Loving Again

chapter Two


Four and a half months later

Goddamn traffic. How did people put up with it every day? Sam hadn’t been able to leave Portland until three in the afternoon, which meant he ended up right in the middle of Seattle’s famous rush hour traffic. At the rate he was going, he’d miss the whole opening. Which, given what the past few months had been like, shouldn’t have surprised him.

Amanda’s last night in Portland had been better than anything he could have hoped for but the time since had been a goat f*ck. For three months, they talked, emailed and texted while she was tucked away at the Pilchuck Glass School. Then, when she moved in with her best friend from college so she could continue her work, they began to talk about getting together in Seattle.

For six weeks, they tried to make it happen. But three of the weekends were out because of his every-other-weekend with his sons. On the weekend they’d finally nailed down plans, he pulled a seventy-two-hour shift on a messy double murder. Then she was out of town celebrating her friend’s birthday. Nothing had worked. So, when she mentioned the opening at the Erickson Gallery for an exhibit of the work of Pilchuck students that included her, he decided he’d take a couple vacation days and just show up without telling her he would be there. What could screw that up?

Apparently, the traffic, which had him at a dead stop, looking at Boeing Field, not at her or her work.

• • •

Amanda couldn’t decide which was more uncomfortable, feeling hot and sweaty or nervous and twitchy. On one hand, she was miserable from the very un-Seattle-like ninety-degree heat. On the other, her anxiety level about being on public display for the first time since her trial was too high to measure. The only thing pushing edgy-anticipation-of-catastrophe out of gold medal contention was, when it happened, at least it would be over. The TV weatherman said the heat would hang on for a few days.

For what seemed like half an hour, Amanda had been trying to get through the crowd to the back of the room where Cynthia Blaine, her best friend and current roommate, along with Cynthia’s boyfriend, Josh, were waiting with cool water and soothing words for her. But people kept stopping her to congratulate her on her work.

She envied Cynthia and the other artists with work in the exhibit. They were enjoying the evening. Of course, all they had to do was sip wine, make arty small talk and flirt. Amanda had to enthusiastically discuss her new work while staying on high alert for some unknown calamity.

Finally she made her way to the back of the gallery. Kicking off her platform sandals, she took the paper napkin her friend offered her, blotted her forehead and sighed. “I’m hot.”

“You certainly are,” Cynthia said. She handed a glass of ice water to Amanda. “By the number of pieces you’ve sold tonight, you’re about the hottest glass artist in Seattle and that, my friend, is saying something.”

“I was talking about the weather, but thanks.” She wiggled her toes on the cool tile floor and gulped down the water. Glancing around at the crowd she said, “It feels like something weird’s going on, doesn’t it? I mean, nothing terrible has happened so far but … ”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Everything’s going great. Try to relax and enjoy this, will you? God knows you’ve earned it.” She reached into her purse and, with a “ta-da” flourish, brought out Amanda’s favorite Dagoba chocolate bar. “Here, see if this helps.”

Amanda swapped the now-empty glass for the candy. “You’re wonderful. I was too nervous to eat before I came here and my stomach’s paying me back by growling.”

As she nibbled on the sweet she continued to inspect the crowd. Surely there were people here who remembered what had happened in Portland. Who would resurrect the scandal first? That woman over there who looked kinda reporter-ish? The man who kept staring at her? Would it happen here, tonight, or would she have to wait for the newspaper tomorrow? What if … ?

Dear God, she had to stop this. Not only was she driving herself crazy, but she was sure her friend found her way past “annoying” on the Richter Scale of Irritating Emotions. Starting soon after the five o’clock opening, Amanda had forced Cynthia to accompany her around a conversational loop that quickly rutted from wear as she begged to hear over and over that the evening was going okay.

Now, more than two hours later, somewhere in the middle of the eighth, or maybe tenth, circuit of the reassurance loop, Cynthia’s attention wandered, mid-sentence, apparently caught by something she saw over Amanda’s shoulder.

