Matt lifted the lid of the Dutch oven for the fiftieth time. A watched pot doesn’t boil—he remembered hearing his mother saying that so many times that he thought she had authored the cliché—but it was almost eight o’clock and Georgia would be there any minute. He poked his head back into the living room where he’d set the small round table with white dishes on a blue and white checkered cloth, her irises off to one side.
And candles. Everywhere.
Tall white tapers and dozens of votives in pretty glass bowls stood on every flat surface around the small living room, all waiting to be lit. Matt ducked back into the kitchen and lifted the lid on the rice. Watched or not, it was boiling, and the stir-fry needed only a few more seconds. He turned the flame down and took a deep breath. He’d never cooked dinner for a woman before. Had never gone to such lengths to surprise a woman—to please a woman—before.
But then again, there’d never been anyone quite like Georgia in his life before.
Oh, Georgia had been on his mind, all right. All week long, she’d stayed with him, in his heart and in his mind. Just an old sweet song, indeed, he’d thought. It had disconcerted him at first, this always-on-my-mind thing, but he’d been unable to shake the feeling that there was more—so much more—ahead for them. He’d come to look forward to seeing her face in his mind’s eye, to the vision of her in that pink leotard as she had walked away from him that day in the farmyard, to the memory of that lilting laugher and million-dollar smile. There’d never been a woman in his head before, and now that he was beginning to get used to the idea, he was thinking he might actually like it.
“Just a minute,” he called out when she rapped on the door. “I’ll be right there.”
He paused, wondering if he should light the rest of the candles now, as he had originally planned on doing, hoping to dazzle her with the sight, or whether to wait till he was ready to serve dinner. Having decided to wait until dinner, he slipped the book of matches back into his shirt pocket and opened the door.
“Ummm,” she sniffed appreciatively. “Whatever it is, it smells wonderful.”
“Thanks,” he grinned and stood aside to let her enter. “I remembered that you liked curry ...”
“Oh, I love it!” She went to one of the pots and raised the lid to peek within. “Oh, yum, you made the rice with the raisins in it. My favorite.”
“That’s one of my favorites, too.” He checked the stir-fry, then turned off the flame. “I’m glad you were on time. Dinner’s actually ready.”
“May I help?”
He hesitated, then handed her a blue and white bowl.
“If you wouldn’t mind spooning the rice into this bowl, I’ll be right back ...”
What is he up to? she wondered as he disappeared into the next room.
Her curiosity was beginning to get the best of her when he came back into the kitchen and took the bowl from her hands.
“Come on in and have a seat,” he told her.
She followed the sound of his voice, and walked into a room alive with the soft flicker of candlelight.
“Oh, Matt, it’s beautiful.” She sighed. “Just beautiful. However did you think to do this?”
“Candles on the table didn’t seem to give quite enough light,” he grinned, “and too much light would make viewing so difficult.”
“‘Viewing’?” she asked.
“The film.” He held out a chair for her, gesturing for her to be seated, then poured wine into a pretty stemmed glass and handed it to her. “I thought we’d have a little dinner, and watch a little Holmes.”
The wide-screen TV sat at an angle to the room, and the lights blinking on the VCR indicated that the film was loaded and ready to go.
“Let me just bring in the food, and we’ll be all set.”
“What’s the movie?” Georgia asked, pleased and flattered by the time and attention he’d given to planning this evening with her.
“It’s an old British production of The Sign of Four.”
He placed the bowl of brightly colored vegetables between them, then sat down opposite her. Filling his own wineglass, he raised it to her and said softly, “To many more evenings together.”
She touched the rim of his glass with her own, then sipped at her wine, wishing she could think of something to say, but caught off guard, could come up with nothing to match the romantic spell he’d already woven around them. Instead, she merely took another sip of wine.
