The Splendor of Ordinary Days (21 page)

“So, Luke, what do you think?”

“About?”

“Children. Your own children, that is.” We both knew in that delicate moment that the real topic was “our children.”

I remained focused on the dark and narrow country road before me. My eventual response was certain and deliberate.

“This may come as a surprise to you, Miss Chambers, but I think that one day I would love to have five or six.”

Christine gasped. “You're kidding, right?”

“Not in the least.” The sincerity in my voice was unmistakable.

She stared at me ­wide-­eyed for a moment before stiffly turning and looking forward, clearly needing a minute to process my declaration.

“I say something wrong?”

She exhaled a short laugh, shaking her head. “No, no, not at all. I think that's wonderful. But you're right. That wasn't the answer I was expecting.”

We rode on in silence, neither of us choosing to pursue the subject further. But it was clear that Christine was a little stunned, because after I walked her to the door and we kissed good night, she remained studying me with a mystified face even after I had begun to step away.

I paused and turned back to her.

She wore a muted, probing expression. “Five or six, huh?”

I sank my hands into my coat pockets and smiled warmly. “­Umm-­hmm. Five or six.”

Under the snug glow of the porch light, she stood silently. Then, ever so quietly and sweetly, a tender smile of acknowledgment spread across her face.

The Swan

O
n Saturday I met Guy Dupree and the Night Owls over at the bandstand at four to coordinate their setting up. Connie was there along with the other volunteers to help with decorating. In an incredible ­last-­minute transformation, the huge bandstand had been elaborately dressed in a Cole Porter theme of “Anything Goes.” The idea seemed symbolically appropriate, given that this was Watervalley and everything from tuxedos to overalls would likely be in the mix.

Guy Dupree, a sprightly and lively fellow in his early fifties, was the band's piano and keyboard player. He was of modest height with a full head of neatly combed brown hair. While I was talking to him, a most ingenious idea occurred to me. “Guy, do you and the band by chance know the song ‘Over the Valley'?”

“Absolutely, it's a Pink Martini standard.”

“Well, I need to ask a big favor. Can you play it as the last song tonight?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Trying to create a special moment for a certain someone?”

“Hmm, you might say that. Can you do it?”

“Piece of cake, Doc. Consider it done.”

I thanked him and walked back to the car, rubbing my hands together in great satisfaction. The cosmos had sent a blunt message that the previous night at the lake was not the right time to propose. But tonight, as the band played our song, its music lilting through the autumn air, I would pull Christine away from the crowd for a short walk along the lake's edge. Under the romance and charm of the moonlit night I would propose. My private, intimate, perfect moment was finally going to happen. I knew it in my bones.

Around five thirty, a ­late-­afternoon rain blew through quickly, leaving behind a clear, washed sky of cooler air and a soft twilight filled with delicate stars. A thin shaving of moon appeared against the blue, bringing a low luster to the warm and tender evening.

During my recent trip to Nashville, I had managed to purchase a classic ­black-­tie tuxedo and candidly thought I looked rather dashing in it. Christine had dug into the boxes of clothes in the family attic and found a vintage black flapper dress from the twenties worn by her grandmother Cavanaugh to a costume party back in the sixties.

I arrived at the farmhouse early and waited for Christine in the entry hall. With her raven hair, red lips, and olive complexion, she descended the stairs as a woman at the flawless summit of her natural beauty. Every step she took was full of seductive grace. It would seem that by now I would have grown accustomed to these stunning moments. But the sensuous flow of her movements and her bewitching smile stole through me, leaving me breathless.

As we made our way toward town, it seemed the night was charged with an immense electricity, an incredible feeling of expectancy as all the headlights in the valley pointed toward the lake. By the time we arrived, the dance was in full swing. Everyone was captivated with the explosive sound of the Night Owls, the luminous glow of the bandstand lights, and the tingling promise of magic in the air.

The brassy, jazzy sound of the horns and deep, throbbing beat of drums permeated the night. Cacophonous voices and sparkling laughter rose everywhere. Couples were already crowding the dance floor, and small groups of onlookers claimed every inch of the huge bandstand's railing. As we made our way across the short entry pier, I began to feel a little overdressed. Yet we were warmly and enthusiastically received by shouts and raised eyebrows, as if the plain and simple people I had come to know expected nothing less than sartorial splendor from their town doctor and his beautiful date.

It seemed that all of Watervalley had turned out for the event, revealing the broad tapestry of ­small-­town life. Some of the men were in their Sunday finery of gray suits and brown shoes. A few of the women wore stylish party dresses, albeit some of them looked as if they had dressed in their teenage daughter's clothes by mistake. Collectively, most strove toward the casual middle ground.

