Thanks to light city traffic conditions, Wilford and Colleen Womack left the Monte Carlo with the parking valet then strolled into the upscale Chart House at seven-fifteen, well ahead of their reservation. Just like Wilford had prophesied, the restaurant was full and its patrons were taking their time. “I’m sorry, Mr. Womack,” the suave maître d’hôtel apologized. “I fear it will be another hour before your table opens up. Please accept these chits and enjoy a glass of wine or a well drink on me in our bar. A hostess will get you as soon as possible.”
And so it was, that while Bernice led Butch Carlson to the Pomeroy wet bar, a slim attractive young brown-skinned woman walked through the large crowded Captain’s Quarters lounge, quietly calling, “Womack. Table for Womack.”
While the hostess sat her customers at a prime window table, in seats overlooking the expansive city marina, Colleen remained in awe of the surroundings. As a young married, she had never had a lot of disposable income, plus, in addition to watching the bank balance, she zealously spent as much time as possible at home with Wally during those precious brief periods when the military allowed him to be home. Then, after his untimely death, she had been very busy simultaneously managing her grief while working as a coffee-shop waitress and finishing the college degree which she had abandoned when she got pregnant with Charles. The result was, that although she had lived in the city her entire life, she had never once set foot in its most iconic Zagat-rated gourmet restaurant.
While Wilford opened up his heavy brass-cornered leather-bound menu, the hostess smiled and said, “Bon appetite. Your server will be with you soon.”
Colleen nodded to the night view. Even at only twenty-percent illumination, the waning crescent moon teamed with the strongest stars and a multitude of harbor lights to cause the dark waters to sparkle brilliantly in the crystal-clear night. Unthinking, she covered Wilford’s left hand on the table top with her right palm and idly scratched her thumbnail against the thick crisp teal linen tablecloth as she said quietly, “Thank you, Ford. This really is lovely. I’ve never been here before, though I’ve often thought I might splurge, just once.”
Wilford enjoyed the soft warmth his sister-in-law’s hand radiated and shifted his eyes from the appetizer selection to her rapt face. Smiling, he replied, “Well, I’m doubly glad that you agreed to come out with me, then.” He finished the final swallow in his second whiskey highball and wondered to himself if two glasses of white wine at the bar had made her as mellow as he was feeling. Removing his trapped hand, he patted hers lightly and reminded, “Remember, this is my treat — not ‘Dutch’ — so please yourself with whatever you want.”
Colleen tilted her head and smiled back as she said, “Yes, you’re sweet, Ford, but this is all too much. I’m going to have to think of something special to give you, for Fathers’ Day in June, even though you’re not a father.” Then, with an impish twinkle in her gray-green eyes, she laughed lightly, “You’re not, are you?”
“Not that I’m aware, Collie,” Ford chuckled, while shrugging his shoulders and rolling his eyes upward in an unspoken prayer.
Just then a different slim young brown-skinned woman, dressed in a teal-accented black sailor-suit, appeared at the table, stating, “Good evening. My name is Monica and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. The special is Coconut-Lime-Chili Prawns and the Fresh Catch of the Day is Blackened Snapper. May I bring you anything to drink?”
“Mmm, those sound tasty,” opined Colleen. Then, to his surprise, she added, “You know, Ford, I think I could sip my way through another Chardonnay.”
Wilford blandly replied, “Then I’ll keep you company.” Turning his head to the waitress, he ordered, “A glass of Chardonnay for the lady, and another Boston Sour for me. With I.W. Harper, please.” As Monica left for the bar, he thought, “I’m glad you got sick, Gail.”
Meanwhile, at that moment, in her duplex’s kitchen, Clara Krautheimer scraped her supper dishes at the sink while her calico tomcat, Fritz, sniffed the small chunk of Gorton’s Fish Fillet that his mistress had saved for him and put in his food bowl. As she set her cleaned plate and water glass aside in a rack to air-dry on the counter, she regarded her seventeen-year-old feline soulmate and said, ‘Hurry up, Fritzy. I’ve got papers to grade!”
Fritz looked up from his empty bowl as if he understood every word then sauntered into the living room to curl up on the settee beside the cushion that he knew his mistress preferred. As she followed him, she grabbed a gold-sealed white box from the sideboard and said to herself, “Mustn’t forget the See’s, Clara.”
Another voice, in her brain, countered, “Or the boy who gave them to you, Dearie. His second head is probably as big, or bigger than, a Scotch Mallow. Wouldn’t you just love to pop it in your mouth and let it melt there!”
Clara complained aloud to the empty room, “Oh pooh! I haven’t been naughty like that since Ernie Post graduated three years ago!”
“Well, then,” rejoined the inner voice. “Isn’t it high time you had a last little fling? In less than thirty days there won’t be handy supply of innocent charmers to fantasize about or possibly cajole into a nice occasional fuck. You know you are a young sixty-four and the men your age have prostate problems or wives or both. Forget the gold brooch, girlfriend. Get yourself a diamond-hard young cock before you retire!”
While she walked into the living room to join Fritz, Clara sighed and said to herself, “You’re a nasty old thing, but that doesn’t mean you’re wrong.” Plumping down beside the cat, she opened her candy box, selected a Scotch Mallow and thoughtfully bit through its thin dark chocolate coat to the soft white sweetness stacked on its sticky thick caramel bottom. As she pressed the delicious confection between her tongue and hard palate then sucked until it was no longer there, she mused, “Are you the kind of boy that kisses and tells, Charles Womack? I bet you’re not!”