Just Three Dates Page 13

  They ate in silence for several moments.

  “You have a confession,” Karen reminded him with a smile. “You secretly love chamber music?”

  “I was enjoying the concert, but my date wanted to leave…No, that’s not my confession.” He stared at his dessert for a moment before raising his eyes.

  “I know nothing about art.” He held up his hand as Karen started to protest. “I barely made it through the required art appreciation course in college. When we attended the gala, I had not been in a museum in over three years, and I told you every single thing I knew about Monet.”

  “But…but that’s not possible. I told Mom that you gave a better presentation than any of my professors. I thought you must have at least minored in…I bragged about you at work…”

  “Vicky gave me an early copy of the catalog. I went to the library at the college. I studied all week. I wrote an essay and I memorized it.”

  “Why would you do that?” Karen demanded.

  “So you wouldn’t think I was dumb about art…To impress you.”

  “Well, you were certainly successful!”

  “I’m sorry I misled you.”

  Karen stared at him for a moment, annoyed that he had deceived her—even though it wasn’t a direct lie—flattered that he would go to such lengths to impress her, as she realized she had attempted to do the same by purchasing the math book to read…

  “So if Monet is not your passion, what do you enjoy?”

  “Photography. I like images of movement, action. I photograph the rides at the fair, suffers at the beach, cars on the street. A friend at the newspaper often gives me a press pass to football and basketball games.”

  “Cool. What…what else?”

  “Hiking.”

  “You’re joking.” She put her fork down and squeezed her hands together in excitement. “I love hiking. Last spring a friend and I spent an entire weekend hiking in the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.”

  “Next Saturday I’ll be up at Caesar’s Head. The fall leaves should be near their peak. They will be gorgeous.”

  “Oh, they will. I wish I could go,” she exclaimed.

  She had not asked to tag along, had she?

  “Really?” Mark raised one eyebrow. “That would be our fifth date.”

  “Our fifth? No, it would be…I think…Would it be a date? How would it be the fifth?”

  “Our third date ended when we left your aunt’s house. We agreed,” he said as she began to protest. “I asked you to come with me for dessert. So we are currently on our fourth. A trip to the mountains would be five.”

  “Okay. Fifth date. Where have you planned to go? If you’ll drive, I’ll bring a picnic lunch. I’ve two hiking poles, you can use one of them, and…

  While they were talking, a couple was seated at the table behind Mark. They spoke in soft voices and Karen paid them little attention as she and Mark talked. Suddenly the woman laughed and Karen clearly heard her voice.

  “I cannot wait until I get home to Scotland…” the woman said, her Scottish brogue unmistakable.

  The color drained from Mark’s face as he glanced over his shoulder at the woman. When he turned back to Karen, his smile had disappeared. He put his fork down and studied her face.

  “What are we doing?”

  “I thought…We’re making plans for a trip to the mountains…”

  “Less than an hour ago, we set out to celebrate the fact that we’d made it through three dates and that we’d never have to see each other again. Now…”

  “We didn’t say all of that.” Karen lowered her eyes.

  “But that’s what we meant…Wasn’t it?”

  It’s what he meant, I suppose. Karen bit her lower lip. “Was it?”

  “We didn’t say all of that, but, yes, we’re both happy this whole…whole project has reached an end…Aren’t we? I mean, chocolate desserts aside…”

  “The three dates, yes.” But he’d called this their fourth date and she didn’t want it to end.

  Mark nodded. “Three dates…I want to…” His eyes darted away from her, flashing back to the woman behind him.

  Karen felt like crying, but she took a deep breath and kept her head down. Neither spoke, and, when she finally looked up, Mark had finished eating and was handing his card to the waiter.

  Half an hour later, the clock in Karen’s living room could be heard striking eleven as Mark walked her up the steps to the door.

  “Well, it has been nice.” Mark looked into Karen’s eyes.

  “Yes, very nice. Thank you.” She was not sure why she thanked him. It simply sounded right.

  “I…I’ll see you around.”

  “Yes. Call me…sometime. We can have coffee.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Karen bit her lower lip and looked at her shoes. Mark glanced down the steps behind him, then he quickly leaned over, slipped his arm around her, and kissed her. It was so quick that at first Karen didn’t realize what had happened.

  “Good-bye.”

  Before she could respond, he was gone, his shoes tapping against the stairs as he went.

  Karen stood beside the door, watching as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Before he had arrived, she had been counting the minutes before their date would end. As they had driven away from her aunt’s house, though, she had seen a different Mark Stuart from the one she had been “dating.” For a few minutes as they ate dessert, he had seemed to be the guy she had been hoping to find. She had imagined that he liked her, and her body had tingled with excitement as they had discussed the hiking trip.

  She shook her head, feeling confused. His unwillingness to indicate he wanted to see her again, much less plan their fourth date, or fifth, or…whatever. He’d been unwilling to do that. But his kiss. What did it all mean?

