by Jane Peart
They chatted for a few minutes, and then he began to explain why he had not called her soon after they had returned from Bermuda. His excuse was plausible enough. “My next assignment after the Bermuda hop was a long flight to the West Coast. While I was there, a buddy talked me into taking a few days’ leave and flying to Hawaii. When I got back here I started dialing your number—with no luck until today.”
It was all very understandable and, because Robbie wanted to, she believed it. When he asked her about going with him to the ballet, Robbie tried to keep her voice calm and casual. “What’s the date? I’ll have to check my flying schedule.”
“A week from Thursday.”
“Hang on a minute and let me check.”
She already knew that, in case of a conflict, she would find a way to switch flights with another stew in order to be free that evening.
Back on the phone, she said, “That will work out fine. I’d love to go.”
“We’ll have dinner first,” Tyler said smoothly. “Since the performance begins at eight-thirty, I’ll pick you up a little after six, so we’ll have plenty of time for a leisurely dinner.”
“That sounds fine. I’ll see you a week from Thursday.”
The moment the phone clicked, ending their conversation, Robbie had second thoughts. Hadn’t she decided that Tyler Lang was not the best person for her to date? What had happened to all her resolutions about forgetting him?
But the ballet, she argued. She couldn’t miss a chance to see this company do Sleeping Beauty. What girl in her right mind would turn down an invitation like this?
But she wasn’t acting like a girl in her right mind, Robbie admitted sheepishly to herself in the days before their date. Even though she had kept telling herself it was just a date, she had done some wildly crazy things, such as splurging on a new outfit and an outrageously expensive little beaded bag to carry. She had even considered having her hair done but settled for a manicure instead. Hairdressers had done some weird things to her naturally wavy hair in the past, she recalled in time.
The new dress she bought was a sophisticated royal blue sheath with a matching quilted velvet jacket. And she found sleek pumps with four-inch heels.
She shuddered mentally as she cut off the price tags and tossed them in the wastebasket without a second look. That’s what comes of letting your heart rule your head.
But when she had finished dressing on the evening of the ballet, she knew that the outfit was perfect. Her mirror assured her first, and later Tyler’s low whistle confirmed her impression.
“You look smashing,” he said as they left the apartment building. His shining black sports car was at the curb, and he opened the door for her to get into its red leather bucket seat.
“I thought we’d go to the Midnight Sun,” he said as he slid behind the wheel and started the engine. “It’s close to the High Museum where the ballet’s being performed. That way we won’t feel rushed through dinner.”
“Wonderful!” murmured Robbie. She had never been to the Midnight Sun, but had heard it was one of the plushest dining places in Atlanta.
The maitre d’ nodded to them and said, “Good evening, Captain,” as they entered the restaurant. Tyler confirmed his reservations, and they were led through the quiet, carpeted room of early diners to a curved banquette in the corner. Robbie was not unaware of several heads turning as they passed, conscious of a few envious glances from women seated at tables they passed. Tyler, she noted, after she was seated and had a chance to look around, was undeniably the best-looking man in the room.
He was also, she discovered, completely at ease in the elegant surroundings. He commanded respect as he gave their order after consulting with her for her preference. When he asked for the wine list and she shook her head, he said smoothly, “A tonic and lime for the lady, a glass of Chenin blanc for me,” and handed it back to the waiter without comment about her not joining him.
Over dinner Robbie again was impressed at Tyler’s wide range of interests as they discussed topic after topic, from politics to plays. Robbie had spent a lot of time with pilots and noted that so many of them had limited conversational abilities beyond aeronautical matters.
Dinner itself was worth discussion—coquilles St. Jacques, fresh vegetable mélange of broccoli flowerettes and baby carrots, rice pilaf, and salad. They had just enough time for coffee before leaving for the theater.
Robbie had been to the High Museum before, but she never failed to thrill at the magnificence of its interior with its deep crimson carpet and beige-gold marbleized walls. She enjoyed seeing all the well-dressed people streaming up the two staircases into the auditorium. Her anticipation of the ballet made her especially animated. Her eyes sparkled and her face was glowing as they went up the steps and were ushered to their seats.
