Another Springtime Ch. 04

In the process she created virtually from scratch four homes for us, literally, from furniture, linens and bedding, and kitchen utensils to, well, everything. Our discussions about our apartment safe-houses soon came to the point where she was creating lists of furnishings and supplies to be acquired for each place, and a sortie into town or to some particular store became a significant event and brought on a great deal of excitement for her.

Rather than a carful of stuff at every outing she soon suggested that maybe we concentrate on one particular aspect and acquire a few things at a time and enjoy together as well actually making our apartments livable and pleasant. Her creativity and balance and innately good sense were just remarkable. She would come to me with her boundless enthusiasm and ideas, asking if I knew of a store that would have this or that. I got very familiar with the Yellow Pages, we purchased some things on-line when she found there what she wanted, but she was more than content to explore and compare and look in the most out of the way places to find unique or particular items.

Now, there is something else here that became quickly evident as well, and it fascinated me from the beginning. She was not in the least ostentatious or superficial.Things to her had to serve apurpose, and showing off was not one of them. Her ideas showed a great sense of discernment in balancing cost, quality and utility. To me, this seemed to display her very down-to-earth natural self. And in all this process, since we were together virtually all the time, she sought my opinions and ideas at nearly every turn. Some things we discussed at considerable length, and, though I typically left the decisions on home furnishings to her, it was on occasion very clear that she wanted to be sure I agreed with her choices and would be pleased.

Once, in a furniture store looking at a recliner chair – and I won't ever forget this – she turned to me and fingered the buttons on my shirt and told me in a rather intimate way and so very sweetly that it was important to her that I be "comfortable in our home." That was not the only time some little comment or gesture on her part sent my heart into virtual orbit.

Life was not, however, all work and no play. Actually, in a sense, as long as she was near, it was all play. Nevertheless, we did take time to find and do fun things. There were a couple of good movies, nothing great… Hollywood seemed not to be able to produce anything that caught our interest at the time; once to the opera – Leoncavallo's "I Pagliacci" and that was stupendous – twice to the symphony and two plays at the University's Meany Theater: "Waiting for Goudot" and George Kaufman's "You Can't Take It With You," both very well done. So, along with our class work and studies and avoiding the clutches of the shadowy syndicate, we had fun together.

But having fun together was work in many ways. With her always at my side, my passions and emotions were continuously on the rack. I never got any respite. She was very relaxed with me now and while she did not chatter mindlessly about silly things like some girls, her mind and personality were constantly in motion. She was very intelligent and creative and curious, understood many of the restrictions I imposed on us to control out exposure to public scrutiny, was full of questions, and was always exploring things new to her.

Gradually, of course, her growing maturity as a young woman tended to dampen her girlish light-heartedness; she became very conscious of being around a man all the time, which sometimes overwhelmed her. This had overtaken her already on at least two or three occasions. That first night together when she became so afraid of lying next to me was one. Then, in the pool the first time when she kissed me on the cheek; she had definitely been overwhelmed by my attention… and, I think, delighted. That day shopping for tools with me when she looked at the china was another. I had been struck with how deeply her natural beauty – inward and outward – touched my heart, and when she looked up at me, she must have sensed that somehow. It caught her off guard that I would look at her so, and her reaction was not as a little girl but as a young lady, and she didn't quite know how to deal with that.

It was also along about this time, no, it was before Christmas, if I recall correctly, that the matter of make-up arose, and that is directly related.

We had been up on campus the previous day – I had an appointment with a prof and then she helped me chase a couple of old German documents in the library – and then we went shopping. Again that morning and, along with some groceries and a half-gallon carton of strawberry ice cream, she had picked up a woman's magazine at the check out stand. Back at the apartment – Safe house № 2, I think it was, "Foggy San Francisco" – she came from the kitchen and sat down on the floor next to me where, on my back under the desktop, I was rearranging some cabling for the computer and printer installation. She had purchased some eye shadow and eyeliner the previous day, and that very morning had done some experimenting. I knew from experience with my own daughter that for me to speak too soon would achieve nothing, but to allow a little exercise in self-expression could very well end up to everyone's benefit.

