When Marc Garman rang the doorbell Saturday evening, Carla was ready. She hadn’t intended to wear perfume; after all, this was not a date. Nevertheless, at the last moment she hurried into the bathroom and did one quick little spray. A quick glance in the mirror told her she looked pretty and refreshingly different from her work appearance, dressed now in her jeans and sweater.
As she opened the door, she backed up behind it, peeking around the edge of it in a way that she could never have known was so fetching as it was, else she would probably not have done so.
“Well, hello,” Marc said, smiling in a wide, engaging grin, obviously pleased.
“Hi,” Carla responded. “You must have had a nice day to look so happy.”
“I’m hungry, and I’m looking forward to great food. You didn’t eat, did you?”
“Eat? Why would I eat when I’m going out to dinner?”
“Well, so you could maintain poise and not appear too ravenous.”
She looked at him curiously, and he responded by picking up her jacket and helping her into it. “I’m just kidding,” he said. “You’ll have to give up any sense of propriety when you eat at Sicily’s. The spaghetti’s too good to pass up, and it’s pretty messy unless you’re a seasoned Italian.”
“A seasoned Italian?” Carla repeated, her mouth twitching in a grin.
Marc jerked his head back and laughed out loud. “Are you ready?” he asked, smiling.
“I think I am.”
They walked out to his car together, and Carla wanted to pinch herself as she sat down in the low seat, waiting for Marc Garman to close the door.
“Do you want the top up?”
“Well…”
“I’ll put it up. Your hair looks beautiful. How about if we have it down after dinner?”
“Thanks. That would be perfect.”
He climbed in and turned to Carla. “You know I’ve really been looking forward to this.”
“I know: ‘The food is wonderful,’” she teased.
He laughed. “Yep, the food is wonderful.”
They drove to Sicily’s without saying much, occupying the time with Carla’s admiration of the car and trivial comments about the weather and the traffic.
As they walked into the restaurant, Marc took her arm and said, in a confident tone, “I have just one request for this evening.”
She couldn’t avoid looking at him, under the circumstances, and she felt herself growing red. “What’s that?”
“No shop talk. OK?”
“All right,” Carla replied. “And I have one request. Don’t make me blush again.”
Marc looked at her, a big grin on his face. “I can’t control your skin.”
“Neither can I,” Carla said in dismay, blushing deeper, and Marc laughed.
“C’mon,” he said affectionately, “let’s eat. At least no one will notice spaghetti on your face when you’re blushing.”
“Thanks,” Carla said, facetiously. “That’s comforting.”
The foyer was crowded, and it took several minutes for Marc and Carla to get through the line to the hostess.
“Garman, Marc Garman,” Marc said. Carla saw the hostess glance up with a look of curiosity on her face, which widened into a smile as she said, “Right this way.” The middle-aged woman led them through two large rooms crowded with people and reverberating with laughter and noise into a small room of intimate booths. “We chose this one. Is it satisfactory?”
“Perfect,” Marc replied. “Thank you,” he said, smiling.
As the woman left, Carla found herself wondering what Marc had done to merit such favor. She didn’t have to wonder long.
“I’m not exactly a regular customer, but I’ve been here before, and they aim to please.”
“Do you pay them?” Carla asked bluntly.
“Yes, candid Carla. Money talks, and in this case, the money’s well spent. For a few dollars more we can eat our food and communicate without having to yell at each other.”
“It is pretty noisy out there.”
“Besides, this is a much nicer table, don’t you think?”
“Well, yes. It’s very—cozy.” She wrapped her lips around the word.
“If you blush here, only I will notice.”
“And you promised not to make me blush, anyway.”
“No, I never agreed to that. Remember? I can’t control your skin.”
“I’m not so sure,” Carla said, half under her breath, and reached for her menu. “So their forte is spaghetti?”
“Definitely, although they do a good job with just about everything.”
The two sat in silence for a moment, poring over their menus. Presently, Marc set his on the table and waited for Carla, who refused to hurry her perusal. At last she purposefully set it down and folded her arms on the table in front of her, a reflection of the smug feeling she had. Before Marc could ask what she’d decided upon, the waiter was at their table.
“Ma’am?”
“I’d like to try your manicotti, please.”
“Excellent choice, ma’am.” The waiter smiled as he jotted. “Would you care for a salad this evening?”
“Please. The Caesar with a side of honey mustard.”
“By all means.” He turned to Marc.
“You, sir?”
“I’ll have the spaghetti with Italian sausage, and Caesar salad. And we would like some cheese bread along with garlic toast.”
“Yes, sir. And to drink?”
“Later.”
“You, ma’am?”
Oh, just water with lemon, thanks. Perhaps espresso later.” The waiter smiled again and walked off.
“You like espresso?” Marc asked.
“I’ve only had it once,” Carla admitted, suddenly embarrassed. “I thought I might try it again. Do you like it?”
“Once in a while it’s nice. Maybe you should try it with some spumoni.” He looked at her. “Have you had spumoni?”
