Canon Ch. 01

Amy did, and as Geoff turned onto the highway, he floored the accelerator and the car leaped forward like the jungle cat it was named for. "When you put your foot in it, she's still a lady," he finished with a feral grin.

As Geoff stirred through the gears, Amy felt that same leap at every change. When the car swing into a tight turn at well over 70, she felt it crouch and grab the road as if it had claws, and it knifed through the curve as if it were on tracks.

"Ooo," Amy breathed. She felt oddly vulnerable and excited, sitting in what would normally be the driver's seat. As she looked over the long hood of the car with its prominent bulge, the stripes on the road seemed to be dots, flicking by in fast-motion. She looked at the speedometer and gasped. They were doing over 130 miles per hour.

"Too fast?" Geoff took his foot off the gas, and the sleek bullet that was his car slowed to a relatively sedate 80.

"It didn't feel like we were going that fast," Amy said breathily. "But - wow."

"I'm sorry, Amy," he said. "The Jag can be a little overwhelming, especially when you're sitting over there."

"Don't be sorry, Uncle Geoff," she giggled. "It's scary, but it's - exciting."

He grinned. "Well, in that case -" The car leaped forward again, and Amy gasped again and giggled breathlessly. She felt trembly and warm inside, almost - almost what?

She looked at the old man in the driver's seat, and she knew. Uncle Geoff made her hot. As weird as that was, she felt it. He all but radiated masculinity. It wasn't the car - it was his assurance as he drove it and his air of strength and confidence.

Geoff was seventy, but that didn't matter at all. This was a MAN.

Amy shivered. This may turn out to be an - interesting - year, she thought.

---

They slid into the parking lot of the grocery store, skidding on all four wheels, and Geoff showed off a little by stopping the car precisely in the painted parking space at the end of the row.

Amy's cheeks were pink and she was breathing hard. Her remarkable eyes were very wide behind her glasses. "M-my God, Uncle Geoff," she stammered breathlessly. "D-do you aa-always d-drive like th-that?"

"No,"He laughed. "I couldn't afford the tickets. Sorry, Amy. I don't often get chance to show her off. I hope I didn't scare your pants off."

Funny he should say it just that way, she thought, but she said, "N-no, I'm okay. That was fun! Scary, but fun!"

The went into the store and began moving up and down the aisles. To Geoff's surprise, the tiny, long-haired teen whipped a list from her purse, adjusted her glasses, and began to consult it. "What do you like for breakfast?" she asked. "I make a terrific omelet...."

---

They left almost an hour later, after putting a dozen bags of food in the back of the road rocket. "No zoom-zoom this time, Uncle Geoff," said Amy, smiling. "You'll scramble the eggs."

He laughed and eased the car onto the highway. "Yes, Ma'am," he said in a good-natured rumble.

But once on the four-lane, he opened it up anyway. Amy hissed in fright and delight as she shivered in her seat, feeling vulnerable and helpless without a steering wheel in front of her.

They reached the house in minutes, even though Geoff slowed way down at the corners to make sure the groceries arrived intact. They did.

After they carried the bags into the big country kitchen, Geoff sat down at the table. He was looking forward to watching Amy put up the groceries as they chatted.

They were already comfortable together. As she put the boxes and cans and bottles away, Amy told him of the years he'd missed of her life; of sports and lessons and speech competitions and plays - but little of dances and dates and boyfriends.

"So isn't there some boy back home who's eating his heart out now that you've gone off to school?" asked Geoff with a smile. "Or is he here, too?"

Amy giggled, a silvery sound. "No, Uncle Geoff," she said, shaking her head. She said no more, so he prodded her a little.

"Not even a boy you kind of liked?"

Amy was done with the groceries, so she came over and sat down at the table. She made a face, then looked at her guardian frankly. "No, Uncle Geoff," she said again. "I don't date much. Fact is, I don't date at all."

He looked the question at her. She shrugged and said, "I don't like boys."

"You like girls?" His face wore a small smile.

Amy's hands flew to her mouth and her eyes flew open wide. Then she laughed, a little nervously. "That's not what I meant."

His smile grew wider. "You knew that, didn't you?" He nodded, once, and she relaxed and tried to explain. "The boys my age - they're - they're so - " Her pretty hands gestured vaguely.

