Carol washes up on shore for their date because she doesn't want to interrupt whatever Daryl's doing in their houseboat. She's surprised he's gone to this degree of effort. She thinks it must be hard, to be cooking for her while his mind is half distracted by the news of his brother's death. Then again, Daryl's always been an excellent compartmentalizer. Well, as long as she's known him, anyway, which feels like a lifetime now instead of eight months.
Lori walks by, holding a 32-ounce can of kidney beans she's signed out from the storeroom. "Getting ready for your hot date?"
"I know you all find this very amusing," Carol replies.
"It's just hard to envision Daryl wining and dining a woman. But I'm happy for you. Daryl's a good guy."
Carol dries her hands on the hand towel and hangs it on the rail of the wooden washing trough. "You didn't used to think so highly of him."
"None of us used to think so highly of him," Lori replies. "He's come a long way."
Carol finds that comment condescending, even if it's true. She tries not to let it rub her the wrong way.
"He's a good catch," Lori tells her.
Now Carol laughs. "That sounds strange coming from you."
Lori shrugs. "I mean, it's true. In this world."
"In any world."
Lori steps back a little, and Carol realizes how peeved she just sounded. "He's been good to you," Lori agrees. "Especially when…" She trails off. She's not going to bring up the search for Sophia. "He's been good to you," she repeats. "Frankly, we're all just surprised you two didn't get together sooner. For a while there, I thought you were together and you just weren't talking about it to anyone. But Rick said there's no way Daryl would still be so snappy if he was getting laid regularly."
"Rick hasn't exactly been a paragon of patience himself lately," Carol says. She's recalling how frustrated the ex-cop got when cotton rats got into one of their garden plots this fall. They've taken measures to prevent that in the future. They hope.
"I know," Lori assures her. "I think that comment was a dig at me, actually." She puts a hand on her protruding belly. "I haven't exactly been in the mood lately. It's so hard to get comfortable." She winces. "It's probably been a good four weeks since we fooled around at all."
If she were Lori, Carol might think about being a little more agreeable to her husband's needs, given that Rick is fully willing to raise another man's child with her. Not many men would do that. "Rick's a good catch, too," Carol reminds her.
Lori smiles, like someone who has just been complimented herself. "He is. Well, enjoy your date."
Carol is heading toward the dock when Addison intercepts her. "Jackson said you and Daryl have a date tonight?"
"Is everyone going to rib us about it?"
"What?" Addison looks innocently confused. "No. I just…Beth and I were wondering if you might let us do a makeover for you."
"A makeover?"
"If you have time. I know it sounds a little silly, but neither of us has gotten to do anything fun and girly like that since the world collapsed, you know? And this is a good excuse. We have some makeup, and some clothes you can try on Beth's boat. If you know…you wanted."
"I was never really a make-up wearer, even in the old world."
"We'll be subtle, I promise."
"I didn't wear pretty things either." Though that was in good part because of Ed. The few times she had tried to put on something attractive, he asked her why she was dressing like a whore. That man sure enjoyed his pornography for someone who seemed to want a modest, covered-up wife. The truth was, he didn't like other men noticing her. The plainer she looked, the more invisible she became, and the more invisible she became, the more she believed no one would ever want her but Ed. "You know what? Let's do it!"
Addison claps her hands together excitedly, and Carol is suddenly reminded how young she is, just a little over fifteen now. Like every child in this world, Addison has been forced to mature too quickly. She's learned to shoot decently now, and to scale fish, and she works like an earnest frontier woman when it comes to the laundry and the gardens. This a chance for her just to be a teenage girl for a little while, and Carol doesn't regret saying yes as she follows Addison to Beth's boat.
She doesn't regret saying yes later, either, when she climbs down the ladder below deck of her own houseboat in her newly done-up hair, with the subtlest hint of lipstick and foundation adorning her face, in a long, forest green dress and cute, black boots that are just a half size too big. She turns from the ladder to see Daryl walking toward the kitchenette. He catches sight of her and walks straight into the stovetop counter with a smack. He reels back and grunts from the pain.
Carol can't help but laugh. When he's recovered himself, he looks at her again. "Didn't know we was s'posed to dress up."
He's changed clothes since he got back from the run, probably because his morning apparel ended up with a lot of walker blood on it, but he's changed into the same sort of thing he always wears. This pair of Wranglers, however, is less torn than his others, and she likes that charcoal gray, button-down canvas shirt on him, with the sleeves rolled up to just above his elbows, like he's been getting down to serious work. She teased him once that that particular shirt brought out the color in his eyes. Maybe he took note, but more likely it's just what happened to be clean.
