Stranger at the Door. Laura Abbot

only know that when I raised my head, the handsomest young man I had ever seen was standing over me, hands in the pockets of his air force dress uniform pants. His head was slightly cocked to one side, a mischievous grin played on his lips, and he was studying me with the deepest cobalt-blue eyes I had ever seen. My heart stopped. I was in a movie.

      “Running away?” His voice was like warm brandy. He didn’t wait for my answer. “Mind if I join you?”

      “A-are you sure?” I stammered.

      “Never surer of anything in my life,” he said, sitting beside me. “I’ve been looking for you.”

      “For me?” The words came out as a squeak.

      “I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you all evening.”

      My breath caught. I couldn’t have written a better script myself. “Me?” I was speechless.

      He slipped an arm around my bare shoulder and turned me toward him. “What I’d really like to do is kiss you.”

      And he did. No fireworks or starbursts in the world could match the thrill and power of that kiss. When we broke apart, he framed my face, brushed one finger across my cheek and with a lazy smile added, “And now I’m going to do it again.”

      It never occurred to me to deny him. I was helpless, but in some small part of my brain I understood that, until that moment, I had known nothing of the kind of love a man and woman are born to share.

      He pulled me to my feet. “Isabel Ashmore.” His mouth caressed the words. “Izzy. I’m Sam Lambert and, if you don’t mind, I’m claiming you for the rest of the evening.”

      Mind? I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. Yet everything—the night sky, the distant strains of “Deep Purple,” the fragrance of roses—whispered, Do this thing.

      “Why did you call me Izzy?”

      He held my hands firmly. “Isabel sounds formal, public. I want our private name. It sounds good, don’t you think? Sam and Izzy. Izzy and Sam.”

      I couldn’t help smiling. “Aren’t you being a wee bit presumptuous?”

      He circled my waist as we strolled up the path toward the tent. “Not at all. I’ve been waiting for you all my life. When you were introduced this evening, I knew I had to get to know you. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you get away.”

      With a sinking sensation, I realized that with my thumb I was fingering my engagement ring. I needed to tell him. To put an end to whatever this was. But at that moment he stopped walking and tilted my chin so that I was looking straight into those sexy eyes, so full of promise. “Tell me you feel it, too.”

      Grandmama’s advice came flooding back to me. Passion. Right then I understood that I was caught up in something beyond my control. “I do,” I whispered, “and it’s scary.”

      “And wonderful.”

      “And wonderful.”

      I know this all sounds corny and clichéd, even melodramatic. But it happened just like that. In an instant, the planets halted in their orbit and my heart knew love.

      For the rest of that evening and the days and nights that followed, Sam and I were inseparable. I’m not proud to say it, but I took off my engagement ring and stored it in my jewelry case. Twink gloated like an approving mother cat.

      Because Sam was on a weekend pass from the air base where he was stationed for pilot training, time took on urgency. We lounged by the pool, soaking up the sun, oblivious to anyone else. We enjoyed a lopsided game of tennis and left the country club dance Saturday night to lie on a blanket near the eighteenth green, sharing hot kisses in the glimmering, magical moonlight. It was an awakening for me. I had not known my body could quiver with need or that instinct could drive me to abandon.

      And we talked. And talked. I had never met anyone who had nurtured an ambition—in his case to be a pilot—and then pursued it with such intensity. A three-sport athlete in high school, he’d been awarded a scholarship to the University of Nebraska, where he’d played varsity basketball and had joined the air force ROTC. When he spoke about his pilot training and his service buddies, his face lit up. This was no boy; this was a man who had embraced his purpose in life. His maturity stirred something deep within me.

      Our last night together Sam held me close. “You’re my girl. My Southern hothouse flower.” He nuzzled my cheek. “My Izzy.”

      I was besotted. Twink was merciless. “Isabel Irene, you’re in love. Why would you settle for anything less? You march right home and cancel that wedding.”

      “I’ve had a wonderful time, but, Twink, this isn’t reality. It’s a fairy tale, and the clock is about to strike midnight. Chances are, I’ll never see Sam Lambert again.” Even as I said those words, my throat closed in panic.

      “Maybe not, but you don’t know that. What you do know is that you’re not in love with Drew Mayfield. I’m not going to stand by and let you…” she fussed, searching for words “…settle for mediocrity.”

      It was tempting to follow her advice, but I rationalized that my time with Sam was probably nothing more than one of those heady—but fleeting—summer romances I’d heard other girls talk about. Sure, he’d said he’d call, write. Finally, I decided I’d be a fool to count on anything, given the miles separating us.

      Besides, was I willing to scuttle my future because of one gloriously romantic weekend? How could I disappoint Drew? Shatter my mother’s hopes? Act so irresponsibly and uncharacteristically?

      And yet, how could I not?

      CHAPTER THREE

      Springbranch, Louisiana

      WHEN I RETURNED FROM Atlanta, Mother was knee-deep in wedding preparations, researching fruit-punch recipes and floral arrangements. On her desk were four boxes of invitations: “Dr. and Mrs. Robert James Ashmore request the honor of your presence at the wedding of their daughter Isabel Irene…” I felt sick. But when, at the end of the first week, I hadn’t heard from Sam, I wondered if I’d dreamed the encounter or, beyond that, made a complete fool of myself.

      “Isabel, can’t you demonstrate a little more enthusiasm?” These were Mother’s words after we’d spent an afternoon finalizing the guest list. The wedding plans had taken on a life of their own, and I was powerless to stop them, even as I questioned myself. Then two things happened to make the situation worse. I received my first letter from Sam, and Drew arrived for a visit.

      In Sam’s bold handwriting was a note that was just like him—breezily self-confident with a dash of bravado. And unutterably romantic. I blush even now recalling the pure physicality of my reaction when I tore open the envelope and saw the words My Izzy. I soon learned that he, like Twink, could read my mind.

      I bet you’re wondering about my intentions. If I’m just a guy who came to Atlanta for a weekend to have a good time. Well, I did have a good time, but it’s more than that. Izzy, you’re the dream I’ve had for a long time. I’m not going away.

      The next day Drew pulled into our driveway and bounded from his car, waving a piece of paper over his head. “I nailed it, Isabel,” he said wrapping me in a hug. “The apartment near the law school. This is the lease.”

      He stood back, awaiting my ecstatic reaction. Furnished apartments near the campus were rare. “That’s nice,” I murmured, taking the wind out of his sails. The mental picture of us settled on the second floor of a big house surrounded by overstuffed chairs, tables and, worst of all, a double bed, was overwhelming.

      Later that night, Drew and I sat in the porch swing watching fireflies gather, smelling the musk of the warm night. He had his arm around me. It felt cozy. When he kissed me, I closed my eyes and really tried to experience the spark that would reassure me. Pleasure, familiarity, yes. No spark. He may as well have been the brother I never had.

      Meanwhile