“I like the sound of that,” she said as she examined her hands.
“If I were to, say, come out to Cliffside Bay for a visit, would you let me take you to dinner?”
Her head snapped up to look at him. “Why me? With your looks and wealth, you could have a date with anyone.”
He reached across the couch with his long arm and put his hand over hers. “You make me feel awake. Alive. Curious. You make me want to dance.”
“Dance?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I have an idea.” He leaped up from the couch and went over to a cabinet with double doors. “I saw a record player in here.”
“A real one? Like from our time?”
“Yes.” He opened the doors wide and stepped back from the cabinet. “There are hundreds of records down here. Come pick one.”
She inched her way off the couch, careful not to let her skirt hike up around her thighs. If this man was coming for a visit, she might have to order some panties that didn’t have the capacity to cover Texas. Wait a minute, what was she thinking? She was still a good Catholic girl, even if she was fifty-three years old. No hanky-panky unless there was a ring on it. Could she see herself with a man like Dominic Perry? There were worse ideas than spending every night of the rest of her life with this broad-shouldered, intelligent, funny, and sensitive man. And those hands of his. Large and capable, even though he probably wore a suit every day of his working life.
Setting aside those insane internal babblings, she joined him at the cabinet. Hundreds of records were lined up on the highest shelf. How could she choose?
“I don’t know much about music,” she said. “I never had time.”
“Let’s see, then, if I can find just the right one.” He leaned closer and ran his finger along the spines.
“Can you see those?” she asked. “The print’s way too small.”
“Again, cataract surgery. Sexy, right?”
She laughed and found herself leaning her shoulder against his arm. This man made her comfortable.
“Ah, I’ve got it. Lionel Richie’s greatest hits.” He pulled the album out and held it out for her to see.
“I’d forgotten.” An image of her mother singing along to the radio while washing dishes played before her eyes. “My mother always turned the radio up when she heard ‘Stuck On You.’”
Dominic opened the lid of the turntable and slipped the album out of its cover.
She put her hand on his arm. “May I? I’ve alwayswanted to do it.”
He blinked, looking surprised. “You’ve never put a record on before?”
“No. We never had one.” The shame of her old enemy poverty crept up the back of her neck. “Rafael bought me one of those fancy phone players when they came out. Before that, the radio suited me fine.”
Dominic stepped aside and handed her the record. “Hold it with your palms, like this.”
She nodded and took it from him. Carefully, she placed it on the turntable. He pushed a button, and it began to spin.
“Lift the arm, here,” he said, pointing to the lever.
She pinched it between her thumb and finger, then froze midair. “Will I scratch it?”
“No, you’ll be fine. Place it as close to the edge as you can.”
Standing on her tippy-toes to get a better look, she gently set the needle down on the first track. A faint scratching sound came through the speakers for a second or two before the music started to play.
She turned to look at him, pleased with herself. Another first. This weekend was full of them.
He held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”
Shy, she simply nodded.
