CHAPTER 14
After a beer each, Mac and I decided it was time to do a little clothes shopping. Mac definitely needed something dressier than jeans and T-shirts if he was going to continue going out with Jamie, and he didn't want to keep borrowing my brown slacks and tweed jacket. I wanted jeans and a T-shirt or two myself. I also thought it a good idea to supplement my own "going out on the town" wardrobe. We both found what we needed at a men's store in the Cinderella Mall (which still existed back then). I bought a pair of khaki denim cargos with about ten pockets; and four or five tees of various colors and designs. In deference to Darla, I didn't buy any with crude sayings on them, although Mac picked one out that he thought I should get for myself. It was John-Deere green, with yellow block letters that said, "I have no idea, and I don't want one." I nixed it and glared at my brother nastily.
The raciest one I got—and, as it turned out, the only one with any kind of a statement on it—said simply, "Flyboys are always on top . . .", with a photo of a jet plane on the front, and ". . . of the world!" with a picture of Earth as it looks from space on the back. And I couldn't even bear the thought of wearing that one in front of Darla . . . at least, not until after we were married. . ..
Between us, Mac and I picked up a few pair of semi-dressy slacks in white, tan, teal and powder blue; and some short-sleeved, button-up shirts—also in white and various shades of beige and blue—to go with them. We both felt pretty good as we left the mall and headed home.
I immediately changed into white slacks, the teal shirt, a woven white belt made of something resembling hemp, and white canvas deck shoes. I looked pretty cool—literally.
Mac was still looking for the Boy Scout compass when I left for Mile High Village. He'd already ordered the pizza, and I passed the delivery boy as I turned the corner off our street.
Darla had the porch light on for me; and some quiet, romantic-sounding music was playing in the background as I entered her condo. Aside from the music, I noticed a few other little things.
Like me, Darla was dressed in white slacks—although her shirt was a pink tee with silver stars of various types decorating the front of it. She also wore a silver-colored chain belt and had glittery silver sandals on her feet. There were some long, thin, lighted candles—"tapers," I believe they're called—on the table; and the food smelled delicious.
In the time it took me to absorb all this, Darla had taken me by the hand, pulled me into her living room and wrapped her arms around my neck. She then kissed my chin, smiled at me in that beguiling way she has, and then said, "Welcome to my humble abode. I hope you enjoy your meal this evening."
I smiled back at her and kissed her on the tip of her nose. "I'm sure I will. But, even if you were the worst cook on the planet, I'd eat it anyway—just because you made it."
She smiled even more. "I promise you, Jack, I am not the worst cook on the planet. I'm not the best either, but my food is palatable. Being as finicky as I am, I'm not exactly a gourmet. I make simple fair. TV chefs would roll their eyes and shake their heads at me. But, at least my family never starved—and neither will you. What I lack in variety, I make up for in quantity."
"Then let's get to it, shall we? I'm starving. But first . . . ." Lowering my head, I placed my lips on hers and kissed her warmly. They still tasted really good. If my stomach hadn't chosen that moment to rumble, I probably would've prolonged the kiss or given her a few more. But I really was hungry. I withdrew my lips and flinched a little. "Sorry about that."
Darla smiled. "It's okay, Jack. I'm glad you're hungry. Maybe you'll enjoy it more."
She wrapped her arm through mine and walked me a few feet to what passed for her dining room. It wasn't even a room, really. Outside of the presence of the table and chairs, you could tell it was supposed to be the dining area only because it was right next to the kitchen, and the floor was covered with linoleum instead of carpeting. The ground floor of the condo was incredibly small. If we stayed here in Denver after we were married, I was going to get this lady a house—and a nice one, too.
The table was well set, as tables go; and the food looked good. I mused that if it tasted even half as good as it looked, it would be enough.
I waited by her chair while Darla went into the kitchen and came out with a small, black plastic bowl of green salad. I wondered about this, since, as was previously mentioned, Darla didn't like or eat salads herself. "I bought it freshly made," she told me, smiling as she set the plastic bowl down in the middle of my plate. "I put it in the fridge with the plastic wrap still on it to keep it fresh. I hope it's to your liking. . . Oh, and here's a packet of your favorite dressing, as well." She placed the packet next to the bowl, also on the plate. She then approached me, and I pulled her chair out for her, as my father had taught me to do for a lady a very long time ago.
"And what are you gonna eat while I'm munching on this salad?" I asked, pushing in her chair.
She held up a glass container—made for either a parfait or a sundae, I'm not sure which (maybe they're both the same kind, I don't know)—and showed me a mess of red Jell-o squares. "My favorite type of 'salad,'" she said.
I smiled down at her. "There isn't even any fruit in it," I pointed out. "Isn't Jell-o salad supposed to have fruit in it?"
"Because of the sugar in the juice, it takes longer to set up if you put fruit in it," she informed me as I went to take my own seat at the table. "I do like to eat lime Jell-o with fruit cocktail in it and miniature marshmallows on it, though—when I can get it. It's way too time-consuming for me to want to make it myself. When it comes to food, I like to keep things simple—in preparing as well as in eating."
"So, just plain Jell-o, then," I commented, as I put a forkful of greens into my mouth.
"Yep."
Darla dug her spoon into her Jell-o with relish and I enjoyed my salad equally as much. She may not like to eat salad, but she knew a good one when she saw it; and she obviously knew what I liked.
Once we were both finished with our respective salads—and I use the term loosely where Darla's is concerned—she took my bowl and her parfait glass away and we started dishing out the food that was placed in strategic places around the table.
