The Forbidden Shore

I smiled back in the most sinister fashion I could muster, saying, "Disrespectful and now insolent to boot. I'm going to enjoy putting you in your place, you bad girl!"

"No worries," Mom replied smugly. "I'm your Mom and I can read you like a book. I'll see it coming from a mile away."

"We'll see about that," I grumbled, returning to my chopping duties, planning my retaliation.

As we progressed through our preparations, we chatted about nothing and everything. By mutual, silent consent, we said nothing about Dad or the Anna Katarina. Mom caught me up on local gossip and news and shared Sig's latest letter.

He was doing very well for himself, having recently been promoted from E-3 to Petty Officer Second Class, skipping a whole grade. That came along with a bravery commendation for a particularly difficult rescue on the Columbia Bar. We were both thrilled, but at the same time, Mom confessed that she worried about him a lot. I reassured her, saying that I thought he'd be doing less of the dangerous grunt work with his new promotion.

A bit later, I had my opportunity. Mom was turned away from me, attending to the mushrooms she was sauteing. I took the opportunity to dip a spatula into the mashed potatoes I had just finished and when she turned around, I bent the handle back and let fly.

The gob of potatoes arced gracefully across the kitchen, landing with ICBM precision on the exposed skin of her upper chest, just above the last button of her plain, white blouse. The big, sticky white blob immediately slipped beneath the fabric and into her cleavage.

I couldn't have planned it better if I had walked up to her and placed my starchy payload by hand. Mom stared at me, her eyes wide with the shock of my sneak attack.

She was beside herself, sputtering with indignation and embarrassment, as the white goo flowed down her chest.

"Oooo, you are so dead, Peter!" she squealed. "I'm gonna skin you alive, den lille dritt!"

"Tsk, tsk," I teased. "Such language from my sainted mother! My sensitive ears are bruised and burning, I tell you. Bruised and burning!"

"Du er dod kjott, buster, dod kjott!" she muttered.

"Dead meat?" I feigned shock. "You'd call your own flesh and blood dead meat?"

"After that little stunt, very definitely!" Mom scolded furiously.

"Did I ever tell you how sexy you are when you talk dirty, Mom?"

"Ooooh, that's it!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in disgust and resignation. "I'm getting changed. It's all inside my bra now!"

With that, she turned on her heel and strode from the kitchen.

"Lucky potatoes," I muttered to myself.

"What's that?" Mom shot back over her shoulder. "I didn't hear you, Peter. What did you say?"

"I said, 'Sorry about the potatoes,' Mom."

"In a pig's eye, young man!" she snorted, disappearing up the stairs to her bedroom.

Five minutes later, she returned, wearing a thick, evergreen turtleneck.

Taking in her new top at a glance, I quipped, "Taking no chances this time, I see."

"That's enough, Peter," she said firmly, but with a twinkle in her eye. "Enough horsing around. We've got a dinner to finish cooking."

"Yes, ma'am, right away, ma'am," I replied, saluting her for good measure and coming to attention.

Mom glared at me for a moment and then her features softened. She came forward and wrapped her arms around me in a big hug, burying her face in my chest, inhaling deeply.

"It's good to have my son home for Christmas. I've missed you so much, Peter!"

I hugged her back, careful to keep a small distance between us. It seemed that now any touch from her was enough to light the fuse to my trouser rocket and I didn't want her to feel how erect I was.

"Me too, Mom. I wouldn't miss this for anything."

Completely unexpectedly, she gave me light kiss on the lips and returned to the counter. I hastily turned away to conceal my raging boner and got back to work as well, my cheeks flushed and color high. My pulse was off the charts.

Throughout the rest of the morning and early afternoon, we continued, working in a silence that was not exactly tense, but somehow anticipatory. We shared few words as we worked, but both found reasons to pass close to one another, an occasional lingering touch to arm or waist occurring with increasing frequency as we prepared our feast.

Finishing our cleanup, we found ourselves at the sink, hips touching. Without thinking, I put my arm around Mom's waist and pulled her against me. She sighed and drew closer, slipping in front of me. I surged within my pants and was preparing to separate from her, when she sort of molded herself against me, back to front, relaxing completely. She placed her hands over mine, which were now locked around her waist, fingers interlaced over he abdomen. It felt soft, smooth and sensuous.

