Redemption's Kiss. Ann Christopher

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      Excitement? Longing? Need?

      Pulling back, Adam smiled as though he’d been granted eternal life. A similar reaction eluded her and she had to force herself to smile back. Man. This kissing thing threw her for a serious loop. She hadn’t kissed anyone romantically in three years, and hadn’t kissed a man other than her ex-husband in fifteen. How was she supposed to feel? She didn’t have a clue.

      “I’ve got to get back to work.” Sounding a little husky now, Adam grabbed his muffin and gulped some coffee. “I just wanted to bring the flowers and get my kiss.”

      “I’ll walk you out,” she said, trying to get her mind right.

      This was all too weird. She’d been asexual for so long, and now this.

      It came as a huge shock that she could still affect a man, still inspire him to think about her, leave work for her and bring her flowers. She hadn’t realized that such tiny miracles were possible after all this time.

      They walked outside, down the cobbled path to Adam’s car. The May day was beautiful, bright and clear but not yet humid, not that she could enjoy it with him staring at her with those unnerving, puppy-dog eyes.

      Feeling fidgety and awkward, she glanced over at the Foster place. There were definite signs of activity now; a moving van occupied most of the long drive and in front of it sat a dark Range Rover. Uniformed movers swarmed in and out of the front door and up and down the driveway—

      Without warning, Adam cupped her cheek and kissed her again, his mouth firmer and more confident this time. After one stiff second, Jillian responded with her lips but the rest of her body remained aloof, well out of Adam’s reach. And then she had enough.

      She pulled away, flustered. “What was that?”

      “That was, ‘I hope I’ll see you soon.’ I’ll call you, okay?”

      “Okay.”

      Watching him drive off, she touched her tingling lips and then caught herself. Don’t be silly, Jill. It was time to get cracking. Those rolls still weren’t in the oven and lunchtime would be here soon—

      A low bark from her left startled her.

      Turning, she saw the new neighbor’s dog trot out from behind a forsythia bush at the edge of her property, his pink tongue lolling in a friendly doggy smile.

      “Hello, cutie.” She held her hand out for inspection. “Hellooo.”

      The dog ambled over. He was big and black with short curly hair, pointy ears, long legs and huge paws. Probably less than a year old, he wriggled with excitement and had a red collar with a numbered tag.

      He snuffled her hand, apparently decided she was okay, and then nudged her. She accepted this obvious invitation to scratch his ears, and the dog all but passed out with pleasure.

      Oh, man. Her heart turned over, hard.

      This wasn’t a standard poodle. This guy was a Bouvier des Flandres, the type of dog she’d had as a child. His long hair had been shaved, probably because it was so hot here in Georgia during the summer, but he looked exactly like Ishmael, and the sudden sweet nostalgia from her childhood was almost unbearable.

      Just like that, she remembered the joys of pet ownership, especially during that terrible year when Mama died, leaving her and her older brother, John, alone with their grieving and distant father.

      It all came back to her: the nightly warmth of Ishmael’s heavy body stretched out across her feet at the end of her bed; Ishmael sprawled between her and John on the floor in front of the TV; a soap-covered Ishmael resisting his bath in the plastic pool next to their estate’s enormous inground pool.

      Good times, good times.

      Boy, did she miss that dog. He’d died of old age when she was in high school. Come to think of it, she missed Ramona, too, the chatty Siamese she’d named after her favorite Beverly Cleary character. That silly cat. When Ramona wasn’t ignoring her and John or terrorizing Ishmael, which was most of the time, she was underfoot, meowing about the general unfairness of life and demanding to have her chin scratched.

      Wow. She hadn’t thought about Ramona in ages. The ache of nostalgia grew. Allegra occasionally made noises about wanting a pet; maybe it was time to think about getting one.

      In the meantime, this dog needed to get home before he ran out into the street, and there was no time like the present to meet the new neighbor. Those rolls could wait another minute or two.

      Oh, but wait. New neighbors had to be greeted with food. It was a rule.

      “Come on,” she told the dog.

      He followed her inside the kitchen, where she quickly washed her hands, lined a basket with a large cloth napkin and filled it with leftover pumpkin muffins from breakfast.

      “Now we’re ready.”

      The dog agreed with another bark.

      What a sweetie. Scratching his head again, she led the way.

      They walked up the lane to his owner’s driveway, where serious progress was now being made. Someone had lowered the ramp on the moving van, and there were various blankets and dollies lying around, but no signs of human life. A discreet glance inside the van as she passed revealed several nice pieces, including a black leather sofa and an enormous entertainment center. A man’s furniture. Definitely a man’s.

      They climbed the shallow steps and crossed the huge veranda, which crunched beneath Jillian’s feet. Hopefully, the new guy had a rake and a broom because there were dead leaves everywhere. This baby needed a lot of cleanup. It was a beautiful house, though, with clean lines, exquisite woodwork and beveled glass framing the open front door.

      She knocked and waited.

      No answer.

      She tried again, this time using the heavy brass knocker.

      Still nothing.

      The dog looked up at her, and she could swear he raised his furry eyebrows in a What now? gesture.

      Well, the door was open.

      Stepping inside, she gasped at what had been a remarkable house and, with a little love, would be again. Several rooms spun off the foyer, the centerpiece of which was a wide staircase with a carved handrail, and every room that she could see was bathed in light from full-length windows. Ornate woodwork framed every doorway, and there was an enormous marble fireplace in what was unmistakably the living room.

      No signs of life, though, and—

      Oh, wait. Were those voices upstairs?

      Turning back in the direction of the staircase—maybe she’d wandered a little farther inside than she should have—she opened her mouth to call out a hello, but a movement out of the corner of her eye stopped her.

      A man’s hand on the brass handle of a cane came into view, followed by one long khaki-trousered leg and a foot encased in an expensive loafer.

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