Maggie sat at her dressing table while Beth Ann styled her hair. Her daughter piled it on top of her head, then made faces in the mirror as she tried to get it to stay.
"It's like dandelion fuzz, Mother."
"Your father says it's like silk."
"Jeez." Beth Ann rolled her eyes.
"Some young man is going to say the same thing to you one of these days, and you're going to think it's romantic."
Beth Ann wanted to barf. All her parents ever thought about was each other. She wished they'd act their age like her friend Ruth's parents.
Maggie scooped up a handful of rhinestone bobby pins and handed them to Beth Ann.
"Why don't you stick these all over my hair? Tonight I want to shine."
Ruth's mother would never wear rhinestones in her hair.
"Wow!" Bill leaned in the doorway and gave a long wolf whistle. He swooped into the room and pecked Beth Ann on the cheek. "Hi, sweetie."
He didn't even wait for her to say hi or anything. He just wrapped his arms around Maggie and began to nuzzle her neck.
"You look good enough to eat."
"Don't you dare try. We'll be late to the ballet."
Beth Ann felt as if she didn't exist. They didn't even know when she left the room. Her sneakers slapped angrily on the stairway as she ran to the kitchen.
There was a half gallon of ice cream in the freezer.
o0o
Susan's home was in a quiet neighborhood of modest but neat houses. It was a clapboard cottage, painted blue with white trim and surrounded by flowers of every description and color. They bloomed around the foundation, burst forth from clay pots, cascaded from trellises, and hung in baskets on the front porch.
Paul parked his car in the driveway, then sat for a moment taking it all in. It was exactly the way he'd remembered, charming and warm and welcoming, much like the woman who lived there.
He glanced in the rearview mirror to see if his tie was straight. Primping. Eager to look good for her.
He held on to the steering wheel, racked by indecision. They would live for the moment. They'd both agreed. But now what he'd said, what he'd done, seemed foolhardy, even dangerous. He knew the price of caring too much.
Darkness gathered, coming down softly over the house and grounds, giving them a fairy-tale look. Outside his car window crickets hummed and cicadas sang their summer song. Fireflies darted among the colored flowers, glowing then fading like miniature stars.
He couldn't lie to himself. He hadn't come to Susan's merely to take her to the ballet. He'd come to be close to her, close enough to smell her sweet perfume and bask in her sweet smile, and feel her sweet touch.
Leave now before you hurt her, too.
His hands were fumbling with the ignition key when she came through the door. Her hair was loose and softly curled around her face, and her dress was the color of flame.
When she saw him, she smiled and waved. A woman waiting for him at the door, smiling just for him.
He sat in the car guarding the moment, knowing how quickly such moments could be snatched away.
"Paul! Come in." She called to him from the porch, her voice floating across the darkening yard.
Memories stirred, and for the briefest instant Paul stepped beyond who he was and where he was to the golden days when he'd been invincible.
Susan descended the steps.
"Paul? Are you coming in?" She was laughing.
He got out of the car and started toward her. They met in the middle of the yard, then stood uncertainly like travelers finding a fork in the road and not knowing which way to turn. Her perfume mingled with the scent of gardenias, and the air became heavy with . fragrance and possibility. Paul felt the waters begin to close over his head. Just before he drowned, he reached for her hand.
She held on tight.
Rescued.
"Hello, Susan."
"Hello, Paul."
"I'm glad you're here."
"So am I."
A whippoorwill called from somewhere close by, and the cicadas picked up volume.
To break the tension he told one of Fergie's latest antics, then held on to her hand, watching her laugh. He was selfish. He wanted to stand in the sweetly scented darkness of her yard listening to the musical lilt of her laughter and pretend that the moment could go on forever. He wanted to hold on to the magic and pretend that nothing could ever take it away.
"Well . . ." Susan released his hand and fussed with her hair. It was a lovely, feminine gesture that made Paul feel exhilarated and heart-sad at the same time. "I suppose we have time for a glass of lemonade."
"Yes."
They walked side by side, not touching. Inside, he studied her house the way he would study a new case. There was much he'd missed when he'd brought Jefiy home, much of Susan in her house—cut flowers arranged in crystal vases, an antique lamp with a golden cherub holding up the cream-colored shade, family photographs framed in silver and brass and scrolled pewter, lace curtains at the windows. A music box shaped like a crystal dome was playing the theme from Camelot, and inside, a blue and gold dragon holding a shiny crystal ball smiled out from a curtain of iridescent snow.
