by Diana Hunter
“Pastas are my favorite, but I favor red sauce over cream based. You?”
She shook her head. “My grandparents on both sides were from England. I grew up with Yorkshire pudding and roast beef. I don’t know nearly as much as I should about Italian food.”
John set his menu down. “Then let me order for you. You’ve never had roast beef until you’ve had it prepared the Italian way.”
Lauren chuckled and closed her menu. “Deal.”
John placed their order with the waiter, ordering an appetizer of bruschetta to be followed with two orders of braciole. To go with it, he ordered a full-bodied pinot noir from a local winery. As the waiter left, Lauren took charge of the conversation once more. If she directed it, she could stay on safe ground.
“So how did you end up a history teacher?”
Damn, but she liked his smile. Framed as it was by that goatee, she had to wonder yet again what it would be like to be kissed by a man with a beard and mustache. She’d had plenty of “release” flings both overseas and at home, but until now, she’d always gravitated toward the clean-shaven look. John’s well-trimmed facial hair, however, gave him a dashing, almost pirate-y look that made her grin.
“The president put out a call for teachers and I answered. Thought about becoming a shop teacher, but found out there’s not much call for that anymore. Emphasis is now on getting kids ready for a different world. But history? ‘Those who don’t know history are destined to repeat it.’ Edmund Burke.”
“I never thought about subjects going out of style, but I suppose they have to. What’s your favorite era?”
Keep him talking about himself and he wouldn’t ask the same questions about her. In the two months since her return, she’d become a master at deflection.
“The Edmund Burke quote didn’t give me away? Pre-colonial and the colonial period. How an entire society invented an entirely new way of governing themselves is an endlessly intriguing question for me. Be careful, or I’ll get into lecture mode and bore you to death.”
Lauren chuckled. “Actually, it’s a question that has always interested me as well. Equally interesting is the companion question.” She paused as the waiter approached with their wine. She watched him uncork the bottle, pour some for John to taste and then waited as he filled their glasses upon John’s approval.
“What’s the companion question?” John resumed their conversation as the waiter departed.
“Why is it so hard for other countries to become democracies? I mean, think of it.” Lauren warmed to her subject. “We were a colony under a monarchy. They were under a dictator—” She stopped, realizing she’d tipped her hand.
John picked up as if he didn’t notice. “It’s all in the personalities. We had George Washington, who refused to become king. There was an entire movement, you know, that wanted to establish a constitutional monarchy just like the mother country.”
Lauren nodded and sipped her wine. “I did know that. But cooler heads prevailed.”
Now it was John’s turn to laugh. “I never thought of it that way, but perhaps that’s it exactly. The English are known for their cool dispositions, and our founding fathers came from that tradition. Maybe other countries who try for democracy don’t have that calm, rationalizing influence. They’re ruled more by passion, so their road to democracy will be more passionate and violent.”
She was saved from an answer by the arrival of their bruschetta. She steered the talk toward a more innocuous subject—their tastes in food. Throughout the appetizer she discovered Italian was his favorite, followed by Mexican, Chinese and Indian.
“All robust foods,” she laughed as she spooned tomatoes and basil onto a slice of toasted bread.
“As you can tell, nouveau cuisine is not my style.” He patted his belly.
“Oh come on. You can’t tell me there’s an ounce of fat on that stomach,” she scolded.
“Of course not!” He looked affronted then turned sheepish. “I’m afraid I have a streak of undisclosed vanity. I do spend probably more time than I should in the gym.”
So her body-builder comparison yesterday hadn’t been so far off. “I don’t mind,” she told him. “I like a man with muscles in all the right places.” Her coy smile, accompanied by a waggle of the eyebrows, kept the comment light but she couldn’t deny the underlying attraction he provoked. Beth wanted her to allow John to get lucky. The more she thought about it, the more inclined she was to follow her friend’s advice. She hadn’t had a sexual partner in nearly a year. Maybe Beth was right and all she needed was a good hard fucking to get her mind back on track.
The braciole came, the rolled meat sitting on a bed of ziti and topped with a delicious-smelling tomato-based sauce. They both accepted the offer of freshly grated parmesan and when the waiter once more departed, Lauren remarked, “Can you believe the hundreds of millions of people who got cheated out of tomato sauce because they thought the plant was poisonous?”
“Actually, the plant is poisonous, it’s the fruit that isn’t.”
Lauren chuckled. “Ahh…a member of the ‘tomato is fruit’ society, I see.”
John’s eyes danced as they parried and thrust, learning about each other and getting through the small talk necessary to set the stage for deeper conversations later.
This woman before him presented so many different faces to the world, all of them seemingly competent. The playful kitten, the little-sister tease, the intent scholar, each side true in and of itself yet masking an inner turmoil she hid quite well. No trace of the haunted look he’d seen before appeared during dinner. She kept the conversation light and focused on him. John let her get away with it, knowing trust takes time to build.
