Unhappy Fortune
In Romeo and Juliet, the friar and Romeo railed against fortune. Literature, like that play, is filled with instances where the courses of the characters change because of bad timing. But for a faster horse, worse aim, or a slower poison, the whole play could have ended differently. So, too, is history. One wrong turn and Europe had the impetus it needed to ignite the powder keg of World War I. Call it fate, fortune, or luck; it always seems to desert the people who depend on it the most.
A few blocks past the Dupont Circle Metro stop, there is a small Mexican restaurant. Although it's not exactly halfway between Georgetown and Union Station, it's close enough to midway that they could call each other Sunday nights and meet there for dinner from time to time. It became a favorite quickly. The televisions above the bar play ZNN and other news stations so they could keep tabs on the outside world. In the winter, it was small and cozy. In the summers, the bright interior is light and festive. Some summer nights, when their schedules were light and the nights were clear, they would linger on Connecticut Avenue, window-shopping or settling down at an outside café.
By some unspoken agreement, a verbal contract that was never verbalized, they have never brought dates to the restaurant. It was their little spot. A mutual location, untouched by the ghosts of past relationships and work. She loved the restaurant. She didn't know if it was the place itself or if the yellow interior had soaked up the good cheer of those Sunday dinners. Its lopsided tables witnessed hope and the whisper of a promise for a future.
She'll never remember her ride back from the Jefferson Memorial. Looking back on that night, she's amazed that she made it home safely. The enormity of their decision, however, didn't register until that Sunday night when her hand reached for the phone to call him and ask if he felt like Mexican that night. Her hand clutched the half-dialed receiver while she slid down her living room wall. They had ended their Sunday night dinners. Her fingers trembled and released the phone, which clattered to the floor unnoticed by its owner. She wrapped her arms around her shins and buried her head in her knees.
One Saturday afternoon, after they had been dating for a few weeks, Adam called and asked her if she wanted to go dinner. She didn't know how she knew, but she knew he was going to take her to that restaurant. The nerves were instantaneous and, to him, they would be unexplainable. She tried to think of logical reasons for them but found none that would work. How did she tell the man she was dating that the restaurant was special because of a man she never dated? In the end, she couldn't invent any excuses so she remained silent.
They settled into a booth off to the side. From her seat, she had a clear view of the door and front window. Her eyes darted around the room and she barely glanced at the menu. Adam watched her carefully. He knew exactly when she saw whomever or whatever she had been searching for. Her shoulders slumped and her breath expelled in a soft whoosh like she had her breath knocked out of her. She nodded slightly at the door and lifted her hand in a sick, half wave. "Harm, Commander Rabb, just walked in," she told him softly.
He twisted in his seat and saw the JAG lawyer standing by the entrance. A blonde woman hovered by his side, one hand resting lightly on his forearm as she scanned the room for the hostess. Interestingly, Rabb, despite the pretty woman by his side, wore a sick expression on his face. His nod in their direction was curt and just shy of friendly. He couldn't have explained it, had he been asked, but he felt recrimination in the nod. No one was going to ask him, however, least of all his fidgety girlfriend, so he remained silent. But it puzzled him. He didn't know why it was there, but he did understand that it wasn't directed at him. He turned back to Mac. "Who's the blonde?"
Mac fiddled with silverware on the table before looking up. "Um, her name's Catherine Gale." She watched them sit down at a table behind theirs. "She works for the government."
"Doesn't everyone in D.C.?"
She laughed slightly but it sounded forced, even to her ears. "Sometimes it seems like that."
Adam studied the other couple. The woman, Catherine, stood up and wove her body around the tables to the back of the restaurant, cell phone in hand. He tipped his head in their direction. "Well, that didn't take long."
"What?" Mac looked up from the tabletop where she'd been tracing patterns in the water from her glass. She shifted and saw Harm sitting by himself. "Would you excuse me? I'm going to go say hi."
She pushed her body out the chair slowly. She'd been dreading this moment and she knew it would happen. It was fate's idea of a funny joke that it happened here. Reaching out, she touched his shoulder blade lightly before sitting down in the vacant chair. "Hi," she said softly. "Where'd Catherine go?"
He nodded. "Hi." Clearing his throat, he said, "Work. She got paged."
"Oh." She paused. "I'm sorry." They understood she didn't mean the phone call.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Me too."
Before she could stop them, her fingers lay lightly on his wrist. "It wasn't my idea. He wanted to surprise me."
He covered her hand and squeezed it. "You don't owe me an explanation, Mac." The belying his own statement, he offered her his explanation. "It was Catherine's idea." He glanced back at the table she had just left and raised his eyebrows. "Adam?"
