“Steve, my second husband was quite a bit younger than me. We met through a dating web site. Sort of by mistake, when the search parameters were off. But we decided to give it a whirl anyway.” I squelch the what-if game. No use forever dwelling on bad choices. “We were great at first, and I was besotted with him because he was young and handsome and good in-”

Oh God, I’m red in the face again. What is it about Patrick that makes me want to tell him every detail? Sex and all…

“He was a good lover?”

“Yes. He was. And I loved him.” There were good days, and I miss them. I miss the sex. But mostly, I miss having someone to love.

He reaches up, brushes my hair behind my ears, obliquely urging me to go on, but in a way that allows me not to, if I don’t want.

“But it didn’t last long. I went into a bad patch with my arthritis. I didn’t want to go out as much, or spend money, or have a good time.” I straighten my spine, angry suddenly, my ire mostly aimed at myself for being so gullible. “And he met someone else. A younger woman, who also had a bit of money…” my jaw locks, but I force it out “…they’d been fucking for months when I finally found out and asked him to leave.”

As the words leave my lips, I experience the most peculiar phenomenon. It’s like a rushing wind on a still day, a whirl of something around us, furious and wild, my anger expressed as an external force.

And yet the empty crisp bags remain motionless and the trees and the stems of the flowers are totally still.

I look into Patrick’s eyes and they’re an inferno of blue, incandescent.

“The man was an idiot. He was a fool to give up a woman like you.”

Does he mean it? How can he mean it? He’s no idea what kind of a woman I am.

“You mean a gullible middle-aged widow with a bit of money?” I blurt out, not really thinking, just letting rip with my fears and pain.

The bizarre impression of a wind whirls up again, and Patrick’s eyes are searing. For a second his gentle fingers grip hard, tense and almost painful.

“No, I mean a beautiful and gracious woman with a pure heart.”

I laugh out loud again. He’s preposterous and crazy. A total stranger, potentially dangerous, but still irresistible.

“Thank you, Patrick. You’re an angel. But I’m not pure. No way. I’m selfish and I’m always having horrible thoughts about people.”

The whirlwind has died, and his blue eyes are calm again, but Patrick’s laughing too. We both chortle like loons, because this is all so absurd. I’m debating my moral fiber with a naked man I met about twenty minutes ago, and whose last name I don’t even know. Hell, I’m also beginning to wonder if he’s a squatter. Surely the Johnsons would have mentioned if they were employing somebody to house-sit?

When we settle down, he’s still holding my hand, still looking into my eyes. His are filled with an expression of wonder. “Your young husband wronged you, and yet inside you feel no true ill will. You still wish the best for him, despite everything.”

“How the hell do you know these things?” I try to tug my hand away, but he holds on, gentle yet firm. I’m shaking like a leaf, because he is right in a way. I don’t want horrible things to happen to Steve, even now. He did make me happy for a while, and I can’t deny that he tried his best. He just fell into temptation. God, nobody’s perfect.

Except perhaps…

“Call it intuition,” murmurs the perfect one softly. There’s a psychic wind blowing again suddenly, but it’s not anger or fear. Instead, it’s something far more primal and pleasurable.

“So, then, what’s your intuition telling you now?” My heart thuds and my ridiculous hormones cry game on.

“That you’re nervous and tense and you need to relax.”

I am those things, but the twinkle in Patrick’s eyes suggests a means to an end.

My body feels twinkly too. I’m nervous, but in a good way now. I’m a fine one, calling this beautiful man crazy. I’m the crazy one, because something tells me Patrick might be a far greater risk than falling for Steve ever was. “So what do you prescribe for that?”

“A massage.” He nods sagely then glances around the garden. “But in the shade to protect your lovely fair skin.”

“Um, yes.” Doubts gather. I don’t know him. He could be an axe murderer, a thief or a sex offender. Should I play safe? “Look…I…I think I’ll go inside, you know… It’s been nice chatting and all that.” I scrabble to my feet, but as I do, another twinge of pain makes me falter. In the blink of an eye, perhaps faster, Patrick’s up and supporting me, his hand beneath my elbow.

