Chapter 17
17
W hen tragedies happen, small communities like the one on Anderson Island have a way of coming together, even for people who lived on the margins. King’s grocery store put out a glass pickle jar to collect money for Flora. People donated clothes, shoes, and called Rainshadow to ask what else she needed. The only phone calls that came were for her, so she was the only one picking up the phone during the day. A local reporter tried to write a story about her, but she declined to be interviewed.
“We could get you more money,” the journalist said. “The story would go out to all of the islands, maybe get picked up in Seattle.”
“No, I have everything I need,” Flora had insisted.
She had a strange feeling, like it would be easy to upset the delicate situation she’d found herself in.
The first night after the fire, Flora was still in a kind of trance. She was not sad that the bus was gone and her mother was dead. In fact, it seemed almost to have been fate, a sort of cosmic coincidence that became destiny. She was meant to live at Rainshadow. Ethan wanted her there, of that she was certain. Now she had nowhere else to go, and Sylvia, heartless as Flora knew her to be, would not kick her out. She couldn’t. Ethan wouldn’t let her, and both of them knew it.
For three nights, Ethan was polite, sympathetic about the death of her mother, and a little bit distant, as though to make certain they were not too obvious in front of Sylvia. By the fourth night, though, Flora began to wonder if perhaps he had meant it when he said that they could not be together again, not even in secret. He did not come to her room, did not return her furtive glances, did not even linger with her after dinner, when Sylvia made a show of going to bed early and insisting he join her.
Then, on the fifth night, a Friday, Ethan made an announcement at yet another dinner where he did not eat. Only Flora and Sylvia had the perfectly roasted salmon filet that the cook prepared, with mashed potatoes and a small gem lettuce salad.
“I have a gift for you, Flora,” Ethan said, his lips twitched, like he was containing a smile.
“Oh?” Flora smiled and blushed a little, and her eyes slid over to see Sylvia take a huge gulp of her wine, then set it down, her own eyes burning into Ethan.
He lifted a set of beautiful silver gift boxes onto the table, pushing it over to her.
Sylvia watched, dead-eyed, as Flora opened the first one.
Inside, neatly folded, was a beautiful pair of riding breeches and a silky white dress shirt.
“Oh my god,” Flora said, and gasped. She had never owned anything so beautiful. She pulled the pants out and unrolled them, holding them to her body. “Ethan, I can’t believe this.”
Inside of the next box was a simple black satin dress, and a cashmere sweater. She fingered the silky cashmere, breathing out, shaking her head. “This is too much,” she whispered.
“No, it’s not. I’m sorry that you lost everything,” Ethan said. “I only hope this makes it… a little bit more bearable.”
Flora went to open the last box, but he stopped her.
“Open that later,” he said. “But I have one more thing.”
Onto the table he hefted a large burnt-orange box, and pushed it, too, across the table.
Inside, Flora found the most magnificent pair of riding boots she’d ever seen in her life. Polished black leather, calf-high, supple as a kid glove and sleek as a black cobra. She marveled at them, unbelieving.
“Ethan,” she said, looking up at him with misty eyes. “I can’t believe this. I really can’t. Thank you.”
“Thank you for everything,” he said. “You’ve been very good to us, Sylvia and I.”
Flora looked at Sylvia then, but the other woman only gazed off into the distance, vacant of emotion or expression.
Later, in her bedroom, Flora opened the final box.
Inside it was a collection of lingerie, a dozen pairs of black silk panties, an assortment of bras, all in black, gray, and wine-red, and a silk and lace chemise in black. It was all simple, tasteful, and felt very, very expensive. Flora picked up one piece at a time, running her fingers over the lace, even holding them up to her lips they were so soft and finely woven. She had never seen anything like these luxury pieces anywhere on Anderson Island.
Flora took a long shower, then slid on a pair of the black panties and the chemise. She found a matchbook in the nightstand drawer and lit a candle that rested by the bed, unused, then brought it to the guest room vanity. Then she sat, gazing at herself in the vanity mirror and brushing her long hair. She had always thought she was plain, especially compared to her beautiful mother, but now she saw her full lips, her large eyes, and her youthful, pale skin and admired herself. Ethan, the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life, thought she was beautiful, so how could she not be?
When the quiet knock on the door came, she realized she had been waiting for it, expecting it. She turned, eyes shining, as Ethan slipped silently through the door.
“Flora,” he said in that deep, resonating voice. He looked at her with those luminous eyes, biting his lip as though he could not contain his attraction to her.
“Ethan,” she said, standing. She had never felt more sexy than she did then, in that silky chemise that showed off her every slope and curve, her pert nipples, her flat belly. She imagined herself through Ethan’s eyes, comparing herself to Sylvia. Sylvia had been a beauty once, perhaps, but now she was loosening, dimpling, and Flora knew her own body must only be more beautiful in contrast.