Although Robbie kept her eyes on the printed program, it was impossible not to feel T. J.’s nearness. Her breath became constricted as if she were holding it. She almost wondered if he could hear her heart’s sudden pounding. Mercifully, the house lights darkened and the music began. Suddenly T. J. reached over and took her hand.
The performance of Tchaikovsky’s great masterpiece was transporting. The scenery, costumes, music, and, most of all, the perfection of the dancers completely enthralled Robbie. When the bows of the principal dancers had been taken, a bouquet of roses was presented to the prima ballerina. She withdrew one rose from it and gave it to her partner, and the applause became deafening.
The house lights came up, and people began to leave. Programs were dropped and the noise of conversation rose to a high level as people moved up the aisles, commenting excitedly on the performance.
Robbie felt dazed. The 1889 ballet had been so beautiful that it was hard to come back to reality and the present moment.
“You really enjoyed it, didn’t you?” Tyler asked as they came out into the night. “I watched you during the performance and you were totally taken up with the stage and everything that was going on. It’s really refreshing to see someone so openly enjoying something!”
As they got in his car, he asked, “Would you like to go somewhere for a drink or coffee or—” he smiled indulgently, “a hot chocolate?”
She had to laugh. “No thanks. I’d better call it a night.” She had managed to be in town for tonight’s date, but she did have an early flight out the next morning.
At her apartment door she thanked him. He held out his hand for her key and unlocked the door for her.
“I’ll call you,” he told her.
“Will you?” she asked, her eyes shining in the dim light of the foyer. His words had a familiar ring.
“Yes,” he said and leaned toward her.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Robbie exclaimed. “I’m moving. Here’s my new address and phone number, just in case.” She opened her small purse and handed him a slip of paper.
He touched her cheek softly. “I’ll call you,” he promised and left.
Chapter Eight
The next few days were hectic. Robbie barely had time to move to her new apartment before her next scheduled flight, so she could leave to spend Thanksgiving with Martie and Tom Evans. She had not visited her friends yet in the house they had just bought, and she was anxious to see it. And she was eager to see how their baby girl, Tessa, had grown.
Although the Evanses lived only sixty miles from Atlanta—a little over an hour’s drive—Robbie’s and Martie’s lives had taken separate paths since Martie’s marriage three years ago. They talked often by phone and always remembered each other’s birthdays and special occasions with cards and notes. If Robbie’s flight schedule allowed it, they tried to get together whenever Martie and Tom came to Atlanta to shop or see their families.
But zipping along the freeway on Thanksgiving morning, Robbie realized how much she had missed her friend and looked forward to one of their old-time talks. She particularly wanted to confide her feelings about Tyler Lang to Martie.
Driving through the quiet
suburb, following the instructions Tom had given her, Robbie pulled up in front of a gray-shingled Dutch colonial house with blue-shuttered dormer windows and a neat lawn enclosed in a picket fence. Right out of a storybook, Robbie smiled suddenly, recalling something that Tyler had said to her in Bermuda.
You impress me as the kind of girl who would like living in a rose-covered cottage with all that implies.
He was right, thought Robbie. The house is exactly suited to Martie—and me! Both of them were smalltown girls with the same romantic ideals. The only difference was that Martie’s dream had come true.
Robbie got out of the car and approached the house. She pushed open the gate and, as she did, the front door opened and a slim girl with pale blonde hair came dashing down the steps to hug her.
“Oh, Robbie, I’m so glad you could come!” Martie exclaimed happily.
Tom appeared in the doorway holding a curly headed, rosy-cheeked cherub in his arms. Smiling broadly he called out; “Welcome to the Evans estate!”
“Some neighbors are coming for dinner, too,” Martie told Robbie as she showed her into the small slantceilinged guest room, “and a bachelor friend of Tom’s from work.”
