Chapter 6

By week four of the semester, everything was routine. The same classes, the same students, the same exams and papers. Not to complain, because in many respects, routine is comfortable.

Outside of my home life, I was doing well, and fairly happy.

I was still getting a kick out of the dance class, and felt like I was making progress. Next time I was invited to a party or event where there was dancing going on, I felt confident that I would be far more comfortable dancing that I had ever been before in my life. It was a point that Bob had made: even with just a little training and practice to get some basic skills, you can be better than 95% of the folks out there. In that sense, if all one wanted to get out of the class was the pleasure that comes of adequacy, it comes pretty fast.

But dancing, I suspected, was like say, bowling or shooting. You can do well enough to go out and have fun with your friends with just a couple of hours of training — but to compete with the experts takes a life-time of dedication. Dancing took more effort to get the basic skills, and I could hardly imagine how much practice that professionals like Bob and his wife put in! And I had to respect them for it.

This year, Valentine's Day fell on a Friday, the end of the week.

Thursday night, after class was over, Stephanie was talking to me.

"Mark, I won't be able to come and practice tomorrow," she told me.

"Oh? Why?" I asked, somewhat disappointed, since I rather looked forward to our afternoon practices.

"Nothing important. I bought a new trash-compactor and a matching dishwasher for the kitchen in my condo, and I have to be there when they deliver them, which is supposed to be sometime in the morning," she explained.

"Ah," I observed, demonstrating my wicked fast repartee.

Stephanie looked a little irritated when she spoke,

"Do you what they want to charge me for 'installation'? Almost $300 for the two of them!" Stephanie told me, almost looking like she was going to stomp her foot, she was so upset.

"Tell you what, Steph," I interrupted, "there is NOTHING to installing those. Why don't you give me a call when they get delivered, and I can bring some tools over and put them in for you?"

"Oh Mark! That's very generous of you, but I couldn't..." she started.

"Steph, it won't take me more than an hour, maybe two! I've installed all of those in our kitchen at home, and even for some of our other friends. There isn't much 'real' installation, mostly putting in plugs and hooking up a couple hoses," I explained to her.

Stephanie's face lit up.

"That would be wonderful, Mark. OK, if you don't mind, I'll call you tomorrow" and she left for home.

The following day was Valentine's Day, and for the first time in our marriage, there were some things not happening.

I was not getting my wife flowers. I was not getting my wife chocolates. I was not even getting her a card, and I wasn't taking her out to dinner. It left a lot more of my day open when I didn't worry about catering to my wife, trying to find ways to please her. I did stop at a flower shop briefly that day, but that was for someone else.

As expected, Stephanie called me at 10:30 to let me know that her new appliances had been delivered.

I looked at the clock, and made a suggestion.

"Steph, tell you what. It's close to lunch time, so why don't we meet at L'Canard for lunch first, and then I'll follow you back to your place and do the installation?" I proposed.

"Fine by me, Mark. I love L'Canard. But we better get there early if we want to be seated — it's Valentine's Day you know, so every beau will be taking his girl out for lunch!" she agreed, with a light and happy voice.

"All right," was my sly reply, "let's meet there at 11:30, if that's not too soon for you?"

My sly reply, you ask? I had taken the trouble to make reservations, because even I knew that without them on Valentine's Day, we wouldn't stand a chance of getting into one of the most popular restaurants in the area.

When Stephanie walked in, looking simply ravishing, in a sleeveless floral-print dress, wide at the bottom, that showed her shapely legs off to her advantage, and with a collar that came up on her neck, emphasizing the extra button (or two) that was open revealing her cleavage. I wasn't complaining.

I was waiting when she made her grand entrance, and as she walked over to me, I handed her a long-stem yellow rose, which I was told, according to the language of flowers, was for 'friendship.'

"Stephanie, I am so glad you could join me this lovely Valentine's Day," I remarked. And it was true — it was one of those days where even in February, in Southern California it can be in the low 70's F. during the days.

"Mark, thank you so much for inviting me. And you are more sneaky than I thought," she chuckled, "When I tried to call and be sure that we could get in, they told me that it was too late, that they were already filled up. So, just on a hunch, I asked if they had a reservation for 'McDonald', and sure enough, there was a reservation for a party of two."

I just smiled back as the waiter seated us, Stephanie clinging to the yellow rose.

For Valentine's Day, the lunch was a fixed price deal only, but that wasn't a problem, the food was exquisite. The lunch started with a lobster bisque, followed by the entree, a filet mignon on a bed of mashed potatoes and wilted spinach, with mixed vegetables, served al dente, and finished with a choice of either a Crème Brule (with lavender) or a Napoleon. A glass of red French wine, selected by the chef, was served with the lunch, and coffee or ice tea served after dessert. We agreed afterwards that we had made an excellent choice for our mid-day repast.

Stephanie and I spoke mostly about school, dance class, and innocuous events. Just pleasant conversation between a couple of friends. But there was an undertone to our chatter. After all, it was Valentine's Day, and I was out at a fancy restaurant with a female friend, not my wife.

We drove back to Stephanie's condominium, with me following Steph in my car. She only lived about 5 minutes from L'Canard.