There was absolutely no way she could be unaware of the baseball bat I was poking against her lower back, but she said nothing, her hands lightly resting on my own, squeezing slightly. With a sigh, she turned and gave me another light kiss on the lips. I felt like I was floating three feet above the ground, when she broke the spell and my embrace, turning to me.

"What do you say to a game of cribbage, Petey? Loser does the dinner dishes, okay?"

"I hope you've got some gloves in the kitchen," I teased. "I wouldn't want you to get dishpan hands."

"So that's how it is, eh?" Mom shot back. '"We'll just have to see about that, min fin sonn."

"So I'm your fine son again, then, am I?"

"Don't let it go to your head, you big lug. I'm still going to beat your pants off."

"And if I beat yours off?"

"Not bloody likely, Peter."

Before I could censor my thoughts, it slipped out. "That would be quite a sight."

"Peter Hemidahl! Watch your mouth! I'm your mother!" she gasped, blushing furiously.

I was mentally slapping myself instantly for the slip.

"Sorry, Mom, it just sort of slipped out. I didn't mean to be a smart-ass, honest. I'm sorry," I said contritely, crimson from embarrassment and from revealing my inner thoughts.

"Just you watch yourself, young man. I suppose your old Mom should be flattered, but that comment is over the mark. A girl might get the wrong idea around you."

"Now, behave yourself and get the cards," she said smiling, lightly slapping my arm. "I'm going to show you who's the boss around here."

In the space of those few words, I went from chagrined and mortified to confused and a little bit elated. There had been times in the past when I flirted fairly outrageously with Mom, seeing how much I could embarrass her, but I had never made such an overtly suggestive remark to her before. As much as I was kicking myself moments ago, I now also felt somehow excited. For some reason, I sensed her reaction seemed less outraged and more... pleased, somehow.

I steeled myself mentally to guard my tongue as we sat down to play. I was doing pretty well for the first few hands and seemed well on my way to avoiding cleanup duty, when I happened to glance up. Mom was frowning, concentrating on her cards, absently pulling at her lower lip in the cute way that's always driven me crazy. Unable to help myself, my eyes flowed over her form again.

Then it hit me. I did a double take, frankly staring this time, as I confirmed my suspicion. I was certain now. Mom wasn't wearing a bra under her turtleneck!

I could see the faint outline of her nipples through the fabric of her top and they seemed to become more prominent as I stared. I became aware that I had been staring at her breasts for some time and broke my gaze, flushed and apprehensive. I quickly glanced up at Mom to see if my ogling had been noticed. I wasn't sure, but it seemed like I caught a slight suggestion of Mom's own eyes quickly moving to concentrate again on her cards.

Then I saw that same enigmatic half smile and lowered eyelids from the car and my cock surged like a fighter jet on afterburner, going from slight chubster to throbbing and leaking in about one minute. I did my best to concentrate again on my own cards, but failed miserably.

Carefully sneaking one more glance, I caught Mom looking at my bulge again. She bit her lower lip and then her eyes quickly returned to her hand, but I could see a flush on her cheeks and forehead. She licked her lips, unconsciously, it seemed.

Well, from that point forward, I was toast. I was so turned on I couldn't add 2 plus 2 and I was afraid if Mom so much as looked at me again, I'd spurt in my pants. I felt like a fourteen-year-old dumbass, completely flummoxed and tongue-tied. Needless to say, she mopped the floor with me.

"What's the matter, Peter?" she teased. "I expected a better challenge out of you. You're off your game tonight."

"My beautiful opponent kept on distracting me. I couldn't concentrate."

"Sweet talking your Mom is not going to get you out of this one, sonnen min."

"You cheated."

"Me, cheat? I did no such thing!" she squawked indignantly. "How could you say such a terrible thing about your mother?"

"You used your feminine charms to distract me. I was helpless against them."

"You're incorrigible."

"I'm also hungry. Shall we see if the turkey is ready?"

"Yes, let's do that. Cheater, indeed!" she snorted as she got to her feet. I stood and she slipped her arm around my waist, pulling me close. We walked to the kitchen, hip to hip. It was the most natural, wonderful feeling I ever experienced, two pieces of a long-separated puzzle finally put together. I was as happy as I could ever remember.

I was also hard. Oh God, I was so damn hard.

