“What?” Joe asked, not offended.

“Oh, it’s noth—”

Joe’s kiss stopped whatever I was going to babble. His lips were smooth and firm and warm and oh, God, I was going to dissolve into a puddle of lust with just one kiss. It took me a minute to notice he’d stopped kissing me. I opened my eyes and looked at him.

“Want to catch a movie tomorrow?” he whispered. His hands slid back down my arms and caught my hands again.

“Um…I, uh, I have to work tomorrow night,” I stammered, my toes curled tight in my sandals.

“How about Monday, then?” he suggested, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh, Monday. I, um, yes, that would be okay. Sure.”

“Great,” he said with another endorphin-inducing grin. “See you, Millie.” He straightened up from his pose against my car and kissed my hand. “I’ll call you Monday, okay?”

“Okay,” I answered. “Good night.”

I got into my car, ordering myself not to laugh hysterically or even smile too maniacally. Key in ignition, roger that. Seat belt, check. Turn key. Car has been activated. Put car in gear. Try not to hit Joe backing out. Put car in first. Depress gas pedal. Proceed slowly out of restaurant lot. Turn…what is it? Right? No, left! Turn left. Proceed home.

Once I was safely on Route 6, the laughter burst forth. Shrieking and cackling like a demented hyena, I pounded on the steering wheel. I did it! I did it! Joe Carpenter kissed me!

As I pulled in my driveway, I contemplated racing around the house in a victory lap, the way Digger did after our runs. Instead, I went in and rolled around on the floor with my doggy. “I had a date with Joe, puppy! He asked me out! He kissed me!” Digger, hearing kiss, one of the few words he recognized, began licking my face exuberantly. “Yes, I know! I know it!”

Finally, I got off the floor and went into the bathroom to look at the woman Joe Carpenter had finally discovered. The woman he had kissed. Whose hand he had kissed. My reflection smiled back at me. There she was. Millie Barnes, M.D.—also known as Joseph Stephen Carpenter’s girlfriend.

For the next two days, I grinned endlessly, sighed rapturously, floated around the clinic, treating the right patients, hopefully, for the right ailments. Jill and Sienna had heard about the baby and they thought that was the reason for my euphoria. I didn’t tell them about Joe. It was too wonderful to share with anyone just yet. I wanted to keep the memory of Saturday night like a secret jewel in a velvet box. Every time I remembered something, whether it was our knees bumping under the table or his pulling me in for The Big Kiss, a warm rush of happiness and lust would flow through me. Oh, I loved Joe! And soon he would love me back.

On Monday afternoon, I got home and immediately checked the answering machine. There was my light, flashing happily away.

“Hi, honey, it’s Mom.”

Shit. My heart sank. Not at my mom’s voice, of course…you understand. Why hadn’t he called? He’d said he’d call! It was four o’clock! We were supposed to go to a movie! I half heard my mom invite me over for dinner one night this week, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Calm down, Millie, I told myself. Joe is probably not even home from work yet. Settle down. He kissed you on Saturday and wanted to see you on Sunday and made a date for Monday. He will call. He. Will. Call.

Making sure the phone was properly charged, I took it out onto the deck and watched Digger poop three times. I’d have to ask the vet about those overactive bowels. On our first visit, the vet had told me Digger was just excited, and once he settled down, he’d stop going so often, but maybe it was something else. The dog seemed so sleek and healthy that I wasn’t really worried, but it should be checked.

Okay, that was good! I’d had a non-Joe thought. Well done, Doctor, I told myself. That’s the way to do it. After all, you are the deliverer of the lovely little beach baby. You and Sam.

At that memory, I thought of Sam. I wondered how Danny’s visit to New Jersey had gone…and how Sam had done without him. Had he spent the whole weekend alone? Instinctively, I reached for the phone, then mentally slapped my hand. What if Joe was trying to call? Wouldn’t want him to get a busy signal, would we?

I went back inside and got myself a glass of seltzer water, then returned to the deck and weeded my little railing boxes. Maybe I’d see if the budget could support some nice pieces of deck furniture. Right now all I had was a set of two plastic chairs and a matching table. Wicker tended to get moldy in the damp Cape air, so that was out. A little wrought iron, maybe.

The breeze rustled in the pitch pines and scrubby oaks of my property, and the waves roared rhythmically in the distance. I guessed it to be pretty close to high tide. I was getting good at that sort of thing. I sat down and watched a bluebird disappear into the little bird house Danny had helped me put up earlier this spring. Its deep blue flashed against the white of the house as it flew out.

The phone trilled, and I jumped up, sloshing seltzer down my front. Thank God I was alone, I thought, surveying my damp bosom as I picked up the phone.

“Hey, Millie, it’s Joe,” said the voice I loved.

“Hi, Joe.” Thank you, God.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Oh, just sitting on my porch, watching the birds,” I answered, unable to think of any answer except the truth.

“Millie, you’re so funny,” he said. “So, we still on for tonight? In the mood for a movie?”

“Sure,” I said, feeling that swell of laughter and euphoria rise again. He named a movie, which I agreed to, and told me he’d swing by around 7:00 for the 7:15 show.

“Sounds great,” I said. “See you then.” I clicked off, set the phone down and began hopping up and down. “I’m going out with Joe-oh, I’m going out with Joe-oh!” I sang merrily. Luckily, my neighbors didn’t live too close. Seeing my manic leaping, Digger leaped onto the deck to join in the celebratory dance.

