Even the dogs were declared above-average, and for a while they called the campground Lake Wobegon Shores.

“I love all my children equally!” Sandy huffed. Lydia heard her dad laughing maniacally in the background. Whomp. Mom must have hit him. Then footsteps fading away.

“You're the Karl Marx of motherhood.”

“Did you call me to berate me, or is there a real reason? The lobsters don't cook themselves.” Ah. Thursday. The big steak 'n lobsterfest was starting in an hour. Lydia could smell the mesquite, taste the drawn butter, feel the steam from the pots as Dad and Adam boiled them in beer (the exact brand a family secret), her tongue imagining the juicy, sweet crunch of grilled corn on the cob.

“Beach bake night,” she groaned, mouth watering. Krysta's eyes widened and she smacked her lips.

“Come on up for next week,” Sandy said, her voice a taunting, teasing tendril of evil temptation. “You know we miss you something fierce.”

Tempting. Really, really tempting. She could taste the ocean water in the lobster, imagine that first bite of perfect, medium rare tenderloin, the night chill in the air tempered by one of her brothers' old college sweatshirts and a roaring campfire, people playing random instruments and everyone – octogenarians to three year olds – roasting marshmallows on a stick.

So different from the city, where people not only didn't make eye contact, they lived in little spheres of air influence, as if a bubble surrounded them. Chatting on cell phones like the Borg, ear pieces attached to nothing, they conducted business – personal and professional – with ruthless efficiency, from speed dating to minute clinics to in-cab web access.

Lydia needed both to balance her. Running home would be the easy way out.

Her mama didn't raise no wimps, and Lydia took this moment to remind her of that fact. “If I come home, it's for a visit. Not for good.”

Warmth spread through the phone as Sandy's smile could be heard – no, felt – through the thin, black, shiny phone. “Are you bringing anyone special?” Up the ante, why don't you, Mom?

“I'm bringing me.” So why did her mind flash to Matt? Already? C'mon, Lydia, she chided herself. You're not in eighth grade.

Sandy got it. “That is more than enough! We'll make sure to have Caleb make your special tarragon butter sauce.”

The word “tarragon” tickled some inner gourmet as Lydia's mouth watered again, and this time not at the thought of Matt. “Is he still making that?”

“With Stan Michaelson's special cream.” Michaelson's Dairy still delivered, and not the kind of delivery you get in Boston, with an impatient bike messenger or a shy, dour restaurant dude. Glass bottles, happy cows and free sugar cookies for kids who caught Mr. Michaelson as he filled the milk box. You couldn't get any more '50s.

Then why did it make her smile?

Groan. “Is she plying you with promises of hookers and blow?” Krysta stage whispered.

“Tarragon butter!” Sandy shouted through the phone.

“Even better!” Krysta shouted back.

“Traitor,” Lydia hissed.

“I'm a realist. You're insane for giving up a weekend back home.” Krysta had been to the campground countless times and had a mild crush on Caleb. Or on his chocolate mint mousse. It was hard to tease out which she preferred more.

“I can't, Mom. I have to figure out where I'm going at work, and find another job there to set my sights on.” Disappointment practically took solid form and reached through the phone.

Deep sigh. “Fine. I understand. Your career is important to you.” Another deep sigh. “We're just your family.” Cough cough.

“The cough is a nice touch. You trying out for the role of Fantine?”

Gut-busting laughter. “You got me there, Hon. I just want to see you.”

“Cars and planes and trains work both ways, Mom. I'm only four hours away.”

“During high season?” Late July and early August was crazy, she knew. Her mom barely had time for this conversation, but if Lydia had asked for eight hours of silent weeping into the phone, Sandy would give it to her.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Wait a minute,” Sandy said, her voice suspicious. “Is there a new guy? Is that why you don't want to take a weekend off?”

How to answer that? “Mmmm, nope.”

She could hear Sandy's eyebrows shoot up. “That's a weak 'no.'”

“But it's a no.” Please don't question it.

Random words, then shuffling, the her dad's voice shouting mild obscenities. “Hon, I have to go. Someone just pumped gasoline in their septic tank.” Saved by a new RV owner.

“Your dad's fit to be tied,” Sandy added. Lydia could imagine the mess.

“OK.” Whew. “Love you, Mom.”

“Save the date! August 22. Talent Show.” Click.

That she wouldn't miss for anything.

“Did she say 'talent show'?” Krysta asked, saying the last two words as if she were talking about feces.

“Oh, yes she did. She said talent show. The talent show at the Escape Shores Campground in Verily, Maine is the absolute, hands down, most exciting, thrilling professional talent show you’ve ever been to. Didn't I take you?” She and Krysta had been friends for years.

Krysta shook her head. “Nope. If it's in late August, I'm at my mom's for a family reunion.”

“Then that explains it.” Lydia shook her head in mock sadness. “You're missing the greatest show on earth. My brothers, Dan and Adam, are famous for their nose marshmallow trick.”

Krysta made a sound of disgust. “Do I want to ask?”

