smiled at her, reaching for his jacket. "And having talked your ear off, and made a nuisance of myself, making speeches, I will now take myself off and see what those young 'uns at the garage are doing with your axle."
"You don't have to do that." For a crazy moment she didn't want him to leave her. She felt comfortable with him there, and safe and happy. And now she would be alone again. For five years it hadn't really bothered her, and now suddenly it did.
But he was smiling at her from the doorway. "I know I don't have to do it, but I want to. I like you, Daphne Fields." And then, almost as an afterthought, "Will you have dinner with me some night over at the inn? I promise not to lecture or make speeches, it's just that watching pretty young girls waste their lives has always bothered me."
"I'd love to have dinner with you, John."
"Good. Then let's do that." He looked pensive for a moment and then smiled at her. "Is tomorrow night too soon?" She shook her head slowly, wondering what she was doing, who this man was, and why she felt such a need to know him better, to be with him.
"That would be fine."
"I'll pick you up at six thirty. Country hours." He nodded to her, smiled, and then ambled out the door, closing it softly behind him as she stood and watched him from the window. He waved once as he pulled his truck out of the driveway, and then in a splash of gravel, he was gone. She stood there for a long time, watching the empty roadway, wondering where her life was going, and who John Fowler really was.
In Saturday evening John arrived promptly at six thirty, wearing the same sheepskin coat, but this time over a pair of gray slacks, a blazer, and a shirt and tie. The clothes were neither well cut nor expensive, and yet on him they had a certain style. His extravagantly macho build had a way of making everything about him look handsome, and Daphne was touched that he had dressed for dinner with her. There was a certain old-fashioned chivalry about the man that she couldn't help but like.
"My, don't you look pretty, Daphne." She was wearing a white skirt and a blue turtleneck sweater that almost perfectly matched her eyes, and over it she wore a short lamb's wool coat that made her look like a tiny French poodle. Everything about her seemed soft and small, and yet there was something so intrinsically powerful about the woman, that her tiny size sometimes seemed a lie. She had worn her hair in a simple chignon, and he looked at it with interest and a shy smile. "Do you ever wear your hair down?"
She hesitated for a moment and then shook her head. "Not lately." She had worn it down a lot for Jeff, cascading past her shoulders. But that was all part of another time, another life, a woman she had been for another man.
"I'd love to see it that way sometime." He chuckled softly to himself as he watched her eyes. "I have a great weakness for blond beauties, I have to warn you." But despite the teasing, and the obvious interest in his eyes, she felt safe as she left the house at his side. It was a quality she had noticed before about him. Perhaps it was because of his size, or maybe it was his almost fatherly manner, but she always felt safe beside him, as though he would take care of her, no matter what. But there was something different about her now too. She knew she could take care of herself. She hadn't known that when she married Jeff. She didn't need this man. She liked him.
He drove her to the Austrian Inn for dinner, and the Obermeiers seemed surprised to see them together, and took special care of them both. They both happened to be among their favorite people, and in the kitchen when the frantic bustle of dinner slowed, Hilda looked at her husband with intrigue in her eyes and a victorious grin. "How do you suppose she met him?"
"I don't know, Hilda. And it's none of our business." He chided her gently, but her curiosity and amazement could not be stopped.
"Do you realize that I haven't seen him out to
"You don't have to do that." For a crazy moment she didn't want him to leave her. She felt comfortable with him there, and safe and happy. And now she would be alone again. For five years it hadn't really bothered her, and now suddenly it did.
But he was smiling at her from the doorway. "I know I don't have to do it, but I want to. I like you, Daphne Fields." And then, almost as an afterthought, "Will you have dinner with me some night over at the inn? I promise not to lecture or make speeches, it's just that watching pretty young girls waste their lives has always bothered me."
"I'd love to have dinner with you, John."
"Good. Then let's do that." He looked pensive for a moment and then smiled at her. "Is tomorrow night too soon?" She shook her head slowly, wondering what she was doing, who this man was, and why she felt such a need to know him better, to be with him.
"That would be fine."
"I'll pick you up at six thirty. Country hours." He nodded to her, smiled, and then ambled out the door, closing it softly behind him as she stood and watched him from the window. He waved once as he pulled his truck out of the driveway, and then in a splash of gravel, he was gone. She stood there for a long time, watching the empty roadway, wondering where her life was going, and who John Fowler really was.
In Saturday evening John arrived promptly at six thirty, wearing the same sheepskin coat, but this time over a pair of gray slacks, a blazer, and a shirt and tie. The clothes were neither well cut nor expensive, and yet on him they had a certain style. His extravagantly macho build had a way of making everything about him look handsome, and Daphne was touched that he had dressed for dinner with her. There was a certain old-fashioned chivalry about the man that she couldn't help but like.
"My, don't you look pretty, Daphne." She was wearing a white skirt and a blue turtleneck sweater that almost perfectly matched her eyes, and over it she wore a short lamb's wool coat that made her look like a tiny French poodle. Everything about her seemed soft and small, and yet there was something so intrinsically powerful about the woman, that her tiny size sometimes seemed a lie. She had worn her hair in a simple chignon, and he looked at it with interest and a shy smile. "Do you ever wear your hair down?"
She hesitated for a moment and then shook her head. "Not lately." She had worn it down a lot for Jeff, cascading past her shoulders. But that was all part of another time, another life, a woman she had been for another man.
"I'd love to see it that way sometime." He chuckled softly to himself as he watched her eyes. "I have a great weakness for blond beauties, I have to warn you." But despite the teasing, and the obvious interest in his eyes, she felt safe as she left the house at his side. It was a quality she had noticed before about him. Perhaps it was because of his size, or maybe it was his almost fatherly manner, but she always felt safe beside him, as though he would take care of her, no matter what. But there was something different about her now too. She knew she could take care of herself. She hadn't known that when she married Jeff. She didn't need this man. She liked him.
He drove her to the Austrian Inn for dinner, and the Obermeiers seemed surprised to see them together, and took special care of them both. They both happened to be among their favorite people, and in the kitchen when the frantic bustle of dinner slowed, Hilda looked at her husband with intrigue in her eyes and a victorious grin. "How do you suppose she met him?"
"I don't know, Hilda. And it's none of our business." He chided her gently, but her curiosity and amazement could not be stopped.
"Do you realize that I haven't seen him out to
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