"What are you reading?" she asked as she peered down at me with one hand on her hip.
I looked up from my book and gave her a blank stare. I knew she was no more interested in what I was reading than I was at the moment. I sighed and closed the cover, displaying it for her satisfaction.
"Goldman?
'The Lion in Winter'
is one of my favorite Broadway plays," she remarked.
She took a bite of the apple she palmed and the audible crunch caused me to wince. It was one of those annoying little habits she had. From the time we were kids, she always crunched something with those pearly white teeth; apples, pears, crackers, ices cubes, Summer was driven to crunch things with her teeth.
Some women obsessively file their nails, while others twirl their hair. Summer crunched. If you counted the number of things she crunched through the course of one day, you might find yourself asking how she managed to maintain such a fabulous figure.
I eyed her with doubtful admiration. She always turned heads, but at twenty-eight, Summer was the type of woman who could cause a twelve-car pileup and keep right on walking. Amazingly, she never seemed to notice her effect on men. I found it disturbing that I was constantly reminded of the affect she had on me.
Summer was my twin sister, but it's unlikely you would know it by comparing the two of us. We were fraternal twins, born in the heat of mid-July. Our parents named us Sonny and Summer, a rather unfortunate joke on me.
Summer's name fit her to a 'T'. She had deep blue eyes and a stunning head of naturally golden-blonde hair. It was smooth and silky, cut evenly below her shoulders. My gaze inadvertently trailed downward to where her pelvis formed a 'Y' at her crotch. Like an eager schoolboy, I made a conscious attempt to catch a fleeting glimpse of honey-gold in that area as well.
Summer didn't seem to notice when I reopened the book and positioned it face-down over my lap. I felt heat flush my cheeks as I attempted to conceal the level of my interest. She perched on the overstuffed arm of the chair where I sat and placed one bare foot against the denim covered flesh above my knee.
She concentrated on the apple again, studying it and rolling it over in her hand before she nonchalantly asked, "Did you talk to Dad today?"
I grunted in response and sullenly pressed my hand to my jaw. I studied the one slender ankle attached to the foot she propped on my leg. Her toes curled against my jeans as she kneaded me like a cat pitter-patting with its claws. Her purple toe-nails scratched against the rough fabric in an aggravating way.
"What did he say?" she asked as she munched another bite of apple; its skin seemed to accentuate the dark color of her thick lower lip.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and granted me an unobstructed view of both full breasts beneath the thin cotton nightshirt she wore. I drew in a deep breath as I noted her nipples standing erect. Frowning, I grasped her ankle and subdued the nails clawing at the leg of my jeans.
"The usual rah-rah speech," I shrugged dejectedly. "The '
Keep trying, son; you'll get it right someday
' speech."
"Well, he's right, you know," she frowned. "He has faith in you, Sonny. We all do."
I snorted at her attempt to humor my wounded pride.
At twenty, after two years of college, I joined the military in an effort to follow in our dad's footsteps. Our father, a successful officer in the Air Force, recently retired from a lifetime of service. Everyone, including our dad, expected me to do the same, but after four years, I declined Uncle Sam's invitation to reenlist.
Military life wasn't for me. As a kid, I hated bouncing from one place to another, and as an adult, I hated it even more. I detested the hours and following inane orders; I abhorred the disciplined style of life.
As long as I could remember, I wanted to be either a writer or an artist. Not a journalist, but a novelist, or perhaps a screenplay writer. Two years of college did nothing to enhance my skills in that department either. My resume was extensive and growing by the minute.
I'd landed quite a few jobs, but none of them lasted. When I was canned from my last official position as a weekly column writer for a small-town newspaper, my refusal to return in defeat to my parents' home landed me on Summer's doorstep in south Florida.
By contrast, Summer was a well-rounded success; it goes without saying, she was well-rounded in all the appropriate places.
She earned a Master's degree in English with a minor in Creative Writing. Not only was she the published author of a series of children's books, but she elbowed her way into the fashion industry as both a runway and a commercial-print model when she was still in college.
Despite her age, Summer maintained the look and the poise required for modeling. Miami had a market for women like Summer; they doted on tall, tanned, beautiful blondes.
"I think I need a drink," I grumbled as I lifted her foot from my lap and placed it firmly on the floor. I wandered to the bar and poured myself a stiff Johnny Walker on the rocks.
"Would you care for anything?" I offered dully.
Summer wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
"Not scotch. I'll make us a pitcher of Margaritas if you promise to help me drink it," she replied.
I downed the scotch and meandered through a set of French doors onto the deck. In the darkness, a cool ocean breeze rattled the palm fronds overhead, and Summer's passion, a row of wind-chimes suspended from the eaves, played a tinkling tune.
In the distance, the sound of rolling waves crashed against a sand beach with an accompanying rhythm. Summer called the combined chaos 'the angel's waltz'. Somehow, she found beauty in everything, even stormy days seemed brighter through Summer's eyes.
I half seated myself on the handrail, resting one buttock there as I looked towards the water and swirled the melting ice in my glass. I took a deep breath of fresh ocean air and sighed.
There was a faint scent of hibiscus on the salty breeze and something more. I closed my eyes and sniffed again. Citrus, I thought. Perhaps a few late blooming oranges from some nearby neighbor's yard.
Summer joined me on the deck, bearing a tray with two large frozen drink glasses.
"Here we go! Just like old times," she exclaimed as she gently clinked her glass against mine.
She also half-mounted the rail and faced me in the dark. She gave her hair a toss and took a deep breath.
"Isn't it marvelous out here at night? We should have dinner here. Lobster Thermidor and steamed snow crab," she suggested with enthusiasm.
I snorted at the idea. "Who's going to cook?"
Summer's skills didn't include cooking. She could barely manage to scramble an egg without scorching it. I pondered for a moment the irony that most unattached men were proficient in the kitchen, while single females remained dependent on microwavable cardboard cartons and take-out food.
"Don't be such an old grouch!" she admonished. "I'll talk Joachim into cooking for us one night. He'll do it. He owes me a couple of favors. Maybe you could invite someone, and we'll make it an intimate little dinner party for four."
In the two months since I arrived in south Florida, I managed to meet a few dozen people, most of whom were friends of Summer, and none of whom I had any real interest in knowing any better. The feeling appeared mutual, because the type of friends Summer collected showed little interest in an unsuccessful freelance writer, even if he was Summer's brother.
"That sounds positively peachy, Sis," I replied with sarcasm. "I'll just check my catalogue of romantic interests and see who's available."
"Oh, that reminds me! Do you think I could borrow you again this coming Saturday?" Summer asked as she suddenly bounded to her feet.
I was already frowning and I hadn't heard any details of her proposition yet.
"I have this thing...it's a late cocktail party," she began with enthusiasm. "A lot of the who's who are going to be there and I haven't managed to find a date yet."