Amanda felt the blood leave her face. “What’s wrong? What did you see?” Cynthia only smiled, still looking into the distance. Amanda tensed, what remained of the chocolate melting on the fingers she clutched around it. “Tell me. Please!”

“Calm down. It’s nothing bad,” Cynthia said. “This sexy guy just sauntered in, out of a Levis’ ad if the jeans and cowboy boots are any indication, and he’s staring in this direction. When I smiled at him he didn’t respond. So, unless he’s all Brokeback Mountain over Josh, that leaves him looking at you. Do you know him?”

Jeans and cowboy boots? Amanda swallowed hard, trying to shift gears from panic to a feeling she didn’t recognize at first. A flicker of optimism? A little shiver of anticipation? She shook it off. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t. Besides her gut told her nothing good was in store for her tonight, only something bad.

And she was tired of waiting for it. She wanted the ax to drop, the sword of Damocles to fall, the roof to cave in. Pick a cliché, make it happen, and be done with it. Then she could say, “I told you so” and go back to Cynthia’s apartment where — please, God — it would be cooler.

But, no, she wasn’t headed out of the gallery. She was staring at her friend who was grinning about some random guy in Levis. She knew Cynthia would pester her until she looked, so Amanda turned around, her eyes down. If this was the messenger of doom she’d been expecting all evening, it was time to get it over with.

When she looked up, however, her breath stopped for a heartbeat or two. It was no stranger or harbinger of disaster. It was Sam; all 5ꞌ11" of him, broad shouldered and slim hipped, in a white shirt open at the neck and boot-cut jeans with his ubiquitous cowboy boots. He was standing near the front door, people streaming past him like water around a rock, looking directly at her.

He’d starred in so many of her fantasies while she was in Seattle, she would have sworn she remembered every detail about him. But seeing him now she realized she’d forgotten just how flat-out sexy he was even standing still, his feet shoulder width apart, his hips tipped forward, his shoulders squared, his thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his jeans.

And how could she have forgotten that she could feel the warmth of his eyes across a crowded room?

His mouth she remembered, pressed against hers, turning her insides to liquid. The sun-streaks in his sandy-brown hair and the tan forearms showing under the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, she remembered, too. They reminded her of the horseback rides they’d talked about but never taken.

Cynthia was right. He was sexy and delicious — and staring, waiting for her to acknowledge she’d seen him. He nodded hello when she did. When his smile became a grin, a flutter of something light and free flew from the middle of her chest, released the breath in her lungs and untied the knots in her shoulders.

“Oh, my God, Sam … ” The candy bar slipped from her fingers, leaving Cynthia to lunge for it as Amanda deserted her for the front of the gallery.

When she got to him, all Amanda could say was, “It’s really you.” When he touched the glass charm she wore around her neck, she clasped his hand to her chest where she was sure he could feel her rapidly beating heart.

“I hear a rising young star in the art glass world is here tonight. Know anything about that?” he asked.

“There are several. You looking for anyone in particular?” She couldn’t seem to stop smiling, or let go of his hand.

With his left hand he tucked a curl behind her ear as he studied her face. “You look … well.”

“I’m doing okay. Except for being nervous about the exhibit. Wondering if it’s a mistake to present myself in public so soon after … well, you know … that kind of thing. I’m glad to see you, though. I was going to call this weekend, try again to get together now that this show is … ” The sentence was left dangling as she tried to calm her pulse, now at aerobic exercise levels, with deep, slow breaths. But that only brought in the smell of his clean, woodsy aftershave, which didn’t help calm anything. “Are you in Seattle for a meeting or something?”

He freed his hand and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. After he wiped a smear of chocolate off his fingers, he removed a smudge of it from her mouth. “No, like I said, I heard there was a hot new artist exhibiting here tonight.”

“You drove all the way from Portland for this?”

“Yeah. Don’t I at least get a hug for that?”

She slipped her arms around his waist and nestled against him with a sigh. He held her close and rested his cheek on the top of her head. It felt so good to be in his arms again.

Without her heels on, she didn’t quite reach his shoulder so when he released her from the embrace, she stood on tiptoe and turned her face up to get him to bend and kiss her. He didn’t need much encouragement to give her a light butterfly of a kiss that awakened a dozen of its butterfly friends in her stomach.

