by Bird, Peggy
“There are several. You looking for anyone in particular?” She couldn’t seem to stop smiling, or let go of his hand.
With his left hand he tucked a curl behind her ear as he studied her face. “You look … well.”
“I’m doing okay. Except for being nervous about the exhibit. Wondering if it’s a mistake to present myself in public so soon after … well, you know … that kind of thing. I’m glad to see you, though. I was going to call this weekend, try again to get together now that this show is … ” The sentence was left dangling as she tried to calm her pulse, now at aerobic exercise levels, with deep, slow breaths. But that only brought in the smell of his clean, woodsy aftershave, which didn’t help calm anything. “Are you in Seattle for a meeting or something?”
He freed his hand and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. After he wiped a smear of chocolate off his fingers, he removed a smudge of it from her mouth. “No, like I said, I heard there was a hot new artist exhibiting here tonight.”
“You drove all the way from Portland for this?”
“Yeah. Don’t I at least get a hug for that?”
She slipped her arms around his waist and nestled against him with a sigh. He held her close and rested his cheek on the top of her head. It felt so good to be in his arms again.
Without her heels on, she didn’t quite reach his shoulder so when he released her from the embrace, she stood on tiptoe and turned her face up to get him to bend and kiss her. He didn’t need much encouragement to give her a light butterfly of a kiss that awakened a dozen of its butterfly friends in her stomach.
“I’m so glad to see you. It has been so long,” she said.
“Four months, two weeks and six days, if anyone’s counting.” The dimple in his right cheek deepened and his brown eyes lit up as he smiled again.
“Apparently you are. Does that mean you missed me, cowboy?”
Ignoring her question, he draped an arm across her shoulders. “Since I must win the prize for driving the farthest for your opening, doesn’t that get me a personal tour of the work I fought through hellish traffic to see?”
“If you’ll stop complaining about the traffic like Portlanders always do, I’ll introduce you to some people and then show you around.”
When they got to the back of the gallery, Amanda said, “This is Cynthia Blaine, Sam. I worked in her studio in Seattle. Cynthia, I’d like you to meet … ”
“Oh-my-god-Sam, I believe you said as you dropped half of your favorite chocolate bar,” Cynthia said. “Hi, nice to meet you.”
“And this is Josh Franzen.” The two men shook hands.
“Sam is … Sam Richardson … is a friend I haven’t seen in a while,” Amanda said.
“Right. He’s the guy you … ” Cynthia began but changed direction when Amanda shot her a fierce look, afraid her friend would reveal exactly how much she talked about him. “ … the guy who helped your attorney,” Cynthia finished and glared back.
“I’m going to give Sam a tour of the show,” Amanda said as she picked up her sandals. “You mind? We won’t be long.”
“Don’t worry about us. We were about to leave for Bellingham anyway,” Cynthia said.
“I forgot about that. Say hello to your parents for me,” Amanda said. Holding on to Sam’s arm for balance, she reshod herself, then kissed her friend good-bye.
As she led Sam through the show, she pointed out her work, three sets of two pieces on the theme “Contrasts.”
“Interesting,” he said. He was examining a pair titled “War” and “Peace,” pebbles of glass on curves holding up a clear glass center shot through with strands of wire. “It’s more abstract than the ‘Emotions’ series I saw last year. I like what you’ve done with the metal and the glass.”
“I spent part of my time at Pilchuck experimenting to see how to get it to go together the way I wanted it to. And I’m still working on it.” She described creating the three-dimensional objects of glass, metal foils and slender wire. As she did, she proudly pointed out the red dots, indicating pieces already sold, which had broken out like measles on the tags identifying the pieces.
“I had to be talked into being part of this show, but I have to admit it’s the best one I’ve ever had, not that I’ve had that many shows. I’ve sold all of the pieces already, to serious collectors and at higher prices than I’ve ever gotten. I wasn’t sure what the response would be, but the previews were good and so far this evening everything seems to be going okay. It’s such a relief … ” She stopped. “I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry. I’ve been nervous all evening.”
“Nothing to apologize for. You should be excited. But looking at these prices, I’m glad I already own an Amanda St. Claire piece. I don’t think I could afford you now.”
“I could always work something out for you, Sam.”
“How about working out time for dinner with me tonight, then? Or do you have plans?”
“Max, the gallery owner, said a collector wanted to talk to me after the reception but she left so I’m not sure it’s still on. Let me check. Look around for a minute and I’ll find out.”
When the gallery owner said that the collector had left satisfied with her purchase and the earlier conversation, Amanda arranged to meet Sam at the bar in the hotel where he had a reservation for the night.
At eight-thirty, he was waiting for her with a glass of her favorite wine and a space next to him in an intimate booth. He had the same grin on his face he’d had in the gallery.
They clinked glasses and sipped. “I still can’t believe you’re really here,” she said. “That you drove all the way here for the opening. But I’m awfully glad to see you. We have so much to catch up on. I don’t even know where to start.”
