Just Three Dates

by David Burnett

Not things a good corporate wife would do. He heard his mother’s voice clearly in his mind. Not appropriate. Not suitable at all.

  Of course, his mother had been speaking of Lucia the day she’d been arrested streaking across the campus, completely naked, protesting…something. He shook his head. He’d never been quite sure what she had been protesting.

  His mother shared Karen’s opinions, he knew. Her concern would be for her decision to express them in public, in a group of strangers, with the threat of violence. Perhaps she would foreswear matchmaking.

  Karen returned then, with a copy of the catalog. “I thought you would enjoy looking through this. The essays are interesting, although probably nothing you don’t already know.”

  Mark took the book and flipped through it. “Thank you. You’ve no idea how much I’ll enjoy this.”

  The exhibition hall had been divided into a number of small rooms and they entered the first to find three paintings of a massive stone church, each displaying the building in different light.

  “Rouen Cathedral,” Mark said as they stopped in the center of the room. “Did you know that Monet actually painted twenty-five, no, thirty images of the cathedral?”

  “I did know that.” Karen nodded.

  “As I understand it, he rented space in a dressmaker’s shop across the street from the cathedral and he would spend all day painting. He had multiple easels set up with a different canvas on each, and he would move from one to the next as the light changed. Later, of course, he reworked the paintings in his studio.”

  He paused, studying the images.

  “Morning, noon, and sunset, three totally different views. Monet once wrote everything changes, illustrating that idea in this series.”

  “I wanted to give viewers a sense of the differences in the light over the course of a day. I was lucky to be able to obtain all three of these,” Karen told him.

  “Sunset is my favorite.” Mark pointed. “Monet has painted the entrance to the cathedral, the western end of the building, of course, since the high altar would be at the east end.”

  “Is that true? Are altars always at the eastern end?”

  “Not today, but in the middle ages, yes. At dawn, all you see is dull, gray stone, because the sun is rising on the other side of the building. At sunset, the façade reflects the reds and golds that you see at that time of day.” He paused. “Just beautiful.”

  They spent twenty minutes discussing the three paintings. “There’s a funny story about the dressmaker who rented the shop—Excuse me.” Mark jerked to a stop as he collided with a white-haired woman who had just entered the exhibit. Her cane clattered to the floor and she began to fall. Mark reached out, caught her shoulders, and held her up until she regained her balance. Karen stooped to retrieve the cane.

  “I’m so sorry, I was talking, and I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  The lady smiled. “You were paying attention to this young lady,” she motioned to Karen, “and I don’t blame you a bit.” She took her cane from Karen. “Thank you, dear.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right,” Mark asked.

  “Perfectly all right. Don’t worry about me. Have a good time.” She inched into the room toward the paintings of the cathedral.

  As they moved to the next room, Mark sighed in relief. He knew enough about Monet’s other work to get by. He should be safe.

  Reflections: First Date

  Karen stared through the car’s window as Mark drove her home. She had enjoyed the evening. Although she had expected him to bring her home early, it was almost midnight.

  They had browsed through the exhibit for an hour and a half, discussing each painting, although, as she thought about it now, Mark’s contribution to the discussion had waned after they left the paintings of the cathedral.

  Mark was well mannered, considerate, and she had enjoyed listening to him. He had introduced her to several professors from the college, including Amy Barrett, the woman who was a candidate for the president’s position. He was good looking and she had noticed the envious looks from other women.

  Mark held her door open as she climbed out of the car, and he placed his hand under her elbow as they walked up the steps, careful not to allow her to trip. She recalled the “good manners” class her mother had forced her to attend when she had turned thirteen, and she smiled, guessing Mark had been enrolled a couple of years before she had attended.

  “I had started to tell you a story about Monet, right before I almost trampled that poor lady to death.”

  Karen chuckled. “What was the story?”

  “The way I read it, the woman who owned the building where Monet was painting followed him as he moved from room to room, looking over his shoulder, and she objected that the cathedral appeared to be almost a different building in each painting. Monet turned to her and said, ‘Madame, everything changes. Even stone.’”

  They both laughed.

  “I don’t know if it’s true, but…” He shrugged.

  Karen unlocked the door and traipsed up the steps, turning to face Mark as she reached the top. “Would you like to come in for a few minutes?” She glanced behind herself, searching for the source of the invitation before accepting she had been the one speaking. “A cup of coffee or hot chocolate, maybe?” she added quickly.

  Mark smiled politely. “Thank you, but I have an early alarm in the morning…I had a nice time.”

  “I did too. Thank you for going with me.”

  Mark looked down, shuffling his feet. Karen crossed her arms and looked up, studying an ancient water stain in the ceiling.

  “Well, good night,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

  “Good night.”

  ***

  She might have known Lucia, Mark thought as he pulled away from the curb, glancing over his shoulder to see Karen watching through the window. He raised his hand to wave good-bye, but dropped it immediately. He’d always done that after leaving Lucia.

  He’d felt awkward, standing on Karen’s steps, saying good night, unsure what he was expected to do, not at all certain what he wanted to do.

