Smooth Moves

The sun had dropped significantly lower in the sky by the time he returned home, its beams slanting through the green lacy screen of the willows. The grass looked like a velvet carpet. The buds on the rhododendron were on the verge of opening, but for now the pink petals were still tightly furled.

Turning into the drive, he almost clipped the mailbox. Several wan tulips lost their drooping heads beneath the left front wheel as he stepped hard on the brake and the car shuddered to an abrupt halt.

Cathy Timmerman was home.

He climbed from the Jag in a daze.

She was washing her car. In bare feet and denim cutoffs. With a sleeveless white T-shirt knotted below her breasts. Above a triangle of smooth abdomen, her pointed nipples pressed against the damp, clinging fabric. A thick, shiny ponytail bobbed at the back of her head when she stood abruptly with a sponge in one hand and a hose in the other, its spray wetting her cement driveway and the grass and then the tips of his athletic shoes as she slowly turned his way.

No Birkenstocks. No Mr. Magoo glasses. No baggy tent dress to disguise what he already knew to be a perfect figure.

Just a shy flicker of her lashes. A deep, deep breath.

And a welcoming, sweetly seductive smile.

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