XXXVI – Charm

I'm in love with your daughter
I want to have her baby I'm in love with your daughter
So can I please

-

Somedays - Regina Spektor

He is nervous.

He thinks it is crazy ridiculous, but he is actually awfully nervous.

He attempts to focus on the music filling the small cabin of the rental car. One of her CDs. She had said it was a band from her hometown. Powderfinger. He likes it. Mellow, raw, edgy rock.

The lead guitarist is talented, he thinks.

The male vocalist has a smooth, agreeable voice, he thinks.

Her parents are going to freak when they meet me, he thinks.

As they approach the house with its grand verandas and corrugated tin roof, their shoes crunch over the yellow grass.

The entire country is in drought.

He had observed the signs at all of the water outlets in their hotel room. Watch every drop.

She had called out to him on numerous occasions, telling him to hurry up and get out of the shower.

Once, he had snatched her arms and pulled her into the shower with him while she was still fully clothed, saying: 'don't you think it would be more economical if we showered together.' In fact, it was far less economical because they had engaged in a full round of foreplay and penetration before finally shutting the water off.

They make their way down a path, through a mess of overhanging foliage.

Well this little jungle certainly isn't thirsty, he thinks as a palm frond taps on his shoulder. He shrugs it away, as if dismissing its effort to gain his attention.

'I want you to remember something,' she says with her hand on the doorknob.

'What's that?' he asks.

'This was your idea.'

His eyes are wide with fright.

She laughs a little, before retracting her comment.

'Don't worry darling,' she says, rubbing his arm reassuringly, 'they are actually completely harmless.'

'Oh,' he says, 'would you say that Miranda was harmless?'

'Oh god no! I love her to bits, but she's a bitch. I should have warned you about that one.'

And then she turns the knob and the door is open.

No turning back.

They navigate their way through a long hall, past a study and a bedroom and into an open plan kitchen and dining area. The ceiling is high and there are numerous fans – blades beating steadily, creating an artificial breeze.

There is a woman standing behind the bench in the kitchen with her hands in a bowl. Dark hair, olive skin, sharp nose. Besides her short stature, she doesn't resemble Lee in the slightest bit.

'Leora,' she says happily, upon noticing the two figures in the room.

She raises her tomato-juice covered hands from the bowl.

'Leora?' House whispers questioningly.

She cringes and rolls her eyes. 'Yeah that's my name. It's ancient Greek, means illumination, or light, or something.'

He thinks this is profound. I have seen the light… you are the light of my life… and other clichés.

'Did I forget to mention that my parents are weird?' she says, interrupting his train of thought.

'I thought you said your parents were ordinary?'

'Well…not ordinary ordinary. I guess I just meant that neither of them are serial killers or psychopaths. Working as a clinical psychologist kinda skews your definition of ordinary.'

'I'm making bruschetta,' the woman says, moving out from behind the bench and kissing Lee sloppily on both cheeks.

'Good mum,' Lee replies unenthusiastically.

'Have you seen your father yet? I think he's out back cleaning the pool.'

The woman seems to behave as if House does not exist.

'No ma,' Lee says.

'Well you'd better go and find him, he wants to show you the new shed.'

'Ma, I don't care about the shed,' Lee says.

She reaches behind without a glance and grips House by the hand, urging him to step forward.

'This is Greg,' she says proudly, presenting him with a wide smile.

'Oh, sorry!' Lee's mother exclaims, 'hello Greg!'

She reaches up and tugs at House's shirt, leaving a tomato stain. He is forced to lower his head and she is able to bestow the same sloppy greeting kisses upon him. He eyes Lee incredulously – surprised to receive such a welcome.

'I'm Effie,' the woman introduces herself.

'Hi…Effie,' he replies, forcing his best 'nice to meet you,' smile.

House notices the woman's green eyes. Lee's green eyes. Her lips – Lee's full lips. Now he sees the resemblance.

'You two go outside and sit down,' she says, 'I'll get you a drink. I'll call your father up.'

'Good,' Lee mutters as she guides House out onto the veranda, 'she's fussing. She's always happiest when she's fussing.'

'She doesn't look a thing like you,' he says, sitting beside her on the solid wooden bench.

'She's half Greek,' Lee replies.

