CHAPTER 19
It was almost quarter to six by the time I got upstairs to Dad's room. I pulled the phone book out of the nightstand and called the best restaurant in town to make reservations. When I got on the line with the reservations clerk, I asked for an intimate table for two. The man told me he had just one and that it would be available at seven-thirty. I thanked him, ended the call, and then phoned Darla.
"Jack?" she asked.
"Yep, it's me."
"I have caller I.D. Your dad's name appeared, so I figured it had to be you. I was just wondering why you didn't use your cellphone."
"'Cause I'm in Dad's bedroom and the phone is right here. I'm calling to tell you that the reservations are for seven-thirty. It was kind of last minute and that was the best I could do. I'll come by your place as soon as I'm ready. Maybe we can spend some quality time together before we go."
"In that case, I'll try to be ready when you get here. . . Speaking of which . . . you said I should dress up, Jack, but . . . how dressed up should I be? There aren't a lot of restaurants in Shiloh Heights, Washington, never mind any that have a strict dress code."
"Don't sweat it, Darla. You don't have to wear a cocktail dress or anything like that; but I'm wearing my dress uniform because I don't have a suit with me, so just dress with that in mind."
"I'll look through my closet and see what I've got," she assured me. Then she said, "So, what made you decide to go for someplace semi-upscale?"
"I'm going to be in D.C. for a few days, and I want the last night we're going to be able to spend together for a while to be something special—that includes dancing."
"Are you sure you'll have enough energy for dancing?"
"I'll be fine. Even if all we do is move around in circles like we did at your place last night, I'm going to hold you in my arms as much as I can and for as long as I can."
"Sounds nice," she said softly, her voice sounding almost like a purr. "See you in a little while, Jack. I love you."
"I love you, too, Darla. See you soon."
After we'd said our goodbyes, I showered, shaved, splashed on some Old Spice, and put on my uniform. I stood in front of the full-length mirror attached to Dad's closet door. Even if I did think so myself, I looked good, I smelled good, and I felt . . . a lot of things. There seemed to be a fist about the size of a pomegranate in my stomach, and it was squeezing so hard I could barely breathe.
Tonight I would tell Darla that I was planning to resign my commission and quit my job—which I didn't think she'd mind all that much, contrary to what Mac and I had previously supposed. But, I didn't yet have a game plan for my future. What would I do once I retired from the Navy? Maybe Darla could help in that department. Maybe, if we put our heads together, we could come up with a viable way for an under-sixty navy vet to spend his declining years without going stir crazy. I wasn't ready to plant myself in a rocking chair or a porch swing just yet. I needed to stay active, and I was pretty sure Darla would understand that.
But it wasn't as if I needed a job. My retirement income would be more than enough for us to live off of. I had a lot of money in various retirement and savings accounts; and, since I'd been single for the past twenty years, my personal expenses had been relatively light, which had allowed me to keep a significant amount in my checking account at all times, as well. I doubted that Darla had any idea how well off I was—not that it would matter to her one way or the other. She loved me for myself, not for my money. Still, it would be a serious discussion, and I wasn't sure how she'd react—what she'd say.
I sighed. There was nothing for it but to take whatever might come. I reminded myself that Darla was nothing if not sympathetic and understanding. I smoothed out my sleeves, straightened my tie and my epaulets and left.
(*)
While Jack was getting ready for his dinner date with Darla, I finished packing and then sat down on the edge of my bed to think . . . about Jamie.
I felt like an idiot, falling so hard for someone so quickly—especially someone as wholly dedicated to her work as Jamie was. I mean, even if—in a moment of insanity—we decided we wanted to get married and spend the rest of our lives together, what kind of a life would we have with both of us working for the government? We'd be under constant scrutiny. Someone somewhere would always be wondering if one or both of us would sell out to some foreign power for filthy lucre. Obviously, the whole idea was ludicrous. But paranoid security personnel have no way of knowing that. They see too much of deception and betrayal to believe in anyone or anything—no matter how good it may look on the surface.
