Wine&Dine: another romance for the over 40

by L. B. Dunbar

  “We’re watching a movie in the park,” she says as if questioning it while confirming it at the same time.

  “You said you liked classic music, so I thought you might like classic movies. Tonight’s showing is It Happened One Night.” I hesitate as we walk. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  “With Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable?”

  “Are you familiar with this one?” My shoulders lighten a little with the possibility.

  “It’s one of my favorites.”

  Twisting to peer at her, I’m rewarded with a genuine smile. Not the forced one. Not the sheepish one, but a full watt, teeth exposed, red-lipped smile.

  “Are you okay?” she asks as I stumble on my own feet.

  “I’m good,” I mutter, my heart thumping. Huh. What was that all about?

  We find a spot although it’s farther back from the screen than I’d like and spread our blanket. Dolores sits, eager to see what’s in my bag.

  “It’s the best I could do.” I don’t want to add with short notice. I typically plan these things ahead of time. Expensive wine. Imported cheese. A catered dinner. Although, on second thought, I’ve never done something like this before. Knowing Dolores isn’t impressed by extravagance, I brought a bottle of wine from a Napa winery, a variety of cheeses, a box of crackers, and a sausage roll. The collection looks weak once I have it all laid out.

  “This is perfect,” Dolores murmurs as she takes the red wine I offer her, and I relax a little.

  “What should we drink to?” I ask, holding up my glass. “In my family, we always drink to something on special occasions.”

  Dolores’s face falls a little, and she holds her plastic wine cup with both her hands. “Sounds like a nice tradition.” She pauses a second and then lifts her cup to mine. “To dog sitting.”

  I chuckle. That isn’t what I had in mind, so I add, “To stunning company.”

  Her face heats like it did the day she transformed at the salon, and I want to trace each blush of pink on her skin.

  “You’re very charming sometimes,” she says before taking a sip. Then she redirects the conversation. “Oh, this is good.”

  “Do you like wine?”

  “I’m not really a connoisseur, but I won’t turn down a good glass.” Her lips twist while she considers something, and then adds, “My father was an alcoholic. A bad one. Not that there’s a good one, but he was an evil man. Watching him and then my mother hide in drink turned me off to heavy drinking.”

  I stare at her. We’ve mainly kept our conversations casual, but every once in a while, she throws in something personal. Not for the first time do I note she seems like a well of secrets.

  “My dad ditched us when I was eight. Guess he didn’t want a wife and kids anymore. My granddad helped my mother raise us. He was a major influence in my life.”

  Dolores smiles one of her weak smiles. “What did he teach you?”

  “How to go after what I wanted. Do things he didn’t do.”

  “He didn’t teach you to be a man?” she teases.

  “Nope, remember three sisters. I constantly heard how to treat women, how to act, and was reprimanded if I didn’t behave accordingly.”

  “Do they live around here?”

  “We’re scattered. Lindee lives in Nashville, and Jane is in Chicago. Mae still lives near my mom in River City, Missouri.”

  “Missouri?” She laughs. “I thought you were from here.”

  “No one is really from here. I moved to California after I graduated from Missouri State University.”

  She claps once, another laugh escaping.

  “What’s so funny about that?”

  Sobering, she says, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  Suddenly, the movie screen lights up, and an old-fashioned countdown begins. The opening credits roll, and we settle into snacking while we sip the wine and watch the classic black and white movie.

  At some point, we move closer to each other, slipping the second blanket over our legs to ward off a chill in the air. My arms support me, resting at my sides, with one hand behind Dolores. If I twitch my thumb, I can rub her ass, but I don’t. I don’t want to make this anything more than it is. Dolores and I are becoming friends. It’s not that I don’t have female friendships, but I tend to ruin them by stepping back or fucking them. The thought reminds me of Alicia. I haven’t called her in a week although she’s been burning up my text messages.

  Dolores yawns beside me.

  “Tired?” It isn’t late. Maybe she’s bored.