Robbie looked up from the suitcase she had just opened and regarded her friend suspiciously. “You wouldn’t!” she accused. “Are you and Tom matchmaking again?”
Martie looked innocent. “Of course not!” she said indignantly. “Would I do something that obvious?”
“I don’t know,” Robbie said doubtfully. “I remember how we used to sit in the dorm late at night and plan how we’d marry men who worked in the same office and have houses next door to each other.”
Martie wrinkled her nose winsomely. “That still sounds wonderful to me!” she declared. “But, no, seriously, Alan’s just a nice guy. I don’t think you’d be very interested, actually. Is there anyone currently in your life?”
In spite of trying to act nonchalant, Robbie felt her face get warm. “Well,” she began, “maybe. It’s something I want to talk to you about later.”
There was no time then because Thanksgiving dinner was planned for four o’clock and the guests would be arriving a little earlier. Other people were bringing things to add to the meal, but Martie was cooking the turkey. The Evans kitchen was warm with the tantalizing odors of roasting turkey, onions, and herbs.
“What can I do?” Robbie asked.
“How about mashing the potatoes?” Martie suggested, getting out the electric mixer and taking the large pan of boiled spuds off the stove.
“I can’t wait to hear about your new interest!” Martie said, smiling, her face flushed from the heat of the oven as she withdrew a casserole of yams. “I hope it’s someone who deserves you.” She placed tiny marshmallows on top of the steaming mound of mellow orange fluff and sprinkled them with chopped pecans before returning the dish to the oven.
“Would anyone deserve me in your opinion, Martie?” Robbie laughed.
“Well, you thought Tom was perfect for me,” she countered.
“And he was—is! You’re a perfect couple!”
“Lucky is more like it.”
“It’s more than that,” Robbie said seriously.
“Yes, you’re right. But we couldn’t do it alone. You know that, Robbie. Our faith in God is the center of our lives, and that’s what makes the difference.”
Tom pushed open the swinging door from the dining room and announced, “Maxine and Ted are here!”
Soon after the arrival of that couple, Alan Downing, the “bachelor friend” from Tom’s office showed up. He was a quiet but articulate young man and Robbie liked him, but anyone she met now seemed a pale contrast to T.J.
The next half hour or so was busy with chatter, laughter, and good fellowship. Robbie liked those who had been invited to share Thanksgiving and felt right at home in the friendly atmosphere. As they all gathered around the dinner table with little Tessa’s high chair alongside her daddy’s chair, there were compliments on the colorful setting. The table was beautifully arranged, festive with Martie’s best china, dazzling crystal, and gleaming silver—all shining in the glow of four tall tapered candles. In the center a milkglass compote held a luscious assortment of fruit resembling a Cezanne still life.
Martie beamed with pleasure and appreciation before turning to her husband, “Tom, will you ask our blessing?”
“We hold hands,” Tom said quietly to everyone, and each person clasped the hand of the one standing next to him. He prayed,
Heavenly Father,
Thou who clothes the lilies
And feeds the birds of the sky,
Who leads the lambs to the pasture
And the deer to the waterside,
Who hast multiplied loaves and fishes
And converted water into wine,
Do Thou come to our table
As Guest and Giver to dine.
Amen.
The feast was eaten amid much laughter and merriment, with good-natured kidding among the men about the football game they had watched earlier on TV. There were some groans and protests when Martie offered a choice of apple or pumpkin pies but everyone, it seemed, had room for a small sliver. It was the kind of holiday that, although she enjoyed it thoroughly, made Robbie conscious of the longing tug in her heart for just such a home and family of her own.
After the other guests had left, Robbie helped Martie bathe Tessa and tuck her into her crib in her snuggly pink sleeper. When they returned downstairs, Tom had put the dishes in the dishwasher and made a fresh pot of coffee. Grinning, he stifled a yawn and told them, “I’m going to bed and read for a while and let you girls catch up on all your news.”