That I had said nothing probably – such conclusions are always at best a supposition on the man's part – was itself impetus to come to me for at least a reaction… if not exactly an opinion.

She held the magazine in her lap and watched me, as if she just wanted to be close… as if we had been apart for weeks or something like that. She was quiet and patient, and her meekness and lack of questions told me that something special was on her mind. I scooted out from under the desktop a bit and she looked down at me on the floor with a look in her eyes that stopped me in my tracks.

"Dace?" Her voice carried all the innocence of a sixteen-year-old asking her father for a new dress for the prom. "Are my eyes prettier with a little make up than without?"

Now, for me such questions, and her particular way of asking, were not just welcome and appreciated signs of her confidence in me, but they also triggered major tremors in my heart, as you can perhaps imagine. Her genuine sweetness and femininity were just priceless.

This was no time for a casual appraisal or off-handed remark. I looked at her eyes and the coloring and shadow she had added that morning, and thought about my reaction earlier that day before we left the apartment, and how I might give her an honest response without treading on vulnerable feelings. For her the day had suddenly stopped, and I judged that with her full attention I ought not to rush too quickly to move past this topic when she so openly sought my advice. So, I looked and studied her eyes and the effect she had created, not at all a disagreeable task. Her already long and full lashes were a little darker and heavier, there was a soft tinting of sky-blue across her eyelids, and she had darkened and thickened her eyebrows a little. I turned her head, a finger under her chin, first to one side then the other to see her profile better, and enjoyed very much a opportunity to appreciate her delicate features at close range without embarrassing her.

The little darkening effect of her make-up was dramatic and added a sensual aspect to her countenance. She was certainly no less innocent than before but the look in her eyes had taken on a definite ‘come-hither' vibrancy that was just startling. Her cheekbones were just prominent enough to lend character and strength to her face, her nose a graceful slant with just the cutest little hint of flair at the tip, her forehead and brows calm and delicate, her chin and mouth expressive and distinctive shapes of their own complementing a most strikingly beautiful face.

"Well,my pretty little vixen," I started out playfully, and she smiled at her nickname and dropped her eyes shyly – which little trait by itself was enough to send my heart into life-threatening spasms – "you want to know what I think, eh?"

Over the past few weeks we had been discussing statistical tables, having found some interesting examples in the newspaper, and so I used an example I had created for myself years earlier when trying to record in my journal some thoughts about my wife's beauty. These seemed to apply here, and so I pulled a blank sheet from the printer, borrowed her magazine and sketched quickly the upper right quadrant of an X-Y graph, knowing that from our earlier discussions she would quickly relate.

On the vertical axis I wrote carefully: "the degree to which make-up enhances natural beauty" while on the "Y" axis the label "quantity of make-up applied."

The intensity in her expression told me that she understood, and was waiting for me to go on.

"For every woman the matter is unique; there are probably no two alike anywhere," and I drew an arch from lower left to upper center to lower right. "For every man perceiving a woman's beauty it is doubtless unique as well. Each sees a girl though his own prism of values."

That last sentence slipped out before I could stop it, and I realized then that I was notmen in general speaking aboutwomen in general… and then she looked up from the paper at me and I saw it in her eyes… she sensed my subconscious implication as well. She was following me very closely; and suddenly knew somehow… women's intuition?… that I was speaking, even if in general terms, only abouther and seeingher throughmy prism of values. What I had at first meant to be rather theoretical and general had inadvertently become very specific and personal, and I could feel my person warming under the intensity of her own scrutiny. So much for professional detachment.

Nevertheless, she had asked, and expected me to be honest with her. So, I was.