“I’m so glad to see you. It has been so long,” she said.

“Four months, two weeks and six days, if anyone’s counting.” The dimple in his right cheek deepened and his brown eyes lit up as he smiled again.

“Apparently you are. Does that mean you missed me, cowboy?”

Ignoring her question, he draped an arm across her shoulders. “Since I must win the prize for driving the farthest for your opening, doesn’t that get me a personal tour of the work I fought through hellish traffic to see?”

“If you’ll stop complaining about the traffic like Portlanders always do, I’ll introduce you to some people and then show you around.”

When they got to the back of the gallery, Amanda said, “This is Cynthia Blaine, Sam. I worked in her studio in Seattle. Cynthia, I’d like you to meet … ”

“Oh-my-god-Sam, I believe you said as you dropped half of your favorite chocolate bar,” Cynthia said. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

“And this is Josh Franzen.” The two men shook hands.

“Sam is … Sam Richardson … is a friend I haven’t seen in a while,” Amanda said.

“Right. He’s the guy you … ” Cynthia began but changed direction when Amanda shot her a fierce look, afraid her friend would reveal exactly how much she talked about him. “ … the guy who helped your attorney,” Cynthia finished and glared back.

“I’m going to give Sam a tour of the show,” Amanda said as she picked up her sandals. “You mind? We won’t be long.”

“Don’t worry about us. We were about to leave for Bellingham anyway,” Cynthia said.

“I forgot about that. Say hello to your parents for me,” Amanda said. Holding on to Sam’s arm for balance, she reshod herself, then kissed her friend good-bye.

As she led Sam through the show, she pointed out her work, three sets of two pieces on the theme “Contrasts.”

“Interesting,” he said. He was examining a pair titled “War” and “Peace,” pebbles of glass on curves holding up a clear glass center shot through with strands of wire. “It’s more abstract than the ‘Emotions’ series I saw last year. I like what you’ve done with the metal and the glass.”

“I spent part of my time at Pilchuck experimenting to see how to get it to go together the way I wanted it to. And I’m still working on it.” She described creating the three-dimensional objects of glass, metal foils and slender wire. As she did, she proudly pointed out the red dots, indicating pieces already sold, which had broken out like measles on the tags identifying the pieces.

“I had to be talked into being part of this show, but I have to admit it’s the best one I’ve ever had, not that I’ve had that many shows. I’ve sold all of the pieces already, to serious collectors and at higher prices than I’ve ever gotten. I wasn’t sure what the response would be, but the previews were good and so far this evening everything seems to be going okay. It’s such a relief … ” She stopped. “I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry. I’ve been nervous all evening.”

“Nothing to apologize for. You should be excited. But looking at these prices, I’m glad I already own an Amanda St. Claire piece. I don’t think I could afford you now.”

“I could always work something out for you, Sam.”

“How about working out time for dinner with me tonight, then? Or do you have plans?”

“Max, the gallery owner, said a collector wanted to talk to me after the reception but she left so I’m not sure it’s still on. Let me check. Look around for a minute and I’ll find out.”

When the gallery owner said that the collector had left satisfied with her purchase and the earlier conversation, Amanda arranged to meet Sam at the bar in the hotel where he had a reservation for the night.

At eight-thirty, he was waiting for her with a glass of her favorite wine and a space next to him in an intimate booth. He had the same grin on his face he’d had in the gallery.

They clinked glasses and sipped. “I still can’t believe you’re really here,” she said. “That you drove all the way here for the opening. But I’m awfully glad to see you. We have so much to catch up on. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Why don’t we start by figuring out a place to eat? Any ideas about where you’d like to go?”

“About that,” she said as she pulled an iPhone out of her small purse.

His expression went from warm affection to cool distance and he sat back in the booth, watching her. “It’s okay. If you can’t do dinner, we can just talk until we finish the wine. At least I’ll have had a chance to see you … ”

“Stop over-analyzing, Detective Richardson. I’m not looking at the time because I’m planning to ditch you, I’m figuring out how long it’s been since I let the beast out.”

