"Wonderfully," he managed to say while trying to let his breathing return to normal.
They lay locked together for another five minutes, he stroking her hair, she kissing his chest and neck.
"This is wonderful," Sandy said at last.
"No, it's better than wonderful," she said. "I just can't think of the word right now."
"Has it been a long time?" he asked.
"Long time," she replied. "Forever."
"Why?"
"You weren't around."
He laughed. "You must have had other offers."
"They weren't you. You seem to be perfect, Sandy Kinsolving. Is there something terribly wrong with you that I don't know about?"
"Probably, but I never know what a woman thinks of as terribly wrong. What do women want, anyway?"
"This," she said, snuggling closer.
"That's all?"
"That's it, mostly."
"Funny, that's what men want, too."
"I'm hungry," she said.
"Me, too."
"My turn to cook," she said, raising her head and looking at him. She laughed. "Your hair is funny."
"So is yours," Sandy replied.
She clapped both hands to her head and leapt from bed, running toward Joan's bathroom.
Sandy got up, brushed his hair, slipped into a robe and found one for her. He looked around the room. It was oddly bare, but he was very glad that he had removed Joan's things a few days before. He left the robe on the bed for Cara and went to his own bathroom. He shaved and showered, and as he dried himself he caught the aroma of bacon frying. He found his slippers, splashed on some cologne and headed for the kitchen.
Halfway there, he remembered the papers. He walked to the front foyer, reaching it just as the elevator doors opened. His son was standing in the car, holding the Sunday New York Times.
"Morning, Dad," Angus said, stepping from the elevator.
"Ah, morning, Angus," Sandy replied, gulping.
"Something wrong?"
Sandy shook his head.
"You look funny."
"Funny?"
"You look guilty, like I'd caught you at something." He sniffed the air. "Uh, oh," he groaned. "You got lucky didn't you?"
"I don't know that I'd put it quite… Yes, I got lucky. Would you like to meet her?"
"I don't guess you're up for tennis this morning, then?"
"Probably not."
"Maybe it would be better if I met her another time," Angus said, grinning.
"You're a good son," Sandy said.
Angus handed him the newspaper. "Have a nice Sunday." He pressed the elevator button.
"Thank you, kiddo. We'll talk tomorrow?"
"You bet." The elevator doors slid open, Angus stepped aboard, still grinning. "Congratulations," he said as the doors closed.
Sandy laughed and padded toward the kitchen. The table was set for two, and Cara had found a plastic rose somewhere and put it in a little vase. There was a pitcher of orange juice on the table, and she was struggling with a champagne cork. He took the bottle from her and opened it. "A Buck's Fizz?" he asked.
"A what?"
"Champagne and orange juice."
"That's a mimosa."
"In London, it's a Buck's Fizz; I like it better. You just missed meeting my son."
Her face registered shock. "Like this?"
"He figured out the situation and very kindly excused himself."
"Obviously a well-brought-up young man."
"Certainly."
They dove into breakfast silently, exchanging only glances.
"What are you doing for lunch?" he asked finally.
"I haven't even finished breakfast," she protested.
"This will take a little planning; I need an answer."
"I'm all yours-if I can go home and change."
"You're on. What are you doing for dinner? You won't have to change."
"Oh, all right."
"And breakfast? It's part of the package."
"If I'm late for work, you'll just delay getting your sketches," she said.
"I can live with that." He put down his fork. "Let me make a couple of phone calls."
CHAPTER 22
The light twin aircraft set down gently; they had left Teterboro something over an hour before.
"Where are we?" Cara demanded. She was blindfolded.
"You'll have to guess," Sandy said.
The airplane taxied to a stop before the little terminal, and the pilot cut the engines.
"We'll meet you here at ten tomorrow morning," he said to the pilot, and the man nodded. Sandy took their two bags in one hand and Cara's arm in the other.
"Can't I see where we are?"
"Not yet." He led her to the little car, an old MGB convertible, stowed their bags and helped her into the front seat. When they were away from the airport he took off her blindfold.
She looked around. "So, where is this?"
"You don't recognize it?"
"This is an eastern place; I'm a westerner."
"It's called Martha's Vineyard."
"I know about Martha's Vineyard," she said. "Where are we going now?"
"To Edgartown," he replied. "I think you'll like it.
He stopped the car in front of the house, a spic-and-span, two-story Victorian with a widow's walk, painted white with green shutters.
"It's gorgeous," she said. "A bed and breakfast?"
"It's mine," Sandy replied. "I bought it fifteen years ago." He got their bags, led her up the front walk, and opened the front door with his key.
She stepped into the foyer and looked around at the old furniture and nearly bare walls. "You never got around to fixing it up, huh?"
"I fixed up everything but the interior," he said. "I put a roof on it, replaced a lot of rotten wood, painted it, rewired and replumbed it. But you're right, the furnishings leave a lot to be desired. I was hoping maybe you could make some suggestions."
"Oh, boy, could I make some suggestions!"
"But don't worry about that now. Come on; I'll give you a quick tour, and then we've got someplace to go."
"I thought we were there."
"Sort of." He showed her the house's three bedrooms, his little study, and the kitchen. She seemed entranced with the place.
"How much time do you spend here?"
"Not as much as I've wanted to. Joan never liked the island, said there were too many tourists. She was right, of course, but the tourists mean there are some good restaurants and galleries, so I don't mind them."
"Good point," she said. "Besides, I'm a tourist."
"Okay, get into your swimsuit, and bring some jeans."
"What now?"
"Stop asking questions, and do as you're told."
"Yessir," she said, saluting smartly.
The little sloop cut through the water like a sharp knife, parting the small seas, heeling to the breeze. They sat up to windward, their feet on the leeward seat, while Cara helmed the yacht parallel with the beach.
"Head in there," Sandy said, pointing to an indentation in the shoreline. He went forward and got the anchor ready, then, with hand signals, conned her to their anchorage. When he was sure the anchor had dug in he came aft to a waiting beer. "Very impressive," he said. "You know how to make a boat go to windward."
"I grew up on San Francisco Bay," she said. "It comes with the territory, if you're my father's daughter. Ready for some lunch?"
"Sure am." He set up the little cockpit table, and watched her arrange lunch on it.
"So," she said, "how did you make all this happen on the spur of the moment?"
"Pretty simple," he said. "I called Teterboro and ordered up the air charter, then I called Seth Hotchkiss at the filling station and asked him to put the battery in the car and leave it at the airport, and I asked him to pick up some lunch and leave it in the fridge. Easy when you know how."
"Your talents never fail to amaze me," she said, kissing him. "I must remember to lay a big tip on the doorman at the Ritz-Carlton the next time I'm in San Francisco."
"You think he was matchmaking?" he asked.