Talk of the Town by Sherrill Bodine Page A

regain control.
    “Yes. Dessert.” She twirled away. “Make yourself comfortable on the terrace. I’ll bring you a drink.”
    Stop trembling! Put roses in water. Fix his scotch on the rocks. Open champagne. Pour into glass. Place drinks on tray.
Like a robot, she went through the motions of a good hostess while wrapping her mind around the fact she’d definitely felt something
real
when David wiped whipped cream off her cheek.
    Pulling herself up to her full height, she held the tray carefully in front of her and marched out of the kitchen. David had followed orders and retreated to the narrow terrace. When he saw her, he took the tray and placed it on the small iron-and-glass table next to the large pot of golden mums.
    He handed her the champagne flute and held up his scotch. “I’m impressed. You know my drink.”
    Their eyes connected and Rebecca felt light-headed again.
    Did I eat today?
    “You’d be surprised what I know about you, David.” She tried to sound mysterious while sending a silent thanks to Cathy Post. “If you stand right in this spot”—she shifted so they could change places—“you’ll have a view of Lake Michigan.”
    “That flash of blue between the John Hancock and Water Tower Place? Nice.”
    God, he has a great smile.
    For a second she lost her train of thought. It came searing back when they both moved at the same time and her breasts made contact with his arm. “Dinner is nearly ready. Make yourself at home.”
    She escaped back into the safety of the kitchen.
    Get a grip.
    She plopped down on a chair, closed her eyes, and practiced five deep yoga breaths. After the final
ohm,
she poured herself another glass of champagne and gulped half of it.
Better.
She flew around the kitchen, pulling out her granny’s bowls and cream from the refrigerator, while drinking champagne.
    Little flutters of euphoria and nearly letting the bottle slip through her fingers warned she was buzzed from gulping expensive champagne like it was Diet Coke.
    She slurped two tablespoons of spinach soup to get something else in her stomach.
    Not bad. Tastes yummy.
    Plus it looked pretty in her granny’s deep old bowls when Rebecca garnished the top with a minute droplet of cream, which for some reason reminded her of tiny white hearts.
    Gripping the dishes like a vise, she moved them carefully out onto the table at the short end of the L-shaped dining room. David had deserted the terrace for the living area, where he was busy studying the photos scattered all over her bookcase.
    There was such a sad look on his face she stopped to stare at him.
He looks lost.
    Studying the photo of three little girls, the tiny dark-haired one in the center reminding him of Miguellia, he was lost in thoughts of Ellen’s park and the kids and what it all meant to him.
    Warmth rippling along his spine warned he wasn’t alone any longer. He glanced up to find Rebecca watching him. “The little girls in this picture must be related to Pauline Alper. That red hair is unique.”
    Slowly, Rebecca walked toward him. “Her daughters. Patty and Polly. Aren’t they adorable?”
    “Yes. Who’s the little dark-haired girl in the middle?”
    “Angelina, my ex-husband’s daughter. She’s a doll, too.”
    A hot jolt of shock hit him in the gut. “You’re still close to your ex?” he asked, strangely interested in her answer.
    “Heavens, no!” she laughed. “But Angelina and I are friends.”
    Intrigued, he gave her a long look. “Interesting. A child should never suffer because adults can’t get along.”
    “I absolutely agree.”
    She hesitated, and he knew she’d made some kind of decision about him.
    “I had a nasty divorce.” She did a mock shudder, trying to make it sound light. But he could see in her eyes there had been nothing easy about it. An ache filled his chest the way it had watching Miguellia take a swing with everything she had at an impossible pitch. He’d sensed Rebecca had courage. Now he knew he’d