"There were no clothing requirements," Carol tells him. "Addison and Beth just wanted to do a silly makeover. They're teenage girls, so I let them. They should have some fun, right?"
"Yeah." He's still staring at her. "You look…different."
"You think it's ridiculous."
"Nah. I mean, kind of. But… you look like one of them black and white movie stars. The one with the short hair."
Carol instinctively touches her hair, pushing up on one side. It's longer nad thicker than it was at the farm now, down to her ears, and she has to admit she likes the way Addison styled it, with a variety of little waves in all directions. She's certainly never been compared to a move star before. She wonders which actress he's talking about, but she doesn't have time to ask, because an acrid smell catches her nostrils. "Is something burning?"
"Shit!" Daryl lunges for the little oven beneath the two-burner stovetop. That's when Carol notices one of her cookbooks open on the counter, covered in a dusting of various colored spices. A lot of colors. How much spice did he use?
"It's okay," she reassures him as he scrambles to pull out the pan with the smoking quail, curses, and then drops it on the stovetop because he was using the nearest hand towel instead of a potholder. He shakes his hand and then licks each of three singed fingertips. Carol looks into the pan. "We can just shave off the crusty part. I'm sure it's fine under that."
"Fuck," he mutters looking down at the birds.
"It'll be fine," she insists.
That's when she catches another unpleasant scent mingling with the smell of burnt quail: a cloyingly, sickeningly sweet smell. It's coming from a large circular candle in the center of their little two-person table. Daryl has set it there and lit all three wicks. It's a citronella candle, the outdoor ones they use for keeping away mosquitos. She forces herself not to laugh.
Daryl carefully examines the two birds and then takes the least burned one and puts it on the plate at her regular spot at the table, atop the vinyl tablecloth he's spread over it. The tablecloth is black with little orange jack-o-lantern's all over it. It's long past Halloween, but that was probably the first tablecloth he could find in the boat, and no doubt he had it in his mind that a fancy date requires tablecloths. Carol forces herself not to laugh at the little grinning pumpkins either as she sits down in her chair.
Daryl dishes onto her plate and then his some warmed-over, canned green beans from a pot on the stove and then returns it to the now turned off burner before sitting down himself. There's a bottle of wine next to the citronella candle, already opened, that reads Bowen Family Winery, Reserve Muscadine. She's never heard of a Muscadine. He fills the twelve-ounce water goblets he's set out almost to the brim with wine.
"A generous pour," she tells him as he sets the bottle back on the table. The medicinal scent from the citronella candle is going to give her a headache, and she gently suggests blowing it out.
"Don't like it?" he asks. "Seemed to like it when T-Dog lit candles."
"It was a good thought. I think those particular types of candles aren't really meant for confined spaces, though."
Daryl glowers. "Well was too cold tonight to eat up top."
"I agree. Besides, I like this cozy setting. It's very nice. I don't think we need the candle, though."
"Fine," Daryl grumbles. He leans forward and blows hard, and all three wicks go out at once from the force of his breath.
Carol dainty holds her quail upright by the legs with two fingers and runs the blade of a kitchen knife over the charred flesh, which flakes off onto the plate. Daryl has dusted off most of the burned bits on his piece with his hands, and now he picks up the whole bird with two hands and bites into it like a piece of fried chicken, ripping off the flesh with his teeth. He chews hard and swallows. "Sorry 'bout the quail."
"It's delicious," she tells him after she cuts off a bite and eats it with a fork. "You just have to get a little ways under the charr."
"It's dry. Should of just roasted it on a spit over the fire like I usually do. Was trying to follow some damn recipe."
"I like it," Carol lies.
"Least the wine should be good. That bottle cost $250."
"Really?" Carol asks excitedly. Ed never let her drink wine. He always said it was a waste of money, though there was always room in the budget for his beer. Her great indulgence had been to take some of her plasma donation money secretly to the liquor store every Thursday and buy one of those little, single-serve bottles of cheap wine for $2.99 and enjoy on the back porch with a book before Ed got home from work. Smiling, Carol reaches for the goblet and takes a sip. She tries with every ounce of being in her power not to choke as she swallows the wine down.
