Curled in the Bed of Love Read Free Page B

think it would be so rough. And it’s not about my big ego. Didn’t you feel it out there? How small your will is, how irrelevant? Come on, listen to what your body’s telling you now. That gorgeous kick of adrenaline.”
    The fetid stink of the sea rises from Claire’s clothes, heated to vapor by her body. If she weren’t trapped in the kayak, she’d punch him. “There’s nothing glorious about fear.”
    â€œLiar.”
    When they get back to the house after dropping off the rented kayak, its dented prow proof of the force they endured, Russell meets them in the entryway.
    â€œWhere were you?” he says. “You were supposed to be back hours ago. Dinner’s ruined.” He stops abruptly, takes in Claire’s still wet hair, their soggy clothes. “What happened?”
    â€œWe took a roll in the kayak,” Sam says.
    â€œSam had to have his thrill ride,” Claire says.
    â€œNext time you want to screw around, leave her home,” Russell says.
    For a moment, Claire thinks Russell might do something foolish, shove Sam’s broad chest, take a swing at him.
    But Russell is not by nature an angry man. He turns his attention to Claire.
    â€œBetter get out of those wet clothes. I don’t want to risk you getting sick.”
    Russell commands Claire to sit on the bench in the entryway. While Sam stands beside her, fumbling with his shoes and stripping off his wet clothes, Russell unties the wet laces of Claire’s shoes, fumbling with the waterlogged knot. When her shoes are off, he peels her wet socks from her feet. He holds an arm out to her. “You need a hot shower.”
    Claire declines his proffered arm. “I can manage on my own.”
    She takes a long shower, but the pounding hot water does not dispel the cold that has congealed in her body. The jeans and shirt she should put on are too heavy a burden, a reminder of the weight that soaked into her when they rolled in the ocean. She puts on a dress instead, not bothering with a bra, and stands shivering a moment before grabbing a bulky sweater and heading downstairs.
    Russell has set a pot of tea on the coffee table, and Sam is digging into the plate of bread and cheese beside it. Russell offers Claire a cup. “This will do you good.”
    â€œI want a real drink,” Claire says. But they don’t keep hard liquor in the house.
    â€œIf I fix you a drink, will you forgive me?” Sam says.
    â€œDon’t count on it.”
    â€œWait,” Sam says. “Just wait.”
    He bangs around in the kitchen and brings back a loaded tray. On the coffee table he lays out everything he has collected for their drinking—cut limes, a bowl of salt, ice cubes, wide-rimmed glasses. He goes to his room and returns with a bottle of tequila that his father bought forty years ago, which Sam tells them he has been carrying around the world with him ever since his father died, the glass nearly opaque with age, the print on the label worn away by fingertips, the worm at the bottom hard as an acorn kernel.
    Claire wets the rim of her glass with the lime, dips it in the bowl of salt until the rim glitters, then holds out her glass for Sam to fill with ice and tequila. Russell sticks with the tea. Until the drinksbegin to take effect on Sam and Claire, they remain silent. Then Sam casts off on another of his pet peeves. He’s been writing an essay on wildlife management, the transformation of wilderness into parks, a word he practically spits.
    â€œLook at Yosemite,” he says. “Paved trails, traffic jams, deer so tame you can walk right up to them, bears dependent on what they can scavenge from picnic coolers. Instead of limiting access, they’re turning Yosemite into Disneyland.”
    â€œIt would be undemocratic to keep people out,” Russell says mildly. “People can learn to live within limits. They can be taught.”
    Russell’s impulse is to help