between my husband and me and that he and I were about to spend an evening alone together for once.
When we got to the kitchen, Andrew slipped off his jacket, undid his tie, and threw both on a chair. I took ice out of the refrigerator and made two tall glasses of vodka and tonic with wedges of lime, and handed one to him.
"Cheers, darling," he said, clinking his drink against mine.
"Cheers," I answered, and I couldn't resist ogling him over the rim of my glass. Then I winked.
He laughed, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and said, "Shall we sit on the terrace?"
"It's a bit hot out there," I answered, then seeing his face drop in disappointment, I added, "Oh, but why not, the garden's so pretty at this time of day."
"My grandmother used to call this hour the gloaming," he remarked as we walked through the sunroom heading for the terrace beyond the French doors. "It's an old north-country word, I think. Or perhaps it's a Scottish term. You know my mother's mother was originally from Glasgow, before she went to live in Yorkshire, after her marriage to Grandfather Howard. That's why she dressed my mother in so much tartan when she was little, and then me." He chuckled. "She loved me to wear a kilt and a sporan and a little black velvet jacket. She always chose the Seaforth Highlander's dress tartan. Her father, my great-grandfather, had been in the Seaforths, you see."
"Yes, you've told me all about your Scottish ancestry before," I said, glancing at him over my shoulder.
He grinned at me. "Oh, sorry. I do seem to have a bad habit of repeating family history."
"It's not a bad habit," I said, "just a habit, and I don't mind."
Once outside we settled down at the circular table with the big white canvas market umbrella, where we usually ate meals in the summer months. We sipped our drinks and were silent for a while, comfortable in this silence, as happily married people frequently are, content simply to be together. Words were not necessary. We communicated without them, as we always had. Andrew and I usually seemed to be on the same wavelength, and often he would say something I had been thinking only a few seconds before, or vice versa. I found that uncanny.
It was not as stiflingly hot outside as I'd expected it to be, now that the sun had gone down. Although the air was balmy, there was a soft breeze moving through the trees, rustling the leaves. Otherwise everything was absolutely quiet, as tranquil as it always was up here atop our lovely Connecticut hill.
The lawn which flowed away from the terrace wall on this side of the house sloped down to a copse of trees; beyond were protected wetlands and a beaver dam. Soaring above the copse and the stretch of water were the foothills of the Berkshires covered with trees densely massed and of a green so dark they were almost black tonight under that midsummer sky now completely faded. Its periwinkle blue had turned to smoky gray edging into anthracite, with wisps of pink and lilac, saffron and scarlet bleeding into one another along the rim of those distant hills.
Andrew lolled back in the chair and breathed deeply, letting out a long, contented sigh. "God, it's so great here, Mallory. I couldn't get back fast enough… to you and this place."
"I know." I looked at him through the comer of my eye and said in the quietest of voices, "I thought you'd call me from Chicago…" I let my voice trail off, feeling suddenly rather silly for even mentioning it.
A half smile flitted across Andrew's mouth. He looked somewhat amused as he said, "And I thought you'd call me ."
"Aren't we a couple of stubborn idiots." I laughed, and lifting my glass, I took a sip of my drink.
He said, "I don't know how my stubborn idiot feels about me, but I adore her."
"And I adore mine," I responded swiftly, smiling warmly at him.
He smiled back.
There was another small silence. After a short interval, I said suddenly, "Sarah's broken up with the Eastern seaboard's greatest snob."
Andrew
When we got to the kitchen, Andrew slipped off his jacket, undid his tie, and threw both on a chair. I took ice out of the refrigerator and made two tall glasses of vodka and tonic with wedges of lime, and handed one to him.
"Cheers, darling," he said, clinking his drink against mine.
"Cheers," I answered, and I couldn't resist ogling him over the rim of my glass. Then I winked.
He laughed, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and said, "Shall we sit on the terrace?"
"It's a bit hot out there," I answered, then seeing his face drop in disappointment, I added, "Oh, but why not, the garden's so pretty at this time of day."
"My grandmother used to call this hour the gloaming," he remarked as we walked through the sunroom heading for the terrace beyond the French doors. "It's an old north-country word, I think. Or perhaps it's a Scottish term. You know my mother's mother was originally from Glasgow, before she went to live in Yorkshire, after her marriage to Grandfather Howard. That's why she dressed my mother in so much tartan when she was little, and then me." He chuckled. "She loved me to wear a kilt and a sporan and a little black velvet jacket. She always chose the Seaforth Highlander's dress tartan. Her father, my great-grandfather, had been in the Seaforths, you see."
"Yes, you've told me all about your Scottish ancestry before," I said, glancing at him over my shoulder.
He grinned at me. "Oh, sorry. I do seem to have a bad habit of repeating family history."
"It's not a bad habit," I said, "just a habit, and I don't mind."
Once outside we settled down at the circular table with the big white canvas market umbrella, where we usually ate meals in the summer months. We sipped our drinks and were silent for a while, comfortable in this silence, as happily married people frequently are, content simply to be together. Words were not necessary. We communicated without them, as we always had. Andrew and I usually seemed to be on the same wavelength, and often he would say something I had been thinking only a few seconds before, or vice versa. I found that uncanny.
It was not as stiflingly hot outside as I'd expected it to be, now that the sun had gone down. Although the air was balmy, there was a soft breeze moving through the trees, rustling the leaves. Otherwise everything was absolutely quiet, as tranquil as it always was up here atop our lovely Connecticut hill.
The lawn which flowed away from the terrace wall on this side of the house sloped down to a copse of trees; beyond were protected wetlands and a beaver dam. Soaring above the copse and the stretch of water were the foothills of the Berkshires covered with trees densely massed and of a green so dark they were almost black tonight under that midsummer sky now completely faded. Its periwinkle blue had turned to smoky gray edging into anthracite, with wisps of pink and lilac, saffron and scarlet bleeding into one another along the rim of those distant hills.
Andrew lolled back in the chair and breathed deeply, letting out a long, contented sigh. "God, it's so great here, Mallory. I couldn't get back fast enough… to you and this place."
"I know." I looked at him through the comer of my eye and said in the quietest of voices, "I thought you'd call me from Chicago…" I let my voice trail off, feeling suddenly rather silly for even mentioning it.
A half smile flitted across Andrew's mouth. He looked somewhat amused as he said, "And I thought you'd call me ."
"Aren't we a couple of stubborn idiots." I laughed, and lifting my glass, I took a sip of my drink.
He said, "I don't know how my stubborn idiot feels about me, but I adore her."
"And I adore mine," I responded swiftly, smiling warmly at him.
He smiled back.
There was another small silence. After a short interval, I said suddenly, "Sarah's broken up with the Eastern seaboard's greatest snob."
Andrew
Similar Books