  “Just comfy,” she says, lowering herself to her side. Her elbow bent, she perches her head on her hand to continue watching the movie. She laughs occasionally, and I find I like the sound. I like her. The emotion isn’t unheard of. I’ve liked many women in my time. Heather Robinson. Tracy Dean. One was my high school sweetheart and the other, my college one. Both wanted a hometown boy to settle down with while I wanted to be more than River City. Then there was Kathryn Cole. I shiver at the memory of her.

  Without thinking, I scoot over and tug at Dolores’s forearm, forcing her head to rest on my thigh.

  “What are you doing?” she mumbles toward the screen.

  “Making you more comfortable.” Or maybe I’m making myself comfortable. I want to touch her somehow. Holding her hand doesn’t work well in our positions on the blanket. With her down on her side, this seemed like the best solution. My fingers find the ends of her hair and gently stroke the tips. Occasionally, I brush down her back. She doesn’t flinch away from the caress, but she doesn’t give in to it either. As the movie draws to an end, the credits roll, and people clap. Dolores remains still.

  “Dolores,” I softly speak. My hand risks combing through her hair at the side of her head.

  Well.

  “Dolores, sweetheart, the movie’s over.” I gently shake her shoulder, and her eyes flip open. Seeing the screen go black and a spotlight snap on to guide movie watchers for the exit, she sits upright.

  “Goodness, I fell asleep,” she groggily states the obvious. “I’m so sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I liked her head on my thigh. Her comfort. Her closeness. “Not sleeping well?”

  She shrugs noncommittally as we gather up our things. We walk in silence back to the car, and I open her door. On the ride back to the condo, her head rolls on the headrest, and she watches me as I drive. Her hands are tucked between her thighs, and once again, I want to touch her.

  “Like what you see?” I tease.

  “You are kind of pretty, but you already know that,” she playfully snarks. “But you’re also sweet. Tonight was really nice of you.”

  “I fed you wheat crackers with Gouda.” I scoff.

  “I didn’t find anything wrong with that.”

  My palm sweats on the steering wheel. “Well, don’t be ruining my reputation. Tin Man, remember.” I pat my chest with a flat hand.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” she whispers, her eyes drifting toward the front windshield.

  Too quickly, we arrive at the condo, and I’m walking Dolores to Denton’s. As we stand outside, I lean my shoulder against the wall while she unlocks the door. Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. I drop the blankets and the bag to the floor. The sudden noise in the otherwise quiet hall draws her attention to the objects.

  “Dolores,” I say, and her eyes drift up to me. “Thanks for going out with me.”

  Her head tilts, and her lips twist like she’s thinking. My thumb comes to the corner of her mouth, and I tug the tender skin. The pad of my thumb rubs over her lower lip.

  “We should kiss,” I say, sounding awkward and fifteen instead of fifty. “I mean, we gave each other orgasms. We should at least kiss. Once.”

  “I was hoping you’d forget about that,” she mumbles, her eyes leaving mine.

  “No chance.” Last night was sexy as hell, and my dick jolts at the thought of her getting off in my bed. I only wish I had seen it, felt her while she
went off.

  “Technically, we gave ourselves orgasms,” she corrects, and I chuckle. I step closer to her, cupping her cheeks so she has to look at me.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she whispers while her eyes lower to my lips, and her tongue slides out to licks hers.

  “I think this is the best idea,” I retort, watching the roll of her throat.

  “It’s not,” she mouths.

  The brakes hit. “Why?”

  “You have the blonde, and I have Rusty.”

  The blonde? Alicia? I’ll speak with her tomorrow. “The sex partner?” My voice cracks. I don’t want her to have a sex partner. I don’t want her having a Rusty. Is that his name?

  “Yes.”

  “No,” I reply. No, no more sex partner. Then I have another thought. “Why isn’t he here with you?” Dolores tugs back from my grasp on her face.

  “Because we aren’t like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We…we don’t spend time together like that.”

  I stare at her, questioning.

