Each Shining Hour (5 page)

The Windup

C
onnie and Estelle scurried around the kitchen keeping up a relentless chatter, much of it in a language I could barely discern. Apparently, over the years the sisters had developed cryptic idioms, catchphrases of one word that replaced a dozen, and even, on occasion, a casual injection of Latin. Even more intriguing, none of it seemed to involve the immediate task at hand of cleaning and putting away dishes. All of that happened with a synchronized flow and economy of motion that was second nature, a ritual they had obviously performed thousands of times.

The two sisters had insisted that I stay seated, or more accurately, stay out of the way. That was fine by me. I had another matter rolling around in the back of my mind. There was something I had to do, something that was causing me quite a bit of apprehension.

I needed to make a phone call.

Eventually Connie took notice of my brooding. Casually she inquired, “Dr. Bradford, what's that face all about? You look like someone just sold your prize cow for three magic beans.”

I had been unwittingly drumming the fingers of my right hand on the kitchen table, staring vacantly. I looked over at the two of them, now paused in midwash at the kitchen sink.

“Connie. What is there to do in Watervalley on Saturday night? You know, with a date?”

Apparently, this comment caused a secret alarm bell to go off, one that was inaudible if you were carrying a Y chromosome. Instantly, Connie and Estelle gave each other a fixed look, one that demanded all hands on deck. Without either of them uttering a word, dishes were abandoned and aprons flew off. They scampered to the table, each grabbing a chair and scooting in close, forming a tight huddle around me. Even Rhett joined the circle, sitting obediently and regarding me with rapt focus.

What is it about women that makes them warm so quickly to the topic of matchmaking? Connie abandoned her normal reserve and, along with Estelle, started quizzing me. It felt like a scene right out of junior high. Connie launched the first volley.

“So, you're thinking about calling Christine?”

Before I could respond, Estelle flanked me. “She's awfully pretty, isn't she? I bet you two really hit it off.”

“Do you need me to press your blue jeans?” Connie inquired. “I went by the cleaners yesterday, so clean shirts shouldn't be a problem.”

Estelle countered, “I know she's really cute, but don't try to push things on the first date. She's a good girl and you'll need to be patient.”

Connie added, “And I know you want to show her a good time, but this is Watervalley. Don't feel you have to flex your plastic a whole lot.”

“But don't be cheap either,” added Estelle. For good measure, she included, “And be sure to wear clean underwear.” Then she
looked at Connie as if a eureka moment had hit her. “Maybe he should record their conversation so we can critique it later.”

I was drowning. Wave after wave of pent-up female advice was broadsiding me, counseling me in every detail of wooing, a subject in which I thought I had a respectable working knowledge. But apparently the Pillow sisters saw me as greatly lacking, even on the fundamentals. Following the volleys back and forth was like watching a tennis match. Except I was the ball getting smacked between the two of them.

Connie gave me a lengthy dissertation about being a godly man and the frailties of the flesh. Estelle executed the coup de grâce.

“And remember, there are three secrets to making a woman love you. Don't always talk about yourself, be sweet to her mother, and moisturize often. You should never underestimate the importance of good skin.”

I held up my hands in surrender. “Ladies, thanks for all the input. I had no idea that a dating brain trust was so readily available. But all I really need is a suggestion about where to go in Watervalley to show a girl a nice time.”

They immediately fell silent, shifting back against their chairs, offering me looks of mild pity, as if I were a second grader who couldn't figure out the answer to a basic math problem.

“Well, that one's easy,” Connie said breezily.

“So very easy,” Estelle echoed with sympathetic resignation.

I sat dumbfounded, still gazing back and forth at them. “Okay, then what?”

Estelle spoke first. “Go ahead, sweetie, you tell him.”

“You sure?”

Estelle nodded confidently, almost conspiratorially. “Sure.”

Connie took my hand. “Luke, darling, the simple answer is to ask Christine what she would like to
do.”

The Phone Call

T
he sisters resumed cleaning up the kitchen. Meanwhile, I walked out to the back steps to clear my head and expel my foolish nervousness over one simple phone call. Rhett followed me. It was a clear, cold night and high above was a magnificent sky filled with crisp, radiant stars. After a few minutes, Connie stepped briefly onto the back porch with coat on and purse in hand. There was an uncommon tenderness to her otherwise stern voice. “Good night, Luke. I'll see you at ten in the morning, dear.”

