left the decision up to Nick. “What do you think?”
He knew how much she’d missed the energetic little girls. And besides, with the sun beating warmupon his face and the snow beginning to melt under his
feet
, it was one of those rare winter days that just begged to be enjoyed. “Why not?”
“Last one there is a rotten egg!” Rachel challenged.
“First one takes her place!” Rebecca countered.
“Shall we?” Nick invited as her nieces scampered ahead.
A shiver of anticipation skimmed her arms as Dovie closed the back door of her station wagon, then laid her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Thank you.”
A homey town with no stoplights and a square of businesses around the courthouse, Spicey Hill boasted a small, snow-covered rectangle that people commonly referred to as “the park.”
“Look, we’ve got it all to ourselves!” Rachel turned a somersault, landing on her snowsuit-cushioned back.
Rebecca did a somersault, too, then stood and brushed off her backside. “Let’s go make a snow fort!”
“So much for these.” Nick laughed and laid the two oranges on a nearby bench, alongside the temporarily abandoned bag of carrots.
“They’ll come running when they get hungry.” Dovie moved into the arm he slipped around her shoulders as naturally as a river flows downstream. “Meanwhile, let me show you the park.”
“To the west—that’s your left—we have the water tower.”
They walked in that direction, the afternoon sun on their cheeks, conscious solely of how close they were.
“It’s sort of old-fashioned-looking,” she said. “The kind on stilts with a conical lid.”
A flock of starlings, their throaty squeakings like thousands of unoiled wheels, fluttered helter-skelter into the tall oaks flanking the water tower.
“Then to the north we have the bandstand.”
With one hand Nick cupped the back of Dovie’s head and pressed it down to the hollow between his chest and shoulder blade as they started toward the structure. With the other he removed his sunglasses.
“On the Fourth of July the Veterans of Foreign Wars give a free concert. People come from Buttermilk Ridge and Turkey Run and, oh, just everywhere to hear them play.”
She crooked a finger through one of his belt loops as they climbed the creaky steps. He seated himself on the bassoonists’ bench and pulled her onto his lap. She fell into the accommodating nest of his shoulder with a palm resting on his heart, looking up into his face as he bent his head over her.
“Is this where the teenagers come to neck?” The tip of his nose brushed her cheek, cold yet, as were the lips that made a silken exploration of her own while his warm breath created dew on her skin.
“I don’t know.” Her head moved slowly from side to side in answer to the movements of his. “When Iwas a teenager, I was too busy diapering babies to pay much attention.”
“How old are you?”
“I’ll be thirty-five in February.”
“And I’ll be forty next May.”
“I wouldn’t be sixteen again for anything.”
“Not even for this?” Nick’s lips descended to hers and he shifted her weight in his arms, turning her so that one breast pressed against him, leaving the other free.
Dovie held her breath as he slid his hand under her sweater and inched it up her rib cage until at last her resilient flesh was captured within his palm. A shudder of delight quaked through her limbs as he caressed her breast, squeezing, then releasing, repeatedly, while his tongue dipped into her mouth and hers played a circle dance around his.
“Seventeen, maybe,” she murmured when he lifted his head a mite. “But not sixteen.”
“And how old am I?”
“Eighteen.”
“Okay.” Through the cotton covering of her bra, his thumb discovered her nipple and explored it until it stood up boldly with desire.
“A very experienced eighteen,” she teased.
Against her open mouth he muttered, “A very anxious eighteen.”
The blood pounded in her
He knew how much she’d missed the energetic little girls. And besides, with the sun beating warmupon his face and the snow beginning to melt under his
feet
, it was one of those rare winter days that just begged to be enjoyed. “Why not?”
“Last one there is a rotten egg!” Rachel challenged.
“First one takes her place!” Rebecca countered.
“Shall we?” Nick invited as her nieces scampered ahead.
A shiver of anticipation skimmed her arms as Dovie closed the back door of her station wagon, then laid her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Thank you.”
A homey town with no stoplights and a square of businesses around the courthouse, Spicey Hill boasted a small, snow-covered rectangle that people commonly referred to as “the park.”
“Look, we’ve got it all to ourselves!” Rachel turned a somersault, landing on her snowsuit-cushioned back.
Rebecca did a somersault, too, then stood and brushed off her backside. “Let’s go make a snow fort!”
“So much for these.” Nick laughed and laid the two oranges on a nearby bench, alongside the temporarily abandoned bag of carrots.
“They’ll come running when they get hungry.” Dovie moved into the arm he slipped around her shoulders as naturally as a river flows downstream. “Meanwhile, let me show you the park.”
“To the west—that’s your left—we have the water tower.”
They walked in that direction, the afternoon sun on their cheeks, conscious solely of how close they were.
“It’s sort of old-fashioned-looking,” she said. “The kind on stilts with a conical lid.”
A flock of starlings, their throaty squeakings like thousands of unoiled wheels, fluttered helter-skelter into the tall oaks flanking the water tower.
“Then to the north we have the bandstand.”
With one hand Nick cupped the back of Dovie’s head and pressed it down to the hollow between his chest and shoulder blade as they started toward the structure. With the other he removed his sunglasses.
“On the Fourth of July the Veterans of Foreign Wars give a free concert. People come from Buttermilk Ridge and Turkey Run and, oh, just everywhere to hear them play.”
She crooked a finger through one of his belt loops as they climbed the creaky steps. He seated himself on the bassoonists’ bench and pulled her onto his lap. She fell into the accommodating nest of his shoulder with a palm resting on his heart, looking up into his face as he bent his head over her.
“Is this where the teenagers come to neck?” The tip of his nose brushed her cheek, cold yet, as were the lips that made a silken exploration of her own while his warm breath created dew on her skin.
“I don’t know.” Her head moved slowly from side to side in answer to the movements of his. “When Iwas a teenager, I was too busy diapering babies to pay much attention.”
“How old are you?”
“I’ll be thirty-five in February.”
“And I’ll be forty next May.”
“I wouldn’t be sixteen again for anything.”
“Not even for this?” Nick’s lips descended to hers and he shifted her weight in his arms, turning her so that one breast pressed against him, leaving the other free.
Dovie held her breath as he slid his hand under her sweater and inched it up her rib cage until at last her resilient flesh was captured within his palm. A shudder of delight quaked through her limbs as he caressed her breast, squeezing, then releasing, repeatedly, while his tongue dipped into her mouth and hers played a circle dance around his.
“Seventeen, maybe,” she murmured when he lifted his head a mite. “But not sixteen.”
“And how old am I?”
“Eighteen.”
“Okay.” Through the cotton covering of her bra, his thumb discovered her nipple and explored it until it stood up boldly with desire.
“A very experienced eighteen,” she teased.
Against her open mouth he muttered, “A very anxious eighteen.”
The blood pounded in her
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