Chapter 4

Strange, Daisy thinks, that no sooner does he climax than Randy Buck is out of her and into the pool, swimming laps as though they had not just made love, ignoring her completely.

Maybe, she thinks, he knows.

Still, she has gotten him off.

And herself as well, even though she does not "love" him, does not, in the rutting, bitch-in-heat sense, desire him.

Wealthy, older man, young, beautiful girl with nothing, the theme was there, is here.

Traditional, acceptable, a trifle trite, perhaps, but they are doing it, are playing their roles properly.

So that, certainly, he has no complaint. Nor, for that matter, does she. Even though such a non sequitur as his unplugging and waxing suddenly athletic has no place, and certainly no equivalent, in all her paperback romance experience.

She wonders if, perhaps, she should join him.

No.

She thinks not. Monkey see, monkey do is not good form for an ingenue such as herself.

Rather, she will leave him to his laps, leave him with her image, the one he had the hots for minutes ago.

On balance, she is rather pleased with the situation, pleased still more with herself.

Because they did it.

The significant deed is now accomplished fact.

It is written into the record of reality.

It was and is and cannot be undone; it happened.

She puts her bikini back on.

And passes Eric on his way out the sliding door and onto the pool apron.

She does not like Eric, with his white, white skin and hairless head and dark glasses which he never removes, day or night, inside or out.

She does not like his black uniform, or rather, uniforms, since he could not possibly wear the same one, day in and day out.

Above all, she does not like the way he looks at her from behind his opaque lenses, looks and never, never speaks, to her at least.

He and Cranston constantly have their heads together, however, and there are two voices involved in coordinated mumbling when they do.

But she is not paranoid and is not worried that they are talking about her.

As for Cranston, she sees no need to go out of her way to be friendly to the colorless clerical type.

True, he offered to "help" her, but, with what just happened, she no longer requires him, for other than technical, operational, logistical assistance.

"Tell Eric I have to go to the garden shop again."

Or, "I'd like to go into town and pick up some bla bla-bla."

Other than stuff like that, she really doesn't have a heck of a lot to say to him, especially now that her personal relationship with their shared employer has just gotten as personal as it gets.

She showers and changes into a sunbacked dress.

And goes out to check the garden.

Muslin, she will need, she notes.

The air is too dry, the sun too hot, rain too far off.

She must water the tomatos but not cook their leaves in the sun.

And merely filling in the troughs between rows with the hose is not yet effective; the roots are too short, too far away to reach the water level.

So that she must drape the tomato stakes with muslin, thus providing shade and retarding evaporation.

Yes, she requires bolts of muslin gauze.

Eric will have to drive her.

"Tonight. You will take care of it for tonight."

"You got it, Randy."

And Eric looks down at Randy's cock, wet from the pool, slack from his recent fucking.

"The gas cylinders are all set in the ventilation ducts, Randy. The timers are fixed for one thirty tomorrow morning."

"And the smelling salts?

"No good unless she knows what's happening, y'know."

"In my robe, Randy."

"And the knock-out gas?"

"Cranston has that."

"You've checked it out, as far as smoothness of operation?"

"Tied down? Three of us? I don't see that there'll be any prob—"

Eric stops speaking as Randy signals with his eyes.

He turns, to see Daisy approaching.

"Can Eric take me over to the garden shop, Randy?

"I need some muslim bunting for—"

"You need it, you need it, my dear, for whatever reason.

"That's all I have to know.

"Eric, take Daisy wherever to do whatever."

And he turns away, buttocks extended as though mooning them, and dives back into the pool.

"I'll just run up and get some shoes on," she says to Eric.

"I wouldn't push like this, but I've got to get these tomato plant roots wet today, and the sun is just—never mind."

Like talking to a statue, she thinks.

And dashes off to get something for her feet.

Eric watches her go, grinning balefully.

"... so you see, Randy, if I put in the herbs here, in these five rows, basil—two rows of basil, because I figure once the tomatoes get ripe, you'll want to—"

"I'm sure it's all exactly right," he says, not so much as glancing at the chart of the garden she has prepared, the only way to know what's where, since, with the exception of the tomatoes, nothing else is visible in the garden.