I sighed. Maybe it was time to get out of the spy game altogether. Of course, if I decided to cut my ties with the NSA and give up fieldwork, I could always apply for a job as an intelligence analyst at Homeland. . . No, that wouldn't really work, either. It might not be as dangerous as going after the terrorists who were behind the sham environmentalist groups, but I'd still be under constant scrutiny and considered a possible security risk because of the very nature of my job. And, without any knowledge of my NSA clearance and background, the paranoid people at Homeland would only have a small portion of the picture that was my undercover persona. I sighed again. If I wanted to have any kind of life with Jamie, I'd have to get out of the intelligence service completely.
But, should I really go that far? Jamie and I had only known each other for a few days. True, we really did like each other—a lot. But was that enough of a reason for me to change my entire way of life? I wasn't in love with her yet—that much I knew. But I also knew that I could be if I wanted to be. With a little encouragement on her part, I might be able to let go of all the fears and personal insecurities that had kept me from making a commitment to anyone before.
I had a very big decision to make and not a lot of time in which to make it—which is why I needed desperately to spend more time with Jamie. I had to know if she was interested enough in me to make it worth my while to change careers, as well as to make the move back to Denver.
As I took my cellphone from my pocket, my heart stopped . . . started again . . . and then leapt into my throat, where it lodged itself for the rest of the night.
(**)
"Hi," Darla said airily as she opened the door to me. "Come on in." There was just a trace of a smile on her face, but her eyes were aglow. It was definitely the look of a woman in love. I did my best to return the look, although I had a feeling my smile was just a little bit more noticeable than hers. Every time I saw Darla and knew that—for whatever reason—she was still in love with me, I felt like I had a new lease on life.
I held my cover in my hand and waited while she closed the door behind me. Then she came and stood in front of me, grabbed my hat from my hand, tossed it onto the coffee table, and took both of my hands in hers, looking at me with something bordering on awe.
"You look so incredibly handsome in your dress uniform!" she breathed. "But then, you always did."
"You look taller," I commented, looking down at her feet. She was wearing heels, which caused the top of her head to come up to a higher level on my chest than usual—high enough that she didn't have to stand on her toes to touch my chin with her lips. After she'd kissed that prominent lower portion of my head, I pressed my lips to hers while they were still within easy reach. It was a soft, tender kiss—not too lengthy, not too passionate . . . just sweet and satisfying.
After our lips parted, Darla backed away a little—without letting go of my hands—and asked, "Is this okay? –or will I need something a little dressier?"
"It's just fine, D. In fact, you look positively radiant."
"That's love, Jack—not the dress."
"I think it's a little of both." The dress in question was a shade commonly referred to as peacock blue. It was kind of bell-shaped—at least, that's how I thought of it. (Darla later told me that that particular shape is known as an A-line.) It had beads—of matching peacock blue—sewn on in a kind of vertically-running serpentine pattern all around it, the "serpents" being at about four-inch intervals. Said "serpents" started just below the, uh, bodice and wound down to about two inches above the hem. The hem came to about three inches below her knees.
The dress had a round neck that seemed to lie right on top of her collarbone; the sleeves reached halfway down her forearms—I think they're called three-quarter length sleeves in the fashion trade—and they were . . . flared, I guess you'd call it. The flaring was gradual, though, starting at her shoulder and running down to her forearm. She had on a string of pearls that reached to right about where her cleavage would be if it was showing, and one of those loose bracelet-watch things on her left wrist.
The dress brought out the blue highlights in her hazel eyes. Even through the lenses of her glasses I could see it. She never looked more beautiful—at least to me.