She shrugged as nonchalantly as possible when holding the hand of one man and discussing another one. "He's a good man."
He nodded. Her hand turned over in his and her fingers curled against his palm. "Yeah," he agreed, "he is." He raised his eyebrows higher. "I thought you were going to start dating Webb."
"Clay?" She started to pull her hand back but it was stuck firmly beneath his. "Why?"
It was his turn to shrug. "It looked like you two grew close in Paraguay."
"I guess we did. He told me he loved me," she whispered, partly because she didn't want him to hear it, but mostly because she didn't want to think about the hours and minutes that led to that confession.
"So why aren't you dating him?"
"I didn't - don't - love him." Her breath hitched slightly as she considered his question. Her free hand brushed her eyelashes. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It took seven years, but she finally understood his thought process. "Despite what you think, I don't fall into bed with everyone who says that."
He sighed. "That's not what I meant. It looked like you two were close," he repeated.
"I don't love him." She placed a slight emphasis on the last word. She looked up and tugged her hand free. "Catherine's back." She smiled at the other woman.
Adam spoke up as soon as she sat down at their table. "You were gone a long time. Everything okay?"
She smiled softly and tried to readjust to looking into brown eyes. "Yeah, it will be. We just had to straighten something out." She reached out to squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry it took so long."
Adam studied Harm's back. "Did you two date?"
She drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "No." She repeated it when he looked like he didn't believe the one word answer. "No. We didn't. But," she added, "we weren't uninvolved. Does that make sense?"
"You both thought something would happen?" He tried to make sense of her thought patterns. "Am I just a space holder?"
"No. Yes. No." She shook her head. " Yes, we, at least I did, thought something might happen eventually. But that's over now. You're not saving his spot."
"Okay." Although she seemed surprised at his easy acquiescence, she slid easily into another conversation.
Throughout dinner, Adam studied her. He was journalist and made a living paying attention to details and mannerisms. He had noticed the little touches when she talked to Harm. The way their hands clung to each other although neither of them looked happy with the other person. He watched her all night and noticed that she never once turned around in her chair to look at Harm. Although he caught Catherine's eyes twice during their meals, Harm's back remained stubbornly to them. Biting his lip, he held back a quiet sigh. He realized that they must have had a lot of practice at this.
In Romeo and Juliet, the friar and Romeo railed against fortune. Literature, like that play, is filled with instances where the courses of the characters change because of bad timing. But for a faster horse, worse aim, or a slower poison, the whole play could have ended differently. So, too, is history. One wrong turn and Europe had the impetus it needed to ignite the powder keg of World War I. Call it fate, fortune, or luck; it always seems to desert the people who depend on it the most.
A few blocks past the Dupont Circle Metro stop, there is a small Mexican restaurant. Although it's not exactly halfway between Georgetown and Union Station, it's close enough to midway that they could call each other Sunday nights and meet there for dinner from time to time. It became a favorite quickly. The televisions above the bar play ZNN and other news stations so they could keep tabs on the outside world. In the winter, it was small and cozy. In the summers, the bright interior is light and festive. Some summer nights, when their schedules were light and the nights were clear, they would linger on Connecticut Avenue, window-shopping or settling down at an outside café.
By some unspoken agreement, a verbal contract that was never verbalized, they have never brought dates to the restaurant. It was their little spot. A mutual location, untouched by the ghosts of past relationships and work. She loved the restaurant. She didn't know if it was the place itself or if the yellow interior had soaked up the good cheer of those Sunday dinners. Its lopsided tables witnessed hope and the whisper of a promise for a future.
She'll never remember her ride back from the Jefferson Memorial. Looking back on that night, she's amazed that she made it home safely. The enormity of their decision, however, didn't register until that Sunday night when her hand reached for the phone to call him and ask if he felt like Mexican that night. Her hand clutched the half-dialed receiver while she slid down her living room wall. They had ended their Sunday night dinners. Her fingers trembled and released the phone, which clattered to the floor unnoticed by its owner. She wrapped her arms around her shins and buried her head in her knees.
One Saturday afternoon, after they had been dating for a few weeks, Adam called and asked her if she wanted to go dinner. She didn't know how she knew, but she knew he was going to take her to that restaurant. The nerves were instantaneous and, to him, they would be unexplainable. She tried to think of logical reasons for them but found none that would work. How did she tell the man she was dating that the restaurant was special because of a man she never dated? In the end, she couldn't invent any excuses so she remained silent.