  “We don’t exactly date, okay? We just…we just have sex,” she huffs, her eyes closing and her face heating. This isn’t the flush from a blush but irritation. Embarrassment.

  What the fuck?

  “What if someone wanted to date you? What if someone wanted to spend time with you?”

  Her eyes lower. “I’m not looking to add more partners who can’t commit.”

  Can’t commit? Does he fuck others on the side? I might not be single-minded, but I’m loyal. Everyone knows up front, so I’m never accused of being unfaithful. I’d never cheat on someone. Not to mention, I don’t want to join some list for Dolores. She doesn’t strike me as the type to have more than one partner anyway.

  “Kiss me,” I say again, pushing her to give in. My hands return to her cheeks. “Just one.” I’m not asking her to marry me, just for her to give me an end of the night taste.

  “Garrett,” she exhales.

  “This isn’t Kansas, Dorothy. Kiss me.”

  She laughs good-naturedly, and I need to capture the sound. I’m not sure who stepped into who first, but my lips meet hers, drawing her into mine. Our mouths cover each other, tugging slowly at one another and dragging out the tender brushstrokes of connection. My lips trace her mouth, savoring the taste of her.

  Then she opens. Her breasts crush my chest as her arms wrap around my neck. Her tongue delves forward, the thick muscle tangling with mine as her body presses flush against me. She’s kissing me back like a starving woman. She’s kissing the fuck out of me.

  My dick jumps. He wants inside her. Our joined mouths won’t be enough, and just as my hands start to roam the outline of her body, she pulls back abruptly, releasing me. I fall against the hallway wall, stunned and breathless. She doesn’t look at me. Instead, she turns for her open door and steps inside. I spin to follow her when the door closes in my face.

  What the hell just happened?

  9

  Kiss and miss

  [Dolores]

  I shouldn’t have kissed him back.

  Shaky fingers come to my lips as I slump against the door. My body vibrates with desire. My sex screams for attention. A tremor ripples up my center.

  I couldn’t help myself, I argue. I don’t know who stepped first, but once his mouth brushed mine, it’s like he unleashed a suppressed beast, and I took his mouth, hoping to devour him.

  I haven’t kissed like that in years.

  I haven’t been kissed like that in years either.

  Rusty’s kisses are open-mouthed and sloppy, and his lips too wet, often from drinking. I don’t like to kiss him, and I allow it to last only seconds. I’m not a shy sexual partner. I take what I want, which is one thing Rusty appreciates about me. Unfortunately, the relationship stops at sex. No emotions. No friendship. Just sex. And I thought I could handle that when it started, but after ten years, I’d like something more. My brother just got a second chance with the girl of his dreams. I want my turn, only there’s no boy of mine.

  When James Harrington fell for Evie, I lost faith in men. As the boy next door and forbidden fruit, he was my first everything, but he wasn’t loyal to me. My trust in the opposite sex was already on shaky ground because of my father and his unfaithfulness to my mother. I didn’t know what a stable relationship should look like. George Harrington and his wife, Elaina, are my image of a perfect marriage, but even they had issues, especially when it came to their son and me getting caught in his bed when we were eighteen.

  My thoughts jump back to Garrett.

  Is he still standing on the other side of the door? I’m afraid to look through the peephole.

  Garrett is a player, like the other men in my life. I’ve seen the blonde although I haven’t seen her lately. Still, I have no reason to believe Garrett isn’t without someone in his life. Like I told him in the car, he’s rather pretty. The wave to his hair. The scruff on his jaw. His light brown eyes. He’s perfect—to look at.

  Would I trust my heart with him?

  Absolutely not.

  Although he was sweet tonight, allowing me to rest my head on his thigh. His fingers traced down my spine and twirled in my hair. For a moment, I forgot we were friends. Only neighbors, actually. His kind gesture was a way to thank me for watching his dog. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything more than what it was—a movie in the park. A classic black and white movie on a dark fall evening with a spontaneous picnic. A romantic comedy about a girl who runs away and the man who needs a news story. It happens to be one of my favorites. The decision to take me to such a place, have such an experience, was thoughtful and considerate.