“Well, yes.”
“You don’t care for it?”
“Not a whole lot. I’d prefer a wine sundae or just plain vanilla.”
“Would you like some wine, Carla?”
“Mmm… No, not really. The only kind of wine I like is sweet wine, and I don’t want to appear gauche.”
“You can have sweet wine. Have whatever you want, Carla.”
“Well, I guess I’d rather try the espresso with dessert than the wine for dinner.”
“But you can have both.”
“I don’t want both,” Carla retorted, with a teasing smile playing on her lips.
“Well, then. All right.” Marc nodded his assent, and moved on. “Where did you have spumoni?”
“I’m not sure I can remember, it was so long ago. I remember having three-colored ice cream at home when I was still pretty young, but it didn’t have the rum flavor. It is rum, isn’t it?” she asked, and seeing Marc’s affirmative nod, continued. “When I had the real thing I decided I could live without spumoni ice cream.”
“Ah, too bad.” Marc sighed an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll have to enjoy it alone tonight.” He grinned. “Their wine sundaes are pretty good, too.”
“It sounds like you’ve been here more than once or twice.”
“Yes. Patrice introduced me to this restaurant, actually.” Carla was aware that Marc’s eyes were keenly focused on her. “We ate here enough for her to get tired of it, but I never did: I could never have too much Italian food.”
The food proved to be excellent, as Carla told Marc, but truth to tell, she was too concentrated on the handsome man across the table to really appreciate how very good it was. The two covered a wide gamut of topics, from what geographical regions were most appealing to each of them to how many cousins they each had. They both laughed a lot, and Carla felt sure Marc was enjoying her company as much as she was his.
“Mmm. This is…stout,” Carla said, appraising her espresso.
“Too much for you?” Marc teased.
“I’m not complaining; I like it.”
“How’s your sundae?”
“Delicious. How’s the spumoni?”
“You have to try it,” Marc said, reaching for her spoon and filling it from a corner of the square of ice cream on his plate.
Carla sampled it.
“Like it?”
“That is good—much better than I remember.”
“Have some more.” He pushed his dessert dish to the center of the table.
“One more bite. Do you want to try my sundae?”
“No, I’ve had it before. It’s good—just not so good as the spumoni. Don’t you agree?”
“I think you’re right,” Carla agreed.
“Next time you’re here, you’ll know just what to order for dessert.”
……….
It was as they were passing through the first crowded room on their way out that Marc took Carla’s arm to stop her from proceeding any further. Carla turned to see to whom he was saying hello. She caught her breath, in surprise.
“Hi, Rita,” Marc said, still holding Carla’s arm. Rita was there with five other people, and Carla looked from one to another, smiling in an effort to cover the embarrassment she felt at this unexpected meeting.
Rita was obviously surprised, too. “Why, hello, Carla.”
Thankfully, the aisle was crowded, so Marc and she had to move along out of the way after a very brief exchange of dialogue. Still, Carla wished Rita hadn’t seen her with Mr. Garman. She wasn’t sure she wanted anybody to know about her having had dinner with him.
“Do you know Rita very well?” Marc queried as they settled into the car.
“No, not really. She’s been a little hard to get to know.”
“Between the two of us, I don’t think she gets along very well with Nancy,” Marc stated, to Carla’s surprise.
“No, she doesn’t.” Carla looked down at her hands in her lap. “But it’s not Nancy’s fault.
“I… figured that.”
Carla turned her head to look at Marc. “Nancy has really made an effort to get along with Rita, but Rita’s been very rude to her.”
“Hmm. Do you know why?”
“Well, yes, I think I do.” She sighed. “I’d rather not talk about it right now.”
“Maybe later?”
“Maybe.” Carla frankly couldn’t imagine getting into a discussion of pro-life picketing at an abortion clinic with Marc Garman. She glanced at him. “I thought we weren’t going to shoptalk.”
“Oops. That’s right. My bad.”
They rode in silence for a while, until Carla realized they weren’t headed in the direction of her apartment. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Oh, nowhere in particular. Did you want to go anywhere in particular? It’s only 8:45.”
Carla smiled. “I don’t really feel like eating—or coffee.”
“Have you ever been to Speed Rock Trail?”
“No. Have you?”
“Well, yes and no. I drove there once when I was going through a kind of difficult time. But I never actually went on the trail. It’s supposed to be beautiful.”
“At night?”
“Particularly at night.”
“I think I’d rather see it in the daytime.”
“Some Saturday?”
“Sure.” Carla hoped her face didn’t reflect the cartwheels she felt inside.
“But it’s still too early to take you home.” He turned to Carla and said seriously, “It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed an evening so much.”
“Really? That’s nice to hear.”
“So, since it’s too dark for Carla outside, how about going to the mall and browsing for a while before I take you home?”
“That sounds fun. The Greek import store is really interesting.”
“The Greek import store? Mmm. I was thinking about Projects, Inc. Have you been there?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll act interested in imports for a while if you’ll indulge me in a walk through the hardware store.”