As for those high-heeled shoes she was wearing . . . they were white, with crisscrossed straps and open toes and had cork wedges in the heels. Darla had never been much for strapless dresses or backless shoes. Considering that the cork wedges were around three inches high at the back, I was glad there was more than a thin, white leather strap holding her shoes on her feet—especially if we were going to do any dancing. I brought this up to Darla, so she looked down at her feet and said, "Oh! I hadn't even thought about that! I'll go change into some lower heels." She then looked back up at me and explained, "I just wanted to make it a little easier for you to reach me when we're standing toe to toe."
"Darla, have I ever complained about your height?"
She shook her head hesitantly. "No, not that I can remember, but—"
"No buts!" I said firmly, pulling my right hand from hers and gently tapping her on the tip of her nose with my finger. "You've been the same height since you were . . . how old?—fourteen?—fifteen?"
"I was a freshman when I reached my full height. It took a little longer for the rest of my body to catch up."
I reddened slightly at that remark; so did she. I wondered why she'd said it. Maybe she was a little nervous, too.
I retrieved my left hand from her grasp and placed both my hands on her cheeks, holding her face tenderly. (Her hands went immediately to my waist.) I gazed intently into her eyes and said, "Deej, there has never been a time in my life when I've cared one iota about how tall or short you are. You've always been shorter than I am, and that's the way it'll always be. There's no need for you to wear high heels to accommodate me. I'm fine with lowering my head and bending down as far as need be to reach your luscious lips . . . or your throat, or your forehead . . . or anything else my lips decide to investigate . . . ." I demonstrated as I spoke, and Darla whimpered and sighed. It was a rather . . . satisfying sound.
When I stopped kissing her, she opened her eyes and gazed into mine. I knew from the way I was feeling that my eyes were probably shining—with both love and amusement. Darla was over fifty years old, had been married for thirty years, and still I could move her with a few well-placed kisses. I found it immensely gratifying. She laid her head on my chest and I pulled her to me, as I'd done earlier that day. "I love you, Deej," I told her. And, I thought to myself, I love that you're so easy to thrill. I had never known any other woman who got weak in the knees as easily as Darla did. She truly was a treasure—and soon she would be all mine. . ..
(***)
"Hey," I said to Jamie when she answered her phone.
"Mac! Hi. What's going on?"
"I, uh, was wondering if maybe I could . . . take you out to dinner, or something?"
"Um . . . I've already got a Marie Callender's lasagna in the microwave, but there's enough for two, if you'd like to join me." She paused momentarily and then explained, "I usually eat half the first night and then finish it the next."
I couldn't help wondering why she didn't just buy the smaller size, but it occurred to me that she might just really like the stuff.
"I, uh, don't wanna deprive you of tomorrow night's dinner . . ."
"It's okay, really; I don't mind. But, if you really feel guilty about it, you can take me out to dinner tomorrow night . . ."
"You've got a deal. I'll be there soon as I can. Uh . . . where, exactly, do you live?"
She gave me her address and general directions on how to get there. I was out the door in under two minutes.
(****)
Our intimate table for two really was. It was a small, round table—barely large enough to hold everything we decided to order. The menus were about ready to fall off the edge. I expected they'd have to remove one set of dishes before bringing the next.
"Shall I order us a bottle of champagne?" I asked.
"If you want some, that's up to you. I prefer to keep a clear head."
"Do you ever drink? You didn't have any wine at your place the other night, even though you served me some: I noticed you put lemonade in your glass."
She nodded and then shook her head. "Yes; no. I mean . . . I made the decision years ago not to imbibe. If you never drink, you never develop a taste for it, never become an alcoholic, never get pulled over for DWI, never hurt yourself or anyone else in a drunk driving accident, never develop cirrhosis of the liver, never become an abusive drunk and hurt people . . . Have you ever seen my brother Terry when he's been drinking?" She shook her head again. "He's the main reason I chose not to drink."
"A mean drunk, is he?"
"Awful! Beth took the kids and left him twenty years ago. Since then, he's only gotten worse. No one's been able to convince him to go to rehab. His life is in the toilet, but that just makes him drink all the more. It's a horrible, vicious cycle. I'd feel sorry for him, but he brought most of it on himself."
