Enough to Miss Christmas

"God, yes! Just be practical!" Maureen squealed and went on to say Paul North wasn't simply well to do, he was, as my niece described, rich in capital letters. I continued to protest that I'd just met the man. Yes, we enjoyed each other's company but, contrary to my unsaid wishes, I doubted I'd ever hear from him again.

I managed to laugh the conversation to conclusion but my niece's not-too-subtle evaluation of her uptight widow aunt left me hoping I'd not made a spectacle of myself at yesterday's affair. Or, was I such a stick in the mud I couldn't enjoy the occasional company of a man without entertaining teenage Cinderella dreams?

I'd not had a true relationship in my five years of widowhood. There'd been two men and neither offered a hint of a future, nor even much passion. After Doug's death I'd had enough of the military men. When I returned to college, everyone was so young I felt like their parent. Sarah Blanding . . .I'd dropped my married name Jacobson . . . was resigned to remaining a widow, content with her boring life.

Was a fun evening, the first in years, or hearing my sister once again tell me she loved me, starting to chip at that contentment? The thought of going back to Virginia and an empty apartment with closed doors and straight ahead looks from transient neighbors was putting me out of sorts. I needed time to reflect on the past twenty-four hours.

It was a strange forgotten feeling that surrounded me as I prepared to go down to breakfast, hoping the phone would ring while convincing myself the prior day was simply a pleasant one-time happening. When the phone rang again, I was nearly in the hall. Disappointingly, it was only the hotel deskman saying my lost baggage had found its way to me.

I dined alone  toast and black coffee, retrieved my luggage and was changing into clean clothes when Paul North called me. I was as elated as a school girl.

"It's Sunday," he said, without as much as an identifying introduction. "There's not much going on so I'd like to take you to the beach for a picnic. It shouldn't be crowded."

"It's cold out there! It's early March."

"That's good. Cold weather holds down the ants. I'll pick you up in twenty minutes." He paused just long enough, in case I might decline. I never considered it.

"I do have a flight out at four o'clock. It will have to be a short picnic."

"Change your reservation."

"I can't do that. It costs money. Besides, tomorrow's Monday. I have to be at work in the morning. The literacy of the armed forces depends on it."