Whelan stood in the doorway with a bottle of wine tucked under each arm and a handful of daisies.
“Come in,” she said, feeling her cheeks suddenly redden and heat. Was this the first time she’d entertained a man, alone, since Hoke? With a start, she realized it was.
Lola was still barking and now lunging at Whelan’s ankles.
He leaned down to pet the dachshund, but Lola bared her teeth and growled a warning.
“I’m sorry. She’s not usually like this,” Traci said, reaching for the flowers. “For me?”
“For you, from you. I swiped them from the perennial beds near the tennis courts. They were starting to get a little crowded, so I pruned ’em. So to speak.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll get them in some water,” Traci said. He followed her through the house, taking in the gleaming dark-stained hardwood floors, the creamy plaster walls, and arched, vaguely Moorish-inspired doorways.
The furniture tended toward dark, heavy antiques, stiff satin- covered sofas, and elaborately swagged and fringed brocade window treatments.
“The kitchen is right through here,” Traci said as they passed through the dining room. Whelan paused to gaze at an enormous gold-framed portrait of a blond woman with one of those stiff ’70s hairdos. She was dressed in a fancy hot-pink cocktail dress and seated in a fan-back rattan chair. Standing on either side of her were two little boys, dressed in fussy-looking smocked shirts, short pants, and high knee socks.
“Family?”
“My late mother-in-law, Helen. And that’s Hoke, on the left, and Ric on the right.”
Traci pretended not to notice Whelan’s scowl when she mentioned her brother-in-law’s name.
“The painting was hanging here when we moved into this house. Hoke wanted to take it down, but I didn’t want to hurt his mother’s feelings, and I guess I’ve just gotten used to seeing it there.”
She gestured around at the living and dining room, which opened up through a series of arched doorways. “Helen hired a very famous Palm Beach designer to decorate this house.”
“You don’t mind living with another woman’s taste?”
Traci shrugged. “I didn’t grow up in a family with a lot of money or inherited things.”
The kitchen was dated-looking and small, compared with the grand scale of the other rooms he’d seen. White cabinets, white appliances, yellow Formica countertops, and a small center island with a pair of yellow-vinyl-cushioned barstools.
She noticed Whelan’s look of surprise. “My mother-in-law wasn’t much of a cook. She used to say her favorite thing to make for dinner was reservations at the Verandah. We always intended to rip this out and enlarge it into the dining room to make it one larger, more casual space. Instead we bought a lot to build on. But…”
Whelan sniffed expectantly. “I take it youdocook?”
“When I have time, which I haven’t lately. Tonight’s dinner was catered by Felice, at the restaurant.” She recited the menu as the chef had dictated it to her.
“Want me to open the wine?” He noticed a couple of wineglasses and a corkscrew on the counter. “What’ll you have?”
“We could start with the white, or I’ve got a full bar over there.” She pointed at a vintage rattan bar cart stocked with a dozen liquor bottles, mixers, a crystal ice bucket, and a bowl full of sliced lemons and limes.
“It’s so hot out, how about a gin and tonic?” Whelan asked.
“Fine, I’ll let you bartend while I get these appetizers plated up.”
They sat at the kitchen island and sipped their drinks and devoured the scallops, filling the first few awkward minutes with idle chitchat about childhood pets, music, and anything that came to mind until the liquor had time to tamp down some of Traci’s anxiety.
It took major effort not to stare at the man sitting across from her. He was probably a few years older than her, and his reddish-blond hair, which touched the collar of his pale blue polo shirt, was streaked with more than a little silver. His skin was weather-beaten and his hands bore the scrapes and calluses of someone who used them to make a living. His build was stocky, but muscular, and he wore faded jeans and Topsiders, with no socks.
He wore no jewelry except for a watch. And there was no telltale tan line on the ring finger of his left hand.
Not that Traci was interested. The man was an employee. That would be weird.
She busied herself ferrying the salad plates and wineglasses into the dining room.
“Here. Let me help.” Whelan took the wineglasses and grabbed the bottles and the corkscrew.
