The Reunion, page 3
The waiter showed up with their main entrée. Karen whispered a quiet Thank you, Lord. “Oh look, our food.”
The waiter now enjoyed Ken’s undivided attention. Moments later, the food on his plate did. Karen was glad. And she was glad that he’d been raised right and would never talk with his mouth full. So for the next fifteen minutes, except for Ken’s occasional delighted moans, she ate her spinach-stuffed tilapia with fire-roasted tomatoes in peace, while he ate his porcini-crusted filet mignon with herb butter.
She tried to think of questions she could ask when this chewing match was over. Not that she wanted to know him better; she just wanted to shift the focus off her. She wouldn’t have minded it as much if he’d asked questions about her favorite movies or what kind of books she enjoyed. Maybe her favorite music, what she liked to do in her downtime. She didn’t really want to tell him such things, but it would have been nice if he’d asked. No matter. After tonight, he wouldn’t get the chance to know her better. She had just thought of a way to make sure this would be their first and last date.
“So Ken, I’ve got something I’d like to ask you.”
He waited a moment, swallowed the last bite on his plate. “Yes?”
“Maybe you can help me understand something about dating. Something I’m having a hard time understanding lately.”
“Oh? Uh . . . I guess I could try.”
“What is it with guys nowadays wanting to go out with women way older than they are? You’re a guy, I thought maybe you could explain it to me. Because I don’t get it.”
Ken’s look was priceless.
“You seem really intelligent,” she continued, “so I’m guessing you’ve figured out I’m at least ten years older than you are. Being so old, I can remember a time not too many years ago when this kind of thing hardly ever happened. I mean, you’d see older guys dating younger women, but not the other way around. I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I’m really just curious. Why would you want to date someone so much older than you are? Someone like me.”
He gave her the look she was hoping for. It said, “I don’t think I do want to date someone like you anymore.” He looked around, clearly trying to find the waiter. She guessed it was time to order dessert. Ken wanted food in his mouth badly.
“Care for another breadstick?” she said, holding up the basket.
Tomorrow, she and Gail would be having a chat. Gail Washburn was her partner in a recovering real estate firm. Gail meant well and she was a great friend, but seriously.
She was a lousy matchmaker.
6
The next morning, Karen drove through the hectic morning traffic from her subdivision in Southlake to another subdivision in Keller, Texas, where she worked. Both were in the suburbs of Fort Worth. Fortunately, she only had to deal with the tail end of the rush hour, since she and Gail didn’t start opening the model homes until 9:00 a.m. Even then, they generally didn’t see many interested buyers till it got closer to lunch.
There was only one other car in the parking area: Gail’s blue SUV. Gail lived closer, right there in Keller. Gail’s first duty of the day—and they both believed her most important one—was to make the coffee. As she did, Karen would walk through the three model homes, turning on all the lights and, on this cold November morning, the heat as well.
A biting wind blew in from the plains north of town, making it feel fifteen degrees colder than the thirty-four degrees Karen had seen posted on a digital bank sign. The wind was supposed to die down in a few hours. She hoped so; they didn’t need another excuse for customers to stay home. She opened the door of the nearest model home, which also served as their office. Thankfully, Gail had already turned the heat on.
Karen set her purse on her desk. Gail was already making the coffee in the kitchen.
“How’d it go last night?” Gail asked over her shoulder.
“Let me get the other models set up, and I’ll come back and tell you.”
“I can’t wait to hear,” Gail said.
“Actually, you can.” Karen let that one linger in the air as she closed the front door and hurried to the home next door. As she walked through the other models, flicking on light switches and thermostats, she was freshly amazed at how beautiful these homes were. It was hard to fathom how low the prices had dropped. Buyers were starting to sneak back into the market, but it was nothing compared to the glory days a few years ago. Back then, they’d have lines stretching around the block and back if they’d let houses go at these prices.
