Late Fall

by Noelle Adams

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “What does that mean?” I straighten my back because there’s something knowing and almost smug in his voice now.

  “It’s not an insult. You’re just the kind of person who seems to see a lot beneath the surface of people. When you do that, it’s sometimes hard to like them wholeheartedly.”

  I think about that. Recognize it as true. “That’s true about you too, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Definitely.” He stares at a spot in the air for a moment. Then turns back to look at me with a half smile. “You didn’t like me at first, did you?”

  For some reason, I feel better now. Lighter. Still worried but not so burdened. “What makes you think I like you now?”

  He obviously can see I’m teasing. “Let’s just say you dislike me a little less than you did when we first met.”

  I’m smiling as I say, “I couldn’t stand you when we first met. I thought you were cold and unfeeling and arrogant and incredibly obnoxious.”

  He laughs. “And I thought you were the most stubborn, difficult woman I’d ever met.”

  For some reason, I like this idea. I like that I made such an impression on him—even if it wasn’t an entirely positive one.

  We smile at each other for a minute, and it feels like we’re sharing something in the gaze, like we’re bonding in a way that shouldn’t happen through nothing more than a few moments’ look.

  Soon, I feel a tremor of anxiety and drop the gaze. I need to be careful here. I’m not young anymore. I have absolutely no excuse for being foolish over a man.

  Ever again.

  To hide the fact that I’m feeling self-conscious, I say in a light voice, “Anyway, back to the point. I like Dr. Martin, and I really think he might be interested in Charlotte.”

  Dave chuckles and leans back against the bench, his eyes on my face with what looks like affection. “You’re not trying to be a matchmaker, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It’s just an instinct I have. The two of them should be together.”

  “Well, people usually don’t end up with the people they should be with, do they?”

  I think about that for a moment before I answer. “No. I guess a lot of the time they don’t.”

  We stay at the bench for a little longer than usual, since both of us seem to have lost track of the time. On the walk back, I’m feeling a fluttery excitement that’s impossible not to recognize.

  I haven’t felt this way in a really long time. I didn’t think I’d ever feel this way again.

  And it worries me anew that I’m feeling it. Dave and I still share only a private, secret walk in the morning. Nothing about his behavior toward me has indicated that he wants to move beyond that.

  It’s not wrong for me to enjoy the time we have, but I’m not—I’m absolutely not—going to assume it means more than it does.

  In its own way, Dave’s behavior toward me might be rather like Kevin’s to Charlotte—taking advantage of a few secret moments they might spend together but not caring enough to make it public, make it real, make any sort of a commitment.

  I glance over at Dave and notice that his eyes are on the path at our feet. This is unusual, as is the slight stiffness of his shoulders.

  I wonder if something is hurting him—maybe his arm again, since he kept straining it playing tennis.

  We’re about to reach the garden when he stops.

  I stop too, since it would be weird for me to just keep walking. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yes. I’m fine.” He’s frowning and I don’t know why.

  “Is your arm bothering you again?”

  “No. I just said I was fine.”

  Now I frown at him. “Well, there’s no reason to snap at me.”

  He gives a rough sigh. “Sorry. But I don’t like to be babied.”

  “I wasn’t babying you. I was just asking. It’s what polite people do, but you wouldn’t know much about that, would you?”

  He looks annoyed for a moment, but then he begins to laugh. “I guess you told me.”

  “I did.” I’m trying not to smile now myself.

  He clears his throat, looks down again at the path, and then back up to me. “You know, the talk this afternoon is by a regional folklore expert.”

  “I know,” I say, startled by the abrupt change of topic. “I was thinking about going, since it sounds interesting. Usually, those talks seem pretty dumb.”

  Eagle’s Rest brings in someone each Saturday after­noon to give the residents an informative lecture or discussion. Last week it had been fan-making, and the week before the stock market. Neither is of any interest to me, so I hadn’t been tempted to attend.

  “Yeah. I think so too, but this one might be worth listening to.” He clears his throat again. “Would you like to go?”

  I stare at him, since we seem to be retreading the same territory in conversation. I just told him I was thinking about going.

  But he’s looking at me expectantly, and I suddenly realize why. He’s asking me to go with him.

  With him.

  It might just be a walk down the sidewalk to the building next door, but it means something.

  The faint fluttering in my chest suddenly picks up intensity.

  “Yes,” I manage to say, hopefully without looking too startled or fatuous. “That would be fun.”

  He smiles. He’s still a cool customer, even years past his prime, but I see a faint flicker of what looks like relief at my answer.

  That relief makes me ridiculously happy.

  “Good,” he says with a smile. “I can drop by your place at about two forty-five, if that’s okay. That way, we can get good seats.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be ready.”

  I say good-bye and turn down the hallway to my apartment.

  So maybe I’m smiling like a dope as I unlock my door, but I really don’t know how a girl can help it.

  eight

  There are some disappointments that don’t leave you—no matter how many years have passed since they happened.