I'd gotten through my salad pretty quickly, so the rest of the meal hadn't had time to cool down too awfully much and was still sufficiently warm to be satisfying to the palate.
The steak was grilled to perfection; my twice-baked potato was topped with everything I like on it, while Darla used only butter and paprika on hers; the cauliflower in cheese sauce was about the best I'd ever tasted; and the carrots were sweet and buttery, with just the right amount of seasoning.
All in all, it was a pretty darned good meal; and I enjoyed it as much as I was able, while Darla talked about her children.
She said she'd called her daughters and daughters-in-law after she got home from work and told them all about us. Three out of the four of them had squealed with delight. The fourth—Karen, who was married to her oldest son—had been less expressive about it. "But none of them are against it," she said. "Karen's just older and more mature, so she reacted less emotionally than the others. My daughters especially are glad that you and I are together again. They think it's terribly romantic. . . All four of them promised to explain the situation as diplomatically and in as positive a light as possible to my sons. We should know in a few days what the verdict is." I was, at that moment, wiping my mouth with my napkin. While she was talking, I'd finished eating.
Darla paused to eat a forkful of potato and then asked, "How was it?" When I looked puzzled, she clarified, "The food. How was it?"
"It was positively delicious," I said, as I put my napkin on top of the used silverware on my plate.
"I'm glad you liked it," she replied with a soft smile, just before she slid another forkful of potato into her mouth. "Since you're finished and I still have some spuds left to eat, why don't you wander over to the stereo and see if you can find something we could dance to."
"Dance? As in . . . ballroom . . . type . . . stuff? Waltz, two-step . . . that sort of thing?"
"Yes, Jack. And don't tell me you don't know how. I know for a fact that you do."
"Yeah, but . . . it's not that easy on carpeting."
"Hey, we don't have to do any fancy maneuvers: there isn't room in this tiny place, anyway. As far as I'm concerned, all we really have to do is hold each other the way you're supposed to when ballroom dancing and move around in circles to the music."
I had a mental image of me holding Darla's right hand against my chest with my left, my right arm wrapped firmly around her waist; while her left hand rested on my shoulder or tickled the back of my neck. Then I saw the two of us moving slowly around in a circle to the rhythm of the music while gazing into each other's eyes—meaningfully. . . I got up and went to the stereo.
As I perused Darla's music collection, I found a CD labeled "Mom's Love Songs Mix #2". I took it—still in its jewel case—to Darla and asked her about it.
"We had a CD burner on one of our computers back home," she told me. "My oldest son burned this for me. The disc that's already in the stereo is my 'Love Songs Mix #1.' So, unless you don't have a romantic bone in your body, you'll probably like them both. Sit and have a listen."
I listened to samples from each disc while Darla continued eating and then cleared off the table once she was done.
I was familiar with the majority of the songs on both discs, but there were a few I hadn't heard before. I had a notion they were songs that her kids had listened to a great deal when they were in high school and/or college and she had developed a liking for them.
After checking out both disks, I decided I liked Mix #1 better. Darla had undoubtedly put her favorite love songs on the first disc and her lesser favorites on the second. By the time I'd made my decision, Darla was finished in the kitchen and the dishwasher was churning cheerfully in the background.
"So, you like Mix #1 better, eh?" Darla asked as she approached me.
"Yeah. I know more of the songs on it."
She nodded. "Me too; but, the songs I don't know quite as well are still lovely, romantic ballads and worth listening to when I'm in a really . . . romantic . . . mood." She'd moved in closer as she said those last three words, and I could feel my heart beginning to race. The song currently playing on the stereo was "Never My Love" by The Association. I thought it very appropriate, under the circumstances.
"You ready?" I asked, gazing into her eyes.
"I've been ready for thirty-five years, Jack," she told me, as she placed one hand on my chest and the other on my shoulder. I took her hand, clutched it tightly in my own, and wrapped my other arm around her waist—just as I'd imagined it—as we moved slowly and deliberately around in circles to the rhythm of the music.
For what seemed an eternity, neither of us said a word. We just held each other and listened to the lyrics of each song, determining within our own minds whether the song was relevant to our situation —to our relationship—past, present or future. Amazingly enough, the majority of them were. The more I listened, the more my feelings for Darla grew. Or maybe it was just that my awareness of my feelings for her grew. . . Either way, by the time we'd heard about a third of the CD, I couldn't take anymore. I let go of Darla's hand and wrapped both arms around her waist (while both of hers went around my neck), and I kissed her fervently. Before I knew it, we'd become lost in a torrent of passion, and I didn't come to my senses until I heard Darla moan and felt her going limp in my arms. If this kept up, I'd make a liar out of myself.
I pulled Darla to me, holding her head against my chest with one hand and keeping my other arm securely around her back. I kissed the top of her head. Then I said, "I think it's time I thought about going home."
Darla smiled softly up at me and asked, "Still trying to protect me, Jack?—even from yourself?"
"Yeah, Darla, I am." I nodded again. "I am."
Darla gazed at me with even more love in her eyes then—at least, it looked like it to me. "Thank you, Jack," she said, smiling softly, "'cause even the girl next door is only human."
I nodded one last time, kissed her forehead, released her and backed away. "Dinner was fantastic, and so was the company." I felt the corner of my mouth twist upward just a fraction and said, "I love you, Darla Jane McIntyre Finley . . . more than I can say. Next time I see you, I'll try to restrain myself a little more; but, once Dad's back home, safe and sound, you and I have a date with a preacher."
