"To your mother's house? That is definitely not what I had in mind."
"I think it's a great idea. Mom's a terrific cook and she loves it when I bring company."
"I don't--"
"Don't be silly. Pick me up at six." She rattled off her address, then hung up the phone.
The second the receiver clicked into place, she realized what she'd done. She had assumed that Mark could act like any other date. Most guys would pick her up as a matter of course. But Mark couldn't. No matter how well he navigated through health club, he would never drive again.
****
Mark wiped his palms on his slacks and checked himself over. Had he combed his hair before or after he'd put on his shirt? He couldn't remember so he did it again. Carefully he ran his hands over his buttons, cuffs, and collar, making sure that everything was in place.
Amy hadn't told him how formal the evening would be. His own mother was a bit out of the ordinary with her old- fashioned insistence on ‘dressing’ for dinner, but she had certainly taught him it was better to be overdressed than underdressed. He'd finally compromised on a pair of black slacks, loafers, and a v-neck sweater over a button-down shirt and tie.
One of his readers had helped him pick out the tie, so he had to hope it wasn't too modern or wild. Most of his readers were college girls making a little money to help with tuition. From what he could tell, their tastes ran just a little on the extreme side. On the other hand, he didn't have a lot of alternatives to accepting their judgment and throwing away whatever his colleagues at the office laughed at. By keeping his shirts to an assortment of solid white, denim, pale blue, and pale yellow, at least he avoided any total clashes.
Growing up the only boy in a family of six, he’d always been last in line to use the mirror, so tying his tie blind was old hat even without the training he'd gotten in the Chicago military hospital where they'd sent him after his run-in with the land mine. This time he put a little extra care into the project, then tore it out and retied it one more time.
He was causing his own problems by putting too much pressure on himself. Knowing that didn't help, though, since he couldn't think of any way to avoid it. This was his first date since before he'd been shipped to Bosnia unless he counted the time Leslie had visited him in the hospital. The total visit had lasted five minutes. Just long enough for her to break off their engagement.
That experience had been more than enough to last him for a long time. So why had he called Amy? Leslie, at least, knew who he was. Anyone meeting him now would see only his blindness rather than the person behind those dead eyes.
He shook his head. It didn't matter why he'd asked. Put it down to a moment of insanity or whatever. It was done. Now he had to go through with it. At the very least, he'd get a home-cooked meal without having to spend hours cleaning up afterwards. He could put up with a lot for that. Couldn’t he?
When he'd finished dressing, he flipped open the glass dome of his watch and ran his forefinger over its hands to check the time. Five-thirty. His cab should be honking for him any minute.
Unfortunately, John, his normal driver, wasn't working today. In addition to worrying about his first date in years, he'd have to worry about keeping his money straight, making sure he left a decent tip, and preventing the driver from taking a few extra turns to run up the fare. It mattered that Amy see him as independent and capable.
The taxi's horn sounded and he took a deep breath. "Here goes nothing," he muttered to himself.
When the driver stopped and told him he'd reached Amy's address, Mark checked his watch one more time. Six on the nose. He couldn't have timed that better if he'd still been in the Air Force.
"Do you want me to go and get her for you?" the driver asked.
"Now you're really dreaming."
The driver had been in Bosnia while in the Army and they had developed a quick camaraderie. But that only went so far. Mark figured he'd be rolled into his grave before he sent another man in after a woman like Amy. He'd trust a guy from the Army with his life. With a woman, he wouldn't trust him as far as he could throw him.
He opened the door, flipped open his collapsible cane, and tripped over the high curb.
Little alarm bells went off in his head. He hadn't done that for over a year now, at least not when he was using his cane. So why now? Amy had definitely rattled something in his mind. Still, he pressed on. I’m only doing this for the home-cooked meal, he reassured himself.
It turned out that Amy lived in a garden apartment. Her apartment number, four, didn't seem to have any bearing to the floor she was on, so he had to resort to feeling the numbers on the plastic number plates on the doors.
Number two opened abruptly and a voice that could have belonged to Miss Chadham, his seventh grade English teacher and the only person he'd ever feared more than his physical therapist, assailed him.
"What do you think you're doing, pervert? If you don't get out of here right away, I'll call the police. Then you'll have some explaining to do."
He started explaining that he was merely looking for apartment four.
"What, are you blind or something? Number four is on the next floor."
He showed his cane helpfully, but his adversary must have taken it as a threat. She squawked, "I am calling the police," then slammed the door in his face. After that, her voice was slightly muffled as it permeated the closed door. Still, the meaning was clear. "You can't go around threatening people with a stick like that."
Too late for omens and portends. This day was turning into a disaster. He felt for the stairs and climbed them as quickly as he could. He really didn't want to explain his rather dismal dating life to the Dallas Police Department.
Apartment number three was guarded by three small bicycles, a pair of roller blades, and several hockey sticks. He managed to stumble over every one of them. When he finally got to number four, he was almost ready to call it quits and head home.
Almost, but not quite. By now his pure stubborn nature drove him on.