  ***

  For a while, as they had sat at Chocolate Heaven, Mark had truly enjoyed Karen’s company. He’d enjoyed asking her questions about herself, telling her about himself. Without the pressure of their promises to their mothers it had felt as though they had relaxed a little, acting more like themselves with each other. Then, that woman had spoken of Scotland, his mind had drifted to all the nights Lucia had sat across the table from him, just as Karen was.

  Mark remembered the night they had first met, how he and Lucia had talked for hours in the Swan and Crown…

  “Tell me, what does Lucia McClelland like to do? Other than pick up American men in pubs?”

  “That’s not fair at all, Mark Stuart.” She turned away from him as if she were angry. Then, she glanced back from the corner of her eye. “You’re the first American I’ve picked up anywhere.”

  “But not the first guy.” He’d slipped his arm around her shoulder and hugged her.

  “I’m a friendly person.” She pressed her body against his. “I don’t pick them up. They follow me home like little puppy dogs.”

  “What do you like to do, Lucia?” His voice was serious this time.

  “I’m an art major. I draw. I paint. I photograph. I enjoy making images.”

  “You’ll have to show me your work sometime.”

  “I’m not really that good…”

  “I’ll bet. What else?”

  “Hiking. Cycling. Swimming. Anything to keep the blood flowing.”

  “You swim here? Outside? I’ll bet you’d turn blue if you dipped a little toe in the lake. At home, it would already by ninety degrees…” He saw the confusion on her face. “Thirty-two or thirty-three in Celsius, I think.”

  “Stifling.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “I’d have been swimming in the ocean for a couple of weeks now.”

  “You live near the ocean? It must be grand.”

  “I live in Charleston, in South Carolina. You can see the water from town.”

  “My two flat-mates and I are going to the beach at Brighton in a couple of weeks. If you like the ocean, you ought to come.”

  “Three girls and one guy? I like the odds.”


  She slapped his shoulder. “Their boyfriends will be along. The guys will be in one room and we’ll be in another. In any case, you’ll be coming to play with me, not them.”

  She leaned her head against his and they sat quietly for a moment.

  “What do you like, Mark? Tell me what you enjoy doing.”

  “I like photography and hiking…”

  “We’re a lot alike then. Have you ever hiked in the mountains of Scotland?”

  Mark’s heart was pounding and he pulled over, idling beside the road. It had been, he paused, counting, over seven years since he’d kissed any girl other than Lucia. A wave of guilt passed over him. As he thought about Lucia and Karen, he frowned and he glared at the car weaving across the lane in front of him.

  What had come over him? A week ago, he and Karen were barely speaking. Tonight…

  “I’d like to know you better,” she had told him.

  Perhaps she did. And perhaps he wanted to know her better too.

  Perhaps not.

  Mountain Climbing

  Mark paced across the living room, back and forth, pausing to look through the front window at the eighteenth-century, three-story, white house that stood between the carriage house where he lived and the street. His family had lived in the big house for almost three hundred years, his parents were there now, and he would inherit the property when they passed away.

  He had often thought what it would be like to live in his childhood home as an adult. In the past, he would imagine playing with his children, building Lego starships with his son and having tea parties with his daughter, carrying them upstairs to bed in the evening, returning to the family room to cuddle with his wife on the sofa. He and Lucia…No, not Lucia…not anymore. He closed his eyes, dismissing those fantasies.

  More recently, he had wondered what it would be like to live there alone, rattling around in a three-story house with no one for company, not even a dog. The carriage house was really too large for one person. What would he do with all the space in the larger residence?

  Perhaps Emily would want the house. She had been irate when, several years ago, she had learned of her parents’ intention to leave it to him, mollified only by the knowledge that she would receive the beach cottage.

  Mark wasn’t sure what he searched for as he gazed at the patch of grass that surrounded the parking area. Inspiration, perhaps? A sign?

  He regretted walking away from Karen. For some reason—he was not sure why—he felt that much of what each had thought and felt had remained unspoken. At first, he had been pleased she had invited herself to go hiking with him. Later, she had seemed uncertain. He had, too. Should he call her to apologize? Why did he even think an apology was in order? And, for that matter, how did she really feel about any of this?

  He could see the street as he peered through the window, and he watched as a car slowed as it passed the house, then picked up speed and drove away. His mother’s car was parked in the driveway, indicating she was at home, but he certainly had no plan to consult her, not on this question.

  He picked up his phone and flipped through the contact list. It wouldn’t hurt to ask Karen to go hiking. The worse she could do is refuse his invitation.

  He felt like he was back in high school, except, of course, in high school, no girl had ever refused a date with him. Except Anna Wright—that stuck up, bleached-blond, know-it-all…

  Karen was not one of the girls in his high school. Karen was known for refusing second dates, and this would be their second “real” date—Chocolate Heaven had been their first for which there had been no prior agreement. In essence, he supposed, she had already refused.

  “Karen has never denied not wanting to see me again,” he reminded himself. He realized how convoluted his statement was, but that was how they had phrased their discussion. True, Karen had seemed to jump at the chance to go with him to the mountains, but if she had truly wanted to date him again, would she not have said so, clearly?

  He suddenly felt angry.

  Like every guy on earth, he believed he was different from all the others.

