He had broad shoulders, a big, comfortable hairy stomach that provided a modest awning for his penis, which was nevertheless present and accounted for, unassuming, perfectly ordinary of size and proportion, and minding its own business.
“Morning,” she parroted finally. Faintly.
Though he was already making his jaunty way around the bend in the road and there was no way he could have heard her.
She’d lived in San Francisco a good decade or so, and during that time there wasn’t much she hadn’t seen there. And though it was hardly an everyday occurrence, she was no stranger to naked people cropping up where you didn’t expect to find them. It didn’t really make it any less startling. I mean, you always knew the jack-in-the-box clown was going to eventually pop out of the box when you spun the crank, but didn’t everyone still jump a little each time it did? But no one blinked at anything crazy in San Francisco. And you did get a sense for when something had veered outside the usual tolerable weirdness into the realm of threatening.
This guy hadn’t felt the least threatening.
Frowning thoughtfully, she pivoted back to the mailbox.
And froze.
Two more naked-save-for-hats—his the baseball variety, hers a vast, navy straw-and-polka-dot confection she could have worn to the Kentucky Derby—people were advancing up the road, each carrying a beach tote and a cooler and a rolled-up towel. The woman was wearing those expensive, highly engineered–looking sandals favored by women who had said “up yours!” to the tyranny of fashion in favor of comfort, which made Avalon decide they were about her parents’ age.
“Morning,” they sang out happily.
“Hi!” The effort to sound nonchalant sent Avalon’s voice out about three octaves higher. “Where are you off to on this beautiful day?”
She should have anticipated they would stop.
Dear God, where did she park her eyes? On their eyes.
On their naked, naked eyes.
“Devil’s Leap, dear.” The woman gestured. “That’s where the party is today.”
“Party?”
Behind them, a half dozen or so more naked people had appeared, smiling, chattering, and wearing sensible shoes, sun protection for their heads, and nada in the middle. A quick glance told her that no one had subjected their body hair to the kind of rigorous shaping Casey at the Truth and Beauty, for instance, would have applied. No triangles or hearts or landing strips. It was a free-for-all. The same applied to the bodies.
“But... isn’t Devil’s Leap Mac Coltrane’s property?”
“Oh, Mac called me yesterday and said we could hold our clothing-optional weekend at the Devil’s Leap swimming hole. Morty’s been asking him for ages,” the woman in the navy hat told her.
Suddenly itaaalllllmade sense.
And like a wishbone she was yanked between feelingincensedand thinking it was the funniest, most original damn thing.
Sauntering in the middle of the nude people was a clothed guy who, by virtue of the glorious way the olive-green long-sleeved T-shirt stretched across his chest and the way a pair of soft, old jeans hugged his hips, seemed more naked than all of them.
“Good morning, new neighbor,” Mac said to Avalon. “I see you’ve met Morton and Helen Horton.”
“Not formally.” It felt odd to use the wordformalwhen nearly everyone in this conversation was naked. “Wait... your name is Morton Horton?” She swiveled her head toward him.
“It’s a great name, isn’t it?” he said happily.
“It really is.” There was no denying that, at least.
“Mac here is an old national guard buddy.” Morty jabbed a thumb in Mac’s direction.
Avalon pivoted. “Youwere in the national guard?”
Mac briefly looked cornered.
Morty answered for him. “Heck yeah. Mac was an engineer. You name it, he can build it, fix it, plan it, finesse it, coax it.”
“I can’t build an imaginary school for grownups to play in on their phones or anything,” Mac said modestly. “Just bridges, engines, buildings... things like that.”
