Take Me To Bed. Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

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      Thursday evening Eric called and he and Jessica talked for almost an hour. “About tomorrow evening,” Eric said. “If you agree, there’s a concert at a place I think you’d enjoy called Caramoor. There’ll be a small jazz group playing in a part of the estate called the Venetian Gardens. I thought we’d have a little picnic on the lawn before the music.”

      “That sounds lovely.”

      “Great. Wear jeans and something long-sleeved. It’s supposed to be cool and it does get a bit buggy. I’ll bring the dinner and the bug spray and pick you up around six.”

      “I’ll see you then.”

      Jessica flopped back onto her bed. She was both jittery and excited, looking forward to the following evening with a combination of terror and delight. Okay, she thought, jeans. She mentally flipped through her small collection of clothes and selected a soft buttercup-yellow silk shirt. Should I take a jacket? It’s only a picnic. But it might get cool later in the evening. But I might look pretentious. Sneakers? Maybe loafers? Or what about sandals?

      That night and most of the next day while Steph was at the hospital, Jessica selected, discarded, and reselected. She sat in the garden room and tried to read, only to get up and pace around the pool. “This is ridiculous,” she said aloud. “I’m acting like a kid on her first date.” Then she grinned. “I am a kid on her first date.”

      At about four o’clock, she soaked in a tub and managed to relax for a short while. Then she put on the clothes she had selected, changed her shirt, then changed back. At six o’clock, Jessica was dressed in the outfit she had first selected, yellow shirt, soft, well-washed jeans she had had for many years, tennis shoes, and socks. Then, at the last minute, she added a fitted denim vest.

      She put her hair up, then held a pair of earrings near her ears. She discarded them and picked another pair, which she also dropped back into the drawer. Something bigger, she thought. But it’s only a picnic. Maybe no earrings. She settled on a pair of medium-sized wooden hoops. She gazed into the mirror, smiled, added blush and lipstick and hurried downstairs, glad the house was empty.

      As she heard Eric’s car in the driveway, Jessica stood inside the front door debating whether to open it and walk outside or wait for him to ring the bell. You’re jumpy as a cat, she said to herself, turning the knob in her right hand and pulling the door open. Eric stood with his hand poised above the doorbell.

      God, he’s sexy, she thought as he stood, openly appraising her. He was dressed in tight jeans and a white tennis sweater with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, showing off well-muscled forearms. He wasn’t gorgeous and she doubted that anyone would stop in their tracks and stare at him. But there was a gleam in his eyes as he looked her over that created a small flutter deep in her belly. His eyes lingered on her breasts as they pressed against the silky fabric of her shirt, then wandered lower to her narrow waist and full hips.

      “Very nice,” he said. “Although I’ve seen you in a bathing suit, I still enjoyed speculating about the way you’d fill out your jeans.” As she colored, he continued, “You’re blushing again.” He used the knuckle of his index finger to raise her face, then he dropped a light kiss on her lips. “It’s sort of virginal. I love it.” Then he took her elbow and guided her out the door.

      Together they walked toward the driveway where Eric’s vintage BMW 2002 was parked. Bright red with slick black leather upholstery, it was in mint condition. “That’s some car,” Jessica commented.

      “I love old BMWs. I found this one about a year ago and I had it restored. It cost more than buying a new one and it’s silly of me, but I get a kick out of it. Drivers of these old cars flick their lights at each other in recognition and I like that kind of camaraderie.”

      Jessica stroked the supple leather seat beneath her, silently wondering how he could afford to ‘restore’ a classic car like this one. Did architects make that kind of money?

      Eric and Jessica passed the next twenty minutes in comfortable conversation, driving along the tree-lined roadways of Westchester County. They arrived at Caramoor, passed through the big iron gates and drove to a grassy parking area. He helped her out of the car and, arm in arm, they walked along the dirt pathways toward a small picnic area. Before they arrived at the tables, however, Eric turned into a small area of lawn surrounded by a low hedge. In the middle was an old fountain, now filled with flowering plants.

      “By the way,” Jessica said, her stomach reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, “you’re not carrying any basket. I thought you mentioned dinner.”

      “I did.”

      They approached a large plaid wool blanket spread on the lawn under a large maple tree, set with fine china plates, full settings of silverware, and crystal champagne flutes. Each place setting was accompanied by a white linen napkin and a red leather seat cushion.

      But it was the man who stood beside the blanket who caught Jessica’s attention. He was immense, probably over two hundred and fifty pounds, but well muscled with a long golden ponytail and a heavy gold hoop in one ear. He looked like he might have been a football player or a prize fighter, with gigantic hands and a face that looked like it had taken a punch or two in its time. Beautifully groomed, the man wore tan slacks and a forest-green polo shirt. He was obviously waiting for the lady he would share his feast with.

      “Isn’t СКАЧАТЬ