Dawn Blossom: Summer's Romance, #4

By L. A. Zoe

How can one heart feel so much grief for a dead husband as well as so much joy for a newborn baby daughter -- and keep pumping? 

Summer figures out Cal hired the escort to seduce her husband. At Clayton's funeral, she announces her eternal hatred of Cal. Soon, however, Cal appoints himself her baby daughter Adalia's big brother and father figure substitute -- and won't leave Summer's life.

Dawn Blossom continues -- and finishes -- the story of Summer, starting from the end of Cut Cords.

Upon Clayton's death, his money goes to his children. Except for Adalia's portion of that, plus Social Security, Summer can't make ends meet. Clayton left her his Internet business, but how can she make that work, without Clayton's expertise in real estate development?

Brooke gives Summer and Ardalia temporary shelter in her house, but Summer's enemy tries to get the city of Ladue to drag her out.

Summer grieves so much for Clayton, she believes she still makes love to him.

Calwood angers his mother, Mercedes, because he refuses to stop loving Summer. He insists she loves him.

Much as Summer hates Cal, she cannot keep him from Adalia. He gives the baby all the attention he wishes Clayton gave to him as a child.

How can Summer stop Cal from loving her daughter -- his own sister?

Or from pestering her?

Upon learning Cal's secret, she slugs him in the face.

And insists Cal watch the video his mother makes, exposing her deepest secret.

Can Summer find true love despite all her problems? Who does she marry in the next to last chapter?

And during their honeymoon in a Paris hotel, how does she make love to her new husband?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Love Conquers All Press
• Release date: Mar 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386868354

Book preview

Dawn Blossom

The Watsons

Summer's Romance: 3

L.A. Zoe

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter One

The Vow of Eternal Hatred

Summer, back in the sanctuary of the Ladue Presbyterian Chapel—with Clayton.

Only today her husband did not sit beside her showing her how to find the songs in the hymnal.

Nor did he stand beside her in front of the minister as they spoke their wedding vows.

He lay up front in a big, gray box.

The perfume of the many flower arrangements nauseated her. Especially the roses, hydrangea, carnations, lilies, and eustoma of the spray on top of Clayton’s coffin.

Patricia sat beside her, sniffling into a silk handkerchief. Then Taylor. Cal.

Across the aisle in the left front row, sat Grandma and Spring, Ana beside them.

Behind Summer, perhaps to keep an eye on her in case she freaked out, Brooke. Beside her, Ferguson with Kelly and Josh, quiet and solemn.

Behind her, ushers struggled to seat the people still pouring into the church. They even had people sharing the left front row with Grandma, Spring, and Ana. Then they set up chairs in the aisle.

This didn’t surprise Summer, because last night at the Affton Kutis Funeral Home, the two-hour visitation stretched into three, as people lined up out the door to pay their last respects to the respected local business leader.

And now they were filling the church sanctuary past capacity.

Where were they nine and a half months ago when she married Clayton in the same church?

Mom was there, but she died two months ago. Joee, but now Joee was in Brooke’s mansion, watching Adalia.

Eboni, sitting in the back with a now-repentant Lynnette.

Mrs. Pennington and Mrs. White came to the funeral home last night, and Summer hugged them like long lost family.

Summer sat with a heart chilled like a chunk of dry ice.

Yes, where were they all nine and a half months ago? All these people now hugging her and feeling so sorry for her?

All the other women were sniffling, but not Summer. She felt cold, numb. Wrenched and wrung out.

Even thinking of her gorgeous newborn baby could not cheer her up.

All these people who knew Clayton from business and social activities. They were foreigners, inhabiting a country she wanted to live in, but now understood she could only visit.

The country of wealth, of affluence, of manners, of comfort, and upper class gentility. Of everything she grew up without.

She lived there with Clayton, but his death kicked her out.

Now she had no money of her own. She wasn’t even any longer an up-and-coming TV journalist. She was just the trustee for her daughter, who did belong to that world.

God slapped her upside her head, said how dare you get so uppity? You think your shit don’t stink? You’re still the dirty little white trailer trash daughter of Piece of Ass Now, and don’t you ever forget it.

This crazy rich dude love you, well, we’ll see about that. I’ll just snatch his ass away from you. All it took was one drunk truck driver.

One drunk truck driver, and she was back in the gutter, only now with no job and a baby to take care of.

And, close by, a bitter enemy.

God took what should have been the happiest day of her life and...oh God.

Summer straightened her shoulders and her face before she broke down again.

Cold, the church felt so cold. Despite the ninety degrees outside and the crowds overloading the air conditioning.