“What a nice guy,” Robbie remarked as Tom went upstairs and she and Martie settled into opposite ends of the sofa in the living room with their coffee.
“I couldn’t agree more!” giggled Martie. “Now, tell me all about you and this new man.”
Robbie began her account of Tyler by telling Martie the funny way she had met him and all the coincidental things that had seemed to bring them together. As she talked about him, she was more aware than ever how much he had occupied her thoughts lately.
“I don’t know what it is, Martie. In one way, I don’t think he’s right for me. But, on the other hand, I’ve never felt quite this way about anyone else. I mean, when I’m around him I feel…different.”
“How different?” Martie pursued.
“Well, excited! Happy! Hot, cold, trembly—” Robbie broke off, laughing self-consciously. “Confused! Dizzy!”
“It sounds more like some kind of virus!” Martie said and they both dissolved into silly laughter.
“If I thought I could have what you and Tom have,…” Robbie said, thoughtfully, “but I don’t think Tyler is even a Christian.”
Martie looked at her friend a long time before replying. “I know you, Robbie, and I don’t think you’d do anything impulsive, but do go slow, won’t you? Don’t let your feelings run away with your good sense. Stick to what you know in your heart that you really want out of a marriage. It’s for the rest of your life, you know, and you don’t want to make a terrible mistake.”
They talked for quite a while longer. At last overcome by weariness, they both trailed off to bed. Robbie had to leave the next morning, since she was scheduled out on a flight the following evening. She and Martie had a little more time for sharing confidences the next morning after Tom left for work and before Robbie had to start for Atlanta.
“It’s been wonderful having you here. I wish you could come down more often,” Martie said wistfully. “That way I could meet this pilot you’ve landed and keep tabs on you!” She smiled. “You’re my best friend, and I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.”
Robbie frowned. “I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression of Tyler.”
“Just that he’s a Greek god!” Martie teased. “And every woman’s dream.”
“Well, not quite,” Robbie said, then added, “but alm
ost!”
Martie walked out to the car with Robbie and gave her friend a hug. “Take care, won’t you, Robbie? And write or phone; let me know how things are going.”
“I will. And don’t worry about me. My head may be in the clouds, but my feet are on the ground,” she assured Martie.
“But your eyes are filled with dreams,” Martie said softly.
Driving back to Atlanta on that winter-crisp day, Robbie thought affectionately of Martie. She was glad she had had a chance to confide in her about T. J. Robbie could always depend on Martie to listen sympathetically and give sound advice if it was asked for. But had there been a note of caution in Martie’s response to her enthusiastic accounts about her developing romantic relationship?
Of course, T. J. Lang was not the “ideal husband" Robbie had outlined so specificially when she and Martie had been roomates. Maybe that was why Martie was reserving full aproval.
Robbie remembered a greeting card Martie had sent her once with such a lovely sentiment on it that Robbie had saved it. “A faithful friend is a strong shelter; and he that hath found one, hath found a treasure.”
Robbie had certainly found that in Martie. Would she find that same quality in Tyler?
Chapter Nine
On Saturday morning in the second week in December, Tyler phoned Robbie at her new home above Mrs. Holmes’ garage.
“How are you at Christmas shopping?” Tyler asked. “I need some help with mine.”
“You called the right number,” Robbie quipped. “I worked as a personal shopper in a department store in my hometown during the Christmas rush when I was in high school.”
“You know, I have a talent for picking the right per son for the right job. Maybe I should be in personnel work instead of flying,” Tyler laughed. “I’ll buy you lunch if you can solve the problems on my list, okay?”
“It’s a deal,” Robbie replied.
“I’ll pick you up in an hour,” Tyler said before he hung up.
They went to Phipps Plaza, a complex of fine shops and branch stores of some of the best nationally known retailers. With Tyler’s list in hand, Robbie seemed to have an uncanny knack for thinking of the right gift and the good luck to find most of the items she thought of. With Tyler providing the cash or credit card for each purchase, shopping was easy and fun.