"So full of themselves, but unsure of themselves, too," he said, his deep voice low and quiet. "They either look at you all googly-eyed, or they start pawing you right away. They grab at your breasts -" his eyes flicked downward - "or they reach for your - pants, or they sit there and don't do anything at all and wait for you to do something. And none of them are especially interested in you - just themselves." He smiled. "Is that about it?"

The girl was staring at him, her pretty mouth hanging open an inch. She blinked at him from behind her glasses. "How did you know?" she finally asked, her voice soft and wondering.

"I was a boy once," he said simply. "We're all like that, when we're young."

Amy looked at his hands for some reason. They were still. Then he lifted a finger, pointing it at her.

"You're older than they are, Amy," he said, his voice distant thunder. "You know who you are. They don't."

She cocked her head at him curiously. For an instant he was lost in the curve of her neck, in the smooth, white skin below her ear.

Then he went on. "You know who you are. You know what you want."

She shook her head. "I don't know what I want to do -"

"That's not what I mean, punkin. You decide that later, and it can change many times. What I mean is -" He lifted a hand; the gesture said, it's simple. "You know that other people matter, and you want them to be happy. Look what you did for your mom and dad."

She looked puzzled. "Most girls would have had a tantrum when they found out they couldn't go to school where they wanted," he said. "Lots of tears, tons of guilt, boo hoo, you don't love me, all that. You? You made your mom and dad feel like it was okay. Like it didn't matter."

Amy opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, looking at the table. "That's what my friend Kendra did," she said.

Then she looked up. "But it didn't matter," she said. "Not as much as -"

She fell silent, looking at him. He smiled. "You see? Not as much as they did. As their feelings did." She nodded, slowly.

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "I was disappointed, especially at first. But I know they love me. If they could have done it, they would have. But they couldn't. So -"

"So be a grownup and accept what has to be," he said, "and do it with a smile on your face, a real one, and with love in your heart." He took her small hand in both of his old, veined ones, gently, and asked, "Amy, do you know how rare that is? How precious that is? You're very special. You've always been special. And different."

She put her other hand over his. Her magnified eyes looked into his, cool blue and warm brown. "So are you, Uncle Geoff. I never knew anybody else like you. Not even Daddy."

He patted her hands and broke the contact, then smiled at her. "Amy, we have to stop this 'Uncle Geoff' stuff. Why don't you just call me Geoff? You're a grownup now. And I'm not your uncle anyway." He smiled. "I'm your friend."

She noted the withdrawal and change of subject, but knew she couldn't speak of it.

"I'd feel funny about that," she said.

"Well, you can call me what your dad did. Still does, sometimes."

"'Sarge'?" She made a wry face. "I like 'Geoff' better," she admitted.

He grinned. "You'll get used to it, Amy. Your dad did."

She looked at him fondly. I do love him so, she thought. "Okay, Geoff."

Then she smiled and nodded. It didn't feel funny at all.

---

The next morning, Geoff woke up in his bunk, as he thought of it, and his first thought was of the lovely girl sleeping in what had once been his bedroom.

So beautiful, he thought - and reflected that her father was right; she was beautiful, but didn't know it. That's rare, too.

He thought of how special she was - so unaffected, so kind and sweet - so -

Pure. That was the word. He smiled.

Then he smelled coffee.

He looked at the clock. It was six-thirty. What the hell?

He sat up on the edge of his hard twin bed, and looked around his small, spartan bedroom.

There. He picked up his jeans from the steel office chair beside his bed, pulled them on, and padded barefoot to the kitchen.

Amy was standing at the stove, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that brushed her bottom, which was covered by a pair of red shorts. Not tight, but very short. She wore a threadbare T-shirt, obviously without a bra underneath, and she was barefoot. He could not resist a glance - a glance that lingered perhaps an instant longer than was necessary - at her perfect legs.

She had not heard him come in, and he watched her for a moment. She was peeling slices of bacon from the package and laying them carefully on a paper towel as a square griddle grew hot. An omelet pan was warming on another burner, the butter melting and fragrant, and he saw a measuring cup filled with beaten eggs nearby, next to a small bowl of grated cheese.

Then, to his amazement, he saw that the oven light was on, and inside were biscuits just beginning to brown.

"By the time you graduate, I'm going to weigh five hundred pounds," he said.

Amy jumped a bit and her head whipped around to look at him, making her ponytail ripple; then she laughed. "Good morning!" she said brightly. "Hungry?"

"I wasn't till I came in here," he said. "My God, Amy. You're cooking enough to feed a battalion."

