Chapter 8
The following Saturday, Sam found himself knocking on the door of Red’s trailer clutching a last-minute plant he’d grabbed at the market. Red loved anything having to do with flowers and gardening. Only now did it dawn on him: planting things went hand in hand with her hankering for roots.
Sam shifted his feet on the doormat. In his hand, the cellophane-covered plant crackled. He propped up a wilting daisy. So, this was dating.
The flower fell again just as a woman in wire rimmed glasses with wavy silver hair opened the door. “Come on in. Sophia’s back there getting ready.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She took the plant from him. “Aren’t these pretty? I’ll get a saucer to put under it.”
The woman toddled over to a cupboard while Sam’s feet remained on the rug in front of the door. This was exactly what he’d been dreading. And she hadn’t offered him a seat—not that she seemed like the formal type.
A muted clatter came from behind a closed door down the narrow hallway, followed by an ominous crash.
“It’s okay,” called Red. “Just dropped my shoebox full of nail polish. It’ll only take a minute.”
Said no woman ever. C’mon, Red. Had she actually chosen this time to paint her nails?
“Sophia says you two went to school together. I thought I knew all her friends. My memory must be getting bad,” said her grandmother, setting the flowerpot in the center of the kitchen table.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve changed a little since then.”
Grandma returned to her easy chair in front of the TV and motioned toward the sofa. “Well, you sure are a clean cut fellow now. Might as well have a seat. I don’t know how long she’ll be.” She picked up the remote and turned down the volume on the show she was watching. “My granddaughter might be smart as a whip and have a heart the size of Texas but she isn’t the most organized. Besides that, her dating skills are a little rusty. This is the first time she’s had a boy to the house since she graduated college.”
Not having gone out with anyone else, it hadn’t occurred to him that Red might. He was surprised, then touched.
“Did you play sports or act in any of the school plays or anything like that?”
“A little baseball. That’s it.”
“Well, I had one girl, Sophia’s mama, and then came Sophia. In all my years I couldn’t have gone to more than a handful of baseball games.” She tapped her lip and frowned. “Come to think of it, I do recall some boy getting hit in the nose with a ball one time. There was no family there to tend to him, and Sophia insisted on us driving him down to the med center in McMinnville. She always was one to look out for the underdog.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Ragamuffin, he was. I was half embarrassed to be seen with him in my minivan. Made you want to take him home and give him a bath, then a haircut. Can you believe the way some children are raised? Eventually the receptionist managed to track someone down and told us we could leave.”
Sam fidgeted. Where was Red?
At the height of his discomfort, a door opened down the hall and a dressier, sexier version of Red appeared, smelling flowery.
He stood. “Wow, Doc. You look great.”
“Look what he brought you,” said her grandmother. “Gerbera daisies. You can plant them, later.”
Tentatively, Red fingered a blossom. “Wet nails.” She smiled at him. “Pretty.”
“Where are you two off to?”
“Sam’s taking me to The Radish Rose.”
“Isn’t that nice? Well, be good.”
On their way to his van, Sam said, “That wasn’t awkward.”
“What do you mean? Were you uncomfortable?”
“Like a cow on roller skates. Kept expecting she was going to tell me to have you back by ten.”
“You’ll be happy to know I have a liberal curfew.”
“Then again, you are a grown woman with a PhD and her own business.”
He put the van into reverse and looked in the rearview, catching a glimpse of her legs on the seat next to him where her skirt had slid up when she got in.
His arm automatically contracted to place his hand on one milky thigh before he remembered the new rules.
“How was your week?”
“Busy,” she replied, smoothing her skirt down demurely toward her knees, leaving her hands on her thighs for her nails to dry. “Yours?”
“Same.”
A clumsy silence descended. Hard to believe this stiff, wooden couple was the same one who had a penchant for steamy matinées in the great outdoors.
“Hope you’re hungry.”
“Starved. I worked later than I intended. The only time this one couple could come in was between five thirty and six thirty. They paid their sitter double to stay late.”
“Kind of throws a wrench into your day, letting people pick their own hours.”
“I know. But they have little kids, and if they’re willing to do the work and I can keep their family together…”
“Lucky for them you’re so willing to adjust your schedule. Hope it works out.”
Was this the kind of dry conversation Red was looking for?
After the van, The Radish Rose hummed with energy and movement. They had just got their breadbasket when the hostess led the Bergs past their table. James owned the gas station across the street from the consortium, and Pat worked at the Albertson’s in McMinnville.
“Dr. McDonald,” exclaimed Pat, touching Red’s shoulder. “Thanks again for seeing Cassadee on such short notice. Those nightmares of hers are keeping the whole house up.”
Red smiled tightly. “No problem.”
Did Pat not realize the position she was putting Red in? Not to mention clueing in the whole town that her daughter was in therapy.
It was at that moment that Pat noticed that Red wasn’t alone.
“Hello, Sam. How’s the wine business?”
Sam saluted, silently willing Pat to move along.
