and ending the conversation. Trace picked up a second box and carried it out the back door while he thought over the things Cassie had told him and tried to fit them with the image of self-sufficiency that Pilar projected.
Upstairs in her bedroom Pilar kicked off her low-heeled shoes and stripped out of her dress. It was too hot and sticky to put a lot of clothes back on, so she took a sleeveless wraparound dress of strawberry-pink cotton from the large wardrobe closet and slipped it on, tying the sash into a bow at the side of her waist. She pushed the weight of her hair away from her face and secured it with a pair of combs. She heard the honking of a horn out front, followed by the shutting of the front door a few minutes later.
Before leaving the bedroom to go back downstairs, Pilar picked up the drink she’d set on the vanity and carried it with her. At the bottom of the stairs she hesitated, then walked to the kitchen. Trace was just heading out the back door with two of the lighter boxes in his arms.
“Are you managing all right?” she asked, conscious of the brief way his glance noted her change of attire.
“Yes.” He pushed open the screen door with a corner of the boxes.
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” Pilar replied with a tense effort at indifference. “I’ll be on the side porch if you should need help with anything.”
On her way through the house she stopped in the den to collect the correspondence that needed answering as well as some auction circulars. There was still plenty of light on the west side of the house. Pilar spread her papers out on the glass top of a low wicker table that matched the rest of the white wicker furniture grouped around the porch in inviting clusters.
A breeze, cooled by the shade of the big oaks in the gardened front lawn, drifted onto the porch. Hanging baskets of pink and lavender fuchsia repeated the pastel colors of the patterned fabric covering the furniture cushions. Before Pilar took a seat on the narrow sofa, she went to the tall wicker stand where the ice bucket and bourbon decanter were placed. She added more cubes and a splash of bourbon to her watery drink.
Sitting down, she picked up the auction circulars first and began to check their dates with her appointment calendar. She leaned forward and absently rubbed the cool, moist glass against her cheek. She tried not to listen to the sounds of the back door slamming as Trace made his trips to the car with the boxes.
When the last one was sitting in the rear seat of his car, Trace pulled a handkerchieffrom his hip pocket and wiped at the perspiration trickling down his neck. On a sultry evening like this it didn’t take much effort to work up a sweat. He rubbed the kerchief over the top of his lip and glanced absently toward the porch. With a slow gathering of his muscles, Trace turned and walked in that direction.
At the side steps leading up to the porch he paused. His glance was pulled to the figure of Pilar, seated on the white-backed cushions with sprays of pink flowers. She was leaning forward, studying some papers on a wicker table. Her legs were crossed, the skirt of her dress splitting to provide him with a view of a creamy thigh. There was a stirring pressure in his loins. With a tightened jaw, Trace climbed the steps to the porch. Her glance skipped to him, then back to the papers where it stayed as she took a swallow from the glass she was holding.
“Didn’t anybody ever tell you you shouldn’t drink alone?” Trace remarked dryly and walked to the stand to help himself to the bourbon and ice.
“At the end of a day I find a drink pleasantly relaxing,” she returned smoothly, barely looking up when he wandered over to the wicker chair with the tall, fan-shaped back.
“Just one drink?” He glanced pointedly at the quantity of liquor in her squat glass, which couldn’t all be attributed to melting ice cubes.
“Sometimes a large one,” Pilar admitted with a challenging tilt of her
Upstairs in her bedroom Pilar kicked off her low-heeled shoes and stripped out of her dress. It was too hot and sticky to put a lot of clothes back on, so she took a sleeveless wraparound dress of strawberry-pink cotton from the large wardrobe closet and slipped it on, tying the sash into a bow at the side of her waist. She pushed the weight of her hair away from her face and secured it with a pair of combs. She heard the honking of a horn out front, followed by the shutting of the front door a few minutes later.
Before leaving the bedroom to go back downstairs, Pilar picked up the drink she’d set on the vanity and carried it with her. At the bottom of the stairs she hesitated, then walked to the kitchen. Trace was just heading out the back door with two of the lighter boxes in his arms.
“Are you managing all right?” she asked, conscious of the brief way his glance noted her change of attire.
“Yes.” He pushed open the screen door with a corner of the boxes.
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” Pilar replied with a tense effort at indifference. “I’ll be on the side porch if you should need help with anything.”
On her way through the house she stopped in the den to collect the correspondence that needed answering as well as some auction circulars. There was still plenty of light on the west side of the house. Pilar spread her papers out on the glass top of a low wicker table that matched the rest of the white wicker furniture grouped around the porch in inviting clusters.
A breeze, cooled by the shade of the big oaks in the gardened front lawn, drifted onto the porch. Hanging baskets of pink and lavender fuchsia repeated the pastel colors of the patterned fabric covering the furniture cushions. Before Pilar took a seat on the narrow sofa, she went to the tall wicker stand where the ice bucket and bourbon decanter were placed. She added more cubes and a splash of bourbon to her watery drink.
Sitting down, she picked up the auction circulars first and began to check their dates with her appointment calendar. She leaned forward and absently rubbed the cool, moist glass against her cheek. She tried not to listen to the sounds of the back door slamming as Trace made his trips to the car with the boxes.
When the last one was sitting in the rear seat of his car, Trace pulled a handkerchieffrom his hip pocket and wiped at the perspiration trickling down his neck. On a sultry evening like this it didn’t take much effort to work up a sweat. He rubbed the kerchief over the top of his lip and glanced absently toward the porch. With a slow gathering of his muscles, Trace turned and walked in that direction.
At the side steps leading up to the porch he paused. His glance was pulled to the figure of Pilar, seated on the white-backed cushions with sprays of pink flowers. She was leaning forward, studying some papers on a wicker table. Her legs were crossed, the skirt of her dress splitting to provide him with a view of a creamy thigh. There was a stirring pressure in his loins. With a tightened jaw, Trace climbed the steps to the porch. Her glance skipped to him, then back to the papers where it stayed as she took a swallow from the glass she was holding.
“Didn’t anybody ever tell you you shouldn’t drink alone?” Trace remarked dryly and walked to the stand to help himself to the bourbon and ice.
“At the end of a day I find a drink pleasantly relaxing,” she returned smoothly, barely looking up when he wandered over to the wicker chair with the tall, fan-shaped back.
“Just one drink?” He glanced pointedly at the quantity of liquor in her squat glass, which couldn’t all be attributed to melting ice cubes.
“Sometimes a large one,” Pilar admitted with a challenging tilt of her
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