“Why don’t we start by figuring out a place to eat? Any ideas about where you’d like to go?”
“About that,” she said as she pulled an iPhone out of her small purse.
His expression went from warm affection to cool distance and he sat back in the booth, watching her. “It’s okay. If you can’t do dinner, we can just talk until we finish the wine. At least I’ll have had a chance to see you … ”
“Stop over-analyzing, Detective Richardson. I’m not looking at the time because I’m planning to ditch you, I’m figuring out how long it’s been since I let the beast out.”
“What beast?”
“Chihuly.”
“Dale Chihuly, the famous glass artist?” He sounded confused.
“No, Chihuly my curly coated retriever puppy. He and all his litter mates were named for people with curly black hair.”
The affectionate smile was back. “And how is it having a puppy to take care of?”
“A challenge. Among other things, he chews on anything he can get his mouth around when he’s been left alone too long. Which is why I’m looking at the time.” She slipped the phone back into her purse. “Why don’t you come home with me while I take care of him and then we can eat in the neighborhood?”
• • •
Chihuly and Sam were introduced. The dog was walked, watered and fed. Her shoes now safe from her pet’s mouth for another couple hours, Amanda led Sam to the Italian restaurant a block away. After they’d ordered, she said, “You haven’t asked the obvious question yet about whether I’m coming back to Portland. How come?”
“Thought I’d enjoy the evening before I hear the answer I think I already know.” He took a sip of wine. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you look this happy. And I can hear the excitement when you talk about your work. It must have been a great residency.”
“Beyond my wildest dreams. You saw some of the work tonight. It’ll take years to exhaust what I learned there.”
“So, let’s put off the bad news ’til I kiss you good night.”
“What makes you think
that’s gonna happen, Sam?”
He picked up his wine glass and took another swallow, avoiding her eyes. “I guess I’m not surprised. Your emails lately could have been sent by my sister and we haven’t talked in a week or so.” He swirled the wine in his glass for a few moments, then sat up and turned to face her. “On second thought, might as well get it over with. I assume you won’t be coming back to Portland. That right? ”
She smiled at him. Tore a piece from the baguette in the breadbasket, dipped it in the dish of olive oil and had a bite.
“Are you enjoying watching me twist in the wind, Amanda?”
“I have to confess, I am. I’ve never seen you off balance before. And I doubt I will any time soon again so let me have my moment.” But she couldn’t hold out against the anguished look in his eyes. “Okay, like I said, I’ve had a great time here, professionally. Personally, I wanted to be back in Portland. I missed the city.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not entirely accurate. I missed Portland, all right. But mostly I decided I wanted to see if the deal you offered me was still good.” It was her turn to drop her eyes.
After a deep breath, she looked up again. “I was going to call you this weekend, I really was, to tell you I was coming back to Portland. Assuming it matters to you. Next month. I mean, that’s when I’m moving.” Her eyes searched his face, trying to find the answer she wanted to see there.
Before Sam could say anything, the waiter brought their entrées, then came back with a pitcher to freshen their water glasses.
After the server left the second time, Amanda said, “So? No reaction? I thought you might like what I just said.”
He carefully cut a piece of his chicken cacciatore, chewed it and swallowed it before he answered. “Wasn’t sure how you’d react to my showing up in Seattle unannounced. You were happy to see me but you glowed when you talked about your time here. I thought about that after I left the gallery. Wondered if you’d be telling me you’re staying here.”
“So — you’re saying, what? You psyched yourself up for me to stay here? Is that what you want?”
“God, no.”
“Then, have you changed your mind about the deal?”
“The deal?”
“The one where I came back to Portland so we could see if we could make it work out between us. If I move back will you … can we … ?”
“Amanda,” he interrupted, “do you really think I drove all the way up here to see an art exhibit? I mean, I love your work but I came to see you. I had to find out what was going on. It’s been driving me nuts.”
“Then what is all this reluctance about — payback for not being in contact for a while or for saying I liked seeing you off balance?”
“I’m not reluctant. I don’t understand what you meant when you said I couldn’t kiss you good night.”
“No, I meant that you were expecting bad news but there wouldn’t be any.”
“Didn’t sound like that. It was either no kiss or … ” He snapped his fingers and said with an innocent expression, “Oh, wait. You meant you didn’t plan to say good night to me tonight.”
“You think I invite men to sleep over on our first date?”
“First date? We’re way beyond first date, aren’t we?”
“Have we ever had dinner out before tonight?” He shook his head. “Gone to a movie?” Head shake again. “Had anything that even vaguely resembles a date?” He opened his mouth to answer and she quickly said, “Rides to the ER don’t count.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“I mean, think about it. Yes, we’ve known each other for over a year and we’ve slept together. But it hasn’t exactly been a normal boy-meets-girl, has it? I know how you act in an emergency and how well you do your job but I don’t know what the M stands for in your name or whether you like to dance or swim.”
