CHAPTER I
The windshield wipers sweep at full speed. Snowflakes keep heaping up, but Marc can’t keep his eyes on the road. Lila is far too gorgeous to be ignored. Even dressed in a pink anorak and wearing snow pants way too big for her. Even her blond hair flattened by a yellow woolen cap. Her face is so damn perfect.
It has been a week and he still doesn’t realize. He’s used to driving with a stunning chick by his side—Marc is a pussy magnet, especially since he wears the uniform—, but Lila is out of his league. She’s the type of jaw-dropping girl you only see on TV.
Fortunately—or a stroke of fate as he used to think—, the night he met her Marc had scoured the vehicle cabin and got rid of greasy papers or other snacks. He would not have invited her into his mobile dump.
And now, she stands on the passenger side, her eyes on a psychology course. Marc decreases the volume of the radio connected to 98.1 FM, which has been broadcasting bluegrass country for half an hour.
“I wonder what we’ll eat for dinner.”
The girl looks up from her notebook and closes it. She gratifies Marc with that devastating smile that almost knocked him off his feet when she met him at the bar.
“Not vegan,” she replies. “Dad is really into red meat and he’s a barbecue kingpin.”
“So, you do talk about them. That’s progress. Anything else? Are they easygoing? What about their sense of humor? Will I have to break the ice with my crappy jokes?”
“You’re nervous? Good. That means you care. Well, since you want to know, my father’s name is Theodore. He’s a retired judge. My mother Martha was a model till she was thirty-six. They are both sixty-years-old now. Yes, I know what you think. They had me a bit late. Ah, my dad is protective. Watch out, I’m his little princess.”
And soon you’ll be mine.
Marc readjusts the vanilla-scented tree hanging from the rear-view mirror and throws a hand on the girl’s thigh.
“Uh, could you keep an eye on the road?” she replies immediately. “I would like to arrive alive, if you don’t mind!”
Marc tries to pull his hand back, but Lila stops him.
“No need to back off. I just ask you to be careful, it would be a pity if you die before you have tasted the best apple pie in the world…”
Much to Marc’s surprise, Lila even raises his hand a bit higher, at the edge of her crotch.
“And if you behave well tonight, you may get an extra dessert,” she adds with an evocative wink while nibbling her fleshy lower lip.
Marc finds nothing to answer; mind racing, cock stretched to the point of exploding.
Slut. He dreams of her naked body—in a week, he only stole a few languid kisses—and now she turns him on like a craving whore. A week without fucking. Inconceivable for a coozehound like him. A thing he will never boast about to his friends.
When you meet my parents, I’ll know you’re the right one. I will be all yours, you’ll make me do all you want.
All he wants.
That’s excites him the most. He clings to her promise—a first, he isn’t the kind to deal with virgins—because the wait is really worth it. Regarding sex, he doesn’t lack imagination and this goody-two-shoes will soon realize it.
The ingenuous little angel will have it all in. Marc will make her his submissive slave. He will exhibit his trophy in swingers’ clubs or even shoot an amateur movie with his friend Gary. Such a hottie must be shared. Yes, the little princess will soon be turned into a porn queen.
He readjusts the position of his compressed dick in his jeans.
Marc now drives like an automaton, thoughts lost in various kinky fantasies. These wanderings make him notice a bit too late the wooden panel, “Williams.” He slams his foot on the brake. Too strong. The tires slip on the ice, the pedal trembles, the car goes off to the right and skates on ten yards.
Lila lets out a high-pitched scream and stiffens as Marc battles with the steering wheel to restore balance.
“Fuck!”
After a slide of several yards, the vehicle stops, its bumper almost stuck in a huge heap of snow.
“Shit!”
Marc bangs the wheel and turns to Lila who gives him a half-surprised, half-accusing look.
A facial expression that gives her an extra charm. As if under her angelic face, a demon—a succubus, obviously—had come to life for a second.
“Sorry. I was driving too fast and missed the junction. I’m driving backwards. Everything is fine? Damn, this snow drives me crazy. Do they ever salt on the road in this middle-of-nowhere-hellhole...?”
Marc stops.
Middle-of-nowhere-hellhole.
Lila spent most of her childhood in this place.
Be careful not to scare the game, Marc.
“Sorry. It just came out. I don’t mean it.”
The girl’s face lights up.
“You do. But hey! Why do you think I moved to town?”
Marc is looking for something smart to answer, but the words are stuck in his brain. He just nods.
“This fucking snow, it drives me crazy,” he repeats.
He restarts the car and turns around.
Why do you think I moved to town?
The right answer comes a few minutes later as the vehicle progresses slowly on a snowy forest road.
“To meet me,” he should have replied with a charming smile.
Too late. A repartee must be instant. And it’s not that great anyway.
The path narrows. Fir trees branches graze the car body and whip the windows. The vehicle seems attacked by a swarm of angry rioters.
If the painting isn’t scratched, it’s a miracle.
Finally, the din ends when the road widens and leaves the fir forest to reach a vast clearing encircled with conifers.
Marc drives a few yards more on a barely cleared path. The car catches a wooden fence in its headlights. Farther north, several yellowish gleams attempt a timid breakthrough in the white darkness.
Windows, Marc concludes silently. A fucking house, at last!
“And here we are”, Lila says. “The Williams Farm. And we’re almost on time. I don’t want to stress you out, but punctuality is paramount for my Dad.”