“You’re incredible,” Ethan said, closing the door behind him with a muted click. “I’ve been wanting to come down here, to see you. I couldn’t wait any longer. But it can only be a visit between friends, of course.”
“Of course. Thank you for everything,” Flora said.
“It must have been very hard for you,” he said, “to lose everything. I only wanted to ease your pain, ease your burden.”
“It hasn’t been that hard,” she said, gazing into his eyes. “Knowing I had a place here, knowing I wasn’t on my own.”
“No,” Ethan said, his voice deepening. “You’re not on your own. I will take care of you, Flora.”
“What about Sylvia?”
“Sylvia,” Ethan breathed, as if just remembering her. “I can’t send her away, Flora. I simply can’t. She relies on me, just as you now do. We will find a way to be with one another when we can.”
It wasn’t the answer she was hoping for, but she knew she shouldn’t press the issue. “That’s fine,” she lied, still gazing into Ethan’s eyes, letting him draw her further and further in.
“I want to touch you,” he said. “But I shouldn’t. I’ve already gone too far, done too much.”
“You can touch me,” she said, and her voice sounded husky, filled with need. “I want you to touch me.”
“Flora,” he said, his eyes shining. “You’re so innocent. I can’t touch you. It would be wrong. Not just because of Sylvia?—”
“Why then?” Flora pouted, crossed and uncrossed her arms, trying to look as attractive as possible.
“Because I’m not a man, not like you think. Not a good man, anyway. I’m a monster.” His eyes were pleading.
“A monster?”
He closed his eyes and swallowed as though gathering strength.
“A monster because I lied to Sylvia when I told her I would love her forever. I don’t love her anymore, but Flora, I swore that I would!”
She rushed to him, put her arms around him, brought him close for a kiss. At first he resisted, not kissing her back. When he did, yielding and opening his mouth, putting his hands on her waist and pulling her close, she was elated. She would make him hers. She would show him that he deserved the kind of real love that she could give him.
“Come to bed with me,” she whispered, pressing her mouth to his lips.
He kissed her back, slipped his tongue into her mouth. She shivered, needing him. His hands roved, lifted the chemise to slide over her belly, her breasts. He said that this would be a friendly meeting, but his hands didn’t hesitate, didn’t tremble. They betrayed his intentions as surely as if he’d said he loved her.
In bed, he seemed to curl around her, on top of her, all around her. She rolled him onto his back and climbed on top of him, rocking against the hardening in his soft trousers, gazing down at him, imagining how beautiful she must look. He did look up at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world, his hands sliding up the satin fabric to cup her breasts, pulling her close, kissing her again as he pressed himself into her.
“Let me help you,” she said, sliding down and helping him take off his pants. He peeled off his own T-shirt and she was struck, marveling anew at his spectacular body, the way his stomach rippled when he sat up on his elbows to look down at her.
She stroked him, looking up into his eyes, then, following a deep and powerful impulse, she angled him into her open mouth.
“Oh god,” he groaned, his head falling back, as she sucked him.
His cock twitched in her mouth, and she stroked and sucked even more ardently, as though she couldn’t ever get enough of him. She couldn’t imagine she ever would.
“I want to be inside of you,” Ethan growled, looking down at her with needy admiration. “You’re so beautiful, Flora.”
She nodded and, as he watched with great interest, slid the new pair of silk black panties over her long, pale legs. She had never felt more beautiful as she climbed on top of him, staring straight into his hypnotic eyes, and lowered herself onto him. She rocked, as slowly as she could without losing her mind, her hand on his chest, his hands on her hips. She liked making him pant, making him shudder. She wanted to make him beg. She slowed down.
“Oh,” he groaned, his voice rough in his throat, “don’t stop.”
“I love you, Ethan,” she whispered, rocking her hips in slow motion. “I need you to know that. I’ll do anything for you.”
“Flora,” he said, and his strained voice said everything. “Flora, Flora, Flora…”
She felt a mounting warmth, and intense, building pleasure that made her muscles tighten and her mind go blank. She was only the hot, liquid need that pooled in her lower belly, in her pussy, radiating out. She came, a fluttery release against Ethan’s very hard cock, her body loosening like so many tight knots coming undone at once.
Flora collapsed on top of him, and he rolled her over onto her back. She wrapped her legs around his waist, softening for him, and he fucked her savagely, more roughly than she ever could have expected, his closed mouth pressed against her neck, groaning, grunting, panting, so that he seemed more animal than human. She thought of the word he’d used earlier. Monster. She could never think of him as a monster, she was too obsessed, knew she would always see him as perfect. He seized against her, crying out, and he opened his mouth against her throat, licked it once, and pulled himself away quite suddenly.
As soon as he came, it was as though he changed. She couldn’t tell if it was regret or something else, some urge she didn’t understand.
“I have to go,” he said, and he gathered his clothes and almost ran from the room without even getting dressed first. Flora sat up on her elbows and watched, utterly confused, but there was no time to ask what was wrong.
Just like that, he was gone.