“Last night, just as I was about to, you know, for the first time…” she said haltingly.
“Yes?”
“You said, ‘No, Jade.’ Why did you say no?”
“I was going to put on a condom first.”
“Oh. I didn’t even think about that.”
“Well, you should have, but since you didn’t, let me reassure you that there’s no need for you to panic. The worst that could happen is that you could get pregnant.”
She raised her head and looked at him. “I’d never strap you with a baby.”
His eyes delved into hers. “I can’t think of anything nicer.”
On a catchy little breath, she asked, “Are you saying you love me?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“I love you, too, Dillon. I love you, too.” She softly kissed his lips before returning her head to his shoulder.
The only sounds they could hear were those of their matched heartbeats and the squeak of old rope. They stayed in the swing long after it had coasted to a full stop.
* * *
Myrajane Griffith parked her gray Ford sedan in the semicircular driveway in front of Ivan Patchett’s house. Neal’s invitation to brunch had come like a bolt out of the blue. Myrajane had retired two years ago. Since then, she hadn’t seen or heard from the Patchetts. She had often thought it tacky of them to present her with her gold pin, shake her hand, and then forget her entirely after working for them for thirty-five years.
Of course it was Lamar’s fault that folks shunned her. Who wanted to be friends with the mother of a man who had died in disgrace in a condemned, heathen city? Not that she believed a word of what folks said about her son. Lamar had not been a pervert. He had not engaged in the unspeakable aberrations people said he had. He had died of pneumonia and a rare form of skin cancer.
To this day, she refused to believe his monstrous deathbed confessions. He had made admissions that weren’t true because his mind had been distorted by painkilling drugs and the brainwashing of a medical staff on a witch hunt. Everyone in San Francisco was so terrified of AIDS that anybody who got sick was believed to have it.
Obviously the Patchetts didn’t believe the lies any more than she did, or they never would have invited her into their home. As she gazed at the impressive facade of the house she had always envied, she pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves. Her hands were damp with perspiration caused by nervous excitement.
Whatever could Ivan want to see her about? Neal had hinted that it was important and urgent. It really didn’t matter to her what was on Ivan’s mind. She was flattered to be summoned.
Her floral voile dress was perfect for the morning appointment. It was several seasons old, but it was a quality garment. Her daddy had always said that it was better to own a single quality item than a dozen that were substandard. Whenever Myrajane went downtown, she was appalled by how women dressed nowadays. They didn’t seem to care what they wore. You couldn’t tell quality folk from trash because they all dressed badly.
Propriety and modesty were things of the past—just like the Cowan dynasty, just like the family estate. It had recently sold, she had heard. The rumor was that the bank was glad to unload it. When she heard about it, she had cried bitter tears.
Sadly, some things were irretrievable. She would never live in her family’s house again, but, to her dying day, she was going to cling to the gracious traditions of the past, such as never wearing slacks in public and never appearing at a social gathering without gloves and a handkerchief. On her way up the veranda steps, she adjusted her wide-brimmed straw hat, which would be appropriate until five o’clock in the afternoon. It was never going to be said of the Cowans that they didn’t know how to conduct themselves with dignity and decorum. As the last living one, Myrajane took it as her personal responsibility to uphold the reputation of her maiden name.
When Ivan’s housekeeper answered the door, his guest handed her an engraved calling card. “I’m Myrajane Cowan Griffith. Mr. Patchett is expecting me.”
* * *
When they arrived at her house, Jade asked Dillon to come in with her. “I’m a mess,” he protested. “I haven’t shaved, and the hairs on my chest are stuck together with peach juice.”
“You’re no messier than I am. Please. I’d like to cook your breakfast.”
“I didn’t even buy you dinner first.”
“What do you mean ‘first’?”
He laughed at the blue glare she shot him. “I’ll come in for coffee—one quick cup.”
With their arms looped around each other’s waists, they ambled toward the front door. “How do you know Graham and Cathy aren’t waiting inside for me with loaded shotguns?”
“They’ll be happy about us,” she said, smiling up at him.