He nodded and angled toward the water.
Inside, she flamed with embarrassment. She had sorely mistaken his intentions. After her episode at the dance, maybe his care was only the protective, brotherly kind.
But that couldn’t be right. His side-glances all day had affirmed his attraction. True, he hadn’t poured with conversation, yet she had found the trait refreshing. There was no pressure for idle chatter. Already they were so familiar, as if his arm were a shawl she was always meant to wear.
Until now.
With only waves lapping the quiet, she sensed that comfort receding. For a reason she could not pinpoint he had begun to pull away.
“So,” he said. “You ready?”
Ready to leave, ready to part ways?
She smiled and replied, “Absolutely.”
Awkwardness solidified with every stop of the streetcar. Vivian willed its pace to quicken. Any eye contact from Gene amounted to a flicker. He appeared deliberate in allowing strangers to divide them, though he had insisted on escorting her home.
After disembarking, they wound through the moonlit streets, trading only the sounds of their footsteps. At the sight of her brownstone she imagined his relief.
“Here we are,” she said at the base of the stoop.
He looked up at the building, as if surprised by the destination.
“Well,” she said. “Thank you for the day.”
“Yeah. It was fun.” He extended his hand for a formal shake, which she accepted while gritting her teeth.
“It was certainly memorable.”
Not bothering with a good-bye, she wheeled around and headed up the steps.
“Vivian.”
She grasped the banister. Against her irritation, she forced herself to face him. “Yes?”
“On Tuesday,” he said, his hands in his jacket pockets, “Ringling Brothers will be in town. I was wondering if you’d like to go. To see the circus.”
For years, uncertainties of the heart had left her emotions in a frenzy. As if riding the Cyclone, they had been twisted and turned, raised and dropped. She had no desire to revisit the turbulent ride.
“Before I answer,” she said, “I have to know why.”
“Why ... ?”
“Why you’re asking.”
The corners of his eyes creased. “I’m not sure I follow.”
She was aware of how brash she sounded, possibly neurotic, but the need for self-preservation trumped all else.
“Gene, the truth of the matter is, I like you. Very much. But from one minute to the next, I can’t tell what you’re looking for. If it’s only friendship, that’s perfectly fine. I’d just prefer to be clear from the start.”
He said nothing as he stood there, as one would do while strategizing an escape. But then he slowly climbed the stairs and stopped when their eyes became level. As he leaned in, her breath hitched in her throat. He hovered an inch away for a torturous, wondrous second before placing his mouth on hers. He tasted of butterscotch, or taffy, from penny candies at the pier. It was a perfect match to their kiss. Rich, smooth, and sweet.
“Does that answer your question?” she barely heard him say.
She dragged her eyes open, and nodded.
“Good.” He smiled at her. With the side of his broad hand, he caressed her cheek. “I’ve had eyes for you for a long time, Vivian. Just didn’t think you were ready for anything-with what Lu mentioned, about some old steady. And what you said after the USO. I sure wasn’t going to push if-”
Her finger gently touched his mouth. No reason to hear more. She slid her hands onto his shoulders and brought him in for a kiss. Though more intimate than the first, it had all the warmth and patience of lazing in the sun. All the comfort of a heated bath.
When they finally drew apart, his hands light on her hips, she reflected on the day, such an unexpected path. She could not keep from grinning.
“Pick you up on Tuesday?” he said.
Vivian agreed, reluctant to let him go. But he kissed her hand before descending the stairs and fading into the darkness.
Once he had disappeared, she turned for the door. Her hand was on the knob when a chill skimmed her spine. Not from the air, not from Gene. She surveyed her shadowed surroundings.
Somebody, she swore, was watching.
27
The journey to find Sean Malloy had Audra feeling like a stalker. To her relief, only a handful of people with his name were listed online in the Portland area. An age range for each one had aided her deduction. Except for an outdated phone number, the search had been easy—until she reached the address.
It was located in northwest Portland, specifically the Pearl District. Over recent years, like polishing a grain of sand into a lustrous white gem, a tide of visionaries had transformed the old industrial area into a prime cultural hub. Modern art galleries, trendy martini bars, and culinary shops selling fifty-dollar colanders now inhabited what had once been rugged, abandoned warehouses.