Another Springtime Ch. 03

I ought to tell you that we gave each of our safe houses codenames to help us keep things strait without having to use obvious names like "safe house" that might arouse suspicion to someone overhearing us. We had "Balmy Biloxi" and "Sunny San Diego" and "Foggy San Francisco" as well as "Windy Chicago." We thought ourselves very clever and had some good laughs over our frivolity, and that probably took some of the tension off our situation.

Anyway, on this day she was wearing her hair loose and down, and when she did that her natural beauty just made my heart do flip flops like you wouldn't believe. She did not have any of those dramatic, eye-catching little head movements, tossing her mane back over her shoulder, for example, like some of the starlets attempt for effect, but she would just brush her hair away from her face with a easy, casual motion of one hand. She was beautiful. At the end of the one aisle of tools there was a big display of china and glassware, very nicely laid out in a sample table setting. I watched her as it caught her eye, and then she moved away from me to look closer.

She was not gushy or excited but very reserved and sedate. She picked up the china pieces and inspected them closely, and I could see how she handled them with feeling and appreciation, savoring the textures of the heavy stoneware, the thick, hand-woven materials of the place mats on the sturdy oaken table.

Then, when she turned back to me, one hand at her cheek sweeping her hair away, she found me watching her... and suddenly her entire countenance changed... became different, altered, in some way I could not define. Her eyes grew darker somehow as she looked at me, and there was that little curl at the corners of her mouth and then she tilted her head ever so slightly to the right, and stepped toward me almost as were she embarrassed that I was looking at her.

My words were soft and casual, I hoped, as she stood in front of me, eyes boring into my chest and trying to figure out what was happening to her, and I told her that she was a very pretty young lady. As before, she seemed not to be able to acknowledge that and just waited for me to lead her.

As soon as I mentioned the china and the table setting she was able to pull out of her little hideaway and we could talk then quite casually about the display. She spoke thoughtfully about the massive table and the way the table's strength made the coarse textured china and fabrics fit well together. She made some comments about the muted colors used on top of the dominant earth tones of green and browns, and asked me what I thought.

Firstly, I was again impressed at her artistic flair for such things, and then also her rapid assimilation of new vocabulary. She was picking up words and phrases from the descriptive catalogs and doing quite well, but she would sometimes hesitate and look up at me trusting me to correct her if she said it incorrectly. Her sense of artistry was just the most unaffected expression of the joy that beautifully crafted things set together brought forth from her being. This surfaced again and again, and it seemed to come very naturally.

Then I suggested that we could easily make our dining room in "Foggy San Francisco" comfortable and attractive with such a theme and motif. Her eyes lit up at my approval and encouragement and she brightened at the prospect. Goodness and joy just radiated from her, and she was more beautiful than any man can imagine.

She browsed through some other fabrics and place settings, jotting herself some reminders in her little notebook, and then we were ready to go. In the car she sat very quietly and deeply in thought and then, as I was stopped at a red light, she looked across at me and said very matter-of-factly, "I don't know who you are, Dace."

That caught me off guard, and I responded before I thought about what was happening. "Who," I returned to her, "do you want me to be?"

Instantly I could sense her recoil, and I wished I had put brain in gear before putting mouth in motion. I had not meant my words to be so mysterious and evasive. Still, I was confronted myself with a mystery. Who was I to her? Who might I become? A protector for sure; but never really her father. Might I ever become a man to whom she might want to give her heart in love? I couldn't figure that out and hoped to arrive at some kind of an answer somehow.

"I'm sorry," I added quickly. "I don't mean to be so thoughtless, Christine. Maybe I am understanding you, maybe not. I think I wonder myself, who I wantyou to be."

"I can't be someone I'm not," she responded graciously. There was doubt and question in her wide eyes, though her words showed not only remarkable wisdom but also a simple and feminine response utterly without guile. She did not have, of course... she could not have... the experience with people to have developed a depth of perspective on the matter as had I.

"That's quite right. Let's start over, OK? I'll tell you something about my life and then you tell me something about yours. Is that a deal?"

"OK," she ventured cautiously, picking up on my slang, "that's a deal."

Within just minutes, as I related some details about my years in the Navy and living in Hawaii and playing with my kids on the beach, she began to relax and giggled at some of the story. It felt strange to speak to Christine of my wife... the woman who had been my wife then... but I mentioned how I had tickled her that afternoon on the beach and she had screamed for me to stop and our oldest son had come to her, all wet and sandy, an assured her that daddy was only tickling her because he loved her. He was so solemn and earnest at 8 years old we had to laugh together at what had happened.

Christine smiled with me at first, and then asked seriously if I had really tickled my wife. I confessed I had, if just a little, because I wanted to get her attention and hold her in my arms.

Christine didn't say a word, and when I looked at her she seemed to be busy filing information away in that pretty head of hers, and her smile had faded a little.

