Uncross My Heart by Austin, Andrews & Austin Page B

ignored him, too happy about life in general to dignify his remark. Ketch and I backed out of the parking lot and took off down the highway.
    “Ketch, don’t touch her, okay? Stick close to me. If she’s allergic, I don’t want to read about it.”
    * * *

    Vivienne stepped out of a white BMW wearing a burnt orange silk shirt adorned with Egyptian symbols that pointed toward her open front, a pair of toffee-colored silk slacks, and sandals revealing pale painted toenails. We smiled and shook hands, and I took two steps back to look at her.
    “You’re brighter than the sun god Ra.”
    “Sorry to confuse you, but they were all out of the silk shirts with the thorns.” Her cute smirk caused me to grin despite myself.
    “I have a room reserved for us.”
    “Been a while since I’ve heard that.” Her tone was unmistakably sexual, and I looked at the pine trees to avoid any reaction that would encourage her and moved briskly in the direction of the doorway marked Serenade. Ketch fell in beside her as if they were old friends.
    What a deserter, I thought, glancing at him as he let his nose lightly touch her hand and she stroked his head.
    “Pear-fct. First-class accommodation,” she remarked, ranking my thoughtfulness. And once up the wooden steps and inside, she twirled like a model taking in the room and said, “I love it” as she pointed toward the small stone fireplace. I couldn’t imagine why this woman made me smile but she did, and Ketch seemed to like her as well, so maybe we would find our common ecclesiastical ground and move on to friendship.
    The wait staff had placed the fruit and cheese and drinks just where I’d requested them, giving it, admittedly, a more social than business atmosphere. I fixed a plate for us and set it down on a small coffee table between two overstuffed leather chairs that faced the porch rail visible through the plate glass. “So, shall we relax and stare at God’s scenery before deciding if He exists?” I needled her.
    “God exists.” She fell into the chair and sipped her iced tea and nibbled her cheese and fruit. “But She has many forms.”
    I ate, refusing to be drawn in to her gender-blender, perhaps heightened by my having shown her the female Christ. I felt awkward and rusty at conversation and she didn’t seem much better, like athletes unable to find our game or get into a rhythm.
    “So what can I say that will get you to acknowledge that religious views beyond your own are acceptable training for students who prefer them?”
    “Nothing. I don’t believe in perpetuating ignorance in a scholarly setting.”
    I let time lapse, avoiding the trap of answering unasked questions.
    She arose and moved behind me, finding an opener and taking down glasses from the shelf, and a sensation like fingers lightly sliding over my shoulders and down my arms overtook me. I quivered as if I’d actually been touched.
    “I listened to your radio broadcast. Your book sounds interesting. And I appreciated your not taking Claridge to task again when you had the opportunity.”
    “There’s no new twist to the story, it’s old news.” She shrugged, not letting me believe for a minute that she’d protected me or the seminary or would cease her attacks if something attackworthy surfaced.
    “Do you have family?” I changed the subject to something friendlier.
    “A brother and sister. My parents are both dead. They were wide-eyed liberals, with just a dash of conservatism that would pop up annoyingly when my sister and I brought dates home.”
    “So you’re married,” I said, unable to stop myself. She gave me a look that seemed to mock my question. “Sorry. I’ve been recently corrupted by a friend in San Francisco who grilled me like a tuna, and now I’m doing it to you.”
    “No.” Her voice contained a lilt that bounced my heart around in my chest like a pinball. She looked right at me with those eyes that could sear holes in steel—an incredibly sensual being, a