The wedding rehearsal was scheduled for 7:00 P.M. Winnifred Gardner opened the door of St. Alphonsus Catholic Church at ten after. Hoping to slip in unobtrusively, she was dismayed when a howling gust of March wind caught the door and whipped it out of her hand, then sent it thunking against the brick wall before swirling inside the vestibule, announcing her tardiness to everyone. Muttering a curse, she tried to hold the hair out of her eyes with one arm while recapturing the stubborn door with the other.
There must have been fifteen people in the vestibule, and every face turned to note her late arrival. Bride, groom, priest, servers, parents, groomsmen, ushers and bridesmaids all watched her rush in, breathless, smelling like old Earl Evvsvold's garage floor and looking as if her hair had been styled with his air hose.
Sandy Schaeffer-tomorrow's bride and Winnie's dearest friend-left Father Waldron's side and hurried forward, smiling.
"Winnie, you made it!"
" Sandy, I'm so sorry I'm late, but my car-"
Sandy waved away the explanation. "It's okay. The organist isn't here yet, either, so we've just been talking over the procedure before we walk through it." Sandy reached impulsively for Winnie's hand but had barely touched it before it was sharply withdrawn.
"Don't touch me! I stink like gas. Oh, I hate those pump-your-owns!" Winnie sniffed her fingers, grimaced and hid the hand inside her coat pocket just as a stocky brown-haired man joined them.
"There she is! The maid of honor." He plopped a platonic kiss on Winnie's cheek.
"Hi, Mick. Sorry I'm late. Everything went wrong tonight."
"No problem. We just got here ourselves."
Winnie assessed Sandy 's prospective groom-a sturdy convivial man of Polish descent, who'd made his fiancee the happiest woman in Brooklyn Park, Minnesota. There were times when Winnie envied them immensely for sharing "that certain something" so elusive and necessary to a truly special relationship. They laughed often, teased each other and shared so many common interests. Mick draped an arm around Sandy 's shoulders and grinned down at her while Winnie began moving away toward the washroom.
But Mick stopped her and crooked a finger at someone. "Hey, Jo-Jo, come on over here." A man turned from his conversation with Mick's parents, raised an index finger, turned back to the couple to excuse himself and approached.
He clapped Mick's shoulder. "What's up, Ski, my man?"
Mick Malaszewski slapped his friend's shoulder and caught Winnie's elbow with his free hand. "I guess it's about time you two met. Jo-Jo, this is Winnifred Gardner, Sandy 's maid of honor. Winnie, this is my best man and my best friend, Joseph Duggan."
Jo-Jo. How many times had she heard the name? A firm square hand captured Winnie's before she could warn him to beware of gas. But a moment later she forgot all about warnings, except that of her own heart as she heard again the pleasant tenor voice, rich with expressiveness.
"So this is Winnie. It's about time I met the woman I'm going to walk down the aisle with." He covered the top of her hand with his other and gave her a smile to match that in his voice.
He was nothing at all like what she'd expected. Not as tall, not as crude, not as brooding. Somehow the name Joseph Duggan had conjured up a tough thuggish sort, a longshoreman, maybe, with a wild Irish temper and a burly body. Instead, Jo-Jo was a toned and tapered five-feet-ten, had a head full of wild fluffy brown curls and the most twinkly eyes she'd ever encountered. His hand was dry, hard and very commanding. And as Winifred placed her left hand atop his, she forgot the engagement ring upon it.
"Joseph," she said simply. "It seems as if we should have met years ago after all I've heard about you."
"I'll second that. I've heard plenty about you, too, and it appears none of it was quite true."
"Oh?" She cocked her head inquisitively.
"They've been holding out on me." For a moment his eyes flickered down to her mouth, then back up. Winnie suddenly realized how warm, personal and extended the handshake had become. She jerked free and leaped back a step.
"Oh, you're going to stink like gas! I'm sorry! I ran the pump over just a few minutes ago while I was filling my… my car, and I got it all over my hand and on my shoe and my cuff, and I was going straight to the ladies' room to get rid of the stench, but I never got the chance and-" she raked her hair with four fingers "-and the wind practically tore my hair out, roots and all. I have to… to comb it."
"A pity," he teased.