“Hold on,” Pat said, eyeing Red’s fancy top, her hair piled on top of her head. “Are you two on a date?”
Red lifted a questioning brow at Sam, passing the burden of answering on to him.
“Everybody’s got to eat,” he said, ripping off a chunk of baguette, slathering butter on it and cramming it into his mouth.
Red’s brightly painted lips pursed. Then she turned to Pat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, we are.”
“Isn’t that special?” Pat clasped her hands. “James, did you hear that? Dr. McDonald and Sam Owens are dating.”
“The girl’s waiting,” said her long-suffering husband, pointing with the top of his head to where the hostess stood holding their menus while at the front of the house, a line formed.
“Whole town’ll know now,” sighed Sam as the Bergs walked away.
Red perused her menu thoughtfully. When Sam didn’t open his, she asked, “Do you already know what you’re having?”
“Same thing I always have here. Spaghetti.”
“Don’t you even want to look to see if something else might catch your eye?”
“Why should I? They make great spaghetti.”
“Hm. I hear the seared tuna is good. Or I could get the artisanal cheese quiche.”
“You could.”
“Tonight’s special is chicken parm with penne. You know what they say about penne.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s the perfect date pasta.”
“There is such a thing?”
“Sure. It’s all about the shape of the pasta. Not like spaghetti, where you have to slurp it up and there’s a chance you might splash red sauce on your top.”
“Who knew? Well, I happen to like spaghetti. I’m willing to live dangerously.”
When their food came, Sam dug into his spaghetti and meatballs and continued his story of how the website snafu got cleared up.
“So then I posted the problem on their help forum—”
Red tapped the corner of her mouth discreetly. Sam assumed that meant he was dragging the story out, so he speeded it up.
“—and bam, right away, customer service comes back and—”
She tapped again.
“What?” He waved his fork in the air.
“You got red sauce. Right…” She indicated a spot on her own face.
He wiped at his chin. “Did I get it?”
“No.”
He stunk at this dating thing. He wondered if Red was wondering the same thing he was—what they were going to do with themselves after dinner, if sex was off the menu.
Their server, Liz Greenburn, came back around to ask if they wanted dessert. Last winter, Liz and Heath Sinclair’s dad, Scott, had stunned all of Clarkston by moving in together. Turned out middle aged people weren’t too old for such shenanigans.
“We have homemade peach pie tonight.”
Red brightened. “I like pie.”
Sam slapped closed the menu and handed it back to Liz. “One slice of pie.”
“Am I supposed to feed it to you?” he asked when it arrived.
“You’re mixed up. That’s ice cream.” Red cut through the flaky crust into the sweet filling and deposited a bite into her mouth, closing her lips on the fork and drawing it out slowly.
An erotic feeling stirred in Sam’s center.
“Besides,” said Red. “That would be out of the correct order of things. Remember? We’re backtracking. Doing things sequentially, starting with cuddling.” She took another bite, savoring it slowly.
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes glued to her mouth. “So how about you fill me in on just what you mean by ‘in order’? Sooner we can get started, the sooner we can get back to the good stuff.”
“Well,” she said, “I want to ask you if you’d be willing to try something called Sensate Focus Technique. It’s a process that was designed for couples with sexual dysfunction, although—”
“Keep it down, would you?” Frantically, Sam looked around at the closely packed tables. “You want people to think I have a problem in the sack?”
“Sorry,” she whispered loudly. “As I was saying, strictly in general terms, because IN YOUR CASE, SEXUAL DYSFUNCTION IS DEFINITELY NOT—REPEAT, NOT—A PROBLEM.”
Heads turned.
“Jesus.” He couched his forehead in his hand.
Red continued with her candid description. “SFT is a well-established method to treat things like, oh”—she licked her fork and waved it in the air—“erectile dysfunction, premature ejaculation...” She ticked off the examples as if they were architectural styles or wedding dresses instead of the most emasculating conditions known to mankind.
Sam leaned across the table and hissed, “Do you think maybe we could talk about this someplace else, where there aren’t thirty-seven people eavesdropping?”
Out of nowhere, Liz reappeared. “Listen to you two. Sound like an old married couple instead of one on their first date. Will there be anything else?”
“No,” he said, running a finger between his neck and collar. “Just the check.”
Liz bent over to within a foot of Sam’s ear. “Don’t worry. When Scott and I first got together, he had a little problem with delayed ejaculation. You know, when men can’t reach orgasm? Sometimes they call it inhibited ejaculation. It’s not unusual for a man Scott’s age. Anyway, I sent him over to Dr. McDonald, here, and now he’s as good as—”
“Please.” Sam stuck his fingers in his ears. He’d survived two wars, but don’t make him listen to his friend’s dad’s problems getting it up. “Stop.”
Liz straightened her spine and drew in her chin with a hurt expression. “I was only trying to help. I’d hate for your sexual shortcomings to come between—”
“Just the check,” Red repeated cheerfully.