"Next time," he said and cut into his steak.
They lingered over the meal until twilight. She'd forgotten what it was
like to talk about unimportant things, to laugh over dinner with music
in the background and a candle flickering. The dog, sated with half of
Emma's steak, snored by her feet. Nerves, strung tight for months,
smoothed out.
He could see the change. It was a gradual, almost a muscle-bymuscle
relaxation. She never spoke of her marriage, or the separation. He
found it odd. He had friends, both male and female, who had gone
through divorces. During the process, and long afterward, it had been
their favorite topic of conversation.
When Rosemary Clooney's seductive voice drifted from the radio, he rose
and pulled Emma to her feet. "The old ones are the best to dance to,"
he said when she took a step in retreat.
"I really don't-"
"And it'd give Mrs. Petrowski such a thrill." Gently, he drew her
closer, forcing himself to keep the embrace friendly and undemanding.
Emma moved with him automatically as Clooney crooned out "Tenderly."
Closing her eyes, she concentrated on staying relaxed, on ignoring the
emotions that were creeping into her. She didn't want to feel anything,
unless it was peace.
There was only a flutter of a breeze now as they danced across the
grass. The shadows were long. When she opened her eyes on a long,
careful breath, she could see the sky in the west glowing in sunset.
"When I was waiting for you to come, I figured out that we've known each
other about eighteen years." He brushed a finger over the back of her
hand. She didn't jerk away this time, but there was a moment of
stillness. "Eighteen years," he repeated. "Even though I can count the
days I've spent with you on one hand."
"You didn't pay any attention to me the first time we met." She forgot
to be nervous when she smiled up at him. "You were too busy being
dazzled by Devastation."
"Eleven-year-old boys can't notice girls. Those particular optic nerves
don't develop until the age of thirteen, twelve in some precocious
cases."
Chuckling, she didn't object when he brought her a few inches closer. "I
read that somewhere. It's fully developed when the young male
anticipates the arrival of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit issue as much
as he anticipates the football preview." When Michael grinned, she
lifted a brow. "It was your loss. I had quite a crush on you."
"Did you?" He skimmed his fingers up her back to toy with the ends of
her hair.
"Absolutely. Your father had told me about how you'd roller-skated off
the root I wanted to ask you how it felt."
"Before or after I regained consciousness?"
"In flight."
"I guess I was up for about three seconds. It was the best three
seconds of my life."
It was exactly what she'd hoped he'd say. "Do your parents still live
in that same house?"