Welcome Back Baby

"Once. On a special school outing," she said.

"Wanna go? We'll first have dinner in Little Italy. I'm sure you've been there."

"I have, Doug, but Saturday...Well, I'm not sure." She was sure she wanted to go. But then what would she tell Frank?

He picked up her vibe right away. "I know, you're busy with your boyfriend."

She paused to think. Then: "Honestly, yes. We're always together on Saturday night."

"Can you make an exception for this coming Saturday? The BSO is performing an all-Beethoven program. You'll love it."

She did enjoy what little classical music she'd been exposed to, including a Beethoven symphony, though she couldn't name which one. "Not to put you off, but can I get back to you? It's not that I don't want to go, I do, it's what you said, and I don't want to do anything behind his back. Meanwhile, if there's anyone else you'd like to take, don't wait for me."

"Amber, there are a few people I could take but I'd prefer to take you. Can you get back to me in a couple days?"

"Of course. And thanks for asking me. I'm flattered."

Her suspicions aside, she really was flattered that a guy like Doug would put her at the top of his list for a Saturday date night. What WOULD she tell Frank?"

She gave it a day's thought, then called him. She told him that Saturday night was always "reserved" for him. But would he mind if she made an "exception" for this Saturday because one of her "cleaning customers" wanted to take her to the symphony. She left out the dinner part, in addition to her luncheon at Bucolic Hills.

He paused before responding. "Are you seein' another guy?"

"No Frank, it's not like that. This guy's into classical music—and I kind of like it too—so he just asked me. Nothing more to it than that."

"I didn't know you liked long-hair stuff like that."

"Look, I'd rather listen to Green Day or the Rolling Stones but Beethoven's pretty cool, too. You should give it a listen."

"No thanks. But next time you want to go to the symphony, ask me. No need to go with one of your customers because I'll take you." After a long pause, he said, "Amber, I don't think you're tellin' me the whole story. What you're sayin' don't fully add up."

He was right, it didn't. But what was she supposed to say? 'You're right, Frank. His name is Douglas, he's very good-looking, makes big bucks and belongs to an exclusive country club.' She'd used brutal honesty before on certain people, but Frank wasn't going to be one of them. "Frank, you'll just have to trust me. He's taking me to the symphony, not to bed." She winced, regretting that line, stupid and provocative. "Sorry, Frank, I didn't mean to get testy." Silence. "Frank? Frank?"

"Amber, like I said, I don't think you're bein' totally honest with me. But you go ahead, enjoy yourself."

He hung up before she had a chance to respond. Now what? Risk bad feeling between herself and the man she professed to love or accept a date with a guy who she found very attractive on a few levels but still didn't fully trust? Frank was Frank, a good guy but one who lacked the desire to move up in the world. She saw Doug as someone who could expose her to things she'd never seen or done. And yes, flattery had a lot to do with it. She felt almost proud that a guy like him wanted to be with a girl from the poorer side of town.

And so, come early Saturday evening, Amber waited anxiously for Doug to pick her up for their dinner-symphony date. She wore a shortish, light-blue semi-formal dress and high heels. If Doug liked her in her work clothes, jeans and tennis shoes, he'd like her in this, the form-fitting dress and shoes that brought out the best in her shapely legs. She decided to keep her hair down instead of putting it up. This was a date, not a prom.

Norb Mullin, Amber's dad, answered the door, curious about this new man in his daughter's life. Amber felt nervous, watching Norb and Doug, dressed in a blue blazer, off-white pants and a long-sleeve blue button-down sans tie, shake hands in the small living room. 'Quite a contrast,' she thought, 'my average height, balding dad in his T-shirt and work pants, and the tall and suave Douglas Gibbens. She also picked up on the cautious, almost suspicious way that Norb looked at her date. He seemed to be asking himself, what in the hell is this rich guy doing down here?

When they were driving away, Doug said, "Your parents looked like they don't fully trust me. I guess, like you, they think it's odd that I'd be interested in you."

"Doug, not to belabor the point—because we talked about this at your club—but I don't fully get it either. Does any of your family know about me?"

"No, not yet." Doug looked straight ahead, navigating his Austin-Healy through the heavy downtown Baltimore traffic. "Why?"

"Just curious. I wonder what their reaction might be."

"They don't care who I date. At twenty-eight, I'm a big boy now. But what about Frank? Does he know you're out with me?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I told him. Can't say he liked it but there was no nasty drama or anything."

"Well, that's good," Doug said. Glancing down at her legs, halfway exposed, he said, "By the way, you took terrific tonight. You're so pretty."

"Thanks. And you look so handsome. As usual."

Minutes later, they arrived in Little Italy, a congested neighborhood in East Baltimore of old row homes where there seemed to be a restaurant on every corner. This place could be packed on weekend nights. Doug had made reservations, so they didn't have to wait too long after stepping into Chiapparelli's, one of the more popular eateries here, and then being seated next to a window. "I've never been here before," Amber said. "We usually go to Sabatino's."

"Been to both," Doug said, "and I'd say it's a tossup. By we, you mean you and Frank?"

"Yes, and with my family, though it's been a while. Thanks for taking me." She flashed her blue eyes and smiled, then began perusing her menu.

Doug took a chance ordering two glasses of wine, hoping that the waitress wouldn't ask to see Amber's ID. She didn't, and Amber joked, "Ohmygod, I guess I look older than twenty."

They shared a big antipasto salad, followed by veal parmesan for her and chicken cacciatore for him. "The sauce makes the meal," he said, forking into his pasta.

In the middle of chewing, she could only nod. Then she said, "You asked me about coming here with Frank. So, I have to ask, do you take all your girlfriends here?"

"Sure, all fifteen of them."