"You're doing one helluva job."

She looks into his expressionless face, somewhat taken aback.

That's something you say to the hired help.

Is that what she is, then?

Even after what they did—hired help?

Or is she reading him all wrong?

Maybe it's because he cares for her a lot and the garden, compared to her, is way off the scale of importance, lost down below.

So that whatever she does or does not do is of far less significance than her being here, than her being herself.

She cannot tell.

He's a very important person in his own right, she has quickly learned.

A big man, perhaps even a great one, is Randy Buck.

He sits there patiently, in his robe, in his den (Doesn't the man ever wear any clothes at home? she wonders), waiting for her to either continue or leave, inviting neither action.

Studying her like a bug under a microscope, or so it seems to her.

Strange man, really.

A combination of heat, in the form of sexual passion for her, and coolness, one might even say coldness, distant from her, more distant than she would have thought possible in the case of two who have done what they did.

And will again.

Or will they?

And now, this doubt assails her.

Was that a one-shot deal, something to be done and forgotten and never acknowledged, never repeated?

That too is a possibility, and one she had not considered before now.

But then, if he is not interested in the garden and not interested in her as herself, what would be the point in his keeping her around?

He owes her nothing, after all.

He could as easily have Eric drive her back to the bus terminal and drop her, there to begin anew or to find her way back home.

Strange, strange man, really.

But wealthy and unattached, don't forget.

And certainly capable of passion, if only in the strictly physical sense.

Uneasy, Daisy removes the drawing, rolling it up, standing up, leaving as Cranston enters the den.

And holds the heavily carved wooden door open so that they can watch her retreat on bare feet.

Randy doesn't wear any clothes, why should she feel obliged to wear shoes?

A display of independence and nonchalance that is not lost on the men.

"Like ta take her down, Cranston," Buck says, when she is out of earshot, climbing the great marble staircase.

"Like to roll her over, luck her in the ass with no Vaseline.

"Like to—"

"Easy, Randy. Tonight.

"We're all set for tonight."

"So Eric assures me."

And he sighs luxuriously, leaning back in his dark, leather-upholstered swivel chair, hands behind his head, a smile of contentment on his face.

"Just think, Cranston. Tonight, the Brotherhood of the Body will be reborn!"

And both of them watch, amused, as Randy's thick, bulb-headed prick rears up between the folds of his robe.

Daisy tosses and turns, exhausted but unable to sleep, troubled at the ambiguousness, the uncertainty of her position.

She knows that something is wrong. Granted, the first few days of a garden of that size are a full-time job.

But, once that is accomplished, only maintenance is required.

Hell, Eric could handle it in under an hour a day, starting in a few days.

As for Randy's other needs, well, she knows she has all the equipment, she knows that he certainly knows that she's got what it takes and she knows how to use it, but exactly how does she fit into his plans in the female companionship department.

Has she succeeded?

She really hates not knowing.

She wishes she could read about herself in some paperback romance, just to check out how she is doing.

Ridiculous, she knows, but there it is.

Crazy thought.

Must be because she is tired but is having trouble falling asleep.

Maybe if, instead of air conditioning, she were to turn it off and open a window.

She goes to get up, only to discover that she is more tired than she thought, just lying there.

And more than tired, she is dizzy, disoriented.

So that the room seems to be, not spinning, exactly, but rocking, as though she is in a cabin on a boat, like that time on the Mississippi when the wind came up.

The room is rocking, rocking and wavy to look at, there in the moonlit dimness.

And she wants nothing so much now as to close her eyes and drop off, so that the dizziness will stop.

And so she does.

The acrid smell of ammonia startles her awake.

To gaze, wide-eyed, at a hooded visage, there in the moonlight.

Death himself, must be, she thinks and goes to put a hand in front of her face, to ward off the vision.

Only to find that she cannot move. She looks to left and right, to find her arms tied at the wrists to the bedposts with what appear to be silken scarves, their cloth delicate and shiny in the moonlight.

And her legs, while not tied, are being held raised and apart by two other similar robed and hooded presences.

And now, as she looks on, the one she had seen first, features concealed in the shadows of his deep hood, raises the hem of his robe as he stands on his knees below her in the bed.