"Put my dress back the way you found it. I don't want to walk around with a guilt complex for the next three months."
"Why should you feel guilty? Engagements are meant to give a man and woman time to decide if they've made the right choice. Maybe you're learning here."
"And maybe you're just justifying again."
His warm palms now contoured her ribs. "I'm enormously attracted to you, Winn Gardner. What should a man do about a thing like that? Let it go unexplored? What if-"
"And what if this were just a… a passing urge? It's part of the mood of a wedding, wouldn't you say? People get caught up by romance when they see a bride and groom walk down the aisle. They do as Rodgers and Hart put it-'falling in love with love.' And we were more susceptible than most because we walked down that same aisle ourselves."
"Winn, your first impression of me-"
"Shh. Let me finish. You and I are different today than we'd be on a normal day. We're wearing luscious clothes that carry us away from the present and sweep us to the past, just as the ride in your car did. At times today I've even experienced the weird feeling that I'm living in my second life, that I've been reincarnated, and this-" she gestured and looked up "-this gazebo and your Haynes and my Gibson Girl look are all part of the time in which I lived before. That's why it felt so familiar, returning to it again. But, Joseph, that's not true. You and I have to be more careful than most on a day like today. We have to see things for what they truly are." She slipped her spaghetti straps up. "You know what they say about spring and a young man's fancy, don't you?" She turned her jaw aside, not quite glancing back at him. He rested his hands on her hipbones.
"No, I've forgotten. What do they say?"
"You know perfectly well what they say, but I'll repeat it, anyway, since it applies. 'In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.'"
He watched as she inserted her arms into the lace overbodice, dropped her chin to her chest and lifted her arms. Joseph moved to find hook and eye and close them. As he did, her fragrant hair brushed his nose, and it took stern discipline to obey her wishes. But he bent and retrieved his jacket from the floor and draped it across her shoulders again. She clutched it from inside as before, then turned to face him.
"I'm your spring fancy tonight, Joseph Duggan. And before either one of us gets carried away any further, I think we'd both better admit this is more mood than anything else."
He considered her words. She might very well be right. He'd never been affected by a woman quite this suddenly, quite this strongly. He was twenty-seven and had sampled his share of feminine companions, and the one before him now raised his sexual thermometer more rapidly than any he'd met. Was it the occasion? The hat? The hair? The dress? The car? Even his own tuxedo and ruffles and shiny shoes, so different from his usual mode of dress?
Yes, she probably was right. And if so, he had no business upsetting the equilibrium between herself and Hildebrandt.
He drew a deep breath, jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and stepped back.
"So…" he said, pulling in a jerky sigh.
Silence hovered between them.
"So," she repeated.
The air seemed detonated by repressed sexuality. "So, I suppose you don't want to dance with me anymore, either?"
"I always want to dance. Shall we go back and join the others? I think we'll be safe enough inside now. And anyway, there's only about half an hour of music left, then we'll politely say goodbye and exit from each other's lives, as if today and tonight never happened. And in the meantime we'll only talk about nice safe subjects again. Agreed?"
He said nothing for a long time, then finally squared his shoulders and answered, "You're right. That's wisest. Should I apologize for what I just did? I don't want to."
"No, Joseph, no apology is necessary. You see-" she chuckled softly and perhaps a trifle sadly "-you're my spring fancy, too."
Then she turned, and her high heels sounded on the hollow floor as she crossed to the steps. He frowned, wishing she hadn't been so sensible. Then he checked his watch to find it was twelve-forty. He had only twenty minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse to keep her with him a little longer after the dance broke up.
Chapter 5
T hey returned to the dance floor, conscious of the fleeting minutes and wishing they had more of them. When the first song ended, Joseph turned from her, and she saw a slash of light gray angling across the back of his jacket.
"Joseph, you're marked."
Quickly he turned to face her. "I'm what?"
