece of gossip for you,” Linda, whose tennis body had remained unchanged, said with a knowing lift of her brows.

“Don't keep me in suspense, then. You know how I adore gossip,” Molly said, resting her head against the timeworn leather that had seen three generations come and go.

“Carey Fersten came into town yesterday with his film crew.”

For a stark moment the noise, the people, the reunion, and her sense of reality were all suspended. Molly was in a vacuum of arrested motion, and she saw him as she had the last time almost ten years ago, two weeks before her wedding to Bart.