He traced out the numeral four. At least, he decided, the comedy of errors was over. Then he ran his hand down the doorframe looking for a doorbell and picked up a splinter.
He knocked.
A moment later, he heard a light tread of footsteps heading for the door. If, after all this, the cabby had dropped him at the wrong apartment building, he really would call it a day.
"Oh, hi." Amy's throaty voice would sound sexy if she was reading the telephone book.
"You haven't forgotten our date?"
"Date?" She sounded slightly bemused for a moment and he nearly gave up. "Oh, you mean dinner at my mother's. I'll be ready in a minute. Why don't you come in?"
Downstairs, the meter was running. Still, he'd done well in his strategy classes at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, and telling Amy to hurry up sounded like the type of maneuver that would guarantee defeat. What the hell? Between his pay and his disability pension, he had a lot more money than he'd had dates lately.
Amy's house smelled of cinnamon, as if she had been baking something. Once he adjusted to the cinnamon, though, he could smell lotion, air fresheners, and something green and growing.
He followed her in, then stood in the middle of what he guessed was the living room while she headed off to do whatever women do when they're supposed to be ready but aren't.
"I really am almost ready," Amy called.
"Terrific." He used his cane to feel around but still managed to smack into a wooden-legged chair with nothing on its padded seat. Close enough. He sat and tried to look comfortable while rubbing his smarting shin.
"Does your mother live far?" he asked, trying to make his voice as loud as hers had been.
"Pretty close," she said from less than three feet away.
Wonderful. Shouting at women is guaranteed to win points.
Right now, he was supposed to tell her how pretty she looked. Except he had no clue. Damn this blindness. The doctors all assured him how lucky he w
as just to be alive. He tried to believe them and sometimes it worked. A lot of the time, though, he could only feel that blindness was the worst thing that could befall a man. Everything a man does, from simple things like playing catch with his son or driving a car with his date, to complex activities like flying a jet or trying to make sense of a piece of modern art, relied on sight. Without it, a man is less than a man.
"Everything smells nice," he finally told her. "Are you cooking something?"
"Ah, no." Amy paused for a moment, then continued, "a friend of mine is a real estate agent. She taught me this trick. You put a couple of sticks of cinnamon in a saucepan full of water over low heat. It makes your house smell good and homey.
"I might as well tell you now," she warned. Her voice sounded so serious he wondered it she was going to suddenly remember that she had a live-in boyfriend or something.
"What?"
"Heating up a couple of sticks of cinnamon in a saucepan is the total extent of my cooking. Beyond that, if you can't fix it in a microwave, it doesn't happen. That's one of the reasons my mother invites me over so often. She's worried that I'll waste away."
From what he had felt of Amy's face and arm ... and other parts of her ... she wasn't about to vanish. Her curves might be more muscle than anything else, but they were definitely curves.
"Funny, I never cooked either, until I went blind."
"So you cook now?" She sounded surprised.
"I started when I discovered a blind man can cook as well as a sighted man. It just takes a little longer. Cooking depends more on taste, smell, and feel, than it does on sight. I've got those." Not to mention ample time to experiment, eat his disasters, and experiment again.
He didn’t have to tell her about the cleanup issues.
Still, her admission gave him an opening. If they managed to survive this evening, he could invite Amy over for dinner. Back in the Air Force, anyway, most of the airmen, and airwomen too, would have killed for a good home-cooked meal. Admittedly, most of the airmen had testosterone where they should have had brains. Still, food is food. If Amy didn't cook, maybe he could use his kitchen to prove that the land mine had robbed him of his vision but it certainly had not robbed him of everything of value.
"I hate to ask," Amy said, "but could you help me with this clasp?"
She was close enough that he could smell her.
He reached out his hands, found something soft, yielding, sexy, then heard her embarrassed laugh. Strike two, he thought. Copping a feel while doing her a favor was unlikely to win points.
"Sorry."
"I guess I'd better turn around first."
"Ready?" he asked, silently cursing the quake he heard in his voice.
"Ready," she breathed.
He reached again, slid his hands up her back against the smoothness of her blouse. Rayon, he guessed. His pulse picked up half a notch when he felt no ridge were a bra would normally be.
He finally found the clasp, one of those pathetic little things that involves a hook and a little strand of thread on the other side. Fortunately, growing up with three sisters, and a high school career about equally divided between football, studies, and cheerleaders, had given him a pretty good working knowledge of hooks and fasteners. He'd even had some practice getting them fastened.
When he reached the clasp, Amy stepped back toward him until he could feel the heat radiating from her body. Her orange-blossom scent got stronger but remained subtle, hinting rather than blatantly proclaiming its presence.
He had to restrain himself from pulling her toward him and taking her in his arms. He knew it was way too early. Hell, it would probably always be too early. Still, something about Amy Halprin got under his skin like no woman he'd ever known.
Mark knew that thinking about Amy this way was setting himself up for disappointment. Still, his good intentions didn't help the aching desire he felt.
Finally he managed to maneuver the hook through the tiny loop. "Got it."
"Thanks."