"For each girl there is a starting point on the ascending slope, which means that some – perhaps many – may profit from skillful use of make-up in various ways." I moved with my pencil over the top to the descending right-hand slope. "Too much, however… too much doctoring and painting and polishing and… and something is lost… painted over, covered with gloss, hardened where softness is more fetching, stylized into fantasy colors and shapes and forms dictated by arbitrary fashion where her natural charms would be many times more expressive of the beautiful woman she is."

I did not feel at all in a hurry to get past the thought I was trying to make clear to her. I was not an enemy of make-up. Tools certainly have their place. Yet, in every creative process there is a time to leave well enough alone, a time to shoot the engineers and go into production, a point at which the artist must recognize that the apex has been reached… and further tinkering, another brush stroke here, a slight tap of the sculptor's chisel there, will no longer add to but henceforth detract from. The true artist senses when the work is complete… and must then find the courage to allow his or her outpouring of creativity to stand alone on its own merits.

There remained only for me to point out to her where I perceived her starting point to be, and she was waiting. I drew carefully a little circle on the arch just to the left of the apex, darkened it in carefully, and then drew a line across to the axis on the left and then along with it a parallel line just above it marking the apex.

"You are one of those women, Christine, who, in my perception, are in your natural gifts so very beautiful in body and spirit that any effort you make to improve that with make-up will demand of you a very sensitive touch."

I drew just as firmly two parallel lines from her starting point down to the "Y" axis and a second from the apex just to the right.

"The advantages of make-up in your toolbox of beauty aids will ever be quite limited. There is, simply said, very little the make-up companies can do to enhance that which is already so very nearly perfect."

Her look of simple amazement at my statement as she grasped my implication was just beyond words.

"I noticed your eyes the moment you came out of the bathroom this morning."

She looked at me, openly surprised.

"I noticed your eyes because… because Ialways notice your eyes."

I paused then, partly because the expression on her face was so sweetly feminine and full of that innocent amazement a young girl can not help but display when she first realizes that a fellow has been noticing her.

"Christine, let me be quite frank and open." I decided to just slow down in order to intensify the impact of what I wanted to get across to her. "I notice your eyes because you are an exceptionally beautiful girl to me. I notice your eyes because I notice also what your beauty does to me inside."

I wanted to tell her, but it was so very obvious that I could say this wrong that I was anxious.

"The little touch of eye shadow you used this morning added drama and sensuality to your already very beautiful eyes… the kind of drama you might want to reserve for a formal evening out with your husband… the kind of sensuality a young lady like you will want to hold carefully in store for that occasion when…when she wants to tell her husband that…" I wasn't at all sure exactly how to say this, "that… that she belongs to him, body and soul… wants to belong to him… to cherish and to love… forever."

Christine had been listening carefully, and now brought her hand to her mouth – either in shock at my boldness or some similar reaction – and before a moment had passed, there was a delightfully rosy color in her cheeks. She looked up at me with eyes begging my pardon for her waywardness.

"There is no need to be embarrassed, darling girl. We are learning about all kinds of things, and depend on each other to be honest and open. You asked me as a friend in trust; I have answered as best I can in honesty and plainness, but not in criticism."

I lifted her chin with a fingertip gently that I could look once more into those deep brown eyes. She was a little chagrined at what had transpired and I could tell she needed me to alter the intensity of the mood.

"All right, break time," I said jovially. "I think we do very much require, young lady with the prettiest eyes in the entire world, some of that strawberry ice cream we got at the market. What do you think?"

With the suggestion of her favorite flavor of ice cream, she brightened and we dropped magazine, graph and screwdriver where they fell and together headed for the kitchen.

Nevertheless, the discussion had not fallen on deaf ears. In the months that followed, she never wore any make-up that I could detect, and only a touch of lipstick on occasion; yet her hairbrush was frequently in hand, her dress always modest and trim and clean and neat, and her manner with me always lady-like and reserved.

