Fourth Rule: When you are given a choice, select what you really want.

Ducky looks up. "Why don't we decide what to order?" he suggests gamely.

"A very good idea, my dearest Du – Donald." I smile to cover up the near slip.

We turn our attention once again to the menus, though Mrs. Mallard seems to feign disinterest. "Why don't you order for me, Edward?"

Let the man decide what you want. How quaint.

Mr. Mallard nods at his wife. "Of course. I thought the rack of lamb?"

"Lovely," she replies.

Ducky frowns. "But you hate lamb, Mother."

"Nonsense, Donald. I enjoy it occasionally."

"Not that I've ever seen." He looks at me enquiringly. "What strikes your fancy, Love?" He winces as he realizes his slight faux pas. He probably shouldn't have called me that in front of his parents.

The Mallards exchange somewhat disapproving looks.

I feel my cheeks warm slightly, but I smile at his favorite term of endearment for me. Reading through the menu choices I remember Ron and Ollie raving about the sole almandine. Since I love fish, I'd really love to try it.

"I would like the sole, please." What I'd really like to do is place my own order when the waiter comes. I don't mind Ducky placing my order, though, if that is how to keep a sort of truce. I'm sure it was bad enough that I had made my own selection, but Ducky had asked. It's 1971. He is progressive enough to know that a woman can make her own choices. "What sounds good to you, Donnie?"

"Are you that fond of fish, Donald?" his mother asks.

"Fond enough, Mother." He looks at me as if reading my thoughts. He gives me a quick smile and a wink only I can see. "But I think I'd like the Beef Burgundy."

"Do you care for Beef Burgundy, Miss Porter?" asks Mrs. Mallard.

I smile. "Please call me Celeste, Mrs. Mallard. And I don't especially like or dislike it. I'll be having the sole."

"You'll be having the…?" Mrs. Mallard seems taken by surprise.

"Sole," Ducky supplies with a grin. "And I, the Beef Burgundy." He squeezes my hand, then leans over and delivers a quick peck to my cheek, obviously not caring if his parents see this overt display of affection.

"Well, she certainly knows her own mind, Donald," observes Mr. Mallard with a smile. "Independent thinkers can lead to problems, but they are often well worth the risk." He glances at his wife.

Ducky and I catch each other's eyes and gaze at each other. For a moment, we are the only two people in the room. I adore him. He is not in the least bit bothered by my tendency to speak my mind. I become aware of another pair of eyes on us…those of Mrs. Mallard.

She stares at me long and hard, without judgment or evaluation or any of the accusatory looks she has given me thus far. She is looking at me and at her son and seeing us together. She is also looking past us, into herself. And she determines something.

She looks back at her husband with a slight frown. "Quite frankly, Edward, I would rather have the stuffed game hen."

Ducky and I do a double take. I start to laugh, which I quickly try to mask as a cough. Ducky just snorts.

Our waiter chooses to appear at this moment to take our orders. He approaches Mr. Mallard, a look of polite, professional interest on his face. "Your dinner selection, sir?"

Mr. Mallard looks somewhat flustered by his wife's declaration and the amused expressions on the faces of the rest of us. But he recovers quickly and addresses me instead. "Miss Porter, would you mind if I order for our party?"

"Not at all, Mr. Mallard," I reply with a huge grin. Ducky bursts into laughter.

"Well, then, we will have beef Burgundy for my son, the sole almandine for his companion. I would like the rack of lamb and my wife would –"he pause and looks at her as she sits, looking incredulously around the table, "— prefer the stuffed game hen."

The waiter maintained his most professional demeanor. "Very well, sir."

Mr. Mallard looks at me with a twinkle in his eye, "And may we have a starter of escargot?"

"Of course. Will that be all, sir?"

"For the moment."

"Thank you, sir." The waiter turns away.

"Does that also meet with your approval, Miss Porter?" Mr. Mallard is smiling outright.

"Escargot? Snails, you mean? It sounds very exciting, actually. I've always wanted to try them. Thank you, Mr. Mallard."

"Celeste is really quite fearless, Father," Ducky grins. The he leans over and whispers in my ear, "And about many other things having nothing to do with food." He kisses my cheek again, a longer, more lingering one than the last. Our hands are twined together on top of the table. Ducky brushes my just kissed cheek lightly with his fingers. I feel myself blush again under the scrutiny of his parents.

Mrs. Mallard huffs a bit as Mr. Mallard clears his throat.

"Are you all right, Father?"

"Donald," says Mrs. Mallard sternly, "I suggest you pay closer attention to your surroundings."

"Oh I am, Mother. And I find them quite lovely."

I roll my eyes.

"What I mean is that such displays should be confined to a more appropriate venue, Donald," Mrs. Mallard explains. "Some people might be embarrassed. Or scandalized."

"Well, I suppose that is their problem," Ducky replies. "Welcome, everyone, to 1971." He turns to me. "Well at least I know what I want for pudding," he murmurs, but not quite softly enough, judging by his mother's startled reaction.

Mr. Mallard, however, chuckles. "It's a good thing I ordered the escargot. I had considered getting oysters, but it is clear my son does not need them."

As Ducky dissolves into laughter, I blink once or twice as I try to process what I've just heard. I feel blood rush to my cheeks, but I cannot stop the laughter that starts seconds later.

As Mr. Mallard joins in, I hear Mrs. Mallard deliver a shocked, "Edward!"

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