"I never could figure out why women wear clothes that hook in the back," he told her.
"Probably because they're designed by men," she answered. "Let's go."
He waited until he felt the heat from her body fade slightly, then stood.
"Oh dear."
"What?" He didn't like the sound of that.
"You sat in my cat's favorite chair. I'm afraid you got some fur on your pants." She paused for a moment. "Here, let me help you."
He heard what sounded like reluctance in her offer, but she didn't give him the chance to let her off the hook.
She brushed firmly against his rear.
****
Mark's glutes tensed as Amy brushed away Alfie's fur.
When he'd been sitting, it had been easy for her to forget how tall he was. In health club, she'd noticed how every one of his muscles had seemed cut and defined. It hadn't mattered then. She'd been angry with him for trying to cut her out of her bench press machine. The unyielding muscle in his butt reminded her of how well built he was everywhere. Blind or not, she was dealing with a very powerful man.
He waited patiently for her to complete her cleanup.
"Shall we go?" he asked when she stopped.
"Sure," she answered, trying to sound chirpy and totally unconcerned that she had just been stroking a man's behind.
He carefully pushed the cane in front of him, sending her cat scurrying for the cover of her bed, then led the way toward her door avoiding the clutter that seemed always to pop up wherever she went.
A taxi was waiting outside and Amy was horrified to see the meter reading.
"Do you live far from here?" she asked.
"About two miles," Mark answered.
"Oh." That short a drive couldn't explain the fifteen dollars on the meter. The rest of the tab had to be because of the wait while she tried to get her hair to behave.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Mark nodded in her direction. "Lead on."
She gave the driver her mother's address and suggested that he take the Tollway, since North Central was under construction, as always. Once the driver got on the highway, she turned her attention back to Mark.
"Anything I should know about your mother?" he asked.
"Let's see." She couldn't tell him that her mother's fondest dream was to get her older daughter married off. He might get it into his head that he was being set up as the sucker in that scam. "She lives in Highland Park, has big hair, and thinks that God made the rest of the world as practice before getting to Texas."
Mark laughed. "That certainly gives me a mental picture."
She wished that he would laugh or smile more. It made him look relaxed, happy, and a bit more approachable than his normal glare. It didn't make him look any less sexy, though. Or any less dangerous.
"She's a piece of work," Amy continued, "but she means well."
"Don't we all?" Mark questioned, his frown back.
"The good news is I didn't get my cooking genes from her."
"I thought you said you didn't cook."
"Exactly. You're in for a treat. When I was in high school, a couple of the guys on the football team used to ask me and my sister out just so they could get invited over for dinner."
"Your parents must have loved that."
"I can barely remember my father. My mother raised us from when I was three and my sister was one."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Me too." Her mother had put her own life on hold until she could raise her daughters and get them settled. No matter how often Amy tried to assure Tillie that she was fully settled and content with her life, her mother refused to rejoin humanity, refused even to date, until both of her daughters were taken care of.
"Thirty-two dollars," the driver announced when they pulled into her mother's circular parking lot.
Amy glared at the meter to make sure the cabby wasn't trying to take advantage of a blind man. Unfortunately, the liquid crystal display backed up the ma
n's request.
"I'll pay my half," Amy volunteered, mentally counting how many lunches she'd have to skip.
"Like hell," Mark replied. "I was the one who asked you out. I was also the one who called the cab."
"Hey, thanks," the driver said looking at the handful of bills Mark gave him. "Want me back any particular time or do you just want to call?"
Amy glanced at the money to make sure Mark hadn't accidentally handed over an extra twenty. The five dollar tip seemed generous but not out of line.
"I think we'd better play our exit by ear," Mark told the driver.
"You've got my number. Ask for me. I promise not to rag you about Army beating Air Force for what is it, the sixteenth time in a row?" The cabby hopped out of the car and opened the door for Mark, then jogged around and opened Amy's.
Mark adjusted his sunglasses, then stuck his cane in front of him and walked to her.
"I'd appreciate it if you'd give me your arm," he told her. "That way I won't stick my cane up your skirt."
His smile was back, but it didn't help this time.
She looked down at her linen trousers. It was hard to get used to the idea that Mark was blind. It was harder to really grasp what that meant. Unless she told him, or unless she invited him to run his hands over her legs, he would never even know what she was wearing. On the one hand, she would never have to be afraid he was only after her for her looks. On the other hand, all of the time she had spent getting dressed, putting on her makeup, and trying to wear her thick hair up rather than simply pulling it in a fat braid down her back, was pretty much wasted on him.
"Fine." She reached for his hand and tucked it to her elbow.
Leading him reminded her of dancing. He towered over her five foot eight, and had to weigh half again as much as she did. Still, she could move him as easily as if he were attached to her.
She resisted the impulse to see if she could twirl him around and climbed her mother's porch.
Mark sensed when she stepped up and stepped with her. When she reached the top step, however, he tried to climb one more non-existent step and had to lean on her a little to regain his balance.
"Sorry," he muttered, obviously angry with himself.
Blind Date Page 3
