Love's Little Instruction Book

by Mary Gorman

  But between his forays into the ocean, Dave had worked up enough nerve to start a conversation with Denise and discovered all over again that he really did like her. She was down to earth, easy going, and had a wicked sense of humor. He hadn’t done much talking himself. He was unsure of what to say to her, and afraid that he might say the wrong thing, but his reticence wasn’t a problem with Presley to fill in the silence.

  The best part of the day had been when O’Connor had gone off to use the men’s room and Presley had gone off blanket-hopping, and it had been just him and Denise. He’d asked her shyly how she’d liked being back in Boston and she’d talked to him at length about living in Europe. He’d loved the way her eyes lit up when she told him about her adventures riding the Metro in Paris, navigating by the sight of the Eiffel Tower, and how she could get into the Louvre free on Wednesday afternoons and just spend hours strolling around studying the masterworks.

  “What’s your favorite work of art?” he asked, hoping that she wouldn’t say something so obscure that he wouldn’t have any clue as to what she was talking about.

  “In the Louvre or of all time?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “All time,” he replied.

  “I suppose it depends on my mood,” she said. “But I’ve always been partial to sculpture. Classical — not the abstract stuff you see around now. I saw a lot of Rodin when I was in France. You know — The Thinker, The Kiss. Did you know that if you walk all around The Kiss that the couple’s lips aren’t actually touching? He has them just a hair’s breath away, but you can’t tell that until you’re right up to it and looking at it at exactly the right angle.” She blinked at him. “I think that you can sense the sexual tension in the piece, though, even if you don’t know their lips aren’t touching. Don’t you?”

  “Oh, definitely,” he said, actually feeling quite pleased that he knew the sculpture she was referring to. “Although I never knew that they actually weren’t kissing until just now.”

  “What’s your favorite?” she asked, seeming to enjoy the conversation.

  “Nudes,” he replied promptly, then nearly whacked himself in the head when it occurred to him just what he’d said.

  Her smile slipped just a bit. “Nudes, huh? You mean like photographs?”

  He knew then that he had just blown it big time. Now she was going to think he was some sort of lecher. “No,” he replied coolly, “although I’ve seen some nude photography that’s really blown me away. I saw a book of Robert Mapplethorpe’s photographs once and just couldn’t believe — ” He hesitated, trying to find the words to express himself properly. This was her field, not his, and he didn’t want to come off as a fool. “I guess I tend to think of photography as a sort of back-door art — after all, the camera is just recording what’s there, right? It’s not like the artist really created what he’s showing. He just arranged it, set up the machine, and pushed the button. But with Mapplethorpe, even an idiot like me could see the line and the composition, the contrasts in black and white and the absolute beauty of the image as it was laid out before me. That was ingenious, and it kind of pissed me off that in the end he’s mostly known for what got interpreted as his ‘obscene’ works — you know, the interracial, sexually explicit stuff.”

  She looked intrigued. “Did you think it was obscene?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “There’s a difference between art and pornography. It’s kind of like when you look at the pictures in a smut magazine — they look like pictures of genitalia with a person attached to them, whereas in art, you look at the picture and you see the person, and the lack of clothing is almost secondary to what you see in the person.” He paused and felt suddenly unsure. He didn’t think he should be talking about pornography if he wanted to make a good impression, and he was afraid that she — a woman with a degree in art history — would realize that he was a blithering fool. “Do you know what I mean?”

  She nodded slowly, a thoughtful look on her face. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone explain it quite so well,” she said.

  Dave’s heart soared with pleasure. “When I said that I liked nudes, I was thinking of sculpture — especially Michelangelo. I love the lines in his bodies, and the vitality. Like when you look at David and half expect him to pivot and pick up another stone for his sling. To be able to create that from a chunk of stone — God, that’s genius.”

  She was smiling at him now. Smiling and nodding. “I think you’ve got that right.”

  Then Todd O’Connor returned and captured Denise’s attention with some sort of inane remark about tan lines, and Dave’s private talk with Denise came to an end. But Dave didn’t really mind. He had not only held his own in a conversation with Denise Johnson, but he had actually impressed her. Life was very good indeed.