After finishing the last house, she thrust her hands in her coat pockets and hurried back to the office. She found Gail sitting behind her desk, drinking her coffee. She’d already poured Karen’s into her favorite mug.
“So . . . I’m guessing things didn’t go so well with Ken last night.”
Karen stirred her coffee and walked into what should have been the garage area of the home. “Let’s say we maintained an attitude of Christian charity by the evening’s end . . . and parted as friends.”
Gail shook her head. “Am I going to be in trouble with Bill?” Bill was Gail’s boyfriend. He and Ken were close friends.
“You shouldn’t be,” Karen said as she sat down. “I’m not sure how Ken will describe the evening. I certainly wasn’t mean to him. At least, I tried not to be.”
“You weren’t mean? It sounds even worse than I was thinking.”
“It wasn’t a terrible date.” She paused. “Well, I guess it was. For me, anyway. I’m not sure how Ken will rate it. But I did my best to keep in mind he was Bill’s friend, while also making it clear this would be our one and only date.”
“He was that bad?”
“Oh, he’s nice to look at. You certainly had that part right. But we had no business being out together. Other than attending the same church, we have nothing in common. Starting with our age.”
“Did Ken make that an issue?”
“No, I did.” She set her mug on the desk. “Gail, we’ve been friends for what, five years now?”
“Five or six.”
“And I’m at least ten years older than you.”
“At least,” Gail said, smiling.
“In our friendship, it doesn’t seem to matter that much.”
“I don’t think it does.”
“But I really don’t want to be going out with guys your age. It just feels . . . awkward. I’d say Ken is a very young thirty-three and I am a very old forty-four.”
“You don’t look forty-four,” Gail said. “You don’t even look thirty-five.”
“Thanks,” Karen said. “But looks can be deceiving. The point is, I feel forty-four.”
Gail sat forward, her eyes lit up. “But that’s why I wanted you to get out, Karen, start seeing some guys. It’ll help you feel young. Our church is full of them. I always see them look at you, even the younger ones. But you don’t seem the least bit interested. I know Greg hurt you terribly, but it wasn’t your fault, and it was four years ago.”
The worst year of my life, Karen thought. It was the year Greg left and the year her mother died. “But Gail, we’ve been friends all this time, and my dating life hasn’t been an issue before. You haven’t even dated that much until recently.”
Gail sighed. “That’s just because . . . I wasn’t getting asked by the kind of guys I wanted to be with. Not guys like Bill. A year or so ago, I started really praying for the right man to show up.”
“I didn’t know that. But . . . I’m real happy you’ve found Bill. You guys seem great together.”
Gail looked up, her eyes beaming. “I am happy, Karen. I think he might be the one.”
“Well, I really am happy for you. You know that, right?”
“I do. It’s just . . . I want you to be happy too. And I’m a little worried, to be honest.”
“That I’m not happy?”
“Yes, but not just that. I’m concerned about what’s going to happen to our friendship if Bill and I get more serious. I know you would never go out by yourself with Bill and me, and I’m starting to spend a lot more time with him.”
“So . . . you’re trying to set me up with someone so we can still be friends . . . as couples?”
“Well, we’ll still be friends no matter what. We’d just get to spend more time being friends if you were . . . you know . . . with someone. Besides, I hate seeing you alone.”
“Gail, that’s very sweet, but I doubt any of Bill’s friends would be a good match for me. And neither of you probably know a guy at church my age.”
“None that aren’t already married.”
“Exactly.”
“You know, Karen, plenty of women are married to much younger men, and they’re perfectly happy.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
“But it bothers you.”
“It looks like it does,” Karen said. But she didn’t really know why. Maybe it had something to do with Greg leaving her for someone so much younger. She sighed. Why did all the men in her life end up leaving her? Her biological father left when she was five, leaving her only a meaningless last name. Then Greg. She’d be spending yet another Thanksgiving and Christmas alone. Sure, she had her brother and his family. And the dad who raised her, Mark Rafferty. They loved her. But it wasn’t the same.