"A pity? Why, I look like a disaster, and I… I didn't-" She stumbled to a halt. Winnifred Gardner, why ever are you prattling, she thought while Joseph Duggan watched a becoming blush inch its way up one of the most charming chins he'd ever seen, then pass an exquisite mouth whose lips had dropped open in surprise. He lifted his eyes to her beguilingly disheveled hair. In the muted amber light it appeared to be the color of peanut butter. Large wide eyes stared at him momentarily before she did the most amazing thing: she blinked… but with only one eye! It was the most unusual nervous reaction he'd ever seen. And it had been a nervous reaction, and it had been a blink, not a wink. For a winking face uses more than an eye to flash its message. This was a blink, pure and simple, but he'd never in his life seen anyone do it so charmingly.
Her eyes flickered down to his Adam's apple, then away from him entirely, and he let his gaze wander downward. Her name doesn't fit. Winnifred Gardner sounds like a supercilious prude with lineage and laureateship. Instead, the woman before him seemed to blend the shyness of Winnie-The-Pooh with the conditioned body of Superwoman, and the whole bundle smelling like gas.
Joseph Duggan was enchanted.
"You have a few minutes yet. Father Waldron is still socializing over there."
Winnie clapped her mouth shut and whirled toward the hall leading to the washroom. Behind her, she heard Jo-Jo Duggan's voice chiding Sandy and Mick. "Where in the blazes have you been hiding her all these years?"
In the clean silent lavatory she doused her hands liberally with pink liquid soap and scrubbed furiously. After rinsing, she gave them a critical sniff and disgustedly began soaping again. This time she worked a thumb roughly over her knuckles in an effort to get rid of the smell. In the process she cut herself on her diamond ring. The swift sting of the soap in the cut brought her back to her senses.
Winnifred Gardner, act your age. He's just teasing. And obviously a flirt. He probably said what he did just to see how you'd react, and you came through with classic feminine witlessness!
Still, when she checked her reflection in the mirror, her cheeks held two bright patches of flustered blood, and her eyes were a little too sparkly, her lips quirked up in a grin that told how great it felt-witless or not-to be flirted with.
She removed her coat and caught it over one wrist, scrutinizing her dress. It was a pale mauve shapeless thing that came alive when its belt was cinched. She smoothed the wool over both hips and recalled Paul's words: "Well, well, a dress. What do you know about that?" If he hadn't prefaced his compliment with that wry remark, she wouldn't have become so piqued. But by the time he'd got around to adding, "You look great, darling," the effect had been ruined. Next he'd dropped his eyes to her high heels, given a mock-lurid grin followed by a growl as he buried his face in her neck, whispering his intentions, had she not had to leave at that moment. Still stung by his earlier remark, she'd pushed him away and given him a conciliatory kiss instead of the dressing down he deserved. It wasn't as if she never wore dresses!
Winnie pushed aside the memory, stooped to wipe the dull spot where the gas had splattered the toe of her black-patent high heel. She felt uncomfortable in both dress and heels, but what else was a woman supposed to wear in a church to practice walking on a white linen runner on the arm of a best man?
Back in the vestibule, Winnie felt his eyes following her as she slipped between Sandy 's mother and father to greet them warmly, looping a hand through each of their arms.
"Why, Winnie, I didn't see you come in. Did the dress arrive?" Ann Schaeffer inquired.
"All hemmed properly and ready to go. And how about at your house? Any last-minute complications?"
"None. Everything's ready for tomorrow."
"But I'll bet you're both exhausted."
"I confess, we've-"
A shrill whistle cut through the vestibule and echoed in the cavernous nave beyond the open double doors: Mick calling attention to Father Waldron, who began filling everyone in on the opening part of the service. As he talked, he entered the main part of the church, and the wedding party followed.
Winnie moved toward the door, conscious that Joseph Duggan awaited there to escort her inside. She avoided his eyes until the last minute, then lifted her gaze to find him with a scintillating sparkle still in his eyes and the flirtatious expression on his lips. For the first time she realized why his buddies called him Jo-Jo. That name fit. While commandeering the coat from her arm, he gave her hair the once-over.
"I liked it better messy, Winnifred Gardner, and there was something a little offbeat and amusing about a girl wearing gasoline for perfume. But anyway, may I?" He presented his right elbow in courtly fashion, still grinning devilishly as they moved inside.
