High Noon Page 0,90
had made some very valid points on the way home from work, during the change-for-date process and even now on the drive to the island portion of the evening.
They should get to know each other better. He was, no question, an appealing, interesting man. But what was the rush? Wouldn't it be more rational-read: safer-to have a few more dates in public venues before haring off to his house when and where the end result was inevitable? She could argue with that, and did. She liked him, she enjoyed him, she was strongly attracted to him physically. She was thirty-three.
But really, what did she know about him-under the surface of things? For all she knew he might be the type who used that affability of his like a weapon and knocked susceptible females over on a weekly basis. He could be the male version of Celene's mother, busily juggling. Did she want to be one of his balls in the air?
What the hell difference did it make? Couldn't she date a mancouldn't she sleep with a man-without demanding or expecting absolute exclusivity? She deserved some fun and some companionship and some goddamn sex-in her personal life. So shut the hell up.
He meddled. At least it could be construed as meddling by someone with her twin antennae of cynicism and suspicion humming. An outlet for her mother's needlework, a gardening job for Ava. What was next? Would he offer to buy a shoe store for Carly?
Of course that was ridiculous. It was overreacting. It was overprotective. Certainly neither her mother nor Ava considered the opportunities offered meddling. And it wasn't as if they weren't particularly skilled at the arts and crafts he'd provided a channel for.
The problem was she could twist his actions, this relationship, the entire mass of it all into any of several forms. If she were going to be obsessive and picky about it. Instead ofjust taking a chance, enjoying the moment.
Besides, she was too close to his house now to turn back like some nervous idiot and bolt for home.
They'd talk, they'd simply talk about what was going on, about what this business with Ava was really about. They'd eat some pizza, maybe drink some wine, and have a mature, adult conversation about where-if anywhere-they might be going.
If Sensible Phoebe wasn't satisfied with that, she could get the hell out of the car and walk home.
It occurred to her as she turned into Duncan's drive that the first time she'd seen his house she'd been traumatized. The second time it had been after dusk. Seeing it now, in full light, with all her wits about her, was a different experience.
It was gorgeous, all those tall windows with the carved white trim against the pale, beachy blue of the wood. The sweep of terraces and verandas. And, of course, the sturdy elegance of the portico with its white columns. Where they'd very nearly taken an action that would have turned her recent debate to dust.
The charm of that widow's walk where she could easily imagine standing to look out at marsh and salt flat, at garden, at river. And, of course, the gardens. The heaps and flows, the spikes and trails. She had to concede the man knew gardens, or hired a fleet of people who did. Which was one and the same, really. A man didn't have to dig and plant, to prune and weed, to appreciate the power of a lovely landscape.
The result was a gorgeous little slice of island living, sun and shade, bloom and fragrance, green and color all swirling around a house that managed to be grand and homey at the same time.
It took vision, she supposed, to pull that off.
She strolled along the walk, enjoying the dreamy, romantic sensation, and hoped they'd have that wine, that pizza and conversation, out on the veranda with the warm, moist air and those heady fragrances stirred up by the breeze.
He opened the door before she reached it, stood framed by that white trim, watching her walk toward him.
"I feel like I should be wearing a flowing white gown," she called out, "and a wide-brimmed hat-like this dead-ringer-for-Julia-Roberts transvestite I had a nice chat with yesterday. Only my hat should be trimmed with violets, I think-tucked into the band, and ribbons trailing."
"You look pretty perfect just the way you are, even if you aren'tfar as I know-a transvestite."
"She might've been a transsexual. I didn't like to ask on so short an acquaintance."
"Either way. I like the