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laughed and then looked at Wade.
    I introduced them. “Wade Devon and new proprietor of Norcross, this is my very good friend, Jeff Smothe.”
    Jeff nodded, said the necessary, and turned back to me. “Look, what are you doing now? Come to dinner with me … and we’ll catch up.”
    “How long will you be in town?”
    “Three or four days. A cousin of mine died and left his estate to us. Hanging out at my mom’s while we get everything settled. Then it’ll be back to the city and the old grind.” Jeff was an attorney, and I thought he’d liked the local firm where he’d worked, but about six months ago he suddenly said the firm was too small for him and moved to the city. “Look, if not tonight, then tomorrow,” he added.
    “Call me, and we’ll figure it out,” I told him.
    “Okay … I’ll call you, and we’ll set something up,” he said, easygoing as ever, though he shot another look at Wade.
    “Great,” I answered and watched him walk the distance to his mom’s Buick.
    I waved him off and turned, a smile still on my face.
    Wade looked thoughtful as he asked, “Old boyfriend?”
    I laughed. “ Never . Just friends.”
    “He’d like to be more than friends—you know that, right?”
    “That’s silly. We’re friends, and without reducing the importance of that, it is all we are, not lovers.”
    “So, no boyfriend in your life?” He had gone ahead of me to my door and slipped in the key.
    “Nope. I did have a boyfriend during a good part of my university life, but we decided we were better at being friends.”
    His eyebrow went up. “How does someone like you —the way you look, smile—not have men lined up the drive?”
    I laughed. “Flattery will get you nowhere … and maybe that’s why I don’t have ’em lined up. I’m picky—the word musta got out.”
    Now, he laughed—heartily; it was such a carefree sound. His blue eyes were bright with some emotion I couldn’t name. He opened the door wide and motioned for me to enter. He was always the gentleman, not a common thing in this age.
    I put down my portfolio and turned to find him already thumbing through the paintings I had stacked against one wall. He chose one and held it up to study it. I was nervous. Biting my nails nervous, because from our conversation the other night I knew his ‘love of art and sculpture’ and his knowledge about the same were extensive.
    “This is good.” He said the words softly and then added with emphasis, “Really good.”
    Pleasure swept through me when I heard the sincerity in his voice. “Thanks. That one you’re looking at now is my Spikey-boy. He was my first pony—a Shetland and smart as a whip. Followed me all over the farm. Ran loose and was the stable mascot until last year. He was twenty when he got a colic that took him. We kept him alive for a week, and I thought he was getting better …” I felt the tears well up in my throat. “But he went down that final time and let me hold his head in my lap. I saw that he was tired of fighting, and he just let go.” I turned away and walked towards my tiny kitchen because when I remember that last moment with him, it always chokes me up. “Would you like wine … or a beer? I only have Coors Light though, but I do have a good Chianti.”
    “Coors Light would be great,” he said and followed me into the kitchen.
    I opened the bottle and started to reach for a beer mug. He stopped me, made me put down the bottle and, just like that, took me into his arms.
    His kiss told me a story as it swept me away .
    His kiss screamed that he wanted me and that he meant to have me. His kiss whispered that he was going to fuck me—not make love to me—and that it would be something that would blow my mind.
    His kiss promised I would remember this time together, if I gave myself to him, forever.
    It was a hello and good-bye kiss all in one.
    I am good, really good at reading people in general, so reading his kiss was a blast of truth.
    My kiss was