"Turn around again. Your jacket is dirty from the floor of the gazebo." He presented his broad back, and as she brushed it free of evidence, she wondered what his shoulders looked like inside the clothing. She was too aware of how hard his muscles were, of how trim his contours, especially down his lower half. He looked back over his shoulder and grinned.
"I could get used to this if you'd let me."
She stopped brushing, hand hanging in midair as he turned slowly to face her again, and she stared at the appendage as if wondering whose hand it was. Then she clutched it to her stomach.
"Safe subjects… remember?" she reminded him just as the music began again.
"Pick one," he ordered, reverting to a waltz position with six inches of space dividing their bellies.
She grabbed the first passing thought. "Where did you take the bride?"
"Out to Daytona."
"You mean the Daytona Club?"
"Yes."
"Why ever did you pick a place like that?"
"Because I'm a member, and it's a twenty-minute ride, and we had to keep her away an hour, anyway. So we went out there and had a drink."
"You're a member?" she asked, surprised.
"Yes."
"What do you play?"
"Tennis, racket ball, golf. Nearly everything. I like to keep in shape."
Her eyes grew round and glittery. "I do, too!"
"I could tell that from the condition of your muscles. You're as hard and smooth as a watermelon."
"So are you. What's your favorite?"
"Depends on the season. In the summer I like tennis because it's more active than golf. I play baseball, too, with my brothers. In the winter I do some jogging and play quite a bit of racket ball, again with my brothers.
"So do I-oh, not with my brothers, of course. I don't have any brothers. But Sandy and I play racket ball, or we used to, but I suppose that may change now that she's married. She and Mick will probably do that together from now on."
"What about old Hildegard? Doesn't he play with you?"
Was there a sexy glint in his eye, a note of sexual innuendo in the question? If so, she chose to ignore it.
"Occasionally. But he doesn't care for physical things. He likes to be neat and fragrant and unsweaty. He's a brain man. I'm a body woman."
Joseph Duggan's eyes made a tour of her face. He lingered longest upon her lips, then nestled her securely against his sturdy frame. Into her ear he said, "So tell me… what else don't you and the computer man have in common besides physical activity and the wonders of silicon chips?"
"Not much else. Only our taste in clothing."
"What?" He backed up and looked down at her breasts, then up at her hair. "What could he possibly not like about your taste in clothing?"
"Oh, I hardly ever dress like this, in all these feminine things. That's his main complaint. I'm active. I like sweat suits and blue jeans and tennis shoes and headbands. He says clothes make the man-or the person, rather. There are times when we get ready to go out, and I know he's disappointed when I show up in jeans and cowboy boots. I'm trying to get used to dressing in cuter things."
"Why should you?"
His question stunned her. It was the first time she'd bothered to probe the issue. She'd always felt it was a shortcoming in her, as a woman, that she preferred boyish clothes. Her mother had never failed to chide her for dressing like a tomboy.
"But, ev
en you said you liked the way I'm dressed today."
"I love the way you're dressed today. But I'll bet you're sexy as hell in a pair of jogging shorts and running shoes with your ankles bare and your hair bouncing around free." His eyes lifted to it momentarily, then slid down again.
"When you say things like that, it makes me want to jump into my sweats and take a fast sprint around a blacktop track. That's the real me, not the one in this hairdo and merry-widow bra."
"Then let's do it."
"What?"
He dropped his arms from her waist and checked his watch. "It's only five to one. That's early. There's got to be someplace in this city where we can find an empty jogging track that's got at least one streetlight shining on it. Let's go and burn it up. Whaddya say?"
"Are you serious?"
"Dead serious. I've been wracking my brain, trying to come up with some ingenious suggestion for something we can do together. It's almost time to call it a night here, and I find I haven't had my fill of you yet. I want to be with you a little longer. Can you think of anything safer for the two of us to do than jogging?"
