What Matters Most by Gwynne Forster

this right now. Sit up straight.” She did, and he spread the lotion on her neck, back and arms. Looking her in the eye and pointing to her cleavage, he said, “You want to put it there yourself, or are you going to let me do it?”
    She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t, for her whole body reacted to the memory of his warm mouth pulling at her nipple. “I think you had a reason for suggesting that our outing be in a public place, didn’t you?” she said. When he didn’t answer, she took the lotion that he held in his hand and began applying it.
    “Why didn’t you want me to do it?” he asked her.
    “I like your hands, Jack, but if I didn’t have a sense of propriety, you wouldn’t be here with me.”
    “You’re right. I wouldn’t be.” He positioned the pillow behind her back, dragged the other stool closer to her and put the picnic basket on top of it. He set out their plates, glasses and utensils on the blanket and opened an odd-looking heavy plastic bag.
    “What’s in that?” she asked him.
    “Madam, I can offer you warm spinach-bacon quiche, crab cakes, hot cheese biscuits, a green salad, cherry tomatoes and pinot grigio wine. The hot food is in this bag, and the cold things are in that one.”
    “Oh, Jack, you’re so thoughtful. I’ll have some of everything.”
    He served them as the musicians began the sweet strains of Mozart’s “Divertimento in B-flat.” She hadn’t realized that darkness had fallen, and when she glanced up, she saw the moon and the stars. Some of the most beautiful music ever written replaced the night sounds and the whispers of human voices, washing over her like waves of heavenly contentment. Lost in the moment, she chewed the delicious crab cake and sipped the wine that Jack held to her lips.
    “What is it? What’s the matter?” he asked her, his tone so urgent that it shocked her.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You’re crying. What’s wrong?” His fingers brushed away the tears that cascaded down her cheeks.
    “I didn’t realize it,” she said, dabbing at her face with the handkerchief he gave her. “I don’t think…I know I’ve never been as happy in my entire life as I am right now. As much as I dreamed of a beautiful life when I was a child and later as a teenager, I never imagined an evening like this.”
    He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Nothing you’ve said to me has touched me like this.”
    She smiled, and then she laughed, because she didn’t want to change the mood. “I haven’t tried the quiche yet. If it’s as good as the crab cake, I may sob. You’re going to get me the recipe for these cheese biscuits, aren’t you?”
    “I promise to do my best. You know how cooks are with their secrets.”
    “If the cook is stingy, we can work it out. Cooking is like chemistry. You put together the ingredients that work and avoid those that don’t. How are you at chemistry?”
    His laughter surprised her, because she hadn’t thought that he was back into a light mood. “As you can see, I don’t control it. Oh, you’re not talking about us, are you?”
    She tweaked his nose. “Definitely not, and you know it.”
    He poured more wine into their glasses. “You’re right about these biscuits. I could eat a dozen of them.” Patting his flat abdomen, he asked her, “How do you feel about love handles?” and glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
    “Never been attracted to them. It’s the washboards that send my imagination into orbit.” She reached over and zipped up the bag that contained the warm biscuits. “The salad and tomatoes are delicious, too,” she said.
    “Well, I certainly get that message. We can eat the dessert during intermission, unless you want it now.”
    “I’m stuffed. Let’s wait,” she said. He closed the picnic basket, put the food away, pulled her off her stool to sit on the blanket and lay down and rested his head in her lap. She looked down into his face, at his barely parted lips and searing