One Night

“Such a sweet girl.”

John stood beneath a big awning constructed in the Johnson backyard. There were about twenty-five guests, none of whom John had ever met before. He’d been introduced to everyone and recalled most of their names. After years of traveling, he’d developed a knack for recalling people and events.

Roland Emery, the husband of one of Mrs. Johnson’s richest friends, stood next to him, munching on foie gras. “Who?” John asked.

Roland pointed across the lawn at the large knot of people, the setting sun bathing them in burnt orange. “Colleen.”

John speared a little weenie with a toothpick and stuck it on his plate next to crab-stuffed Camembert. “So I’ve heard.”

“She and Joyce put this whole thing together for her parents.” Roland took a drink of something on the rocks. John noted a hint of censure and Roland’s next words removed any doubt. “Never were too busy for them.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” John questioned, eyeing the man more closely. Did he know Roland?

“Your parents miss you,” Roland explained.

And it clicked for John. Roland’s strong jaw and stance was familiar. And the drink he held, whiskey he would bet. Roland Emery was his father’s boss. But John was still confused, because as far as he could remember, his father and Roland weren’t friends. But he smiled anyway, gulping down the remainder of his own glass. “The interstate runs two ways, Mr. Emery.”

The older man nodded. “That’s true enough.”

John moved down the table filled with hors d’oeurves. Directly behind him, sixties music played from speakers hidden by planters of tall grasses. John ate the Camembert on thin crackers and followed that up with a few stuffed mushrooms. He raised his gaze to the people milling about the lawn amidst lit torches and candles floating in various fountains.

His gaze moved to the group of people standing near a nymph fountain, and once again landed on one brunette in particular. Colleen had curled her hair, and the setting sun caught in the big waves and touched the side of her face. She wore a tight blue dress with tiny white flowers that hit just above the knee. The thin straps of the dress looked like bra straps, and a white ribbon circled her ribs and was tied beneath her breasts.

Earlier, before the guests had arrived that evening, he’d watched the caterer set up while Colleen and Joyce place photos of the guests of honor along the tables in the grasses. Roland had been right. Colleen did take care of her family. A twinge of guilt plucked his conscience. What he’d said to Roland had been true too. The interstate did run two ways, and he’d rarely headed in the direction of his family. They’d let things fall to nothing, and whether it was his parents’ fault or his didn’t seem to matter anymore.

He polished off the remaining hors d’oeuvre and threw the plate in the trash. With that happy reflection, he ordered a scotch on the rocks at the open bar, then made his way to an unoccupied corner of the lawn. To preserve his sanity, John eavesdropped on the different conversations taking place around him.

“I’ll have to stop in your little shop,” the woman next to Colleen said. “I might find a thing or two to spice up my wardrobe.”

“Lisa, you always say that,” Colleen managed as smooth as mutter. Light from the torches flickered and seeped through the soft strands of her dark curls, touching the corners of her phony-as-hell smile.

“I’m going to do it this time. I hear you have some interesting pieces.”

The corners of Colleen’s fake smile went higher, but she didn’t answer.

Standing directly across from John, Mrs. Johnson conversed with several women who looked to be about her age. “Betty Morton told me Colleen has a vintage store,” one of them said. “I don’t get that trashy look all the girls are sporting nowadays. My Charlotte wears those second-hand clothes like they’re Prada.”

Instead of defending Colleen, Mrs. Johnson asserted in a voice that brooked no disagreement, “No, Colleen has a trendy boutique.” Within the wavering light, John watched Colleen’s phony smile fade. Her gaze narrowed as she excused herself from Lisa and moved across the lawn to disappear behind pots of tall grasses.

John followed Colleen and found her looking through a stack of CDs next to the sound system. The light from the torches barely leached through the grasses as she read the titles by the blue LCD light.

“What are you putting on next?” he asked.

“AC/DC.” She glanced up, then returning her gaze to the CD in her hand. “Mother hates ‘racket.’ ”

John chuckled and moved behind her. “Shoot To Thrill” would probably spike Mrs. Johnson’s blood pressure ad give her heart failure. While that might be amusing, it would run the party. He looked over Colleen’s shoulder at the stack of music. “I haven’t heard Dusty Springfield in years. Why don’t you play that?”

“Fine, party pooper,” Colleen said, and picked up Dusty’s CD. “Have you stopped in to see your parents?”

John forced himself not to grimace. “That’ll have to wait. I’m leaving in the morning. Got to get back to work.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “When will you be back?”

“I don’t know.” After he finished this next album, he was headed around the Northeast and Canada. After that he was off to the UK. At some point, he had to release the album. But there was no rush.

Colleen shrugged and one thin strap slid down her arm. She pushed Play and Dusty Springfield’s lush, soulful voice flowed like a sexy whisper from the speakers. She shook her head and her hair brushed her bare shoulders. John felt a strong urge to raise his hand and reach for a curl resting against her skin. To feel the texture with his fingers. He took a few steps back, retreating deeper into the darkness. Away from the scent of her neck and the inexplicable compulsion to touch her hair.

He supposed his insides were getting all tied up in hot knots over Colleen because he hadn’t been laid in months. That had to be the reason. With the close of tour and the pressure of writing for their next album, he’d put off his sex life. As soon as he got back on the road, he was going to have to do something about that.

A man just shouldn’t put off something like sex. Especially when he wasn’t used to going without. He raised his glass to his lips and polished off his scotch. “As a kid, I used to wonder.”

“Wonder what?” She took a step toward him. A shaft of light cut across the darkness and lit up Colleen’s cleavage but left her face in inky shadow.

The memory of her naked flashed in his head and got all missed and confused with the woman standing in front of him. Desire crawled down his belly and tightened his groin. He pulled his gaze from her cleavage and looked behind him. The very last thing he needed to complicate his life was Colleen Johnson.

He turned and moved a few feet toward a wrought-iron bench sitting beneath a pruned dogwood tree. If it hadn’t been painted white, it would have been undetectable in the darkness. He sat and leaned back against the cool metal. He cleared his throat. “Um, nothing.” Lame.