Page 85 of Across the Boards

“Well! This is certainly more exciting than my evening reruns of Matlock.”

The crisp voice shatters our heated bubble, and we break apart—though not as far as we might have, given Elliot’s position on the railing and my position between her legs. We turn to find an elegantly dressed older woman standing at the edge of the porch, a tiny poodle in a ridiculous sweater tucked under one arm.

“Mrs. Abernathy,” Elliot’s voice is strangled, her legs quickly unwrapping from my waist though her hands remain on my shoulders, possibly for balance.

“Don’t stop on my account,” the older woman says airily, adjusting what appears to be an actual monocle. “Frankly, it’s refreshing to see someone using their porch for something other than package collection.”

I carefully help Elliot down from the railing, keeping one arm around her waist as she smooths her dress. “I’m Brody,” I offer, extending my free hand. “Brody Carter. I’m?—”

“The hockey player who moved in next door and has been making eyes at our Elliot since arrival,” Mrs. Abernathy finishes, shifting her dog to shake my hand. Her grip is surprisingly firm. “Lydia Abernathy. Former combat nurse, current neighborhood surveillance expert.”

“Combat nurse?” I can’t help but ask.

“Vietnam,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Nothing compared to the battles fought in our HOA meetings, I assure you.”

Elliot seems to have regained her composure. “Mrs. Abernathy, I didn’t realize you took your evening walk so late.”

“I don’t, typically. But Archibald here,” she holds up the dog, who gives us an unimpressed sniff, “decided my azaleas needed fertilizing. So now we’re both being punished with extra exercise.” She peers at us over her glasses. “Though clearly some are getting more cardiovascular benefits than others tonight.”

Despite my embarrassment, I can’t help but laugh. “You’ve got quite a perspective, Mrs. Abernathy.”

“Comes with outliving two husbands and one particularly persistent IRS auditor,” she replies with a wink. “Now, don’t let me interrupt whatever athletic event was about to transpire. Though I might suggest moving the playing field indoors.” She gives us a knowing look. “Not all our neighbors appreciate live entertainment, more’s the pity.”

“We were just saying goodnight,” Elliot explains, though the flush on her cheeks belies her casual tone.

“With remarkable thoroughness,” Mrs. Abernathy observes. “Harold—that’s husband number two—could take lessons. Though he did have other redeeming qualities.” She gives me an appraising once-over. “I imagine you share some of those qualities, Mr. Carter.”

Elliot makes a choking sound beside me.

“I should get Archibald home before he catches cold,” Mrs. Abernathy continues serenely. “These designer dog sweaters are more fashion than function, I’m afraid. Elliot, dear, your book club meeting is still on for Saturday? I’ve prepared my thoughts on why Mr. Darcy is literary history’s most overrated brooder.”

“Yes, still on,” Elliot confirms, sounding relieved at the change of subject.

“Well,” Mrs. Abernathy says with an approving nod, “at least someone in this complex is enjoying themselves. Carry on with your... reunion.” She gives us a knowing look. “Though perhaps tone down the descriptive monologue, hmm? Mrs. Finchley’s windows are right over there, and that woman’s hearing is supernaturally good for someone pushing eighty.”

With that parting advice, she turns and glides down the porch steps with remarkable grace for her age, her dog looking back at us with what I swear is judgment in its tiny eyes.

Once she’s out of earshot, Elliot collapses against me, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Oh my god,” she gasps. “I will never be able to look her in the eye again.”

“Did that really just happen?” I ask, still processing the entire surreal encounter.

“Welcome to life at The Pines,” Elliot says, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “Where privacy is a theoretical concept and Mrs. Abernathy knows everything before it happens.”

I gently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, marveling at how we’ve somehow gone from heated passion to neighborhood surveillance in the span of minutes. “So much for our ‘taking it slow’ plan.”

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “technically we’re still fully clothed and standing on my porch. That’s something.”

“Barely,” I admit. “Another five minutes and Mrs. Abernathy would have gotten a much more educational show.”

She blushes beautifully at that. “We should probably say goodnight for real. Before someone else decides to take a late-night constitutional.”

“Probably wise.” I lean in for one last kiss—softer now, but with the promise of more humming beneath the surface. “Goodnight, Elliot. Thank you for an unforgettable evening.”

“Goodnight, Brody.” Her smile is both sweet and knowing in a way that makes my heart race. “I’ll see you tomorrow. At the game.”

“I can’t wait.”

She slips inside, the door closing softly behind her, leaving me standing there like a lovesick teenager. Which, if I’m being honest with myself, is exactly what I am. Three years of carrying a torch based on one conversation and infrequent meetings at team events, and now here I am, completely gone after a few weeks of actually knowing her.

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