"Thank you, and no thank you, Mr. Duggan. I'm not certain if I've just been insulted, laughed at or both. But I can walk perfectly well without your elbow while I'm deciding."
His grin became dazzling, and without a glance aside he dropped her coat in the last pew, then took a rather deliberate grip on her elbow as they moved toward the front pews.
For the next five minutes Father Waldron outlined the procedures and rituals of the wedding service, explaining that both bride and groom had elected to walk up the aisle with their respective parents and have the attendants do so as pairs. Winnie had known this, of course, but had scarcely given it a second thought until now, seated on a hard wooden pew with Jo-Jo Duggan's knees sprawled wide, one of them only a scant inch from her own. He straightened, turned more fully in Father Waldron's direction and hung his wrist on the pew behind her.
Not only a flirt, but an accomplished flirt!
The door at the rear of the church slammed, and scampering footsteps clicked up the aisle, causing every head to turn.
There stood a birdlike woman, pulling black gloves from her fingers, clutching a portfolio against her coat front. "I'm sorry, Father. I would have been here sooner, but somebody fed my cat beer and got it drunk and…"
The rest was drowned out by laughter, and the twittery woman became more flustered. Father Waldron's voice echoed in the empty church. "Lent just being over, the cat probably needed it, Mrs. Collingswood."
Beside Winnie, Jo-Jo Duggan's chest shook with laughter, and his eyes glinted as if he himself might very well have pulled such pranks once or twice in his day and sympathized not with the cat, but with the prankster.
"We're ready for the music whenever you are, Mrs. Collingswood," Father advised benevolently.
"Oh… oh, certainly, Father." Her footsteps carried through the church again, then became a series of muffled thuds on the stairway at the rear. There followed a silence, the rustle of sheet music and a few testing notes.
Within minutes Winnie found herself walking beside Joseph Duggan toward the rear of the church. Father Waldron directed the proceedings like an elementary teacher at a school play, while everyone awaited instructions and cues.
Standing in the shadowed vestibule, Winnie covertly studied the best man more carefully. He was dressed casually, as were most of the men present. His Levi's were dark and new and creased. They fit snugly across lean hips and partially concealed clean new tennis shoes with a neat blue wave curling along their sides. Beneath a lightweight spring jacket he wore a button-down shirt of pale yellow. While listening to the priest, Duggan stood with feet widespread, firmly planted, both his hands slipped into his rear pockets. The stance pulled his open jacket aside, revealing a sturdy chest and hollow belly. Through the thin cotton of his right shirtfront she saw the dim image of a nipple. His other was hidden behind a breast pocket pressed flat against his chest. Father Waldron gestured, and Joseph Duggan's head swerved to follow the pointing finger. His profile was startlingly attractive, and she wondered why, for he had the kind of face that would still look seventeen when he was fifty, a vernal combination of features contrasting oddly with his physically fit five-feet-ten frame and the dense whiskers that must-she was sure-require two shaves a day if he had evening appointments. His nose was slightly upturned, rather short, and his forehead unmarked by frown line or blemish. The amber lights gilded the top of his girlish locks, which fluffed out just enough to obscure his hairline and touch the perimeter of his shiny forehead. For a moment Winnie wondered if she'd ever touched the hair of a man who possessed such curls. Not that she could recall. Paul's hair was feather cut to ultimate perfection, never out of place, always blow combed away from his face and held lightly in place with hair spray. She was accustomed to Paul's fastidious ways and found the breezy natural look of Joseph Duggan's unfettered curls arresting. She'd always thought curly-haired men rather effeminate looking. But there wasn't a square inch of Jo-Jo Duggan that was effeminate. Shorter by a good two inches than most men she'd dated, shorter than Paul by at least six, he had a sturdiness that compensated for the difference in height.
Perhaps it was the stance that caused her eyes to sweep his length and linger longer than was prudent: shoulders back, chest out, athletic, self-assured and perhaps a slight bit cocky.
Or maybe she gave him the twice-over simply because he was so different. Different from Paul.