He didn’t let on even once that he knew about her friend’s comment to her, about getting lucky on the first date. Women weren’t the only ones who liked to gossip and Will had been standing discreetly nearby, ready to report Lauren’s reactions verbatim. Will’s tastes in sex ran the same way John’s did, although Will’s activities with his wife tended to be a little more extreme than John preferred. Still, he’d attended a few gatherings of like-minded folk and enjoyed learning the proper way to tie the female figure to provide maximum enjoyment for them both.
Question was, would Lauren allow that kind of play? He fully intended to fulfill Beth’s suggestion tonight and give Lauren the release she needed. As to future nights, however? That all depended on just how deep the demons were in that pretty little lady across the table from him.
Problem was, she deflected every attempt he made to figure her out.
“So what do you do when you’re not escorting your nephew around the museums and zoos of the city?”
She turned that one aside with a neat, “I’m between positions at the moment.”
He let that one slide, although several double entendres leapt to mind. He asked about Beth instead, listening to the unsaid words in her description of the woman she called her best friend. The most telling was the comment that Beth had been there “during my dark time”. They were getting closer.
“So you didn’t like the braciole?” he asked her as she scooped the last piece of meat around her plate to get all the sauce.
“No, it was wonderful—” She smiled as she realized he teased her. “Seriously, I never thought about rolling beef with stuffing and dropping it into tomato sauce. Truly a unique idea.”
He grabbed his heart in mock distress. “Tomato sauce! Augh! A magnificent red sauce like this and you call it ‘tomato sauce’. I’m wounded to the very core.”
Lauren laughed outright then slapped her hand over her mouth as she realized how loud the sound had been. The older couple sitting at the table a little ways away looked over and smiled indulgently.
John liked the sound of her laugh. Another thing she didn’t do often enough.
“So where did you learn so much about Italian food?”
“In the service. Friend of mine was named DelVeccio. He taught me all there was to know…”
Lauren had gone quiet. Her eyes darted to the door as if she suddenly were plotting her best escape route. Obviously he’d said something wrong.
Chapter Three
Her heart thumping, Lauren fought to remain calm. Why hadn’t she seen this sooner? How could she have missed it? The quiet command of the men yesterday, his ease in steering her through and around the crowds, even his haircut should’ve given him away. Close-cropped, but longer than what would’ve been allowed if he were still active. He’d been a soldier. Probably recently, knowing her luck. She should’ve picked up on it sooner. Flustered, she put her fork down, leaving the rest of the pasta in her dish unfinished.
“I’m sorry. I have to go. This isn’t a good…I mean…I didn’t think…” her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “I have to go.”
Her wrap had slipped off her shoulders and as she stood, one end fell to the floor. John was suddenly beside her, his hand on her bare arm, his touch gentling and calm.
“If dinner’s made you ill, I can take you home. If it’s something else, please…sit down. No one’s going to hurt you here.”
Damn him. His soothing tone sank into her panic, yet she didn’t want to look into his eyes, knowing the pity she’d see there, the condescension of the superior male to the weaker female that she’d seen so many times overseas. Well, she wasn’t weak. And she wasn’t about to put up with his arrogant, self-important, better-than-you attitude. Yanking her arm away, she squared off, steeling herself to look him straight in the eye, her mouth open to give him a good tongue-lashing, right there in the restaurant.
Except the patronizing look she expected wasn’t there. The words she had intended to blast him with sputtered out in a few syllables then fell to silence. “I’m not…I mean, you’re…”
“Come sit and tell me what this is all about?”
The question mark weakened her knees. He’d begun the sentence as a command and ended it with her choice. “Quiet authority” she’d thought before now showing as proof positive. He commanded without bullying. Nodding, she sank into the chair again, pulling the wrap tightly around her shoulders when he lifted it into place before sitting opposite her again.
The waiter came right over, seeing their distress and knowing he was about to lose a good tip. Customers who fought always forgot about their server. “Would sir and madam like to finish their meal with a little gelato?”
Lauren nodded hesitantly to John’s questioning look and the waiter left to get the Italian ice cream.
“Gelato’s a very dense ice cream. I think you’ll like it.” He sat back in his chair and Lauren understood he was giving her space to think.
She shook her head and decided to come clean. “Look, John. I’m sure you’re a wonderful person. I like your company, I really do. But I just can’t… I’m just not ready for…”
He leaned forward and waited until she looked directly at him. Then he smiled and the dimple appeared in his cheek. “Let tonight be simply dinner. Just two people working on becoming friends who came out to enjoy a good meal. Set everything else aside.”
She relaxed barely at all. “It’s not as easy as you think.” She glanced almost shyly at his face and still saw no traces of the arrogance she was used to seeing in the faces of soldiers. Her loneliness welled up and Beth’s image came to mind.
After years of dating him, Beth had finally consented to marry her longtime boyfriend, Paul. Now they had a child and her friend radiated contentment and happiness. Saying John McAllen would bring that same contentment to Lauren’s life stretched the current circumstances but if she ran away, she’d never find out. Forcing her shoulders to relax, Lauren spread her fingers on her lap and let out her breath. When she looked up at him again, she’d found a measure of calm. “I can do that. Just enjoy this for what it is. I think.”