She couldn't. A smile touched her lips, then lighted her eyes, and he thought he'd never seen a woman more beautiful. The hair at her right temple was roughened and pulled askew. Once again her lipstick was gone. But she had a beauty that surpassed superficiality. He wondered what she'd look like right after a shower, when all artifice was gone from her face and hair.
"You'd have to stop by my place so I can pick up some sweats."
"And then you'd have to stop by mine so I can pick up some, too."
The night suddenly sparkled with adventure. She didn't have to say goodbye to him yet! "Let's." She smiled impishly.
"You're on!" He grabbed her hand and towed her toward the table to collect her hat, flowers and makeup bag, and two minutes later they were pulling away from the curb in his '23 Haynes Sport Coupelet.
She crossed her left ankle over her right knee, took off the high heel and massaged her foot. "Excuse me, but you have no idea how grossly uncomfortable dyed-to-match satin pumps can be, especially when you buy them for a wedding. You never have a chance to break them in because if you get a mark on them, it's there to stay."
"You mean all this time your feet were aching, yet you kept me dancing without letup?"
"Well, I do love to dance." She angled him a cute smirk. "But it's more fun in old shoes."
"So take 'em off. We won't stand on formality around here."
She eased off the other shoe and wriggled her toes. She stretched her legs as best she could on the angular old car seat. "Ohh… that feels good."
"Here, give me a foot," he ordered, one hand on the wheel, his eyes on the late-night streets where there was virtually no traffic. "And tell me how to get to your house."
"Take Brooklyn Boulevard to Shingle Creek Parkway and turn right. I live in a town house on the corner." The front seat of the old car was very narrow. She backed up against the door and plunked her heels on the car seat, then pushed her dress down between her updrawn knees. He captured her left foot and rubbed it firmly, his hand slipping over the silky nylon, sending shivers up her calves.
"Don't lean against that door. These old cars weren't exactly built for safety."
She curled her spine, dropped her head onto her knees and concentrated on the sensual feeling of his thumb massaging the arch of her foot. "Mmm… you're very good at that, considering I'm the physical therapist." Her voice came muffled from the depths of her lap.
"That's right. I forgot you were. Well, maybe you can give me a rubdown after we run."
She lifted her head and rested her chin on her crossed forearms, which still rested on her knees. "I said I'm a therapist, not a trainer."
He laughed and pressed her foot against his thigh, then left his warm hand covering it. Within five minutes they'd arrived at her house. She rummaged around on the floor of the car for all the trappings she'd dumped there at various times today. There was no interior light in the old flivver, but at last she'd gathered a stack of what she hoped was everything.
"Can I carry something?" he offered.
"Yes, you can bring the plastic clothing bag with my other dress in it." She fished it off the floor, and while transferring the crooks of the hangers into his hand, their fingers touched. For a brief moment neither of them moved. Then she picked up her possessions and hurriedly opened her door. "Come on in and see my house."
There was a For Sale sign in the yard, and he looked back at it while she struggled to fit her key in the lock. "I take it, it's your house that's up for sale."
"Naturally. What would Paul and I do with two houses when he's trying to earn the money to furnish one?"
"No buyers yet?"
"No, the market's been in a slump, the realtors say. But I'm hoping to get more lookers now that spring is here."
Inside she snapped on the entry light, and they faced an ordinary living room decorated in saffron yellow and white. The furniture was nondescript: a striped sofa in shades of brown, two director's chairs in yellow canvas, a table made from an enormous wooden spool-the kind steel telephone cable comes wrapped upon. A wine jug sat on the floor in one corner, sprouting dried bearded wheat and milkweed pods painted in horribly garish purple, red and royal blue. She caught him eyeing the ugly arrangement and offered, "One of my younger patients gave those to me last year, and I haven't had the heart to throw them away. I know they're awful, but I love them in spite of it." She turned, and he watched the slit in the lace along the center of her back shift with each step as she walked away down a hall. Just before she reached what appeared to be her bedroom doorway, both elbows flew in the air, and she reached for the hook and eye at her nape. There followed a soft click as her bedroom door shut, then his long sigh as he ran a hand through his hair. He tried to keep his mind off what she was doing back there. He toured her living room, then the small efficient galley kitchen behind it-a cereal bowl in the sink with three Cheerios stuck to a glutinous puddle of milk, pencils sticking out of a mug that said "Killer" on its side, a tablet on which was written "buy deodorant." He smiled and crossed to a sliding glass door hovering high above the dark yard. He slid it open and stepped out onto a small planked deck. Bracing his hands on the rail, he listened to the soft rush of Shingle Creek chortling in the dark.