I didn't know what was going to happen between us, but my level of anticipation was beyond describing. When Mom's arm came away from my waist and briefly but clearly deliberately brushed across my ass, I just about lost it then and there. I could barely resist the temptation to sweep her into my arms and run to the bedroom.

Chapter 7

Our Christmas Eve dinner was just about perfect. I couldn't remember a time where I enjoyed a holiday meal more. Without the overbearing storm cloud of my father's presence, we spoke as we hadn't for... well... almost forever. Our conversation was wide-ranging, hugely entertaining and entirely adult. I gained a new appreciation for my mother as a well read, intellectually vibrant and spirited woman. I suppose I had imbibed from that stream of appreciation subconsciously in the past, but now, with it laid openly before me, it was revelatory.

Underneath all that was a...something. Something that hung in the air between us, like a live wire, a sense of shiver-making anxiety, of waiting and expectancy that made me tingle from head to toe. I could feel it with granite certainty. Somehow I knew that things were changing between us and that soon, very soon, things would never be the same again.

Apprehension and all, I wished I could bottle the moment, preserving it forever.

It was at this point that I came to a decision.

Having already crossed the Rubicon in finally acknowledging to myself that I wanted my mother, it wasn't that big a stretch to say to myself, "I don't just desire her. She belongs to me and I'm going to have her. And I'm going to keep her."

We conversed and mildly flirted long into the evening. When the candles on our small table began to gutter, I made to get up and clear the table. Mom stopped me, placing her hand on mine, saying, "It can wait, sweetheart. There's something I've been meaning to talk with you about. Let's go sit in the living room."

We sat on the sofa and Mom took my hands in hers, looking at me intently. Taking a deep breath, she looked at me somewhat apprehensively, saying, "I've something important to show you, Peter. I hope you won't be angry with me, but I need to do this."

"Mom, there's nothing you could possibly do that would make me angry," I protested.

"Well, I guess we're about to find out, " she said resolutely. "Wait here, Peter. I'll be right back."

Mom got up and went to her bedroom. Mystified, I sat back and waited for her to return. After a few minutes, she was back, handing me a letter. I did not recognize the return address or the sender. I gave Mom a quizzical glance and extracted the single sheet of stationary, scanning it quickly. It was from a big publisher, one I'd known of for many years. When I began reading, my world shook down to its foundations.

"Dear Mr. Heimdahl," it began, "I am in receipt of your manuscript entitled 'Inside Heart, Inside Passage.' First, let me congratulate you on what is undoubtedly one of the best novels I have read in the past five years. It goes almost without saying that we at McDowell House would be delighted and thrilled to publish this work. I am given to understand that you have onerous work obligations related to your family business and that reaching you may be difficult, so I have taken the liberty of sending this letter to you in the care of your mother. Abigail Hester, an old classmate of mine, has assured me that this will be the best way to reach you at this time."

"Of course, there is considerable preparation still necessary for the manuscript and we must find a suitable editor for you to work with as well. We are prepared to offer the sum of $75,000 for the rights to this work and hope that you will seriously consider our offer of publication. I can be reached at the numbers listed on the letterhead and look forward to your prompt reply."

"Again, let me offer our congratulations for an outstanding creative effort. It is a rare pleasure indeed, to read such a polished work from such a young talent."

Sincerely,

Belinda Thornburg-Hall, editor in chief.

"Mom?" I croaked, throat tight. "When...how...why?"

Her hands gripped mine tightly, her lower lip trembling with barely suppressed anxiety. "Is it okay, Peter? Are you angry? I feel so guilty that I did this without asking you."

I sat silently for several minutes, torn by indecision and doubt. The idea of Mom having read about all of my veiled, secret longings, fears and guilt, it was overwhelming. But then I thought, after the past three days, she probably already knew how I felt about her, so what was there to hide any more? Taking in a deep breath, I squeezed her hands back and swallowed with difficulty.

"It's okay, Mom. When did you know about it?"

"It was entirely an accident," she explained, a quaver still evident in her voice. "It must have been two and a half or three years ago, a little while after you bought that old laptop. You had been using over Christmas and when you went back out for the start of Opie season, you left it behind."

"I didn't think much of it at the time, but you left it out on your desk and eventually the battery ran down. When you called to say you were coming back for a visit, I went to straighten up you room and change the linens. I noticed the laptop, unplugged on your desk. I thought I would do you a favor and recharge it so you'd be able to use it when you got home."

