Landy lifted a black cashmere stole from the newel post. “He runs the neighborhood watch,” she explained to Micah.
“Is that all it is?”
“What else?” she asked, puzzled, but he was opening the door for her. “Later, Jess.”
“I thought we’d go to the Overlook. It’s warm enough to eat on the porch. That okay with you?” Micah seated her in the passenger side of his Blazer—giving her a boost when her skirt was too narrow for her to negotiate the step up—and pulled the seat belt up for her to fasten.
“It’s my favorite place,” she said, when he’d climbed in beside her. “I like your Blazer.”
“My dad wanted me to bring his nice, conservative Buick. He said it was a much better choice for taking a lady out to dinner.”
She adopted a haughty air. “That’s all right. We debutantes are quite tolerant.”
They were seated at a table beside the windows that looked out over the Ohio when Micah said, “I was crazy about you, you know.”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t even like me.”
“It made me mad that you couldn’t see what a jerk Trent was, and I knew I’d never have enough money or prestige to ask you out, regardless of him.”
“Oh, my goodness, no. You weren’t even good enough to kiss my ring in those days.” Anger and disappointment made her voice wobble, which made her even angrier. “Take a look at me, all right?” She gestured toward her body with open palms. “I have wrinkles and scars and a gimpy leg. Most of my grandmother’s money paid for a lawsuit after I killed my husband. Here’s your debutante, Micah.”
Fury gave flash to her quiet prettiness, and Micah enjoyed her anger even as he did a little internal squirming because he was almost certain it was justified.
“You’re right,” he said. He picked up the wine bottle that sat between them and poured more into both their glasses. “I’m sorry. Coming back to Taft seems to have brought out the angry young pain in the ass in me.”
She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. “I’m sorry for blowing up, too,” she said. “Shall we start over?” She extended her hand. “I’m Landy Wisdom.”
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Micah Walker,” he said. “Very happy to make your acquaintance. Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
She beamed at him, her eyes tilting, and he felt his heart do a flip-flop.
Over the main course, he asked, “Do you think Nancy Burnside has designs on my father?”
Landy dropped her fork. “Designs? Mrs. Burnside? I’m not sure, but I think that borders on blasphemy. She’s a geometry teacher. Isn’t that like a nun?”
“She was a geometry teacher,” he corrected. “She drank beer at my housewarming party. That’s not nunlike.”
“She was just being polite,” she scoffed. “Good grief, she’s been widowed forever.”
He took a sip of wine, looking at her over the glass. “I think it would be great, starting over in your sixties.”
“It doesn’t bother you, thinking of your father being with someone besides your mother?”
“No. At least not as much as the idea of him being alone the rest of his life bothers me.”
“Jessie and Eli and you and I are all alone,” she said. “Not everyone’s meant to walk two by two.”
“No, but my father is. There are holes in his life that definitely can’t be filled by a thirty-eight-year-old single son who makes bad coffee.”
There were holes in her life, too. Great empty gaps where self-confidence and two good legs used to be. Not to mention waking in the middle of the night with longing singing through her veins and making her heart pound painfully hard. Though she hadn’t always enjoyed sex with Blake, she missed the kissing, cuddling and full body contact that came before it, the illusion of closeness that came after.
She looked across the table at Micah and acknowledged the attraction she’d felt since first seeing him again in the church basement. She was honest enough to admit that the attraction went back as far as Taft High School, when she’d smiled at Micah even knowing Blake would be angry.
She would like, she knew, to kiss and cuddle with Micah, to sleep in his arms and wake beside him. She’d like to cook his breakfast wearing nothing but his shirt, the way they always did in movies. It would do an admirable job of filling some of the holes of being alone.
But, between the cuddling and breakfast came the act itself, the physical invasion that meant she was being overpowered. Micah would expect that, but she would never be overpowered again.
After dinner, they sauntered through the gardens of the Overlook. Landy’s leg was killing her, and her limp became more pronounced despite her best efforts.
“You’re hurting, aren’t you?” he said suddenly, and seated her on a path-side bench before she knew what was happening. He knelt before her, lifting her foot to his thigh and slipping off her shoe. “Why didn’t you say something? Here.” He handed the shoe to her and straightened, lifting her into his arms and moving toward the parking lot.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, holding herself away from him, hoping to stave off the warmth that emanated from his body along with the fresh scent of soap. “It just does that sometimes.”
“Ms. Wisdom.” He stopped walking and scowled down into her face. Reflections from the muted lights that lined the path danced in his eyes. “I am trying my best to use the manners my mama taught me. The least you can do is go along with it and maybe, just maybe, I won’t drop you.”
“Oh.” She relaxed in spite of herself, allowing the warmth to flow over and through her. “Your mama would be proud,” she said, as they approached the Blazer.
“I hope so.” He opened the car door, propped his foot on the inside running board so that her backside rested on his thigh, lowered his head and kissed her.
Oh, yes, was all she had time to think before her senses took over. This wasn’t passion as she knew it. There was no demand in the heat of his lips. His eyes had been clear and bright before they closed, not fogged by alcohol or some other mind-altering drug. Although his arms tightened as the kiss deepened, no hand pushed against her breast or thrust beneath the skirt of her dress. When his tongue sought entry into her mouth, she denied it, but he didn’t end the kiss in fury or disgust. He raised his head, smiled at her and lowered it again.
This time, when his tongue slid across the seam of her lips, she opened them. The age-old dance was slow and warm and tasted sweetly of wine and coffee and something else. She felt a sensation between her thighs that she hadn’t felt in—oh, so very long. Her breasts were sensitized, the soft cloth that covered them feeling scratchy even though it wasn’t.
“That wasn’t part of what my mama taught me,” he said when the kiss ended.
Chapter Four
Window