As the people kept arriving, the organist played something slow and mournful.

As Summer prayed to the merciful God who couldn’t be there, not in a world where men as kind and loving as Clayton died before they could see their newborn babies, the ones they looked forward so much to being the good father they always wanted to be, to take her too.

Or for the strength to go on with Adalia, because that’s what Clayton would want.

She herself had no more life left. She was a dead woman.

Summer wore an elegant, tasteful black dress that went to just below her knee. Brooke again rescued her by steering her to the proper store. She even bought a black hat with a small black veil.

Looking at the world through the pattern of black squares, Summer felt impossibly respectable.

While Clayton was alive, she was a golddigger. A young tramp after an old man’s money.

Now he was dead, their grief poured out, including her as his beloved widow, the woman who heard of her husband’s death while still in shock from giving birth to their daughter.

A good story.

Give the mother twenty seconds after the hard news of the latest gang shooting. Just before promoting the next segment, then the commercial break.

The sympathy was temporary. As everyone’s shock and grief wore off, so would their kindness toward Summer.

Finally, the ushers closed the doors, the low murmurings died down, and Reverend Burroughs began the memorial service for Clayton.

She spoke words. She led prayers.

Everybody sang hymns.

Summer paid no attention. As a child of pagans, she cared nothing for the trappings of a Christian church. She tolerated it for Clayton’s sake. So this would be the last time.

These prayers and symbols and beliefs didn’t save him.

He stopped drinking all but small quantities of low-carb beer.

He ate a healthy, primitive diet.

He took many vitamins and supplements every day.

He worked out.

He looked younger than many men half his age.

He had no health issues except white, thinning hair.

He loved learning about online marketing and the process of setting up his own real estate information business. He was looking forward to building a business that would allow them to travel and enjoy the world.

He had a wife nearly half his age who couldn’t keep up with his energy or his sexual appetite.

He loved his three adult children and his two grandchildren, and was so looking forward to seeing his new daughter.

He loved Asian music, and watching movies that contained it, whether Bollywood hits or Chinese martial arts epics.

His gray eyes projected a sexual, charismatic chemistry few females could resist.

He planned to live at least another hundred years. With advances in medicine, perhaps he would have succeeded.

There was no logical reason for a man so alive, so vital, so full of both health and passion to die.

Yet it took only an instant.

Then Reverend Burroughs played one of Clayton’s CDs. Summer suggested it, and Taylor sorted through his collection until she found the precise track.

A woman played a Chinese erhu while singing in her own rich, high-pitched voice.

Nobody understood the words. Nobody had to.

Her sorrow-drenched voice harmonized perfectly with the music.

Both came from a heart expressing the grief of every human being who has ever had a loved one die.

The pain ripped through Summer’s own soul. She choked, then lost control, and cried with a deep, howling wail.

In a second Brooke was hustling her through a door into an empty hallway, where Summer clung to Brooke’s neck and bawled her eyes out as though she could never stop.

As though Brooke were her mother—the patient, empathic, soothing maternal figure in real life Mom never was.

An anchor in the meaningless Void.

Empty. All.

Her chest where her heart used to be.

Her womb where Adalia lived for nine months.

Her vagina, now bereft of Clayton’s cock.

Without the support of their friends and family, it was Summer and Clayton against the world.

Yet now he left her.

So alone.

Then Summer sat on a small canvas seat on green grass at the grave site. An open yellow tarp sheltered her from the direct hot sunlight.

Four dark violet pillars inside a deep rectangular hole held a tray on which rested Clayton’s coffin. On the other side of the grave was a huge mound of brown dirt.

The rest of the family sat in rows with Summer.

They must have ridden there in the funeral home’s limousines, but Summer couldn’t remember the ride. She couldn’t remember letting Brooke guide her back to her seat to hear the remainder of the memorial service. All the no-doubt wonderful words Reverend Burroughs spoke about Clayton.

Row after row of gently sloping hills, full of gray granite and brown marble tombstones. Bouquets of colorful flowers rested against many, and many had American flags flying nearby—no doubt the remains of Memorial Day.

Wrong, all wrong.

It should be winter. Snow falling.

White, the Asian color of death, she learned from watching movies with Clayton.

White, the color of emptiness and sadness.

Words, so many more words. Empty and sad.

And then she was back at Brooke’s house, sitting in a living room sofa, watching as everybody else lined up for sandwiches, snacks, and soft drinks.

She appreciated Brooke holding this reception for the mourners, organizing the catering.

As she sat and watched, too tired to talk. Too sad, she remembered Clayton in bed.

