Just Three Dates Page 11

  He’d sleep-walked into his eight o’clock class and had been five minutes into his lecture before realizing it was the same one he’d delivered the day before. His students had made a joke of it.

  “Memory is the first thing to go, Doctor Stuart,” a guy sitting on the last row had called out.

  “And I thought you had plans to pass this class,” Mark had growled back, smiling just enough to show he was teasing.

  Feeling like a fool had not improved his mood.

  As the flash drive loaded, he leaned back and reached for the cup of hot chocolate he had purchased at the cafeteria after class, making a face as he tasted it, having forgotten he’d not ordered coffee. Why? What on Earth would possess him to order that instead of coffee?

  He huffed, recalling chocolate was Karen’s favorite. And why was he so angry? Why did it matter to him that the woman’s poor self-image prevented her from accepting a compliment?

  He sighed.

  He was angry because…as much as he hated to admit it he rather liked Karen. He enjoyed talking with her. He liked her assertiveness, the way she had handled Will Simpson. She seemed to love her work and to be motivated to do well. He had thought she was bright, too, and he would enjoy arguing with her as he had with Lu—He shook his head, not wanting to go there.

  He was angry because, until she had become so irrationally cross at him, he’d been looking forward to their third date.

  It was not fair for her to be angry with him because of a compliment. Any other woman in the world would have been pleased, even if she had thought he fudged a little. Even if he had stretched the truth—and he hadn’t, he reminded himself—her reaction had been off the wall.

  Lucia had never acted as Karen had.

  He found the file containing the analysis of Karen’s picture, copied it, and pasted the report into his email, below the message.

  He reread his note aloud.

  “You were correct, your score was not nine-point-five. It was only nine-point-four-nine-eight-seven-six. My apologies for misrepresenting the truth.”

  Why did he care if she knew he’d been telling the truth? One part of him wanted her to recognize her mistake and to apologize. Another part simply wanted her to realize how stupid, unfair, and ridiculous her behavior had been. He wanted her to understand that he, not she, was ending their agreement, terminating any possible relationship. Apology or not, a third date was not in the cards.

  He hit SEND.

  ***

  Vicky had just left her office when Karen opened Mark’s email, expecting to find his apology. She could feel her face burning as she read his terse message and scanned the report. She felt like a fool, making assumptions, jumping to conclusions, accusing him of lying, even though he had never given her a reason to question him before, convicting him solely because he was a man.

  Even with her limited knowledge of math, it was obvious that nine-point-four-nine-eight-seven-six easily rounded to nine-point-five, and she appreciated how silly it would have sounded if he quoted her score to the fifth decimal place.

  That afternoon, she trudged across the college campus to see him, feeling that her apology ought to be delivered in person. The department secretary directed her to his office, and she walked down the long, empty hall, her shoes tapping on the floor with each step, feeling like a condemned prisoner on her way to execution.

  The door to Mark’s office was open, and he looked up, frowning, as she called his name.

  He hesitated, glancing at the papers piled in front of him, before standing and pointing to a chair in front of his desk. “Sit down.”

  He sat behind the desk and listened politely to her apology.

  “I…I received your email and the…the report.” She looked up into his cold, dark eyes, then turned away, focusing on her hands clasped in her lap. “I’m really sorry. I was very unfair to you. I…I had a bad experience with a guy a while back, a guy who lied to me, and I overreact when I believe someone is not telling me the truth. Last night, if I’d thought before I jumped to a conclusion, I would have realized…I had no reason to think you would…I need to think before I speak.” She paused, looking into his eyes again. “Please forgive me.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Mark said.

  The lack of warmth in his voice made her shiver. And the silence that followed as Mark’s eyes wandered about the office, repeatedly glancing at the papers on his desk, made her feel as if anything else would be of more interest to him than she was. The rapidity with which he sprang to his feet when she indicated she had to return to work…clearly her accusation remained a major problem.

  Karen left his office without allowing herself to turn back. A terse “Good day,” trailed out into the hallway behind her.

  ***

  On her way to meet her mother for lunch, Karen ruminated on her last contact with Mark, of her attempt at apologizing for her overreaction. Of more significance than what Mark had said that day was the coldness in his voice…not to mention the fact that a week had passed with no invitation to a third date.

  Karen dreaded having to tell her mother that prospects for a third date were not promising. A week had passed since the lecture, two and a half since their first date, and her mother had been out of town. Except for a short phone call after the opening of the exhibit, this was her first opportunity to catch up on what had happened.

  “Tell me about Mark Stuart. How were your dates?”

  They sat at one of the sidewalk cafés that were appearing in the city. An umbrella shielded them from the midday sun, and bright, checked cloths covered the tables. A plush, red rope separated the dining area from the walkway, but her mother’s eyes followed a man and a woman as they strolled past, just a few feet from their table.

  “I’m not certain I like eating lunch on the sidewalk, but if that’s what people are doing, today…” She shrugged, turning back to Karen. “I want details.” She rested one arm on the table and leaned forward.

  “You don’t qualify for details about my dates, Mother. Honestly.”

