Jennifer Greene - Silver and Spice

“No one would suggest you were a saint,” she began on a husky murmur.

“This time, yes. Oh, yes, Anne. But no more…”

He took her with the light still dancing on them, the afternoon sun still so delightfully pouring through the windows. When light gave way to late-afternoon dusk, they napped. But when it was dark, moonlight played through the stained-glass window, and they were again caught up in the magic of the senses. Jake played the slow torturer this time, a role he had always assumed expertly. But Anne was learning.

***

The next day was busy and the next, and the next. Anne had a long list of things to accomplish-unpack the motor home, put away the food, vacuum and scour the vehicle, buy groceries, wash clothes, whisk away the thin layer of dust in Jake’s house…

Jake had an equally long list of priorities. A long walk through the woods behind his house, a boat excursion on the lake, lunch in the gazebo over the water. His list was longer than Anne’s. He had a lot of odd hours scheduled for more critical activities: laughing, making love.

On Wednesday, a storm whipped up on the lake around noon, distracting both of them. Lightning pierced the frothing water in sizzling yellow slashes, casting a fluorescent glow on the surrounding trees. Branches shook and swayed in a mad dance, and thunder roared out huge, angry bellows that seemed to surround the house. The clear, still waters of the lake turned wild, and if Jake’s arms hadn’t been around her, the vision from Jake’s glass-paneled living room would have been close to terrifying.

They watched for an hour, until nature’s fireworks settled down to a steady, pelting rain. They turned to each other then, Jake with a rueful smile for the day’s plans gone awry. “No walk today,” he said wryly.

Anne had to agree. And she couldn’t have been less eager to do household chores, either. “A good book,” she suggested.

“And hot cider with cinnamon sticks.”

They holed up in the study, Anne at one end of the couch and Jake at the other. After a great deal of fussing, they got their legs tucked together properly, rested their warm mugs of cider on their chests, and opened up their respective books. A financial bestseller for Anne, a Mickey Spillane novel for Jake. They chuckled at each other’s idea of a good book, and then both heads bent down.

Anne tired first, setting down her mug to stare absently at the oak desk. Papers had begun to pile up there since they’d arrived. It seemed this was to be their office. The look of never-serious rogue didn’t fool Anne anymore, though Jake had obviously scheduled a total vacation for himself these few weeks, although he’d made more than a few business calls when he thought she wasn’t looking. Anne didn’t let on that she noticed. The man she was so restlessly, so totally, frighteningly in love with didn’t want her to think he had anything on his mind but her.

Unfortunately, that made her love him more.

Unconsciously she found herself studying him, the beak nose and sun-weathered skin, the silvery sideburns that truthfully needed a trim, the way his brows arched downward in concentration. Her eyes softened helplessly, the longer she looked at him.

There was a small corner in her head that was still holding out on Jake; she couldn’t explain why. The dozens of things that had always made a permanent relationship with Jake impossible…many of them he had dispelled. The house-she knew it was for her, a measure of his knowing how much she valued security. And if his involvement with silver still struck uneasy chords she could not deny his serious attitude toward it. This was no fly-by-night venture for him; he knew what he was doing. Coeur d’Alene was a perfectly lovely place to raise children…

Several times, she nearly interrupted whatever they were doing to tell him she wasn’t going home at the end of the week. Yet she hadn’t. She knew she loved him, a fool couldn’t doubt he loved her. But there was something, a restless, ceaseless worry in the back of her head at the very center of her heart.

How long would he really want to settle down? Would he be happy in the same place, playing father and husband just like other men? Could cautious Anne, hung up on stability and schedules, really hold his interest for the long term?

His eyes flickered to hers, and she hurriedly opened her book again. To the same page she’d already read four times. Jake’s toe suddenly started a lazy circular motion on her hip. Her palm enclosed his toes scoldingly. He chuckled.

“You’re bored with that book,” he accused.

“I am not.”

“You are. When are you going to amble over to the desk and sort out my mess?”

She flipped the page. “You don’t make a mess. You just keep on with that theme because you know it makes me worry about you.” Narrowed eyes scolded him over the top of her book. “A typical masculine ploy.”

“How could you misjudge me so terribly?” He sounded wounded.

She plied a fingernail down the length of his foot, and chuckled when he laughed. They read for another moment or two, until Jake said casually, “The IRS is going to do an audit on me next month.”