"I know. He started drinking the hard stuff when he was in high school," I told her. "I saw him in the locker room on game days, hiding a bottle in his locker. He thought it gave him an edge." I shook my head this time. "It only made him think he was unstoppable."
"I know; I watched him. . . I couldn't believe what was happening! –right in front of my eyes, my brother was turning into someone I didn't recognize. I never did understand why Beth married him in the first place."
"Yeah, I always wondered about that, too. But then, she was head cheerleader and he was top jock. It happens."
"Those types of marriages seldom turn out to be happily-ever-after, though," Darla commented.
"That's entirely too true." I sat back in my seat. "So, what do you want to drink, then?"
"I'll start with my handy glass of water and have lemonade with the meal."
"Lemonade? –again?"
She nodded. "I love lemonade—regular or pink . . . doesn't matter; as long as it's not too sour."
"Well, then, I guess I'll have a Dr. Pepper. It's not much fun drinking alone."
"What made you start drinking, Jack?"
"Are you kidding? It's what defines us as 'guys.' You go out for a beer with the guys after work; you have a brew while watching the Big Game with the guys. And, when you're in the military, going to the local pub for a cold one is a ritual." I shrugged. "I guess I could stop. . . I mean, my life is gonna be a whole lot different after you and I are married: I won't be 'hanging out with the guys' as much."
"You don't have to stop drinking completely . . . I mean, not on my account."
"It's no big deal. I've always been a social drinker. I drink to be sociable; and, when it's a blazing-hot summer day, sometimes a nice, cold beer just . . . hits the spot . . ."
She sighed. "Do you think maybe you could cultivate a taste for lemonade? -or maybe even iced tea? I really hate the smell of beer. . . I know it's the yeast. We grew yeast cultures in biology class back in high school, and it smelled just like beer." She shook her head. "I think it's disgusting. I don't know how people can even get it past their noses, let alone drink it!"
"It's an acquired taste. So, if you can't stand the smell, I won't drink beer unless you're out of town, visiting your kids or your parents or . . . whatever; and I won't keep any in the house, so I won't be tempted to drink it when you are home . . . and I won't have more than two—" I held up two fingers, "—when I do go out to a bar to have a beer. I promise." I crossed my heart and then held up my hand in the traditional oath-taking position.
"I trust you, Jack. You haven't survived in the military this long by being foolish."
Our waiter arrived then and placed a basket of hot, fresh dinner rolls and a saucer containing a cube of butter on the table. He then proceeded to ask if we were ready to order.
Having been taught well, I ordered for Darla first. "The lady will have the petite sirloin, cooked medium (i.e., nicely pink and juicy, but not overly so)—no mushrooms—a baked potato with butter only, no sour cream, no chives; and a glass of lemonade—straight, no fruit added."
"Regular or sugar-free?"
I shrugged, then guessed. "Regular?"
Darla nodded, smiling. "With a teaspoon of sugar for each four ounces of lemonade."
I repeated that to the waiter, who seemed to think I was the only person at the table worth talking to. Or maybe it was just because I'd taken it upon myself to do the ordering for both of us. It's kind of an old-fashioned thing to do, and a lot of women don't like it. They prefer to order for themselves. I suspect, if Darla had been one of those, the waiter would've addressed her directly about her lemonade; but, since I was doing the ordering, Ihad to make the clarifications as well. I was glad, though, that Darla wasn't a feminist, even if it meant a little more work for me. I genuinely enjoyed doing things for her.
"Got it," said the waiter in response to Darla's requests, although he still addressed me. "Regular lemonade . . . straight . . . no fruit . . . three teaspoons of sugar." Looking at me, he explained, "Our glasses hold twelve ounces of beverage."
I nodded. "Good math skills. Thanks."
It was amusing. I was beginning to get used to Darla's finickiness. In a way, it was kind of cute and endearing; could be problematical after a while, though. I mean, I might have to do a little cooking myself now and then if I wanted to eat something Darla didn't like and which, therefore, she didn't know how to make. . ..
