by J. L. Salter
“No, I didn’t realize my smooches had such power over assassins. And to think I only kissed his cheek.” She deserved my sarcasm even though she didn’t seem to comprehend it as such. “Imagine if I’d given him some tongue.”
“Oh stop, you’re going to make me cry. I’m trying to reason with my best friend before she walks into the house of death, and you’re ridiculing me.”
So she did get the sarcasm after all. “I’m sorry, Joan. I’m just exhausted by all your dire predictions. This guy’s been a perfect gentleman.”
“Including when he was nibbling your entire arm in a public restaurant?”
“Yes, even that. Despite being a bit peculiar, it was tastefully done…”
“And you’re making fun of me again.”
“That one was not intentional. I only meant Brett has been the soul of chivalry so far, and I have no reason to expect anything less at his house tonight.”
“Don’t these words have meaning to you any more?” Joan held up fingers to visually enumerate four dire components: “You’re going to be locked inside the spooky house of a crazy man you don’t even know…”
“I doubt it’s spooky, the door will remain unlocked, he’s not crazy… just unusual, and I already do know him. Case closed.”
“That’s exactly what the coroner will say around midnight.”
“Don’t bet on it, Joan.”
Before I departed, she finally gave me the password to her terribly flawed laptop.
****
Later that evening
For our fourth interaction, which in many ways was our first actual date, I decided to dress to impress him. To show off my legs, I wore a slim black skirt just above the knee and a pair of slides with nearly three-inch heels. Up top, I had a sleeveless shell in subdued magenta over a tight spaghetti strap bodice — in contrasting color — and my most advantageous brassiere. In other words, after three outings with low key wardrobe, I was finally going for effect.
Good thing Brett had provided a hand-drawn map, because his was an area of Verdeville I’d spent very little time in. It was through the old retail district southeast of downtown, which had lost almost all its business to the nearly revitalized downtown and the much newer hubs near our three interstate exits. The map also explained, finally, why Brett had been jogging so near that old electronics store — his neighborhood was less than half a mile west of there.
Brett’s house was nothing special and certainly not spooky. Much like his truck, the dwelling showed age, dents, and mileage. Had a nice deep porch on two sides… numerous tall shady trees on what looked like about an acre. That metal roof would resonate nicely in a light rainfall.
I’d been curious about his culinary skills and wondered if we’d end up with a frozen entrée or something from a burger joint.
No point in mentioning that Brett’s clothing was nearly identical to everything he’d worn before. “Come on in.” He met me at the door with wooden spoon in hand and a harried look on his face. “These instructions are intensely flawed and might even be designed for an alternate universe.”
Entering, I couldn’t restrain my astonished chuckle as I saw pouches, cans, pans, skillets, and numerous other aspects of the kitchen in wild disarray. “What are you making, a state dinner?”
“It’s alleged to be a simple single skillet meal, but something’s gone terribly wrong.” He waved the spoon toward the pouch. “I’m only supposed to stir it occasionally for ten minutes, but I’ve been whacking this mess for at least fifteen and it’s still not done.”
Moving closer, I surveyed the contents of his skillet. Seemed to be mainly pasta and shrimp, with an indiscernible pale sauce and scattered green veggie fragments. “So what are all these other things for?” I nodded toward the counter.
“When it looked like the pouch mess was a goner, I figured I might make Sloppy Joes instead.”
My appreciative smile was to indicate either would be fine with me.
“But after I’d already thawed the stinking meat I realized I was out of buns.”
Laughed out loud… I couldn’t help it. “Sorry, Brett, I’m just surprised to find somebody who’s klutzier in the kitchen than I am.” I extracted the spoon from his anxious grip. “Let me tend the skillet and you wrap that hamburger meat back up.”
He looked skeptical for an instant, then relieved.
I was quite surprised that the über-confident jogger man, with his calculated wagers and elaborate bribes, could be such a helpless goof near a stovetop. It was also quite touching that he was trying so hard to impress me. I tasted one of the pasta pieces, scanned the directions on the pouch, and set a different heat level on the burner. “Have you got a cover for this skillet?”
“Probably… somewhere.” He pointed toward a low cabinet adjacent the stove.
I had to bend way over to scrutinize the bottom cupboard’s dark contents. “Here’s one that ought to work.” When I held it up and looked over my shoulder, I saw he was assessing my legs and hindquarters… and he didn’t bother turning away. I let him look.
After covering the skillet, I checked the stove’s clock and asked what else I could help with.
Brett had already put the wrapped meat back in his freezer and was evidently struggling with a decision on the opened can of Sloppy Joe mix.
As a teacher, I have a third eye which can detect cheats, fibs, and other insincerity, and I focused that scrutiny on Brett. It was important to discern whether he was playacting in any way whatsoever, or if he really was that ungrounded while entertaining a date in his home. His cool, calculated cockiness outside the electronics store and inside the pizza and barbecue places was in dramatic contrast to the man I finally met during our final few minutes at the Italian place… who was now struggling in his kitchen with skillets, cans, and pouches.
