Part 7 (1/2)
Jez pushed me down and threw a leg across me. The weight of his thigh woke up my c.o.c.k. It didn't help that Jez had a hand on my chest, thumb absently teasing the edge of my nipple. He gave me a look that I couldn't categorize; it seemed to be hungry and fearful at once. Like he was fighting himself. He closed his eyes and kissed the soft skin under my ear.
”You're making me h.o.r.n.y,” I grumbled.
”There is one way to take care of that,” Jez said, standing up. ”That won't get us arrested,” he added, seeing the look I gave him.
”But the water's so cold,” I protested.
”You'll get used to it. Now stop being such a baby.”
With a dramatic sigh, I stripped down to my swim shorts. Jez dropped his shorts too. The little red swim briefs he wore underneath left little to the imagination. I gasped.
”Those are downright un-American. Only hairy German tourists are allowed to wear them.”
He just grinned.
”I guess they're more practical under a wet suit,” I admitted.
”I don't wear anything under a wet suit. Now c'mon, already.”
I followed him, running into the water then throwing myself into it. He'd been right. After the first cold shock, I got used to it.
Later, as we dried off and soaked up the sun's heat, he turned to me and asked a question.
”I'm driving up north on Monday. Do you think you could get three days free and come with me?”
Monday the restaurant was closed; Tuesday was my day off. I could ask Sandy to cover for me on Wednesday. She owed me one.
”Yeah, I can do that,” I replied.
Chapter Nine.
California State Route 1, aka Pacific Coast Highway, runs right along the coast, and parts of it are officially designated as ”scenic highway,” I was told. Jez also informed me that the really spectacular parts were farther north, but I thought it was pretty d.a.m.n picturesque already.
Once we pa.s.sed Malibu, with its expensive homes overlooking the ocean and the rest of the hubbub that went with them, there were just long stretches of sh.o.r.eline and public beaches to the left and hills to the right. We were somewhere in Santa Barbara County when we took an exit and got on a narrow two-lane road that meandered among orchards, hills, woods, and fields of tall gra.s.s turned yellow and brittle.
We had been reluctant to leave Arthur alone, but Mrs. Gonzalez promised to look in on him. She lived in the same building and was a nurse, plus her husband worked night s.h.i.+ft, so he would be home during the day. Not that Arthur needed looking after-not according to him. He had been vehement about that point, shooing us out of the apartment and telling us to get lost. So we went.
Jez hadn't volunteered any information about our destination, and I hadn't pried. I think he enjoyed being mysterious and watching me fill to the brim with curiosity. I was holding back heroically. After all, we had to be headed to a beach somewhere, right? But the new turn made me spill.
”Okay, I give,” I said. ”Where are we going?”
I had to give it to Jez: even smug like that, he was as lovable as a bucket of puppies. ”Doug and Loreen are old friends. Rob first brought me up here when I was five.”
”All this time I thought you were going surfing.”
”The beach is just a few miles to the west. I'm taking you on the scenic route.”
”So you come up here for the change of scenery?”
He kept his eyes on the road. ”Yeah. To be honest, I'm not that keen on Venice Beach. I grew up there, but I always liked it better here. Less craziness.” He flashed his teeth at me. ”Jasper should be there too. And Ginger.”
”Jasper and Ginger? I don't think I've ever met anyone named Jasper or Ginger.”
”Doug and Loreen are a bit hippie. You'll see. They were even worse back in the day. They could have given their kids much worse names.”
”Like Moon Unit?”
”Or Dweezil.” Jez grinned back.
Every once in a while we pa.s.sed a lonesome mailbox on our lonesome highway. At one such box, we slowed and turned off to an undistinguished dirt road disappearing into the trees. After a minute or so of b.u.mping around, we reached a clearing. A funky little house sat in the middle of it. Not too little, actually. Definitely funky though; it showed signs of having gone through a number of growth spurts over the years. I discerned the stone building that had to be the starting point. From there it grew in zigs and zags, sideways and upward, mostly in uneven green-painted wood. The main door stood wide open. Jez strolled right in, so I followed.
Doug and Loreen Williams weren't hippie in the conventional tie-dyed sense, but they radiated an undeniably bohemian vibe. He looked like a skinny, wiry version of Jerry Garcia, and she complemented him well. He wore faded jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt, she a long, flowing skirt with a colorful blouse and beaded necklace. They were both barefoot.
We found them in the large suns.h.i.+ne yellow kitchen. There were herb pots in the windows, prints and photos on the walls, colorful bottles, and all kinds of odds and ends on the shelves. And books everywhere-on the table, in the windows, on top of the fridge. The kitchen-and the rest of the house, I was to find out-was chaotic and well used. Loreen greeted us with exuberant cheerfulness. She hugged first Jez, then me.
”So you're the famous Nate. Nice to meet you at last.”
Her arms were strong enough to squeeze the stuffing out of me.
Once free again, I shot a sharp glance at Jez, but he gave me a wide-eyed, innocent look that I was so not buying. Mercifully, Doug was content with a handshake and a slap on the back.
”Right on time! Lunch is almost ready. The kids should be back any minute.”
As on cue, a car engine sounded outside, and a second later, a freckle-faced whirlwind of about seventeen or eighteen threw herself at Jez.
”It's nice to see you too, Gin,” he said.
A guy about Jez's age appeared in the doorway, carrying a very large watermelon. He had to be Jasper. The Williams family resemblance was obvious, but he looked so solemn compared to the others. Maybe solemn wasn't the right word for it, but with his short-cut hair and serious expression, he stood out among our scruffy crew.
”Jasper, right?” I held my hand out, bracing for more friendly physical abuse, but he just shuffled the melon to one side and took my hand.
”Call me Scoot. Everyone does.”
”I'm Nate.”
”Nice to finally meet you, Nate.”
There it was again. When did I become so famous? The whirlwind who had to be Ginger had detached herself from Jez and eyed me with suspicion.
”This is my sister. Don't worry; she doesn't bite. Be nice, Ginny.” Jasper nudged her in my direction.
”Hi,” she said coolly, staying out of arm's reach. I guessed she wasn't a member of my fan club.
We lugged our stuff into an upstairs bedroom and met back with the family behind the house. Under a large tree sat a big and heavy wooden picnic table flanked on two sides by benches. It was laden with a mishmash of plates and bowls. We took our seats. Doug and Loreen sat at the two ends, Jez and I on one side, Jasper and Ginny on the other.
Insects buzzed around us, and the soft breeze rattled the tree limbs, knocking stray bits of tree bark and the occasional dry leaf onto the table. It was all very rustic, and thus thrillingly exotic, standing in stark contrast of the crisp seriousness of the West family outdoor ventures my father had planned out like battle maneuvers. Everyone talked and pa.s.sed dishes back and forth at the same time.