CHAPTER 4

"So, what'd she say?" I asked Jack. He had just finished telling me about his lunch date with Darla. I was seated on the sofa and a hard copy of Uncle George's dictation sat on the coffee table in front of me, right next to Jack's hat. He was in the armchair he'd occupied before.

"She asked why we should wait until we found Dad to go out—that caught me off guard. I wasn't expecting her to be that anxious to jump into something so soon. . .."

"So soon after losing her husband? –or so soon after being . . . reunited with you?"

Jack gave a half-shrug and looked slightly bemused. "Both, I guess. . . I mean, I know it's been over a year since her husband died; and I know she had a crush on me when we were kids. But it's still kind of scary how quickly she accepted. I thought she'd waffle a little, you know?"

With a crooked smile, I said, "It seems to me, Jack, that she still has feelings for you—even after thirty years of marriage to another man. . . I don't remember much of what happened between the two of you when you were young; heck, I wasn't even around for most of it. But I do remember the hurt look in her eyes the day you and Liz got married. She was eighteen then, Jack. She was old enough to marry you herself—and I'll bet you a bundle she wanted to."

Jack shrugged and nodded, mulling the idea over. "It's possible; but I guess I was too far gone over Liz to notice."

"Undoubtedly. And who could blame you? She was a real looker."

"How would you know? You were only seven!"

"Oh, and you never had a crush on Marilyn Monroe when you were a kid?"

Jack reddened. "Yeah, well . . . every red-blooded American male did back then."

"And for me it was Raquel Welch. Same diff."

Jack smiled crookedly. "Not quite. At least Marilyn's assets were genuine."

I shrugged. "There is that. But who cared how Raquel got stacked? She was, and that was all that mattered."

"If you say so . . .."

"So, what did you say to Darla, then?"

"I told her 'okay'. In fact, we have a dinner date with her and her niece at seven."

"Darla has a niece? What's she like? Have you met her?"

"No, I haven't met her. As for what she's like . . . I don't know all that much about her. She's the daughter of Darla's sister, Joan, whom you may or may not remember."

I nodded. "Joan was the middle child, right?"

"Right. She's halfway between Darla and their brother Terrence in age. (Terry is about a year older than I am; you do the math.) Joan was a beautiful girl and really bright. Jamie, apparently, takes after her. Darla says she has blond hair and big, china-blue eyes, just like Joan." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, and she's some kind of scientific genius. She works at that new think tank on the east side of town, trying to find a way to save a good chunk of the population in the event of nuclear war."

"Did you say her name is 'Jamie'?"

Jack nodded. "Did I forget to mention that 'James/Jimmy Kelsey' is really Jamie Kelsey, Darla's niece?"

"Yeah, you did."

"Sorry; there was a lot to remember. The fact that she didn't work for the paper and had nothing to do with the so-called evidence was all that really mattered to me when Darla first told me about her. . . Anyhoo, Dad asked for a name, so Darla gave him one. He apparently changed it from 'Jamie' to 'James' because he wanted something that sounded more—"

"Masculine?"

"I was going to say 'adult,' but 'masculine' works, too."

"So, we've got a dinner date with Darla and Jamie, huh? Where are we going to eat? If we have to dress up, I'm in trouble. I didn't bring a suit."

"I didn't think you even owned one."

I shrugged. "I bought one when I started attending weddings on a semi-regular basis. (You make a lot of friends when you hang out with environmentalists.) Anyway, it was a hassle having to borrow or rent a suit whenever a friend or colleague decided to tie the knot, never mind having to rent a tux every time I was asked to be the Best Man. Having my own suit saved a lot of wear and tear on my pocketbook."

"That's where being in the military is a good thing," said Jack. "Dress uniforms can be worn for any and all special occasions or events."

"Yeah, I remember how cool you looked on your wedding day. With all that brass, you were shinier than Liz."

"She wasn't too happy about that, either."

"No bride wants her husband to outshine her. Remember that when you marry Darla."

"Who said anything about marrying Darla?"

I shrugged. "From where I'm sitting, it seems inevitable: You already know each other—more or less; you seem to like each other; you're both available . . ." I shrugged again. "Sounds perfect to me."

"Yeah, well, don't say anything to Darla. If it's gonna happen, let's just let nature take its course, okay?"

"No problem. I shall metaphorically zip my lip where any talk of you and Darla getting married is concerned. References to her childhood crush on you, however, is another matter entirely." I smiled mischievously at my older brother.

"Just be circumspect about it, all right? I don't want her to be unduly embarrassed or hurt."

"I shall endeavor to be discreet and limit my questions and comments to humorous situations and avoid embarrassing ones."

"I would sincerely appreciate that, and I'm sure Darla would, too. . . Now, let's rummage through my luggage and see if we can find something suitable for you to wear tonight." As Jack fetched his suitcase (which was one of those humongous black ones made of sturdy, waterproof nylon with a retractable handle and wheels) from where he'd left it by the front door and brought it into the living room, he said, "Darla is determined to go to a nice restaurant; that doesn't mean fancy." He dropped the heavy travel case unceremoniously onto the sofa and continued, "She's very picky where food is concerned."

"Could you clarify 'picky'?" I queried, as Jack unzipped the huge piece of luggage.

"She's a meat-and-potatoes kind of girl," my brother explained, as he rummaged through his civvies. "I guess she gets that from her dad. He was raised on a farm, where they always had hearty, filling meals. That's what he was used to, so that's what Mrs. McIntyre usually cooked." Having found what he was looking for, Jack removed the items from the suitcase and continued, "Not that Darla eats large portions. She doesn't. In fact, she's a pretty light eater—always has been."

