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of water to pass through but hundreds of times larger than a molecule of water vapor. So as it turns out, rain can’t penetrate but moisture from perspiration can.”
    “Making it perfect for schmoes like me who don’t have the sense to stay off the course in bad weather.”
    “Right.” Dorothy smiled. “But you know I was only in research for a year. I’ve been in sales ever since.”
    “How come? You can’t tell me you didn’t have the brains for it.”
    “Thanks—I think.”
    She’d tell him the truth—if she knew what to say. How do you put that kind of a feeling into words? In her white lab coat, she’d always felt like she was still under her parents’ watchful eye. The lab itself reminded her too much of home, or at least like the familiar landscape of her parents’ offices. Science excited them, but she’d never match their accomplishments.
    She had to be the best at something. Not merely good but the best. And now she would. For the first time in her life she’d be able to feel like she’d lived up to her family’s expectations. Her parents were in Europe now, doing research, but she relished the idea of calling them up and sharing the big news...
    “Hey, enough about me,” she finally said. He’d been doing this all night. Asking her these questions, personal things she’d never shared with anyone. And reminding her of incidents she’d managed to finally forget.
    “Mean vinaigrette,” he’d commented, after sampling the salad. “Kinda reminds me of that time you dug up that skunk, and then got it in your head to take a vinegar bath. Man, I don’t know what was worse, the skunk or the way the tub smelled like salad dressing for the rest of the summer.”
    He’d laughed, that deep, hearty laugh that held nothing back. He wasn’t mocking her, exactly, but she felt exposed. Vulnerable.
    So Dorothy had tried harder. She kept trying to steer the conversation to Mud. Men loved that—she’d seen it work dozens of times out in the field. Get a man talking about himself and he’d be ready to sign just about anything.
    Not Mud, though. Every artful inquiry she made was parried.
    “How are things at your shop?” she’d inquired as they walked home from the little Italian restaurant where they’d had a quick dinner.
    “Oh, you know—golf’s golf,” Mud shrugged. “I mean, every season there’s the latest, greatest thing. Everybody’s got to get into titanium, or the latest video. But it’s all basically the same thing. You got it or you don’t, and lots of folks are willing to part with a heck of a lot of cash to figure out which they are.”
    He was off on another tangent before she could even catch her breath. And somehow she found herself answering questions instead of asking them, telling Mud things she hadn’t realized were even true until he asked.
     
     
    The silence lengthened. Mud kept up a gentle rhythm, toeing the glider now and then when it slowed. He sighed contentedly and eased back against the cushions, throwing an arm casually around Dorothy’s shoulders.
    The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. It wasn’t a blind date sort of silence, the kind that can only mean two people have absolutely nothing in common, the kind that sent Dorothy rushing headlong back into her work vowing never to date again.
    No, it was almost the exact opposite: a comfortable silence. Too comfortable, in fact. Dorothy was all too aware of Mud’s forearm settling against her neck, of the way his fingers drummed absently on the back of the glider, occasionally grazing her skin. It would be the most natural thing in the world to just ease over slightly, nestle into the crook of his arm, let the rocking lull her into an embrace—
    “No!” Dorothy didn’t mean to say it out loud. But only the fiercest self-reprimand was going to jolt her out of the dangerous lure of Mud Taylor. Like that other Dorothy in a field of poppies, it would be so easy to let herself go and be swept along by