Читать книгу Decidedly Married - Carole Page Gift - Страница 8

Memories.

Neil Diamond is singing something croony and sensuous, the melody getting under my skin, doing a job on me, turning this moment electric, unforgettable.

Memories. Dusky and fleeting as a sunset sky. But I remember that warm spring night seventeen years ago as if it were yesterday…

…The muggy, hypnotic warmth of Harry’s Steakhouse. The booth cozy and dark, a familiar cave. The air sweet with perfume, tangy with garlic and charcoal, and tinged at its edge with cigarette smoke, faint and hazy and distant as the voices around us I sit tapping my neatly clipped, pale pink fingernails on the linen tablecloth, a nervous gesture. I’m wound too tight, walking the edge, wanting to please him.

Michael.

Michael Ryan.

He raises his glass. “How about a toast?”

I touch the stem of my goblet, lift it high and hear the ring of fine crystal.

“To us.” Michael speaking.

“To us.” I raise the drink to my lips and sip the chill, bubbling effervescence.

But my gaze is fixed on Michael.

He sits across from me in sport shirt and slacks, bronzed and strapping, elbows on the table, hands folded, his thumb nudging his sturdy chin. He is smiling, not quite smiling, just the slightest curve in his lips. He is smiling more with his eyes—lazy, half-closed eyes, warm with amusement Hazy blue, inviting, bedroom eyes.

I am swimming in those eyes.

Drowning in those eyes.

“I feel as if I’ve known you forever.” He says it without moving. Without disturbing that smile.

“Three weeks,” I say breathlessly.

“Three?”

“We’ve known each other three weeks. Don’t you remember? Three weeks ago tonight Mr. Plotnik’s drawing class began.”

“Ah, yes Dear Mr. Plotnik. He was in rare form tonight, wasn’t he? The Southland’s answer to Salvador Dali—those piercing eyes, that rare mustache, the look of genius—or insanity.”

I stifle a laugh. “Don’t be unkind, Michael. He’s actually quite good. I’ve learned a lot in three weeks. Haven’t you?”

“I suppose so.” Michael winks and says invitingly, “But there’s so much more I want to know.”

He reaches across the table for my hand. His touch is warm. I feel it like an electric charge shooting up my arm, like a tickle, a tremor, the thrill of a sudden dip in the road, the tummy-turning sensation of a roller coaster ride. My heart is turning somersaults, my skin turns to goose flesh. Holding hands never felt so good.

“You’re the best in the class, Julie,” he says. “In every way.”

My face flushes with warmth. “I am not. I’m not nearly as good as that one girl—”

“Who? Myra? Myra Mayonnaise?”

“No, silly. It’s Myra Mason.”

“The girl who looks like Wolf Man’s sister?”

“Yes. No! Come on, she’s not that bad. In fact, she’s good. Talented. Her technique is flawless.”

“You’re prettier, with those big, mahogany brown eyes and your golden hair tousled around your face.”

“What do my looks have to do with being an artist?”

“Easy. Watching you made it tolerable for me when it was my turn to pose tonight.”

“Really? And here I thought you hated posing. You balked enough, until Mr. Plotnik reminded you every student has to take his turn modeling for the class or—”

“Or risk lowering his grade. I know. Why do you think I gave in?”

“So you didn’t mind posing after all?”

“I said it was tolerable. That’s a far cry from acceptable.”

“I have to admit, you looked a bit uncomfortable sitting there in your swim trunks.”

“Wouldn’t you be? Sitting like a statue for an hour with everyone’s eyes boring into you? I tell you, Julie, if I hadn’t had you to watch, I’d have—”

“You really watched me? I thought you were joking.”

Michael’s voice is low, caressing, hypnotic in its intensity. “You really didn’t notice? I watched your eyes moving over me, and I imagined it was your lips. I imagined—”

“Michael—really, I—”

“You’re blushing Am I embarrassing you?”

“No, Michael. It’s just that you’ve got the wrong idea. I was looking at you as—as an artist, not—not as a woman.”

He presses my hand against his lips. “The way you’re looking at me now?”

“Yes—no—I mean—”

“Tell me, Julie. Do you believe in love at third sight?”

“Third?”

“Our third anniversary. You said so yourself. We met three weeks ago tonight. And we’ve gone out maybe half a dozen times. And yet, would you believe—?”

“Believe what, Michael?”

“Already I’m falling in love with you.”

My voice is hushed, full of wonder. “How do you know it’s love?”

That smile again, warmly seductive, intoxicating, breaking through my defenses. “It doesn’t get any better than this, Julie—my jewel. You feel it, too. I know you do. I can see it in your eyes. It’s like everything in our lives has led up to this moment.”

Yes, Michael. You were right.

And everything since has led away from that moment.

From that night, seventeen years ago.

The night Katie Lynn was conceived.

Remember, Michael?