My expert analysis: he was genuine. With more facets that I had imagined possible in the calculating Mr. Wager, Brett currently manifested a persona which somewhat resembled a gawky teenager trying to impress his pretty date. It gratified me to play that role in his awkwardness. It certainly made him a lot more human… and considerably warmer.
I retested the pasta, stirred a bit, and recovered it. “About ninety-eight more seconds, I’d guess.”
My number evidently went over his head as he scowled at the pouch before tossing it into the trash. “False advertising.”
In an upper cabinet, I found a plastic container with a secure lid and poured the Sloppy Joe mix inside. “This should be good for several days in the fridge.”
He took the container rather absent-mindedly. “Uh, by the way, I didn’t get a chance to tell you coming in… but you look nice tonight. Real nice.”
“Well, thank you.” I kissed his cheek and pointed to the fridge.
“Oh… right.” He’d already forgotten about refrigerating the food.
Within fifteen minutes we were eating the salvaged meal. The pasta turned out okay and the shrimp was fine — though the green veggie fragments were not worth mentioning. Overall, an enjoyable meal, despite Brett’s initial fractiousness. All he offered to drink was bottled beer or fruit juice, so I chose brew to accompany our shrimp.
After Brett saw things were working out after all, he also relaxed. The main course completed, we sat on a two-seater wooden swing at the back end of his side porch and watched dozens of martins swooping about for their dinners.
“You feel like watching a movie?” He pointed inside, so I knew he meant a DVD.
Figuring he’d own mainly action flicks, I declined. “It’s so peaceful out here. I’d rather watch the last few moments of daylight.” Indeed, there weren’t many minutes left, as it was already past eight and in early May it would be dark quickly.
“Well, scooch over a bit closer, so we don’t get a chill.” Brett smiled as he reached out a long, firm arm and hugged me into his side. Our swing barely moved.
That was a lot better than watching a shoot-em-up DVD with chase scenes and car crash
es. I think I even started purring.
After a long silence and without any prompt, he said softly, “You had asked about my work. I’m supposed to be part time, but really work full time running a small family business.”
“Local?”
“Very much so. Also quite limited, so it hasn’t really had much chance to grow.”
“What kind of growth?”
“I want to see it expand to reach more people with greater variety. We’re just outside of town, but there are lots of residential areas out that way — northeast, along Highway 141. We should be drawing more of those folks to the Co-op than just farmers…”
“You run the Co-op?” It was a major outlet for feed, seed, and fertilizer — among many other lines — in the northeast quadrant of both city and county.
“Well, me and my dad right now, but he wants to retire soon. Once I get my MBA and hopefully learn more about effective marketing, I want to add to our hardware line and maybe even have a mini-mart attached so we can catch the people on that end of town who need grocery staples but don’t want to drive all the way into Verdeville.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“My granddad bought the Co-op shortly after World War Two and it’s stayed in the family. I’d like to keep it healthy and pass it along even stronger.” Brett shifted his shoulder a bit, so he must’ve developed a kink.
I snuggled back into him like he was a muscular cushion. It was too dark to see the martins anymore, but I figured they’d had their fill. I was feeling pretty mellow but made the mistake of glancing at his watch. Yikes… school night! “Gosh, I have to get moving… if I fall asleep in class, those second graders will tie me to a stake.”
Brett hugged me tightly before drawing his long arm away and slowly standing. Then he stretched and groaned. “Yeah, I’ve got classes in Nashville tomorrow, too.” Then he extended his hand to help me up from the swing.
I didn’t need the assistance but loved being around a gentleman who offered, so I accepted and thanked him.
He drew me up full against him and looked into my eyes. Too dark to discern their color or intensity, but I remembered them — penetrating. Then he barely touched my chin with the tip of a finger and I knew we would kiss. It wasn’t like the kisses in romance novels unless those characters also had beer and shrimp first, but it was delicious nonetheless. I had goose bumps over one hundred and one percent of my body.
That kiss lasted about ninety-eight seconds by my estimation, and I was not ready for it to end. When it did, he pulled back a bit and gazed into my eyes with a question. This time I could read his mind and knew he wondered if it was okay. My reply was to pull his head down toward mine and kiss him back. Same flavors and about the same duration.
But I really did have to leave because 6:15 a.m. was just as early in May as it was in September. As I was thanking him for the meal and hospitality — didn’t feel right to verbalize the kisses — he reached on the small desk by the door and handed me a small satchel.
“What’s this?” I hefted it — about ten pounds.
“A laptop I don’t use much. Thought you might want to borrow it… you know, until you find the one you’re looking for.” He still didn’t fully realize I knew exactly where my potential laptop was, but just couldn’t afford it yet. “You’ll probably need it for that story you’re working on… and I understand you’re not having much luck with that other machine you borrowed.”