The door opened, and Stephanie pulled into the garage. I parked in her driveway, and got my tools and a set of coveralls that I used for when I was doing repairs, out of the car, and then followed her through the garage and into her house.

The exterior was that standard French Mediterranean, that is often and incorrectly described as 'Spanish', of red tile roofs, with stucco applied in neutral (and homeowner association approved) colors. It couldn't have been more than four or five years old. Steph had told me that the landscaping was all taken care of by the homeowners association, as well.

We entered by way of the kitchen, so I just put my tools down there.

"Steph, I'll need to change into my coveralls. Where would be convenient?" I inquired.

"Let me give you the tour of the place first, and then we can change," she replied.

I'd been over to Steph and John's old house many times, usually with Martha, unless I was coming over to help John with some project. Otherwise, it was for drinks, or parties, or for dinner. Martha and Stephanie were both good cooks, and I enjoyed the food and the time that we would spend with John and Stephanie. But now, of course, John was gone.

The condo was a split level, with an entryway, living room, kitchen, dining room, and a powder room on the lower level, and two bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs. This was not an inexpensive development; it was a gated community limited to people over 50 years old, and surprising to me, although they called 'condominiums' there was a small separation between the homes, so they shared no common walls, but were each stand alone buildings. It was still technically a condo, but sure didn't seem like it to me.

"One of the fortunate things," Steph explained to me, "is that John did leave me in excellent financial shape. He had a surprising amount of life insurance — I guess that they got some special group rate at the hospital — and he had his own 401K, and other retirement savings. And his partners were able to sell his partnership, so I got repaid for what John had put in. When I sold our old house, after he died, it was at the top of the market, so I did very well there as well."

She continued,

"And it was just luck on my part that I rented a small place for six months while I was looking for a much smaller place to live, and that was when the real estate market went to hell. The result was, when I finally found this place, I was able to get a real bargain!" she told me, obviously very please with herself.

"It's a very nice area," I mentioned, "and it has a double garage. Great for keeping tools."

I realized I made a mistake, because I could see a cloud pass across Stephanie's face. Clearly I had reminded her of John.

"I'm sorry, I just meant..." I stammered out, as my embarrassment made me sound even worse.

"No, Mark, it's OK," she replied, and then smiled and touched my arm, letting me know that she wasn't overwhelmed.

"Here, you can change in the powder room down here, while I'll put on my official 'helper' clothes upstairs," she instructed. Then she turned and walked up the staircase, and out of my sight.

I had my coveralls on, and was opening the boxes containing the new appliances, when Steph came back down the stairs. She had changed into jeans, tennis shoes, and an oversized sweatshirt. I wasn't entirely sure, but it looked to me like she had ditched the bra.

"OK," she smiled and said, "What can I do to help?"

That said, we got to work.

As I had promised, it wasn't too hard to do.

I removed the old appliance finish trim, and the used my power screwdriver to make short work of the screws holding the old appliances in place. In the case of the trash compactor, it just pulled out and unplugged. The new unit plugged back in, and I slid it into place, put new screws in to hold it in place, and popped the new finish trim into place. The most difficult thing was moving the old unit out to the sidewalk, where it would be picked up and disposed of later in the day.

The dishwasher was similar, I removed the finish trim, and pulled the old unit out far enough to unplug it from the electrical, and then I turned off the water supply valves, and began removing the water lines. Murphy's Law intervened, and one of the old valves wouldn't close completely, so it started leaking a little.

It wasn't too difficult, even then. I just turned off the water supply to the house, removed the water line, took off the valve, and Steph and I ran down to the local plumbing supply story, and bought a new one. Reinstalled the new valve, turned the water to the house back on (no leak! Yea!), and finished removing the PVC lines that connected the dishwasher to the drain and the air relief.

With the valve replaced, the new dishwasher was equally easy to install, and again the hardest part, even with two of us, was getting it squeezed through the doorways without causing damage, and out to the curb, where the store, where Stephanie had purchased the new units, would pick up the old appliances.

Voila! By 3:00 in the afternoon, the appliances were installed, and the kitchen was cleaned up.

We were just standing there admiring the look, recovering from our effort when Steph poured us each a glass of wine.

"It's a great place you have here, Stephanie. I'm very impressed. I'm also impressed at how attractively you've decorated it. You're doing well," I declared.

"Yes, I'm happy here for the most part, Mark. But to be honest, I still miss John a lot. I miss having him in bed beside me. I miss making love with him," she laughed.

"In fact, I miss sex A LOT!" she told me, smiling again, as if it were humorous.

But I knew from my own personal experience that it wasn't something that was funny to a person who felt those desires.

"You're not the only one — I know exactly what you mean," I mumbled not so quietly.

I turned to go to the powder room,

"I'd better change and get out of your hair," I started to say, but I found my way blocked.

"Mark, I have to thank you, and not just for helping me today," she said, and I found my head being pulled down to where she could reach me, standing on her tip-toes.

Then she kissed me on the lips, her arm around my neck. She moved back just a short distance and looked up at me.

And then she kissed me again, this time, her lips were looser, and were gently moving in a way that I found sensuous beyond my recollection. I'd forgotten how much I longed for kisses, moist, slow, and delicate.