“Good night, Connie, drive carefully.”

I followed her back into the kitchen. She exited down the hallway and out the front door. Estelle's departure was taking slightly longer. She would grab one or two items and then stop and stare ponderously, wanting to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything. Finally, she seemed satisfied that she was ready to go.

I walked her to the door and onto the front porch, where she gave me a gushing hug before heading off to her car. Arms folded, I leaned against a column, in the glow of the porch light, and watched as the taillights of Estelle's BMW turned off Fleming and
vanished into the frozen, starlit night. Finally, I was alone and able to think.

I loved the cold. It sharpened the senses and centered me. I breathed in deeply, expectantly of the frozen air. Reaching for my phone, I dialed Christine's number.

On the fifth ring, she answered.

Except it wasn't Christine. The female voice on the other end was geriatric, raspy, blunt.

“Who is this?”

“This is Luke Bradford.”

“Are you the doctor?”

“Well, yes. I'm sorry, but I was calling for Christine Chambers. Is she there?”

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses, lover boy.” What followed was something of a random mumbling, a running commentary spoken to the general air yet picked up by the phone. “You'd think they'd put a hold button on these fool devices.” There were several painful squelch tones as the keypad was pressed. “Oh, the heck with it. Smartphone, my foot. There's nothing smart about these stupid things.”

Then came the foghorn blast. “CHRISTINE!” Whatever elderly ailments this woman possessed, her lungs were notably in prime condition.

“Telephone! It's the doctor! What? Yeah, the doctor. He finally called.” There was a long pause. “Okay, I'll tell him.”

Although her previous words had been completely audible, the marked decibel increase indicated that she was again speaking intentionally into the phone. “Christine says she'll be right here.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Yeah, sure, sure.” For several painful moments, I heard the annoying sound of forced, heavy breathing pouring directly into
the receiver. I eventually held the phone at arm's length, looking at it in comic disbelief. Then I heard her speaking again.

“So, you went to Vanderbilt, huh? Did you like that place?”

“Um, yeah, sure. It was a good school.”

“Did you play football there?”

“No, I went there for med school.”

“Just as well. Their football team never seems to have much punkin'.”

I wasn't sure what that term meant, but I politely went along. “They play in a pretty tough conference.”

“Yeah, whatever. Guess that's as good an excuse as any. Oh, here's Christine.” In a poorly muffled voice, she declared, “It's him.”

Finally, Christine was on the phone.

“Hey. This is Luke. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, not at all. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Her voice was buoyant, sweet, accommodating. “I was in the shower and had to grab a towel to wrap around me.”

Just that quickly, that one statement evoked images that sent me drowning in a sea of delightful, shameless thoughts. There's something undeniably sensuous about the idea of a pristine, freshly washed young woman, especially one wrapped only in a towel. That mental picture now coupled with Christine's yielding, engaging voice was hitting the primal bull's-eye. Fortunately, or come to think of it, perhaps unfortunately, this was immediately followed by the looming specter of Connie, and her stern comments on virtue delivered mere moments ago. I refocused and said, “That's quite an answering service. She screen all your calls?”

There was a slight giggle. “Yeah, sorry about that. That's Grandmother Chambers. She's visiting my mom and me from Florida for the holidays. She can be a little direct.”

“I picked up on that.”

“She'd like to meet you,” Christine responded, although for a split second, I thought she said, “She'd like to beat you.” It was my guilty subconscious thinking that her grandmother had telepathically read my wanton thoughts. I was still struggling to keep a controlled, casual focus.

“Sure. Send her right over.” This brought an obliging laugh from Christine followed by an awkward pause. I searched for words.

“So, listen. I was calling about spending some time together Saturday. I looked in the paper and noticed that the Watervalley Line Dance and Bingo Club is throwing a blowout Saturday night. But I'm not sure if you're up for that much excitement on a first date. So, I thought I would ask what you'd like to do.”

