Chapter 8

Since Lynn was being thrifty with her nest egg, she wasn't traveling first class. When she found the row of three seats with hers in it, there were already two people in the other seats, a young man in the aisle seat, a young woman in the middle one. They both looked tall, even sitting down. Lynn looked them over for a second before saying anything.

The man was about thirty, lean and good looking if you were used to that much hair. There was a wedding ring on his left hand, and she had a secret disdain for men who wore wedding rings, but who was she to complain about Squaresville when she was fresh out of Delmont?

The girl was a slender, striking brunette, probably a few years younger than the man, but who could tell about those things? Her long, graceful legs were crossed and very much in evidence. The man's hand lay lightly on the top knee.

"I beg your pardon," she said. "I'm the body that fills the other seat."

They looked up at her and smiled in unison, then sat upright to let her slide by. She tried to make the move as unobtrusively as possible, but she heard the man take a deep breath as her rear end slid past his eyes.

"All seats should be filled with bodies like that," the man said softly.

"Now, dear," the girl said.

Lynn sat down as quickly as she could and fastened her seat belt. She felt that they were both looking at her, so she looked back.

"I'm Rita Coombs, and this is my husband, Chris," the brunette said, smiling. The man's smile was broader and warmer.

"Lynn Lautrec."

"Don't you think I should sit in the middle?" Chris Coombs said.

"No, I don't," his wife said, but she was smiling.

"Only trying to be friendly."

"Sure you are."

"Ever been in Spain before?" Lynn asked.

"No," Chris Coombs said. "Have you?"

"No"

"We've heard an awful lot about it," Rita said. "From friends. And Chris speaks some Spanish, or thinks he does."

"Speak it like a native," Chris said.

"All I know about Spain is that it's a long way from Vermont," Lynn said. "And that's good enough for me."

They made awkward, sporadic conversation until they were airborne and halfway through their first drink. Then Lynn saw Chris Coombs put his drink down on the tray in front of him with such force that some of it spilled.

"Aw, shit," he said.

"Aw, shit, what?" his wife asked, frowning slightly.

"You know what I forgot to pack?"

"What?"

"My goddamn swimming trunks."

"I knew you'd forget something. You were so proud of being all packed so far ahead of me."

"I know. Goddamn it."

"Never mind. You can buy a pair of swimming trunks in Malaga."

"Sure, but what kind of swimming trunks? Probably look like something Columbus wore."

"Did he wear swimming trunks?" Rita asked. "I never saw any pictures of Columbus in swimming trunks."

"He was Italian, anyway," Lynn said. "He would have worn Italian swimming trunks. It was Queen Isabella who was Spanish."

"I never saw a picture of Queen Isabella in swimming trunks, either," Rita said.

"Whatever kind of trunks I get in Malaga, they'll probably be pretty primitive," Chris said. "No sup-porter, or anything like that."

"Don't you know how to say 'jock strap' in Spanish?" Rita asked.

"No."

"Some native you speak the language like."

"They don't teach you how to say 'jock strap' in the Berlitz course."

"Maybe you could make some sort of hand gestures," Lynn heard herself saying. "They'd get the message."

"Or get him arrested," Rita said. But Lynn was conscious of the woman smiling at her broadly, and all at once the ice was melting.

It kept melting, all the way to Malaga, in the conversations between naps.

Everywhere but in the drinks.

They took a cab together from the airport into Malaga, and Rita and Lynn waited with the luggage in a sidewalk cafe while Chris went into a men's store that was just opening up for the day.

He came out a few minutes later grinning and waving a package.

"Primitive Spanish," he said. "Jantzen."

"How much?" Rita asked.

"'Three hundred pesetas."

"How much is that?"

"Beats me," Chris said.

"About five dollars," Lynn said. She'd been reading her Spanish tourist booklet the night before.

"From now on," Chris said, "I'll buy all my swimming trunks in Malaga."

"Sure you will," Rita said. "Let's order a drink.' "At this hour of the morning?"

"Why not?"

"You're right," Chris said. "Why not?"

Along about the third glass of red wine they'd had together, Lynn found that she was enjoying her two new friends as she never enjoyed a married couple before. They had a nice warm way of baiting each other, working up to minuscule quarrels, and making it all up, in a few sentences. They seemed to keep each other on their toes. Lynn stayed on her toes automatically. It was her nature.

"I don't believe you're really from Vermont," Chris said, looking at her over the rim of his glass.

"Why not?"

"You don't sound like Vermont', "

"I try not to. I got rid of most of the New England twang while I was in college. It was a State university, but I stayed away from other New Englanders like they had trench mouth or beriberi or something."

"I don't mean your speech, your accent. I mean the way you talk. The quick way you react. You're much too with it to be from Vermont."

"Au courant," Rita said.

"You do and you'll clean it up," Chris said.