Taking a deep breath, she continued, "So, I went scrounging around your pig sty and eventually found the power cord and plugged it in. When it rebooted, there was a message from the word processor, saying that it had auto-saved your document because of low battery power."

"I snooped, Peter," she said, eyes downcast. "I know I shouldn't have, but I wanted to know what it was you were writing that made a file that was almost 2 megabytes."

"So I opened it. And I started reading and then I couldn't stop! It just sucked me right in and grabbed me by the heart and throat. It was so good, Peter, I couldn't believe it was my own son writing this incredible story!"

"I was so proud of you, Peter, so proud! I think that overrode my common sense. I started peeking regularly as you worked through it. Then when you were done and just threw it in the closet, I was heartbroken. Such talent and you just tossed it aside and went back out on that shitty little boat!" she hissed venomously, startling me with her profanity.

"I felt certain that this was good enough to be made into a book, but I had no idea how to go about that. So, I looked up Miss Hester and showed it to her. It absolutely astonished her, Peter. She agreed that it HAD to be published, it was that good. She said she had a sorority sister from college who worked at McDowell and asked if she could send it to her, so I said yes!" Mom concluded somewhat defiantly, daring me to disapprove.

"So here we are," I said softly. "What happens now?"

"I want you to publish it, Peter," she all but ordered. Her tone brooked absolutely no argument. "I've been in touch with a literary agency in Seattle and they're dying to represent you. I want you to let them negotiate a deal with McDowell. When that's done, I want you off that boat. Whatever you get for the deal, it should be enough for you to stop fishing while you write your next novel!"

"But Dad..."

"Screw your father and that piece of shit boat!" she said fiercely. "This is your chance for a real life, Peter. You'll never get a better one. If you throw this away...well, you deserve what you get, working with Gunnar."

"But Mom!" I practically shouted. "What about you? Who knows what Dad might do if I leave? I won't let anything happen to you! I couldn't stand that!"

Mom put her hands on my shoulders, peering deep into my eyes.

"Look at me, Peter. Look at me," she commanded. "As soon as I know you're free and clear of that man, I'm filing for a divorce. I'm no fool, son. I know him better than you do. I'll be long gone before he's even served with the papers."

"But where will you go? What will you do?"

She reached up to stroke my cheek, speaking quietly. I shivered at her gentle, sensuous touch. "That's for me to decide, darling son. Don't fret about it. I'll make it work so you won't have to worry about me anymore."

"So do we have an agreement, Peter?" she asked seriously. "If you get a publishing deal, you quit the boat, become a full-time writer, okay?"

"You have to absolutely promise me that you'll make arrangements to get out of Homer, the minute I make the deal though, okay Mom?" I insisted. "In fact, I want you to start getting your ducks lined up right after New Year's, all right? I'm sure you can count on Hilda for some help, too."

I got up from the sofa and began to nervously pace the living room. So much had changed, so quickly, that I couldn't take it all in. The possibility of a life away from Dad, my finally acknowledged feelings for Mom, the uncertainty of what her plans might be, it was all too much to process, especially stuffed full of holiday food and the better part of a full bottle of wine. I simply couldn't make heads or tails of what I could or should do.

I think Mom sensed my growing disorientation, because she stood and took my hand, leading me to the foyer closet, saying, "Lets get a little fresh air outside Peter, clear our heads a bit and then we'll talk some more."

Chapter 8

Nodding dumbly, I put on my parka and helped Mom into hers and we exited through the sliding glass doors onto the back yard deck.

Standing in the lee of the house, I could hear the wind rushing through the fir and pine trees surrounding our lot, not a whisper, but not a roar, either. As the wind coursed over the roof, it swept a galaxy of tiny ice crystals into the air in front of us, making it scintillate faintly with the reflected light spilling though the doors and windows. The air was cold, but its bite was mild out of the direct path of the wind. As we stood next to each other, clouds of our breath condensing around us, I looked up.

The sky was moonless and dark, the stars indistinct as a shroud of high cirrus clouds scudded from west to east. Gradually, the clouds dispersed before the wind, revealing the broad, nacreous swath of the Milky Way and the diamond-hard stars of Orion, Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper and the Pleiades. Between the razor-sharp celestial backdrop and the swirling ice crystals in the air, it was hard to know where the sky began and ended. It felt as though we were suspended, frozen in space and time.