He turned, caught her studying him and flashed a smile that transformed his face into a tableau of charm. He did it so effortlessly she wondered how many hearts he'd broken with no conscious intent. He smiled more with the right side of his mouth than the left, but with every volt of candlepower his eyes possessed. He had the most beautifully matched set of eyebrows she'd ever encountered, and when the lids beneath them lowered and crinkled at the corners, his smile was devastating. Bedroom eyes, some women called such as these, with their dark spiky lashes and that killing little flicker of teasing that would probably be present were he kissing the ring of the Pope of the Holy Catholic Church!
It glittered out of the nearly closed lids now as he turned and moved closer. "Looks as if you and I come fourth."
"Fourth?" She jerked awake, realizing she'd been preoccupied and had missed what Father Waldron was saying.
"In the wedding procession."
"Oh!"
"We head out when Jeanne and Larry get halfway up the aisle in front of us."
"Yes, I know." But she hadn't known. She'd been too busy assessing Jo-Jo Duggan to pay attention. "We'd better get behind them, then."
The vestibule was crowded, everyone conversing softly, when the talk was brought to a halt by the resounding chords of Lohengrin's Wedding March. The traditional song was a surprise in today's upbeat world where everything from the Beatles to John Denver was used as wedding music. The staunch fortissimo chords had a legend of power and tradition that vibrated not only through the ceiling over Winnifred Gardner's head, but right through her body.
Her head snapped up, and her eyes met those of Joseph Duggan.
"I think that's our song," he said, offering his elbow. The grin had softened but was still on his face, disarming. "This time you have no choice."
Her eyes dropped down to the cream-colored sleeve of his jacket, and a queer premonition joined the body vibrations already scintillating along her nerves in time to the music. Touch him, and you're a goner. The flower girl and ring bearer were being coaxed up the aisle, then the first pair of attendants had reached the halfway spot. Winnifred looped her hand on the crook of Joseph Duggan's arm and let him lead her to the double doors.
It was disconcerting, being so drawn to a total stranger. The sleeve of his jacket was cool, but as her hand rested upon it, the warmth of his skin seeped up and made her aware of how solid his flesh was within. He stood with feet firmly planted, watching the couple ahead, waiting. Winnie was on his left, thus it was her right ringless hand resting on his elbow. She experienced a discomfiting jolt of guilt at the thought that she was glad she didn't have to expose her left hand just yet. There was a smell about him she couldn't identify, something purifying, but not perfumed. A utilitarian soap, maybe, mixed with fresh air and the faint odor of dye, as if it were the first time he'd worn his blue jeans.
A twitch of his elbow made her look up into his face. "Ready?"
She nodded.
"On three, then, starting with the left."
They concentrated on the couple ahead. "One… two… three," she whispered. He pulled Winnie's hand against his ribs as they took their first step down the aisle.
It was the first time Winnie had been asked to act as a maid of honor. It was oddly disquieting. Why ever was she feeling so much like a bride? Programming, she supposed. Weren't all little girls programmed to respond to the song now beating upon her ears? Weren't they all taught to think of growing up in terms of "walking down the aisle"? Women's liberation had done virtually nothing to sway women's minds away from dreams of all that was traditional when it came to weddings.
She watched Jo-Jo Duggan's walk for the first time from the very distracting angle of top to bottom. His unblemished tennis shoes made not a sound, but his crisp jeans crackled slightly, and within them his thighs pressed as firmly as air against the inside of a balloon. To her surprise he strode not with the haughty athletic swagger she might have expected after his stance in the vestibule but instead moved with relaxed poise, almost as if strolling in time to the music instead of marching to it. He had superb rhythm.
"How am I doing?" he whispered.
Her eyes flew up to find him grinning down at her.
"You must be a dancer."
His grin shifted to a wince, and he whispered, "Hardly."
"Well, maybe you should be. You have impeccable timing."
"Thank you, Ginger. Next time I'll bring my top hat and cane."
She nudged his ribs and hissed, "Shh. Not here, Fred."
They'd reached the chancel rail and followed the verbal and hand directions of Father Waldron, separating and taking their places on either flank.
Turning to face the pews, Winnie watched Mick approach. She liked the fact that he and Sandy had chosen to walk up the aisle with their parents-Mick first, so he could be waiting when Sandy arrived to be given over from the arm of her father. She herself had never known a father and would be disinclined to walk up the aisle with her mother.