Matt served her first, then himself, saying, “Anyway, to get back to the movie. This one stars a British actor, Arthur Wontner, as Holmes. Now, I personally prefer Basil Rathbone in the role, but all things considered, I think that Wontner does an excellent job. This film is actually two stories in one. The first is Holmes’s investigation into a death and a subsequent theft, and the second is a romance ...”
“A romance?” Georgia tried to recall the few Sherlock Holmes films she had watched on TV on rainy Saturday afternoons. “Fascinating character though Holmes may have been, I don’t think of him as being particularly romantic.”
“Oh, I agree.” Matt smiled, happy that his choice for the evening was prompting some discussion, some interest on her part. “Holmes was a great detective, but he was, frankly, a bit of a misogynist. He had little use for women. The romance I spoke of was between Watson—who really was a ladies’ man—and Holmes’s client, Mary Morstan.”
“I read that someplace ... that Holmes had a low opinion of women.”
“I think he thought they were unnecessary and not to be trusted. He says that, as a matter of fact... that even the best of them are not to be trusted.” Matt grinned. “A sentiment I do not share, by the way, but it makes for an interesting character study.”
“Have you?” she asked, “studied his character?”
“I did a paper on Holmes for an English class in college some years ago. I admit I chose the topic because I’d seen a few of the movies and figured it would be an easy paper. It was, because I enjoyed it, but I found the characters more complex than I’d given Conan Doyle credit for.”
“Ah, so that’s how you got hooked.”
“That’s how I got hooked,” he nodded. “And you? Anyone in particular that you read religiously?”
“Only my mother,” Georgia grinned.
“I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve never read any of her books.”
“What? A die-hard detective fan such as yourself has never read a Shellcroft?” She feigned horror.
“What’s a Shellcroft?”
“Harvey Shellcroft is a recurring character in a series my mother wrote early on in her career. He’s a wonderful character—part Columbo, part Jessica Fletcher, part Holmes. Harve was so popular that when my mother wanted to start a new series with a new detective, her publisher wouldn’t let her until she threatened to kill Harvey off.”
Matt laughed.
“It’s the truth. So now Mom does a new Harve every eighteen months to keep his fans happy, and in between time, writes other books that make her happy.”
“That’s interesting, that she’s sensitive to her readers.”
“She is sensitive to everyone.”
“I’m beginning to believe that.”
“My mother is a very caring person.” Georgia speared a snow pea and nibbled one end of it. “She has always devoted herself to her children and her work. I’m so thrilled to see that she is taking some time to have a little fun for herself.”
“You’re referring to Gordon Chandler.”
Georgia nodded. “He seems like such a perfect match for her. He’s interesting, active, intelligent—and he seems to care for Mother.”
“I thought he was quite solicitous of her when they were here last weekend.”
“So did 1.1 like to see that someone is taking care of her. Not that she needs it, but it’s just good to see someone do the kind of little things for her that she’s always doing for other people. And she seems happy to be with him. Maybe it’s finally her time to find happiness.”
“I hope you’re right. Chandler seems to be the kind of guy you wouldn’t mind having date your mother.”
“And while we’re on the subject of people our favorite relatives might be interested in, have you had a chance to meet Tucker Moreland?”
“Not yet. I haven’t gotten out to Bishop’s Cove yet. But it’s on the agenda. Maybe I’ll take a ride out there tomorrow. Unless, of course, you have some farm chores lined up for me ...” he teased.
“I have my dancing classes in the morning, but I haven’t any other plans. I do want to show you what I did this week, though,” she said, thinking of what fun it would be to show off her crones.
“So, what do you think of my curry?” he asked as he finished eating.
“I think it’s great. I’m really touched that you made a special effort to make something just for me.” She reached her hand across the table and touched his wrist.
Matt made a mental note to hit the bookstore in Shawsburg and stock up on a few good vegetarian cookbooks. And maybe a Shellcroft or two.
“I like doing special things for you,” he said simply, taking her hand and toying with her fingers.