“What beast?”

“Chihuly.”

“Dale Chihuly, the famous glass artist?” He sounded confused.

“No, Chihuly my curly coated retriever puppy. He and all his litter mates were named for people with curly black hair.”

The affectionate smile was back. “And how is it having a puppy to take care of?”

“A challenge. Among other things, he chews on anything he can get his mouth around when he’s been left alone too long. Which is why I’m looking at the time.” She slipped the phone back into her purse. “Why don’t you come home with me while I take care of him and then we can eat in the neighborhood?”

• • •

Chihuly and Sam were introduced. The dog was walked, watered and fed. Her shoes now safe from her pet’s mouth for another couple hours, Amanda led Sam to the Italian restaurant a block away. After they’d ordered, she said, “You haven’t asked the obvious question yet about whether I’m coming back to Portland. How come?”

“Thought I’d enjoy the evening before I hear the answer I think I already know.” He took a sip of wine. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you look this happy. And I can hear the excitement when you talk about your work. It must have been a great residency.”

“Beyond my wildest dreams. You saw some of the work tonight. It’ll take years to exhaust what I learned there.”

“So, let’s put off the bad news ’til I kiss you good night.”

“What makes you think that’s gonna happen, Sam?”

He picked up his wine glass and took another swallow, avoiding her eyes. “I guess I’m not surprised. Your emails lately could have been sent by my sister and we haven’t talked in a week or so.” He swirled the wine in his glass for a few moments, then sat up and turned to face her. “On second thought, might as well get it over with. I assume you won’t be coming back to Portland. That right? ”

She smiled at him. Tore a piece from the baguette in the breadbasket, dipped it in the dish of olive oil and had a bite.

“Are you enjoying watching me twist in the wind, Amanda?”

“I have to confess, I am. I’ve never seen you off balance before. And I doubt I will any time soon again so let me have my moment.” But she couldn’t hold out against the anguished look in his eyes. “Okay, like I said, I’ve had a great time here, professionally. Personally, I wanted to be back in Portland. I missed the city.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not entirely accurate. I missed Portland, all right. But mostly I decided I wanted to see if the deal you offered me was still good.” It was her turn to drop her eyes.

After a deep breath, she looked up again. “I was going to call you this weekend, I really was, to tell you I was coming back to Portland. Assuming it matters to you. Next month. I mean, that’s when I’m moving.” Her eyes searched his face, trying to find the answer she wanted to see there.

Before Sam could say anything, the waiter brought their entrées, then came back with a pitcher to freshen their water glasses.

After the server left the second time, Amanda said, “So? No reaction? I thought you might like what I just said.”

He carefully cut a piece of his chicken cacciatore, chewed it and swallowed it before he answered. “Wasn’t sure how you’d react to my showing up in Seattle unannounced. You were happy to see me but you glowed when you talked about your time here. I thought about that after I left the gallery. Wondered if you’d be telling me you’re staying here.”

“So — you’re saying, what? You psyched yourself up for me to stay here? Is that what you want?”

“God, no.”

“Then, have you changed your mind about the deal?”

“The deal?”

“The one where I came back to Portland so we could see if we could make it work out between us. If I move back will you … can we … ?”

“Amanda,” he interrupted, “do you really think I drove all the way up here to see an art exhibit? I mean, I love your work but I came to see you. I had to find out what was going on. It’s been driving me nuts.”

“Then what is all this reluctance about — payback for not being in contact for a while or for saying I liked seeing you off balance?”

“I’m not reluctant. I don’t understand what you meant when you said I couldn’t kiss you good night.”

“No, I meant that you were expecting bad news but there wouldn’t be any.”

“Didn’t sound like that. It was either no kiss or … ” He snapped his fingers and said with an innocent expression, “Oh, wait. You meant you didn’t plan to say good night to me tonight.”

“You think I invite men to sleep over on our first date?”

“First date? We’re way beyond first date, aren’t we?”

