He was slow to bring his face to hers—agonizingly, deliciously slow. She studied his face, watched his eyes close, waited for the touch of his lips. His kiss was deep, and his mouth tasted as rich as the wine he had consumed earlier. Their bodies meshed, and she no longer felt chilled. She drew her hand around his head and wove her fingers through his thick mass of hair. The kiss deepened, and Christie became light-headed from the sensations that flashed through her body like a hundred-amp electrical shock.
She wished the embrace could last forever. It felt so good, so right, so now. But what about later? she wondered. What about the future? These were unanswered questions. She was not sure if she was ready to risk her heart. Play it safe, common sense told her. But standing in the moonlight with Cash’s arms around her, it was impossible to heed common sense.
Almost as though he could read her mind, he drew away. He held the lapels on her coat for a minute, then suggested they return to the hotel.
In between concerts the following day, they rented bikes and rode the paved trail along Lakeshore. Box lunches and a bottle of wine were in Cash’s bike’s front basket. Christie marveled at the mansions along the lake. They stopped at an Italian-style villa with a diminutive “for sale” sign.
“There’s a lot of money on Lakeshore,” Cash remarked. “Some of it’s old, some of it’s new Silicon Valley money.”
“This is magnificent,” she said. “It looks like something out of Architectural Digest.”
The mansion was surrounded by a formal garden. A waterfall poured into an architecturally designed river-rock stream; flowering ornamental trees were in bloom and azalea created a profusion of natural bouquets. Color was everywhere, and the soft hue of the mansion complemented the riot of reds and pinks.
They rode their bikes to Burnt Cedar Beach and gave their guest passes to the woman in the kiosk. They pedaled away and then stopped and leaned the bikes against a pine tree and walked to a nearby picnic bench. A pair of shorebirds hopped onto the table and peered expectantly as they opened their luncheon container. Convinced of a handout, the birds inched closer, heads bobbing as they pecked at the table, foraging for stray crumbs. Christie didn’t disappoint them: she broke a piece of bread from her sandwich and tossed it their way.
“We’ll never get rid of those pesky birds if you feed them,” Cash said.
“I know, but they look so needy.”
He shook his head. “You’re a bleeding-heart kind of gal, and that’s sweet. But no more feeding the birds.”
On the lake a Windsurfer’s sail billowed as it smoothly glided above the water. A motorboat towed an inner tube with a pair of children, legs dangling over the side, screaming as they picked up speed. In spite of the activity, the lake appeared serene.
“We’d better hustle,” Cash said after they finished lunch. “You might want to take a short nap before we go out tonight.” They rode their bikes back to the hotel, passing other cyclists, joggers, and walkers. Nodding hello to the people they passed, Christie thought it was a perfect day to enjoy the brisk mountain air.
Cash had tickets for an evening concert at the Biltmore, an older casino in nearby Crystal Bay. They had an early dinner at the hotel, then took a shuttle bus to the Biltmore. It was a sold-out performance, every seat occupied and people standing along the walls. The lights dimmed and the band trotted onto the stage. Applause filled the room. The bandleader struck a chord and the concert began. Sweet trumpet music and the sorrowful notes of a saxophone were bound together by the piano player knocking out the melody. Christie thought of New Orleans: this sounded like the jazz she had heard on Basin Street. It all came from the same heart, she reasoned.
Afterward, they went to the cocktail lounge at the Lone Eagle. Christie was surprised to see two of the musicians from the morning concert playing with Cash’s friends.
“They can’t get enough of the music,” Cash said. “These guys can play until dawn. As long as they have a breath left and an audience in front of them, they’re good to go.”
They sat at a small table near the fireplace and ordered wine. Cash moved his chair closer to Christie’s.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“Very much. The music is wonderful.”
“You’re wonderful.”
“That’s a lovely thing to say.”
“You’re a lovely woman.”
“Wow! The music is really getting to you, isn’t it?”
“Not any more than you are getting to me. I mean it, Christie.”
His words burned brighter than the candle on the table. She didn’t know what to say to him. The weekend together had cinched it: she was in love. No backing away from it, no maybes, she would give him her heart if he asked. And the way he looked at her right now, the words he had said, hinted that he might be ready to give her his.
The following afternoon they drove back to Reno. Christie’s parents lived in a gated community. An attractive stretch of green lawn dotted with sycamore and pine and views of a nine-hole golf course created an attractive entry. The streets curved around the residences, which ranged from single-story ranch to large two-story brick colonials and Tudors. The Hamiltons’ home was near the pool, an amenity that Christie’s mother enjoyed. Cash parked, and as they climbed out of the car, the front door to the house swung open. Christie’s mother stood on the threshold and waved them in with an enthusiastic welcome. She enveloped her daughter in an affectionate hug.
“Darling, I couldn’t wait to see you. Daddy’s on the patio firing up the barbecue. He insisted that nothing but his special chicken would do for his little girl.”
Christie winced at the “little girl” description, but she knew that she would always be her parents’ little girl. She turned and introduced Cash. He extended his hand, but Christie’s mother was too quick, and she threw her arms around him. Christie smiled at her mother’s exuberance, confident that Jackie Hamilton heard wedding bells the minute Cash walked through the door.
“Just call me Jackie,” she said as she led them to the kitchen. “Can I fix a drink for either of you?”
“I’ll pass,” Cash said.
“Mom always has iced tea in the fridge.”
“Teetotaler, huh,” Jackie teased, pulling a large pitcher from the refrigerator.
“I can’t have alcohol, because I’ll be flying in a few hours,” he said.
Drinks in hand, they proceeded to the patio. “Mike,” Jackie called, “Christie and her friend are here.”
Mike Hamilton shook Cash’s hand. “Glad to meet you, sir,” Cash said.
“None of this sir business, you’ll make me feel old. And I don’t feel that way.”
“Of course not, Daddy. Mom tells me that you volunteered for the Reno Symphony docent program again. I’ll have to spend a weekend this summer and attend one of the concerts.”
“Yes, and bring your friend. You like classical music, don’t you, Cash?”
Cash put his drink down before replying. Christie saw that he was a bit uncomfortable about answering her father.
“Cash is a fan of jazz and bluegrass,” she said.
“Bluegrass, huh? I don’t know about that, but I enjoy classic jazz—Erroll Garner, Dave Brubeck, Miles Davis.”
“You know your bands. Miles Davis is one of my favorites,” Cash said.
“Looks like we’ve got something in common. And before the summer is over, maybe we’ll convert you to a symphony enthusiast, too.”
The afternoon went by quickly and then it was time to leave for the airport. Jackie hugged Christie and whispered, “He’s a keeper, hon, a real keeper.”
Christie pulled away slightly and said, “I know where this is going, Mom. You have that grandmother look in your eyes.”