Marc nods without listening. The gate to the property is shut. He’ll have to walk outside. Unlike Lila, he isn’t dressed as if he was traveling to the moon.
“Lila, can you drive, please? I will open and close the door behind you.”
Without waiting for an answer, he pushes the door and leaves the car.
No sooner has he stepped on the glistening snow than the frozen air assaults his face with a thousand needles.
Marc walks to the gate, cursing at the weather. He lifts the board that blocks the door and gust of wind blows snowflakes in his eyes. His hands—only protected by woolen gloves—get immediately wet.
Marc pushes the sliding panels. They scrape the icy crust and signals Lila to drive forward.
“At least the path has been salted,” he notes before a red wooden barn catches his gaze. A thick layer of snow engulfs the building. A pile of logs climbs its flanks up to one third of its height. The typical American farmstead, only missing its wheat silo.
By the way, had Lila told her about a farm before they left? She had said: “We are invited by my parents, it’s outside the city, about twenty miles.”
And in all logic, he had thought: suburbs, villages. But not a house lost in the heart of the woods.
He should have reacted when she had said: “No need to put the address in the GPS. It’s easy to find and I know the way.”
Well, what does it change after all? It’s a dinner. A simple dinner. All he has to do is keep quiet, pretend to be interested in the discussions—maybe even show a bit of zeal—, remain courteous, kind. And with a little luck, the cooking will live up to the promise: “My mother is a Cordon Bleu, you’ll see.”
The car moves forward and stops. Lila knocks on the window and takes the passenger place while he closes the gate.
“It’s freezing. Temp must be under minus four. My nasal hair is glued to my nostrils,” Marc says, regaining the warmth of the car interior.
“Charming. Nice picture. Not sure I can’t get rid of it.”
Marc is about to answer, but Lila goes on.
“So, what do you think?
Silent, lost, frozen. In short, he hates it.
“It’s (lost) impressive! It must be perfect (as a retirement home) to have a nice weekend.”
Lila stands up in her seat and releases a lock of hair.
“A paradise in summer. You’ll see. For now, it’s a bit dreadful, but when I was a girl, we went on a sleigh for hours every Sunday. My uncle was breeding sled dogs.”
Marc smiles and gratifies her with an artificial grin that tries to express: “Wow, it must have been so great!”
“Funny, I don’t picture your father living here. You told me he was a judge, right?”
“—Retired for three years. This was our second home; we came here on vacation and almost every weekend. Last year they sold their apartment in Duluth. But honestly, I think they’ll split their time between this place and the villa they bought in Florida during the real estate crisis.”
Marc nods to displays an illusion of interest and walks to the lights.
The main house is a three-story Victorian wooden building, whose roof is heightened by numerous cornices.
“More a mansion than a farm,” he says, admiringly. “It’s … huge.”
Maybe a bit ‘too much’ for a retired couple.
“That’s exactly why my parents love it. An old colonial palace breathing history. Dad had bought it at an affordable price, but it was damaged. I was not born at the time, but I know he spent most of his weekends for at least five years to make it habitable. He has a passion for DIY. Loves it as much as food.”
It’s always helpful to have a hands-on father-in-law, Marc thinks before he realizes this idea sounds ridiculous. In a few weeks—maybe even before—, he will dump her. That’s what he always does.
Marc parks his car next to a pickup truck buried under the snow.
“I’m getting hungry,” Lila confesses.
She opens the door, jumps out of the car, rubs her hands and walks quickly to the entrance.
Marc has no appetite. He just wants to end this damn evening as soon as possible. He hopes they won’t drag on. He’ll be back at midnight and he’ll fuck the little princess until exhaustion.
Lila misses skidding on the porch and hangs in extremis at the banister.
“You okay?” Marc asks.
She turns around and points to a step covered with a thin layer of ice.
“The stairs have been salted but watch out for the frost!”
Under the porch, Marc notices the big bag of salt leaning against the facade and a red shovel. Further to the right, under a window, a snowblower half cloaked by a tarpaulin is stored next to a pile of logs along the wall. The mandatory tools to spend a winter in Minnesota.
Lila presses her index finger on the doorbell. Marc wipes his boots on a doormat studded with ice nuggets.
“The insulation is terrible,” Lila explains. “The house is heated with wood, but some convectors hang out everywhere. Double glazing isn’t installed in all rooms.”
Great, Marc thinks. So much for the DIY.
He rubs his hands and blows on his numb fingers while hammering his feet on the ground. A yellowish light diffuses under the front door, which opens a few seconds later, letting out a delicious smell of roasted meat. The man in the doorway is tall, dressed in faded blue jeans? He wears a red and black Canadian shirt.
A hooked nose, small round glasses, white beard and baldness give him the look of a retired teacher.
“Ah, here you are!” he roars, widening his arms.
The man hastens to seize Lila—he lifts her as if she were a small girl—and kisses her. Then, he turns to Marc, hand extended, a clear smile on his lips.
“And you … you must be Michael?
—Marc … with a c,” he corrects.
The grip is firm, that of a strong woodcutter. The look is penetrating, almost inquisitive.
“Theodore Williams, delighted.”
The man got a butter-thick Minnesota accent, like Marc grandpa.
The man glances at his watch.
“Well, come inside. Marc with a c. Time to eat”