  He recalled a day from the previous June. He and some friends had spent that day deep-sea fishing, leaving the dock at sunrise, traveling several miles offshore, and returning at dusk with coolers full of grouper, and flounder, and other assorted fish. Early in the afternoon, one of the guys had hooked what turned out to be a thirty-pound king mackerel, but after half an hour he had been unable to bring it in. Another guy tried, then a third. Mark had been the one to land the fish.

  He smiled grimly. Probably not the most flattering analogy, but, surely, it would be the same with Karen. He would succeed where the others had failed.

  Or not.

  That was why he felt so nervous.

  He looked at her name in the contact list for a moment, then he tapped the green telephone icon to make the call, cancelling it as soon as it started to ring, wondering if his number had time to show up on her call display.

  Why was he doing this? It certainly was not because she reminded him of Lucia, although she did. Her red hair, her refusal to back down from a fight, her sense of humor, all were similar. He recalled her confrontation with Will Simpson. Lucia would have taken the man apart as would have Karen, had he not intervened.

  He was calling because he liked her. His mother had finally convinced him he needed someone in his life, a girlfriend, a wife, and he wanted to know if Karen could fill that role.

  He shook his head.

  Cold. But true.

  He looked back at his parents’ house. Could he imagine Karen as his wife, his children hers, as he’d once imagined Lucia?

  Perhaps.

  He tapped her name a second time.

  “Hi, Karen, this is Mark.”

  She greeted him tentatively, as if his call were an unpleasant surprise, and he began to offer an excuse and hang up, but he changed his mind and plowed on, needing to hear her say plainly if she wanted to see him again, or not.

  “Uh, Karen, the other night, when we were at Chocolate Heaven, the night of our third date…”

  “Fourth date.”

  “Okay, fourth date. We discussed going hiking in the mountains the next weekend. Well, I’m still thinking of driving up on Saturday and I was wondering if, uh, if you would like to go with me after all.”

  There was a long, excruciating moment of complete silence.

  “I know I acted…badly, but…” he stammered, more to fill the silence than anything.

  “You’re asking me for a fifth date?” she almost whispered.

  “Yes…I am. A fifth date.”

  “What…what will our mothers say?” He could hardly hear her voice. They had discussed their mothers’ reactions should they discover they had been at Chocolate Heaven. After a fifth date, their mothers, he knew, would begin planning their wedding.

  Mark gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m not asking our mothers, and I don’t care what they say.”

  “Really?”

  She was toying with him and he was becoming angry.

  “Would you like to go with me or not?” he snapped.

  Hearing no response, he frowned.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.” He ended the call and tossed the cell phone across the room, where it landed on the sofa. He had known it was a bad idea. Turning on his heel, he strode toward the door.

  His ringtone blared as he turned the knob. Had the volume not been on high he would have missed it completely.

  The call had already gone to voicemail, she’d left a simple “This is Karen. Please call me, Mark.”

  He hesitated to return the call. He wanted her to tell him how she felt, what she wanted, but he had no desire to be jerked around like a puppy on a leash.

  He finally decided to give her another chance, and he dialed her number again.

  “Hello.”

  “Mark, you’re there, good. Good. I was so surprised when you called…I…I thought you didn’t want to se
e me again.”

  “I never said that. You said…”

  “I never said it, either.”

  He heard her take a deep breath.

  “I’d love to go, Mark. It will be fun. I promised to pack lunch, as I recall…”

  ***

  Karen shivered as she dashed toward Mark’s car. The thin sweatshirt, fleece pants, and low-cut hiking boots did little to protect her against the cold. She laid two climbing poles in the back, separating each into two sections so they would fit, placed a bag containing their lunch on the floor, and climbed in beside Mark. The car was toasty, and she slammed the door to prevent any of the heat from escaping.

  “It won’t be this cold once the sun rises, will it?”

  “It won’t be frigid, but still cool. No coat?”

  “I’ll be fine. Cool I don’t mind, but this?” She clasped her arms around her body.

  “I stopped for hot chocolate.” Mark held up a cup. “And a cinnamon roll. Both are hot.”

  “That’s sweet. Thank you.”

  “We’ll be in Spartanburg around eight for breakfast.”

  Three hours until breakfast. As they drove through the dark, empty streets, Karen relaxed, sipping her chocolate and nibbling her role. Only a couple of twenty-four-hour diners seemed to be open and she guessed that Mark had stopped at one of them before reaching her apartment.

  Soon they were speeding north. Neither spoke, but the silence was much more comfortable than had been the other moments of quiet between them. The sun would not poke over the horizon for another hour and a half, theirs was almost the only car on the road, and Karen stared through the window, watching the mile markers flash past.

  Mark fiddled with the radio, trying to find a station whose signal was clear. Finally, Karen heard the grating sound of a guitar, coming through, loud and perfectly clear, a song winding down, she guessed, by the sound of the singer’s voice.

  Mark hit the button to silence the music. “Country music is not your favorite, is it?”

  “No, that’s all right. Don’t turn it off.”

  “I can’t find another station. In another forty miles, maybe. I forgot my CD case.”