“Of course you want to ask!” said Lydia. “You take a mini marshmallow and stick it up one nostril, and then your partner – ”

“Partner? You have a partner in this?” Krysta grew more disgusted by the minute. Lydia reveled in it.

“And then your partner,” she continued, ignoring the interruption, “stands about twenty feet away, maybe ten if you’re just starting, and you close the nostril that doesn’t have the marshmallow in it.” Lydia’s voice developed a nasal tone as she demonstrated the motion. “And you take a deep breath...”

“Oh, God!” Krysta grabbed her stomach.

“...and you blow as hard as you can, shoot the marshmallow in an arc, across the air, and the other person stands there with their mouth open – ”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” shouted Krysta, waving her hands wildly as if fanning herself. “OK, OK, I get the point. So that’s what passes for talent in the middle of nowhere Maine.”

“That’s pretty much the...claim to fame for a...well, yeah.” Lydia stumbled over that one.

Krysta sat up on her elbows, leaned across the table, looked Lydia dead in the eye and said, “How in the hell did someone like you from someplace like that end up in Boston?”

Lydia leaned in as if to tell her a secret, waving her closer, cupping her palm over her mouth, and whispered, “That’s exactly why I ended up in Boston.”

A zing of thrill shot through her as she waited for her elevator and watched the doors open slowly, finding Matt already on board. That zing shouldn't have thrilled her. Horror at her own inappropriate feelings for her boss should have been her response, but instead it was her clit that dominated, heating with a fire of excitement that turned into a deeper throb, making her pulse race and her heart slam against her ribs, every bit of her throat feeling her hot breath as it escaped.

“Morning,” he said, his mouth stretching into a big grin. Lydia had avoided him since that closet kiss, hoping she could just – what? Forget it? He had come to her, once, and seemed like he wanted to say something, but she had been so flustered she had jumped up and found some files to scan, scurrying off, too uncomfortable to talk.

“Good morning,” she replied. What she wanted to say was Kiss me. Or, worse, Take me.

How about: Fuck me silly.

Good morning would have to do.

Everything about this man turned her on, from the hint of aftershave he wore, to the way his biceps pressed against his oxford shirt. Those arms had been around her just days ago, and his body rested in a relaxed, but aware state, knees slightly bent, hand holding a briefcase, eyes perceptive and watching her. As she stepped into the elevator she hoped no one would join them, the pneumatic hiss of the doors closing like an answered prayer.

Out of habit, she reached over and pressed the floor button, feeling his eyes crawl over her, like a hot laser she could feel in every pore. A flush covered her cheeks and she felt a climax rising, just from this. Being in an enclosed space with him, the air electric with the tension of touches not yet completed.

She wasn't imagining the tension, either. He gave it right back, his eyes intent on her, body tight now, shifting his weight toward her, surveying every inch of her skin with his eyes.

And then – a jolt. Black. Disoriented, a little scream escaped from her throat, hands gesticulating wildly, searching to grab onto a wall, or something to steady herself, to find herself in space. Reaching the side of the elevator, she spread her hands out against the side, now attuned to her surroundings.

Lydia stood bathed in pure darkness, the only light in the elevator shining from the tiny red emergency light on the panel of buttons. A flicker of movement as Matt reached over and pushed the emergency button, setting off an alarm, a loud bell that filled the tiny elevator's interior with enough noise to drive her mad, but not enough noise – unfortunately – to drown out the pounding of arousal and overwhelm in her body, in her veins, in her –

“You okay, Lydia?” Matt asked, his rich baritone like a caress in the dark, making him seem everywhere and nowhere all at once. She heard scuffling sounds, and realized he was trying to find her in the dark. Well, fuck me, she thought. Racing thoughts filled her mind – images, touches, hopes, fantasies. Who didn’t want to have sex in an elevator at least once in her life? And here she was, with opportunity screaming, the alarm filling her ears, the darkness blocking her senses, and then she felt Matt's hand on her breast, soft and searching, as she stifled a moan.

“Oh, there you are.” He seemed not to understand what he was touching – or, she hoped, he knew exactly what he was doing – and Lydia shifted just slightly, out of instinct. Not that she didn’t want his hand on her there, and in fact she most desperately did, but she was so unused to being touched in such a manner like this, by a stranger who was her boss, her boss in the job that she had so wanted for the last two years, and now she began to feel something more than the primal fear of being trapped in a completely dark elevator with a stranger.

Boldness. The word bold was the last word anyone would ever use to describe Lydia. Fierce? Sure. Intelligent? Of course. Determined? Absolutely.

Bold? Overt? Sensual? She wasn’t a risk taker. Not by nature and not by volition. Yet here she stood with chance screaming at her in the form of an emergency alarm, and something inside her tipped. She reached for Matt and found the top button of his shirt, a sprinkling of chest hair under her fingertips. Feeling her way up over his throat to the slight roughness of his clean shaven face, up to his nose, she stood on tiptoe, and kissed him.