It was now time for me to place my own order. "I'll have the twelve-ounce New York cut, medium rare, with onion rings, sautéed mushrooms and French fries. A Dr. Pepper to drink, if you have it."
"Very good, sir. And would either of you care for a salad?"
"Yeah, I'll have a Caesar salad with Thousand Island dressing. Darla prefers Jell-o."
I was impressed. The waiter's eyebrows didn't go up even a smidgen. "What flavor Jell-o would the lady prefer?"
"Cherry," I replied confidently. Lime was her other choice when it came to Jell-o; I knew that. But, since she was having lemonade, I thought a double dose of citrus might not be a really good idea.
"Would the lady like whipped cream on her Jell-o?"
"Eeww! Gross!"
"That would be a 'no,'" I interpreted for the waiter.
He picked up the menus and said, "I shall return shortly with your . . . salads." I think it was the fact that Darla was having Jell-o that made him hesitate before saying 'salads', and I could hardly blame him. But, Darla was Darla and she preferred Jell-o. Whatever my lady wanted, my lady would get.
"Whipped cream on Jell-o. I'm not sure I would've gone for that, either," I admitted, leaning on the table and looking directly at Darla.
"Whipped cream is . . . disgusting! It has little-to-no flavor and is more fattening than ice cream! Why put it on Jell-o?" She shuddered.
(Enough about Jell-o and whipped cream, already!) I decided it was time for a change of topic. "So, are your kids spending the night in town?"
She nodded. "They're going home on Saturday."
"Who's watching your grandkids while they're gone?"
"Their in-laws. They all live in the greater Seattle vicinity, so it's convenient for everybody. And they love having a chance to spend a day or two with their grandkids."
"Are they staying because I told them to watch the news tomorrow night?"
"Yeah, pretty much. You've piqued their collective interest, I'm afraid, so they're anxious to see what you and Mac have planned for your father." She leaned forward with her elbows on the table. "I really do wish you'd tell me what you're up to, Jack." She was doing her best to be beguiling, but I had already steeled myself against it.
"Not gonna happen, D.J.," I said. "But, I will tell you about something else that's happening . . . in regards to my impending trip back to D.C. . .."
"What is it?" She sat up straight then, all ears, as it were.
"I'm going to turn in my resignation—from both the Navy and Homeland. Once they accept my resignation and let me go, I'll be packing up my stuff and coming back here . . . unless, of course, there's somewhere else you'd rather live than Denver."
"Actually, Jack, I don't want to remain here any longer than is absolutely necessary. . . I have to admit, I haven't missed the winters here one little bit."
"Do you wanna go back to Shiloh Heights? I can do small-town life . . . I think. I never have before, but that doesn't mean I couldn't learn . . ."
She smiled and asked, "Have you thought about what you're going to do for a living after you leave Homeland and the Navy? That might help us determine where we should live."
I took hold of her hand and said, "That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I don't really need, need a job. I've been single for more than twenty years and earning an officer's salary the entire time—which has been steadily increasing, due to promotions and cost-of-living raises. . . I have at least four separate retirement accounts, three savings CDs (all with different renewal dates), a standard passbook savings account with at least a hundred grand in it, and more than five grand in my checking account. I could retire any time and be set for life. I only want to work because I'm not ready yet to be idle. I need to do something."
"You're . . . well off, Jack?"
I tipped my head back and forth, from side to side. "Pretty much; but, most of my assets aren't readily accessible . . . yet. Still, we could easily live off of what's in the passbook account for some time; and, I could close out each of the CDs in turn when their renewal dates come around. . . I guess, maybe, I'm . . . comfortably secure."
"It took the insurance company six months to pay off on Frank's death benefits," Darla told me. "As difficult as it was, I kept working and lived mostly off of our savings until the insurance finally came through. It was aggravating."