“Are you going to be okay?” Gail asked.
The front door opened. The wind rushed in behind whoever it was. “Hello?” a woman’s voice called out.
“I’ll get that,” Gail whispered.
“No, let me,” Karen said. “I could use a distraction right now.”
7
Dave Russo was taking a sick day from his regular job as a wire editor for the local newspaper. He didn’t like being sick, but it gave him some time to spend the day doing the kind of writing he really wanted to do. A book about the heroes of Vietnam, in honor of his father, who died when Dave was only three.
The hardest part about writing the book was closing the door on all the memories it stirred. They didn’t shut down as easily when he closed his laptop. The memories that bothered him the most weren’t even things he planned to put in the book. It was all the personal stuff, like seeing his mother cry every Christmas and every anniversary. This went on well into his teens.
The book wasn’t even about Dave’s father, Joey Russo. It couldn’t be. There wasn’t enough information about his death to fill a few chapters, let alone a book. And his father hadn’t died in some heroic fashion. He had just blown up in a mortar barrage in one of the last battles of the war. There wasn’t even a body to ship home for a funeral. So Dave had decided to write a book about some of the heroes of Vietnam whose stories could be told, and dedicate the book to his father’s memory.
What he did know about his father came mostly from his mom, Angelina Russo. But Dave was concerned this project was becoming too hard on her. He did his best not to talk about it, but she still kept drifting down memory lane, just from seeing all the Vietnam books and resource material he’d have out on the kitchen table while he worked. Dave lived in her condo in a little town in north Florida with his son Jake. He’d been living there the past four years.
He looked up from the table toward her closed bedroom door. She was in there now, just getting over another good cry. She had come up behind him ten minutes ago, reading over his shoulder.
“Your dad was so handsome, Davey,” she’d said. “And funny. Boy, could he make me laugh. And he was romantic too, your father. And a great singer. And strong. He had these broad shoulders and big muscles in his arms.”
Dave had listened quietly. He didn’t know what could have gotten her thinking about him; it wasn’t anything Dave had just written. It was probably just the lingering emotions from this past Sunday. It would have been their forty-fifth wedding anniversary.
He’d looked up at her and smiled, watched her eyes drift toward the ceiling. She was seeing Joey Russo’s face, hearing something he’d said. She smiled. Then tears filled her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. He had gotten up and grabbed the box of Kleenex, tried to think of something else to talk about, something in the present.
He reached over now and grabbed a few Kleenex for himself, blew his stuffy nose. Then one of his own memories stirred, something that happened when he was nine years old. Two kids at school were arguing. One had just bragged that his dad was a war hero, because he’d won the Silver Star in Vietnam. The other boy said it didn’t count because his dad had told him Vietnam was a scum war, the first war we’d ever lost.
That angered Dave. Without even thinking, he slugged the kid right in the face, gave him a bloody nose. The teacher had sent him home for the rest of the day. When he’d gotten home, he ran into his room and cried into his pillow so his mom wouldn’t hear. He didn’t understand much about the Vietnam War then. Just enough to know something was wrong with it. He knew the whole country had turned against it—even against the soldiers who’d fought in it. And because they had, Dave never felt like he’d gotten the chance to grieve properly for his father. He didn’t know anyone he could talk to about it, anyone who’d understand.
He remembered as a kid how he used to envy people who’d lost fathers in other wars, especially World War II. Those men were all considered heroes, because that was a “good” war. A war we had to fight. But when Dave was growing up, no one ever talked about the Vietnam War that way. It was the scum war, the war his father fought in and died in for nothing.
He was so glad things were different now. And as painful as it was, writing this book was good for him. For some reason, it helped him feel closer to his father, helped his father seem more real than just a smiling face in a few fuzzy Polaroid photos.