Just before Sandy reached the chancel, Winnie glanced across at Joseph and found his eyes resting steadily on her, as if they'd been there for some time. He smiled briefly, then looked away, and the rest of the instructions began. When they'd walked through the ritual of the bridal service itself, the attendants were instructed to file into the front pew, again in pairs, for the remainder of the Nuptial Mass.
Winnie and Joseph were seated side by side, their hips separated by a few scant inches of hard wooden pew. His upper arm brushed hers, and she felt him glance at her when she crossed her arms to end the contact.
"Are you Catholic?"
She looked up in surprise. "Of course. Why?"
"Just wondering. I am, too, but I've never been too comfortable sitting through all this hoopla our church puts on at weddings. Reminds me of a carnival."
She smiled at her lap, trying to imagine him sitting through it dressed in a tux and ruffles. Somehow the picture didn't fit.
Just then Father Waldron raised his voice toward the choir loft. "And that will be my cue for you to begin the recessional, Mrs. Collingswood. Attendants, you'll come and take your places beside the new bride and groom before the final wedding march begins."
They lined up along the front of the church again, and this time when the organ boomed its call to exit, Winnie and Joseph met in the center aisle with a chuckle, a smile and the sense of growing familiarity such routine practices often generate.
They walked through the entire service once more before the entourage again clustered in the vestibule, and Mrs. Malaszewski reminded everybody that the groom's supper would be served at their house as soon as everyone got back there.
"So you drove, huh?" Winnie found Joseph Duggan again at her side, this time holding her coat. Slipping it on, she wished she could say no, just to see what he'd suggest.
"Yes… remember the gas?"
"Yes, I remember. Too bad, or we could ride over to Mick's house together."
"Well, in any case, I'll see you there."
He opened the exterior door, and a blast of wind nearly knocked her back against his chest. Instinctively he took her elbow as they ran down the steps together, her coat flapping back across his thighs, and her hair slicked straight back from her face. In the parking lot he stopped her with a forceful pressure of his thumb in the hollow of her elbow.
"If you get there first, save me a place next to you."
The wind worked its way inside his jacket and ballooned it out. He dropped her elbow and reached to raise the zipper higher up his chest. The curls on the upper right-hand side of his skull were forced flat, while her own collar-length hair blew across her mouth and eye. She stood in the wind looking up at him, wondering what to reply, knowing she wasn't permitted to encourage him, yet answering, "And if you get there first, save a seat for me."
"It's a promise. Only don't comb your hair this time!"
"I…" A strand of it whipped into her open mouth. "What?"
He'd started jogging away but turned and jogged backward five steps while calling, "I said don't comb your hair this time. It looked great when you first walked into church!"
Some off-tempo warning slanted through her heart. Beware. He's an inveterate flirt and a practiced flatterer. And you're only walking up the aisle with him by accident. In three short months you'll be walking up the aisle for real!
The groom's dinner turned out to be served buffet-style, but the dining-room table was extended as wide as it would go, and when Winnie took her plate and sat down, Joseph Duggan followed. He swung his leg over the seat of the chair as if it were a barbed-wire fence he was climbing over and deposited before himself a plate that needed sidecars to hold all the food he'd heaped upon it.
"Aw, you combed it," he chided, then sank his teeth into a slab of sliced ham.
"Mr. Duggan, do you always flirt with every girl you meet within five minutes of meeting her?"
"Was I flirting?"
"It's only a rough guess, because I'm really not up on the subject, but it felt like it to me."
"You're not up on the subject? A girl with your face and-" his eyes flickered downward, not quite reaching her breasts before starting up again "-hair?"
She ignored his continued flattery and commented, "Yes, I combed my hair. It looked like an explosion in a silo."
"Never." He assessed the subject of the discussion. "And it's pretty. A really pretty color and length."
She felt out of her league. "There you go again."
"You call that flirting?"
"Well, isn't it?"
He lifted a glass of milk, took three enormous swallows, ran a thumb along one corner of his mouth-and all without removing his eyes from her hair. When at last they dropped to hers, he replied, "No, just a compliment. I like your hair, okay? What are you so defensive about?"