"Yeah, I know. Insurance companies are always anxious to take your money, but they're kind of reluctant to give any of it back. Dad had the same problem when Mom died; but, at least he had a good-paying career to keep him going."
"So, back to my original question, Jack: Have you thought about what you want to do once you leave Homeland and the Navy? Any ideas?"
"Well, I've had several. I'm just not sure if any of 'em would be . . . viable . . . realistic, you know?"
"Like what?"
The waiter arrived with my salad and Darla's Jell-o then, so I waited until he placed the dishes on the table, thanked him, and then picked up my salad fork and dug in.
"I've thought about going back to flying," I mumbled as I chewed.
"Commercially?"
"Sort of. I'm not thinking of becoming an airline pilot or anything. I'm too old for that. There are airline pilots my age, I expect; but they're veterans—men who've been flying the jumbo jets for more than twenty years—not something I'd wanna come into cold at my age. . . I was thinking more along the lines of hiring myself out as a private pilot for some rich dude who has his own plane. If he's affable, I might even be able to persuade him to let you come along when we fly to far away, exotic places, like . . . New Orleans."
"I thought you'd already been to New Orleans."
"Yeah, but you haven't. . . and it's pretty exotic, let me tell you."
She smiled. "From what I've heard, I expect it is. That might be kind of fun—if you could find such a magnanimous employer. I'd love flying with you, although it'd be more fun if I could sit in the cockpit with you. But, I know that could never happen. . .." She sighed.
"Don't say 'never.' It's bad luck. Anyway, one of my other thoughts was going to work at an already-established flight school. I could easily teach people to fly. I did it for years in the Navy. Once I prove I can fly just about anything, I should be able to get certified as an instructor in a matter of days."
"And you wouldn't have to do much of the actual flying, so if your reflexes begin to slow down as you get older—"
"Hey! Don't even go there! Instructors always have to be prepared to take over if the student loses it or makes a really serious blunder; so, I've still gotta have good reflexes. I could as easily have a heart attack or something while out there in the wild blue yonder as lose my reflexes . . . ." I paused then and thought about the things the two of us had just said. "Maybe I should rethink the whole flying thing and keep my feet on the ground from now on—except when I'm a passenger."
"You have your own plane, don't you, Jack?"
"Two, actually: a prop and a small jet. But—"
"So, you wouldn't quit flying them for your own recreation would you?"
"Well, no, not right away. I've been grounded ever since I went to work at Homeland: my planes are berthed here, in Denver. I've moved around so much throughout my career that it only made sense to keep my planes here at home. I've come back here and flown one or the other of them whenever I've been on leave. But, as I say, it's been a few years."
"You've never had a vacation, in all the time you've worked at Homeland?"
"Only short ones—not long enough to make it worthwhile to come all the way back here, just to take a plane up for a couple of hours."
"You still have family here to visit, you know," she scolded me.
"Yeah, well . . . ever since Mom died, it's been kinda hard, seeing Dad all by himself."
"Too painful to watch?"
"Yeah."
"I think I understand. If I were twenty years older, my kids would probably feel the same way about coming to see me, now that their dad's gone. It's not easy to go home for a visit and see only one parent where you're used to seeing two. But, fortunately for me, my kids have stepped up to the plate and been there for me—big time."
"You're making me feel guilty."
"Good. You deserve to. Your dad's a good man. Yes, he puts his nose into other people's business a bit too much. But, without your mom around, what else does he have to do, except go camping and stuff with his buddies . . . and how much of that can a man take?. . . As much as he'd like to continue running the paper, he can't do that anymore, either. He's getting close to eighty now, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is. It's amazing he's stayed as strong as he has for as long as he has." I let out a heavy sigh. "I am such a . . . jerk."
"No, you're not, Jack. A tad thoughtless, perhaps; but that's normal for a guy."
"I don't think I like being a 'guy' anymore. I think it's time I stepped up to the plate and started behaving more like a man should. It's time I grew up and took some responsibility—for something other than the safety of this country. It's time I started doing as much for Dad now as he used to do for me."
