came out automatically. She could have bitten her tongue.
Mitch laughed and handed her a small florist’s box. There was a pink orchid inside, delicate and fragile and so exotically beautiful that Shay’s eyes widened at the sight of it. It was attached to a slender band of silver elastic and she slid it onto her wrist.
“Thank you,” she said.
Mitch put a gentlemanly hand to the small of her back and steered her toward the door. “Thank you,” he countered huskily, and though Shay wondered what he was thanking her for, she didn’t dare ask.
As his fancy car slipped away from the curb, Mitch pressed a button to expel the tape that had been blaring a Linda Ronstadt torch song.
The drive south along the coastal highway was a pleasant one. The sunset played gloriously over the rippling curl of the evening tide and the conversation was comfortable. Mitch talked about his seven-year-old daughter, Kelly, who was into Cabbage Patch Kids and ballet lessons, and Shay talked about Hank.
She wanted to ask about Mitch’s ex-wife, but then he might ask about Eliott and she wasn’t prepared to discuss that part of her life. It was possible, of course, Shay knew, that Ivy had told him already.
“Have you started furnishing the house yet?” Shay asked when they’d exhausted the subject of children.
Mitch shook his head and the warm humor in his eyes cooled a little, it seemed to Shay, as he glanced at her and then turned his attention back to the highway. “Not yet.”
Shay was stung by his sudden reticence, and she was confused, too. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” came the immediate response, and Mitch flung one sheepish grin in Shay’s direction. “I was just having an attack of male ego, I guess.”
Intrigued, Shay turned in her seat and asked, “What?”
“It isn’t important.”
“I think maybe it is,” Shay persisted.
“I don’t have the right to wonder, let alone ask.”
“Ask anyway.” Suddenly, Shay was nervous.
“Who is that guy who was holding you in the hallway at Seaview this morning?” The question was blurted, however reluctantly, and Shay’s anxieties fled—except for one.
“That was Garrett Thompson. His father was married to my mother at one time.” Shay folded her hands in her lap and drew a deep breath. “What were you doing at Seaview?”
The Reeses’ beach house was in sight and Mitch looked longingly toward it, but he pulled off the highway and turned to face Shay directly. “I was asking about your mother,” he said.
Shay had been braced for a lie and now, in the face of a blunt truth, she didn’t know how to react. “Why?” she asked after several moments of silence.
“I don’t think this is a good time to talk, Shay,” Mitch replied. “Anyway, it isn’t anything you need to worry about.”
“But—”
His hand closed, warm and reassuring, over hers. “Trust me, okay? I promise that we’ll talk after the party.”
Mitch had been forthright; he could have lied about his reason for visiting Seaview, but he hadn’t. Shay had no cause to distrust him. And yet the words “trust me” troubled her; it didn’t matter that Mitch had spoken them: she heard them in Eliott’s voice. “After the party,” she said tightly.
Moments later she and Mitch entered the Reeses’ spacious two-story beach house. It was a beautiful place with polished oak floors and beamed ceilings and a massive stone fireplace, and it was crowded with people.
Marvin took one look at Shay’s sequined blouse and bounded away, only to return moments later wearing a pair of grossly oversized sunglasses that he’d used in a past commercial. Shay laughed and shook her head.
“I hope his tie doesn’t squirt grape juice,” Mitch commented in a discreet whisper.
Shay watched fondly as Marvin turned away to rejoin the party. “Don’t let him fool you,” she replied. “He reads Proust and Milton and speaks two languages other than English.”
Mitch was still pondering
Mitch laughed and handed her a small florist’s box. There was a pink orchid inside, delicate and fragile and so exotically beautiful that Shay’s eyes widened at the sight of it. It was attached to a slender band of silver elastic and she slid it onto her wrist.
“Thank you,” she said.
Mitch put a gentlemanly hand to the small of her back and steered her toward the door. “Thank you,” he countered huskily, and though Shay wondered what he was thanking her for, she didn’t dare ask.
As his fancy car slipped away from the curb, Mitch pressed a button to expel the tape that had been blaring a Linda Ronstadt torch song.
The drive south along the coastal highway was a pleasant one. The sunset played gloriously over the rippling curl of the evening tide and the conversation was comfortable. Mitch talked about his seven-year-old daughter, Kelly, who was into Cabbage Patch Kids and ballet lessons, and Shay talked about Hank.
She wanted to ask about Mitch’s ex-wife, but then he might ask about Eliott and she wasn’t prepared to discuss that part of her life. It was possible, of course, Shay knew, that Ivy had told him already.
“Have you started furnishing the house yet?” Shay asked when they’d exhausted the subject of children.
Mitch shook his head and the warm humor in his eyes cooled a little, it seemed to Shay, as he glanced at her and then turned his attention back to the highway. “Not yet.”
Shay was stung by his sudden reticence, and she was confused, too. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” came the immediate response, and Mitch flung one sheepish grin in Shay’s direction. “I was just having an attack of male ego, I guess.”
Intrigued, Shay turned in her seat and asked, “What?”
“It isn’t important.”
“I think maybe it is,” Shay persisted.
“I don’t have the right to wonder, let alone ask.”
“Ask anyway.” Suddenly, Shay was nervous.
“Who is that guy who was holding you in the hallway at Seaview this morning?” The question was blurted, however reluctantly, and Shay’s anxieties fled—except for one.
“That was Garrett Thompson. His father was married to my mother at one time.” Shay folded her hands in her lap and drew a deep breath. “What were you doing at Seaview?”
The Reeses’ beach house was in sight and Mitch looked longingly toward it, but he pulled off the highway and turned to face Shay directly. “I was asking about your mother,” he said.
Shay had been braced for a lie and now, in the face of a blunt truth, she didn’t know how to react. “Why?” she asked after several moments of silence.
“I don’t think this is a good time to talk, Shay,” Mitch replied. “Anyway, it isn’t anything you need to worry about.”
“But—”
His hand closed, warm and reassuring, over hers. “Trust me, okay? I promise that we’ll talk after the party.”
Mitch had been forthright; he could have lied about his reason for visiting Seaview, but he hadn’t. Shay had no cause to distrust him. And yet the words “trust me” troubled her; it didn’t matter that Mitch had spoken them: she heard them in Eliott’s voice. “After the party,” she said tightly.
Moments later she and Mitch entered the Reeses’ spacious two-story beach house. It was a beautiful place with polished oak floors and beamed ceilings and a massive stone fireplace, and it was crowded with people.
Marvin took one look at Shay’s sequined blouse and bounded away, only to return moments later wearing a pair of grossly oversized sunglasses that he’d used in a past commercial. Shay laughed and shook her head.
“I hope his tie doesn’t squirt grape juice,” Mitch commented in a discreet whisper.
Shay watched fondly as Marvin turned away to rejoin the party. “Don’t let him fool you,” she replied. “He reads Proust and Milton and speaks two languages other than English.”
Mitch was still pondering
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