  When I was in high school, Rodney Graham asked me to attend the Christmas formal with him. Rodney was an athlete and very popular with both male and female students. We were lab partners in biology, and so we interacted fairly regularly. He was nice to me. He made me laugh.

  I was crazy about him.

  When he invited me to attend the dance, I was both shocked and ecstatic. I’d had dates to go to other dances, but they were always with less popular, less attractive boys. My mother and I went shopping for the dress, and we found the most beautiful satin dress—round skirt, fitted bodice, beautiful full sleeves. The dark blue color set off my skin and eyes, and I spent hours on my hair and makeup.

  When he picked me up in his Mustang, I felt like a princess. He was friendly and amusing on the drive there, and I’ll never forget how everyone watched us as we walked into the school gym together.

  All the other girls were envious, unbelieving, that he’d chosen to attend the dance with me. In all my life, I’d never had an experience like that before—the feeling that the best guy had chosen me, that he’d singled me out among all the other girls he could have chosen.

  The high lasted for about fifteen minutes—just long enough for us to have one dance and for him to get me a cup of punch. Then his ex-girlfriend showed up, and he started to talk to her. Then he started to dance with her. Then I was completely forgotten.

  I left the dance understanding that I’d been put in my place—that kind of Cinderella moment, entering the room like you were really something special, just wasn’t intended to happen to me.

  For the rest of my life, this truth was confirmed. Not that I’ve ever considered myself unworthy or unattractive. I’ve had my share of male attention, and I’ve had plenty of wonderful moments. It’s just that all my highs and lows are well within my expec­tations for my life.

  It’s just
as well. Time and experience will always confirm that daydreams and fantasies are not the stuff of real life. And when you think for a moment they might be, the real world will come crashing down on you hard, like it did for me at that dance.

  All this to say that I have no flights of fancy surrounding my attendance at the afternoon’s talk with Dave. I’m happy about it—how could I not be?—but at age seventy-one, I well know what to expect from the world, and this outing doesn’t mean more than it actually is.

  I do take a little longer than I normally would to decide what to wear, although I end up in one of my usual outfits—a flowing cotton skirt and a blue top that matches my eyes, complete with cardigan and beads. I put lipstick on, but no other makeup, and I decide I look appropriate for an afternoon’s activity, while still looking as attractive as is possible for me to be.

  I comb my hair down around my shoulders and decide to leave it that way.

  At exactly two forty-five, there’s a knock on the door, and I walk over to open it. Dave is standing there in the doorway. He’s obviously changed clothes since this morning—into a new golf shirt and another pair of trousers—and that fact makes me feel really good.

  My heart is fluttering, just a little, but I’m satisfied that my expectations aren’t unrealistic or too high.

  It’s just nice—that he asked me to go with him, that he seems to be taking it seriously, that he’s willing to be my companion in public and not just in the privacy of the morning at the bench.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, his eyes scanning up and down my body quickly before resting on my face.

  “I am. Let me just grab my bag.”

  I walk to the table to pick up my crocheted purse and my keys without the walker, which is waiting at the door.

  “You don’t really need this thing anymore, do you?” he says, glancing down at the walker.

  “Not really. I think I would be just fine with my cane.” I used a cane on longer walks before the accident, since it helped on the few times I lost my footing. My old cane—of pretty, polished mahogany—is resting near the door, where it always is, as inspiration to keep working at walking so I can get rid of the walker soon.

  “Then why don’t you switch over to it?” His question is obviously serious, based on genuine curiosity.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I kept telling myself I would wait to ask the doctor.”

  “Did he say you need to get his permission first?”

  “No. For driving, but not for using the cane.”

  He smiles at me, almost whimsically, and reaches over to pick up the cane. “Then why not try it today? We only have a very short walk.”

  I reach out to accept it but hesitate, a little shiver of nerves surprising me. I have no idea where they’ve come from.

  Dave must see something of my reluctance because he pulls back the cane. “If you’re not comfortable, then you can always wait.”

  I take a shaky breath and reach out for the cane. “I don’t know what my problem is. I’ll try it. I’ve been wanting to start using it, and there’s no reason to not start today. I just feel …”

  “What?”

  “Insecure or something.” I look down at the floor, since that’s not something I admit very often—certainly not to other people and usually not even to myself. I’ve always been independent, resistant to admitting weakness, as far back as that afternoon I almost fell out of the oak tree.

  There’s no reason for me to say something like that to Dave right now. I really don’t know what came over me.

  “What’s the worst that can happen?” he asks more quietly, as if he’s picked up on my state of mind.

  I laugh and pull myself out of my introspection. “I could fall down and break another hip.”

  “I won’t let you fall,” he murmurs, offering me his arm. His smile seems private, special—and it does something very silly to my heart.

  Irony has always been as close to my heart as anything else, so I can’t help but tease, “You say that now, but I could take down both of us, I’m sure.”

  He laughs in response.

  I wrap my hand around the arm he’s offered, and I use the cane in the other hand as I walk. As we start down the hall, I realize my nerves were unfounded. I’ve been walking quite well for the last week, and the cane is more than enough to stabilize me as we walk to the side entrance of the building and across the short path to the building next door, where the community rooms are located.