She was the kind of woman he'd been searching for for a long time. At least, so far he thought so. Just his luck to find her and learn she was engaged to another man. He hoped Hildebrandt had more than silicon chips in his pants-she seemed like the kind who needed and deserved a mate who was all man, demanding and reciprocating. She had that way about her-the strong sure way she moved, walked, danced. She exuded a physicality. And she had the body of an athlete-toned, tensile, firm. Surely a body like that must be agile when it came to loving.
He stepped back inside and closed the sliding door. "Are you decent?" he called.
"Yes."
"Can I come back there?"
A silent pause followed, then she called, "Yes, come ahead."
The doorknob clicked, the door swung open slowly, and Joseph Duggan leaned against the frame, his weight slung on one hip and his hands slipped inside his trouser pockets. His eyes swept her gray sweat pants and hooded shirt, then swerved to the bed where her merry widow lay like a plaster cast of the front half of her body. She snatched it up and stuffed it into a dresser drawer.
"Why aren't you and this computer man living together? Wouldn't it be cheaper?"
"I bought this town house two years ago because he said it'd be the wisest thing to do with my money at the time-an investment, you know? Then when we got engaged, he started looking for a house for both of us right away, and as soon as we found it, I put this one on the market. Unfortunately it hasn't sold, and I'm stuck here until it does."
"Meaning you'd rather be living with him?"
She dropped to the foot of the bed and began pulling on tasseled white sport footlets and a pair of Adidas.
"You're very presumptuous, asking questions like that." Her eyes never left her feet.
"Sorry," he said with not the least hint of pique at her sharp retort. His eyes moved from item to item around the room: the rumpled bed, unmade, but with the spread tossed up, half covering the pillows; her panty hose; one discarded satin pump lying on its side with the tiny pearl against the saffron carpet; photographs stuck into the edge of an old-fashioned dressing-table mirror; a tangle of Ace bandages on a dresser top to his left, lying beside a black perfume bottle, a round white plastic container of body powder, a handful of change, a pair of theater-ticket stubs, a package of Big Red gum and a small plastic case with compartments numbered like days of the month.
He eased his shoulder nonchalantly away from the door frame and ambled over to the dresser, chose the black flask, uncapped it and took a deep sniff. He watched her pull on one tennis shoe while he smelled the perfume and admired the curve of her spine as she bent sharply from her perch on the mattress. Without a comment he placed the Chanel No 5 back where he'd found it, then tinkered around, touching other things atop her dresser, observing that half the compartments in her birth-control pillbox were empty before moving on to the quaint scarred dressing table.
He knew very well she'd observed him inspecting her personal possessions, particularly the pills. And she knew he knew. He admired her for not leaping up and fussing about it in some artificially apologetic way.
"Is this you?"
She looked up to find his palms braced on the top of the dressing table, head cocked to one side as he studied a photo slipped between the mirror and its frame.
"Yours truly," she replied, reaching for her other shoe. He glanced back over his shoulder, still braced on the dresser, and gave her a disarming grin. "You were really cute in the pigtails. But what happened to all those freckles?"
"Luckily I outgrew them."
"Mmm, too bad," he mused, returning his attention to the photo and a string of others. "You played tennis in school?"
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