“Have we ever had dinner out before tonight?” He shook his head. “Gone to a movie?” Head shake again. “Had anything that even vaguely resembles a date?” He opened his mouth to answer and she quickly said, “Rides to the ER don’t count.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“I mean, think about it. Yes, we’ve known each other for over a year and we’ve slept together. But it hasn’t exactly been a normal boy-meets-girl, has it? I know how you act in an emergency and how well you do your job but I don’t know what the M stands for in your name or whether you like to dance or swim.”

She waved her fork around as she continued with the list. “I don’t know whether you’re a morning or a night person. Where you went to college. Whether you went to college. I don’t even know how old you are, much less when your birthday is. Somehow we never got around to that kind of thing, what with a murder trial and drug dealers battering down my door.”

He laughed. “I guess I agree. Well, except for the sleeping together part. I don’t recall any sleeping that night.” He ignored her eye roll. “I admit we’ve done things in reverse but didn’t you say you’d make an exception for me.”

“That was about a piece of art, Sam, not relationships or sex or what-ever-it-is we’re talking about now.”

“So, what would you like to do for the rest of the evening?”

“How about we finish our dinner and then go home and have dessert. We can talk about it.” Before he could answer, she said, “There’s ice cream in the freezer and my roommate is gone for the weekend.”

“You’ve convinced me. And, since you asked: October 9th and I’m thirty-six. The M is for Martin, my mother’s family name. I swim okay but I grew up on a ranch so I’m better on horseback than in the water. I have a business degree from the University of Oregon and I’ll let you find out on your own about the morning/night thing. Maybe even soon.”

“What?”

“You said you didn’t know those things about me. Now you do. Except for the last one.”

“Oh.” When what he meant about “the last one” finally sunk in, she smiled. “Oh!”

“Your turn.”

She laughed. “What is this, the Cliff Notes approach to dating?” When he nodded she continued. “Okay, well — February 14th and I’m twenty-seven.”

“Oh, hell. I thought you just looked young. You really are young, aren’t you?”

“You make it sound like I’m jail bait.”

He started to say something but she stopped him. “Do you want to hear the rest or not?” He nodded. “My middle name is for my godmother and I hate it although I love her. But if I tell you, I expect that you will never, and I mean never, use it.” She waited until he acknowledged the ground rule. “Okay, it’s Minerva.”

It was obvious he was trying hard not to laugh. “That’ll be an easy promise to keep. I can’t think of any circumstances under which I’d call you Minerva.”

“Good. And for the rest — I love to dance. I’m a pretty good swimmer but I grew up with horses so I’d rather ride, too. I have an arts degree from Reed College. I’m more a morning person although I do all right at night if I have a good reason to be up.”

He raised an eyebrow at the last response.

“Oh, please. I meant that if I get involved in something I enjoy, I can be a night person.”

“That’s what I meant, too.”

“I’ll ignore that. And you forgot one.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, do you like to dance?”

“Only the really slow ones.” He motioned to the waiter who brought over the check.

“Well, we can work on that,” she said as she slid out of the booth.

• • •

While Sam walked Chihuly one last time, Amanda got out ice cream, chocolate syrup, whipped cream and maraschino cherries and made sundaes for them. When they were finished eating, Amanda took the bowls back to the kitchen. She returned to the living room to find Sam had put music on.

“Is that Chopin?” she asked.

“Yeah, the nocturnes.” He listened to a few bars. “The second.”

“Not what I’d have thought you’d pick. I would have imagined you’d have settled for my Jimmy Buffett.”

“Which stereotype we working from here: cowboy or cop?”

“Busted. Sorry.”

“My mother was a classical pianist. I grew up with Chopin, Rachmaninoff, Mozart, Glass, Gershwin. You name it, if it was piano music, we had a recording of it. Or she played it. And speaking of stereotypes — you and Jimmy Buffett? I’d have thought you were more the Norah Jones type.”

“One of the guys plays Jimmy in the studio and I’ve gotten to like him.”

“You have all sorts of interesting quirks, don’t you?”