It was the perfect opening. She lifted her left hand, pressed her thumb against the inner platinum band of the engagement ring so the stone stood out away from her fourth finger. "This."
His eyes dropped, and for a moment there was no change in his expression. "Oh, I see. Well, you can't blame a man for trying." She rested her hand on the edge of the table, and without warning he picked it up, studied the modest diamond at very close range and surprised her by carrying it to his mouth, tilting his head and pretending to bite the rock. Drawing back, he continued holding her hand while grinning engagingly. "Damned if it isn't real," he said softly.
She burst out laughing but left her hand where it was. Inadvertently his tongue had touched her fourth finger and left a tiny spot of skin damp at the knuckle. It seemed to burn now as he studied the diamond and fingered it with thumb and index finger. He glanced up and bestowed that teasing little-boy grin. "Some guys have all the luck."
Reluctantly she withdrew the hand and began eating again. But she could feel his eyes on her time and again in between the moments of attention he gave to his plate.
"So, when's your big day?" he asked.
"Only three months away. The third Saturday in June."
"Ah, a June wedding, no less."
"Yes, we've had the date picked out for almost a year."
"You and-?"
"Paul Hildebrandt."
"Paul Hildebrandt," he repeated thoughtfully, then filled his mouth with potato salad. When he'd swallowed, he studied her askance. "So, what's he like?"
"Oh, he's…" She drew circles on her plate with a celery stick. "He's ambitious and extremely intelligent, and very easy on the eye." She sensed that Joseph Duggan had stopped chewing, so quirked a quick peek at him from the corner of her eye.
"Naturally," he grunted sardonically, "he would be good-looking."
"But then, maybe I'm biased. You'll meet him tomorrow, and you can see for yourself."
"He'll be at the wedding?"
"Yes, though he only knows Sandy and Mick through me. He wasn't part of my old college crowd. I met him after I graduated."
"From the University of Minnesota?"
"Uh-huh. I went there, too, at the same time as Sandy and Jeanne and Larry and some of the others."
"That makes you…" He squinted an eye while doing mental calculations. "Twenty-four years old."
"Twenty-five. And how old are you?"
"Twenty-seven."
"And I take it you're not married, nor considering it?"
"Absolutely not."
"And there's no… girl friend coming with you tomorrow?"
"There's a girl friend-" he mimicked her pause perfectly "-but I'm not sure if she'll make it back in time. She's gone to South Dakota for a funeral."
"Nobody close, I hope."
"An aunt."
"Mmm…"
They fell silent for a moment. Their plates were empty. Winnie carefully wiped her mouth and more carefully avoided eye contact with the man beside her. But after some moments curiosity got the better of her, and she turned to find he'd been sitting with an elbow propped on the table, jaw to knuckle, studying her for some time. Discomfited by his close scrutiny, she groped for a conversational diversion.
"What's her name?"
"I have no idea."
A puzzled frown puckered Winnie's eyebrows. "You have no idea what your girl friend's name is?"
He laughed and seemed to force himself out of a deep reverie long enough to stop staring. "Oh, I thought you meant her aunt. My friend's name is Lee Ann Peterson, but I wouldn't really call her a girl friend. We've been seeing each other, that's all."
"And what's she like?"
He squared his shoulders and pressed them against the cane-backed chair. "Like all the rest." Did he pronounce that rather wearily, she mused. "A little bit smart, but a lot more dumb. A little on the ball, but often vague. Not quite as mature as she should be for her age and kind of scatterbrained." He glanced at Winnie sharply, as if owing her an explanation. "These are only impressions, of course. I don't know her well enough."
"And what does she look like?"
He flashed his devilish grin. "She's got a great body."
Winnie felt herself blushing. He hadn't passed his eyes down her torso, but she felt as if he had, for comparison's sake.
"You're a body man, then?" she ventured, trying to cut him down with a note of cool disdain.
A wicked glint sparkled in his eye. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. You see I have this-"
"Spare me, Mr. Duggan." She lifted both palms and held her eyes closed for a full five disgusted seconds. "I'm not interested in the graphic details."
"You didn't let me finish… Miss Gardner. I was about to say I have this little shop in Osseo where I refurbish old cars. Two of my brothers are in it with me, and sometimes when we buy a wreck, there's plenty of bodywork to be done."
