as a VIP now that she’d been noticed by the head honcho, but she couldn’t enjoy the moment of glory, such as it was. She’d rather have stayed anonymous than be given a taste of what it felt like to be admired and even flirted with before the attention was taken away again.
But that was the old Alice talking.
The new Alice should have been bolder. Made herself too enticing to resist. Somehow.
Her interlude with Kyle Jarreau was likely the only holiday flirtation she’d get. She would savor it when she was home.
Home alone.
No, focus on Kyle. The way he held himself, for instance—erect and almost regal, evoking formality even with his button-down shirt undone at the cuffs and collar. His posture was so perfect that she’d reminded herself several times to sit up, lift her head high to meet his gaze.
His hair, for another. Short and thick, deep walnut brown and tipped with the slightest touch of honey. His eyes had been almost the same shade. Serious eyes, even when he’d teased her about the list.
She closed her own eyes now, remembering his strong hands, the quick grin, the hint of stubble on his firm jaw, the masculine fuzz on his tanned forearms.
The moment at the door when their fingers had touched.
She’d felt a blazingly intense awareness—of his skin, the heat of him, the solid muscle and discipline and careful control.
Alice pressed her fingertips together hard enough to hurt. She released them and let her hands fall to her lap, curled like limp macaroni as she looked up at the stars and sighed. No sense wishing on them anymore. She’d asked for a handsome stranger and she’d been given one.
Oh, yes. Kyle Jarreau had fulfilled the requirements very well.
Perhaps too well, considering that, despite their apparent connection, he’d seemed determined to remain a stranger.
Prince Montez Oasis Resort, Phoenix, Arizona—the jewel of the Sonoran desert.
July 21
Dear Mom,
I’m not going to actually mail this postcard, but it makes a funny kind of sense that the first one I write should be to you. You’re the one who encouraged me to take this trip, in so many more ways than just $$. So I’m here, and I’m going to do you proud. I’ve already begun—and how!—but I’ll send that postcard to Sue. I’m writing to you, Mom, to say thanks for the inspiration.
Love,
Alice
CHAPTER THREE
A LICE AWOKE EARLY the next morning and got into the shower, emerging revived and ready to take on every activity the resort offered. The list she’d written had proved how much of her life she’d let slip away the past six years on Osprey Island.
She would never, absolutely never, regret being there for her mother as the initial occurrence of breast cancer had returned, then spread. Family was family. But Alice also recognized that the cost to herself had been high. At a time when many others her age were settled with jobs, marriage, kids, she had nothing but a one-half share in a run-down little cottage and a spotty job history of temporary positions. Nursemaid, gardener, part-time baker, fill-in babysitter, substitute teacher.
She had a substitute life.
But no more! Alice brushed her teeth and pulled a comb through her wet hair, wrinkling her nose at the mirror. She’d made promises to herself.
She dropped her damp towel and got into the thick terry robe with the PM crest on the lapel. It was good to feel pampered.
She strolled into the living room, captivated anew by the exotic surroundings. Last night, she’d pulled the louvered wood shutters across the windows and sliding glass doors. Now the early-morning sunshine had reached past the dusty red foothills that bordered the resort complex to stripe the floor with light. She curled her bare toes into the heat. All around her was adobe and slate, brushed steel, ebony wood and Sinatra-era furnishings with low, straight lines. So different from the dumpy, flowery pieces and peeling paint at the cottage back home.
Everything’s different now. I’m a woman on the verge of a whole new life.
The doorbell chimed.
“Cripes,” she said, touching her hair, pulling at the neckline of the robe. She didn’t know anyone here, except…
Maybe it was Chloe.
The bell chimed again, and she hurried to open the door.
“Welcome to Wrinkle Resort!” Five seniors—three women and two men—crowded close, each as tanned as Kraft paper.
“She’s a youngster,” said a large, sharp-eyed man. He wore a black toupee above thick gray sideburns and matching gnarly eyebrows.
“Myrna saw you arrive,” announced one of the women as she pushed herself into the room. The others followed when Alice politely stepped aside. “And so did the Pool Sharks.”
“But we were taking our siestas.”
“Late afternoon, until the sun drops.”
“Most everyone does.”
“Except the Pool Sharks, led by Arthur Banyon. He’s a lizard. He basks in the sun.”
The man in a Panama hat snorted. “Sure, but he’s seventy and he’d pass for a hundred.”
“She doesn’t care about Arthur,” said a second woman, who was small but forceful, in a T-shirt that advertised Cuervo Gold.
Alice was amused. The older women on Osprey Island didn’t wear tequila shirts. Maybe Joe D’s Crab Shack, if they were characters.
The woman eyed Alice blatantly. “Where ya from, honey?”
She clutched the lapel of the white robe. “Maine.”
“Maine!” The answer set off a buzz. “All that way.”
“Are you related to the Raffertys?” one of them asked. “What happened to the Raffertys?”
The first man gestured for silence. “Introductions first.” He pumped Alice’s hand. “This gang here is known as the Cocktail Shakers, rivals to the Sharks. I’m Walter St. Gregory. This is my wife, Mags.” The woman with the Lucille Ball curls. “Forgive us for barging in so early. We should have waited, but the gals were impatient.”
Mags nodded. “We were expecting the Raffertys.”
“Sorry. It’s just me.” Through the Holidays Away agency, Alice had swapped vacation homes with a man named Sean Rafferty, who was a state trooper from Massachusetts. He’d written in one of his e-mails that the condo belonged to his retired parents, who used it for vacations. “I don’t actually know the Raffertys. I’m staying here on a house swap.”
The group was taken aback. “A swap! My goodness,” Mags said.