They settled into a booth off to the side. From her seat, she had a clear view of the door and front window. Her eyes darted around the room and she barely glanced at the menu. Adam watched her carefully. He knew exactly when she saw whomever or whatever she had been searching for. Her shoulders slumped and her breath expelled in a soft whoosh like she had her breath knocked out of her. She nodded slightly at the door and lifted her hand in a sick, half wave. "Harm, Commander Rabb, just walked in," she told him softly.
He twisted in his seat and saw the JAG lawyer standing by the entrance. A blonde woman hovered by his side, one hand resting lightly on his forearm as she scanned the room for the hostess. Interestingly, Rabb, despite the pretty woman by his side, wore a sick expression on his face. His nod in their direction was curt and just shy of friendly. He couldn't have explained it, had he been asked, but he felt recrimination in the nod. No one was going to ask him, however, least of all his fidgety girlfriend, so he remained silent. But it puzzled him. He didn't know why it was there, but he did understand that it wasn't directed at him. He turned back to Mac. "Who's the blonde?"
Mac fiddled with silverware on the table before looking up. "Um, her name's Catherine Gale." She watched them sit down at a table behind theirs. "She works for the government."
"Doesn't everyone in D.C.?"
She laughed slightly but it sounded forced, even to her ears. "Sometimes it seems like that."
Adam studied the other couple. The woman, Catherine, stood up and wove her body around the tables to the back of the restaurant, cell phone in hand. He tipped his head in their direction. "Well, that didn't take long."
"What?" Mac looked up from the tabletop where she'd been tracing patterns in the water from her glass. She shifted and saw Harm sitting by himself. "Would you excuse me? I'm going to go say hi."
She pushed her body out the chair slowly. She'd been dreading this moment and she knew it would happen. It was fate's idea of a funny joke that it happened here. Reaching out, she touched his shoulder blade lightly before sitting down in the vacant chair. "Hi," she said softly. "Where'd Catherine go?"
He nodded. "Hi." Clearing his throat, he said, "Work. She got paged."
"Oh." She paused. "I'm sorry." They understood she didn't mean the phone call.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Me too."
Before she could stop them, her fingers lay lightly on his wrist. "It wasn't my idea. He wanted to surprise me."
He covered her hand and squeezed it. "You don't owe me an explanation, Mac." The belying his own statement, he offered her his explanation. "It was Catherine's idea." He glanced back at the table she had just left and raised his eyebrows. "Adam?"
She shrugged as nonchalantly as possible when holding the hand of one man and discussing another one. "He's a good man."
He nodded. Her hand turned over in his and her fingers curled against his palm. "Yeah," he agreed, "he is." He raised his eyebrows higher. "I thought you were going to start dating Webb."
"Clay?" She started to pull her hand back but it was stuck firmly beneath his. "Why?"
It was his turn to shrug. "It looked like you two grew close in Paraguay."
"I guess we did. He told me he loved me," she whispered, partly because she didn't want him to hear it, but mostly because she didn't want to think about the hours and minutes that led to that confession.
"So why aren't you dating him?"
"I didn't - don't - love him." Her breath hitched slightly as she considered his question. Her free hand brushed her eyelashes. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It took seven years, but she finally understood his thought process. "Despite what you think, I don't fall into bed with everyone who says that."
He sighed. "That's not what I meant. It looked like you two were close," he repeated.
"I don't love him." She placed a slight emphasis on the last word. She looked up and tugged her hand free. "Catherine's back." She smiled at the other woman.
Adam spoke up as soon as she sat down at their table. "You were gone a long time. Everything okay?"
She smiled softly and tried to readjust to looking into brown eyes. "Yeah, it will be. We just had to straighten something out." She reached out to squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry it took so long."
Adam studied Harm's back. "Did you two date?"
She drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "No." She repeated it when he looked like he didn't believe the one word answer. "No. We didn't. But," she added, "we weren't uninvolved. Does that make sense?"
"You both thought something would happen?" He tried to make sense of her thought patterns. "Am I just a space holder?"
"No. Yes. No." She shook her head. " Yes, we, at least I did, thought something might happen eventually. But that's over now. You're not saving his spot."
"Okay." Although she seemed surprised at his easy acquiescence, she slid easily into another conversation.
Throughout dinner, Adam studied her. He was journalist and made a living paying attention to details and mannerisms. He had noticed the little touches when she talked to Harm. The way their hands clung to each other although neither of them looked happy with the other person. He watched her all night and noticed that she never once turned around in her chair to look at Harm. Although he caught Catherine's eyes twice during their meals, Harm's back remained stubbornly to them. Biting his lip, he held back a quiet sigh. He realized that they must have had a lot of practice at this.