“Perfect,” Carla replied, smiling.
It was after they’d “shopped” the import store and were browsing Projects, Inc., that Marc and Carla ran into another shopper whom Marc seemed to know quite well. “Carla, this is Dr. Joe Denspot. He helped me once when I really needed some advice.” He turned to the doctor. “This is Carla Chadwell, a good friend of mine.”
Joe Denspot had a twinkle in his eye as he addressed Carla. “I’m always curious when I’m introduced to a ‘good friend.’ Does that mean you’re a close friend, or are you actually a good friend?”
Carla was impressed with the kindness that seemed to radiate from the older man’s face. “Aren’t they the same?” she asked, intrigued.
“I’ll answer your question, Doc,” Marc said. “She’s a good friend. You would approve.” Then, turning to Carla, he explained, “Joe is a…a…”
“Shrink,” Joe interrupted, smiling. “I try my best to help shrink problems in peoples’ lives. It’s nice to meet you, Carla. Are you from Rock Pier?”
“Well, I’m actually from Plainview, but I’ve lived here almost four years.”
“And are you independently wealthy, or do you have to work like the rest of us?” The doctor’s conversational humor appealed to Carla.
She laughed. “No, I’m not independently wealthy. I’m a lowly administrative assistant.”
“She’s a very talented administrative assistant,” Marc added, approvingly.
“You sound a little biased,” Joe commented, returning Marc’s smile.
“Well, perhaps I am. She’s my assistant. She agreed to let me take her out for dinner to say thanks for some hard work beyond her job requirement.” He looked at Carla reassuringly. “And I’m grateful she consented. Her company is as excellent as her work.”
Joe nodded at Carla and then turned again to Marc. “Stop by and fill me in on how you’re doing. I’d be pleased to know. In my line of duty, it’s refreshing just to have a friend stop by and chat.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to take up your time.”
“It wouldn’t be just taking up my time. It would be energizing to me. Please do come by. Between one and three I try to leave open for whatever God might bring my way.” He grinned and reached for Marc’s hand. “If He’d bring you—hey, I’d be happy. In the mean time, good to see you.”
Carla extended her hand as well. “It was nice to meet you, Doctor.”
“Likewise, absolutely.”
Joe Denspot walked away, and neither Marc nor Carla said anything for a few moments except for empty comments about unusual products in the store. Carla couldn’t deny her curiosity, but she knew she had no right to pry into Marc’s past. On the other hand, she wanted to leave the subject open by not changing it, so she allowed the small chat to go on, until Marc spoke up.
“Carla.” Carla looked up at him from the apple corer she was examining, but she said nothing. “I haven’t told you much about myself, or about Patrice and me.” Carla listened, mute. “But I… I really don’t want to do that right now.”
Carla looked at him, her face unsuccessfully trying to hide the bewilderment she felt. “All right.”
“It’s not all right. You’ll have to forgive me for not being entirely open with you.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck pensively. “It’s just…”
“I understand.”
“But I’d like to talk with you about it sometime—I really would. Just not right now.”
“Marc, I don’t think baring our souls was on the program for this evening.”
Marc laughed as though he felt relieved. “You are a good friend.”
“You’re a good friend, too,” Carla replied sincerely.
They left the mall and walked out towards the car. It was sprinkling. Great, huge drops of water splatted on the pavement and wet their hair and clothes, but it lasted only momentarily.
“Was rain in the forecast?” Marc asked, his hand gingerly on Carla’s elbow as they crossed the parking lot.
“I didn’t hear a forecast, but it’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
Carla sat in the car with a warm satisfaction in her heart that didn’t seem to affect the shivering which she was unable to control, nor conceal. When Marc commented on her obvious shivering, she told him not to worry. “I just shiver at night when it’s cold. It makes my teeth chatter, so you’ll have to do the talking for both of us.”
“I think I’d rather listen to you chatter. But it’s not that cold, Carla,” he said, puzzled.
Carla laughed, knowing her shivering was more from emotional excitement than from being cold. Nevertheless, she responded, “If this were a warm summer night in July, I wouldn’t be shivering.”
Marc looked at her, and there was a gentle teasing tone in his voice now. “Are you sure?”
Carla returned his gaze and replied honestly, “No.”
“Ah.” Marc sounded satisfied. “Well, I’ll drive you home.”
At the door he said he didn’t feel like he’d paid her back sufficiently for all the help she’d been to him.
“Oh, yes. Of course you have,” Carla insisted.
“No. I don’t think so. We’ll have to do this again,” he said, turning and leaving. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Carla watched him walk out to his car. “Thanks for dinner,” she called out.
“Thank you,” he called back, looking up at her with a broad grin on his face.
It was the image of that last expression that Carla played over and over in her mind as she brushed her teeth and got ready for bed, and again while she lay in bed before drifting off to sleep—and again and again the next day. Somehow she knew Marc had enjoyed the evening as much as she. This was a gratifying thought as she contemplated what would happen Monday morning when they were back in their places as boss and secretary.