Another Springtime Ch. 04

"You're cuter than any man has a right to hope his girl might ever be, Christine." By her shoulders, I turned her toward the door, "Go put on another blouse,my pretty little vixen, and come back to me for a hug," and sent her back to her room.

I sometimes am amazed at myself that potentially sticky situations can turn out as well as they do. Had I managed that without hurting her feelings or turning her off? It seemed like perhaps I had. Maybe. She was so solid and strong in some ways, and then again in others so very delicate and fragile. At a time in her life when she is not yet a woman and confident in herself, yet no longer a child, striking the right balance in advising her is a delicate thing. She made me think again about my experience with my wife and my own daughter; like walking an emotional mine field, where patience, kindness, forbearance and enduring love and trying to live a good example seem the only trustworthy tools. At least I had that experience to draw upon. She had nothing, except her innate intelligence and good sense, the media – a powerful stimulant, but not much help for principles and integrity – and an older man like me.

Presently, in the evening's silence on the verandah, I could feel her standing demurely at my side again. She had slipped into her sky-blue sweater, the one from our first shopping tour together.

"Oh, my, Christine, you are stunningly beautiful." She was still unsure of my approval.

I turned around, leaning on the rail, and pulled her shoulders to me and hugged her gently… a fatherly hug, meant to encourage and support. It required only a second in my arms to remember that she had not been wearing her brassiere – and was not now as I held her – and the idea shot through me like a lightning bolt. The sensation of holding her close, those magnificent breasts of hers crushed against my chest, was choice indeed.

There is no getting around the simple fact that she was a constant stir to my own desires, but when I say she was never "sexy," it's the truth. You see, to me – and this is what I had told her when she had asked me a few days before and we had gone into this in detail – "sexy" is a certain brashness and glitz that the media says is essential to… even a defining element of… a girl's beauty. Frankly, I don't buy it! My position is that every girl, to the fellow who finds her charms to be those which touch his heart, need but be herself… dressed or undressed, or anywhere in between… and her charms will ring his chimes every way but loose. "Sexy" is when the girl seeks to make traffic with her charms and outside her marriage and love affaire with her husband, in a word, I guess, flaunt them for publicity or image or show. The media would never agree, I told her, because their business is selling image… and not just to the husband; most times, it seems, him least of all.

Healthy, fit, clean, groomed, cheerful, creative, caring and thoughtful… gracious, feminine, and pleasant… those qualities make for beauty that is enduring and attractive and, in my way of thinking, irresistible. Of course, physical attributes are important. Not all are equally beautiful to me! I am, at the same time, not seeking every woman to be my sweetheart.

Physically, Christine was, as you may have detected in my narrative so far, not every girl. Her inner self and her personality were, however, the cumulative result and expression of her personal choices, and that choice belongs to every girl.

Now, as she leaned against me with her head against my chest, I could hear her soft voice speaking to me, "I'm sorry, Dace."

"There's nothing for which you need apologize, Christine. You're exploring and figuring out what kind of a woman you are becoming and want to be. I am very thankful to have this experience with you. You are a very pretty girl on the outside, and that is a thrill of the first magnitude; you are an even more exceptional beauty on the inside. Just knowing you is a blessing to my spirit." She looked up at me, sweeping with one hand her hair from her face slowly, watching me. "A gentleman appreciates a lady of such character and integrity, and it's fun to be with her."

She didn't say anything; she probably couldn't imagine what she could say… or did not then understand her own feelings, whatever they may have been.

The time seemed to have slipped away with out our realizing it and the sun was down. Still she leaned against me, her arms around my neck and her pretty breasts pressing against my chest. She felt at home there and safe, and appreciated, I could tell. I did appreciate her, very much, and I could appreciate as well the curves and contours of her back and shoulders as I held her to me… exquisite is too mundane a word.

After a time, largely to break the intensity of a tender moment that promised to overwhelm us if I didn't, I suggested we fix dinner together. She always brightened when I worked with her in the kitchen, but on that evening she was subdued and quiet. After we had eaten, she came to me and sat herself on my lap, which surprised me. She just sat there and I held her close as she played with my collar a little, trying to tell me what was on her mind and not knowing quite how to do it.

"Sometimes, Dace," she started off hesitantly, "sometimes I don't.…" She was getting stuck, but I could wait. This was important to her and she wanted to tell me. "…Don't want you to be my father."

]

It was only a couple of weeks later, as I think back on it now, late January, that we went to the Seattle Symphony our second time. Our first evening in Benaroya Hall had been an exploratory evening; this second time was noteworthy because it showed me another side of a young girl trying hard to grow up in the adult world around her. At our first evening there had been a couple in the row in front of us and the woman, perhaps in her mid twenties, was dressed and heavily made up fit to kill and in a dress that would be better classified as a sheer slip, and not much of that. The woman and her dress were the topic of considerable discussion for several days thereafter, and Christine had been anxious to understand what I thought about it.

