Beautiful, nervous, and from out of town, Michael deduced. Rich, too,
he thought. Both her bag and her shoes were leather and expensive. And
there was the dull glint of real gold at her wrist and ears. There was
the way she moved that whispered of wealth and privilege. Her hands
might have given away her nerves, but her movements were smooth as a
dancer's.
She didn't hesitate on the walk. Obviously she had made up her mind in
the car to approach him. He caught her scent, light, quietly seductive,
over the fragrance of fresh-cut grass.
When she smiled, his heart nearly stopped. Shutting off the motor with
one hand and dragging off his headphones with the other, he stared at
her. In the sudden quiet Springsteen and the E Street Band could be
heard jamming metallically.
"Hello. I'm sorry to interrupt your work."
His mouth went dry. It was foolish. It was ridiculous. But he
couldn't stop it. That voice-it had played through his head for years.
Sneaking up on him in sleep, in front of the television, in
conversations with other women. When he saw her bite her lip, he
snapped himself together. Taking off his sunglasses, he smiled at her.
"Hi, Emma. Catch any good waves lately?"
Her lips parted in surprise, then recognition and pleasure curved them.
"Michael." She wanted to throw her arms around him. The idea made color
flutter in her cheeks, but she only held out a hand for his. "It's so
good to see you again."
His hand was hard against hers, hard and damp. He released hers almost
immediately to wipe his palm against his worn jeans. "Younever made it
back to the beach."
"No." She continued to smile, but the dimple faded away from the
corner of her mouth. "I never learned to surl I didn't know if you'd
still be living at home."
"Actually, I'm not. I lost a bet with my old man, so he gets free
gardening service for a few weeks." He didn't have a clue what to say to
her. She looked so beautiful, so fragile somehow, standing on the
freshly shorn grass in her expensive Italian pumps, her pale hair
stirring slightly in the light breeze. "How've you been?" he managed at
last.
"Fine. And you?"
"All right. I've seen your picture now and again. Once you were in one
of those ski places."
"Saint Moritz."
"I guess." Her eyes were the same, he thought. Big, blue, and haunted.
Looking into them made his stomach dance. "Are youvisiting around
here?"
"No. Well, yes. Actually-"
"Michael." He turned at his mother's voice. She stood in the doorway,
neat as a pin. "Aren't you going to ask your friend in for a cold
drink?"
"Sure. Got a few minutes?" he asked Emma.
"Yes. I was hoping to speak to your father."
He felt his hopes deflate like a used party balloon. Where had he