She glanced up at him and looked around for a napkin. “And you have all sorts of chocolate syrup on your mouth.” She reached to wipe his mouth. “Here, let me … ”

“Let’s try the way I wanted to get the chocolate off your mouth in the gallery,” he said and gathered her into his arms.

His mouth was soft and cool; he tasted of vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup and the all-male flavor she remembered as “Sam.” He kissed her tenderly, like a sweet and gentle first kiss. When her lips parted, he circled her mouth with the tip of his tongue so softly she almost thought she imagined it. He broke from the kiss. “Better?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, having no idea whether there was still syrup on his mouth or not, and reached for him again.

This time he took possession of her lips with an ownership that left her breathless. His hands moved up her back and to the sides of her breasts while his tongue did magic tricks in her mouth. She matched his intensity with her own, months of longing flavoring their kiss and fueling the passion of their embrace.

When they came up for air, he traced the outline of her lips with his index finger as he said, “Any chance you can amend those first date rules of yours?”

“I’m thinking seriously about it.”

“How about we find someplace more comfortable for you to think about it?”

She led him down the hall to her bedroom. When they got there she kicked off her sandals and started to undo the ties of her halter-top that wrapped around her waist.

He came up behind her, reached around and stopped her hands. “Here, let me.” He undid the knot, unwound the ends and released the halter-top, slipping it over her head. He drew her back against his chest and caressed her breasts until she made soft noises of pleasure and her breathing quickened as he nuzzled her neck while he teased her nipples with his fingertips until they were hard.

“Oh, Sam, that’s … ah-h-h,” she breathed out in a ragged gasp.

He unzipped and eased her pants over her hips until they pooled on the floor then he lifted her out of them, picked her up and sat on the bed with her on his lap.

“Now you,” he said and put her hands on the first button of his shirt. When she had finished, he gently put her on the bed, stood up, pulled his shirt out of his jeans, unbuttoned the cuffs and stripped it off, his eyes holding hers the whole time. His boots and socks went next. He pulled a condom out of his wallet, put it on the bedside table and shed his jeans and boxer briefs.

He joined her in bed but when he began to slip off the scrap of lace she wore as panties, she stopped him.

“Do you always carry a condom in your wallet?”

He smiled and brushed a curl back from her cheek. “Not since I was a teenager.”

“So has that been there for twenty years or did you bring it from Portland today?”

“Neither.” The smile moved up to grin.

“Neither? Then, what? Come on, Sam. You’re busted now. Give it up.”

“The expression on your face today, in the gallery, when you first saw me. It was how I’ve always wanted you to look when you saw me. When you hugged me and looked up for me to kiss you, I thought, I wanted to think … anyway, when I walked past a drugstore on the way back to my hotel … ”

“You figured you should be prepared in case you got lucky tonight.”

He looked more serious now as he gently kissed her. “No, not like that. Not with you. I wanted to think that maybe you were telling me that the night in Portland was the beginning, not the end.”

“Oh, God, I hope so,” she said as she pulled him to her for a kiss that was neither gentle nor soft. As the kiss deepened, his hands began to wander to breast, to waist, to hips and thighs. Then his mouth found her breast, his tongue circled her nipples, first one, then the other. His hands brought her skin alive, brought fire and light to every cell in her body.

Separating her legs with his, he moved his hand to her sex. As his fingers slid into her on a flood of arousal, he circled her *oris with his thumb. Gasping out his name, rocking against his hand, she rode to the edge of climax then over.

She closed her eyes, coming down from the incredible high he’d given her. But he was not finished. He came back to her mouth and their lips touched, their tongues explored and danced. Somehow, sometime, she wasn’t sure when or how, he’d sheathed himself and now was slowly entering her, easing his way into her core. But she didn’t want slow and easy. She wanted all of him. Now.

She wrapped her legs around him and thrust her hips at him, calling out his name, rocking hard against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, bringing them both to orgasm.

Afterward, she clung to him, her head in his shoulder. When she finally looked up at him, he said, “You asked if I missed you. I can’t remember a longer four months. And do I care if you come back to Portland? Only about as much as I care that I wake up in the morning. That answer your questions?”