He raises his brow. He would never have guessed. Lee appears to be the poster girl for the Irish or Scottish Caucasian race.

'My dad's from an Irish background,' she explains.

He nods, and the man in question appears at the top of the stairs on the end of the veranda.

'Hello,' he says.

He is wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, shorts and flip-flops, and House begins to think that he himself, may not appear to be so odd after all.

Lee and House stand.

'Greg, right?' Lee's father says, shaking House's hand excitedly.

'Yeah,' House says hesitantly, vaguely surprised that this man does not seem to mind that his daughter has presented him with an aging cripple.

'Michael,' her father says, 'how's it going' mate?'

'Yeah, good…Michael,' House says, nodding, making a note to himself that apparently Australian's really do speak like Crocodile Dundee.

'American or Canadian?' Michael asks.

'American,' House responds.

'I did tell him,' Effie says, stepping out onto the veranda with a tray of drinks, 'but he never remembers the little details.'

'Where do you think I've been for the last year, dad?' Lee jokes, reaching for a drink.

'Oh, I don't know, you're always jetting off somewhere.'

'Not anymore,' she says looking at House, 'we're going back to the states tomorrow. That's home now.'

………

An hour, and plates full of barbequed meat, salad and coleslaw later, House's mind is still working diligently, constantly reviewing the rules of polite, casual conversation. He had been most surprised not to receive any: 'what do you do? where do you work? what's with the cane? what are your intentions with our daughter? how long have you two been together? how did you meet?' type questions. Instead her parents are telling various, boring retiree stories about their holiday in Perth, their new shed and their new granddaughter, and he is most content with this. He nods and smiles and allows his mind to drift. Mid-way though Mrs Emerson's tale about the wine tasting tour, his eyes become fixed on Lee. She is nodding and squinting her eyes ever so slightly in that 'I'm so interested in what your saying,' way. The cool breeze is gently raising loose wisps of golden hair to float whimsically around her face. He finds himself licking his lips as he studies her full, cherry lip balm adorned pout. His eyes drift lower. She wears a delicate silver chain around her neck with a collection of tiny charms resting in her cleavage. There is a heart, an anchor, and a cross on one of the charms. He had lifted it earlier to inspect it after she had asked him to close the clasp on the chain, and she had told him that it represents faith, hope and charity. There is also an intricate key charm and a treble clef.

She must have felt his eyes on her because she glances at him, offering him a wink and a smile and he finds himself grinning like a shy schoolboy, before looking at her mother, pretending to be engrossed in her anecdote about the tour bus driver.

His eyes return to her after a brief moment.

He notices a bead of sweat gliding over the glorious pale skin of her left breast and disappearing behind the material of her sundress. That damn sundress – a yellow and white floral pattern with little buttons on the straps. So innocent yet so naughty. Now his mind is flooded with the kinds of thoughts that prompt a blissful throb in his lap. Usually it wouldn't be a problem, he would simply direct her attention to it and she would give him a helping hand. But it is neither the time nor the place, so he strains to concentrate on Effie's story.

………

After the plates are cleared, like a typical gushing mother, Effie produces the family photos and directs House to images of Lee at six minutes, then six days, then six months and then six years old. At six, she had no front teeth, ginger pigtails and her face was spotted with hundreds of freckles.

'Ha!' he says, 'you look like Pippy Long-Stockings!'

'Actually, I did get that a bit when I was a kid,' she responds.

At sixteen, she looked much the same as she does now.

At nineteen, she is posed in a fashion shoot.

He nudges her teasingly and she covers her face and laughs with embarrassment.

'It was a good way to pay off my undergrad fees,' she says, blushing.

Despite the outdated 90's fashion, he thinks the photo is stunning.

His favourite photo however, is a photo of her on the beach. It was taken not too long ago. She is twenty-five or maybe twenty-six. The sun is low in the sky – the lighting is dim. She is wearing a sloppy purple sweater and has her arm draped around a white Labrador dog. She is smiling her most genuine smile. She is smiling with her mouth and with her eyes. Her teeth are fully exposed. She wears no make-up, and he likes this best. Freckles and fresh-faced beauty.