  “So it’s Mother today and not Mom. You know I wouldn’t ordinarily ask, Karen, but since I was partly responsible for introducing you, I believe I’m entitled to an update.” She sipped her tea. “Besides, your reluctance to tell me speaks volumes.” She smiled.

  “Mother, our two dates have been unqualified disasters. Mark doesn’t like me.”

  “Really?” Her mother raised an eyebrow, questioningly.

  “At the opening of the exhibit, he hardly said a word.”

  “Stared at the paintings and didn’t speak?”

  Karen rolled her eyes. “He gave a lecture on Monet that was better than anything I heard in college. He and John, Vicky’s husband, talked about football.” She shook her head. “He discussed women’s issues with a friend of his, an attorney, who was going on about how women are inferior…The man told me that since I am a woman, I must have slept my way into my job.”

  Her mother glared at her, obviously angry. “Did he really? What did Mark say about that?”

  “Mark put him down.”

  “Sounds to me that Doctor Stuart talked a quite a bit—Thank you.” She accepted a menu from the waiter.

  “Yes, but—” Karen leaned back and crossed her arms as her mother interrupted.

  “He shared his knowledge about one of your favorite painters, he discussed football, and he debated politics. What exactly did you want from him?”

  Karen sighed. “Okay. He did talk, but he told me nothing about himself. I mean, I wanted to know something about him. I learned nothing about Mark Stuart.”

  “Bah.” Her mother scanned the menu. “He told you a great deal about himself. Why, based on what little you have just said, and I’m sure you could tell me a lot more, you know the two of you share an interest in art, you know he enjoys football, a topic of interest to almost any Southerner except you, and you know he’s willing to defend you, even though I’ll wager he doesn’t agree with your position…You d
idn’t tell him you attended that demonstration, did you?”

  “Of course. That’s what started the argument.”

  “All the more credit to him. He’s kind, and he refused to embarrass you. Beyond what you’ve told me, he’s good looking, polite, well off…Many young women would crawl over you to get to a man like Mark Stuart.” She took another sip of tea. “I think I’ll order the crab cake sandwich. How about you?”

  Karen glanced at the menu. “Sounds good.”

  The waiter returned to take their orders. As he left, her mother continued.

  “Do you like nothing about him? He seemed to be so very nice that day we ate lunch together.”

  Karen sighed. How could she explain to her mother that while she really did like Mark, something seemed to be missing in his life? Surely he could discuss art, football, and politics. She had appreciated it when he had defended her, but that was a good example of the problem. He had engaged in the debate, but she had no idea that he cared about the outcome. She’d wager that although he seemed to know his football, he cared not a whit about which team won any particular game. He knew Monet, but did he like his work?

  One of her professors had once said that psychologists study how a person thinks, what a person feels, and the way a person behaves. She’d heard Mark express his thoughts and she had seen his behavior, but she knew precious little of his feelings.

  Karen knew her mother would think it weird, but, in a way, she had been pleased when he had become angry with her—other than his reaction to Lucia’s song, it was the only real expression of emotion she had seen from him.

  “He…” She raised her hands, helplessly. “I don’t know.”

  “How was the lecture?”

  Karen smiled sheepishly, recalling how she had dreaded the lecture so much she had considered the possibility of feigning illness so she would not have to attend, and how much she had enjoyed it once Mark had begun to speak. “Actually, I enjoyed it better than I’d expected. I’d been told he was a good teacher, and he managed to make the topic interesting.”

  “And you and Mark…”

  “He walked me to the lecture. He walked me home. During the lecture, he had mentioned a computer program that can rate how beautiful one’s face is. He said I scored nine and a half points out of ten.”

  Her mother smiled and patted her hand. “Of course you did.”

  “He actually put my photograph into his program, Mom! Would he have canceled our date if I’d had a low score? I was rather irritated.”

  “He said you are beautiful, sweetie. It was a compliment. Most women would be pleased.”

  Karen didn’t respond and her mother frowned.

  “Did you tell him how you felt?”

  Karen crossed her arms again. She certainly had told him how she felt, but she would not tell her mother she had called him a liar and that he had proven her wrong.

  “He knew I was angry…”

  “I fail to understand you, Karen. How do you expect him to like you if you won’t even talk to him? You promised me that you’d go on three dates with Mark.”

  “I did.” Karen nodded. “And I’ve been on two already.”

  “Sweetheart, a date is not simply listening to a lecture or walking beside a man as you wander through an exhibit. It’s talking, joking, laughing…” Her hand tapped the table, emphasizing each word.

  “I do like him, Mom. I really do. It’s just that…”

  “Honey, I’m really trying to help you. You have one more date. Please try this time. You’re a beautiful, bubbly, friendly, good person. Show him the real you. Look for the good in him. Will you do that?”

  Karen threw her hands up in surrender. “Okay, Mom. Okay. I will.”

  If there was a third date…

  ***

  “How are things going with Karen Wingate? You escorted her to the opening of the new exhibit at the museum and she attended your lecture the other night, you told me.”