"What makes you think everybody from Vermont is a rube?" Lynn asked. She was pleased, but she made a show of defiance.

"Aren't they?"

"Yes," she said.

"Well," Chris said, looking pleased with himself. He motioned to the waiter for more wine.

"Anyway," Lynn said, "I've left Vermont. You're not carrying a tin cup. You can see that."

"For good?"

Lynn thought for a moment.

"I think so," she said seriously.

"Why don't you come to New York?" Chris asked. He and Rita lived in New York. She'd learned that on the plane, although they wouldn't have had to tell her.

"Your head is a walking goldfish bowl," Rita said, eyeing Lynn's luscious curvature across the table. But she was laughing as she talked. "You're sup-posed to get the seven-year itch after seven years of being married. Not two."

"I was only.... "

"I know," Rita said. "Being friendly. Why don't we have some more wine?"

"It's coming."

"Well, at least you're discreet about ordering drinks."

"Discreet, your ass," Chris said. "I was waving my arms like a madman."

Another crisis detoured, Lynn thought. She was enjoying herself more every minute.

Time passed quickly, and as the wine went down the sun rose higher, along with their spirits. And the subject of Vermont came up again. The further away she got, Lynn thought, the more it came back. She decided to put a stop to all that talk about her rube background, the first chance she got.

"What do people do in Vermont?" Chris asked.

"The visitors ski. The natives make maple syrup. Everybody knows that."

"There must be more than that going on."

"They go to church. Sing in the choir."

"More than that."

"Yes, there's more than that."

"What did you do?" Chris asked. "Did you have any hobbies?"

"What are you, a cop or something?" Rita asked.

"I think we should get to know this girl better. You know the first thing I noticed about you on the plane?"

"My ass," Lynn said promptly.

They both laughed.

"How did you know?"

"They used to call me 'Angel Ass.' When I wore stretch pants."

"Hell of a good name," Chris said.

"Chris is an ass man," Rita explained, unnecessarily. "He's a leg man, too, but most especially he's an ass man. Like most men."

"That's nice," Lynn said.

"So anyway, did you have any other names be-sides 'Angel Ass'? "

"Sort of. In high school they called me the 'Last Virgin in Vermont.' " The hell they did. But she wasn't about to tell them about Too-Loose Lautrec.

"Are you?" Chris asked. "Or what I should say is, were you?"

"I'm not in Vermont'

"Don't be such a jackass, dear," Rita said to her husband. And to Lynn, apologetically, "Men are such assholes. This one, especially."

"That's all right," Lynn said. "No, I'm not a virgin, whatever that obsolete word is supposed to mean. Several times removed." She found herself stifling an urge to burst out laughing. All at once the whole thing was funny, the whole thing she was. running away from. "Half a high school faculty removed," she said.

"You didn't answer me about hobbies," Chris said. "What do you like to do?"

Here it was. Her chance to get rid of Vermont and the country-innocent image.

"I like to fuck," she said.

"Only like to?" Chris sounded disappointed.

"I love to fuck."

She was aware all at once that they were both beaming at her.

"Anything else?" Rita asked.

"Everything else," she said, not knowing what she meant particularly and not caring at all. There was a stirring of torment between her legs; she squeezed her thighs tightly together but it didn't do any good. She could do with another faculty gang-bang right now.

"Now we're getting somewhere," Rita said. She looked at her husband, who was sitting at the side of the table, between them, as they sat across from each other. "We can make this a great second honeymoon, can't we, dear jackass?"

"Sure can," Chris said, looking at Lynn. She dropped her eyes modestly, and saw a swelling and stiffening down the inner side of his pants leg. She wanted to reach out and squeeze it, just being friendly, but she managed to restrain herself.

"You mean you want me to join in on your second honeymoon?" she asked, twirling her wine glass, not looking at either of them.

"Absolutely," Rita said.

"The second we get settled," Chris said.

Why not, Lynn thought? The wine was wonderful. The whole country looked wonderful, from where she sat. Everything looked wonderful "Wonderful," she said, and now she did reach out discreetly and give Chris's cock a friendly squeeze. God, it was hard. And long. Rita smiled at her across the table.

"I forgot to ask," Chris said. "Where are you staying?"

It was a good question.

"I hadn't even thought about it," Lynn said. "I just bought a plane ticket to Malaga. I figured I'd find where I wanted to stay after I got here."

"We have reservations at a hotel in Fuengirola, right on the water," Chris said. "Want me to find out if they have a room for your "Sure," Lynn said. "I'm easy to please. But where's Fuengirola?"

"A short ride from here, they tell me," Chris said, standing up and looking around for a phone. "I'll l be right back."

He walked hunched over slightly, with his hands in his pockets, but his hard-on showed anyway, to anyone who was looking.

And Lynn was looking.