Daryl looks at her with alarm. Then he seizes his glass and takes a sip. He actually spews the wine out, and it sprays on the vinyl tablecloth, coating the little orange jack-o-lanterns like dark red drops of blood. "What the hell?" he roars. "Taste like fucking vinegar! The wine from the barrel didn't taste like that! Was good!"
"I think maybe it's turned," Carol suggests. "The cork might have been defective. Oxygen probably got in the bottle."
"Fuck!" Daryl pushes his plate angrily forward. "How did I managed to fuck up the wine, too!" He stands and seizes both glasses, storms over to the sink, and violently empties them into it.
"It's okay," Carol says as she stands from the table. "Don't throw it all out. I can use the rest of the bottle for cooking. It'll make good red wine vinegar."
Daryl tosses the empty glasses into the sink, where they thud against the stainless steel and roll over the narrow drain. "Don't have to eat the quail," he mutters. "Don't have to pretend you like it. Sorry." He turns around, leans back against the sinks counter, and crosses his arms angrily over his chest. "You got all dolled up and then I fucked it all up. I ain't date material."
Carol walks close to him and hooks a single finger through the beltloop on his Wranglers. "Forget about dinner. I'd rather skip straight to dessert anyway."
He closes his eyes and sighs heavily. "I didn't even fucking think about dessert!" He opens his eyes again. "Sorry. Forgot you're s'posed to have dessert. Should have made some shit with those wild raspberries we froze."
Carol laughs. She kisses his cheek, and then his earlobe, and whispers, "Not that kind of dessert." When she pulls back to look in his eyes, she can see he's not certain if he's reading her hint correctly. Maybe he thinks she's only teasing.
"Kind of dessert?" he manages to ask, his eyes flitting momentarily down to the hint of cleavage revealed by the cut of her dress.
"Dessert dessert."
He drags his eyes back up to hers and, arms still crossed protectively over himself, gnaws nervously on his bottom lip.
She's going to have to be direct. "Daryl," she says. "I want to have sex with you. Do you want to have sex with me?"
"Now?"
"You have something better to do right now?"
"No!" he laughs. "No. Nah. Can't think of a damn thing better to do right now." He finally relaxes his posture, his arms dropping to his side. "And I got condoms on the run."
"You picked up condoms for our date tonight?"
"No!" He looks suddenly frantic. "I mean, wasn't expecting nothing. Just…Jackson put 'em in m'pack."
"I don't have any STDs. Do you?"
He shakes his head. "Got tested a couple years ago."
"Well, that's a long time ago."
"Yeah but I ain't…not since."
"In two years?" she asks in surprise. He looks embarrassed, and she hastens on, "That's good. We don't need to use condoms then. I had my tubes tied when Sophia was born. I had to have a C-section with her, and the doctor was already in there, and I knew Ed didn't want any kids to being with. So…I told the doctor to tie them. I can't get pregnant."
"So we can just…have at it?" he asks.
She smiles and nods. "We can."
He smiles, and then, to her surprise, his mouth crushes down suddenly on hers. He cups a breast with his left hand through her dress and squeezes—hard. Then he nips roughly at her neck as he walks her back two steps, turns her around quickly in front of himself, and presses her against the sink counter, with her back to him. Next thing she knows, his breath has deepened in her ear and he's seized the material of her dress near her thighs. He balls it in his fist and begins yanking it up to her waist. "Stop!" She pushes back against him. "Slow down!"
He drops the handful of dress and stumbles back. Her dress slides back down as she turns around to face him. He flits his eyes embarrassedly away, down to the floor. "Said you wanted to."
"That I wanted to have sex, yes, not…I mean, I do. Could we go a bit slower, though? More gently. A little foreplay?"
He nods. "Sorry. I just…" He swallows. He looks up, but not quite directly at her. "I just don't know how."
"How…How to what?"
"Have sex that ain't hard and fast and rough. Have sex with someone I really care about."
A jumble of emotions rushes over Carol. She knows he really cares about her, but to hear him say it out loud makes her heart beat a little faster. "Well maybe I could talk you through it? Tell you where I want to be touched, and when, and how?" It's a bold assertion for her. She's never been in charge in the bedroom before, but the idea gives her a sudden thrill.
"Yeah," he says, sounding relieved. "Yeah, that could work. Mean, I'm pretty good at learning new territory."
She smiles. "You want me to be your newfound land? Are you going to explore and map me?"
He smiles and ducks his head. "If you want me to."
She steps forward, brushes a fingertip over the back of his hand, and then takes his hand in hers. "I want you to."