“And I plan on doing lots of special things for you for a very long time to come.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I do. I just thought I should warn you.” Matt gave her hand a squeeze, then stood up and began to clear the table. “We can have dessert while we watch the movie, if that’s all right with you.”
“That sounds like fun. Can I help?”
“Nope. Just get comfortable on the sofa and we’ll be ready to roll in a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”
Georgia seated herself on the old blue plaid sofa, drawing up her legs beneath her. Artie roused himself from his place near the door and wagged his tail as he approached her, begging for an invitation to join her.
“No, you sit there, on the floor,” she told him.
He sat as close to the sofa as he could get, his tongue flopped from one side of his mouth like a rumpled tie and his big head nudging her knees.
“Oh, you want a little attention, do you?” Georgia scratched behind the dog’s ears.
I like doing special things for you, Matt had said. Had anyone ever said anything sweeter to her?
I plan on doing special things for you for a very long time to come. Had any promise ever made to her been more dear?
“I don’t think so,” she whispered to Artie.
Matt came in with a tray piled with perfect strawberries and a bowl of popcorn drizzled with melted chocolate.
“What’s a movie without popcorn?” He grinned as he moved a few books on the coffee table to make room for the tray.
“Oh, that looks wonderful,” she sighed, and reached for a berry.
Matt sat down next to Georgia, put his arm around her shoulders, and turned on the VCR via the remote.
“This version was made in the early thirties,” he told her as the film began. “There’s an earlier version—a silent one—made in the twenties, that’s interesting, too, but I haven’t been able to find that one to add to my collection.”
A series of flashbacks to India in the beginning of the film caused Georgia to exclaim, “Oh! I get it! India! Curried vegetables! Did you match the menu to the movie?” to which Matt laughed out loud.
“I guess I’m not very subtle. I just thought it would be fun.” Matt grinned broadly. It hadn’t occurred to him that her candid appreciation would please him so. “I couldn’t think of too many vegetable dishes that I thought I could cook, and this is one of my favorite films.”
“What’s special about this one?” She asked.
“Well, for one thing, I think that this story really highlights Holmes’s incredible investigative skills, maybe better than the others, because it’s so complex. Just watch as the story unfolds.”
She did watch, munching strawberries and popcorn.
Midway through the movie, the phone rang. Matt stopped the VCR and patted Georgia’s leg as he excused himself to answer it.
“That was Laura,” he told her as he came back into the room. “She wanted to tell me about a party she is hosting for Zoey and Ben at the inn in two weeks. She asked if I would consider coming and spending the weekend along with the rest of clan. I think she was shocked when I said I’d be there without her having to twist my arm.”
“I spoke with her the other day. She doesn’t know ...” Georgia hesitated.
“... about us?” Matt grinned and finished the sentence for her. “No, apparently she doesn’t. And what a surprise that will be when we tell her.”
“What will you tell her?” Georgia leaned back and tugged on his hand. “What will you tell Laura?”
“I’ll tell her,” he said as he kissed the soft skin below her ear, “that I have had a change of heart. I’ll tell her that she was right,” he whispered as his mouth moved to hers, “when she said that I’d love you once I got to know you ...”
“Remind me to ask you about that later,” she said as she lay back against the cushions and pulled him to her.
“Later, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. But later, Georgia. Much later ...”
Georgia slipped the shirt from her shoulders and his lips sank to her collarbone where his tongue traced a long, slow line up her neck to her waiting mouth. Hot tongues teased and tasted, trading sensation and promising more. His hands lifted her slowly, repositioning her body atop his own where he could see her, could feel her, could love her without fearing that he was crushing the life from her, as he had been afraid of doing the weekend before. She sat up slightly and pulled the camisole to her waist, bringing his hands up to cup her breasts, moaning slightly at the touch of his fingers on her anxious flesh. When she could take no more of his searching hands, his eager mouth, she reached beneath her to tug at the zipper of his jeans and freed him, raising her skirt and sinking upon him, taking him in, taking his breath away.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, watching her face, her eyes half-closed with pleasure.
