Don't Bet On It (7 page)

I didn't need the assistance but loved being around a gentleman who offered, so I accepted and thanked him.

He drew me up full against him and looked into my eyes. Too dark to discern their color or intensity, but I remembered them — penetrating. Then he barely touched my chin with the tip of a finger and I knew we would kiss. It wasn't like the kisses in romance novels unless those characters also had beer and shrimp first, but it was delicious nonetheless. I had goose bumps over one hundred and one percent of my body.

That kiss lasted about ninety-eight seconds by my estimation, and I was not ready for it to end. When it did, he pulled back a bit and gazed into my eyes with a question. This time I could read his mind and knew he wondered if it was okay. My reply was to pull his head down toward mine and kiss him back. Same flavors and about the same duration.

But I really did have to leave because 6:15 a.m. was just as early in May as it was in September. As I was thanking him for the meal and hospitality — didn't feel right to verbalize the kisses — he reached on the small desk by the door and handed me a small satchel.

“What's this?” I hefted it — about ten pounds.

“A laptop I don't use much. Thought you might want to borrow it… you know, until you find the one you're looking for.” He still didn't fully realize I knew exactly where my potential laptop was, but just couldn't afford it yet. “You'll probably need it for that story you're working on… and I understand you're not having much luck with that other machine you borrowed.”

“How on earth would you know…?” I didn't even finish, because he was already smiling. We both knew he'd read my mind enough to fill in a few details from the bits I'd told him.

“And when you get it ready, I'd like to read it.”

I just nodded. He steered me back inside where I collected my purse and then I remembered the kitchen. “Oh, the dishes… we left a mess.”

“It'll keep. I can knock them out when I get home tomorrow afternoon.”

“You don't mind going to sleep with dirty dishes?”

“Not as long as they stay in the kitchen. Why?”

I remembered how Momma festered about her dishes until they were rinsed and in the washer. “No reason. Some people really fret about such things.”

He smiled in that way you do when you're close to yawning because you're so tired. “I just fret about important stuff.”

“For example…”

Brett
extended his arms and I melted into them. “Like whether we'll see each other again.”

I'd been wondering the same thing, but had not actually dared articulate it. Of course if I borrowed his laptop, we'd have to hook back up eventually. “With no wagers, no bribes, and no commitments, it would just be you and me going out.”

“So if I were to call and ask you out, maybe you wouldn't hang up on me?”

“Just ask me now and I can't hang up.” Then I pinched a bit of lean muscle against his ribcage.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a page which had been folded two or three times. I had the feeling he'd wanted to show it to me all evening. As
Brett
handed it over, he spoke words I'd thought I would never hear for the rest of my life. “I don't suppose you like to dance.”

It was a flyer for Verdeville's Saturday evening dance. “Don't bet on it — I love to dance!”

Saturday evening

Having finally learned my lesson, I'd decided not to be in personal contact with Joan, the doomsday prophet. Instead, I sent her a short email — with
Brett
's newly-borrowed fully functioning laptop — saying I'd be at the dance Saturday with
a date
. If there was any screeching, foot-stamping, or allusions to gory screen killers, I was blissfully unaware of it. All that mattered was that I was going dancing again, finally.

From spring to early autumn, the former Tennessee Army National Guard armory — on Highway
70
southeast of town — held a monthly dance, that night's event being the second of the current season. One of many different ways Greene County utilized that facility for community and public functions, the Second Saturday Dance was held in the immense space which formerly served as the motor pool bay.

A very conservative cover charge offset the equally modest refreshments provided: punch, homemade cookies and a cash bar for a small variety of colas. Dress was casual… very casual. I would have liked to wear something really nice, but didn't really want to stand out, so I selected a short denim skirt, the cowgirl boots which made me nearly four inches taller, and a buttoned cotton blouse in soft pink.

When
Brett
came to pick me up, he had a cowboy yoke shirt in muted plaid with faux pearl snaps, ironed denim jeans, and freshly polished cowhide boots. I thought we matched very nicely.

The evening featured three different bands playing three diverse kinds of music. Slated first were golden oldies of the fifties and sixties — songs my parents grooved on, so many were familiar. The second band featured what I'd call contemporary chart music, though their list reached back a decade or two for several selections. Finally, the headliners would play Country and Western of the current and past two decades mixed in with numerous C&W classics.

Brett
and I danced several of the well-played oldies, but took a breather — and refreshments outside — during much of the contemporary set. The music itself was okay, but the second band needed a lot more practice.

“If our advertising budget would stand it, I'd like the Co-op to be a co-sponsor of this monthly dance. It has a good draw… pretty much the entire cross-section of Greene County, from senior citizens to young adults.”

“I didn't see any teenagers here, though.”

“Probably out at the quarry.” He chuckled. “They wouldn't be caught dead at a place like this — not cool enough.”

“It's cool enough for me — I love moving to music. When you suggested this, I thought I was dreaming.” I still couldn't believe I was dancing. “How'd you learn to dance, anyhow?”

“For a year or so, I thought I might like to be a high school coach, so I was taking classes in kinesiology. Had one full semester of a dance course and we did everything but the foxtrot.”

“What a shame.” I tried to dig a knuckle into his ribs. “I've always wanted to see a fox trot.”

During the break after the contemporary band's set, I freshened up in the ladies room and then rejoined
Brett
at the open huge overhead doorway where the cool night air mixed with the much warmer inside atmosphere. May was the last dance with doors open — in the hot months, they ran the A/C full blast.

