Page One

chapter one

This . . . process . . . had become a large part of Denton Foster’s life, meeting an unknown woman in a place public, safe, and familiar. There was no better way to establish the requisite trust. He enjoyed arriving early. Enjoyed trying to pick out which of the passersby might become his companion. It had become something of a hobby, putting a face to a voice.

Stepping into the sunlight, he paused, then moved left, improving his sightline. An approaching woman won his attention, but for only a moment. She was too young, too uninterested in him, in the garden. He strolled to an old wooden bench centered in the stand of adolescent trees. When no other women appeared, Denton, best described as somewhere between average and attractive, sat, then brushed a hint of dust from polished loafers. Closing his eyes, he turned his face skyward and warmed in a pacific October sun.

Work of itinerant Hispanic groundskeepers preparing a garden for winter foliage belied the sensations of a spring-like afternoon in Austin. Cacophonous whistles of three middle-aged workers collided in the breeze as they expertly folded organic fertilizer—wafting the vague farmyard odor of alfalfa and cow manure—into heavy brown clay. The bed they prepared to be home to a menagerie of yellow red wing, orange blotch, pure violet, and fire pansies, totaling two hundred fifty, maybe more. Four younger men and a teenage boy directed the hum of gasoline mowers, trimming a dense carpet of deep-green fescue.

As full as this tapestry—with its colors, smells, flowers, passersby, workers, and October sun—the scene’s richness seemed somehow dependent on the solitary figure of Denton Foster. There was an atmosphere to this place, un-Texas-like, which seemed to define him: affluent, but not conspicuous; confident, but not arrogant. It was clear the garden was not his home. Clear, too, nothing there was more at home than was he. His favorite soft-soled Italian-made loafers were familiar visitors to splayed cobblestone arteries, the bridge at pond’s edge; a pasture of marble bovine; the beckoning serenity of manicured Arboretum lawns. Frequently, his purpose—one dividend of a life skillfully crafted—was simply an insouciant stroll.

Today’s visit was more.

At twenty-three minutes past one, a steel-blue Lexus eased around the corner and into view. It rolled past trees, workers, and the bench like a Rose Parade float, inching its way past the judge’s stand. Denton’s practiced sense knew this to be a reconnaissance pass. From the bench, he could tell only that the woman behind sunglasses was between thirty-five and forty-five, with blonde hair and uncertain intentions.

He would wait seven minutes more. If he passed her initial inspection, lunch would be filled with the excitement of expectation. If not, the silence of reflection would be his entrée. Either was acceptable to Denton Foster. He had grown comfortable with his life.

Page Three

His voice surprised her; somehow comforting, reassuring. She smiled, recalling protestations to her steering wheel. “Shaggy hair!” she’d mumbled. Through dark glasses, tinted windows, and cedar elm, his hair had seemed too long, even unkempt. Standing before him, she could not imagine it otherwise, absent the discipline of a forced part, enjoying the freedom to find its own fall. She liked, he asked if she was hungry, even though she was there for lunch. Within seconds, she learned a lot about Denton Foster. She did not expect that. Being so favorably impressed by him.

“Sure. I’m not famished, but yeah” — clearing her throat, she glanced to the ground — “um, yes” — she blinked three times quickly — “that sounds good.”

“Great. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten here. What I remember isn’t bad, especially for corporate menus and boardroom recipes. I’m looking forward to it, actually.”

With nothing more than his hand moving toward a nearby building, the strangers left the bench for TGI Friday’s and lunch.

At the door, they both reached for its brass handle.

“Allow me.” Denton stood to one side and pulled open the heavy oak door.

“Thank you, guess I’m just used to—” She stopped what seemed a silly explanation. “Thanks.” Her smile returned. With a slight nod, she made her way into the restaurant's foyer. She liked he opened the door.

The restaurant’s host, an eager college student, greeted Laura in the way common to boorish men, but absent the savoir faire of his more experienced fellows. So distracted was he, the neural highway that connected his brain’s speech center to his tongue seemed blocked by the debris of her beauty. His version of the corporate welcome sounded more marble-mouthed Sanskrit than English.

“This way,” he said.

After fumbling the menus—kicking the one dropped under his podium—he moved toward the dining room. He rarely turned more than a quarter turn away from her. When he did, it was in quick spurts, resulting in more backing than leading. His feet scooted along the tile—replacing otherwise occupied eyes—in search of each safe step, barely avoiding a trip. Twice.

Page Five

She liked his chivalry, or was it empathy? Liked, too, that he seemed to have a sense of proportion absent what was common to other men. Liked that she seemed more important than how obvious was his defense of her honor, the rebuke of the ill-mannered host.

With what seemed remarkable ease—like something he might do with friends in his living room—Denton started their pre-meal conversation. While it consisted mostly of beautiful-city-bad-traffic kind of talk, she felt herself easing into a baggy t-shirt, fat pants, and well-worn-slip on flats kind-of-place. It was not something that happened easily for Laura. Not something she expected. She next felt tension drift from her face; the ache loosening its grip on her tightened shoulder muscles. Her mind wandered, wondering if perhaps she could make this happen. She was suddenly aware that the umbrella of silence opened over their table had been intruded upon, jolting her from daydreams.

“Me? I’m sorry. What?”

“Drink” — Juli’s second try for an order eased from brightly colored lips at an unhurried pace — “what’d y’all like to drink?”

Laura ordered iced tea with a slice of “lime, not lemon.” Denton chose a low-calorie cola. After a quick glance one to the other, the decision to reject an appetizer was unanimous. With smile fixed, Juli’s retreat was abrupt, soldier-like.

Laura’s attention drifted from the departing waitress to her date. Brown eyes tracked past the sparkle in green ones and out the window. She liked the idea of a meal without the smell of beer, conversation without alcohol-laden exaggerations.

For the next while, there was a quiet at the corner table as the couple gazed upon the pastel autumn of Austin’s afternoon. It wasn’t the uneasy kind that so often smothered first dates; one that demanded inane back-and-forth, chit-to-chat from strangers unwilling to surrender to silence’s grace. She felt oddly contented. Somehow, being there felt safe, even familiar.

“So” — Denton interrupted the quiet — "I’d like to know something about Laura. Is there anything you feel comfortable disclosing?"

The question caused her to jerk back to green eyes bright with anticipation. This wasn’t the order of things. Men do the telling; telling about them, their successes, conquests, achievements. Why would he ask first about me? Adrenalin surged. Causing muscles again to tighten. She felt a flush grow in her chest, headed toward her neck, where it morphed into the inevitable red streaks—the genesis of relentless teasing she’d endured since grade school.

“God, where do I start? I—”

“The beginning?” His response hurried, his smile lingered. “How is it you come to be here? I know you answered my ad, but why?” He moved in his chair. “If that’s not too personal.” Lifting the dark-green napkin from his lap, he wiped something unseen from his lips, uncovering a comfortable smile.

“How can lips be so . . .? “