“Don’t go. Please.” His blue eyes implore me. It’s not Steve-style wheedling and pleading. There’s nobility in Patrick’s expression, and a sense of genuine sorrow. It knocks me sideways because it’s intense and unfeigned, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. “You’re safe with me, Miranda. I’ll never harm you. I couldn’t.”

I believe him, and my heart suddenly flies. “Okay then…maybe a massage would be nice. Have you any experience?”

His smile is sweet and slow. “Yes, indeed. The laying on of hands is one of my specialties.”

Did he mean that in a naughty way…or was it something else? It’s hard to tell. His eyes are sparkling again. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’ve a feeling there’s more to it. Something a bit beyond my comprehension. I ought to worry, but I decide I don’t want to at the moment.

We decamp to a spot beneath the old oak tree, and as Patrick lays out the rug, I look around, pondering. My neighbors aren’t great gardeners, and mowing the lawn a bit is about the extent of their green thumbs. They usually only have a few scrappy flowers and shrubs that don’t do very well, and yet now everything’s suddenly bright and blooming, full of color and fecundity. I glance at Patrick, with his magnificent, smooth young body that has a special bloom all of its own, and I wonder.

Stop it. You’re going mental, woman. Stop having weird thoughts and just enjoy the moment.

“You should undress,” he announces calmly, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I smile nervously, but to my astonishment, my fingers take on a life of their own and follow his suggestion. First goes my wrap, and then, bloody hell, my very modest and quite covered up bikini. I’m scared and trembling and embarrassed, but I just keep on peeling off clothing. I can’t even do the old Venus on a half-shell thing and attempt to cover my breasts and my sex. My hands just won’t seem to go there.

So I stand, on display, before Patrick’s youth and splendor.

My body isn’t bad. I try to keep as fit as I can, all things considered, but I’ve got qualms aplenty.

And yet his eyes are warm and appreciative. There’s nothing salacious or prurient in the way he assesses me, just an admiration that’s sweet and encouraging.

My spirits soar, and I’m almost disappointed when he helps me down onto the blanket and much of me is covered again. I adjust my position once or twice in what must be a subconscious attempt to get him to notice my plump, but not too shabbily shaped bottom.

He likes me-I think. In fact, unless I’m mistaken, he actually fancies me.

The idea of it whirls in my brain and my bloodstream as I hear him sink to his knees beside me, and feel the faint displacement of air across my skin. It’s as if my senses are tuning up like an orchestra. I can hear his breathing, a soft, even counterpoint to the hum of insects in the air and the rustling of the branches above us. I can smell the summer flowers in the garden, and yet through that there’s also the clear, delicious odor of Patrick’s body. He smells clean, and also of some faint exotic perfume, vaguely Eastern, all rounded out with a hint of fresh sun-drenched sweat as an earthy finish. Just a nose-full of him is like swigging down a bottle of vintage champagne.

And touch. Oh, oh God, touch. His fingertips settle on my shoulder blades like ten little kisses from a cherub.

“Relax,” he whispers, and those warm, sensitive fingers begin to move.

At first it’s all bona fide massage. No funny business. He works quite lightly, the contact circumspect, gliding lightly over the muscles of my upper back and shoulders. I’ve had plenty of massages in my time, some from beauty therapists, some from physiotherapists, but never anything in circumstances quite like this. Patrick’s touch is like heat sliding over me, but more, so much more. It radiates from the point of skin-on-skin and flows throughout my body.

And as he strokes and nurtures and coddles me, he sings. And that’s not like anything else I’ve encountered anywhere either. His voice is soft and mellifluous, but there’s no recognizable tune or even proper words. It’s more akin to the joyous calls of the garden birds, and it seems to melt into his touch like an extra glow.