A big white slate-blue house by a lake, one wide green mountain ridge and most of
a river valley away from the highway.  An indeterminate and varying number of
friends, relatives, neighbors, past and present and future lovers. Kids and
grownups, good food, the quiet olive-green feeling of people who have worked hard
for their money and ended up with quite a lot of it.

Jake hadn't come to the party; he has mixed feelings about his extended family. 
"I mean," he'd said, "resistance may be futile and all, but there's no point in
actually sitting down for dinner right in the middle of the Hive Mind itself, you
know?"  Pat and Julie and the twins and I had driven up; Pat and I shared the
driving, and Julie had mostly sat in the back with the twins poking them and
making baby noises.

Now I was down by the lake, on the rocky-sand beach next to the dock, watching
Tommy and Keda practice crawling and toppling in the portable playpen, and
talking to various new-old friends who passed by.  Pat and Julie and some other
members of the Hive Mind had gone into town for a movie and dinner, but I had no
lack of company; babies are great conversation pieces.

On the dock, a young woman had been lying for some time on a folding lounge,
reading a book and sunning herself, also talking to the passers-by.  My eyes kept
returning to her.  From her figure and her voice, she was probably eighteen, but
something about her skin, the way the light played with her hair, was
breathtakingly young, with a rawness and innocence that were irresistible.  When
she put down the book and lay back, eyes shut, the curves of her breasts and her
stomach and her thighs made a perfect profile against the trees.  I tore my eyes
away eventually and went back to admiring my kids; from one perfection to
another.

A few minutes later, I turned and she was beside me, crouching on the sand. 
"Hi," she said, "I'm Melissa Elton.  My folks live just up the road toward the
mountain."

"Pleasure," I said, touching the proffered hand.  Her skin was warm and smooth,
"I'm --"

"Oh, everyone knows who you are," she smiled, "Your babies are really cute."

I offered her a place on the blanket, and she sat down next to me and played with
the twins.  The dark one-piece swimsuit clung tightly to her body, and I tried
not to stare.  We talked about the house, the countryside, the weather.

"You going to school next year?" I asked.

She sighed and pouted.  "That's not something I want to talk about so early in
the summer," she said.  I admired her lips.  "Tah-wa-a," Tommy commented from the
playpen. We laughed.

"So what do you do, back in the city?" she said.

"Maybe I don't want to talk about THAT so early in my vacation!"

She made a face at me.  Our eyes met and held for a long quiet second; then Keda
rolled into Tommy, and we tickled them and didn't touch each other.  I felt about
ten years younger, sitting on the beach with this perfect girl, her thighs by
mine, her bottom on my blanket.

"Yow," she said eventually, "I'm supposed to be home for dinner," and she waved
goodbye and gathered her stuff up from the dock.  She wriggled her hips into a
pair of shorts, and I watched her legs as she walked quickly up toward the house,
toward the road up the mountain.

Dinner in the slate-blue house was a long and convivial thing, warm and a little
crowded.  Tommy and Keda and four or five other kids were swept up by Aretha, a
big hearty second-cousin-once-removed who deserves a story or two of her own.  I
ate and talked, and after dessert I went out into the cool of the evening. 
Around the corner away from the door there was an old white porch swing.  Pat and
Julie were expected back any hour; I sat down on the swing and yawned and
relaxed.

I opened my eyes a little later, and Melissa was smiling down at me.  "Hi again!"
she said.

"You came back."

"I came back."  She sat down next to me on the swing.  I had one arm up along the
back of the seat.  She was wearing a tank top and the same shorts; she smelled
freshly washed.  "I like it here."

We talked some more, or just sat and listened to the crickets in the field and
the hum of conversation from the dining room. She told me stories about the house
and the relatives, stories they told her when she was a girl.  I told her about
the city, the babies.  We sat together, not saying anything.  She turned and
smiled at me and kissed me softly on the mouth, just a brush of her lips.  Then
she turned away again and started to talk.  I forget just what about.  She
snuggled closer to me on the swing, her hair close to my face.

I moved my arm off the back of the seat, around her shoulders. She leaned against
me.  My fingers touched the warm bare skin of her arm.  I stroked her lightly and
listened to her breath. The night was quiet out here, suspended in the twilight. 
She slipped her sandals off and crossed her ankles.  I cupped her shoulder in my
palm, and she turned slightly toward me.  I kissed her.