He waits until he is alone on the veranda – Lee is helping her mother in the kitchen, and her father is nowhere in sight, and he peels the plastic cover back off the page, lifts the photo free, folds it once, slips it into the pocket of his jeans and slams the album shut. He makes a note to himself to find a good hiding place for it in his backpack at the hotel – somewhere she will not discover it.

………

After lunch they are obligated to take a tour of the new shed. House ends up with his head under the bonnet of her father's powder blue, 1950's model Ford pickup, engaged in an enthusiastic conversation about carburetors. When Lee is summoned to the telephone to take a call from one of her aunts, her mother ushers House into a studio room and displays her works of art for him. She obviously has talent, but the subject matter is monotonous. Endless oil paintings of flora and fauna.

'Hmm,' he says, eyeing the canvases, 'I can see where Lee gets her artistic side.'

'Yeah,' Effie says rather dismissively, before adding, 'knock her up.'

'Beg pardon?' House says, trying to hide his amusement.

'Well,' she says, 'from what Lee tells me, this is a long term thing, and I want more grandchildren.'

'Ah….' House stutters.

'She'll tell you she doesn't want children. That's what she told me, but I reckon you could change her mind.'

House stares blankly.

'Don't worry, no pressure,' Effie adds, 'within the next two years would be nice though.'

She pats his arm as if to say: 'there's a good boy,' as Lee's head appears at the door.

'We're going to the beach,' she says, before narrowing her eyes inquisitively upon recognising House's expression of bewilderment.

She holds her hand out to him, before opening and closing it quickly in a 'come here,' gesture.

'You ok?' she says, when he is by her side.

He nods.

………

'Why were your parents so… open-minded?' he says as they are changing into their swimming costumes in a spare bedroom.

'I told you they were harmless,' she says, hands on his hips, inspecting his shorts.

They are a perfect fit.

'Yeah, but it almost seemed – strange. I mean, if I had a daughter, and she presented me with me… ok, that doesn't make any sense, but you get what I mean right? I wouldn't be thrilled.'

'I primed them,' she says, 'I told them all about you – anything that they might find even slightly surprising. I told them that you are fifteen years older than me, that you walk with a cane, and that most people don't like you, but I absolutely adore you so they will too. I even told them about the miscarriage.'

'You did?'

He thinks this may explain her mother's rather odd request.

'Yeah,' she says, 'of course they weren't surprised at all.'

'They weren't?'

'No, well… of course learning about the miscarriage wasn't pleasant, but I mean, they weren't surprised to hear about you. They know I have absolutely no tolerance for ordinary, boring people, so that explains why they were not surprised to meet you… in all your quirky glory.'

'Besides,' she adds, 'you were turning on the charm.'

'Was not!' he retorts.

'Oh, here Mrs Emerson, let me help you with the drinks,' she says, mocking him.

'What, you don't think I am ever capable of being polite? I can be, when the occasion calls for it.'

'I know,' she says, grinning.

'Thanks,' she adds.

He rolls his eyes.

'No, I mean thanks for wanting to do this. It would never have occurred to me.'

He nods.

………

Blue sky meeting with blue water and white sand. Fresh, clean air. Hot, bright, blindingly intense sunlight. Overwhelming – surreal.

They battle through the crowd and her parents unfold two large beach umbrellas.

'Pass the drinks would you Greg,' Michael says, because House is sitting closest to the icebox.

Lee unzips her sundress and shimmies it over her hips to her feet, revealing a black bikini. House pauses, holding a can of soft drink in each hand, mouth agape. It is not as if he hasn't ever seen her in a similar state of undress – in her underwear, or much, much less, but he cannot stop staring.

Passively, he hands the drinks to her father.

'Grease me up?' she says, handing House the sun lotion and turning her back to him.

He rubs the thick white liquid over her skin – feeling the grains of sand caught in it. The sand is everywhere – itching his scalp, between his toes and fingers, on his shorts, in his shorts, grinding between his teeth.

They approach the inviting aqua ocean and he leans on her, one arm around her shoulder. She is the perfect height for this. He had never imagined that her short stature would be so convenient. She doesn't seem to mind taking the full weight of his body. The sand is scorching hot under his feet and he decides that the sensation of the minuscule grains rubbing between his toes is curiously pleasant. The cold water laps at their toes. Little white bubbles and froth – shockingly cold against their sun-heated skin.

