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.”
He checked his mirror, then slowed until he could pull off onto the shoulder. His flashing lights made the nearby black woods look like they were staggering.
“So, what is it that you want, Brett?”
When he held out his hand, I placed mine on top of his and he gently curled his thick fingers around mine. “You. I want you.”
Couldn’t help gasping. I felt like a teenager when the popular boy asked me to the prom… only that had never happened to me. “Me?”
“You. You’re the one I’ve been looking for since I got back from the Army two years ago.”
Somehow my brain struggled to apply a logical thread. “But I’ve been right here at the elementary school this whole time.”
He pulled my hand to his lips and kissed my fingertips, softly. “It’s been a long time since grammar school, Chloe. I’ve been out in the world with some of the bad dogs and I just wanted to come home, help the family business, and live out a peaceful life.” He cleared his throat softly. “But I don’t want to do that alone.”
Sometimes, at the most inopportune moments, my inner idiot blurts out a question which should have remained unspoken. “But why me? There are plenty of young women…”
“None of the others ever hired me to hold their place in line.”
That inner imbecile was struggling to interfere again, but I squelched it. “Well, it’s lucky you happened by at just the right time.”
“I’d jogged that same circuit almost every morning for nearly two years. What took you so long to get into that line?”
Their super sales were only twice a year, but I sensed he didn’t mean it literally. “Well, I wasn’t sure I could get a good deal.”
“Did you?”
“Get a good deal?” I smiled and squeezed his hairy tanned hand. “Yes, a very good deal.”
“So it was win-win.”
I nodded in the darkness.
“But I still don’t know where we’re heading tonight… and I’m burning up gasoline.”
I pointed straight ahead, which actually told him nothing. And I tried to concentrate, but couldn’t. “Well, as I’ve already explained, I’m no prize in the kitchen, but I can usually make popcorn without burning it up.”
After checking his mirror and pulling back on Highway 70, Brett turned and flashed an eager smile. “What else can you cook?”
I thought again about how well we’d fit together on that warm dance floor and how it felt when we’d kissed. Truly, I couldn’t remember ever realizing that degree of closeness with any other man. “Well, not that you’ll see the proof right away… but I also know how to scramble eggs.”
This time, he blushed.
Wait ‘til I tell Joan I embarrassed the axe murderer.
Then, rather slowly, Brett continued, “One of the side products we sell at the Co-op is homemade Mayhaw Jelly from an elderly couple who trucks in the berries from relatives in north Louisiana.” He glanced over to be certain I was paying attention. “It tastes so addictive on fresh warm toast, that some folks might think — if I offered anyone a free pint — that it was a bribe… to get something I wanted.”
“Don’t bet on it,” I said silently, with only my lips moving.
As he had seemingly done since our first few encounters, he apparently read my mind… and smiled.
When he nodded over his shoulder to the cargo compartment behind our seats, I saw a box with a dozen pint jars. It was too dark to read the labels, but I knew they were Mayhaw. “Looks like you always come prepared.”
He clasped my hand again and then accelerated.
The End