Three Little Words

“Yeah. He did something that really annoyed her. I don’t remember what, but they had a big discussion about him having to take the class. Still, he learned to cook and sew and stuff.”

“What about Laurence?”

“He was a wrestler and swimmer, but he was practically tone deaf.” She laughed at a memory. “Mom finally had to admit defeat. She tried everything, even drums. He was a complete failure in art class too. He wrote poetry and haiku, though. He never would show the rest of us, but he let Mom read it and she was happy.”

She frowned and looked thoughtful. “I wonder what happened to all his notebooks. He used to write in them as he sat in this window in our house in Japan. I remember drawing him with the light behind him, mostly a silhouette.” She smiled at the vision in her memory. “I remember one where he’s looking at me, and he’s kind of melancholy. You know how he was sometimes.” Her face fell. “No, I guess you don’t.”

“I think I know what you mean, though.”

She wiped her eyes and nodded. “He was beautiful. He always will be.”

“Maybe you can show me some of your sketches when we get home.”

“No,” she said after a moment, “I think I’ll keep those for myself.”

“That’s fine.”

“Wow, I hadn’t thought of that window in years.” She forced a smile. “I think he used to sit there just so I could draw him. He was half in light, half in shadow, so it was fun to get the shading right.”

She laughed again. “And I’d forgotten what a bad singer he was. Rich used to say he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. James even said he made the piano go out of tune by standing too close. Oh, Paul, he really was awful. He couldn’t even keep rhythm. It used to drive Rich and me crazy.

“It’s kind of silly,” she said after a reflective moment. “Those are the things I remember about him. Not that he was a good Marine or a star wrestler, but that he couldn’t sing and used to sit in a window for hours so his little sister could draw him.”

“Those’re the things that make you smile.”

“They do. And… thanks for making me think of him. You remind me of him in a way, how you’re always positive about stuff. Like this morning,”

she continued. “You really can’t ski as well as me—sorry, you can’t—but you still tried, and it seemed like you were having fun. You made it a game to see if you could keep up.”

“That’s exactly what I did.”

“And that’s what I like about you. Well, one of many things.”

“Thank you.”

“Now come on, let’s hurry and eat. I wanna get back to the slopes.”

Later in the afternoon I decided to test myself on one of the most difficult trails on the mountain. Christy simply plunged over the edge and flew through the moguls like she’d been born on skis. I was more cautious and chose a line before I shoved off. I still wiped out once, but it was a minor tumble instead of a hair-raising crash. I made it to the bottom of the run and received a kiss for my trouble, although she grinned and took off again almost immediately.

We left the slopes when we reached the base lodge, since I wanted to take a look at the cabin’s hot tub while I still had enough daylight to see. We

stored our equipment in the lockers and headed to the market for groceries and more wine. Christy chattered away as we carried the bags up to the cabin, mostly about Laurence and how many instruments he tried before their mother finally gave up.

At the house I prepped the hot tub, replaced the drain plug, and started the hose to fill it. Christy made pasta and salad for dinner, and we polished off a bottle of wine. I checked on the water afterward and turned it off when the tub was full. The pump sputtered as it flushed the remaining air out of the system, but then it ran smoothly.

“Can we use it tonight?” Christy asked.

“No. It’ll take too long to heat up. Probably overnight to get to eighty degrees. But we can turn it up when we get home tomorrow. It’ll be ready after dinner.”

“Good. So I have an excuse tonight. Don’t ask,” she said before I could.

“Wren had some wild ideas for what I should do to you in the tub. You know,

‘to keep you interested.’”

“That sounds like her, all right.”

“Exactly. And she’s crazy if she thinks I need suggestions in that department. Speaking of which… I thought I’d model the lingerie you gave me for Christmas.”

“Maybe on a blanket in front of a cozy wood-burning stove?”

“With a bottle of wine?”

“Sounds like a not-date to me.”

“I might even let you not-kiss me.”

“I was hoping for a not-blowjob.”

“Play your cards right,” she said with a coy grin, “and you might get not-lucky.”

“Stop, please, stop!” Christy panted, and I lifted my face from between her legs. “You have to let me recover,” she gasped. “I can’t keep going like you do. Mine must be stronger than yours. One is enough. Two is plenty. Three is too much.”

I kissed her thigh and then climbed over her.

“Thank you. I’m sorry, but you can’t expect me to keep up with you.”

“I told you,” I said as I stretched out beside her, “sex is a skill. The physical part, at least.”