And wished she could relive the past five months.

He wanted to dress her up as a lioness in a fur suit?

If she only she could bring him back, she’d let him.

He wanted to screw another woman, if only she could bring him back, she’d let him.

She put so much importance on trivial things that no longer seemed important. Why couldn’t she just accept and enjoy his love? Why did she impose conditions? Why did she try to control him?

Why shouldn’t she have let Clayton screw Gayle if he wanted?

Gayle was so beautiful and sexy, Summer thought about bedding Gayle herself, and she’d never before had bi-curious feelings.

Clayton could have them both in bed. Did he ever have two women in bed at once? He’d run around so much, he must have tried it.

Summer wore the evening gown with a pink bow on one shoulder Clayton bought to replace the one ruined when Cal threw her into Brooke’s swimming pool.

Gayle wore the evening gown she described to Summer late Friday afternoon, the one she wore to try to seduce Clayton at the private after the public unit holder meeting of Midwest REIT.

Summer smelled of patchouli oil, Gayle of gardenia.

Clayton wore a black silk suit. One arm around each waist, he led both women into his bedroom. His King of Beasts cologne made Summer feel weak and dizzy.

Sitting on the side of the bed, he kissed each of them, back and forth, Gayle then Summer then Gayle and back to Summer. Summer pressed her tongue against his, tasting his hot breath, the saliva of all three.

Clayton’s slid up Summer’s side, nearly to her armpit, then went across to her breast, cupping it, lifting it up, out of the dress’s bustier. In the chill air, the nipple stiffened. It tightened against Clayton’s palm, the fingers stroking and squeezing.

Summer groaned. Gayle breathed heavily, in ragged gasps of pleasure.

So Summer knew Gayle, too, was experiencing pleasure from Clayton’s other hand.

Summer rubbed Clayton’s lap. His massive cock stretched the material of his slacks.

Her hand met Gayle’s. Together they rubbed and stroked, enjoying Clayton’s moans.

Zrrrrt! The back of Summer’s dress, unzipped, fell loose.

Zrrrrt! The same sound from Gayle.

Summer and Gayle stood at the same time. They allowed their dresses to fall to the carpeting, leaving them naked but for tiny panties.

Clayton reached out with both hands, placed fingers inside the plastic band, then jerked down, bringing the panties to Summer’s knees.

She stepped out of them and smiled at Gayle, now naked as well.

Their bodies nearly mirrored each other. Both so trim, tight, and firm. Faces both beautiful and radiant, with makeup and glowing scarlet lipstick. Summer’s hair long and black, Gayle’s long and blond.

Both of them had a Brazilian wax job to remove all hair from their legs and groin.

Taking his time, remaining in control, Clayton removed his jacket and hung it up. He took off his tie and draped it over the tie rack.

Lion Heart loves both his lionesses, he said.

Clayton opened his special compartment inside his bedroom closet, and pulled out two adult-sized lioness fur suits.

Clayton unbuttoned and removed his white shirt and undershirt. Next, his belt. His shoes and socks. His slacks, which he carefully hung up in the closet on a wood hangar, so the seams met.

Wearing only purple boxer shorts, Clayton removed a lion fur suit from the compartment.

The erection inside Clayton’s purple boxer shorts pushed against the waistband.

Summer and Gayle rushed Clayton. Together, they pulled the shorts off and shoved him into bed. One on each side of him, they fought to kiss his mouth, suck his cock, and fondle him everywhere, while directing his hands to their breasts and pussies. They squirmed and wiggled against him, fighting for every square inch of space, for all the friction against their nerves and erogenous zones they could get.

Eventually Gayle lay on her back with Clayton between her legs pumping away. Summer rubbed lube all over her finger, then inserted it into Clayton’s asshole as he was stroking Gayle.

Gayle’s cries soon disintegrated into fast moans. Oh, yeah, yeah-oh-God-eeeiiiaaaaa!

Clayton collapsed, panting, chest heaving, skin wet with sweat.

The smell of Gayle’s vaginal juices mingled with Summer’s and drove her over the edge of excitement.

Summer attacked him from behind. She gnawed the side of his throat, scratched his back with her nails, drawing oozing blood red as his passion.

Clayton turned and threw her down on the bed. He pulled her down and jumped on top of her. Before Summer could spread her legs, he was inside, ravishing her like the wild animal he was at heart.

Oh Summer thrilled to the power of his long, thick cock so deep inside her, pounding her nerves, bringing her pleasure she didn’t deserve, because nobody was so good, making her flesh melt in its heat, sending her mind across the universe, into the Universal Womb.

