She stood naked near the window, silhouetted against the dim light that came through the lace curtains. He could see that she was still naked, a cigarette in her hand. She took a puff before putting it in an ashtray on the small table in front of her.
"I'm happy that you're writing again," she said. She noticed the filled legal pads and closed laptop on his desk before she walked into his bedroom. She knew that he was going through some writer's block lately. "Have anything ready for me to read?"
"I wrote down a dream I had, about a cabin," he answered. "I wrote it out by hand. I'll type it out and send it to you in an email."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Dawn had broken an hour ago and he knew she had to return home to her family: Her husband was clueless but suspicious. This was probably going to be the last time I saw her naked in a while. She yawned and stretched, her large breasts falling perfectly. She had DD-cup breasts, inherited from her mother's side of the family. It wasn't the first thing he noticed on her in college, but it was that made him want to bed her on their first date.
"What are you looking at?" she asked when she realized he was awake. Instinctively she covered her body, placing an arm over her breasts and a hand over her bushy vagina. When they were married, she always kept it neatly shaven. Her husband doesn't find that attractive, wants her to leave it alone.
"You," he whispered sleepily. He sat up and leered in her direction.
"You're such a pig," she snapped before walking back to bed. She leaned over and kissed my lips. "I have to get going," she said.
"I know." He rolled out of bed and closed the distance between them. He kissed her on the cheek before looking out the window.
"Does it look like snow's coming to you?" She nodded.
"The step-kids will like that," she huffed. He shook his head. When they were married, she never wanted children, always placed her career over everything else. After their divorce, she purposely married an older man with children of his own. She wanted to get back at him, show him how much he hurt her. It backfired, though. She grew to love those kids as if they were her own.
He laughed. "Oh, they'll ruin your day?"
She grunted. "Not really. I was planning to shop, get a jump on Christmas." She nuzzled her body against his. "And maybe later, I was hoping to see you some more."
He kissed her on the top of the head. "I would love that, if I hadn't had plans already. I'm headed back up to Lake Elder Inn; have to see someone about a cabin in the woods."
She sighed. "Guess it's my loss then." She grabbed his semi-hard cock and stroked it. It responded to her touch. "It looks like you're ready for another round."
"Of course, Paulina, it always did. It knows how much you love sex."
She smiled devilishly. "It knows how much of a whore I can be around you, Chance."
He put his hands on her shoulder and gently persuaded her down onto her knees. "Show me how much of a whore you still are."
"Why Etienne Pettijohn," she began in mock shock. "I didn't know you liked sluts."
He shook his head and pushed her harder. "Just shut up and take my cock."
The cabin sat deep within the Adirondack Park and looked out at a small lake. Constructed using native ash and pine timbered from the surrounding forest, the structure more resembled a small Rocky Mountain or Green Mountain lodge than a summer retreat. Two stories, three bedrooms, and a living area that would relax the most stressed 1920s General Electric executive, the cabin served to bring the original owner's family together each summer.
The property had a private beach with black and gray, small-grained sand, seen more along the upper part of the Hudson River than on spring-fed lakes. Back in the halcyon days of the 1920s and 1930s, the beach would see children and young adults sitting on the sand after plunging into the cool, almost cold, water. The adults would sit on the porch and watch from the comfort of Adirondack chairs.
In the morning, people would sit on the porch and look at the lake. If they were lucky and it was still early, with the sun barely over the eastern mountain and dew was still on the ground, they could witness the cool air on their faces, the waterfowl on the lake awaking, and the lack of activity and isolation allowing them to hear the soft lapping as the water reaches the sand. With closed eyes and when they inhaled deeply, the aroma of the damp bark could bring them back to a time of innocence and awakening.
The plan was to have one road in and out, keeping nosy busybodies and unwanted guests from ruining the peaceful nature. It began off a paved county road a few miles north of Lake Luzerne Township, constructed of dirt and gravel, the entranced camouflaged behind low tree limbs and shrubs.
The family used it every summer, leaving Schenectady after the children ended classes in June, not returning to the city until late August. It was necessary: Their lives drew them apart.
Nevertheless, that was then. Hard times befell the retreat.
Once well-groomed lawns now were weed and wildflower fields. Ashes, pines, and maples intruded onto the cabin. The beach no longer could have swimmers: harsh winters and resulting melt runoff ruined it. Pine straw and decaying leaves were everywhere. Small woodland creatures found entrances into the structure and made it their winter home. The roof, once shingled with Vermont slate, now had holes large enough to give predatory birds entry into the second floor, perfect for nesting.
Without even casual use for the last 30 years, the wood began to show signs of water damage and rot. Holes appeared between the logs. The porch could no longer safely hold more than two: boards had rotted and fallen away.
He looked over the ruins and surrounding land. In his mind's eye, he could imagine a family working on the property to restore it back to its initial grandeur, cutting the fields and returning them to lawns, filling the beaches with sand from the Hudson River, replacing missing and broken shingles. It was what he did as a writer: Imagine events that could take place.
"Does anyone have plans for this land?" Etienne Pettijohn asked his guide.
"Not that I'm aware of," the woman dressed in the dark blue, goose down coat answered truthfully.
"I wonder how much the owners are asking for," he thought aloud.
She looked at him and shook her head. "I'm not sure it's for sale."
"I didn't think you'd have known."
"If you're finished, Mr. Pettijohn, can we get back to the hotel? I'm freezing."
He looked at the young woman and smiled. "Yes, let's get back there. Let's get you warmed up."
"Thank you," the short but curvaceous brown-haired woman said. She rushed to the hotel's courtesy van she used to drive him here, to the edge of the hotel's property. She quickly rushed to the vehicle, walking faster than he thought she could in her 4-inch heels. She opened the driver side door and turned on the engine. She had the heater on high before he stepped in.
"Can I ask you a question?" she asked as he sat.
Pettijohn closed the door. "Sure. What's on your mind?"
The young woman looked at the author and smiled. "Where do you come up with the ideas for your novels and short stories?"
He chuckled and smiled. "Sometimes I don't even know."
She laughed and put the vehicle in gear and headed back to the hotel.
"How was the trip to the cabin?" Ashley asked him as he walked into the lobby. Since the summer, Ashley Nicholson had changed jobs. She left the restaurant and put her education to use. She was now a day concierge; able to help the guests with everything they wanted and needed.
