The Stream
For the next hour the two men sat on the back porch steps, sometimes talking, sometimes silent.
At intervals, they could hear the sisters murmuring inside the kitchen, but the words never formed into understandable sentences.
When Vivienne emerged from the dark kitchen she brought them a new task: ice cream for the evening's dessert needed churning.
"No reason for all these blueberries to go to waste. Not after all the picking we did this afternoon."
So Reese and Fusco worked in alternating shifts, grinding away in a time-honored rhythm. Fusco felt that the simple mindless effort soothed his frayed nerves as much as it exhausted his muscles. He felt better for the hard labor.
When he looked over at Reese sprawled on the top step, he imagined a similar calm was working through his friend too.
Neither man would say it flat out, but Fusco knew they were standing guard to prevent Anthony Nix from entering the house for the rest of the afternoon and evening.
After two hours of slow churning, the creamy batter was transformed into a frozen foamy mass, white and softly streaked like Ondine's bowls. The ice cream was ready for its blueberry topping.
As if she knew the exact state of the dessert, Allison pushed through the screen door at that precise moment to ask the men to go down to the stream where her sisters were swimming.
"I've got the roast chickens out of the oven; they need to rest for about fifteen minutes. Which will give me time to finish the rice and make up some gravy. Then we're all set."
Fusco thought she seemed normal, calm after the afternoon's turmoil, her voice mild and even.
"So you fetch 'em and tell 'em no lollygagging. Dinner's hot and ready."
Her apron, white with red cherries scattered across its front, was longer than her shorts, which gave her a comical, sexy air. Her yellow curls were tied up into a messy bun on the top of her head, a few strands floating around her smiling face as she issued their marching orders.
His heart lifted for the first time that day and he returned her smile.
Reese and Fusco took their time walking down the lawn to the stream. They ambled around the peeling blue Adirondack chairs; beer bottles from last night half hidden in the soft grass where they had dropped them.
At the edge of the lawn they passed under a tangle of old rose vines climbing on a broken wooden arch. Through the cool trees they walked following a narrow thread of bare ground that served as a path.
They paused at the top of the cliff overlooking the stream.
Even before the men peered over the edge, they could hear the lilting sounds of the three women. They were laughing, a blended chorus curling their voices around an unfamiliar song.
Though the singers were far below, the notes seemed close by, invading the men's ears in gentle invitation.
Looking down, Fusco thought the scene was wonderful, strange perhaps, but wonderful all the same.
The three sisters were playing in the stream, diving and splashing in such a confusion of legs and arms it was impossible to tell exactly who was who.
He could see a dark head surge above the surface of the water: that must be Ondine.
Then Megan's blonde head emerged from the ripples, or was it the silver hair of Vivienne; the dappled sunlight painting the surface made it hard to distinguish fair from fair.
Reese turned to him and broke through the mist: "Call them, Fusco."
Why did he have to do it? Why didn't Reese raise his own voice?
Fusco went along anyway, no protest like always.
"Hey! Hey, you!"
He thought he sounded harsh, like an intruder, which of course he was in a way.
He wasn't sure if his call reached down to the water's edge until he saw the three figures turn in unison, lifting their faces toward the cliff where he and Reese stood.
"Come back! Dinner's ready! Come back!" His plea seemed weak even as it left his mouth.
The women raised six arms in greeting, waving their hands back and forth over their heads. He could see the iridescent drops flying from their limbs, like they were throwing diamonds into the air.
"Come on down! Come join us!" A single voice sang out, he wasn't sure whose it was.
They were naked. The glittering water covered them to the waist. But he could see denim and white cotton piled between smooth stones on the grass. Near the foot of a steep flight of steps made of flat stones, he could see three blue towels draped over boulders, getting hot in the sun.
When he glanced again at Reese, his friend had taken a seat on a fallen log perched dangerously near the cliff's edge. Fusco sat next to him, their shoulders just touching.
The women had returned to their dance, laughing.
He could see their sleek legs and hips as they slid and plunged in the sparkling stream. Their white flesh looked slick and firm, their hands like silver fins slapping against the water.
As they jumped and fell, the nipples of their breasts were like pretty strawberries winking, then dipping again. He could see gleaming rivulets slipping from the pretty dark triangles between their thighs.
He turned to his friend. Reese's eyes were hard, almost hidden under the lowered brow like a circling hawk.
Now it was Fusco who wanted to shatter the spell.
"I feel kinda funny, ya know? Seeing them here like this."
He wanted reassurance that this was alright, that this wasn't breaking some rule he had forgotten to write down.
Reese's reply was slow in coming but firm.
"Allison sent us down here. She knew what we would find."
After a while, the women climbed out of the stream. As they wriggled under the blue towels, the water twinkled in fine beads on their cropped hair.
When they started to pull on their clothing, Reese rose from the log and struck out for the house.