We found her in the potting shed. She stripped off a rubber glove to shake hands with our visitor.
"How nice to meet you, Miss Johnson," she said brightly. "I've already met your father at our garden club. What a charming man he is."
"Thank you, Mrs. McNally. Your home is lovely."
"But you haven't seen the inside yet," I protested. "It's nothing but bare walls and a few hammocks."
"Don't believe a word he says," mum advised.
"I don't," Theo said with more conviction than I liked.
"Archy, will you and Miss Johnson be staying for lunch?"
"Not today, darling," I told her. "We want to see some of the local scenery."
"Well, do come back," she urged Theo. "Perhaps you and your father might visit some evening."
"I'd love that, Mrs. McNally. Thank you so much."
We walked toward the house. "She's beautiful," Theo said. "And so-so motherly."
"Isn't she," I agreed. "I just adore sitting on her lap."
"You're a nut," she said, laughing.
"And now for the fifty-cent tour," I said. "Let's make it fast because the pangs of hunger are beginning to gnaw."
I showed her everything: kitchen, father's study, living and dining rooms, second-floor sitting room, master and guest bedrooms, and my own little suite on the third floor. All the furnishings were of good quality but obviously mellowed. The interior looked as if everything had been inherited, which was exactly the ambience my father had striven to create when he moved up from Miami.
"It's all so handsome," Theo said, suitably impressed. "So solid and warm and comfy."
I didn't tell her the truth, that everything in the place had been purchased in the past thirty years from decorators, galleries, and antique shops. Our home was a stage set. But it was convincing.
We reboarded the Miata, and I had what I fancied was a minor stroke of genius.
"You know," I said thoughtfully, "there are many fine restaurants in Palm Beach, but it's such a scrumptious day, why don't we take a drive down to Boca Raton along A1A. I know a marvelous place in Boca where we can lunch alfresco."
"Sounds divine," Theo said.
So having reduced the possibility of being spotted by one of Connie Garcia's spies to an absolute minimum, I turned southward. We followed the corniche, and my companion never stopped exclaiming at the glory of the vistas and the wealth displayed by the private mansions and luxury condominiums along the way.
I drove directly to Mizner Park, my favorite mini-mall in South Florida. There we entrusted the Miata to a valet and secured an umbrella table at the Bistro L'Europe. Outdoor dining at Mizner is a charming way to enjoy anything from a boutique pizza to a five-course banquet. But, of course, the main attraction is people-watching.
I cannot recall the exact details of our lunch. I have a vague recollection of sharing an enormous Caesar salad with Theo after we had demolished a duck terrine. I do remember very well that everything I consumed was ambrosial. That may have been due to the full bottle of Beaujolais we finished, but I prefer to believe my pleasure was heightened by being in the company of such a ravishing dining partner.
"Archy," she said, nibbling on a garlic crouton, "why have you never married?"
I had an oft-repeated response to that. "I am very prone to allergies," I told her. "Research has shown that more than half of all divorces are caused by one spouse becoming allergic to the other. I just can't take the chance."
That sinfully entrancing dimple appeared and she shook her head hopelessly. "You're a devil," she said.
"That wounds," I said. "All I wish to be is your guardian angel. Where are you from, Theo?"
"Michigan," she said promptly. "Isn't everyone?"
"During the tourist season one might think so. I understand Michiganders refer to Florida as the Lower Peninsula. Tell me, if a man is a Michigander, is a woman a Michigoose?"
She ignored that antiquated wheeze-and rightly so. "Where are you from?" she asked.
"Right here. One of the few residents actually born in Florida."
"You don't sound like a native Floridian."
"I went to prep school up north and then later to Yale."
I told her the story of why I was booted out of Yale Law and she was mightily amused. "You are a devil," she said, "and I really shouldn't be associating with you."
"Perhaps you shouldn't," I said boldly. "I understand you're soon to be affianced."
She lifted her chin and looked at me coolly. "Maybe," she said, "and maybe not. I haven't yet decided. Do you know Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth?"
"Yes."
"And his mother?"
"I am acquainted with the lady."
"Then surely you know why I am postponing a decision."
I said nothing.
"Meanwhile," she went on, "I am living the way I want to live. I'm an independent cuss. Does my behavior shock you?"
"No, it does not. But it puzzles me."
"You feel I should leap at the chance of marrying Chauncey?"
"You could do much worse. Me, for instance."
"Let me be the judge of that," she said.
"May I ask how old you are, Theo?"
"You may ask but I shan't answer. Older than you think, I'm sure."
"Another personal question you may or may not wish to answer: Is your mother living?"
"Yes. My parents are divorced. My mother has remarried and is presently living in San Diego. And now I have a personal question for you: Do you have a ladyfriend?"
"I do."
"But you're not faithful to her?"
"Is that a question or a statement?"
She laughed. "A statement. I do believe you're as selfish as I am."
"Quite possibly," I acknowledged. "Theo, would you care for dessert?"
"Yes," she said decisively, staring at me. "You."
I sought to quell a slight tremor.
She discussed the logistics of our assignation as calmly as if she were making an appointment for a pedicure. Daddy had driven down to Fort Lauderdale that morning. It was a business trip and daddy would be gone all day. And daddy had promised to phone before he started back to Palm Beach so they could make dinner plans.
In addition, both condos adjoining the Johnsons' were unoccupied, the owners having gone north for the summer.
"So you see," Theo concluded, "we'll have all the privacy we could possibly want."
"Yes," I said, tempted to add, "But God will be watching." I didn't, of course, since it verged on blasphemy.
We didn't converse on our return trip to Palm Beach although there were a few occasions when I suspected she was humming. I was simply amazed at her insouciance. She sat upright, smiling straight ahead, shining hair whipping back in the breeze. She looked as if she owned the world, or at least that part of it she coveted.
We arrived at the Johnsons' condo, and I suggested that since the blood-red Miata was such a noticeable vehicle, it might be more discreet if I parked some distance away. But Theo would have none of that, insisted I park at her doorstep, and led the way inside. And instead of inviting me into a bedroom, she rushed to that hideous cretonne-covered couch in the living room and beckoned. I scurried to her side.
She undressed with frantic and unseemly haste, and all I could think of was a cannibal preparing for a feast of a succulent missionary.
I shall not attempt to describe the rapture of that afternoon. It is not that I lack the vocabulary-you know me better than that-but it is because some events in one's life are so private that it is painful to disclose them, even if they are pleasurable.
I can only permit myself to record that Theodosia Johnson was all women. Not all woman but all women. She reduced the plural to the singular, multiplicity to one. After knowing her, there seemed no need for another. She was the Eternal Female, capitalized, and at the moment I was bewitched. Not bothered and bewildered-just bewitched.