place, but they claim the food's worth it. Would you like to?"
She realized she was nodding her head like a fool and made herself stop.
"I'd like that."
"I'll come by for you. About six-thirty?"
There went her head, bobbing again like a spring robin drunk on worms.
"Fine. That'd be fine."
"I can't stay now because they're expecting me at the boatyard."
"That's all right." She wondered if her eyes were as huge as they felt.
She could have devoured him with them. "Thanks for the flowers. They're
lovely."
"You're welcome." And with his eyes open, he leaned over, laid his lips
on hers very gently, very softly. He watched her lashes flutter, watched
the green of her irises go misty under those tiny flecks of gold. "I'll
see you tomorrow night, then."
Her muscles had turned to putty. "Tomorrow," she managed and breathed
out a long, long sigh as he walked away and out her front door.
He'd brought her flowers. She clasped the stems in both hands, held them
out and waltzed through the house with them. Beautiful, fragrant,
soft-petaled flowers. And if some of those petals drifted to the floor
as she danced, it only made the scene more romantic.
They made her feel like a princess, like a woman. She sniffed them
lavishly as she circled back into the kitchen for a vase. Like a bride.
She stopped abruptly, staring at them. Like a bride.
Her head went light, her skin hot, her hands trembly. When she realized
she was holding her breath, she let it out with a whoosh, but it caught
and stumbled as she tried to pull air in again.
He'd brought her flowers, she thought again. He'd asked her to dinner.
Slowly, she pressed a hand to her heart, found that it was pumping light
and fast, very fast.
He was going to ask her to marry him. To marry him.
"Oh, my. Oh." Her legs wanted to fold, so she sat down, right on the
floor of the kitchen with the flowers cradled in her arms like a child.
Flowers, tender kisses, a romantic dinner for two. He was courting her.
No, no. She was jumping to conclusions. He would never move that quickly
to the next step. She shook her head, picked herself up, and found an
old wide-mouthed bottle for a vase. He was just being sweet. He was just
being considerate. He was just being Ethan.
She turned on the faucet and filled the bottle. Just being Ethan, she
thought again, and found her breath gone a second time.
Being Ethan, he would think and he would do things in a certain manner.
Struggling for calm, for logic, she began to arrange the precious
flowers, stem by stem.
They'd known each other fora she could hardly remember not knowing
him. Now they were lovers. They were in love. Being Ethan, he would
consider marriage the next step. Honorable, traditional. Right. He would
believe it right.
She understood that but had expected it to be months yet before he
drifted in that direction. Yet why would he wait, she asked herself,
when they'd already waited for years?
Buta She had promised herself she would never marry again. She made