Her lips were thin and very warm, soft and yielding.  We kissed for a very long
time, mouths closed, noses touching.  Her eyes were closed.  I broke the kiss to
admire her face.  She stayed still, not opening her eyes, her lips pursed and
innocent. Then she leaned toward me, tilting her head, and our mouths met again,
in a deeper kiss, my lips over hers, and her left hand was on my chest, caressing
me.  My heart was pounding.

"Oooh," she whispered, drawing away an inch and looking into my eyes.  "Oooh," I
agreed, and I put my hand behind her head and drew her back to me.  I kissed her
mouth lightly, kissed her nose, kissed each of her eyes, and she made a lovely
soft sound far down in her throat.  She turned her small body toward me, and I
could feel the soft hills of her breasts under her shirt.  She moved her mouth to
mine, and kissed me, and opened her lips.

I stroked her hair as our tongues slid together and her fingers slipped between
the buttons of my shirt to touch my chest.  The sweet muscles of her lips pulsed
around my tongue.  I hugged her more tightly to me, and my other hand strayed
down to her leg. Her skin was taut but soft, over firm young muscle.  We broke
our kiss, arms still around each other, both breathless and happy in the
gathering dark.  "Kiss me again," she whispered. I did, and she pressed herself
against me, and her tongue probed my mouth, and she moaned.  Then she make an
angry sound and pulled back.  "I've really gotta go to the bathroom," she said,
"save my seat?"

"Promise," I grinned.  She kissed me softly and untwined herself from me and
walked off with a long backward glance.  I lay back on the cushions and waited
for my heart to quiet down, making plans to smuggle her up to my room, or maybe
down to a blanket on the beach.

"Cradle robber!" said a familiar voice from the shadows.  I looked up, and Pat,
the mother of my children, stood leaning against a post, arms crossed, looking
archly at me.  "That was Melissa Elton just leaving, wasn't it?"

"Everyone needs to rob a cradle now and then," I said, holding out my hand.  She
stood by me and took it, squeezing my fingers fondly.  "She'll be back in a
minute," I added, gently hinting.

Pat smiled, "Just how old would you say this particular cradle booty is?"

"Nineteen," I said, which was actually a year older than my best guess.  But
there was something in Pat's eyes.  "Seventeen?"

Pat shook her head at me.  "She'll be fifteen in September," she said.  "She
matured real early."

Oh god.

"Oh god!  I didn't --"

"Of course you didn't," Pat said, looking through the wall into the dining room,
"someone in there was SUPPOSED to be keeping an eye on her."  She turned back to
me.  "Sweet man.  Don't worry, you haven't done her any harm."

Any harm!  "But what do I do now?"

"Just," and she leaned down and kissed me, "just don't do anyone any harm."  And
she kissed me again and she was gone.

Melissa came out a minute later, and curled back into the curve of my arm.  She
fit perfectly.  I hugged her, and she brushed her lips over my mouth.  "Hi!" she
said.  I touched her hair and guided her head down onto my shoulder.  She put her
hand on my chest.  "Now where were we?" she said very softly, and looked up at
me.

"You're very beautiful," I said.  She moved her face to be kissed, but I just
touched her lips with my fingers.  She looked puzzled.  I looked into her eyes,
admiring her, not knowing what to say.  She kissed my fingers.  I sighed deeply,
tried to look at her as a fourteen-year-old.  She turned her face away from me,
put her head on my chest.

"Someone squealed, didn't they?"

"Squealed?"

"Someone came and told you that Melissa is only fourteen, that Melissa is a
virgin, a baby, a dunce."

"Just the fourteen part," I said.  I stroked her hair.

She was quiet for a long minute.  "It's not fair," she said, her voice unsteady,
"It's really not."

I kept my arm around her, nuzzled the back of her head with my nose.  "You're a
really good kisser," I said.

"So are you," and she turned her face hopefully back to me, but saw what I meant
and turned away and sighed.  "It's really not fair."

Another long quiet time, Melissa warm and young lying with her head on my chest,
her legs soft and bare, her smell filling my head.  She sniffled now and then.  I
hugged her.

"Do you want to talk about school now?" I asked.

"If you'll talk about work."  And we laughed, and talked again, still holding
each other.  In the circle of my arms, she was as perfect as ever, infinitely
desirable, valuable, vulnerable. My love was utterly confused.

Eventually she untwined herself again.  "I really should go in," she said.  I
nodded.  She kissed me quickly and lightly on the mouth.  Her tears had all
dried; the ability to be comforted is an important survival skill.  I watched her
walk away.

"Maybe I'll come and visit you someday," she said from the dark. "Maybe when the
babies are five or six."

I smiled.  "That'd be really nice," I said.

"Yeah," she said, and she sighed, and she went in.