After hearing of my time on the beach with my family she seemed reluctant to speak of her own. She sat quietly for the longest time, remembering, I suppose, some details from her own past and perhaps missing her parents. I reached over and took her hand in mine and she held them in her lap. That helped some, I think, but she was distant and withdrawn and perhaps a little homesick. I knew something of those feelings myself. Time and experience are the only healers, and there was really nothing for me to say.

I might insert here that this was the first time of which I was aware, and this only in thinking back later, where I feel confident she looked at me as a man. Most often, I think, she saw herself as a little girl and I was her protector and replacement father and all that, but in this moment she felt more as a young woman... and I was a man, and unexpectedly our relationship entered a new and exciting phase.

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There was a distinctly domestic side of Christine's personality.

Let me describe something special about Christine that I observed over several months from about Thanksgiving time forward. I have mentioned before how quick and keen she was in creating homes for us in each of the safe houses, but there needs to be more detail here. In the USA the mainstream media to which girls are exposed give, in my estimation, short shrift to the values and rewards of domesticity, and glamorizes more 'fulfilling' pursuits. The resulting images of the homemaker are too seldom positive for a girl's outlook to be well balanced, or for a fellows either.

It turned out that she and her mother had done a lot of sewing together when she was a young girl, and one of her best memories of her mother was working at their sewing table together, especially after her father had bought them a new sewing machine when she was about twelve. All this and much more poured out of her one afternoon when we had been shopping together and she had to show me a blouse she had found that she liked, but which had some serious flaw in the seams in one shoulder.

She looked up at me as if this were a first magnitude travesty of human rights. I suggested she bring it to the attention of the clerk, and she went and did that. To my surprise, the store manager happened to be standing there as well, and after a few explanations and apologies, the manager gave the blouse to Christine at no charge, ringing it up as a sale so she had a receipt to get it out of the store.

Christine was quiet for a time before she came to me and explained what had transpired, and then... a fresh and vibrant expression on her face the likes of which have no comparison, she asked me meekly if she could get a sewing machine.

We had the funds and the place, but I had had no indication that she had any interest. The rest of the afternoon and evening were something very special. In the same shopping complex there was a sewing specialty shop and she found not only several brands to choose from, but the latest models from Singer, the Swiss-German firm in Singen, on Lake Constance, the lake between Germany and Switzerland. She was immediately alight with excitement and pleasure, and came to me more than once asking for this and that, and I had the distinct impression that she felt somehow like she was with her father back in Switzerland. I watched her carefully, trying not to derail her fantasy if, in fact, that was what she was thinking. The sales lady, much older and somewhat aloof at first, was quickly captivated by Christine's enthusiasm and charm, and the two of them were soon lost in their animated conversation together. It was quite an instructive period for me, and I could see that over this little detail of the poorly stitched seam in the blouse an entire area of her life and interest had suddenly opened to me. I could have glossed over it as inconsequential, but that would have been a mistake.

Thinking about what I was seeing, I pushed on to consider how this would work in our apartment. No problem, really, until I realized that she would want a table to spread out her patterns and do her cuttings. The solution to that was right at hand. A branch of one of those office supply warehouse stores, at which I already had an open account, was right next door. I interrupted the two ladies, suggested Christine look at some patterns and material as well while we were there, and gave her the credit card. I excused myself and said I would be right back.

A half an hour later I had a new, 84-inch folding leg work table for her in the back of the Suburban. As she opened the rear door so I could set her new sewing machine in the back, she saw the drawing of the table on the box and realized what I had done. Her arms still loaded with the stack of patterns and materials she had selected, she stopped and looked up at me with a blank expression.

I closed the door, took her hand and lead her to the front and helped her in without a word. When I got in on my side, there were big tears in her eyes as she gazed at me.

"Thank you, Dace. You remind me of my fa..."

I thought so.

Her breath caught, and I could feel the emotion in her voice.

"...my father."

Her eyes were soft and winsome, and her loneliness for her parents shown in her face.

"That, my dear young lady,is nearly the supreme compliment. Thank you."

What I did then was spontaneous, and might have wrecked everything, but I reached out and put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her to me like I had Jenny on more than one occasion, and just hugged her a little. To my surprise, she didn't resist me at all, but seemed to melt in my arms and lay her head on my shoulder. That, friend, was a first rate thrill for me.

"Your father must have loved you a great deal, young lady." That was a statement of simple fact.

She lingered there for a long moment, and I let her enjoy the interlude. I wasn't sure what she might be thinking, but I had an idea. I could never be her father, of course, but softening her loss with a little tenderness at the right moment was the very least I could offer.

And then it passed.

She sat up, wiped her eyes bravely, and started to describe to me the things she had purchased and her ideas for things to make. She had material for a tablecloth and matching napkins, little curtains for her kitchen window, and a pattern for the cutest little peasant girl blouse like I remembered from my time in the Alpine regions of Europe – Bavaria, Switzerland and the Tirol – along with some embroidery thread and a little embroidery hoop. More than I could ever have imagined, these simple things released in her a feeling of self and fulfillment, and allowed her to become more the person she was, pursuing her own interests.