  Todd suddenly glanced at his watch and frowned. “Hey, Neesie, it’s two-thirty.”

  Pushing her sunglasses up, Denise frowned. “Already? Shit.”

  Todd nodded. “We need to head back now if we’re going to make it back in time.”

  “You’re leaving?” Dave asked stupidly.

  Denise nodded as she began to pack up her beach bag. “Todd and I are on the air at four o’clock. That’s why he took his car instead of riding the bus.” She reached for her T-shirt and pulled it over her head, then accepted Todd’s offer of a hand to pull her to her feet.

  “Make sure you say hi to us when you’re on the air,” Presley told her.

  Denise smiled but made no reply as she brushed off her bottom and pulled on her shorts over her bathing suit.

  “You’ll bring that blanket back to the station for me at the end of the day, wouldn’t you Pres?” Todd asked as he pulled his own shirt on over his head.

  “You can get it at my desk any time,” she promised.

  “You’re a peach,” he told her.

  Denise stuffed her sunscreen and towel into her beach bag and smiled at Presley. “I’ll call you when I get off my shift,” she told her. Then, “It was nice talking to you, Dave.”

  “Same here,” he said numbly.

  Dave watched in despair as the tall blond Greek god slipped his arm around the waist of the girl of Dave’s dreams as they walked off along together into the direction that would be the sunset in just a few hours.

  Dave really hated the beach.

  Chapter Seven: Peanuts and Cracker Jacks

  “I’m not sure that reading these things is really going to help,” Dave admitted on their third meeting.

  “Too bad they don’t have those little books like they’ve got in college where it just tells you what happened in each chapter and sums up the key points,” Kirk said.

  “Or that they never discussed romance books on Oprah,” Dave agreed. “I’d love to hear women discuss one of these things some time.”

  “They aren’t that bad,” Ghoulie remarked. “At least, I think I can see what women see in some of them.”

  There was a long pause while they waited, but the follow up was not forth coming. Finally Dave prompted, “Well?”

  “Besides the really mind-blowing sex,” Ghoulie said, “all these guys are like Superman. They win every fight, they’re easy on the eyes, and they always make sure that the woman comes before they take their own pleasure.”

  “Take their own pleasure?” Kirk crowed. “You make it sound like they’re going for a Sunday drive.”

  “But it’s true. They always make sure the women come — sometimes three or four times at a shot before they come themselves.” He shook his head. “Shelby would probably love that.”

  “Let’s leave sex out of it for now,” Dave said. “I have to get her to at least notice I’m alive before I have to worry about bringing her to wild, unbridled rapture.”

  “Superman,” Ghoulie repeated. “Doesn’t everyone secretly want a hero? It’s here in all the boo
ks we’ve read so far. The woman goes for the sheriff, the patriot, the spy, the sea captain. Women don’t want wimps — they want men who can come to their rescue.”

  “Great,” Dave grumbled. “But I’m not a sheriff or a spy or a sea captain. I’m a sales associate at a Boston radio station. What’s heroic about that?”

  • • •

  “Oh my Gawd!” exclaimed Presley. “This looks like the bimbos versus the hippies!” Sitting beside her on the aluminum bench, Denise burst into giggles as Presley blew and popped a large, pink bubble. Presley was blase about the game — she was the pitcher for the WMTR team. Denise, on the other hand, was nervous. She claimed to be barely able to play the game at all and, having seen her fan the ball repeatedly at their one and only practice, Dave was inclined to believe her.

  Gazing across the field, Dave thought it was easy to see exactly what Presley had meant. The soap opera stars were there in all of their lipsticked, blow-dried glory. They sported identical uniforms bearing three overlapping red stars over the left breast and the words Soap Opera Stars over their right. Every player had their hair neatly styled and shellacked into place with a generous layer of hair spray.