She waved her fork around as she continued with the list. “I don’t know whether you’re a morning or a night person. Where you went to college. Whether you went to college. I don’t even know how old you are, much less when your birthday is. Somehow we never got around to that kind of thing, what with a murder trial and drug dealers battering down my door.”
He laughed. “I guess I agree. Well, except for the sleeping together part. I don’t recall any sleeping that night.” He ignored her eye roll. “I admit we’ve done things in reverse but didn’t you say you’d make an exception for me.”
“That was about a piece of art, Sam, not relationships or sex or what-ever-it-is we’re talking about now.”
“So, what would you like to do for the rest of the evening?”
“How about we finish our dinner and then go home and have dessert. We can talk about it.” Before he could answer, she said, “There’s ice cream in the freezer and my roommate is gone for the weekend.”
“You’ve convinced me. And, since you asked: October 9th and I’m thirty-six. The M is for Martin, my mother’s family name. I swim okay but I grew up on a ranch so I’m better on horseback than in the water. I have a business degree from the University of Oregon and I’ll let you find out on your own about the morning/night thing. Maybe even soon.”
“What?”
“You said you didn’t know those things about me. Now you do. Except for the last one.”
“Oh.” When what he meant about “the last one” finally sunk in, she smiled. “Oh!”
“Your turn.”
She laughed. “What is this, the Cliff Notes approach to dating?” When he nodded she continued. “Okay, well — February 14th and I’m twenty-seven.”
“Oh, hell. I thought you just looked young. You really are young, aren’t you?”
“You make it sound like I’m jail bait.”
He started to say something but she stopped him. “Do you want to hear the rest or not?” He nodded. “My middle name is for my godmother and I hate it although I love her. But if I tell you, I expect that you will never, and I mean never, use it.” She waited until he acknowledged the ground rule. “Okay, it’s Minerva.”
It was obvious he was trying hard not to laugh. “That’ll be an easy promise to keep. I can’t think of any circumstances under which I’d call you Minerva.”
“Good. And for the rest — I love to dance. I’m a pretty good swimmer but I grew up with horses so I’d rather ride, too. I have an arts degree from Reed College. I’m more a morning person although I do all right at night if I have a good reason to be up.”
He raised an eyebrow at the last response.
“Oh, please. I meant that if I get involved in something I enjoy, I can be a night person.”
“That’s what I meant, too.”
“I’ll ignore that. And you forgot one.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, do you like to dance?”
“Only the really slow ones.” He motioned to the waiter who brought over the check.
“Well, we can work on that,” she said as she slid out of the booth.
• • •
While Sam walked Chihuly one last time, Amanda got out ice cream, chocolate syrup, whipped cream and maraschino cherries and made sundaes for them. When they were finished eating, Amanda took the bowls back to the kitchen. She returned to the living room to find Sam had put music on.
“Is that Chopin?” she asked.
“Yeah, the nocturnes.” He listened to a few bars. “The second.”
“Not what I’d have thought you’d pick. I would have imagined you’d have settled for my Jimmy Buffett.”
“Which stereotype we working from here: cowboy or cop?”
“Busted. Sorry.”
“My mother was a classical pianist. I grew up with Chopin, Rachmaninoff, Mozart, Glass, Gershwin. You name it, if it was piano music, we had a recording of it. Or she played it. And speaking of stereotypes
— you and Jimmy Buffett? I’d have thought you were more the Norah Jones type.”
“One of the guys plays Jimmy in the studio and I’ve gotten to like him.”
“You have all sorts of interesting quirks, don’t you?”
She glanced up at him and looked around for a napkin. “And you have all sorts of chocolate syrup on your mouth.” She reached to wipe his mouth. “Here, let me … ”
“Let’s try the way I wanted to get the chocolate off your mouth in the gallery,” he said and gathered her into his arms.
His mouth was soft and cool; he tasted of vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup and the all-male flavor she remembered as “Sam.” He kissed her tenderly, like a sweet and gentle first kiss. When her lips parted, he circled her mouth with the tip of his tongue so softly she almost thought she imagined it. He broke from the kiss. “Better?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, having no idea whether there was still syrup on his mouth or not, and reached for him again.
This time he took possession of her lips with an ownership that left her breathless. His hands moved up her back and to the sides of her breasts while his tongue did magic tricks in her mouth. She matched his intensity with her own, months of longing flavoring their kiss and fueling the passion of their embrace.
When they came up for air, he traced the outline of her lips with his index finger as he said, “Any chance you can amend those first date rules of yours?”
“I’m thinking seriously about it.”
“How about we find someplace more comfortable for you to think about it?”
She led him down the hall to her bedroom. When they got there she kicked off her sandals and started to undo the ties of her halter-top that wrapped around her waist.
He came up behind her, reached around and stopped her hands. “Here, let me.” He undid the knot, unwound the ends and released the halter-top, slipping it over her head. He drew her back against his chest and caressed her breasts until she made soft noises of pleasure and her breathing quickened as he nuzzled her neck while he teased her nipples with his fingertips until they were hard.