'Sit,' she says, lowering herself.

He complies, following her – his hand never leaving her shoulder.

His legs are involuntarily levitated in front of him – the buoyancy is a pleasant surprise. She moves between his legs and raises her sunglasses on top of her head, pushing her hair back out of her face.

'How long since you've been to the beach?' she asks.

He thinks slowly, the heat of the sun, the float of his body, and the calming lap of the surf on the shore lulling him into a drowsy state of relaxation.

'Hmmm, the last time was probably when I was about your age.'

She smiles, cupping her hand and raising it to dribble water over his chest. Her palm flattens on his skin and she kisses his collarbone.

She looks up at him, grinning, before kissing his salty wet mouth. Her breasts press against his chest through the wet Lycra of her bikini. The sand rubs and grinds over their skin, between their bodies.

'Your parents can see,' he says lackadaisically, 'everyone can see.'

'They don't care. I don't care. You don't care. Ok?' she says.

'Ok.' His hand moves to cradle her neck and he opens his mouth to hers.

………

'That was easy,' he says as they stroll through the reception of their hotel, wet, sandy and disheveled - fresh from the ocean.

His arm is still draped lazily around her shoulder. He is reluctant to remove it now that he has discovered this convenient resting place.

'What? Going to the beach?' she asks.

'Well, I meant meeting the parents, but yeah, going to the beach...'

'Ha, nothing fazes you,' she jokes.

They enter the elevator.

'If you don't hurry up, we're going to offend our fellow guests by fornicating in the hall,' he mumbles into her hair as she struggles with the swipe card at the door of their room.

'Well, you're really not helping my concentration,' she says.

The feel of his hard prick gently nudging her through his wet board shorts is flooding her system with arousal. She is flushing and throbbing at the thought of their sex.

Inside, he throws the skirt of her dress up, attempting to tug it over her head. The simple act of pulling it roughly from her body is arousing in itself.

'Careful,' she mutters, followed by something about buttons, but he silences her by kissing her hard and biting her lip.

Her bikini is removed quite efficiently with a swift tug to each of the knots at her neck and back, and falls heavily to the floor in a soggy heap. He is kissing her so hungrily that she has to touch each of her hands to his face and pull away slightly, before placing two quick pecks on his lips, communicating that he should slow down. He receives the message just as clearly as if she had verbally asked him to go slow – their sexual synchronization is impeccable.

He backs her up to the bed and lays her down, watching her watching him.

A careless pull on each of the strings at her hips and her bikini bottoms fall away as easily as her top.

He crawls over her body.

At his hips, her hands claw at the waistband of his swimming shorts until she hears the tear of the Velcro opening. Her knees rise at his sides and she laughs when he enters her. Just a gasp and then a short chuckle, and she doesn't know why. Maybe it is a laugh of relief. It is certainly a laugh of joy. It throws him off for a moment, and he stares at her questioningly but she smiles contently and says, 'don't worry, just kiss me,' and her hands travel over the dip of his lower back and come to rest on his ass – where she urges him to begin the cardinal movement of his hips in the blissful way that he fucks her.

He presses his elbows into the mattress, kissing her just as she has asked. She hooks her leg over his and groans – asking him to move in her, and when he does, she arches back into the pillow, crying out and exposing her breasts and throat for his assault. His lips and teeth caress and nip before his mouth becomes latched under her jaw like a suckerfish. He moves lazily in her as he creates what will later be a raspberry coloured love bite on her chin. Now, as he channels his effort and concentration to the essential movement of his hips, she holds him. Her hands span over his broad back and her lips and tongue clash with the hot, salty, sunburnt skin of his shoulder as he bears down on her and rubs against her. They both have damp hair and sandy bodies. While making love with abandon, they are also making an absolute mess of the sheets but they couldn't care less – even though they will have to sleep in these same sheets later. She moans and sighs and pants in his ear, and he has to kiss her again to silence her, because he knows her sounds will make him come too soon.

She feels his whiskers, newly growing already, abrading her tongue as they kiss messily, their mouths hardly meeting at times due to their rigorous movements.

