Fourteen

So soon from sylvan paradise,

They spoke with measured grace.

Each held a fancy tightly bound

And played at fire and lace.

Andrea caught her breath when headlights flashed past the window at nine fifteen. She heard the sound of a vehicle pulling in her drive, and rose, listening to hurried steps on the walk. Andrea waited by the door for the chime to ring and took several deep breaths before turning the knob. All of her anxiety vanished when he saw Torry Bridges standing at her door, smiling. He was holding out three red roses at arm's length the way a child might.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "Do I get points for the flowers?"

Andrea took the roses and smiled. "Come in," she said. "They're lovely, but it wasn't necessary."

"Oh, but it was necessary," he said, "That road-side entrepreneur was aggressive. I wasn't sure he was going to let me pass unless I bought his flowers."

"Whoever said romance was dead?" Andrea said, smiling as she held the door open. She detected a hint of the musk cologne she was beginning to associate with Torry as he stepped through the doorway. He was wearing a different shirt than she had seen him put on that morning, a beautiful Guatemalan print of blue and burgundy. Torry had obviously gone home to freshen up first.