Now he chuckled outright. With a small flourish, he put his car keys on the table between them. “If you decide to bolt, take my car. Can’t have you walking home from here.”
Lauren couldn’t help it. His smile was infectious. “And how will you get home if I take your car?”
He shrugged. “I’ll figure out something.”
Lauren relaxed as the waiter set the gelato before her, realizing John had done it in spite of her best intentions. He’d worked his charm and calmed her down even though she’d every intention of running away from this former military man. Lifting her spoon in a silent toast, she gave him the first round of the evening.
John fully intended to determine the reason for her sudden panic but took a roundabout approach to lull her into relaxing with him. Did she realize that was his intention? Probably. All night long she’d shown a sharp wit and deflected his forays.
John liked a challenge and Lauren was definitely that. She had a way of throwing her head back and tossing her hair out of her face that showed both impatience and a definite sexuality he doubted she knew she exuded. The neckline of that little black dress showed just a hint of cleavage. The scarf worked to hide it. A fitting metaphor for our conversation, he thought as she deflected his current attempt. “You said you went to Nazareth and the University of Rochester? What did you major in?”
“I wanted to be a scientist when I was in high school, so I got a degree in chemistry. This gelato is really good.”
“But you didn’t become a scientist?”
“Nope. Did you get your degree in American history or in education?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
Her answering grin affirmed it. “I’m not going to go there, soldier boy. So you might as well stop trying.”
“Soldier boy?”
For a moment, she looked flustered again, but then recovered. “Private in the Union Army, right?”
John knew that wasn’t what she’d meant. Was it his time in the military that gave her the fidgets? Time to hit the subject head on.
“Yes, and former Marine captain, stationed in Hawaii, two tours of duty in Iraq, then back to North Carolina.”
Her face went white. Bingo. John remained calm. Why did his service so obviously throw her?
“Lauren?”
“Yes, sorry.” She took a large gulp of water from the glass beside her plate. John put his spoon down.
“I think you’d better tell me.”
It didn’t matter that the restaurant was thousands of miles and several years away from his time in Iraq. The look in her eyes mirrored that of a boy he’d almost killed when his unit had stormed a house of supposed insurgents. All they’d found were several women huddled in a corner and an eleven-year-old boy wielding a long block of wood like a baseball bat. Thankfully, they hadn’t shot first that time and, through a translator, profusely apologized for the bad intelligence. He wasn’t ever sure it had made any difference to the family they’d inadvertently terrorized.
Across the table Lauren picked up her spoon and fiddled with her melting gelato before giving up any pretense of eating. “This isn’t the place,” she told him, keeping her head down as she obviously struggled with her emotions.
“Lauren.” John waited until she looked up at him. Tears and panic glimmered in her eyes. Making a decision, he dropped his napkin beside his plate and signaled the waiter. “Check, please.”
“Yes sir.”
With efficiency, the waiter whisked away their bowls. Lauren and John sat in silence until he returned with the folder containing the check. John glanced at the amount, pulled two fifties from his wallet and left them inside. Standing, he held out a hand to Lauren. Her hand trembled in his, then she steadied somewhat and nodded, more to herself than to him.
The night had turned a little chilly and Lauren shivered as they walked to the parking lot. He tucked her arm in his but then, a block away a car backfired and Lauren immediately went down, throwing one hand over her head, using her other to balance herself on the ground. John doubted she’d even realized she’d cried out. If he’d had any doubt about the haunted look in her eyes before, he realized n
ow he had his answer. PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder—wasn’t nearly as uncommon as people wanted to believe and the woman who’d been so competent on the field yesterday now hunkered down in the restaurant parking lot, her entire body shaking as reality slowly returned.
“Sorry,” she managed.
He shook his head as he bent to help her up. “There is nothing to apologize for. Come on, I’m taking you home and we’re going to talk.”
“Talk?” She batted away his hand as she stood, her nerves still on edge. “There’s an entire legion of psychiatrists who want to ‘talk’ and medicate and put me away somewhere ‘quiet’. What makes you think I’m going to spill my guts to you?”
“I didn’t say you were going to talk. I said we are going to talk.” He watched her brush off her knees and knew now was not the right time to be noticing her cleavage. The scarf trailed in the dirt and he bent to pick it up. “We are going to talk and—”
Lauren snatched the scarf out of his fingers, effectively cutting off both his words and the view as she wrapped it around her like armor. John dropped his hands to his sides and let down a little of the guard he kept on his own set of issues. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “You’re not the only one with hard memories, you know.”
She turned her body, her chin still defiant, her gaze on something farther away than the restaurant building before them. “I’m sure I’m not,” she finally managed, her voice sounding strangled.
John waited. Rushing her would only drive her away. She had to come on her own time or the friendship they’d forged in the restaurant would die an early death. After several moments, Lauren finally turned back to him.
“I’m trying very hard to put that part of my life behind me. Dredging it all up again isn’t really very useful.”
“And yet it won’t go away.”