Chapter One
Eve
On the well-mowed lawn in front of me, four nude people batted a tennis ball back and forth over a net by striking it with the wedge-shaped wooden boxes fitted over their hands. Each player had one thug, the official name for the box-shaped thingy. They were playing miniten, a version of tennis unique to the nudist community, and having a ball doing it. They laughed whenever someone missed the ball and cheered whenever they hit it and the ball went sailing over the net. Miniten was more relaxed than tennis, making it the perfect sport for people who preferred to stay au naturel. No sports bras or jockstraps required.
Ah yes, this was my life. I entertained naked people for a living. Running a nudist resort involved a lot more than keeping my guests entertained, though. It also brought a slew of boring, unpleasant tasks like bookkeeping, meal catering, laundry service, and anything else my guests required. This was Au Naturel Naturist Resort LLC, but I was the only member of the company. That meant my guests were solely my responsibility, whether they wanted to be called nudists or naturists.
I leaned back against a tree, my hands in the pockets of my shorts. My tank top and short-shorts seemed downright tame compared to the unabashed nudity of the folks enjoying a friendly game of miniten and the spectators observing from the lawn's periphery. Four of them were over sixty, one was over eighty, and three were younger. Only one belonged to the millennial generation, but Ollie Jackson wasn't exactly a buff specimen.
Not that I cared what they looked like. Not that they cared either. I admired my guests' attitude toward the human body and their carefree outlook on life in general. Besides, Ollie had the cuteness factor, both in his looks and his personality.
"Hey, Eve!" Sylvester Norris shouted to me, waving. The breeze ruffled his shoulder-length gray hair. Other parts of him flapped too, but the seventy-two-year-old didn't seem to notice or care. He grinned at me. "When are you going to join the party?"
Every summer Sylvester and his wife, Ruth, visited my establishment, and every year he asked me when I might "join the party," meaning when would I get naked along with my guests. Though I admired their unashamed attitude toward nudity, I had no desire to shed my clothes.
"Maybe another time," I called to him.
That was my standard answer to the obvious question. Why did a woman who refused to strip down own a naturist resort?
I supposed it was kind of like owning a tattoo shop but having no tats of my own. Still, being the proprietor of a nudist resort did not mean I had to strip along with my guests. I took care of them like any good innkeeper would, but I kept my clothes on at all times—in public, and in private while in the company of other people who were not my lovers.
Ruth slapped her husband's arm. "Leave the girl alone, Sylvester. We're not evangelists for nudism."
"Naturism," said Ollie, my youngest guest at twenty-four. The only item he wore on his body was a pair of eyeglasses. "Get with the twenty-first century, guys. The word nudist is totally an old fart thing."
Sylvester winked at Ollie. "We are old farts, pipsqueak."
I smiled. Couldn't help it. My regular guests who came back year after year were like family to me. Even Ollie had been visiting my establishment for four years, at least three times a year. Two of those stays consisted of weekend-only trips, but every summer he enjoyed a two-week holiday here.
Except this year he was staying for six weeks. I wondered why, but it wasn't my business.
"Catch you guys later," I said, pushing away from the tree. "Gotta fix lunch and get ready for the new guest."
Everyone waved and shouted goodbye to me.
I ambled back to my house. It sat fifty feet away from the two-story building that served as the guest quarters. My little ranch-style house didn't look like much on the outside, but inside it had a spacious kitchen and a photo studio. As I walked through the main door, straight into the kitchen, my gaze flitted to the framed photos on the walls. Every wall in my house featured samples of my photography. The older images were of normal stuff like animals and scenery.
Everything from the past five years was…less normal.
In the photos, nude people of every age, size, and color frolicked. Nudists playing miniten. Nudists playing chess. Nudists having a picnic. Nudists gathered around a bonfire toasting marshmallows. Nudists… Well, let's just say I had photographed human beings in the buff doing more activities than anyone who wasn't a nudist would've realized people of that ilk engaged in. None of the images were lewd or sexual in any way. Whether they called it nudism or naturism, these folks weren't in it for erotic reasons. They simply preferred to go clothes free.
Nope, no porn here. I took tasteful pictures of my guests, but only of the ones who signed a release form. I posted the images on the resort website and also on some stock photo sites to earn a few royalties, but I had no illusions I'd become a famous documentarian of the naturist lifestyle.
Photographing nudists. Who knew this was where I'd end up? Not me, for sure. This resort in the boonies of Oregon was a long ways from New York City.
I threw open the refrigerator, grabbing ingredients and tossing them onto the large butcher-block island. My guests would be hungry after their morning exercise. The ones who hadn't participated in miniten had chosen other forms of physical fitness, everything from weight lifting to jogging. After lunch, they'd want to relax in the hot spring. Oregon in the summer was usually pleasant, making the hot spring a year-round attraction.
We hadn't reached prime bug season yet. I checked my supply of insect repellent, then got to work on lunch.
Twenty minutes later, I'd whipped up the appetizers and salads and was about to start in on the main course when the house phone rang. I had a cell, but the landline offered more convenience when my guests needed something. All anyone needed to do was punch the green button on any phone in the guest house to ring the one in my house. The digital display on the base unit told me which room was calling, whether it was a guest's room or the dining hall. This one originated from the supply closet that doubled as my handyman's office.
I nabbed the handset off the wall, cradling it with my neck while chopping lettuce. "What's up, Quentin?"
"Got a problem," Quentin Smith said in his gruff voice. My sole employee wasn't known for his cheerfulness, but he performed magic on the plumbing and anything else that needed fixing. "The room for the new guest is toast."
"What?" I dropped the lettuce and my knife, gripping the phone in my hand. "There was a fire? I didn't smell any smoke."
"There's no fire," he grumbled. "A pipe burst in the wall, but nobody knew about it until I came in here to make sure everything was good for the new guest. The place is wetter than a moose after a dip in the hot spring. Don't think anybody wants to sleep in that bed. Might as well paint yourself green since you'd be covered in mold by morning."