These were everyday people who were not too good or fine or proud to let loose and who made few pretenses to gentility. Nevertheless, they were unabashed about having a good time. As well, beer and wine were flowing readily, and I suspected that for many, more than their hair was well lubricated.

As we moved through the crowd, I noticed a number of bachelor farmers gathered in a clump near the concession table where they could easily assess everyone as they arrived and made their way up the short, narrow pier. The men were all scrubbed, starched, and ­clean-­shaven. There was among them a bubbling camaraderie, a pungent brew of wit and humor as they nonchalantly surveyed the new arrivals for prospects of companionship. Then again, they also seemed to be completely entertained discussing the merits of various types of socket wrenches.

Towering over them all was Hoot Wilson, wearing a tie and sporting a clean white shirt that managed to contain his massive chest and overflowing midsection. He gave me an unreserved wave from across the crowd. I waved back but immediately noticed that one of his fellow bachelors was tapping Hoot's shoulder to draw his attention toward the pier's end and the shiny black BMW that had just arrived.

It was Estelle's car. The passenger side was facing the bandstand, and as the teenage valet opened the car door, what happened next brought all of the bachelor farmers to the railing in a ­gape-­jawed silence.

From within the dark interior of the BMW, there appeared two long, slender legs above high heels that smoothly and enticingly touched down on the pavement. This was followed by the extension of a slim wrist adorned with a sparkling array of dazzling bracelets. The valet clasped the outstretched hand.

In a singular, fluid motion, Karen Davidson emerged into the evening, into the light, and into the wanton desires of all the frozen and gawking single men standing there.

Laughter and conversation fell silent as she made her way up the narrow pier to the bandstand. She was bare shouldered, wearing a snug black dress and a thin powder blue scarf with long ends that floated delicately behind her as she walked. It danced with her sensuous footsteps, seeming to bring with her on the night wind an invisible cape of enchantment.

Now, tightly wrapped in clothing that fully accentuated her feminine curves, her firm, athletic body moved with a rhythmic flow that easily drew a man's eye. Her ­Dutch-­boy blond hair, which normally fell in an untidy shag, was pulled back and neatly pinned in a French twist, giving her an elegance that was nothing short of stunning. She walked with her chin slightly lowered and, along with her large blue eyes and splendid red lips, she was wearing a mirthful, confident smile that seemed full of secret warmth and surprise. She was fresh and pretty and seductively beautiful. And as I watched her, I was heartened by the delightful certainty that she knew it.

The crowd parted and, upon seeing us, Karen walked directly toward Christine and me. Elated, Christine hugged her and spoke while holding both of her hands.

“Karen, you are so beautiful! Just look at you!”

She smiled bashfully. “Yeah, quite the change, huh? I think Connie and Estelle are in the wrong business.”

“All I can say is that you look absolutely spectacular.”

The two of them turned to me, faces awash in pure delight. I smiled warmly at Karen and spoke with a bemused confidence. “Karen Davidson, you look perfectly gorgeous.”

She nodded, her smile irrepressible. “Thanks, Luke.”

As she spoke, I felt a large hand squeeze my right shoulder. “Evening, Doc. Quite a shindig, ain't it?”

It was Hoot Wilson standing there in his large and loud way. We shook hands, and the four of us exchanged enthusiastic greetings, after which there was a short, awkward pause. Hoot seemed to be wrestling with indecision. He finally spoke, fumbling through his words.

“Dr. Davidson, I was wondering, uh, if you would like to dance?”

She stepped toward Hoot. Her plain words didn't seem to match the dazzling and bewitching creature she'd become. “Sure, sounds good to me. But only if you call me Karen.”

Hoot seemed almost surprised by her ready acceptance and nodded briskly, bursting with the excited grin of a schoolboy. “Karen it is.”

He took her hand and they moved to the dance floor, talking nonstop in a stream of conversation that seemed to flow effortlessly. A slow dance was playing. She looked small and demure as she pressed into him, but her eyes had an elfin sparkle. And as they began to dance, Hoot, who seemed to be in a state of euphoric wonder, closed his eyes and ever so gently placed his hand to her back as if he were tenderly and protectively holding a delicate flower.

Over the Valley

P
erhaps I should have caught on sooner, but as the evening progressed, I kept noticing that more and more of the women in the crowd, particularly the wives, were telegraphing brief smiles at me—the kind where they simultaneously squinted their eyes, scrunched up their noses, and raised their shoulders in a short, elated glance of excitement and approval. And while Christine and I were dancing, nearby couples were inconspicuously taking fleeting glimpses of her hand.

This was unnerving. No one, and I mean no one, knew of my plans to propose. And yet the nuanced looks, ­sky-­high eyebrows, and secretive nods only multiplied as the night continued. Men and women of all ages subtly pointed at the two of us and whispered behind their hands, invariably followed by explosive ­wide-­eyed responses.