  But it didn’t mean anything.

  Garrett takes care of women. His sisters were excellent teachers. Their tutelage of him has paid off. The details in scheduling my shopping trip and the salon experience are a testament. His respectful distance each time we take a walk is another. Tonight, Garrett was a gentleman beneath the good looks and playboy status.

  And then he kissed me.

  Finally, I press off the door. Not one to typically drink alone, I head for the unfinished bottle of wine I opened before I dog sat. I turn off the lights and press the bottle to my aching chest. Falling onto the couch, I stare out the dark balcony doors. I’m suddenly exhausted.

  Tired of Rusty Miller. Why isn’t he here with you?

  I miss my mother.

  She didn’t approve of Rusty and our arrangement. Her bitterness toward men suffocated me.

  I loved a man once, she said. It wasn’t my father.

  Men are meant to disappoint, she added.

  Sometimes, I think she meant my brother, who took off at eighteen and never looked back. I didn’t fault him, though, because he had his reasons. Sometimes, I faulted her. She should have stood up for us better. On the other hand, she was one of my best friends, and I sympathized with her plight.

  The duplicity splits me in two most days, reminding me I’m tired of my life.

  + + +

  The next day, I awake with a new outlook. I can’t keep rotating between the bed and couch. I need to see Los Angeles and the surrounding community, so I devote the following days to an adventure. Finding the courage to use the Uber app, I travel the city. The Chinese Theatre. The stars on Hollywood Blvd. The Santa Monica Pier. I take in the sites of the entertainment playland.

  I miss the four o’clock dog walks on purpose. Instead, I take long walks on the beach in the early morning hours.

  I consider calling my cousin, Tommy Carrigan, and his wife, whom I haven’t met.

  But I don’t.

  It’s late November, and Thanksgiving is in a few days, but I won’t be home. There’s no one to cook for without Mother. Denton says he’ll take Magnolia to the Harrington’s. Rusty and I don’t celebrate holidays. There would be nowhere to go.

  Despite days of avoiding Garrett and travels around the West Coast city, I’m sad. Mostly, I’m terribly lonely. It’
s as if I’ve never left Georgia. Everything I’ve done the past few days I’ve done by myself, just like at home.

  Then one afternoon, I see the diner. An old railcar tucked off the popular path. The neon sign advertising its name radiates bright pink in the gloom of the day. From the outside, I can see the booths along the steamy windows and the thin counter with stools before it. It’s similar yet different from my place. The sharp fluorescent lights inside scream come on in like the welcome sign by the door. I bet it’s warm. California has swung back to cold, and I shiver in my sweater. I forgot my coat in the condo.

  A waitress walks the length of the place. She wears the stereotypical waitress outfit in turquoise, playing into the persona of the restaurant—a 1950s dining car. The menu board proudly displays all their specialties and features of the day. The place looks fresh, sparkly, and clean.

  Moisture fills my eyes, and I realize it’s raining. Rivulets of water stream down the outside of the windows before me. The condensation blooms on the inside of the panes. The droplets tap in a steady rhythm on the chrome exterior of the building, and the sound mesmerizes me.

  Then I feel him. The rain that has been pelting my body and stinging my cheeks for I don’t know how long disappears as an umbrella covers me. His breath hits my damp hair as his body stands near mine. I hear him shuffle behind me. Something heavy and warm covers my shoulders. My eyes close for a second, melting into the comfort, but the water continues to leak from my lids.

  “Sweetheart, whatcha doing out here?” he asks, but I don’t know how to answer.

  I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.

  10

  Tears

  [Garrett]

  “Sweetheart,” I whisper, stalking up behind her in the pouring rain. Her hair lays plastered to her head, dark and dripping. Her too-large sweater hangs below her hands, nearly to her knees with the weight of the water. Her suede boots are soaked as rain puddles around her feet.