8
An hour later, Dave’s mom was back in the kitchen, making dinner. She seemed totally over it. His cell phone rang. It was Harry Warden, his boss at the newspaper.
“Okay, Dave, I got the funding for the Houston trip approved,” Harry said.
It took Dave a moment to track with what Harry was saying; maybe it was the cold medicine. “Oh, thanks, Harry. You remember I’m taking a vacation day tacked on the end.”
“For your book thing, right?”
Dave nodded. “I have to confirm it, but I’m hoping to interview this oil company executive who won the Silver Star in Vietnam, lives right there in Houston.”
“And you remember the expenses for that extra day aren’t included,” Harry said.
“I do.” Of course, the per diem the newspaper gave Dave was way more than he’d need. It wasn’t hard on these trips to stretch the food allowance. He couldn’t do anything about the hotel expense, but—
“How’s this book project coming?” Harry asked.
“I’ve still got a ways to go,” Dave said. “I’m not even close to shopping it out yet. Just gathering info. I’ve got a ton of Vietnam veterans left to interview. Since I’m having to pay my own way, it’s taking forever. That’s why trips like this one to Houston are so great.”
“Can’t you just interview these guys over the phone?”
“I could. I’ve tried that a few times, but it’s just not the same. The stuff I’m trying to get these guys to talk about is heavy stuff. Stirs some bad memories, lots of emotion. I’ve found it works better if we can meet in person. Take it slow. I can read how they’re doing a lot better face-to-face.”
“I can see that. It was a horrible time. How many people you going to interview before you’re done?”
“A lot more than I’m putting in the book. I’m going to select about seven or eight men from dozens of interviews—the ones that affect me the most—and tell their story with lots of details. I’m hoping to make it read like a fiction novel.”
“So, what’s with this guy in Houston?”
“I’ve only talked with him briefly, so I haven’t heard very much. From what I read, he got his medal defending a Huey that crash-landed. Knocked the pilot out. He kept the Viet Cong at bay until help arrived. Something like that.”
“Well, hope you heal up in time for your trip.”
They hung up. Dave had two other calls to make. His son Jake was on the local high school basketball team. They’d had an incredible season last year. On the strength of that, they’d been invited to a big preseason tournament in Houston. That’s what this trip was all about. He decided to give Jake a quick call, then Mr. John Lansing, the oil executive/war hero in Houston.
He dialed Jake’s number but got his voice mail. “Hey, Jake, it’s me, Dad. Just got word that the paper’s sending me with you guys to Houston. I’m calling to see if your team already made flight arrangements. If so, can you give me the info for the way there? I’d love to ride with you if there’s any seats left. But just on the way there, not the flight home. I have to stay an extra day in Houston. Well, call me when you hear this. Love you.”
There was at least a fifty-fifty chance Jake would call him before the day ended. They had a good relationship, on the whole. And Jake was a good kid. High school is a scary time for any parent, but Jake hadn’t given Dave too much cause for alarm so far. He was a little concerned about Jake pulling away now that he’d made the basketball team. Seemed like he was. But they had talked, and Jake had convinced Dave it was just the schedule, not anything going on in his heart.
Keeping their hearts connected was the main thing for Dave. Meant more than anything else in his life. Certainly more than this job at the newspaper. Or his book project.
Jake’s mother had died four years ago in a commuter plane crash.
That’s what had brought Dave here to Florida from Atlanta. Dave’s mom had moved down from Chicago years ago; really to be closer to Jake, her only grandson. She and Dave’s ex-wife, Anne, had stayed close after he and Anne divorced. That happened back when Jake was seven. From then until four years ago, Anne had primary custody. Dave saw him at fixed times in the year, because he lived out of state.
They hadn’t been all that close. Dave now believed this was totally his fault.
Just like the divorce. He was an idiot. A selfish, ambitious fool. It took Anne’s tragic death for him to see it. Didn’t come in time to help their relationship but hopefully in time to give him and Jake a second chance.