She giggled. "No, just a squad." She deftly poured the eggs into the omelet pan, then pointed without looking. "Coffee's ready." "Um." He walked over and poured a mug - already set out, his favorite -

How did she know that?

- and watched her at the stove. Amy carefully placed the bacon on the griddle, and the sizzle and aroma filled the room instantly. She lifted the eggs with a spatula and deftly turned and tilted the pan, and sprinkled the cheese around in it with her lovely fingers. Without missing a beat, she checked the biscuits - not ready yet - flipped the bacon, and shook the omelet pan with a practiced air.

Through it all, his eyes kept returning to her lovely legs, to the long sweep of pale, flawless skin that ended at the somehow heartbreaking curve of her pink heels.

Pure - and perfect, he thought.

She looked back over her shoulder and caught him. She smiled, with a twinkle of - pleasure, he decided - and said, "Sit down, Geoff. It's almost ready."

He did as ordered, and waited docilely as she folded and browned the omelet, drained the bacon, pulled the steaming biscuits from the oven and then transferred everything to a serving platter.

She set it before him with an unmistakable air of domestic pride, and waited for her compliments.

Geoff looked at the enormous plate, and then up at her. "But what are you going to eat?" he asked, deadpan.

She goggled at him open-mouthed, then burst into a storm of laughter - not giggles, full-throated laughter - in which he joined. She playfully slapped his bare shoulder, and on impulse he grabbed her hand and kissed it. "Thank you, Amy," he said sincerely. "This is -" He shook his head. "This is unbelievable. C'mon, let's eat."

Butter, jam, jelly, salt, pepper, and two plates with silverware were already set out on the table. Amy served them both before she sat, and he could not help noticing the quiver of her small but perfect breasts beneath the thin T-shirt. He tried not to look - and then he looked anyway.

She finally took her seat, adjacent to him, and they smiled at each other - and dug in. After an initial "Oh, my God, Amy - this is delicious," and her "Thank you, I'm glad you like it," they spoke little.

Geoff was really overwhelmed. The biscuits were light and perfectly browned, the omelet light, fluffy and cheesy, the bacon crisp but not hard - the butter had even been set out long enough to warm to room temperature so it would melt into the biscuits in seconds and leave them hot.

Amy watched Geoff as he ate. It was so hard to believe his age; without his shirt, his baseball biceps, his sculpted chest, and his classic "six-pack" abs we're on display. His skin was a little slack, and his hands and forearms spotted, but his body was one any 20-year-old would kill for.

She wanted to touch him.

He looked up at her and smiled - and she wanted to touch him even more.

As he smiled, Geoff looked at the lovely girl before him and marveled. His smile grew broader. "What?" she said.

He took the last bite of his perfect omelet, followed by the last bites of his perfect bacon and his perfect biscuit, then sat back and looked at the perfect woman. "What?" she said again, more insistently.

"Perfect," he said. "It was all perfect, Amy."

She glowed, and in his mind, he said what he could not say aloud: "Just like you."

---

That day was a Sunday. As Geoff relaxed at the table with his coffee and the newspaper after breakfast, Amy went to her room to begin putting her things away. On the way there, she stopped in the hall and peeked into Geoff's room.

She smiled. It was so small and empty - it must remind him of his military days, she thought.

A single bed with a plain nightstand beside it, with its plain metal-shaded lamp; a gray metal desk with its steel office chair; a few pictures on the walls - his wife, his old unit, the Marine Corps crest, and one of her father and mother and herself, taken when she was about ten. That was all.

The bed was unmade. On impulse, she made it; and knowing Geoff's standards, she made it neat and tight. Then she smiled and went to her room, where she put something together for him. She left it lying on his desk, and then set about emptying her boxes and bags into drawers and closets.

---

Lunch was simple and plain; grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches with baked beans and pan-fried potatoes with onions. Geoff pronounced it perfect too, and after they sat and talked of the beginning of school, almost a week away. Amy's parents had insisted that she have some time to "settle in" with Geoff before classes began, as well as to register, buy books, and so on.

"I thought we'd drive over to the campus tomorrow and look around, Amy. Your dad gave me the schedule -" He smoothed out a printed sheet with State College letterhead - "and your registration is Wednesday. Orientation starts a week from tomorrow, and classes on the Wednesday after that."

Amy nodded. "Sounds like fun. Will we go in the Jag?"