There was a moment's hesitation. “Are you by chance running in the fund-raiser this Saturday?”

“Fund-raiser?”

“Yeah. The Runs with Scissors 5K. They hold it every year on the Saturday before New Year's. All proceeds go to the elementary school fund.”

A light came on. Nancy Orman, the clinic secretary, had asked me the previous week if I wanted to participate in the charity run, to which I had mumbled a distracted “Sure.” I had given her a check to sign me up.

“Oh my gosh, I am so glad you mentioned that. As a matter of fact I am.”

“Why don't we start with that and figure out the rest of the day as we go along?”

I liked this idea, probably because it so easily reflected Christine's unpretentious, confident nature, not to mention that there was the clear inference of possibly spending the entire day together.

“Sure. Sounds good. I'm glad you mentioned the 5K. I think I committed quite the social faux pas when I missed the annual ‘Hog Jog' last September. Must be why Nancy signed me up this time. Anyway, what's the deal with the scissors?”

“Every contestant has to carry a pair of blunt-nose kindergarten scissors. It's kind of a conversation icebreaker when you're trying to get sponsors.”

“I guess I missed that part. I haven't signed up a single supporter.”

“Oh, don't let that bother you. The business sponsors give two hundred fifty dollars for first place in each category, and it's customary for the winner to donate that money to the fund.”

“Sounds like I need to win to save face.”

Christine laughed lightly. “Well, not exactly. I meant that the run is mostly for fun. The kids really love it, and the money is pretty much already raised before the event. But I guess it's possible you could win.”

I was six foot two, had played college basketball, and considered myself pretty athletic. Since my arrival it had been my daily practice to take a morning jog, something that had made me the target of more than a few teasing but good-natured comments from the locals. For the past couple of months my usual route had taken me out Summerfield Road, right past the iconic picket fence and tree-filled yard surrounding the white clapboard farmhouse where Christine lived.

I responded playfully, “It's possible I could win? Gee, not a lot of conviction there.”

“Well, I guess I have a confession to make. I've seen you out running in the distance. Not too impressive, Buckhead boy.” Her voice carried a teasing, competitive tone. Even yet, it was combined with laughter, a sweet, subdued excitement.

“Oh, you think? Not impressive, huh? You know, it might just be that I slow my pace on Summerfield Road, hoping that a certain feisty but appealing schoolteacher might cross my path.”

“Oh, wow, aren't you just the smooth one, Luke Bradford. How long have you been practicing that comeback?”

“About an hour or so. Why, did I rush it?”

“No, no. Timing was good. Then again, you might want to come up with a little stronger adjective. ‘Appealing' just doesn't carry a lot of conviction, now, does it?”

“So noted. Any suggestions?”

“Give me a second. ‘Gorgeous' is always good. ‘Stunning,' ‘dazzling,' ‘sparkling,' ‘radiant'—all those work too.”

“Are we describing you or the Milky Way?”

“You're not helping yourself here.” There was a slight change of tone.

“And there it is. You know, seems like earlier I mentioned the word ‘feisty'?”

Delight was pouring through all of her words. “Okay, stop. You made your point.” She paused for a moment. “Bradford, you are too funny. You should have asked me out a long time ago.”

“All right, now you're the one losing style points.” Over the past months, Christine had flatly turned down date offers on at least two occasions. But I sensed this was her way of telling me that now she regretted it, that my charm had finally won her over. Probably not, but I decided to go with that thought anyway.

When she spoke again, her voice was soft, deliberate, delightfully seductive. “Let's just say I'm really glad you're asking me out now. See you Saturday, down on the square. Bring your A game.”

We said good-bye. I returned inside and walked to the back of the house in a slightly euphoric daze, oblivious to the numbing chill of the previous minutes in the December cold. I was
exhilarated, staring vacantly at the warm and orderly kitchen around me. The remnant smells of cooking, the echoes of laughter and conversation from earlier in the evening, and now the charming, lilting resonance of Christine's voice filled the room. The air was electric. I was consumed, warmed with an enchanting, pure delight, and I knew that, at least for that moment, my small life in Watervalley was rich with magical possibilities. It now seemed that Saturday morning was all I could think about.

At least, that along with the
towel.