I dropped my salad fork onto my empty plate and took out my cellphone. "I gotta call Mac."
She smiled. She knew. She knew I was going to fold and undo whatever it was Mac and I had been planning. She'd finally managed to talk me out of it—or at least, got me to talk myself out of it. . . Would I regret it tomorrow? Nah. I'd tell Dad what the plan had been and then tell him why I changed my mind. And do you know what? I figured he'd be proud of me for choosing not to be petty.
He did the right thing, bringing Darla back into my life. She was exactly what I needed to teach me how to be the man I was supposed to be . . . the man that both she and Mom had always hoped and prayed I would be. It was past time for me to grow up.
(*****)
"What the—?" I looked at my cellphone and scowled. "Jack? He's having dinner with Darla! What's he calling me for?—and now of all times?"
"You won't know unless you answer it," Jamie pointed out.
"Yeah, Jack. Whazzup?"
"I'm calling it off, Mac—the raid, I mean. I can't do it to Dad. He's just an old man who wants his family intact, nothing more; we shouldn't punish him for that. Just let him have his weekend in the woods with his buddies. He'll probably be more surprised by that than he would be if we punished him."
"You're sure?" I asked.
I heard Jack sigh. "Yeah, I'm sure."
I smiled. "Darla got to you, didn't she?"
"Could be . . ."
"You wuss!"
"No, Mac, I am not a wuss. For the first time in ages I feel like I'm really doing the right thing. Dad's getting on in years, bro. It's time we started paying more attention to him and his needs instead of thinking about nothing but our own. Mom's not around to take care of him anymore. It's our turn to do for him what he always did for us."
It was my turn to sigh. "Yeah, I guess you're right. It would've been so much fun though . . ."
"Maybe, but . . . that kind of fun—at the expense of a bunch of old men—isn't the kind of activity grown men should engage in. Darla kinda hinted at that, and I realized she's right. I'm tired of being a 'guy,' Mac. I'm ready to be a husband again . . . and a dutiful son to my aging father. What about you?"
"I'm on board, Jack; I'm on board. I'll still take the map up to Shaun, though, so he can post it on the wall of the store. . . But, won't he be disappointed when he finds out there won't be any fireworks?"
"Probably. I'll talk to him later—tell him I'll compensate him for some of the stuff Dad and Uncle George bartered him out of on the cheap."
"They didn't!"
"Oh, yeah. He didn't stand a chance. He wants a little revenge, too. He thought the light show would be highly satisfying."
"I'm sure it would've been. . . Jack, are you absolutely certain you wanna back down?"
"Yes, Mac, I am. Gotta go; main course is arriving. I'll talk to you later tonight after we both get home."
I closed my phone and put it back in my pocket.
"What was that all about?" Jamie asked.
I told her.
"You were planning to have a gang of troops raid your father's camp and arrest him and your uncle and all their friends?! Mac, that's . . . that's just plain cruel! No wonder Aunt Darla talked Jack out of it! If I'd known what you were up to, I'd've tried to talk you out of it, too!"
I shook my head. "Darla didn't know; she only knew we were planning revenge of some kind. . . She's darned good to be able to talk Jack out of doing something we've spent the last two days planning and preparing to execute, especially since he put so much work into it himself today!" I shook my head again. "I can't believe he folded. But, he thinks it's time we grew up."
"And you don't?"
The look on her face and the tone of her voice told me that this was dangerous ground. I'd better watch my step . . . and my tongue. "It's not that . . . I mean, yeah, of course we need to grow up. Everybody does at some point. I just wish it could've been after the denouement."
"You really wanted to see your father and your uncle and all those old men publicly humiliated? Then maybe, instead of moving home to Denver, you should just go back to L.A. and pull the wool over the eyes of some more environmentalists!"
She popped out of her chair, threw down her napkin, and stormed into the kitchen. It had swinging, saloon-style doors. It would have been easy enough to crash through them, but I chose to pretend they were a regular door and stopped outside to talk to her.