Every muscle in Anne’s body went instantly rigid.

Like a general facing Code Red, Anne’s mind registered Emergency with frightening efficiency. Jake smiled at her lazily. The next five minutes were a mass of confusion. Jake opened up four paneled doors, revealing built-in drawers and cabinets, boxes of tumbling papers. Anne raced to the kitchen to make coffee. Desk drawers opened and slammed; Anne adjusted the light above the desk.

The noise abruptly ended. Jake returned to his Mickey Spillane adventure, occasionally rising long enough to refill the coffee cup on her desk. The storm ended in late afternoon, and dusk settled in with total calm. When Jake brought in a tray of sandwiches and set it on the carpet, Anne rose from behind the desk for the first time in two and a half hours. She settled cross-legged on the floor, across the tray from Jake, vaguely aware that two weeks ago she would never have considered picnicking on the carpet when there were perfectly good tables strewn throughout the house. An irrelevant thought.

Jake handed her a sandwich, a huge amalgamation of ham and bacon and turkey and lettuce and cheese, so thick she could barely get her fingers around it. “So what do you think?” he asked casually.

“That it would take an efficiency expert months to get you organized.” Green eyes made every attempt to cow the humor in his own. “Have you ever heard of the word file?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t believe it. Spell it.”

“F-i-l-e,” he obliged. He swallowed a mouthful of sandwich, not easy to do when he was wearing his widest crooked grin. “The lady is about to spit a little fire,” he speculated to thin air.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Just because you’ve stuffed receipts in shoe boxes? Just because you’ve got active bank books buried in a mound of candy wrappers?” She took a sip of tea. “Did it ever vaguely occur to you that when you fill out your tax returns in crayon, the IRS might get a little curious?”

“Now, Anne. Let’s not exaggerate.”

“No one overpays the IRS one year by some ridiculous sum, and then the next year turns in a half-done tax return with a big check and a note that says, ‘I’m sure this will cover it.’” Her voice was rising in spite of herself.

“I was busy last year at tax time.” He brushed the crumbs from his hands, his silvery eyes glinting on hers, full of amusement, and certainly not concerned. “Why does everyone see the IRS as some kind of enemy? I don’t care if they come here and turn everything topsy-turvy. What’s the difference? I’ve got nothing to hide.”

She cradled her head in her hands. “Just bring me an aspirin, would you?”

He sighed, his expression turning serious as he pushed the tray aside. “Anne, in certain ways, I know well I’m probably not going to change. When I take on something, it’s for the challenge of it, not the money involved. I like to earn money, but once that’s done, the challenge is gone. Hear me?”

“All I hear is that you have to be the first person in history to get in trouble with the government for overpaying your taxes,” she moaned distractedly. “Jake, hasn’t anyone ever mentioned to you that people cheat right and left to get out of paying taxes? Do you realize exactly how much you’ve thrown away by never acquiring a tax shelter?”

“But that’s all your bailiwick,” he said patiently, and drew her up to a standing position. “Come on, time to clear away the cobwebs. Let’s sit outside.”

Jake took the tray to the kitchen, then draped a sweater over her shoulders as they wandered outdoors, making their way to the narrow wet dock that led to the gazebo over the water. The storm had left the lake unbelievably calm and clear; stars shimmered on the surface like diamonds on black velvet. Waves lapped gently at the shore, reminding Anne of the sleepy rhythm of a lullaby.

Jake’s gazebo was five-sided, with two sides walled for privacy and shade and the others screened for a clear view of their cove and the lake. Two chairs were wet, but the lounger, tucked in the shaded corner, was dry. Jake stretched out first, then pulled Anne between his thighs. She leaned back, resting her head on his chest, her pulse beating at a still-troubled rate-but less so. No matter how concerned she was for his finances, she had also just spent hours bent over a desk, and this break was welcome. Jake crossed his arms under her breasts, comfortably secure. “Now do you believe I need you?” he asked finally. “Things have rather gotten out of hand the last few years. The silver boomeranged on me. I had more profits coming in than I ever expected. And my trip to Tulsa just seemed to be a case of being in the right place at the right time. Actually, Anne, the money started accumulating when I was still a kid, fishing off the coast of Alaska. I had nowhere to spend the money while I was stuck on that boat. It just sort of all got away from me…”