  He’d never had that problem with Lucia.

  He recalled she had taken him home to meet her mother less than a month after they had met.

  Lucia sat beside Mark as he lay on the grass beside a small creek behind her home. His head was propped on his backpack so he could see the book he was trying to read, the remains of lunch—meat pies, fruit, and Coke—laying on the ground nearby. Lucia was playing with his hair where it curled over his ear.

  “It’s so warm this afternoon.” Lucia fanned her hand back and forth across her face.

  “Positively stifling,” Mark replied. “Seventy degrees. I don’t see how you stand it.”

  “Seventy?” Lucia had seemed confused.

  “Oh, ah, twenty-three, twenty-four degrees on your silly Celsius scale.”

  “It’s not silly.” She slapped his arm playfully. “It’s so much more logical than the one you use. Water freezes at what, thirty-two? What sense does that make?”

  Mark shrugged and returned to his book.

  “My mum really likes you, you know.”

  Mark closed his book and laid it on the ground. He turned on his side so that he faced Lucia, looking into her eyes, and moving strands of hair the breeze had blown over her face.

  “Why does she always call me your ‘Yankee boyfriend’? It doesn’t sound as if she’s fond of me. I think she simply prefers me to the other guys you’ve dated.”

  “It’s a term of endearment. My mom has a name for everyone she likes. Sometimes they sound like insults to outsiders, but they are all terms of love.”

  “So what is her name for you?” Mark smiled at her, locking the image of her red hair, pale skin, freckled nose, and seductive smile firmly in his mind.

  She blushed.

  “Not for public consumption. I warned her not to use it this weekend if she ever wanted me to come home again.”

  “Tha
t good, huh?”

  “Or bad.”

  “You must tell me.”

  “Never.” She shook her head and flipped her body over, turning away from him. “Never, never, never.”

  Mark placed his hand on her side, finding her lowest rib and gently pressing his finger between it and the next one.

  “No,” she shrieked. “Not fair. No tickling.”

  He moved to the next rib. She howled a second time and began to push him away. As she began to stand, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to the ground, forcing her onto her back, tickling her a third time.

  “Stop. I’ll tell. I’ll tell you my pet name.”

  Mark paused, his hand poised to strike again.

  “Mum calls me hot little Lucy.”

  “Because?”

  “I’m so friendly with the boys.”

  “Let’s see how friendly you can be.” He leaned across her and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him as he kissed her again. “A well-earned name,” he murmured.

  A few minutes later, she gently pushed him away.

  “Mum will be home before too long. We should start back to the house.”

  Mark pretended to pout. “But you said she likes me.”

  Lucia rolled her eyes. “I don’t know about your mum, but my mum’s heart will do a complete flip if she thinks you’re trying to make her a grand-mum before you make me your wife.”

  “What? I’m reading a book. I’m as harmless as a…a…”

  “Snake? He claims to be harmless just before he bites.”

  Mark laughed and pulled her to her feet, leaning in for a kiss.

  HONK.

  Mark’s head jerked up. His car was creeping along, no more than ten miles per hour and he had swerved into the left lane. He waved at the driver behind him, pulling to the right, and pressing on the accelerator.

  Karen was not Lucia.

  Not once during the evening had his eye been tempted to roam the neckline of her dress, hoping to spy a gap. Not once had he felt the impulse to grasp her hand or to sneak his arm around her waist.

  Late in the evening, they had been eating strawberry parfait and talking with Vicky and her husband. Karen had pressed lightly against his arm as she had turned to greet a friend and he had straightened so quickly, unintentionally pulling away from her, that she had almost fallen backwards into his lap.

  She seemed to be nice, though. He liked her spunk, her willingness to take on Will Simpson over the treatment of women. He’d been tempted to not become involved, just to see what would have happened, but his hunch was that Will was lucky he’d intervened. He liked women who spoke their minds.

  And she was beautiful. He smiled as he recalled not recognizing her when she had come to the door.

  She’d been easy to talk with, at least while they were touring the exhibit, discussing the paintings, but also telling him about her family, her childhood in Summerville, and her move to Charleston.

  Later, though, after stopping at the buffet, when they were sitting with Vicky and her husband, Karen and Vicky had talked about the museum and the exhibit they would be showcasing in the spring. Vicky’s husband had rolled his eyes and asked Mark about his favorite football team.

  Karen had sat with her back to him, and she and Vicky had been so deep in conversation that once, when he had wandered back to the buffet for another cream horn, she had not seemed to notice he had gone, even though he’d asked if he could bring her something. While he had introduced her to several professors from the college, she had excused herself a couple of times to speak to other staff from the museum rather than bring him along.

  Perhaps she had not wanted them to recognize him as her date.

  Touring the exhibit had taken much longer than he had expected. It would take thirty minutes at most, he had thought, but he was certain they’d taken at least two, maybe three times that long. He had tried to contribute to the discussion, but he’d known little about any of the paintings other than those of the cathedral. He thought he had pulled it off well enough, though, Karen having no idea he was an imposter.

