Megan blinked back the tears. “It’s his first Thanksgiving. We have to do this right.”
Pat smiled. “Yeah. He probably can’t wait to sneeze turkey on you.”
She slipped her arms into her pea coat. “I’ll leave on that happy note.”
Pat handed her the keys to his car. “How about if we swap cars for tonight? I don’t want you wandering the streets alone.”
He walked to the car with her and waited while it churned a few times and caught. “I’ll come pick it up tomorrow at six o’clock. Wear something pretty. I’m taking you out to dinner. I think we both need a decent meal.”
“What about Timmy?”
“I have a baby – sitter. My receptionist’s daughter.”
The following day, Saturday, Megan dressed in her colonial costume, skipped down the stairs of her house, locked her front door with a flourish, and whistled all the way to work. She cracked her knuckles throughout the day, glancing at the watch she had hidden in her pocket, sighing heavily when time seemed to drag. At five o’clock she bolted from her ticket taking post in front of the silversmith’s shop, and at five – thirty she flew into her house and practically jumped out of her big, black shoes. She dropped her long skirt and white apron at the top of the stairs and was stripped down to her long johns by the time she reached the bathroom.
She had a dinner date with Patrick Hunter, and she only had half an hour to make herself ravishing. She caught a glimpse of her red cheeks and flyaway hair in the vanity mirror. Maybe not ravishing, she thought. Ravishing would take days. In thirty minutes the most she could accomplish would be to look clean and presentable.
Half an hour later, Megan applied the final swipe of mascara to her lashes and stepped back to appraise herself. She wasn’t sure how she looked, but she
“Geez,” she murmured, “is that me? Last time I got dressed up like this was in April… for my wedding.”
Pat knocked once and let himself into the house. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. A khaki jumper or a denim skirt. Maybe a pair of dressy corduroy slacks. He was completely unprepared for the woman who appeared at the top of the stairs.
She could have stepped off the cover of a magazine or hosted an exclusive Washington tea. She wore a pale pink sweater and matching skirt. The outfit was belted at her waist and clung to all her delicious curves and made her hair seem impossibly red. The slim skirt came to just above her knee, baring long, shapely legs in silky tinted stockings. Her dressy heels matched her small black handbag.
“I can’t believe I made it on time!” she said breathlessly.
He nodded. He didn’t know what to say. Megan Murphy was so many different people, he couldn’t keep up with them all. He watched her hair swing around her shoulders as she descended the stairs, and wasn’t sure how he would get through the evening. She was breathtaking… and he was just a cute pediatrician.
“Are you Megan Murphy?” he asked. He wanted to make sure. “You’re beautiful.” He reached out to touch her sleeve. “What’s this soft, fuzzy stuff?”
“It’s an angora blend. Do you like it?”
Like it? He wanted to get naked on it. Good thing they had a six – thirty reservation and had to leave the house immediately. He was afraid once he started fondling Megan Murphy in her bunny dress, he’d lose control.
It wasn’t in the plan for him to lose control. This was their first date. It was supposed to be romantic and civilized. Extreme fondling on a first date wasn’t civilized, he told himself, helping her with her black wool coat.
He locked the house and held the driver’s door open for her. “The other door is broken,” he explained, and immediately decided he would never get it fixed when he saw her dress ride high on her thigh as she slid across the seat.
He drove to the historic area and pulled into a parking lot on Francis Street. “I thought we’d eat at the King’s Arms Tavern,” he said. It had been the most romantic, elegant restaurant he could imagine, but suddenly he worried that this exquisite creature sitting next to him might be jaded. Surely she was taken to expensive restaurants every day of the week and had eaten at the King’s Arms hundreds of times.
Her eyes brightened. “I’ve never eaten here,” she said excitedly. “I could never afford it. I’ve been to Christiana Campbell’s for lunch, but never the King’s Arms.”
She slipped her hand into his as they crossed the street and walked through the dark garden behind the tavern. “Do you know what they serve here? Colonial game pie and fig ice cream and oyster pie. I have the menu memorized!”
He couldn’t believe it. She’d never eaten at the King’s Arms. He knew she didn’t want to get married, but didn’t she even date?
The garden led to an alley that led to Duke of Gloucester Street. The street was nearly empty, with only a few people strolling toward the King’s Arms. Candles flickered in the wavy glass tavern windows. Megan and Pat read the bill of fare while they waited to be called inside.
“They have wandering musicians here,” Megan said, “and everything’s lit by candles. And the waiters wear knee breeches. You probably know all that.” She smiled, slightly embarrassed at her enthusiasm.
“Nope. I’m new in town, and it’s nice to have my very own tour guide.”
“I guess I’m new too. I moved to Williamsburg in June. I needed to get away from… things. I really love it here. I’ve always been a history buff.”
They stepped into the tavern and were seated at a small table by a fireplace. A candle flickered in its glass chimney, illuminating the white linen tablecloth and formal place setting.
“I’m a history buff of sorts,” Pat said. “My ancestors lived in Williamsburg when Lord Botetourt served as governor. I was born and raised in California, but I’ve always been drawn to Williamsburg. Now that I’m here, I feel like I’ve come home.”
Megan nodded. She knew exactly what he meant. She didn’t have Williamsburg roots, but her heart told her this was where she belonged.
She gave the costumed waiter her order and her menu and watched Pat. She liked the way he looked in the candlelight. It made his eyes dark and mysterious, and emphasized the few laugh lines around them. He was wearing a navy blazer, navy stripped tie, and a white shirt with a small blue check pattern.
When their soup arrived, he regarded his bowl with undisguised apprehension. “You ever have peanut soup before?” he asked.
“It’s supposed to be good.” She delicately stirred the muddy brown concoction in front of her. She sniffed at it, then dipped a small chunk of toast called a sippet into the soup.
“Well?” he asked.
She thoughtfully chewed her soup – coated sippet. “I like it. You can try yours now, you coward. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
He grinned. “I leave adventure up to you. I’m the laid – back, sensible country doctor.”
Sometimes, she thought. He definitely had an easygoing California style, but there was nothing laid back about his kisses. And he was slightly crazy. Not an out – of – control craziness. Pat had a quiet, teasing sense of humor that was often turned inward. Her initial impression of him had been wrong, she admitted. He was responsible, sensitive, mature, and very caring. It was his self – confidence and the fact that he liked himself and the world around him that allowed him to be a little crazy.
She made several selections from the relish tray offered to her and smiled at Pat.