"You learned all this over lunch?" I asked dubiously.

"Not all of it, no. Some of it I remember from when we were kids."

"For a guy who wasn't in love with the girl next door, you sure took a lot in."

Jack reddened. "I may not've been in love with her, but that doesn't mean I didn't notice her. Fact is, I did care about her. When she was little, she was chubby and cherubic—an absolute doll. By the time she started grade school, that changed. She was skinny as a rail. Her arms and legs were toothpicks. She was awkward, ungainly . . . horrible at sports. She couldn't catch or hit a softball—or even kick a soccer ball—to save her life . . . although she was pretty good at hopscotch, dodge ball, foursquare and tether ball. Despite her deficiencies in P.E., she was a good student academically, and most of her teachers loved her. She nearly always made the honor roll."

"Being 'teacher's pet' is a death sentence to popularity," I put in.

Jack nodded. "To top it all off, she was one of the first kids in the neighborhood to get glasses. But, when she got to junior high, she began to blossom. Without traditional sports in P.E. to worry about anymore, she began to enjoy it: archery, gymnastics, modern dance—even running track. . . She thrived on that stuff. I started seeing some real changes in her. The woman she is now had her beginnings back then, I think—even to the way she wears her hair."

"You mean, she still wears it long and straight?" I asked, remembering how she'd looked when she was my babysitter.

"Yes, she does. The moment I saw her I knew who she was, despite the fact that Uncle George neglected to mention her maiden name. I'd gone in there expecting to meet some strange woman named Darla Finley; but instead I found Darla McIntyre, all grown up—and middle-aged, like me. She smiled at me and called me by name and I knew her right away. . ..

"It was weird to find her ensconced in Dad's office. I was, to say the least, disoriented; but Darla is still Darla. She made me feel welcome, acted like she was glad to see me. The years just melted away, but at the same time, they didn't. I saw the young Darla inside this mature, self-assured, erudite woman in front of me, and . . . suddenly I realized what I'd missed out on by rushing into marrying Liz. If I had paid more attention to the young woman Darla was becoming, instead of continuing to think of her as just 'the little girl next door . . .'" he paused, shrugging, "—my whole life might've turned out differently."

"You wouldn't've lost a son and a wife to tragic circumstances."

"That's for dang sure. Darla can't swim and won't go near the ocean . . . the beach, yeah; but not the water. She'd never allow a child to go in swimming without competent supervision."

"Another piece of information gleaned through deductive reasoning?"

"Not entirely. I asked her if she'd ever taken her kids to the beach up in Washington. I was casual about the way I broached the subject, and in the way I worded the query. She had no reason to think I might be making a comparison between her and Liz, especially since I wasn't—not consciously, anyway. After her remarks about the ocean, the beach and swimming, I made the contrast mentally, but that wasn't my intention when I asked the question. I was just curious, since she lived so near Seattle."

Having finished his narrative, Jack held out a pair of chocolate brown Dockers and one of those trite tweed sport coats with brown elbow patches.

"You expect me to wear this?" I protested, pointing derisively at the jacket.

Jack shrugged. "Unless you'd rather go shopping . . . ."

"I hate shopping!"

"I know," he said, with a smile that was partly impish and partly smug. "It's either this or . . . shirt sleeves. I understand the place we're going to doesn't require a jacket or a suit coat, if the shirt you're wearing is fancy enough."

"You mean, like those ones with the billowed sleeves we used to wear back in the '80s?"

"Something along those lines, I imagine."

"That was twenty years ago! They don't even make those things anymore."

Jack shrugged. "You could always check and see if one of Dad's suit coats will fit you."

Suddenly a question occurred to me. "Jack," I asked, "why did you bring that thing with you in the first place? You obviously had no intention of wearing it yourself . . . ."

"Actually," my brother said, looking at me archly, "I did intend to. I don't usually wear my uniform except when I'm on official business."

"But since Darla likes it so much . . ."

"Exactly. . . As to why I'd wear that ugly piece of crap . . . people don't take you seriously when you're wearing an elbow-patched tweed jacket. It's so cliché that no one even asks you the time of day. With all the attention I get when I wear my uniform, it's kind of nice to be anonymous once in a while."

"So then, basically, the tweed jacket is like camouflage or something."

"I guess you could say that. When I wear that tweed jacket, I'm just your average Joe. At times the uniform has its perks; but other times anonymity is better."

I sighed, taking the jacket and slacks from my brother. "Well, since that's all you've got, I guess I'm stuck with it. . . Couldn't you have been anonymous with just a little bit more . . . flair?"

"That would be an oxymoron. If you have flair, you can't be anonymous."

"Jack, I never realized how downright devious you are."

"It's the military training. No matter which branch of the service you may be in, one of the main things you have to learn is how to be sneaky. It's a matter of survival."

"I imagine it is." I went to the coat closet, found an empty dual-purpose hanger, hung the slacks and the jacket on it, and took it upstairs to my bedroom.

When I returned to the living room, the suitcase was out of sight, something that was apparently Jack's spare uniform (protected by a rip-stop nylon suit bag) was hanging from one of Mom's old plant hooks, and Jack was seated once again in the armchair, flipping through a copy of Outdoor Life magazine. Without looking up, he asked, "So, Little Brother, how long have you been working for the NSA?"