“You’re so beautiful,” he told her again, as she arched her back and cried out.
“You’re so beautiful,” he repeated after he had shattered and shivered within her and had drawn her down tightly into his arms. “Now, if I fall asleep, will you disappear again? Will you run off to dance in the moonlight without me?”
“You could dance with me,” she told him. “We could choreograph a pas de deux ...”
“I think we just did that,” he smiled, “and if we can remember the steps, we could do it again.”
“Oh, we can always improvise, you know,” she whispered. “I’m great at improvisation ...”
Georgia was, Matt found, true to her word. Any dancing she did that night, she did with him, a long, sweet pas de deux that lasted nearly till dawn and left her far too tired to dance alone in the moonlight even if she’d wanted to.
At nine, Georgia awoke to the smell of coffee and the rollicking music of the Rolling Stones’s Gimme Shelter blasting from the kitchen. Rolling over to look at the clock, she groaned and sat up gingerly, trying to recall the last time she’d slept past six-thirty.
“And just think how much worse I’d feel if I wasn’t in shape,” she muttered.
“But you have to admit it was worth it,” Matt laughed from the doorway, where he leaned against the jamb, watching her fitful maneuver to the side of the bed.
“One has nothing to do with the other,” she grumbled. “I am an athlete. I should not be slowed down by normal nocturnal activities.”
“Sweetheart, if that was your idea of normal nocturnal activity, one of us will be in a wheelchair by the time we’re thirty.”
“Well, it won’t be me. Some of my muscles are just a tad ... rusty, that’s all.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, wrapping the sheet around her. It was then she saw the mug he’d set on the wide window ledge. “Is that coffee? You brought me coffee?” She sighed gratefully.
“I thought to atone for keeping you awake all night,” he said, trying to look contrite.
“It’ll take more than coffee ...” She sipped at the warm dark liquid. “Although on second thought, this coffee just might do it.”
“One of my specialties. French breakfast blend mixed with Colombian beans. And breakfast is in twenty minutes.”
“Just enough time for me to grab a quick shower.” She headed for the bathroom, then turned and asked, “What’s for breakfast?”
“It’s a surprise.”
She took three more steps down the hall, then looked over her shoulder. “Just what do you do to stay in shape?”
“I joined a gym.”
“Ah, that explains it,” she muttered as she continued on to the shower, “all those different kinds of machines ...”
He laughed and watched her disappear through the bathroom door.
“We never finished watching the movie last night,”
Georgia reminded him when she came into the kitchen, wearing the shirt she had worn the night before, along with the skirt. She wasn’t sure what had happened to the camisole, but was pretty sure it was in the living room someplace. She’d look later. Right now, she had breakfast to share with Matt—so cute in bare feet and khaki shorts and T-shirt advertising a dog training school—and in little more than an hour, Laura would arrive in a van filled with aspiring ballerinas.
He pulled out a chair for her at the small table, and she sat down.
“Well, we can always try again tonight,” he said as he took the coffee cup from her hands and refilled it without her asking. “Maybe by the end of the weekend we’ll have seen the entire film,” he grinned and placed a perfect omelet—fluffy eggs wrapped around long tender spears of asparagus—before her on the table.
“Oh, this looks wonderful,” she beamed.
“Well, actually, I planned on making this for you for dinner tonight,” he bent down and kissed the back of her neck. “It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d be making three meals for you this weekend.”
“Curried vegetables, fresh coffee first thing in the morning, and this beautiful breakfast,” she sighed, then laughed and said jokingly, “Will you marry me?”
His hands, which had been massaging her shoulders gently, stopped for a long minute, then slowly, began again.
“Yes,” he said softly, “I’m thinking I probably will.”
She wanted to say that it had just been a joke, but she couldn’t seem to get the words out. Though the remark had been intended as a flippant one, suddenly the idea didn’t seem far-fetched. Not so very far-fetched at all.