“Anywhere you aren’t.”
“Quack, quack.” He nipped her on the neck on his way to the doorway. Gooseflesh rose on her entire body.
Twenty steps and Sloan McCaffrey easily found the patio, a screened expanse of gray slate and lavender-cushioned Adirondack chairs. Red streamers fluttered on the breeze, and blue, white, and yellow balloons dangled from the ceiling, festive and colorful.
A horseshoe pit bracketed one side of the porch; a flower garden bloomed on the other. Tennis courts and a clubhouse were visible off in the distance.
Sloan located his teammate Risk Kincaid and his wife, Jacy, beneath an enormous outdoor tent. Positioned around a gas grill, a dozen or more tables were set up for dining. Risk stood over the grill, turning steaks. Jacy lounged beside him on a vinyl chaise. Big, round sunglasses shaded her face; the red polka dots on her white sundress matched her hair. Grecian sandals laced up her calves. She had nice calves.
The scent and sizzle of a juicy steak made Sloan hungry. He was glad he’d chosen Addie’s birthday for dinner. He hoped they’d eat soon.
He found the nicer sister behind the bar on the patio. Taylor was surrounded by a sophisticated and fit group of senior citizens, all casually dressed and nurturing cocktails.
In her aqua halter top, skinny black jeans, and bare feet, Taylor could make a man go hard. Her toenails were painted bright red. Several toes were banded in gold rings.
He felt neither twitch nor rise.
He was dead from the waist down.
And not happy about it.
He ducked beneath the HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign, bopped a balloon aside, then drew himself up on a bar stool. Trays of appetizers lined the bar. Sloan sat and watched Taylor mix drinks.
She knew her cocktails. She shook an apple martini, blended a piña colada, and added a cherry to a Manhattan. She wrapped up an order for a rum and Coke, then turned to him.“Hello, party crasher.”
“Word spreads fast.”
“Addie mentioned that Eve’s date had arrived.” One corner of Taylor’s mouth turned up. “I know for a fact Eve’s not involved right now.”
“Can’t picture Eve involved with anyone ever.” Sloan scooped a handful of mixed nuts from a glass bowl on the bar, only to pick out the cashews. “She’s too uptight.”
Taylor looked at him strangely. “Eve, uptight?”
“Damn sure is.”
Taylor pointed toward a dozen older men clustered about a horseshoe pit just off the patio. Eve stood among them. “She looks relaxed now.”
Sloan’s gaze drifted over Eve Hannah, who was getting a lesson in pitching horseshoes. Directly behind her, a slump-shouldered man set Eve’s hips, then helped draw back her arm. He deliberately held on to her forearm even after she’d pitched the horseshoe.
Eighty hitting on thirty? Gramps should have released Eve immediately after the toss. Yet he was still hanging on.
The horseshoe landed in the sandy pit, a good three feet from the metal stake. Eve’s second attempt landed a ringer. She smiled so broadly both her dimple and braces flashed. Her coach patted her shoulder.
“Who’s the old guy?” he asked.
“Edwin Sweeney, horseshoe champ of Briarwood Village.”
“Looks like Eve’s found her sport.” Sloan sampled a miniquiche. Tasting spinach, he pulled a face and went back to his cashews.
“Eve may not be athletic, but she’s artistic,” Taylor said as she popped the top on an Amstel, then poured it in an iced beer mug for one of Addie’s guests. “She paints. While I was drawing stick figures, she mastered seascapes. She has a small studio downtown above Thrill Seekers. She has an upcoming show at Fine Arts next month.”
“Good for her.” He snagged a maraschino cherry from the condiment tray and sucked it off its stem. Rolling it around on his tongue, he said, “I get claustrophobic inside. I’m a sportsman. I come alive outdoors—”
“At the ballpark and on the mound.” Taylor read him well. “You perform best with eighty thousand fans shouting your name.”
“A definite rush.”
Eve had stopped pitching horseshoes and now approached the bar. “No one will be cheering you down the mountain when you ski La Grave. The swoosh of your skis, the voice inside your head screaming, ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ will be all that breaks the silence.”
Sloan had long tired of Eve’s sarcasm. He turned, about to tell her so, but lost his train of thought. Less than a foot separated them. He got caught up in her sunburned nose and unbuttoned blouse, opened because of the heat. A lacy cream camisole peeked out, as did the swell of her breasts.
His penis perked up. Damn, his dick had poor taste in women. He kept right on staring until Eve jerked her blouse together and once again buttoned up.
She spoke directly to Taylor. “Addie’s getting ready to open her gifts. She wants everyone to gather by the porch swing.”
Her sister immediately rounded the bar and moved toward the crowd surrounding her grandmother.
Sloan slid off the bar stool.
Eve blocked his path. “Tell me your present’s appropriate for an eighty-year-old woman. I don’t want Addie embarrassed.”
“There will be blushing if she hits the switch and the G-Swirl buzzes.”
She swatted his arm. “You jerk.”
Sloan pulled back. Eve was slaphappy.
He watched Eve watch her grandmother as Addie opened a huge pile of gifts. Eve chewed her lip through the gift certificates, boxes of sugar-free candy, and aged brandy.
Risk and Jacy Kincaid presented Addie with a pink cellophane basket packed with gourmet coffees and cookies. Taylor added a new tennis racket and sleeves of tennis balls to the pile of gifts. Addie stood up and swung the racket from side to side, then declared it perfectly balanced.
A soft admiring “aw” rose from all those gathered as Addie carefully removed the brown wrapping paper from Eve’s gift.
“The Old Cape Henry Lighthouse.” Emotion brightened Addie’s eyes. “One of my favorite landmarks. I thought you’d planned to sell this piece at your next show.”
“Once you admired the painting, it was yours,” Eve told her grandmother.
“I’ve always loved this old lighthouse.” Addie propped the painting up against the back of the porch swing for all to see. “You captured its history, Eve: an old, yet proud beacon at the entrance to Chesapeake Bay.”