Fortunately, Christine didn't seem to notice any of this. If she was aware of the ogling stares and cryptic messages that were flying around the bandstand, she was doing a good job of ignoring them. But I began to get a sick feeling. I so wanted the proposal to be a total surprise, yet all the covert signals suggesting that something was afoot were becoming impossible to dismiss.

The final straw came when I happened to look toward the small clique of jovial bachelor farmers. One of them took his little finger and did a pantomime of a hook in his mouth like a caught fish. This produced a chorus of ­shoulder-­bumping laughter, and a couple of them shot subtle thumbs-up signs at me. A slow, smoldering resentment began to kindle within me. I liked the people of Watervalley. I really did. But they hadn't been invited to intrude upon this one intimate, private moment between Christine and me.

And how could they possibly have known? Who could have told?

The night had flown by, and there was still a quarter hour or so before the last song of the evening. Christine and I were on the dance floor, her cheek pressed to my shoulder. With what was likely a rather stern and unhappy face, I began to survey the room as we shuffled in a leisurely rotating circle. A few more bubbly faces winked at me, to which I gave an unkind scowl. Then it hit me. There was one person I hadn't seen all evening. I knew she was there, but she had carefully avoided me.

Connie Thompson.

The dance ended, and I asked Christine to excuse me for a moment. After a minute of weaving through the crowd, I found Connie on the level lawn just off the bandstand pier. She was engaged in a lively conversation with the mayor and his wife, but her face lost all animation when she saw me approaching with an unhappy glare. For the first time in our history, she wilted into a look of unadulterated contrition. I had found my culprit.

She did her best to choke out a cordial greeting. “Evening, Dr. Bradford. Certainly has been a lovely night, hasn't it?”

I stiffly greeted the mayor and his wife in a half smile and then turned sternly toward Connie. “Mrs. Thompson, a word please.”

Connie nodded penitently, and we walked away from the bandstand for a half minute before stopping to ensure that our conversation was out of earshot.

“Constance Grace, for some odd reason I've been getting the impression that everybody here tonight thinks they know something about me, like I might have something big planned for this evening. Something I thought was very personal and private. Care to shed any light on what you know about this?”

To her credit, Connie didn't attempt to feign innocence. She nodded, exhaling a deep breath. “I happened to see the receipt from the jewelry store sitting on your kitchen table. Earlier this afternoon, I overheard Guy Dupree talking to the band about your request to play a special song to close out the evening. I guess I put two and two together and blurted out something in front of a couple of the ladies who were decorating. It was like throwing gasoline on a fire. I tried to get them to keep quiet about it, but this is Watervalley. One body always tells somebody.”

“Connie! Good grief!” I said, consumed with a swelling aggravation. I knew her mistake was innocently made, but that was scant consolation. My plans had been put on public display and moreover, I had the nauseating thought that by now Christine had been made aware of them.

“I'm truly sorry, Luke. I really am.”

I gave myself a minute to cool down and then spoke in a low, instructional voice.

“Connie, for some reason Christine loves this song called ‘Over the Valley.' Why, I have no idea. I've never even heard it before. Guy Dupree agreed to play it as the last song tonight. And I just thought that it might be nice to tenderly and ­discreetly—­and I do mean ­discreetly—­ask the woman I love to marry me while it was playing. That doesn't seem too much to ask, does it?”

Connie looked down and nodded, humbly accepting the full weight of my admonishment.

“I wish I could fix this, Luke. I truly wish I could.”

I blew out a final heavy sigh. “Oh crap, just forget about it. Look. My strategy is to bring her out here while the song in playing. I guess there's no reason it can't still happen. I just hope a crowd doesn't follow us.”

Connie nodded, immediately in slightly better spirits. “If need be, I'll block the entrance to the pier while you two slip off.”

I smiled in resignation. “Okay. Thanks. I hope that won't be necessary.”

As we walked back to the bandstand, the mild sting of disappointment lingered. My plan was still intact, but I was a bag of nerves, my head in a spin as the final song approached. It was almost midnight, and even the old geezers who usually packed it in at sundown were still hanging around. They were all inconspicuously lingering, waiting, and staring with expectant faces. My trepidation grew.

Finally, the moment arrived, and Guy Dupree stepped to the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have one final song to play to close out the night. But first, the band and I want to thank you for a wonderful time. You've been a great group, and we have loved being here.”

His words were met with an enormous round of applause and loud cheers. “We have an unusual treat for you with our last number of the evening. We've had a special request from one of your very own to join the band and sing our final song.”

A bolt of panic shot through me. This wasn't right.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Christine Chambers to the stage.”

“What?” I blurted the word out loud and turned to Christine in a state of shock. A huge round of applause rose up as I grabbed her arm. “What's going on?”

