Country Roads by Nancy Herkness

to other things. She thought fast. “I’ll take the arm anyway. I’m not used to drinking that much wine.” She wobbled slightly as she stood.
    His arm came around her waist like a warm band of steel. She savored the scent of starch and citrus and man as they climbed the steps to the front porch in slow unison.
    He used his free hand to swing the screen door wide and walk her through into the lobby. When she saw a woman sitting behind the reception desk, she reluctantly straightened and stepped out of Paul’s encircling arm. She didn’t want to start any gossip. A lot of people thought artists had shaky morals.
    The clerk, a middle-aged woman with permed brown hair, looked up. “Evening, Ms. Castillo. Paul, good to see you. I hope you had a nice time out.”
    “Can’t complain, Irene,” Paul said.
    Julia started toward the staircase, expecting Paul to follow.
    “I’ll pick you up at one tomorrow and take you to the stable,” he said, still standing by the desk. “Good night.”
    Disappointment flooded her. There would be no good-night kiss at her door. “I…thank you. For driving me. And everything else.”
    He lifted a hand in acknowledgment and walked toward the door.
    Julia trudged up the first four steps before she remembered there was a window in the second-floor corridor that looked out onto the front parking lot. She bolted up the rest of the steps and across the hallway. Sidling up to the curtains hanging on the side of the arched casement, she peered downward.
    Paul had just reached the edge of the parking lot, ambling along with his hands thrust in his pockets and his head down. The yellowish light made his shirt glow cream and his hair pick up glints of amber. He arrived beside the Corvette and stopped, then pivoted to look back at the inn. Even though he didn’t look up, she found herself shrinking back behind the curtain.
    He pulled one hand out of his pocket and ran it through his hair in a gesture of indecision. She held her breath. Then he shook his head, and the ’Vette’s headlights flashed on as he unlocked the door. He inserted himself into the car and left the lot with a brief squeal of tires.
    Back in her room, she paced around the living area, too keyed up to even think about sleeping. If she was at home, she’d go to her studio and work off her pent-up frustration with brushes and paint.
    “My sketchpad!” She snatched it up from the table. Even though it was a warm night, she flipped on the switch that lit the gas fire and kicked her boots off before she sank down cross-legged on the couch.
    An hour later, she dropped her pencil and flipped through the drawings she’d just finished. One page was a series of faces, all Paul’s: one smiling as she remembered him the first time he shook her hand at the roadside; one laughing as he had at dinner; one in proud profile as he surveyed his town from the terrace of the Library Café; and one shadowed as it had been in the car.
    Turning the page, she grinned. She had made good on her threat to draw him nude, wading out of a river. Of course, she had to use her imagination about what he looked like without his clothes on, but that wasn’t hard. She’d drawn dozens of unclothed male models in her years as an art student. For fun, she had strategically positioned a large trout in his hands to cover his private parts, since she had chosen not to speculate on the size of those.
    She turned to the next page, to the single drawing of him with the look in his eyes that said he wanted to kiss her. She had reproduced it as photographically as possible, breaking down her memory into single components: eyes, eyebrows, top lip, bottom lip, sketching each one separately to avoid injecting any emotional interpretation. As she examined it again, she decided she had not misread his intention. For some reason, he had changed his mind.
    It had been a long time since she had been kissed by a man…other than Paul’s earlier kiss, meant to comfort her,