I could not see it so sharply then, but looking back it is clear that she had come to regard my standards of propriety as measures of what ought to be, and she was trying to learn and apply those standards.

Our second evening –Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition," Smetana's tone poem "Die Moldau" capped by Dvořák's 9th, "The New World" – was her first effort at dressing up for a somewhat formal event. And she worked at her design with considerable determination, not confiding in me a single detail. Sensing that for her this was a big evening, I wanted to respond in kind and got my white dinner jacket cleaned and pressed, and told the neighborhood florist to put the word out… I needed a single, perfectly formed and blemish-free, long-stemmed rosebud in the deepest, richest shade of scarlet she could manage. My generous tip added some additional incentive, but the lady pushed the bill back to me.

"Keep this for now." The motivation for such a request being immediately perceived by the shop's owner as she noted my order. "If I am successful, and you are victorious in your quest, you will be a frequent and welcome customer," she said, a knowing gleam in her eye.

Ah, I thought to myself, a wise vendor, indeed. I wanted the scarlet rosebud, nevertheless, and left the bill on her counter with a friendly wave.

If it was still a little too early in our acquaintance to actually tell her in words that I loved her – what that really means, I guess, is that I was too chicken to tell her. I was quite positive such a flower could not fail to carry the sentiment from my heart to hers.

I called for her at her bedroom door at the appointed time. She had arranged with a neighbor lady in the apartment building who was a hairdresser to help her, and the result was simply smashing. She wore almost no make up... just the merest hint of eye shadow and a light swish of soft pink lipstick. Her long hair was piled on top of her head in an artful and intriguing array of loops and swirls with a brilliant white satin ribbon, leaving the nape of her neck and shoulders bare. Her regally simple sheath gown was nearly off her shoulders, scooped across the front and dipped low down her back. She did a little feminine twirl for me to see her dress and beamed when I nodded my approval. She had sewn it all herself and tailored the form fitting bodice to emphasize her full breasts very nicely, and it was evident to me that she was not wearing a brassiere. Even more clearly, she wanted me to be pleased, and, friend, I can tell you, the soft sky-blue of her dress with the white sling-back pumps and ribbon accents in her dark hair, her rosy cheeks and the twinkle in her expressive dark eyes were simply enchanting. She was smiling at me, thanking me for my compliments, and feeling pleased with herself, and I was simply awestruck.

Though her sweet smile was a delight beyond imagining, when presented with the single rosebud I witnessed something quite extraordinary. There was a winsomeness, very tender and heartfelt, that added a touch of wonder to her countenance. I cannot explain it; I cannot even really describe it… but I could see it and feel it… perhaps like… well, I don't know what. She was just gloriously beautiful.

I could quite easily have kissed her, wanted to kiss her… perhaps I should have. The scarlet rosebud had worked its magic on her heart, just as her beauty of person had captured mine.

Her dress, tailored as it was, made her naturally gorgeous bust line rather prominent, and eye-catching. Truthfully, I was a little overwhelmed at her impressive figure, but that she was testing me soon became evident. I said nothing and, as gallantly as I could manage, offered the lady my arm. She whisked a large silk scarf, also in brilliant white, from behind the door. She tossed the luxurious silk casually over first one shoulder and then the other, veiling from view by any others the dramatic contours of her bodice.

Very clever, I thought. And when she looked up at me sweetly as she slipped her arm through mine and wiggled her cute little nose over her rosebud, all rational thought immediately collapsed in a heap.

"My dear Christine," I began solemnly, leaning close to her, "you have the most beautiful breasts, full and curvy and enticing… I very much appreciate the view." Her effort was largely for me… and I figured she deserved at least a little positive feedback for her stunning achievement. "I find it just marvelous that you deny to all the other men who will see you this evening that which you present so delightfully to me. I am greatly honored."

She was shocked at my bold words, as well she might have been. Her entire being arrested suddenly in doubt, she stopped short. "Am I bad, Dace?" I could see she was terrified that she had crossed over the line.

"My dearest young lady, I do not escort ‘bad' girls to dinner and the symphony, nor to any other place. You are move lovely than I could have imagined,my pretty little vixen. Your exquisite beauty overpowers me, andI want you… I wantyou," and extended my arm for her, "at my side dressed exactly as you are!"

My assurances and hearing her nickname quelled her anxieties. A girl can not, I think, when she has tried hard to please her escort and feels she had succeeded, keep from radiating her own pleasure. Christine was all alight, like a lone candle in a window on a dark night! Simply enchanting!

It was a very enjoyable evening. A nice seafood dinner on the waterfront was superb, the music was magnificent, and the company was, well, just exquisite. Too, I noticed then and recall now with great satisfaction, that her red rosebud seemed never – through dinner, walking, the music, the press of the crowd, the car, the entire evening –never to leave her hand.