The Splendor of Ordinary Days

by Jeff High

  There was no sound except for the faint lapping of water. I stood and called out again, imagining that Rhett would respond with some kind of bark that would signal the all clear. I mumbled under my breath, “I better see what’s going on.”

  I grabbed a flashlight from the trunk, and we both walked toward the lake’s edge, only to find the reflection of Rhett’s eyes swimming toward us from about twenty feet out. He was carrying a large stick in his mouth. He proceeded to climb out of the water and, after a vigorous head-to-toe ­full-­body shake, walked over and dropped the stick at my feet. Christine put her hand over her mouth, holding back a laugh.

  I bent over and picked up the stick. “Nice job, fellow. Just whose car do you think you’re riding in now?” We walked back, and I casually tossed Rhett’s prize into the fire. We were about to sit again, when a thick pattering sound began to shimmer across the water. A chilly, biting gust of wind swept over us. We were being pelted.

  It wasn’t just rain; it was hail.

  Christine frantically gathered the blanket and our things and threw them into the car while I fumbled to get the soft top pulled over and fastened. It was a brief chaos of shouts and movements under the barrage. Rhett casually made his way into the small backseat and plopped down quite comfortably while Christine and I plunged into the front seats and simultaneously rolled up our windows, finally closing off the onslaught. We both were partially soaked and took a moment to catch our breath. The fire had all but died out under the drenching rain and hail.

  “Dang,” blurted Christine. “That sure happened fast.”

  “Unbelievable,” I responded, still somewhat rattled. Then I gathered myself and looked at my watch. It was three minutes after nine, so I instinctively reached over and turned up the radio. A commercial was playing.

  “Are you listening for some kind of weather alert?”

  “Um, yeah. Sure.”

  Christine exhaled a deep breath. “I think it’s time for this girl to go home.”

  I needed to stall. Gene would be playing our song any moment now, and I was holding on blindly to the idea that all the cosmic tumblers would somehow realign.

  “Let’s give the storm a chance to blow over,” I suggested.

  We sat for a few moments longer, listening to what was now a pouring rain and the low squawk of the radio advertising the latest sale on canned goods down at the grocery store. The ideal mood of only minutes ago had all but vanished. As well, the charming air of romance was quickly being replaced by the permeating smell of wet dog. That along with the growing heat of Rhett’s hot panting had promptly saturated the small enclosure. I started the car in a ­last-­ditch effort to get some air circulating. And just as it roared to life, Gene Alley’s smooth radio voice finally poured into our ears.

  “We have a special request going out tonight for a special lady by a special fellow.” Notably, Gene wasn’t blessed with a diverse vocabulary.

  “I’m not going to give out any names, but let’s just say he’s a doctor. A doctor of love, that is. This is WVLY, ‘the Voice of the Valley,’ and I’m your host, Gene Alley, hoping that tonight, all you lovebirds take flight and give a chance to a little romance.”

  At the mention of the word “doctor,” Christine turned her head to the side and regarded me with surprise, as if I had made an unpleasant body noise. Undaunted, I began to reach in my pocket for the ring. The music started, and I was about to speak the endearing, magic words of love I had so meticulously practiced.

  But instead of “Over the Valley” by Pink Martini, Gene was playing “Young Lust” by Pink Floyd, a song about a fellow who is new to town and looking for a dirty woman. I immediately froze with my hand holding the ring box in my coat pocket, my mouth dangling open, and my face in a locked panic. Christine’s neck stiffened, and her scowl became even harsher.

  “Wow, that’s pretty sick. For a half second there, I thought Gene was talking about a song you had requested.”

  I jerked my hand out of my pocket and released a forced laugh. “What? Are you crazy? I sure didn’t request that song.” Not only was the moment blown; my evasive commentary was failing miserably. Christine lowered her head in a look of cautious skepticism.

  The ring of her cell phone saved me. She retrieved it from her pocket and answered.

  “Hello. Hey. Yes, he’s right here.” She smiled and winked at me. “Yes, he’s right here too.” She glanced back at Rhett. “Oh, that’s really exciting.” Christine was using her schoolteacher voice. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay, we’ll be right there. Bye now.”

  She looked at me with a face of pure delight. “That was Will Fox. Dr. Davidson just arrived. Maggie is having her babies.”

  We drove back to Fleming Street. I had turned off the radio, and fortunately there was no further discussion regarding the song request. Oddly, I felt relieved. My ­best-­laid plans had gone completely awry, and I had quietly decided that I would find a discreet moment after the dance the following night in which to propose.

  We arrived at the Fox house in damp clothes but good spirits and found everyone huddled in the back utility room. Maggie had just finished delivering six perfectly healthy, ­squinty-­eyed puppies. They had already instinctively moved toward the warmth of their mother and the hope of their first meal. Will and Louise were sleepy, but wrapped in a joyful, excited air. Karen smiled warmly at Christine and me.

  Rhett seemed unusually subdued. He approached Maggie slowly, carefully sniffing his way. They regarded each other and eventually he lay on the floor just outside the whelping box, calmly keeping guard. It was all quite sweet and wonderful.

  We chatted for a few minutes, but soon Christine and I headed back to Summerfield Road. As we made our way through the dark countryside, Christine sat consumed in thought. Eventually, I turned to her.

  “Do you ever think about children, Christine?”

  “Sure. I’m with children all day, every day. I think about them a lot.”

  “I don’t mean in that way.”

  “In what way, then?”

  “In the way of having some of your own one day.”

  “Sure. Although call me ­old-­fashioned, but I’ve always had this silly notion about getting married first.”

  I grinned. “Probably a good idea.” Silence ensued, and we continued into the solemn darkness, both of us feeling the sag of weariness. Faintly illuminated by the dashboard lights, Christine spoke guardedly, tenderly.

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

  CHAPTER 30

  The Swan

  On 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?”

  Sh
e 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.

  CHAPTER 31

  Over the Valley

  Perhaps 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.