She arched and rocked with him in a mad frenzy of lust.

And when Clayton ejaculated a huge wad of come inside Summer’s vagina, she nearly died, for one split-second so close to Heaven she joined the angels.

Are you all right, Summer? Spring asked.

Her younger sister stood in front of her, a worried look on her face. The rest of the crowd at Brooke’s sat and stood, eating, talking.

Summer took a gulp of air and looked around. Did anybody else notice she lost herself in a fantasy?

She touched her face. It felt hot and flushed red. She hoped she wasn’t gasping and moaning out loud.

Or rubbing herself between her legs.

Let everyone think the stress was upsetting her.

Never again.

Never again would she feel Clayton’s terrific cock within her.

Although she felt ashamed and embarrassed to be day-dreaming of sex right after her husband’s death, she knew he would understand.

She would miss everything about Clayton, including the sex. No point trying to hide from that truth.

The odd part was, how imagining herself dressed for him as a furry, and including another woman, turned her on.

Two weeks ago she would have left Clayton if she learned he slept with another woman. She certainly wouldn’t share his bed with another woman.

And she hated the whole furry thing. That was Clayton’s kinkiness, and now it seemed to have rubbed off on her.

It didn’t matter.

Never again could Summer participate in sex the way she did with Clayton.

Sure, in a year or so, when the shock of Clayton’s death wore off, maybe she would date again. Even sleep with guys again.

But she’d go back to her pre-Clayton attitude. Men were for screwing and, once she was done with them, discarding.

It wouldn’t be Bobby’s fault. Nobody’s fault, really. Just the way it would have to be.

Clayton taught her to give and receive pleasure.

But Clayton was gone.

Receiving and giving pleasure required love.

Love like she and Clayton shared.

But that was over.

Clayton was gone, and—with him—any possibility of loving a man.

Satisfy her own sexual desires? Later, sure.

Love again? No, no way. Impossible. Clayton was the great love of her life.

And he was gone.

So she fought back the tears.

Close to her seat, Cal stood talking with an older man Summer didn’t know. Perhaps one of Clayton’s real estate friends.

Cal looked horrifyingly handsome and sexy. He wore a black wool suit. No doubt too winterish and warm for the weather, but appropriate for the funeral of his father. He looked leaner than before, as though he’d been working out and watching his diet. His shoulders looked broader as well.

Yes, the suit hung on his chest just an edge too tight. It had been tailored for a slightly smaller man.

Yet, at the same time, the jacket hung a trifle loose around Cal’s waist. He grew some muscles in his upper abdomen while losing a few inches of fat around his middle.

His thigh muscles bulged against the material of his slacks.

He looked like Bruce Banner just beginning to transform into the Incredible Hulk.

As a result, Cal projected more power than if he’d worn a perfectly fitting suit.

His voice rolled with soothing, rolling bass sounds.

He smelled of the distilled essence of masculine pheromones mixed with percolating testosterone.

His handsome features now appeared etched into his face. He was still young, but now somehow matured, ready to take his father’s place.

A trace of a widow’s peak forming on the top of his head.

His gray eyes projected the Solomon charisma, now a thousand times more powerful than before. The Svengali, Rudolph Valentino sex appeal that drew her to him at first—until his father’s even more powerful magnetism overpowered her with all the subtlety of a cartoon caveman braining his mate with a club.

As though, upon Clayton’s death, his inner mystical power transferred to his son.

How Summer hated Cal.

She couldn’t stop herself. She stood up.

You satisfied now? she shouted to Cal.

He turned to look at her with surprise on his face. How can I help you, Summer? Are you all right?

Gayle told me all about your plan, Summer said. Everything.

I don’t—

She didn’t tell me who hired me her to seduce Clayton, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. I’ve just been...busy, until now. First we made up, and I had a baby, and Clayton died, and oh God, Cal, how can you stand there like that?

By now everybody in the room was looking at them. Nobody else was speaking. Great. Let them hear. Let them know.

It’s been in the back of my mind, though. I couldn’t forget. Who else could get her a ticket to the Carousel Gala? Who else could get her into the unitholder meeting in Chicago? Including the private cocktail party? It took someone high up, such as you. Right?

I don’t know what you’re talk—

She told you it didn’t work, didn’t she? Did she tell you she was going to tell me everything except your identity? If your plan worked, she was going to brag about it to me. When it didn’t, she felt ashamed, and told me, so I’d know what a terrific husband I had.

He stared into his drink. Summer, I swear—

"Your big plan drove Clayton and I closer