She smiled sweetly. “While you stepped away, I asked Guy Dupree if they would play ‘Over the Valley' and if I could sing it. He said sure.”

I spoke before thinking. “But you can't!”

Christine looked crestfallen. “Why not?”

“Because . . .” I froze. I had no words, no response, only a foolish look of complete confusion. I stood there, gripping her hand in a speechless stupor. By now the applause had ended, and for the first time that evening, the bandstand stood in complete silence. I looked around and realized that the entire crowd was staring at us. That was it. I was done, defeated. A proposal just wasn't going to happen. I took a deep breath and smiled weakly. “Sure, go ahead.”

Christine nodded hesitantly, then turned and made her way to the stage. All eyes followed her as she took the microphone from the stand and nodded to Guy Dupree at the piano. He struck the first melancholy notes of the tune, and Christine's rich, melodious voice filled the night with the words of the song.

Over the valley

I saw a silver cloud

With a pink lining

I said it right out loud

There's no denying

You are my one and only love

And we'll see over the valley

The moon rise above

I stood there for a moment, lost in a daze of bewilderment and disappointment. Couples began to gather on the dance floor, tenderly embracing and swaying to the silky lilt of the ballad. Even so, I felt that an ocean of eyes were still upon me, but I no longer cared. I took off my jacket and flung it over my shoulder, holding it casually by a single finger. Christine sang the second verse.

Over the valley

This house among the trees

Where we've been hiding

Making our memories

And I'm deciding

You are my one and only love

And we'll be over the valley

As the moon shines above

Her voice was sweet, lovely, perfect. But I was beside myself. I wanted to escape from all the gawking stares, the invasive scrutiny. I moved toward the concession table, bought a beer, and proceeded to walk away from the pier and into the gloom of the far parking lot. As I departed, I guess my grim, dispirited expression told its ugly story. Passing through the crowd, I was met with a host of silent and downcast faces. I stepped into the darkness and found the ­Austin-­Healey in the moonlight. Leaning against the fender, I took a long draw of the beer as Christine sang the refrain.

The autumn breezes carry all the bluebirds

Down to where the sun still shines

If we could hold this day

In our hearts some way

We would never roam

Ever far from home

Footsteps crunched in the nearby gravel. I ignored them, gazing into the night stars as the person approached. It was Connie. I took another swallow of beer and cut my eyes toward her. “What?”

Her words were calm but laced with reproach. “You need to wipe the vinegar off your face, that's what.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you've got a beautiful young woman back there who loves you from top to toe, singing a song that in her mind was written for just the two of you. And here you are, sulking in the moonlight because you don't like anybody knowing your business. Well, Luke, I've got a news flash. This is Watervalley, and things don't happen in a vacuum. You said it yourself. Your magic moment is while that song is playing. So you need to decide what's more important: avoiding a few ­well-­meaning onlookers, or letting Christine know how much you really love her.”

I stared at her in ­pursed-­lipped silence. Her words washed over me. And I knew.

I knew in my bones she that was right. I took a deep breath of resignation, nodded, and handed her my unfinished beer. “Here, hold on to this if you would.”

I began to walk with determined steps back toward the bandstand. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Connie briefly appraising the beer bottle before tilting it skyward and draining the balance of it. Her exuberant words floated behind me. “Go get 'em, Doctor.”

As I briskly approached the narrow pier, Christine was finishing the second round of the song's refrain. All that remained was the repeat singing of the third and final verse. With each step I was energized with resolve, oblivious to everything but Christine and her lovely voice lilting sweetly in the night air, singing the closing words of the song.

Over the valley

Just above the fray

The sun is setting

And when we're old and gray

I'll still be betting

You are my one and only love

The band had paused as she sang the word “love” and held it in a long, delicate a cappella just as I arrived at the bandstand. The crowd parted in front of me, giving way to my clear, focused advance through the center of the dance floor and the band's elevated platform. Christine's face glowed when she saw me, and as I stepped toward her, she slowly, sweetly sang the words to the next line.

And we'll live over the valley

Without breaking stride, I tossed my coat to the side and dug my hand into my trouser pocket. In one fluid motion I came to a stop, dropping to one knee directly in front of her, and penitently bowed my head. I held the open ring case high in my right hand toward her. Christine gazed at me tearfully as she spoke the next words.

You'll always be with me

I looked up at her with an adoring, confident smile, bursting with delight. She responded with an enthusiastic nodding of her head before affectionately singing the final line of the song.

As the moon shines above.

I reached and grabbed her by the waist and lifted her down from the stage. She wrapped both arms tightly around my neck and whispered the words, “Yes, yes, yes,” to me. And there in front of God and all creation, and about three hundred thunderously applauding citizens of Watervalley, we kissed lavishly.

I was engaged.

And most likely, there would be little need to put an announcement in the paper.