Promised Land by Robert B. Parker

the kiss of a beautiful woman to turn him into a handsome prince again.“ I stepped out from behind the door, into the room. Susan put the note down, turned and saw me. With no change of expression she walked over and gave me a small kiss on the mouth. Then she stepped back and studied me closely. She shook her head. ”Didn’t work,“ she said. ”You’re still a horse’s ass.“
    ”It was the low-voltage kiss,“ I said. ”Transforming a horse’s ass into a handsome prince is a high-intensity task.“
    ”I’ll try once more,“ she said. And put both arms around me and kissed me hard on the mouth. The kiss held, and developed into much more and relaxed in post-climactic languor without a sound. Without even breaking the kiss. At close range I could see Susan’s eyes still closed.
    I took my mouth from hers and said, ”You wanta go to Plimoth Plantation?“
    Susan opened her eyes and looked at me. ”Anywhere at all,“ she said. ”You are still a horse’s ass, but you are my horse’s ass.“
    I said, ”I love you.“
    She closed her eyes again and pushed her face against the hollow of my neck and shoulder for a moment. Then she pulled her head back and opened her eyes and nodded her head. ”Okay, prince,“ she said. ”Let’s get to Plimoth.“
    Our clothes were in a scattered tangle on the floor and by the time we sorted them out and got them back on it was noon. ”We are late,“ I said.
    ”I hurried as fast as I could,“ Susan said. She was putting on her lipstick in the mirror, bending way over the dresser to do it.
    ”We were fast,“ I said. ”A half-hour from horse’s ass to handsome prince. I think that fulfills the legal definition of a quickie.“
    ”You’re the one in a hurry to go see Plimoth Plantation. Given the choice between sensual delight and historical restoration, I’d have predicted a different decision on your part.“
    ”I’ve got to see someone there, and it may help if you’re with me. Perhaps later we can reconsider the choice.“
    ”I’m ready,“ she said. And we went out of the room to my car. On the drive up Route 3 to Plymouth I told Susan what little I knew about why we were going.
    Susan said, ”Won’t she panic or something if I show up with you? She did say something about alone.“
    ”We won’t go in together,“ I said. ”When I find her, I’ll explain who you are and introduce you. You been to the Plantation before?“
    She nodded. ”Well, then, you can just walk down the central street a bit ahead of me and hang around till I holler.“
    ”Always the woman’s lot,“ she said.
    I grunted. A sign on my left said Plimoth Plantation Road and I turned in. The road wound up through a meadow toward a stand of pines. Behind the pines was a parking lot and at one edge of the parking lot was a ticket booth. I parked and Susan got out and walked ahead, bought a ticket and went through the entrance. When she was out of sight I got out and did the same thing. Beyond the ticket booth was a rustic building containing a gift shop, lunch room and information service. I went on past it and headed down the soft path between the high pines toward the Plantation itself. A few years back I had been reading Samuel Eliot Morison’s big book of American history, and got hooked and drove around the East going to Colonial restorations. Williamsburg is the most dazzling, and Sturbridge is grand, but Plimoth Plantation is always a small pleasure.
    I rounded the curve by the administration building and saw the blockhouse of dark wood and the stockade around the little town and beyond it the sea. The area was entirely surrounded by woods and if you were careful you could see no sign of the twentieth century. If you weren’t careful and looked too closely you could see Bert’s Restaurant and somebody else’s motel down along the shore. But for a moment I could go back, as I could every time I came, to the small cluster to zealous Christians in the wilderness of