The Villa

He merely fell into step beside Eli and began to walk through the rows.
    "Going to have to keep a frost watch," Eli commented. "Warm snap's teased the vines."
    "Yeah, I'm on it. Ah… it's nearly disking time."
    "Hope the rain doesn't slow that down." Like his grandson, Eli studied the canes and racked his brain for the right words. "I… should've knocked."
    "No, I shouldn't have…" Stalling, Ty leaned down, ruffled Sally's fur. "It just happened."
    "Well." Eli cleared his throat. He didn't have to talk to Tyler about the ways and means of sex. Thank Christ. He'd done that deed years before. His grandson was a grown man, who knew about the birds and bees, and about responsibility. But…
    "Holy hell, Ty. You and Sophie."
    "It just happened," he said again. "I guess it shouldn't have, and I guess I should tell you it won't happen again."
    "Not my business. It's just the two of you—hell, Ty, you were almost raised together. I know you've got no blood tie, and there's nothing stopping either of you from such a thing. Just a shock, is all."
    "All around," Tyler agreed.
    Eli walked a little farther. "Do you love her?"
    Inside his gut, Tyler felt the slippery knots of guilt tighten. "Grandpa, it's not always about love."
    Now Eli stopped, turned and faced Tyler. "My equipment may be older than yours, boy, but it works the same way. I know it's not always about love. I was just asking."
    "We've got this heat going on, that's all. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not go into that end of things."
    "Oh, it's all the same to me. You're both adults and you got two working brains between you. Both of you were raised right, so what you do is your own business. Next time, though, lock the damn door first."
     
    It was nearly six when Tyler got home. He was worn out, worked up and irritated with himself. He thought a cold beer and a hot shower might help smooth him back out. Reaching for the refrigerator handle, he saw the note he'd stuck there the night before as a reminder.
    Dinner at M's —7.
    "Shit." He lowered his forehead to the appliance. He could just make it, he supposed, if he busted his ass. But he just didn't have it in him. He wasn't in any mood to discuss business, even if it included a decent meal and good company.
    He'd never make good company himself that night.
    He reached for the phone, only to find he'd misplaced it again. Swearing, he yanked open the fridge, intending to pop the top on the beer before starting to search. And there was the phone, tucked between a bottle of Corona and a carton of milk.
    He'd make it up to Margaret, he thought, as he looked up her phone number. Take her out to dinner, or lunch. Whatever, before she left the city.
     
    She didn't hear the phone ring. Her head was under the shower and she was singing. She'd looked forward to the evening all day, shuffling meetings, writing reports, making calls. And finally stopping on the way home for a man-sized steak and a couple of enormous Idaho potatoes. She'd bought an apple pie at the bakery and fully intended to pass it off as her own.
    A man didn't have to know everything.
    It was, she knew, just the sort of meal Ty would appreciate.
    She'd already set the table, arranged candles, chosen music, had the outfit she'd selected lying on her bed. And the bed itself was plumped with pillows and made with fresh sheets.
    They'd had two or three dates before. Not that she fooled herself into believing Ty had thought of them as dates. But she hoped to change that after tonight.
    She stepped out of the shower and began to prepare herself.
    It was always exciting to groom yourself for a man. Part of the anticipation. Margaret's feminist beliefs didn't deny her the pleasure of that sort of ritual, but helped her celebrate the female rite of it.
    She creamed, scented, slid into silk and imagined seducing Tyler MacMillan over apple pie.
    She'd always had a yen for him, she supposed as she checked the apartment to see that everything was in place. The promotion, the travel, the excitement of her new responsibilities had, in a very real way, she decided, given her the confidence to make him fully aware of that yen.
    She took out the wine she'd earmarked for the evening. And noticed the message light blinking on her kitchen machine.
    "Margaret. It's Ty. Listen, I'm going to have to take a rain check on dinner. I should have called sooner but… something came up at the office. Sorry. I'll call you tomorrow. If you don't have plans, I'll take you