Lots more people danced during the headliners' set — C&W was clearly a crowd favorite in Greene County. We only sat out a few, and mainly because the dance floor was so congested.

Everything seemed perfect: the night, the music, a chance to dance again, and the comfort of having a partner who actually knew where his feet belonged. But, most of all, I loved our contact. We fit so well together that at times we seemed to be a single body with four legs… which is pretty much what ballroom dancing is all about. Some women never get to experience that, but there I was with Mr. Smooth for nearly every dance. When we walked off the floor, I saw looks on the faces of several women and knew exactly what they were thinking, so I kept
Brett
's hand clasped possessively. No way would I let any of those crafty females get their mitts on my partner.

During the slowest dances, our body heat seemed so intense I actually thought I might swoon, but figured if I did, that I'd die happy… in the arms where I'd started to feel I belonged. In one song, I'd pretty much tuned out the lyrics and melody and just flowed along with the rhythm and
Brett
, wherever his graceful leading moves took us.

During that number, my mind drifted. I thought about how we'd met when I was obsessed with a bargain priced laptop; though only a week ago, that memory seemed so distant. On Friday after school, using
Brett
's laptop and staying up very late, I had more than made up for the two weeks I'd been without a computer. Somehow, on his machine, my fingers typed as gracefully and rhythmically as our feet seemed to glide on this concrete motor pool floor. If I could keep his device another couple of days, I'd probably have my story ready to submit… and available for
Brett
to read, if he really wanted to.

I was jarred back to the present when Brett stopped moving as that song ended. Some of the older folks had drifted away, but we stayed for the final song… our last dance. With the muted noise of refreshments being put away in the distant kitchen, we swayed through a beautiful rendition of Ray Price's timeless classic, “For the Good Times,” which most people know by the words in its chorus, “Lay your head upon my pillow.”

It made
Brett
sigh… and caused me to cry. They repeated the final chorus two additional times and I wished they would have continued until morning. But the music stopped and I just stood there in his arms, as we lightly swayed back and forth.

Then he kissed me. Not as urgently or as questioning as our kisses on his porch last night, but very warm and quite intense. It surely didn't last exactly ninety-eight seconds, but that was what I planned to tell Joan.

The band was already breaking up their stage set when
Brett
finally cradled my elbow and escorted me outside to his truck.

“You feel like a bit of dessert?”

I looked into his eyes to see if that word had more than one meaning. Couldn't tell. “Not really hungry right now. A little tired, though.”

“Sleepy tired, or just need to sit for a while?”

“No, not sleepy. In fact, that's the most invigorated I've been since I moved to Verdeville.” Saying it out loud made my face flush. “I mean, yeah, I need to be off my feet for a bit.” My toes and arches were killing me after three hours in those high-heeled boots.

“We could stop at the Dairy Barne for some coffee.”

“No caffeine for me — not this late.”

Without a wager or bribe to guide us, it seemed like we both lacked direction. But I was certain whatever we did, I wanted to be
with
Brett Hardy
. What he was thinking?

“We could drive around a bit, if you like.” Then he winked. “Maybe go out to the quarry and catch the high school kids making out.”

I clutched his arm and tried to pinch through its firmness, but couldn't. “No, not the quarry.”

“Well, if I keep driving, we'll either end up in Nashville or Lake Envie, depending on which road I take up ahead.”

At that point, I had those conflicting voices in my head again. The one named Joan yelled, “You've only known this guy for eight days.” But my own whispered back, “But I know he's part of an established local family.” Joan's voice howled, “This guy's a player who only snagged you because of an opportunistic wager.” And mine whispered, “But when I finally won a wager, I chose to maintain contact.” Next my shrill friend taunted, “He can't cook and he leaves dirty dishes overnight.” And my mind's reply was, “Yeah, but he dances like a dream.” Then the Joan entity jumped up and down in my brain screaming, “He's probably an axe murderer!”

“Don't be ridiculous,” I replied… out loud.

“About what?” asked
Brett
.

“Huh? Oh, I was just thinking about stuff…”

“Me, by any chance?”

I considered denying it, but who would I be fooling? “Yeah, you. And about dancing… really this whole evening. About… us.”

Even in the dim light from his dashboard, his smile was evident. “You mean there
is
an us?”

Could he have any doubt? It had been
us
at least since those final minutes in the Italian restaurant when he finally let down his guard. “Sure. I mean, there's probably been an
us
since you licked my arm…” My face suddenly felt too warm and I was glad he couldn't see it in the darkness.

Brett
chuckled. “So that really was your tickle spot after all?”

“As if you didn't already know. You've probably pulled that same trick on dozens of women before.”

“Nope, you were the first.”

“Ha! I bet…” I paused at the reverberation of that word. “Besides, it didn't tickle anyhow. It was more of…”

“A calculated gamble to keep you close enough so you could get to know me.”

I was going to say a slow burn, but decided to pursue his new line instead. “Do you also find the local dating scene somewhat lacking?”

“Not any more.” He turned quickly and flashed a big smile before re-training his eyes on the road. “I think Verdeville has exactly what I want.”

I was determined not to blush that time. “And what might that be, Mr.
Hardy
?”

“Look, we need a decision here pretty quick.” When he patted my bare knee, it tingled where he'd touched. “I'm about a quarter mile from the fork.”

“Well then, just pull over. We can't decide this in a quarter mile… and, besides, you didn't answer my question.”