  Mark’s mother handed him a glass of iced tea as they sat on the patio overlooking the courtyard at the rear of her house. Red brick pavers covered the courtyard and tall trees sheltered it from the late summer sun. Black, wrought-iron benches had been placed on either side of a statue of Saint Francis, and a boxwood hedge surrounded the area. Beyond the hedge, the old coach house was visible.

  The coach house had been renovated into what his mother called “the apartment,” and Mark had lived there since returning to Charleston. He always chuckled when he heard her refer to the six-room house as an apartment.

  “They’re going nowhere, Mother. The woman is crazy.”

  “Now, Mark…”

  “I told you about my lecture, about the computer program?”

  His mother nodded.

  “After the lecture, Dean Williams made an innocuous comment, betting that Karen would have a high score on the program. I agreed with her and told her Karen scored nine-point-five out of ten…and Karen became angry.”

  “Did she really?” His mother chuckled.

  “I’m not joking. I could see it in her face. She was obviously angry about something as I walked her home. She didn’t say more than two sentences until we reached her apartment, then she crossed her arms, glared at me, called me a liar. Told me her rating couldn’t possibly be so high. I was too shocked to protest, so I left.”

  “Was it true? The score?” his mother inquired.

  “Of course it’s true,” Mark growled. “You’ve seen her.”

  “You must have misunderstood, Mark. Her reaction makes no sense. I mean, even if you had made it up…”

  “I did not make it up!”

  His mother placed a hand on his arm. “I know, dear, but even if you had, it was simply a compliment.”

  “That’s what I thought. I don’t think she likes me. It may simply have been an excuse to skip our third date.”

  Mark swirled the tea around in his glass. “She barely says a word when we’re together, at least not to me. We went to the exhibit and she talked about the paintings. She ignored me while we had refreshments. I walked her to the lecture, and we discussed the weather. As I walked her home…I’ve had better conversations with the guy who sits on the sidewalk on Meeting Street playing the violin.”

  “You were at a lecture. Not a situation designed for conversation.” She reached out and squeezed his arm. “Surely you like something about her.”

  Mark stared at his glass. “I do like her. She’s bright, she loves her work, she, at least, has an opinion on current events.” He chuckled. “I’ve dated women who last read a newspaper as an assignment when they were in high school. She’s not like them.”

  “So, she does talk.”

  “Of course she does.” He frowned. Even speaking about Karen irritated him. “Even though rumor has it that she has taken a vow of chastity…”

  “Mark!”

  He heard the warning in his mother’s voice, but continued anyway.

  “…she has not taken one for silence.” He paused as he sipped his tea. “She seemed to be interested in my lecture and we talked and argued about it while we ate refreshments.”

  “Good for her. She’s willing to argue with you, and you thoroughly enjoyed the argument.” She studied Mark’s face. “I thought so.”

  “She finally apologized for saying I told her a lie, but I had to send her the score report to prove I told the truth. I should not have needed to do that,” he exclaimed. “If I have to document everything I say to her…”

  “What does she like to read?” His mother interrupted. “Biography? Best sellers? Trashy novels?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “What does she enjoy doing?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “What does she like to eat? Italian? Greek? Deep-fried everything?”

  “No idea.”

  “Does she kiss well?”

  “Mother!”

  She chuckled. “Just checking to see if you were a broken record.”

  Mark
stared through his tea at the hedge beyond as they sat in silence for a few seconds.

  His mother sipped her own tea. “Does she?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he snapped.

  “Mark, have you ever asked her any of those things? Have you made any effort to get close to her?”

  Mark sighed again. “I suppose not.”

  “Well, how do you expect her to like you if you won’t talk to her? Honestly,” his mother huffed. “You have one more date. Please, for me, talk to her, Mark. Smile at her. Have a good time and let her know you’re having a good time. Show her the kind, thoughtful, lovable person you are. Will you do that?”

  There would be no third date, but he nodded. “I’ll try.”

  Third Date

  She’d had no way to refuse her aunt’s invitation.

  “Chamber music at my house. Bring your friend. Mark, right?”

  The South Battery Chamber Music Club had concerts at her aunt’s house a couple of times a year. Generally, members of the club performed, their talent levels varying considerably. Her aunt had once dismissed Karen’s suggestion that they invite members of the Charleston Symphony to play.

  “Entertaining one’s selves is the great tradition of chamber music,” she had said. “Hiring talent is a travesty.”

  Karen had rolled her eyes. Even though she adored the symphony, these concerts had never seemed interesting, and her aunt always invited her.

  She was not obligated to ask Mark to go with her. A generic excuse, “He had other plans,” or “He’s busy that night, maybe next time,” would have satisfied her aunt and likely would have been true—Mark would probably not spend that evening staring at a blank wall even if he were not with her at the concert.

  No, she told herself, she was obligated to ask Mark to go with her…if she wanted to keep her promise to her mother, having their third date before going their separate ways. Beyond that, she needed him to go with her. She regretted their second date had ended so badly, and she wanted Mark to remember her happily, if not fondly.