Geoff smiled. "If you want. Mostly I drive the Toyota, though. Not as sexy, but cheaper to drive and a lot more reliable. The Jag is my fun car."

Then he lifted an eyebrow. "Or we might take Honey."

"Honey?"

He grinned. "Come with me." He led her out to the garage, which she hadn't seen for many years. It was separate from the house, though connected with a covered walk in case of rain; Amy knew that it had been a stable when the house had been built around 1850.

He opened the side door to the long building, and inside she saw the sleek maroon Jaguar, a plain-Jane beige Camry, an olive-drab Jeep - beloved of every veteran - and beyond it, something else.

She laughed, delighted. "This is Honey?"

"Harley Honey," said Geoff. As Amy gazed at the gleaming motorcycle, he spoke proudly: "It's a 1948 Knucklehead. I restored her myself, back in the Sixties. Took me two years."

"She's beautiful, Geoff." Amy walked around the bike, admiring it, her bare feet pale against the oil-stained concrete. "Why do they call it a Knucklehead?" He came over and pointed. "See the bolts on the cylinder heads?"

"Oh." She stroked the tank admiringly "I've never seen this color before."

He smiled. "Candy-apple red. It used to be popular for hotrods and custom cars."

"I'm surprised you don't have a hotrod, too." He grinned and pointed at the wall. She went over to look, and he joined her.

"Wow!" said Amy. They were looking a faded picture of a 1932 Ford coupe, complete with chromed engine, fat rear tires, baby moon hubcaps and a dropped front suspension. Geoff - younger, slimmer, and with a full head of curly black hair - leaned on its fender and grinned out at the camera.

"Sold it when I joined the Corps," he said wistfully. "She was a beauty."

"She sure was."

Amy lifted a pretty bare foot; the sole was dark brown. "Hm," she said. "Well, I need a shower anyway."

"I forgot," said Geoff, chagrined. "I should've told you to put on some shoes when you come out here."

Then he grinned. "Come over here." Amy approached, and he abruptly picked up the tiny girl and sat her on the workbench, which was scrupulously clean.

She blinked at him, a little breathless. He had lifted her like a doll, with no apparent effort. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to clean your feet. Can't have you tracking oil on the carpet."

She giggled as he took some waterless hand cleaner from a dispenser and began to rub it into the sole of one pretty foot, her left.

"That tickles!" she squealed. He laughed and ran a thumb up the centerline of her sole, making her gasp and wriggle; then he began to rub the creamy cleanser in, gently and carefully.

He held her little foot tenderly, admiring it. So lovely, so bare... Such pretty little toes....

He realized that he wasn't cleaning her foot so much as caressing it. He looked up, and their eyes met.

Innocent blue and smoky brown looked into his soul. He looked back, unable to tear his own eyes away from hers. There was nothing in the universe but those astonishing eyes...

His hands were still gently stroking her bare foot. Neither of them seemed to notice.

Geoff finally reached for a clean rag and wiped the cleaner away; her sole was pink and pristine again.

Without a word, Amy held out her right foot, and he began again.

As he stroked her soft sole, he looked up again, almost shyly - and she was looking at him the same way. Her eyes were soft and warm on his, and her cheeks were pink.

He finished cleaning that one too, and on impulse - an impulse he knew he would be hard pressed to explain - he gently lifted and kissed one lovely foot, and then the other.

"Thank you, Geoff," she said softly. They smiled at each other, oddly quiet.

Then Amy sat up and blinked, looking at the floor. Her confused, confusing eyes were comically magnified by her glasses. "How am I going to get out of here without getting them dirty again?"

Geoff grinned broadly. "Like this," he said - and slid one arm beneath her knees, one behind her back, and picked her up. Amy squeaked in surprise, and her arms automatically went around his neck.

They looked into each other's eyes, inches apart, and that odd silence took over again for an instant - then Amy leaned her head on his bare chest and sighed. He nuzzled her head with his cheek for a heartbeat, then began carrying her toward the door.

It was intoxicating for both of them. For Amy, the feeling of being held like a child in his strong arms, her own around his powerful neck, the warm, masculine scent of him, so close - her cheek against his gray-haired, but rock-hard chest - so warm - she shivered with pleasure at being held, so safe, so loved...

Geoff felt her tremble, and felt a thrill of warmth himself. The weight of her in his arms, her embrace, her bare, lovely legs resting in the crook of one arm, the warmth of her back on his other, her cheek moving subtly against him, the scent of her hair...