Heavens to Betsy (22 page)

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

We stand there staring at each other, neither of us making a move toward the door.

I look in his eyes, and I realize we’re both thinking the same thing. The evening has suddenly acquired date status. He could change that in a sentence if he wanted. He could make some remark about Cali. Or I could put the kibosh on the date vibes. I could ask about her.

Neither one of us does, though. Instead, David offers me his arm. “Shall we?” “Sure.”

I place my hand on his sleeve, and we step out into a night that suddenly sparkles with potential.

We’re settled into a cozy table at the Merchants downtown. It’s housed in an old bank building and retains that charm of yesteryear. The exposed brick walls, snowy tablecloths, and divine food set a romantic mood. I abandon any pretense of tracking Weight Watchers points.

On our way upstairs to the main dining room, I actually see a couple of male heads turn to watch me walk by. A girl could get addicted to that. Angeliques red dress slides against me as I move, reminding me that I’m not a preacher tonight.

The waiter takes our drink order, reels off the specials, and leaves us to peruse the menu. I find myself strangely silent, which is not usually the case when I’m around David. We never run short of conversation, but tonight he’s no chatterbox himself. At the next table a couple kisses and coos, in stark contrast to our uneasy silence. The man has caught the woman’s fingers in his, and from the suspicious movement of the tablecloth, I suspect she’s stroking his leg with her foot. Or else he has a mosquito bite he needs some help scratching.

I frown and concentrate on the menu as if I’m deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls. “Mmm. Maybe.”

Somehow we’re going to have to break this tension. But the last thing I want to do is acknowledge what we’re both thinking.
Date.
My stomach flips worse than it did when I tried out for the high-school choir. I try not to remember that I didn’t make the cut when it came to the alto section. Please let me make the choir tonight.

The waiter brings our drinks and stands there expectantly.

“How about some spinach artichoke dip?” David asks without looking up from his menu. What, we can’t even make eye contact anymore? If I weren’t so happy to be here with him, deliciously tormented by this date vibe, I’d make fun of the two of us.

“Sure.” That seems to be the sum total of my conversational skills this evening. Ready to go, Betz? Sure. Want an appetizer? Sure. I hope no one asks me to write a five-figure check at the fund-raiser. In my current condition, I’d probably do it.

There’s got to be a way to restore some normalcy to the evening without naming the elephant dancing through the restaurant.

“I’m ready for my surveillance tomorrow afternoon,” I say once we’ve placed our order. Maybe we can talk Web cams.

“Oh. That’s good.”

Okay, David is not doing his part here to get the conversational ball rolling.

“I hope it’s not anyone on the staff who’s taking the money,” I say to give him another opening.

“That would be bad,” he agrees as he fiddles with his fork.

With a sigh I wad up my napkin and throw it on the table in
front of me. “You have to help me out here, David. I can’t spend the evening talking to myself.”

“What?” David’s a million miles away. He looks up, brow furrowed.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. We both have to preach in the morning. Why don’t we just have dinner and call it a night? They won’t miss us at the fund-raiser.”

He frowns. “You don’t want to go?”

Okay, a jury of my peers, twelve single women, wouldn’t convict me if I stabbed him repeatedly right now with my salad fork.

“If I wanted to go by myself, I wouldn’t have invited you. If you didn’t want to come, you should have said so.”

It takes a moment for the meaning of my words to sink in.

“No, Betz. It’s not like that.”

“David, you’ve been monosyllabic since we ordered.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About church tomorrow?”

His cheeks color. “No, not about church.”

“Then what?” I take a deep breath and force myself to say her name. “About Cali?”

That’s when David looks at me. Really looks at me. One of those looks that makes you feel like you’ve been sucker-punched in the stomach.

“I was thinking about you.”

“Me?” I don’t mean to squeak like a mouse.

“Yeah. You.”

“What about me?”

The waiter appears tableside with two plates in hand. Two Caesar
salads and the offer of some cracked black pepper divert David’s critical reply to the question.

Of course, a moment like that is impossible to recapture. Once the waiter’s gone, I’m not sure how to steer the conversation back to its previous course. David appears to have forgotten to answer. He tears into his salad like it’s a chili dog and makes appreciative noises.

Some moments of realization break over you like waves. Others are like mists that rise from the ground and then work their way up to the heavens. This particular moment feels more like my world shifting six inches to the left, and my stomach is making an accompanying motion. Everything’s the same, but suddenly it’s all in a different place.

Because I see that David’s afraid too. Afraid of what’s suddenly happening between us.

A tingling washes through me, down my spine, and around to my belly. I don’t mean to be cruel, but his fear is the best thing I’ve felt in a long, long time.