  Dave’s arm offers me something else.

  My expectations are completely realistic. I’m anticipating nothing more than a pleasant afternoon that could very well go no further. So I’m surprised when I walk into the large community room on Dave’s arm and see the reaction.

  We are early, but nearly all the residents of Eagle’s Rest get to activities early. Some folks arrive for lunch at ten thirty. So the room is about half full when we arrive, and everyone is looking at us.

  There’s a rustle of reaction. I’m not sure why I didn’t expect it. Obviously, my showing up with Dave to any sort of function will be a cause for gossip in a place like this. We gossip about everything, since there is not always much else to think about, and there has been considerable interest about Dave’s romantic choice for a while now—even a pool going about whether he’ll choose Kathy or Gladys.

  Both of them are already in attendance—positioned, as usual, at opposite sides of the room. And both of them are shocked and then almost immediately infuriated by the sight of the object of their affection with me.

  So they’re shooting me down with their eyes as others look on with interest, amusement, surprise, or a mingling of all three. I even see a few female faces look just a little bit envious.

  Of me. Of me.

  If I were still a teenager, my head would have blown this arrival out of all proportion with visions of being Cinderella at the ball. I’m not a teenager, though. I’m not even close. So while I feel a faint fluttering of pleasure, it’s tempered with some amusement (at myself, as much as at everyone else) and the sounding bell of wisdom.

  After all, the only thing happening here is my walking into a room next to Dave.

  Dave appears oblivious to the attention. He’s scanning the room, frowning. I’m sure it’s because so many people are already here and have claimed the best seats.

  “Where do you want to sit?” he murmurs, turning his head to look at me.

  I spot a row with the aisle seats empty—the only ones empty on this side of the room. They’re midway back, but it won’t be any trouble seeing the lectern, and I prefer to be on the side of the room with the door in case I need to get up to use the restroom. “What about there?” I ask, indicating the empty seats.

  He nods and leads us over to them.

  I feel more comfortable once we’re seated. A lot of women would revel in this sort of attention, but I like the idea of it more than the reality. I might have dreamed of being the princess at the ball when I was younger, but I actually prefer for people not to be looking at me all the time.

  Dave is still frowning—he’s clearly quite annoyed at the seating situation. He gets crabby easily. I’ve noticed that about a lot of older men—like their filters to life’s annoyances have weakened as the years passed. It sometimes makes them seem spoiled or slightly childish.

  I don’t want him to be grumpy, since it’s likely to make me grumpy too. Plus, it’s such a little thing that it’s not worth worrying about. So I smile up at him. “This is perfect. I like to be close to the door. Thanks for getting these seats.”

  He smiles in return, relaxing and adjusting his chair slightly, so it’s not farther back than the rest of the row. “Good. That worked out well then.”

  Men—even good, intelligent, strong-willed men—can be led around by their egos.

  Marjorie enters the room just now, looking frail but much better than she did yesterday. I wave to her and gesture to the empty seat beside me. She comes over to sit down, and I ask her ho
w she’s feeling.

  “Oh, much better. Much, much better.” She shifts her gaze to Dave. “I was under the weather yesterday.”

  “I heard you were. I’m glad you’re back on your feet.” He smiles at her very kindly. “You look wonderful today.”

  I’ve got to admit that there’s a lot I like about Dave Andrews. There’s a lot I admire about him. And there’s a lot about him that I’ve enjoyed.

  But nothing has made me as happy as seeing him smile and speak to Marjorie that way—like she’s important, special, worthy of attention—and seeing how much it means to her.

  I’m willing to overlook a lot of crabbiness in a man who is kind-hearted enough to do that.

  The next morning, I wake up almost an hour early, thinking about Dave.

  Yesterday was lovely. We listened to a very interesting talk about folklore in the region. Then Dave, Marjorie, and I went to have tea out on the veranda. At dinner, Dave even came over to sit with Gordon and me instead of heading to one of his normal tables with Gladys or Kathy.

  I actually feel a little sorry for those two ladies. They both had such high hopes, and they both worked so hard to snare the man they wanted. It must sting like fire for someone else to come in out of nowhere and swoop him up, right out of their clasp.

  Not that I’ve swooped Dave anywhere. I’m not silly enough to assume that one day means anything. But I’m more excited than I was the day before yesterday—there’s potential I didn’t believe was possible on Friday—so my mind is whirling with it on Sunday morning, as I look out at the dark gardens and drink my tea.

  The sun is rising a little later now than it did when I first arrived. It’s already the second half of September. Some of the leaves on the trees in the woods are starting to turn brown.

  A few are even falling off the branches.

  When it’s finally time to dress and leave for the walk, I put on a pair of pants, since it’s feeling rather chilly outside, and I take my cane instead of my walker.

  I did just fine yesterday. I think I’m finally rid of the walker.

  I’m a few minutes too early, and Dave isn’t waiting when I go outside. I feel a sharp drop in my chest—an old, familiar knell of Appalachian gloom, reminding me that bad things happen whenever you get too happy.