Page 64 of Our Secret Summer

Dylan’s mad dash to the airport had ended predictably with a delayed flight to Chicago. Connor and Raffo had flown out a few days ago and despite being busier than ever before with her new ad agency, Dylan had missed Raffo as though she’d known nothing else in her life than Raffo by her side.

The sight of Murray waiting at O’Hare’s taxi stand, fresh from his New York flight, lifted her spirits. She hadn’t expected the wave of relief at seeing him, but there it was. Murray had become family in the most unexpected way—not just Connor’s boyfriend, but the person who’d helped bridge the gap when everything had seemed impossible.

The flight delay had eliminated any chance of a hotel stop, but Murray—also her impromptu stylist—was already working his magic with her makeup in the taxi en route to Raffo’s opening at the prestigious Dolores Flemming Gallery.

“Thanks for waiting,” Dylan said as Murray tucked a final wayward strand into place. Her fingers brushed through her hair, deliberately tousling it. Raffo made no secret of loving her windswept look. “And for coming.”

“Are you kidding me? Raffo’s our girl.”

Our girl.It was funny to hear Murray say it like that. As though it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Thanks for everything.” Dylan knew very well that if it hadn’t been for Murray, Connor would have taken much longer to come around and accept that his mother and his best friend had fallen in love. It might never have happened or it might have taken so long that Dylan and Raffo would have let the opportunity go by—although Dylan was pretty sure there wasn’t much chance of that. Their feelings had been too strong.

“No thanks required. I was only telling it the way I saw it.” Murray shot her a warm smile. “I don’t know who he gets it from, but Connor can be a touch self-centered sometimes.”

“Myson?” Dylan pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Never.” Although they were joking, Dylan didn’t think that Connor had been self-centered about her and Raffo being together at all. He’d only had a perfectly normal reaction to the news, but Murray had helped him to look at it in an extraordinary way.

“I’m nervous,” Dylan admitted, her palms sweaty.

“It’s only natural.” Murray smiled warmly at her. “She’s your girlfriend and, well, from what I’ve seen, you’ll be on full display, Mama.”

“It’s not the work I’m worried about.” Dylan could only feel honored about Raffo painting her so frequently. “It’s how Raffo must be feeling right now.”

“She’s been here before and she’s never been better,” Murray said. “And she has her best friend and biggest ally by her side.”

The taxi stopped. They had arrived at the gallery.

Dolores Flemming was a tall, stunning woman with an equally stunning but much younger woman as her wife. It startled Dylan because, despite her own relationship with Raffo, she hadn’t expected that.

The opening reception was in full swing and Raffo, who looked absolutely scrumptious in a tuxedo and her hair swept back to reveal the sharp elegance of her cheekbones, was busy talking to everyone who wanted a piece of her.

“So, you’re the inspiration behind all this,” a rich voice murmured near her shoulder. Dylan turned to find Dolores studying her with warm curiosity. “Admittedly, when I booked Raffo for a show at my gallery, this was not the work I was expecting, but it’s absolutely mind-blowing, so thank you.” She shot Dylan a wink, as though they were somehow in this together.

“I really didn’t do all that much.”

Dolores snatched two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray.

“I’m sure that’s not true.” She offered Dylan one of the glasses; Dylan gladly accepted.

Dylan could listen to people praise Raffo all night, but now that she had Dolores to herself, another thought pressed forward. She watched the way Dolores’s fingers traced the stem of her champagne glass, remembering how she’d seen her do the same thing earlier with her wife’s shoulder. The casual intimacy of it gave her courage.

“We don’t know each other, but can I ask you something personal?” Dylan asked.

Dolores grinned at her. “After studying Raffo’s work, I feel like I know you rather intimately, so it’s only fair that you can ask me anything.” Her smile was disarming and generous.

“How long have you and your wife been together?”

“It’ll be eight years soon,” Dolores said, her voice bursting with pride. “It was terribly complicated at the beginning, but here we are, so many years later.” Dolores swallowed hard, as though the complications she just referred to made her emotional.

“Wow! Eight years.” She and Raffo had discussed Dylan’s age many more times than Raffo had wanted to. Because, according to Raffo, it wasn’t an issue to be discussed. If anything, she liked that Dylan was older. That she’d lived a lot of life and was the wiser for it.

“How old are you, if I may be so bold to ask?” The politeness of her words didn’t match the mischievous tone in Dolores’s tone of voice.

“Sixty next month,” Dylan said.

“Ah. Sixty is a tricky one. I had a melt down on my sixtieth. I wanted to break up with her even though my relationship with Sophie was the most beautiful thing about my life.” She fixed her gaze on Dylan. “My advice is to not do anything outrageous or rash until the day is over. Although I fully sympathize with any doubts you may have.” She gave a small nod. “It’s not always a walk in the park, this difference in age, but, honestly, in the grand scheme of things, it’s also no big deal.” Dolores’s smile was a lot less bright, as though a sad memory suddenly got hold of her. “You’re joining us for lunch tomorrow, aren’t you?” The brightness returned to her eyes. “Let’s talk more then.” She leaned in a little closer. “And congratulations. Raffo assured me that she couldn’t have made any of this work without you. I mean, it’s pretty obvious, but still.” Dolores chuckled lightly. “I have to go do my thing, but we’ll talk more soon.”

Dylan watched Dolores disappear into the crowd, but even through the press of bodies, she caught the moment when Dolores’s eyes found her wife’s—magnetic and inevitable—their shared smile as intimate as a touch.

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