  By contrast, the WMTR team looked like refugees from a Salvation Army tag sale. The only common aspect to them was the fact that everyone wore matching T-shirts bearing the station’s call letters. Dave suspected that the shirts themselves had been scavenged from the station’s prize closet.

  Dave frowned as he looked at Todd O’Connor in his Mickey Mouse cap — he needed to get a game face on, Dave thought, to take the game seriously. Not to be sitting there flirting with Presley and Denise. For Christ’s sake, did he have to sit so close? He was practically in Denise’s lap!

  “Oh, Presley, look!” Denise exclaimed suddenly, grasping her friend by the upper arm. “It’s Matt Walsh from Tempest! God! I used to watch that every day when I was in college.”

  “I used to schedule my classes around that show,” Presley agreed. “Oh Gawd, what a hunk! Too bad he’s playing for the other team.”

  “Yeah,” Denise sighed heavily.

  “His real name is Tom Ford,” Todd O’Connor informed them. “He’s a real nice guy.”

  “You know him?” Presley demanded, turning her eyes from the opposing team’s bench to stare, bubble eyed, at Todd.

  “We got our pilot’s licenses together,” Todd told them. “I was a student at Columbia and he had just started on Tempest. He went to Columbia, too, you know. Maybe that’s why we hit it off. I’ll introduce you if you like. He said he was going to go with the teams for pizza in the North End after the game.”

  “That would be so cool, Todd,” Presley gushed. “Thanks.”

  Dave silently rolled his eyes at the way the two women were acting like star struck teenagers. You would think that Denise, at least, would be immune to celebrity and a pretty face.

  Just then Paul Lund walked over and stood in front of the bench, motioning for his team to gather around. “We’re almost ready to start. As the home team, we’re going to let them bat first. Presley and John, you should probably start warming up. Everyone else, don’t take them too lightly. They may look like pieces of fluff, but I’ve heard that they’re a tough team to beat. Try not to embarrass the station too much, huh?”

  Presley walked off with John Froio, the team catcher. “Good luck!” Denise called after them. Dave eyed the now empty space on the bench next to Denise. This was his chance. He stepped over the aluminum bench and into the gap left by Presley’s departure. “Do you want to work on your swing a little more?” Todd asked as Dave began to lower his behind onto the bench.

  “Oh man, yes!” Denise replied with a blossoming smile. “I’m going to embarrass myself out there, I just know it!”

  “Nah,” Todd replied casually as he rose to his feet. “We won’t let you.” He picked up a bat off of a nearby cart and extended it out toward her. “Let’s see your form.”

  “I’ve got the form of Jell-O.” She grinned, walking a few feet away from the bench. “I didn’t think I should play at all, but Paul Lund insisted that I should because I’m such a visible part of the station. I may be a decent deejay, but I majorly suck as a softball player!”

  Todd took his place a couple of yards away from her. “Okay, let’s see your stance.”

  Dave watched keenly as Todd gave Denise a batting lesson.

  “Nope,” O’Connor told her after watching her take a few swings. “You’re still thrusting your hips out when you swing. Think about keeping them tucked under you. Don’t be afraid of the ball. It’s not going to hit you … Probably not, anyway. Here, try it again.” Another pitch, another thrust.

  Todd shook his head again. “I’ve got it. Dave, come over here, would you? You pretend to pitch while I help Denise with her swing and follow through.”

  Dave frowned, grim. He didn’t want to aide and abet any interaction between Todd and Denise, but he couldn’t see a graceful way out of it. He stood up grudgingly, trying to suck in his gut at the same time but knowing that he really couldn’t compete with Todd’s washboard abs. He smoothed down his own shirt as he walked over, tugging the ends down a little in a futile attempt to emphasize his own bodyline. Yeah, he thought grimly, he was sporting a six pack himself. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite the same kind of six pack that O’Connor had.

  Todd came around behind Denise and stood close behind her. “Here, get in your stance,” he told her. As Denise once again hefted the bat onto her shoulder, Todd’s arms reached around her. Dave felt something surge inside him. Todd carefully placed his hands over Denise’s. “Okay,” he told her. “I want you to try to swing again, only this time you’re going to keep your hips in.”