Her delight gave me pause to consider again what was happening. A man can lead, should lead in my understanding, but at the same time it was essential to allow his companion to grow and blossom at her own pace and in fields of endeavor that might be foreign to him. If his manner made her feel as if she had to compete with him their efforts at togetherness would eventually shatter, since by nature she could not. Were he, on the other hand, to create for her a place with him secure and safe, where she could blossom as a woman, her contribution to their togetherness could quickly become quite substantial and bring immense joy to them both.

She was so delighted that evening she could hardly contain her joy. She wasn't sure, however, how to say thank you to me... she was conscious of me being a man, and, even if a good friend, I was not her father... and as yet there was no place prepared for a man in her life that she could acknowledge with ease. When she came to me a second time during the evening to thank me, stumbling and shy and not knowing what to say, I recognized her dilemma, and the third time I was ready.

"M'Lady," I said, trying to be gallant and suave like some knight who had recently slain a fierce dragon, "it is my high honor to be in your service."

That, with a little bow to her, seemed to magically dissolve her chagrin, and made her giggle and blush. She offered to get me a scoop of strawberry ice cream, which gesture I had come to identify as her being suddenly at ease with me.

The matter did not end there, not by a long shot. As she spread her things out on the table, she realized that she needed a good pair of scissors. I said I thought she needed the nice pair of Solingen dressmaker's shears I had noticed hanging on the display in the shop. Solingen is a German firm well known for fine steel and their cutlery and shears and things, and well known to her as a first rate selection, and she looked at me surprised, I think, that I thought she was worthy of such a thing of quality and could relate so quickly to things familiar to her in her past. Then, as I looked at her, her surprise was replaced with a shy smile... imagining pleasantly to herself, perhaps, that her own valiant knight would be so attentive to her every whim and fancy.

There are some tough assignments in life, and they come to all of us...that would not be one of them!

Eating her ice cream while looking pleased with her new sewing machine set up on the work table, she turned all at once to me.

"Dace, your one dress shirt with the torn sleeve..." and she disappeared into my room to my closet – and the very act caught my attention, because she never entered my room when I was home with her. It was with her, with me as well, but especially for her, a matter of propriety. She did not go into a man's bedroom with him present. I came back from an errand to the car sometimes to find my carefully ironed shirts in my closet, but she would never go in there with me in the apartment. This time, nevertheless, with nary a ruffled feather, she emerged with my own freshly ironed dress shirt on its hangar. It was one of my three or four best ones, a long sleeved, spread collar model that was very comfortable and, even with the long rip in the sleeve, was still quite wearable.

She was functioning on a different plane now, something like a professionalSchneiderin– in the hierarchy of craftsmen's guilds in Germanic Europe a very highly skilled and respected lady tailor – and she spoke to me in flowing German about how she could mend the tear without it hardly being evident at all... and then stopped, and looked at me for an answer.

My responding words in German came quickly, and I thanked her for her suggestion, and nodded my approval. It was one of my best shirts and I regretted that I had torn it accidentally on a hook some months before. How could she repair such a tear, I asked her, interested in the process.

She jumped ahead to a new idea and her eyes were alight with girlish excitement. Would I, she begged sweetly, let her have that shirt as a pattern? She would make me several new dress shirts of the finest material. "Please, let me do that for you," she begged sweetly. "Please, Dace?"

How does any man answer in the negative to such sweetness?

I knew, just the same, that in the men's shirt business putting together a fine dress shirt that fit well and laid right was no small undertaking, and required considerable skill. Sport shirts were, by comparison, a piece of cake. Should I risk her embarrassment later were her skills to fall short? I did not want to expose her to that, yet, considered overall, if I denied her the chance I would crush her exuberance right then, and for virtually no gain whatever.

"Grünes Licht!" I said, giving her a 'green light' thumbs-up signal that I knew she would savvy from my stories about the navy. She was so thrilled at my response she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me. Though startled at this reaction, I recovered quickly, and enjoyed the very feminine curves of her back... and her front against my chest... as I held her close.

So... was I parent, protector, or fledgling paramour? I wasn't sure, but I savored the moment.

It was a happy day for her, and a happy day for me as well.

Oh, and by the way... within a couple of weeks or so we had a nice new tablecloth with matching napkins, there were cute little frilly curtains on her kitchen window, and I had two of the very nicest spread collar, long sleeved white dress shirts of the very finest linen material, and they fit beautifully, as had they come from the finest manufacturing house, and even better.

Also, on the shirt tail in front, hand embroidered, my initials together with the cutest little flower motive in yellow and sky-blue... she had embroidered a trio of tiny littleForget-me-nots on each of my shirts!

Marvelous!