weird.
Someone had to speak. Usually the girl was good at making awkward conversational transitions. Usually she felt that responsibility, anyway.
“Um,” I heard myself say, “do you always go up when the dowsing rod goes down ?”
What had I said? Irma? Was that you, you brassy flirt? Or was it the bolt of sheer sexual energy that had surged up from the ground to his dowsing rod and through my hands into his fingertips?
He stepped away and back. His dusky face reddened in the fading sunlight.
Even while I wanted to clap a hand over my suddenly sexy mouth, I realized that I liked that. His reticence. I wasn’t normally this up-front. I didn’t know what had gotten into me.
“It’s getting late.” He sounded as flustered as I did.
He reached into a pants pocket, but not for the car keys I expected. He reached in a thumb and pulled out a . . . golf ball marker.
Then he looked at the sunset, then east to a line of small trees, all neatly labeled with dead people’s names, and finally past me to the Easter Island head.
He bent to impale the small object in the thick grass between us.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s for my work.”
“Then there really is water under this spot? I found it? Are you a landscape architect or something?”
He smiled, distracted. “You could call it that.” Then he looked at me, hard, a question in his eyes. “Here’s my business card, by the way.”
In the descending dusk, I could barely read the embossed gold lettering on the heavy linen paper: Ric Montoya, Consultant. An office address was followed by several phone numbers and an email address.
I walked away on shaky legs, planning to put the card in my purse on the deserted bench. My purse! Someone could have taken it while I was dallying with a dowser!
“Let me get that.” He lifted his jacket from the picnic bench before I could. While I was checking my purse for signs of rifling, he pulled a small black object from his jacket side pocket. “Portable alarm. If anyone had moved my jacket it would have gone off. You haven’t been robbed.”
“Oh. What a relief! I’m new in town and all my ID, my credit card info, Social Security number—”
“It’s okay.” He rested a calming hand on my wrist, but I jerked away as if burned.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m getting a terrible headache. I guess I panicked.”
“May I have your phone number, Miss—?” The sunset-gilded pen he produced like a magic wand shone, liquid lava in his dark hand, against his luminous white shirt cuff.
I seemed to be seeing everything in intensified colors, the sunset bathing us in an amber-orange glow, the grass darkening to emerald.
“Miss—?” he repeated.
Dummy. Speak!
“Street.” I decided to skip the Delilah part. He looked like the kind of Latin lover who’d call you “Miss” while he was unzipping your skirt. A gigolo maybe. Was I thinking this because he was so attractive? “I never remember my own number,” I said, stuttering a little. “Let me look at my phone . . .”
Girlfriend, get a hold of yourself, urged Irma. He’s probably straight both ways, gender and species, and you two have obviously got some heavy-metal chemistry going.
I found the cell, punched “My phone #,” and read it off, watching Ric Montoya, consultant ( on what?), punch it into his own phone. Twilight had edged into dark by the time he escorted me to the curb and opened the door of my queen-size black Caddy with the red leather interior and white convertible top.
“A lot of car,” he noted, surprised and intrigued by Dolly. What guy wouldn’t be? “Should I follow you home?”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just this sudden headache.”
All I could see of him now was luminous splashes of white: that supernaturally white shirtfront, his flashing teeth and eyes. The lights inside my head were lurid red and green and blue.
“I’ll call,” were his last words.
Yeah. The elusive single male’s familiar dating and mating
Someone had to speak. Usually the girl was good at making awkward conversational transitions. Usually she felt that responsibility, anyway.
“Um,” I heard myself say, “do you always go up when the dowsing rod goes down ?”
What had I said? Irma? Was that you, you brassy flirt? Or was it the bolt of sheer sexual energy that had surged up from the ground to his dowsing rod and through my hands into his fingertips?
He stepped away and back. His dusky face reddened in the fading sunlight.
Even while I wanted to clap a hand over my suddenly sexy mouth, I realized that I liked that. His reticence. I wasn’t normally this up-front. I didn’t know what had gotten into me.
“It’s getting late.” He sounded as flustered as I did.
He reached into a pants pocket, but not for the car keys I expected. He reached in a thumb and pulled out a . . . golf ball marker.
Then he looked at the sunset, then east to a line of small trees, all neatly labeled with dead people’s names, and finally past me to the Easter Island head.
He bent to impale the small object in the thick grass between us.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s for my work.”
“Then there really is water under this spot? I found it? Are you a landscape architect or something?”
He smiled, distracted. “You could call it that.” Then he looked at me, hard, a question in his eyes. “Here’s my business card, by the way.”
In the descending dusk, I could barely read the embossed gold lettering on the heavy linen paper: Ric Montoya, Consultant. An office address was followed by several phone numbers and an email address.
I walked away on shaky legs, planning to put the card in my purse on the deserted bench. My purse! Someone could have taken it while I was dallying with a dowser!
“Let me get that.” He lifted his jacket from the picnic bench before I could. While I was checking my purse for signs of rifling, he pulled a small black object from his jacket side pocket. “Portable alarm. If anyone had moved my jacket it would have gone off. You haven’t been robbed.”
“Oh. What a relief! I’m new in town and all my ID, my credit card info, Social Security number—”
“It’s okay.” He rested a calming hand on my wrist, but I jerked away as if burned.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m getting a terrible headache. I guess I panicked.”
“May I have your phone number, Miss—?” The sunset-gilded pen he produced like a magic wand shone, liquid lava in his dark hand, against his luminous white shirt cuff.
I seemed to be seeing everything in intensified colors, the sunset bathing us in an amber-orange glow, the grass darkening to emerald.
“Miss—?” he repeated.
Dummy. Speak!
“Street.” I decided to skip the Delilah part. He looked like the kind of Latin lover who’d call you “Miss” while he was unzipping your skirt. A gigolo maybe. Was I thinking this because he was so attractive? “I never remember my own number,” I said, stuttering a little. “Let me look at my phone . . .”
Girlfriend, get a hold of yourself, urged Irma. He’s probably straight both ways, gender and species, and you two have obviously got some heavy-metal chemistry going.
I found the cell, punched “My phone #,” and read it off, watching Ric Montoya, consultant ( on what?), punch it into his own phone. Twilight had edged into dark by the time he escorted me to the curb and opened the door of my queen-size black Caddy with the red leather interior and white convertible top.
“A lot of car,” he noted, surprised and intrigued by Dolly. What guy wouldn’t be? “Should I follow you home?”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just this sudden headache.”
All I could see of him now was luminous splashes of white: that supernaturally white shirtfront, his flashing teeth and eyes. The lights inside my head were lurid red and green and blue.
“I’ll call,” were his last words.
Yeah. The elusive single male’s familiar dating and mating
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