She covered her eyes and groaned, then peeked from behind her fingers. "I think I've been adequately put in my place."
"No, it was my fault. I deliberately made the comment about bodies. I'm sorry."
"So, you own a body shop."
He tipped his head aslant and puzzled silently. "Mmm… sort of, but not specifically. We do bodywork to earn money, but our labor of love is restoring classics."
"You mean like '57 Chevys?"
"No, mostly older, classicker than that. Right now I'm restoring a '54 Cadillac pickup."
"A Cadillac pickup? They never made pickups," she stated suspiciously.
"Oh, yes, they did. They used them as hearses for funerals. 'Flower cars,' they were called, and had rollers on the bed to roll the casket on."
"And where does one find such jewels?"
"In farmers' fields, at antique auctions, places like that. I bought this one from an old duffer up in Brooten, Minnesota, and it was in pretty decent condition. She's turning out to be a beauty-four hundred cubic inches and a V-8 engine, and-" Suddenly he cut himself off, then shrugged. "Well, you're not interested in that. I get carried away when it comes to cars."
She found it pleasant to be with a man who got carried away with something more understandable than computers. Duggan's eyes had danced with enthusiasm as he'd spoken of the collector's item he prized. But now he turned the conversation over to her.
"Tell me. What does the lucky Mr. Hildebrandt do?"
She was beginning to understand: flirting and flattery were second nature to this man. They scintillated from his eyes and rolled from his tongue with an effortless mindless ease. More than likely he was scarcely conscious of employing them so often. Ignoring his last ego tickler, she answered only the sensible portion of his remark.
"He's in computer work. They call him an 'optimizer.' He solves all the long-running problems nobody else has been able to solve. He's sort of a wizard, I guess you'd say."
"And how about you?"
But now she couldn't resist the temptation to tease. The subject was simply too opportune. "Well, I'm in bodywork, too." The grin had already begun climbing his attractive cheek when she hurried on. "But I work with human bodies. I'm a physical therapist at North Memorial Medical Center."
"An odd combination-a computer man and a physical therapist."
"No more odd than a body man and a-what is she again?"
"A hostess at a Perkins Pancake House."
"Ah," she breathed knowingly, laying a finger along her rounded cheek. "A hostess."
"Do I detect a supercilious note?"
Winnie was abashed to realize he had, so rushed to deny it. "Not at all. I was just… well, making small talk. After all, she…" But suddenly Winnie had the surprising urge to tell the truth. She met Joseph Duggan's eyes directly, hoping she looked properly contrite. "Yes, I confess. I was being supercilious. I get it from my mother, whose main goal in life has been to succeed. And success to her is career. I find myself at times mirroring her-shall we call it, her middle-class disdain for the careerless multitudes? And when I catch myself at it, I hate it. But underneath I don't really think I'm as bigoted as I sound when I make comments like that. I sometimes think I've been programmed by mother to say things, whether I mean them or not."
It was one of the first times she'd seen Joseph Duggan's face neither smiling nor teasing. It reflected only deep thought, then a straightforward study of her own face, ending with a glance at her forehead and hair. His deep brown eyes returned to her sapphire blue ones with a look of approval.
"You're remarkable."
"I'm…" She chuckled and shook her head, glancing at her lap self-consciously, for this time she thought his compliment sincere. "I'm not remarkable at all. I'm very ordinary and filled with flaws. That's only one of them I just foolishly blurted out."
"Foolishly? I wouldn't call it foolish. I'd call it honest, and a little humble. Not many people assess their motives with that kind of clearheadedness. Is your… Paul Hildebrandt as honest as you?"
She met his eyes again, surprised at how she suddenly hated to recall that there was a Paul Hildebrandt while in this man's very enjoyable company. Guilt immediately followed, making her sing Paul's praises perhaps a little too vehemently. "Oh, yes! He's not only honest, he's hardworking, successful and bound to give me an absolutely secure life."
Joseph Duggan studied the clear-eyed blond woman whose first appearance had captivated him thoroughly. Throughout the pleasant meal with her that first impression had only been magnified. She was a remarkable woman-pretty, shapely, intelligent, the tiniest bit shy and the tiniest bit bold, honorable to her man and honest about herself.
But dammit, she was spoken for!