Her orgasm is so prolonged that it is simply torturous. He hasn't finished, and so his cock continues stroking inside her while she is tender in the aftermath. She is extremely sensitive now, and somehow the sensation is so pleasurable that she is almost coming again. She releases a series of helpless whimpers and he loses it – gushing into her.

'Mmm,' he mumbles, still inside her, staring down, eyelids heavy and cheeks flushed, 'salty beach sex is good.'

He pulls out of her and rolls over in one swift movement.

'Hmm,' she mumbles in reply, 'any sex is good. We're so hot.'

He is sprawled on his back, chest rising and falling with the effort of his heavy breathing. She rolls onto him and kisses his flushed skin, tasting the salt of his sweat. She moves down his body to find his flaccid penis – coated in the cream of her arousal and still leaking tiny beads of semen. He lifts his head slightly, watching her, curious as to her motivations. She knows he doesn't like to be touched when he is sensitive after orgasm, but she wants to share her discovery with him that the sensation is remarkably nice.

'Ah…' he starts.

'Don't worry, it feels good... in a strange way,' she replies, before flicking her tongue over the blushing head of his cock, lapping up the remnants of his cum.

His body shudders violently and he cries out at the sharp, hot, pleasurable discomfort.

She takes him into her mouth now, sucking, cleaning him off.

Her lips move over the shaft of his cock as she removes it from her mouth, raising a brow as if to say: did you like it?

He nods and parts his legs wide for her.

'Keep going,' he says, his fingers lacing through her hair.

………

Much to their dismay, a mix-up has caused them to be seated on opposite sides of the airplane. Despite Lee's performance of a House-style tantrum (to his great delight), demanding a seating-change, they are forced to dodge bald heads, and hair-sprayed coiffures in order to view one another. As a result, they call out and throw things to each other across the aisle like badly behaved schoolchildren in a classroom. The flight attendants, who play the role of the teachers, have made many futile, 'I kindly ask you to refrain from…' requests. Their fellow passengers have turned up their noses and muttered comments about manners, and safety hazards. In boredom, he writes a story on the back of the movie-guide, folds it into a paper plane and sails it safely into her waiting hands. The story is about two escaped mental patients: a man with a cane, and a woman with crazy red hair who wreak havoc on an international Qantas flight and cause a devastating plane crash. The story is accompanied by cartoon pictures. He turns to watch her reaction and smiles a satisfied smile as she laughs loudly at this darkly humorous tale, clutching the movie-guide to her chest.

Fifteen hours into the journey – his leg is cramping badly and giving him hell. The lights in the cabin have been dimmed, and the noise is quieting to a dull rumble, with the occasional titter. When the woman seated beside him makes a trip to the toilet, she takes the opportunity to squeeze past her neighbours and join him.

'Whadda ya reckon?' she says, 'think we've sufficiently pissed everyone off?'

'Yeah,' he says, his voice somewhat strained, 'you're such a bad influence on me.'

'Oh, I'm the bad influence?' she says.

He is cringing and clutching his leg.

'How bad is it?' she asks, registering the pain in his expression.

'Pretty bad,' he says.

He did not have to do this. It was an unnecessary sacrifice, and one which she is immensely grateful for. He did not have to board a plane and fly ten thousand miles to retrieve her. He could have simply reclined in his chair, lifted the phone, called her at the clinic and said: 'I want you back,' and she would have been on the next plane out of Australia. He knew this very well when he purchased the ticket.

'Here,' she says affectionately placing a warm hand on his thigh and rubbing therapeutically.

He releases a muffled groan and rests his head against the seat. Sure, he could do this himself, but it always feels so much better to have someone else do it. A woman two seats down, peers over her glasses, wrinkles her brow and shakes her head in disapproval. With Lee's back turned, her elbow jerking rhythmically, and House emitting quiet moans of relief, she could be forgiven for believing that they are engaging in a more suspicious, sordid activity. Both of them realise this. Neither of them care. She is able to stay with him, rubbing his thigh for a good ten minutes, before the woman, whose seat she is occupying, returns.

'We'll be home soon,' she whispers, 'ask the flight attendant for another Vodka tonic. Try and sleep.'

With a kiss on the cheek, and two on the lips, she returns to her own seat.