Waiting on the sofa while Susan fetched lemonade, Paul spotted a photograph of the missing husband. He'd been a big, handsome man with curly hair, an easy smile, and bright blue eyes.
Paul clenched his hands in his pockets. Jealous. Of all the foolish things.
"I'm back." She sat beside him, flushed and smiling. Their hands touched when she handed him the lemonade. So simple, that touch, so innocent. And yet it felt like a promise.
He was playing with fire.
o0o
The Grand Biloxi Opera House was a monument to the Old South. With its massive columns, arched porticoes, ornate balconies, and imported French chandeliers, it was an imposing reminder that a way of life both gracious and brutal had slipped away after a war that had pitted brother against brother. The street that had once been nothing more than a muddy lane for carriages was now clogged with sleek cars disgorging passengers, who were dressed to kill and hoping to be entertained.
Jean Tyler's spirits lifted as she was handed from the limousine by Curtis Blake. The ballet was civilized and safe. Lately Curt had been taking her to places with dark corners and sexy music. She wasn't ready for the deep, visceral longings that were slowly coming back to life.
"I promised to meet friends under the portico," she said. "I hope you don't mind waiting."
"Not at all." His quick flash of irritation was barely visible. If Jean hadn't known him so well, she would have missed it.
"Perhaps I should have told you earlier."
"Come here." He draped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine."
It was a clever, pretty lie, but Jean didn't mind. Being in the protective lee of his arm felt good.
o0o
As soon as he entered the portico, Paul spotted his estranged wife . . . with Curtis Blake. His first instinct was to rush over and protect her, though from what he couldn't exactly say. Blake was not one of his favorite people, but he was a fair surgeon and as far as Paul knew a fairly decent man. There certainly was nothing menacing about him.
As always, though, Jean aroused that swashbuckling knight in shining armor that dozed in him. Perhaps it was because she was wearing pure white as she so often did.
Hard on the heels of the protectiveness came the sadness, about Sonny, about the death of a marriage. Loss. How was it possible to move beyond?
As he steered Susan in the opposite direction, he figured there was no use courting trouble. Not that Jean would make trouble; she was too civilized. But he saw no need to set up a situation that might make Susan uncomfortable.
He positioned Susan so her back was toward Jean. In the holiday atmosphere that accompanied cultural events in small towns, Susan's color was high.
"I love Tchaikovsky," she said. "I love him so much, he sometimes makes me cry."
"Why does that not surprise me?"
"Because you've learned all my secrets."
"Not all of them."
Her color deepened and a quick surge of desire hit Paul. He felt the whisper of Susan's skirt against his trousers. Seduced, he studied her. Her smile was sweet and her cleavage low. Sexy innocence. A powerful combination.
He draped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. She smiled up at him. His brave, sweet Susan. His soldier with the heart of a marshmallow and the will of a Sherman tank.
She deserved an evening at the ballet. And he'd walk through hell before he'd let anything mar it for her.
o0o
Bill drove with one arm, holding his wife with the other.
"We're late," he said.
"Hmmm, I know." She kissed him on the side of the neck. "Was it worth it, honey?"
"Always." He glanced at his watch. "I just hope Paul doesn't give up on us."
"Paul?" Maggie bolted upright. "What about Paul?"
"We're meeting him and Susan at the ballet."
"Oh, my God."
"I thought it would be a nice surprise."
"I have a surprise for you too."
"What?"
"We're meeting Jean and Curt at the ballet."
Bill swore until his face was red.
"You're going to wreck the car."
"I think what we're about to do is wreck two people's lives."
"I hardly call sitting together at a ballet wrecking their lives. Paul and Jean are sophisticated enough to handle it."
"Yes. But can Susan Riley?"
o0o
They had the best seats in the house, six together in the center section downstairs.
Susan's face felt stiff from holding on to her false smile. Paul seemed to be handling the situation well. He held her hand tightly and smiled at her.
Or maybe he was smiling at his wife, sitting on the other side of Bill. She was the most stunning woman in the room. Elegant, classy. Beside her, Susan felt overdressed, unsophisticated, and un-everything else.
It didn't help matters that Maggie lifted an eyebrow every time she looked at Susan. Did she disapprove of Susan's dress, her manners, her station in life . . . or merely of the fact that Susan was with another woman's husband? Never mind that Paul’s wife was with another man. What a royal mess.
She couldn't have told whether the orchestra was playing the music to Swan Lake or her personal swan song. Miserable, she waited for intermission and her chance to hide in the ladies' room.