“Well… yes, probably so.”
“Then you’d better go alone, honey. It’ll just be for the weekend, won’t it?”
“I guess it will. Though if the Gorens don’t mind, and things work out, I’ll most likely want to stay.”
“Well, I can join you later on if that’s the case.”
Barry hesitated, looking at Kim for a moment, and then decided that she was right. Lord, it would be perfect! He could really get started in the novel once he was in seclusion, away from all the interruptions; and if he was alone this weekend, well all the more work he could get done. He said Into the phone as he nodded at his wife, “Sounds just great, Jack. Kim doesn’t think she should go for the weekend, so I’ll be going tip alone.”
“Whatever you say,” Goren answered amiably.
“How do I get there?”
“Take Highway 101 until you reach Petaluma, and then pick up Highway 1. You can get directions at any service station. Follow One to Bodega Bay Salmon Creek is about five miles north; the turnoff is adjacent to a State Fish and Game station there. Turn left and follow the road to Parkwood Lane, about a half mile in. Turn right there, and we’re the fourth cabin on the right. Got all that?”
“Got it.”
“Good luck, Barry.”
“Thanks. Oh, and Jack, I can’t tell you what this means. If there’s anything I can do for you…
“Forget it,” Goren said. “That’s what friends are for."
It took the better part of an hour to pack the Ford with the writing necessities, such as pens and paper and the IBM typewriter. There was an air of joy about the whole thing, for both the Suttons were elated at this stroke of good fortune. They talked about how nice the Gorens were to help them this way, and how much in debt to them they were. At last the car was loaded; Barry kissed his wife tenderly and drove away.
The drive was pleasant, leisurely, and the seventy-odd miles went by quickly.
Most of it was freeway, and Barry was able to make excellent time. The road from Petaluma to Bodega Bay, and then north to the Salmon Creek turnoff was barren of traffic, and exceptionally pretty with its Northern California foliage. There was no fog and the sky was clear. Barry hummed a popular tune as he drove, as though he didn’t have a worry in the world.
The cabin at Salmon Creek was small and smelled of fish and salt from the Pacific Ocean nearby. It was on a slight rise, with a large side window overlooking the water. The cabin was of rough-hewn, salt-eroded redwood planks, and the roof of redwood shingles sagged slightly in the middle; the porch was lopsided, but Barry couldn’t have cared less. This was perfect as far as he was concerned, and the next neighbor was a good quarter of a mile away. No kids, no mowers, no street work crews, no telephone interruptions. Just the lapping of the waves and the cracking of typewriter keys on paper.
He drove up next to the canary yellow TR-6 Triumph sports car parked near the porch. He assumed it was Lynn Goren’s car and that she was already there, for it was next to the house and the stone chimney was sending wisps of smoke into the crisp air. Barry felt strangely excited as he walked across the grounds and up the heavy plank steps to the front door. He knocked on it twice.
There was a scrape of chair legs and then the tiny patter of feet. The door opened. Lynn stood easily, her hand on the knob, the other hand grasping a freshly-made martini.
“Hi!” she greeted Barry cheerily. “Come on in to your new writing studio.”
He stopped, his mind stunned by Lynn Goron’s beauty. She had been provocative at the party, but now, this way, she was even more sensual. She wore short-shorts of bright orange, so tight as to show her pubic mound and its wide cleft clearly through the fabric between her thighs. Her long, statuesque legs, bronzed even more than Kim’s were bare and beautiful, and her belly was just as bronzed nude between the shorts and an orange halter, flat and wrinkle free.
Her breasts were barely concealed by the thin strips of the halter, and Barry could almost see her nipples. Her light brown hair seemed shorter than it had the night before, and the pixie cut added to the vivacious effect her sparkling green eyes gave forth.
“Come in, Barry,” she repeated with a smile, moving aside with the fluid ease of a cat. She seemed to sense his hesitation, for she laughed and took a sip of her drink. “What’s the matter, Barry?” she asked coyly. “You look scared. I’m not going to eat you.”
She didn’t add the word she was thinking: “Yet.”
Chapter 3
Barry grinned, a little self-consciously, and stepped past Lynn into the cabin’s interior. The walls were constructed of unvarnished redwood, the ceiling was high, with exposed studs, and the furniture was old and comfortable, mainly rattan and old leather. There was a homey, comfortable atmosphere to the cabin, and the dim, filtered afternoon light added to its warm solidarity.
As Barry crossed the bare wooden floor, Lynn shut the door and followed him into the main living room. He could smell a faint, musky perfume, and the headiness of the odor made him slightly light-headed; images of candlelight and soft music and brandy in fine old crystal decanters flashed briefly through his mind. He shook, his head, grinning his wry grin; hell, next thing you knew he would be getting romantic notions and half a hard-on, which would do him no good at all since Kim was seventy miles away in San Francisco-and Lynn Goren was strictly out of bounds. Still, though, the lewd thoughts he had harbored about the voluptuous Mrs. Goren after making love to Kim last night returned momentarily; Christ yes, she would probably be one goddamned holy terror in bed, the way she walked, and smiled, and smelled was irrefutable testimony to that…
Lynn said, “Did you have any trouble finding the place, Barry?”
“No, no trouble at all.”
“We were sure you wouldn’t.”
“This really is nice of Jack and you, Mrs. Goren…“
“Lynn.”
“Well, all right… Lynn.”
“It’s our pleasure,” she said. She smiled warmly at him, and her eyes in the pale light were dancing with hot, sparking embers. “Would you like to take the guided tour now, Barry?’ “Yes,” he replied. “Fine.”
The cabin had four rooms in addition to the huge main living room. There were two small bedrooms, each equipped with a large double bed and a dresser; a tiny kitchen with a stove and refrigerator; and a circumscribed sun porch with floor-to-ceiling windows running the width of the dwelling, which looked out on an oblong, fenced-in rear yard with several pieces of lawn furniture and quite a few large shrubs and bushes. Beyond the fence were rolling sand dunes, extending for about fire hundred yards, and the dark, blue-black, white capped surface of the Pacific Ocean.
Lynn concluded the tour on the sun porch, saying, “You could work out here, Barry. Pull the bamboo blinds if the light gets too strong for you.” She indicated an oval redwood table at one end of the porch. “You could use that as your desk.”
Barry looked around. “Sounds great,” he said. “Are there any electrical outlets here? I’ve got an electric typewriter…“
“Behind the settee there.”
“Good. Perfect, in fact.”
“Well,” Lynn said, smiling at him, moistening her ups with the tip of her tongue. “Are you planning to do any work tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Barry mused. “I usually do my best writing in the morning. I could work a little tonight, but I’d probably be wiser to get a very early start in the morning.”
“Then you wouldn’t be averse to having a drink with me, would you?”
“Why… no, not at all. In fact, I think I could use a drink after the drive.”
“Would you mind doing the honors, sir?” she asked lightly.
Barry grinned. “Not at all.”
She reached out and took his hand. “Follow me.”
He allowed her to lead him back into the living room. The touch of her fingers on his hand had an odd, tingling effect on Barry; it was as if there were tiny, hidden electrodes beneath her skin, vibrating through to his flesh. He felt a certain dryness to his throat, and his eyes were on the undulating rhythm of her rounded buttocks through the tight orange shorts. Damn, but she was a hell of a sensual woman! he thought. If he wasn’t married, and she wasn’t married … well, there was no use thinking about ifs, getting himself all worked up over nothing.