  “I am?” Denise laughed, looking back over her shoulder at him.

  “You are,” came the certain reply. “Either that or we’re both going to get a really cheap thrill.”

  Denise laughed again and turned to face the pitcher, looking at him with sparkling eyes. His heart lurched. She was having a wonderful time. “Go ahead, Dave.”

  Maybe it was childish sprite, but Dave didn’t think anyone would know the difference. He cradled the imaginary ball close to his chest, went through the windup, and then pitched the invisible sphere hard in the general direction of Todd O’Connor’s head.

  He froze in his follow through, watching carefully to see what would happen next. Denise kept her focus — he could see her eyes tracking the trajectory of the non-existent ball. She pulled the bat back just a fraction and then swung hard — and the two inches of space between the soft curve of her behind and the taut denim of the jeans that covered O’Connor’s crotch diminished slightly but remained in place.

  Todd looked down. “Good!” he beamed. “You got it. Now you just have to pretend I’m pressing against the back of you every time you get up to bat.”

  “Now I just have to hope I come within a country mile of hitting the ball, you mean,” she amended.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he told her. “You’ll be great.”

  • • •

  They may have looked a bit fluffy, but the Soap Opera Stars played like they meant it.

  A double by their fourth batter drove in the first run for the Stars. It was hit by a puffy haired blond who looked like she was all of twelve years old. Dave watched the play unfold from the bench, feeling a pang of relief when Denise managed to catch the ball at second base, keeping the barely five foot tall woman from advancing further.

  The WMTR team was kept scoreless in the next inning. Todd O’Connor hit a long fly ball in the second inning, and Dave hid his delight when it was neatly fielded by the tiny blond who had hit the double in the first inning. “How old is their outfielder, anyway?” Dave asked Presley, who was sitting between himself and Denise on the bench.

  Presley glanced at Denise. “I re
member when her character was born — I was in college then. So it must have been about six years ago, don’t you think?”

  Dave peered at her critically. “That’s no six-year-old.”

  “No, no.” Presley explained. “She’s a teenager now on the show. The last time I saw it, it was last Labor Day — she had just started college.”

  Denise got up to bat in the third inning. Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, but she fanned the ball mightily on three consecutive pitches and was out. She went with grace, through, laughing out loud at herself and turning to bow to the fans who were calling out their commiseration and support from the stands.

  Dave also got up in the third inning. He took his practice swings in the batting circle, trying hard to look buff, flexing his arms as he hefted the bat, keeping an assessing stare at the players on the field and, above all, trying to hold his stomach in. He glanced over at Denise as he stepped up to the plate, gave her a cocky grin, then brought the wooden bat up to his shoulder.

  The pitcher on the Soap Opera Stars team was the man Todd O’Connor knew from flight school — Ford Walsh, or whatever his name was. Even from sixty feet away, Dave couldn’t help but notice the exceptional build and classically chiseled features on the man. Dave squinted at the man on the mound with his best intimidating glare. The pitcher sized him up, nodded, and then went through his windup and delivered the pitch.

  Dave swung mightily and caught the ball on the edge of the bat. A resounding crack! shot through the ballpark as the ball fired away from the plate, straight over the heads of his teammates, and into the stands behind the third base line. Foul ball. He scowled and shook his head, then resumed his stance.

  The next pitch came straight and fast. He swung, but his timing was off by a fraction of a second and the bat sliced through the air with a faint whoosh! but no contact. He glanced over toward the ’MTR bench as the catcher tossed the ball back to the pitcher. O’Connor was sitting between Presley and Denise, pointing out someone in the stands behind the plate. They weren’t even watching him. A flash of anger arose in him. He stepped off the plate and rolled his shoulders, waiting until he saw the attention of those on the bench turn back his way and then resuming his stance. The pitch was perfect — straight, fast, and just where he wanted it. He held his breath as he waited for the exact moment he needed, lifted the bat slightly and then swung as hard as he could.