By the time the entrées arrive, we’ve found our conversational sea legs. I don’t force the issue of his fear at dinner. Instead, I enjoy the delicious sense of anticipation that’s developed in my midsection. It’s better than the crème brûlée we split for dessert. Like a child who awakens at three o’clock on Christmas morning and hears shuffling noises downstairs, I’m aware something wonderful is about to happen. I’ve been given a gift of this one night, like Cinderella going to the ball. I mean to make the most of it—even if it all disappears when the clock strikes twelve.

The fund-raiser is at the Hermitage Hotel, so I’ve come full circle from the night when I first acknowledged my feelings for David. We
descend the steps beneath the lobby’s stained-glass ceiling, and I feel like visiting royalty. People are mingling while waiters in tuxedos circle the room with trays of drinks. The dancing isn’t scheduled to begin for half an hour.

Since I serve on the board of the Nehemiah Project, I know a number of folks present. David and I mingle, greeting people and stopping to chat here and there. The whole time I’m aware of him standing beside me. Once, he puts his hand on the small of my back and scoots me forward to keep someone from bumping into me. If another man pulled something that proprietary, I’d resent it. But with David, it feels natural. It feels right.

“Betsy! Look at you.” Greg Iverson, pastor of The Groovy Church (not its real name, but you know the type) slithers over and tries to slobber on my cheek. I pull away just in time to make it an air kiss. Greg is one of those preachers who uses his pastoral identity as an excuse to invade a woman’s personal space. Apparently no one ever told him about the stand-eighteen-inches-away rule.

Greg’s eyes run down my red dress and all the way back up. Ew! It’s especially obvious since he’s standing close enough to deprive me of necessary oxygen. Beside me, David bristles.

“Hi, Greg. Nice to see you.” I turn to David. “Look. Isn’t that LaRonda over there?” I flash Greg a toothy smile. “Excuse us, won’t you?” There’s no LaRonda, but it gets us away from Greg.

I begin to relax and enjoy myself. I am receiving actual male attention. Even better, the bulk of it is coming from the male I want to pay attention to me.

A jazz combo plays softly from the corner. Before the dancing begins, the executive director of the program makes a quick pitch for
people to pry open their wallets. It’s always struck me as ironic to get dressed up and spend a fortune on dinner and tickets so you can give more money to the charity du jour. On the other hand, I like a good party as much as the next girl, and I don’t actually get invited to that many.

Finally, finally, they herd us into the ballroom, and the dancing begins. I’ve been waiting for this all evening—the chance to feel David’s arms around me again. With a twirl he guides me onto the dance floor, and we’re off. If men knew how easily women turn to putty in their hands on the dance floor, they’d be lined up outside Arthur Murray a hundred deep. I don’t know why most women love to dance and most men don’t. One of nature’s little quirks. Or perhaps a curse coming out of Eden they forget to put in Genesis, along with men having to till the soil and women having pain in childbirth. In any event, I’m delighted that David enjoys dancing, judging by the way he executes a debonair turn and then pulls me close again. His breath tickles my ear. The music is from the big-band era, the kind my grandfather always played, and the female singer breathlessly tells how she’s found true love at last. Boy, do I know how she feels. I just wish I knew more about what was running through David’s head. Maybe he’ll burst into song and it will all become clear.

Or not.

In any event, I’m content to rest in his embrace, moving gently around the dance floor, my breath slowing to match his until it feels as if we’re one person lost in the music and the moment.

This is what heaven must be like. At least I hope that’s what it will be like. Because I could spend eternity doing what I’m doing right now.

All too soon the song ends and we step away from each other.
Despite the buzz of conversation around us, it feels as if we’re in our own world. David looks at me and I look at him. I’m surprised other people can’t see the current flowing between us. It’s just this side of tangible.

“Betz?” David’s dark eyes are unreadable—hate that! I had a better idea of what he was thinking when we were creeping through the darkened sanctuary a few nights ago.

“Yeah?”

There’s a long pause. He swallows. “Want to dance again?”

There’s not enough room on my face for my smile. “Sure.” Maybe there’s something to this whole being-agreeable thing. Look where it’s gotten me tonight.

I move back into David’s arms as the band plays the opening bars of “You Made Me Love You.”

For purposes of brevity, I will spare you the blow-by-blow of every dance we dance this evening. Suffice it to say that it just gets yummier as the night goes along. Twice I have to accept invitations to dance from big contributors. I’m as willing to do my part for the cause as the next woman, but I begrudge both the waltz and the fox trot. I fully expect David to find another partner. Instead, he stands on the side of the dance floor and watches me. Constantly. I don’t think he even blinks.

By the time he comes to reclaim me, my blood’s pounding through my veins. I slide back into his arms with familiar, frightening ease.

“Hi,” I breathe back. From our sophisticated conversation, you’d never suspect we both had graduate degrees from one of the top universities in the country.