"Jamie . . . Jamie! I guess there's nothing I can say that'll change your opinion about me now. You've obviously made up your mind that I'm a jerk; I guess I am. I must be if someone like you thinks so. It's been a long time since I've been judged so . . . harshly by anyone . . . except Jack, and he doesn't count. He and I are just too different to ever see eye-to-eye. The only thing we agreed on was that Dad was out of line and needed to be taught a lesson. Now Jack's changed his mind and gone all noble because of Darla." I mentally cursed myself. "Aargh!" I growled. "Now I'm sounding like a jerk again! . ..
"Jamie, the reason I wanted to see you tonight was to ask you how you'd feel if I stopped working for the government when I move back here. You know I like you—a lot; and I really do wanna move back here and keep seeing you. After this fiasco, though, I'll understand if you really want me to go back to L.A. and never darken your door again; but, please, just hear me out. . ..
"I guess I just got too caught up in the whole revenge thing and couldn't see past it to the bigger picture and what it would really mean to Dad and all those other old men up there with him. Dad has always been . . . Dad, ya know? I never really stopped to think about the fact that he's gonna be eighty on his next birthday. Do you know how old that is?—how old it sounds? I can't even wrap my mind around it. Giving in . . . giving up . . . deciding not to have the camp raided . . . that was an extremely grown-up and mature decision for Jack to make. But he'd've never made it without Darla. . ..
"What I'm trying to say is, since I've had time to think about it, I know he's right . . . she's right. We should cut Dad some slack. He's been alone for fifteen years now; not much to do but run the paper and go huntin' and fishin' with his buds. And he sees the two of us, wasting our lives away, doing noble work, but living alone. My guess is that he doesn't want us to wind up lonely like he is . . . not that that's his fault. Mom died; it happens. And he never found anyone special enough to replace her.
"But Jack . . . Jack loves Darla more than anything in the world right now, and I know they'll be happy together. And, dang it!—I'd like to have a little bit of that kind of love and happiness in my life, too. That's why I've been planning to move back here to Denver: so we can continue seeing each other. You know that. We talked about it the other day. If I've ruined any chance I might've had with you because of this whole revenge thing, then I'm truly sorry. The last thing I wanted to do is alienate you."
She came back through the doors with tears shining in her eyes. "I was so happy when I realized that you like me well enough to consider moving back here. I couldn't ask you to change your whole life just to continue going out with me—that would've been too presumptuous. But, when you made the suggestion yourself, I jumped at it." She smiled. "I'm thinking that maybe I can have as much influence for good on you as Aunt Darla's had on Jack."
I smiled back at her. "You already have, Jamie; you already have." I stretched out my arm, inviting her to return to the table. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and share a warm moment, but we hadn't gotten that far in our relationship yet. We had come to an understanding, though, and that was a really, really good thing.
I opted not to pursue the topic of my leaving government service. What would be the point? Until and unless the time came when it would be relevant—if and when security people thought it wise to start scrutinizing me and/or Jamie because we were both government employees and dating each other—we could deal with it then . . . together.
In the meantime (I decided), when Jack went back to D.C. to turn in his resignation, I was going to turn mine in, too. I, of course, only had to report to my immediate superior back in L.A. But, I knew he wouldn't be happy; neither would his superiors. It was, however, my life; and I'd taken an oath that would keep me from revealing anything I knew to any unauthorized personnel. That, at least, should mollify them to some degree.
By this time, though, I was no longer of the opinion that Dad, Jack and Jamie were unauthorized. Who has more of a right to know what you're up to than those you love and trust most and who love and trust you in return? I wouldn't tell Jamie everything—not right away . . . maybe later, after we were engaged. . . . Wow! Did I really think that? Yeah, I did. Maybe my feelings for her were stronger than I'd thought. I'd better watch myself, or I could end up getting hurt. . ..
