CHAPTER 63

 

8:07 p.m.

Rita stared at the man in the light tan jacket. The lighting barely illuminated his face, so she moved slightly closer to get a better look. Suddenly, it dawned on her. It was Father Pete.

“Oh, my God—Father Pete,” a look of astonishment crossing her face, “is that you?”

“I’m afraid it is,” he answered sheepishly, “and I’m more than a little embarrassed.”

Valdez shook her head back and forth. “No, no,” she said. “I’m the one who should be embarrassed. I thought you were…well…never mind.”

“I won’t tell, if you won’t tell,” quipped Richter. “But, seriously – you won’t say anything to anyone, will you?”

“I won’t tell a soul,” replied Rita. “Get it? A soul?” Richter frowned. “Okay – my bad,” she said. “So, now what?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, Miss Valdez, but I could really use a drink.”

Rita reflected on Father Pete’s offer. Why not? After all, he was only a man—and not a bad looking one at that. Take away the title, remove the collar, and beneath the clerical facade beat the heart of a red-blooded male, cloistered, perhaps, but a man nevertheless. She had always wondered what religious types did after dark, and now she knew—or, at least she knew what this one did. Rita decided to go wherever the evening took her. Besides, she reasoned, this man certainly wasn’t a killer—a little horny perhaps—but definitely not a threat to her.

Richter shuffled uncomfortably on the stool. Then, as if suddenly remembering why they were there, he blurted out, “So, how about a frozen Margarita?”

“I think I could really use one,” admitted Rita. She smiled warmly, and Father Pete relaxed a bit. God, she’s gorgeous, he thought.

“So, you’ve really got that computer thing going, huh, Miss Valdez?” He was obviously uncomfortable with what to call her.

“Father Pete,” she said, “Why don’t you just call me Rita. Never mind that Miss Valdez stuff. Okay?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. This was probably the most awkward situation in which Rita had ever found herself.

“Look,” said Richter, “this is probably a big mistake. Why don’t we just have that Margarita, and then I’ll see you home?”

They both turned toward the bartender, who, as if possessing a talent for reading peoples’ minds, moved toward them, ready to take their drink order. “Two frozen Margaritas,” said Father Pete.

“So, Rita, have you done this before?” he asked.

“You mean, meet with a stranger for a drink?”

Richter nodded.

“Well, to tell you the truth, no,” she replied. “At least, not for a very long time.”

The drinks arrived, and Richter took one and handed it to Rita. “So, what shall we toast to?” he asked, raising his glass.

“To silly blind dates!” said Rita.

“Better yet,” added Richter, “to the Internet!”

The mariachi band was starting to play again—a slow, sensuous melody that begged to be danced to. The couple sat quietly. Richter broke the awkward silence. “How about just one dance?” he asked.

Why not? The poor bastard probably hasn’t danced since high school. She stood, and extended her hand. “Okay, but just one,” she said. Richter took her hand in his, and gently guided Rita to the dance floor; she noticed his hands were sweating. “Don’t worry,” she said with a smile, “I won’t bite. You can dance, can’t you?”

“Well, it has been a long time,” replied Richter.

Soon, they were dancing, the earlier awkwardness replaced by a growing familiarity. Bob, the bartender, watched them move around the dance floor, and thought they made a nice couple.