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the significant between us. Whatever it was, I liked it.
Impulsively, or maybe instinctively, I asked him if he'd like to stay for dinner. “Nothing fancy. I'll throw some steaks and corn on the grill . . . like that.”
He hesitated, and I wondered whether there was someone else. He certainly was good-looking enough. But my insecurity evaporated when he said, “I'm kind of grubby, Suzanne. Would you mind if I took a shower? I'd love to stay for dinner.”
“There are clean towels under the sink,” I told him.
And so he went to wash up and I went to make dinner. It had a nice feeling to it. Regular, simple, neighborly.
That's when I realized I didn't have any steak or corn. Fortunately, Matt never knew that I ran over to Melanie's for food . . . and that she threw in wine, candles, even half a cherry pie for dessert. She also told me that she adored Matt, that everyone did, and good for you.
After dinner the two of us sat talking on the front porch for a long while. The time flew again, and when I looked at my watch, I saw that it was almost eleven. I couldn't believe it.
“Tomorrow's a hospital day for me,” I said. “I have early rounds.”
“I'd like to reciprocate,” Matt said. “Take you to dinner tomorrow? May I, Suzanne?”
I couldn't take my eyes away from his. Matt's eyes were this incredibly gentle brown. “Yes, you absolutely may take me to dinner. I can't wait,” I said. It just came out.
He laughed. “You don't have to wait. I'm still here, Suzanne.”
“I know, and I like it, but I still can't wait for tomorrow. Good night, Matt.”
He leaned forward, lightly kissed my lips, and then went home.
As it always has in my life--so far, anyway--tomorrow finally arrived. It came with Gus. Every morning he goes out to the porch and fetches the Boston Globe. What a retriever; what a pal!
Picasso took me around the island in his beat-up Chevy truck that afternoon, and I saw it as I never had before. I felt like a tourist. Martha's Vineyard was full of picturesque nooks and crannies and stunning views that continually surprised and delighted me.
We ended up at the lovely, multicolored Gay Head Cliffs. Matt reminded me that Tashtego in Moby-Dick was a native harpooner and a Gay Head Indian. I guess I'd forgotten.
A couple of days later, after he'd finished some work in the house, we went for another ride.
Two days later we went out to Chappaquiddick Island. There was a tiny sign on the beach: PLEASE DON'T DISTURB, NOT EVEN THE CLAMS OR SCALLOPS. Nice. We didn't disturb anything.
I know this might sound silly, or worse, but I liked just being in the car with Matt. I looked at him and thought, Hey, I'm with this guy and he's very nice. We're out looking for an adventure. I hadn't felt like that in a long time. I missed it.
It was at that very moment Matt turned and asked me what I was thinking about.
“Nothing. Just catching the sights,” I said. I felt as if I'd just been caught doing something I wasn't supposed to.
He persisted. “If I guess right, will you tell me?”
“Sure.”
“If I guess right,” he said, and grinned, “then we get to have another date. Maybe even tomorrow night.”
“And if you guess wrong, then we never see each other again. Big stakes riding on this.”
He laughed. “Remember, I'm still painting your house, Suzanne.”
“You wouldn't screw up the paint job to get even?”
Matt pretended to be offended. “I'm an artist. Picasso.”
He paused before winking at me, and then nailed his guess. “You were thinking about us.”
I couldn't even bluff, though I did blush like crazy. “Maybe I was.”
“Yes!” he shouted, and raised both arms in triumph. “And so?”
“So keep your hands on the steering wheel. And so what else?”
“So what would you like to do tomorrow?”
I started to laugh, and realized I did that a lot around him. “Boy, I have no idea. I was going to give Gus a badly needed bath, do some food shopping, maybe rent a movie. I was thinking, The Prince