  Karen had said she had enjoyed the evening, but he was fairly certain her enjoyment stemmed from not having to attend the party alone, having nothing to do with her feelings about him.

  They’d agreed as they had driven back to her apartment—there was hardly time for an extended discussion during the short drive—that he would choose their next date.

  Next date…

  He sighed.

  ***

  Karen watched through the window as Mark drove away before making the short trip down the hall to her bedroom.

  She had looked fantastic tonight. She smiled at the thought as she hung her dress in the closet, careful not to let it wrinkle.

  Not that he noticed.

  In fairness, he had said she looked nice, but his words really indicated nothing more than that he was polite, even his declaration that she was beautiful.

  After all, what else would he have said?

  She wrapped her bathrobe around her body. Then, as she stood in the bathroom, removing her makeup, she puzzled over Mark’s behavior.

  Not once during the entire evening had he given more than a polite smile, the kind that acknowledged a compliment or recognition of a joke but which expressed no pleasure at the compliment, no enjoyment of the punch line. Even though he told funny stories, his voice had always sounded as if he were reading the morning news.

  He had never frowned, either. Even when Will Simpson, his jackass lawyer friend, had spoken of a woman’s proper place, the put-down Mark had delivered had been in the same voice he’d used when introducing her. He’d defended her, in a way, it was true, but he’d done it in such a manner that she had no idea whether her participation in the rally had pleased him or angered him, or whether he didn’t care and simply wanted to end her confrontation with Will.

  She’d been worried about what he might infer from her low-cut dress, but she’d never noticed his eyes straying, and he had only touched her to guide her through the crowd or, once, to prevent her from falling.

  Her mind drifted back several years to Dr. Burns, her psychology professor during the first semester of college. He had been describing a phenomenon he called “flat affect.”

  “If I were to graph your moods over the course of a day,” he’d told the class, “they would vary. Here is normal.” He put a mark at one end of the chalkboard.

  “You awaken and you’re normal.” He had drawn a short, straight line out from the dot. “But as you sit at the breakfast table, spooning Corn Flakes into your mouth, you realize it’s Monday…” he had paused a beat, “…and Psychology is first period,” he’d shouted, pumping his fist in the air. “That’s right. You’re excited, and your mood shoots way up.” He drew the line rocketing at an eighty-degree angle, and everyone had laughed.

  “Math is next.” The line had plummeted into a deep valley and the students had laughed again. “But you run into your boyfriend as you round the corner on your way to math.” Again, the line had shot up.

  “And this goes on all day. Up and down, up and down.” Squiggles had run across the board.

  “Now, if you have flat affect, the graph looks like this.” He had placed his marker at the left side of the board and pulled it straight across to the other side. “No emotional responses. The line is flat.”

  Flat affect. She nodded. Mark Stuart.

  He’d seemed to be nice, though, and even if she did not know his thoughts, he had defended her. She could have held her own with Will Simpson, but it pleased her that Mark had stepped between them.

  She had been blown away by his knowledge of art history. Surely he minored in the subject in college. He had been irritated, she decided, by her suggestion that he knew nothing about Monet.

  He was easy to talk with too. She’d found herself telling him about her family, her childhood.

  She had learned little about him, though. After touring the exhibit, he and Vicky�
��s husband had ignored everyone else, discussing football, which teams would win which games. As if anyone really knew.

  I’ll make it my goal to make him laugh, she decided. I’ve two more dates…at least. Surely I can get him to laugh at something.

  She smiled. She knew what Vicky would suggest she do, and she rolled her eyes. Vicky had a one-track mind.

  In any case, Mark had not even tried to kiss her good night, something she found hard to believe. Surely he’d given some signal of his desire to kiss her, something she’d missed, because guys always wanted a kiss, even if the date had been a disaster. Maybe it was that lack of emotion.

  Or maybe he really didn’t care for her.

  Second Date

  The opening had been a major success. The review in Sunday’s Post and Courier cited the quality of the works that had been included, the fact that all periods in Monet’s life had been represented, the organization of the exhibit, and the clarity and comprehensiveness of the catalog. Record sales at the museum store mirrored the ticket purchases over the weekend, and an additional operator had been called in to handle the telephone. Karen was being given much of the credit.

  She had just returned to her office from a meeting with the director when her telephone rang.

  “Karen Wingate.” Her cheery voice reflected her mood.

  “Karen, this is Mark Stuart. Things must be going well for you this morning. Great review in Sunday’s paper.”

  At least he recognizes excitement when he hears it.

  “Hi, Mark. I had a great time on Friday.” It was true. She’d had a better time than she had anticipated going into it. She might end up having to begrudgingly admit that her mother may have been right…but there were two more dates to have, and she didn’t have a clue how Mark felt about it.

  “I had a nice time too.”

  Nice. She rolled her eyes. Maybe things were more one-sided than she’d like to admit. Still, she was exhilarated over the review and she wasn’t going to let that dampen her mood. “Ticket sales are off the wall,” she exclaimed.