Had she known in advance and intentionally chosen from the catalog those personal character traits and feminine mannerisms that would attract my attention and inspire my devotion and love for her… and as I look back, that is what had happened; I had fallen in love with her… she could not have selected more wisely nor with greater precision.

Her increasing maturity as a woman came to the fore likewise the day she bought her first bare-midriff top to go with her Levis for casual wear. I was not aware of her purchase until we got back to the apartment, where I began to wrap up a couple of furniture set up projects while she tried on her new things. Moving from the kitchen back into the dining area I caught her looking for me, shy and uncertain, barefoot, her favorite hip-hugger levis low enough to suggest as always that they were about to slip away altogether, and her new top. It was a shirt, really, front-buttoning and short sleeved, the hem easily several inches above the top of her pants and – perhaps most importantly – just far enough below the swell of her breasts that full disclosure was, if not actually imminent, at the same time neither impossible nor improbable. She was looking at me with doubt and question all over her face, trying to smile bravely, hoping for my approval and not at all sure she would get it. The outfit made it more evident than ever that she had blossomed as a woman. Her hips were full and gently rounded, and her slender waist emphasized her already prominent bust line. She was a knockout of the first order! Still, I recognized from her hesitation that she was trying to be feminine and attractive but didn't want to cross the line of being "sexy" like she and I had discussed weeks before. She was, in her explorations, perilously close to the line sometimes, nevertheless.

"Oh," the admiring reaction just flowed naturally almost before I could tether my feelings, "the young lady does have the prettiest bare tummy I have ever seen! Oh, yes, indeed!" My almost too casual words nearly caused her to turn tail and scoot out of the room in embarrassment, and perhaps she would have had I not extended my hand for hers. She reached for mine, daintily and a little afraid, and I lifted and had her twirl around for me to get a complete view, and allowed her to twirl right into a fatherly embrace, one arm around her shoulders and one hand on a shapely, and largely naked hip at the waist… aquasi-fatherly embrace.

"My dearest daughter Christine," my most affectionate fatherly tone predominating – forcing myself by choice to one option before my masculine response lead me to another that would have been quite challenging – "what a darling outfit for a darling young lady… though I would caution you thoughtfully, that your beauty is already rich fare for anyone observing you, and bare skin makes for yet even more enticement. The sight of your bare tummy will be enough to drive the little boys crazy with desire."

She understood me and smiled… almost giggled, pleased and delighted at my compliment, but her overall reaction told me as well that she could not decide whether I approved or not.

With that look on her face I stepped away and turned to the open door to the veranda, pulling her with me gently. We stood for a few minutes side-by-side, looking out over the neighborhood. This had to be just right, I counseled with myself. Nothing would be achieved by making her feel sexy and cheap. She wasn't, of course, but I also didn't want her to be uncertain about it.

"Were I your boyfriend, young lady," I began slowly, looking out over the neighboring buildings across the street, "dressed like that you would certainly have my full attention. It would be only the very best of the young men that could keep his thoughts from wandering to the thrills promised and offered" – I though that might be just the right phrasing, and turned to her – "offered by your exceptional charms;offered almost for the taking.

"You are, Christine, quite a beautiful girl."

She sensed, I could see it in her eyes, that her bare tummy was a little too much, and her confidence was wavering… very near collapsing in embarrassment.

"Were I your husband, on the other hand," and here I let my voice trail off slowly, a little deeper than usual, "I would be delighted at your openness with me, your willingness to be mine and your showing me so sweetly your love for me… and your bare tummy… and," and here I let my voice acquire a bit of a roguish tone, "once I caught you I would not let you go… not ever… but I would caress you, and perhaps even tickle you a little and make you scream for mercy, and love you and kiss you until you begged me to never stop."

When I turned to her she was blushing, with her fist clasped under her chin, and wanting to melt into the woodwork. She would have turned away in shame had I not had hold of her one hand.