Dream Man by Judy Griffith Gill Page B

retrieved her attaché case from beside her desk in the living room, snapped it open, fished out a folded paper, and handed it to him. He took it without opening it, gazing from it to her, bemused.
    â€œFor subsequent letters, of course, the writer will need more detailed hints as to subject, and he’ll provide that,” Jeanie went on. “You know, sort of like, ‘Darling, last night was superb. You cook the most elegant stew.’ Or maybe, ‘Angel, how I enjoyed dancing with you on the beach in the moonlight...’ ”
    He slapped the folded paper on his closed fist. “Right, and, ‘You looked so lovely in your silver lamé gown and your gum boots that it stopped my heart dead.’ ”
    â€œI guess you never have written a love letter,” she said. “Or danced on the sand in the moonlight. Gum boots, indeed.”
    â€œIn this weather, I wouldn’t go to the beach without them,” he said, collecting their plates and cutlery and carrying them to the sink. Over his shoulder he asked, “Have you?”
    She paused, halfway between him and the fridge, butter dish and cream pitcher in her hands. “Have I what, written a love letter?”
    He turned, braced his arms back against the counter, and looked at her. “Danced on the beach in the moonlight—with or without rubber boots.” For some reason, he knew her answer was important to him. Maybe it all had to do with why he’d asked her out to dinner. They had to get to that, he knew. And soon.
    â€œNo.” Her voice was as quiet as his. She opened the refrigerator, set the things down and closed the door.
    â€œOr written a love letter?” He took her arm and steered her through the archway into the living room, as if this were his home not hers, and seated her on the sofa. He sat beside her.
    â€œOr been in love?”
    â€œI … thought I was, once or twice. But I wasn’t. Because when it was over, I didn’t really care. I guess I’ve just never been a very romantic person.”
    â€œMe either.” He leaned closer to her. Her scent was elusive, but just as delicious as before, and it was starting to drive him slightly crazy again. “Have you ever received a love letter?”
    â€œNot since Johnny Mason passed me a note in sixth grade and asked if I want to ‘do it’ with him behind the fire station.”
    His eyes crinkled. “That was no love letter. That was a mash note.”
    â€œIf you’ve never written a love letter, how do you know the difference?”
    He grinned. “Maybe because Johnny what’s-his-name isn’t the only sixth grader to have written a mash note.”
    â€œDid you invite someone to go behind the fire hall?”
    â€œNo. Down to the marina where my dad’s boat was moored. And I was in eighth grade by then, I think. Maybe I developed a bit late. Did you?”
    â€œDid I what? Develop late or meet Johnny behind the fire station?”
    He laughed and leaned back, one arm along the top of the sofa behind her, fingers just touching her shoulder.
    â€œAnswer either or both, as you like.”
    â€œI developed on a fairly normal schedule, and no, I didn’t meet him, not behind the fire hall or anywhere else. As a matter of fact, I had to ask my sister what ‘do it’ meant. When she told me I was heartily offended and quit offering Johnny Mason my peanut butter cookies. I decided I hated him more than I hated peanut butter cookies.”
    â€œGood for you. Your sister is older than you are? Are you close?”
    â€œVery close. Our parents were killed in a boating accident when I was twelve and Sharon, just shy of nineteen. She raised me after that. She was wonderful to me. Mother, sister, best friend, all rolled into one.” She smiled. “And still is.”
    â€œThen I’ll have to meet her. Soon.”
    Jeanie stared at him. “What? I mean, why?”
    His hand