“How on earth would you know…?” I didn’t even finish, because he was already smiling. We both knew he’d read my mind enough to fill in a few details from the bits I’d told him.
“And when you get it ready, I’d like to read it.”
I just nodded. He steered me back inside where I collected my purse and then I remembered the kitchen. “Oh, the dishes… we left a mess.”
“It’ll keep. I can knock them out when I get home tomorrow afternoon.”
“You don’t mind going to sleep with dirty dishes?”
“Not as long as they stay in the kitchen. Why?”
I remembered how Momma festered about her dishes until they were rinsed and in the washer. “No reason. Some people really fret about such things.”
He smiled in that way you do when you’re close to yawning because you’re so tired. “I just fret about important stuff.”
“For example…”
Brett extended his arms and I melted into them. “Like whether we’ll see each other again.”
I’d been wondering the same thing, but had not actually dared articulate it. Of course if I borrowed his laptop, we’d have to hook back up eventually. “With no wagers, no bribes, and no commitments, it would just be you and me going out.”
“So if I were to call and ask you out, maybe you wouldn’t hang up on me?”
“Just ask me now and I can’t hang up.” Then I pinched a bit of lean muscle against his ribcage.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a page which had been folded two or three times. I had the feeling he’d wanted to show it to me all evening. As Brett handed it over, he spoke words I’d thought I would never hear for the rest of my life. “I don’t suppose you like to dance.”
It was a flyer for Verdeville’s Saturday evening dance. “Don’t bet on it — I love to dance!”
Chapter Six
Saturday evening
Having finally learned my lesson, I’d decided not to be in personal contact with Joan, the doomsday prophet. Instead, I sent her a short email — with Brett’s newly-borrowed fully functioning laptop — saying I’d be at the dance Saturday with a date. If there was any screeching, foot-stamping, or allusions to gory screen killers, I was blissfully unaware of it. All that mattered was that I was going dancing again, finally.
From spring to early autumn, the former Tennessee Army National Guard armory — on Highway 70 southeast of town — held a monthly dance, that night’s event being the second of the current season. One of many different ways Greene County utilized that facility for community and public functions, the Second Saturday Dance was held in the immense space which formerly served as the motor pool bay.
A very conservative cover charge offset the equally modest refreshments provided: punch, homemade cookies and a cash bar for a small variety of colas. Dress was casual… very casual. I would have liked to wear something really nice, but didn’t really want to stand out, so I selected a short denim skirt, the cowgirl boots which made me nearly four inches taller, and a buttoned cotton blouse in soft pink.
When Brett came to pick me up, he had a cowboy yoke shirt in muted plaid with faux pearl snaps, ironed denim jeans, and freshly polished cowhide boots. I thought we matched very nicely.
The evening featured three different bands playing three diverse kinds of music. Slated first were golden oldies of the fifties and sixties — songs my parents grooved on, so many were familiar. The second band featured what I’d call contemporary chart music, though their list reached back a decade or two for several selections. Finally, the headliners would play Country and Western of the current and past two decades mixed in with numerous C&W classics.
Brett and I danced several of the well-played oldies, but took a breather — and refreshments outside — during much of the contemporary set. The music itself was okay, but the second band needed a lot more practice.
“If our advertising budget would stand it, I’d like the Co-op to be a co-sponsor of this monthly dance. It has a good draw… pretty much the entire cross-section of Greene County, from senior citizens to young adults.”
“I didn’t see any teenagers here, though.”
“Probably out at the quarry.” He chuckled. “They wouldn’t be caught dead at a place like this — not cool enough.”
“It’s cool enough for me — I love moving to music. When you suggested this, I thought I was dreaming.” I still couldn’t believe I was dancing. “How’d you learn to dance, anyhow?”
“For a year or so, I thought I might like to be a high sch
ool coach, so I was taking classes in kinesiology. Had one full semester of a dance course and we did everything but the foxtrot.”
“What a shame.” I tried to dig a knuckle into his ribs. “I’ve always wanted to see a fox trot.”
During the break after the contemporary band’s set, I freshened up in the ladies room and then rejoined Brett at the open huge overhead doorway where the cool night air mixed with the much warmer inside atmosphere. May was the last dance with doors open — in the hot months, they ran the A/C full blast.
Lots more people danced during the headliners’ set — C&W was clearly a crowd favorite in Greene County. We only sat out a few, and mainly because the dance floor was so congested.
Everything seemed perfect: the night, the music, a chance to dance again, and the comfort of having a partner who actually knew where his feet belonged. But, most of all, I loved our contact. We fit so well together that at times we seemed to be a single body with four legs… which is pretty much what ballroom dancing is all about. Some women never get to experience that, but there I was with Mr. Smooth for nearly every dance. When we walked off the floor, I saw looks on the faces of several women and knew exactly what they were thinking, so I kept Brett’s hand clasped possessively. No way would I let any of those crafty females get their mitts on my partner.