At seven o’clock sharp, Joe’s truck trundled up the driveway, setting off Digger’s frenzied barking. “Quiet!” I ordered, grabbing his collar. “No, Digger!” He began clawing at the front door, barking so loudly that my teeth vibrated. The doorbell rang.

“Just a minute!” I called over the din. I dragged Digger to the cellar, gave him a chew stick and blew him a kiss. Nervousness and anticipation flooded through me. Straightening my shirt, I glanced in the mirror, hoping my hair would behave, hoping Joe didn’t see me as I stubbed my toe on the footstool, hoping Digger didn’t claw down the cellar door and maul my gentleman caller. Or worse yet, hump his leg.

“Hi,” I said, smiling as I answered the door. There he was, Joe Carpenter, leaning in my doorway, smiling at me, his dirty-blond hair damp and rumpled, hands in his worn jeans pockets, green T-shirt with smear of white paint over the heart.

“Ready?” he said. We walked out to his truck. He got in and started clearing stuff out of the way to make room for me. I opened the passenger door and climbed in, something of a feat when you’re five foot three.

“Okay,” Joe said. We backed out of my driveway and went off. Say something, Millie. My mind instantly emptied. What to say, what to say…I looked around the truck cab for inspiration. It was pretty grubby, a stark contrast to the last pickup truck I’d sat in—Sam’s, which was immaculate enough for surgery. Two old plastic cups careened around on the floor, rolling into my shoes. Wads of paper, an unwrapped cough drop furred with hair and lint. A hammer. A wrench. An old coat lay between us on the seat. There was that pleasant masculine smell…oil and coffee and cut wood. Tucked under the sun visor was a sheaf of papers. I could see the edge of a fishing license. Aha!

“Have you been fishing much this summer, Joe?”

“No, not really,” he answered, slowing to a stop at the light on Route 6. “I’ve been pretty busy.”

“Oh.” Great. End of conversation.

But there was the theater, so it was okay. “You haven’t seen this one, have you?” Joe asked as we waited in line.

“No, not yet. It’s supposed to be good, though.”

He smiled. I melted.

“Can I help you?” said the teenager at the window.

“One for James Bond,” Joe replied. The teenager took his money and handed Joe a ticket. It was my turn.

“Oh, uh, yeah, one for James Bond.”

He wasn’t buying my ticket! I had cash, thank God. I fumbled in my pocketbook and handed over a ten. “Thanks,” I told the kid. Joe had gone over the to the concession stand.

He hadn’t bought my ticket! Wasn’t this a date? But, I quickly rationalized, why should he? There was no reason I couldn’t buy my own ticket. Right?

“Want anything?” he asked me as the concession-stand person filled up a box with popcorn.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” I answered, relief washing over me. He’d offered to buy me something. It was still a date.

We found seats in the theater. Again, I wracked my brain for a way to start a conversation. Joe waved to someone and began to shovel popcorn into his mouth. God, the way men ate. “If you choke, I’ll Heimlich you,” I said, pleased with my cleverness.

“You’re a good person to have around, Millie,” he answered, checking me out just a wee bit. He put his arm around the back of my chair and balanced the popcorn on his lap. “Very good.”

Even with a fistful of popcorn in his mouth, Joe Carpenter was gorgeous. Oh, Joe, I thought. You won’t be sorry you picked me.

The previews started, and for the next two hours, I was in heaven. We held hands. In the movie theater. How romantic was that? His work-roughened fingers twined with mine, his thumb occasionally rasping gently over my skin, and nothing had ever felt so good in my life. He smelled wonderful. Soap (Ivory), wood, popcorn, butter. Iwasina perpetual state of horniness. James Bond, nothing. Joe was all I needed.

We drove home, chatting about the movie. I wondered if I should invite him in. Hmm. Probably not. No, definitely not! I wanted to be different from those easy types, after all. Show Joe that I had some moral fortitude. Make him work for me a little. Make him wait.

We pulled up to my house. I could hear Digger’s insane barking.

“Great watchdog you’ve got there,” Joe said, turning to me. He looked in my eyes, then down at my…mouth. Back to my eyes.

“He is great, actually,” I answered. “And so is Tripod. What kind of dog is he?” (Three-legged, eight-year-old Golden Retriever/German shepherd mix.)

“He’s some kind of mutt. Good dog, though.” Joe smiled slowly at me. “So, Millie, are you gonna ask me to come in?” His white teeth gleamed in the dimness of the truck. He reached over and tucked some hair behind my ear.

I was on him faster than a seagull on a potato chip, kissing him with all the pent-up desire of the last half of my life. We kissed like there was no tomorrow, like we’d been separated by war, like we were the only two people left on earth and had to repopulate the world. His hands were warm on my back, and I clutched his shirt with both fists. I could dimly hear those little humming noises that kissing people make, shifting, pulling closer, sliding our hands around each other, into each other’s hair, down arms, under shirts.

The sound of the truck horn blasted us apart like guilty teenagers. I was half sitting on Joe’s lap, and apparently I’d hit the steering wheel the wrong way as I squirmed to get closer. It was just what I needed.

“Sorry!” I said, laughing a little and scootching off his lap. He smiled back.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

Yes. Come in. Come in and stay and kiss me and touch me and bang me silly. Oh, God, that was exactly what I wanted.

But I couldn’t. Not yet. My years of stalking Joe had shown that this was what happened with everyone. Who could resist this man, after all? Why make the most beautiful of God’s creations wait? It was a joy just to be near him, let alone have his hands on you, his mouth on yours.