my lover is the beginning. I encompass the whole work of creation, and all knowledge is hidden in me.’”
“What do you think it means?” I turned my head so I could see his expression.
He smiled, and his arms circled my waist, one hand now resting on the babies. They moved as if recognizing their father’s touch. “That I am a very lucky man,” Matthew replied.
12
I woke up to Matthew’s cool hands sliding under my pajama top, his lips soothing against my damp neck.
“Happy birthday,” he murmured.
“My own private air conditioner,” I said, snuggling against him. A vampire husband brought welcome relief in tropical conditions. “What a thoughtful present.”
“There are more,” he said, giving me a slow, wicked kiss.
“Fernando and Sarah?” I was almost past caring who might hear our lovemaking, but not quite.
“Outside. In the garden hammock. With the paper.”
“We’ll have to be quick, then.” The local papers were short on news and long on advertisements.
They took ten minutes to read—fifteen if you were shopping the back-to-school sales or wanted to know which of the three grocery chains had the best deal on bleach.
“I went out for the New York Times this morning,” he said.
“Always prepared, aren’t you?” I reached down and touched him. Matthew swore. In French.
“You’re just like Verin. Such a Boy Scout.”
“Not always,” he said, closing his eyes. “Not now, certainly.”
“Awfully sure of yourself, too.” My mouth slid along his in a teasing kiss. “The New York Times.
What if I were tired? Cranky? Or hormonal? The Albany paper would have been more than enough to keep them busy then.”
“I was relying on my presents to sweeten you up.”
“Well, I don’t know.” A sinuous twist of my hand elicited another French curse. “Why don’t I finish unwrapping this one? Then you can show me what else you’ve got.”
By eleven o’clock on my birthday morning, the mercury had already climbed above ninety degrees. The August heat wave showed no signs of breaking.
Worried about Sarah’s garden, I spliced together four hoses using a new binding spell and some duct tape so that I could reach all the flower beds. My headphones were jammed into my ears, and I was listening to Fleetwood Mac. The house had fallen eerily silent, as if it were waiting for something to happen, and I found myself missing the beat of my parents’ favorite band.
While dragging the hose across the lawn, my attention was momentarily caught by the large iron weather vane sprouting from the top of the hop barn. It hadn’t been there yesterday. I wondered why the house was tinkering with the outbuildings. While I considered the question, two more weather vanes popped out of the ridgepole. They quivered for a moment like newly emerged plants, then whirled madly. When the motion stopped, they all pointed north. Hopefully, their position was an indication that rain was on the way. Until then, the hose was going to have to suffice.
I was giving the plants a good soaking when someone engulfed me in an embrace.
“Thank God! I’ve been so worried about you.” The deep voice was muted by the sound of guitars and drums, but I recognized it nonetheless. I ripped the headphones from my ears and turned to face my best friend. His deep brown eyes were full of concern.
“Chris!” I flung my arms around his broad shoulders. “What are you doing here?” I searched his features for changes but found none. Still the same close-cropped curly hair, still the same walnut skin, still the same high cheekbones angled under straight brows, still the same wide mouth.