Amber didn't know if he was joking or not. His straight face to mischievous grin told her the former. "Well, you look like a playboy kind of guy. I mean that as a compliment."

"Thanks. But I'm no playboy. Well, not in the sense that Hugh Heffner would define it. But I've done okay."

"I bet you have," she said, then took a sip of wine.

They skipped dessert to ensure that they'd make the symphony on time. Amber was having a great time. He had made her laugh over dinner, talking about crazy things that went on in the clothing and automobile business, plus awkward dates that he'd had since his teen years. She found him fun. She liked him and liked him even more when they got into his car, and he leaned over to kiss her. "Thanks, that was nice," she said. "I was wondering when you were going to kiss me."

"There's more where that came from," he said, and then drove off.

*****

Amber was on a high by the time she walked out of the Meyerhoff Symphony Hall following the concert. Her stomach was full of delicious Italian food, she was with a new guy she liked, and then there was the music—she loved it. They heard the BSO perform Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, followed by his Fourth Piano Concerto, followed by his Leonore Overture Number Three. "I'd like to hear more of his stuff," she said as they walked toward the multi-level parking garage, holding hands.

"You can, back at my place," he said. "I've got tons of Beethoven and a good sound system to play it on."

"Okay," she said, even though she felt uneasy about going back to a guy's place she barely knew. She hoped that letting him kiss her wasn't a signal for hm to go further. Sure, he turned her on. However, emotionally, she wasn't ready to hop into his bed—if that's what he had in mind. Listening to Beethoven sounded suspiciously like the cliché of seeing his etchings.

Nevertheless, she trusted him enough to go back to his apartment building, a 12-story luxury high-rise designed by Ludwig Mies van der Rohe in a tony part of the city. He lived on the top floor facing south, high enough to see the Washington Monument and beyond through one of the huge frames of glass that dominated the exposed wall. The looks of his place, the Oriental scatter rugs, the tasteful furniture, shelves stuffed with books, records and CDs, plus the abstract paintings that adorned the walls, further confirmed that Doug, when it came to cultural sophistication, was a different breed of man than Frank or other guys around her neighborhood.

"Nice place," Amber said, when they returned to the living room after Doug gave her a brief tour. She fixed her gaze on the entertainment center, the fifty-inch TV screen flanked by two tower-like speakers and shelving which held his components. She almost blinked looking at those big McIntosh amps with the pretty blue lights. She also noticed a pile of magazines (Playboy, Town&Country, Sound&Vision) on a glass coffee table.

"Have a seat," Doug said, pointing to the black leather sofa that sat a few feet out from the wall of windows toward the TV and speakers. He took off his blazer, folded it over the arm of one of the two chairs and then asked if she wanted a "nightcap."

"No, I'm good," she said. "Beethoven will be my nightcap."

He nodded. "Very well," he said, then stepped over to a shelf full of CDs and pulled out a recording of Beethoven's violin concerto. "I think you'll like this one. The soloist is Hillary Hahn, who grew up in Baltimore, by the way." He popped it into his player, then joined her on the sofa, close enough to where his hips and thighs were touching hers. She caught him looking at her legs, expected and appreciated, though she felt somewhat anxious, wondering if he'd try to go further than she wanted so early at this stage of the game.

Yet, when he reached toward her lap and took one of her hands, she didn't think twice about turning around to kiss him. He was so good-looking, the music was beautiful and, well, it felt like the natural thing to do. His manly scent and whatever cologne he wore, further tested her resolve not to break down, not to submit to whatever advance he had in mind.

"How do you like the music so far?" he asked between kisses.

She took a deep breath, "The music? It's beautiful. Though, to be honest, it's not easy listening to it doing this with you."

"We can stop if you'd like," he said, grinning and putting a hand on her knee. "Either way, Mr. Beethoven won't care."

"But I will. So kiss me some more."

She could feel her resolve weakening with every note that Hillary Hahn played. By the time the piece segued into the slow movement, Amber found herself lying on the sofa, Doug on top of her. With her dress bunched around her waist, she could feel his boner against the thin material of her wet panties. She had reached the line that she didn't want to cross, was determined not to cross if Doug forced the issue. In fact, he started to by tucking his fingers inside her panties, presumably to take them down. She felt almost silly when she clasped her hands over his and said, "Doug, please...I'm not yet ready to go further with you. Not tonight."

She didn't know what to expect. Would he respect her wishes or force himself on her? She tried to read that impassive smile he drew across his face, while his fingers remained tucked inside her panties. For all she knew, he could be a serial date rapist, someone she'd have to fight off, while screaming for help. Years ago, before she got on with Frank, a guy came close to raping her. He would have, too, if not for that punch to his nose she delivered. Would history repeat itself? She wondered until Doug pulled away and said, "It's okay, I understand."

His sudden passivity almost startled her. "You do?"

"I do."

She sighed in relief, pulled her dress down and then sat up. "You're not mad?"

"Not at all." He chuckled. "Hot and horny but not mad." He leaned in and kissed her. "Look, you've got a boyfriend, and this is only our first date. Well, second, technically, but our first formal date. Truth to tell, I'd have carried you into my bedroom had you let me. But I'll wait until you're ready. I'm a patient guy when it comes to things like this. Besides, I didn't bring you here just to have sex but for you to get to know me better."

She rocked back, snuggling in his arms as the last movement of the concerto was winding down. She didn't think that another guy placed in Doug's situation would have been so understanding. Not if he had bulging between his legs what she had felt. Not if he was about to rip her panties off. Tilting her head upward, she said, "I like you."

He gave her a squeeze and kissed the back of her neck. "I like you too, Amber."

*****

Amber wasn't sure what she was going to tell Frank, if anything. She didn't have much time to think about it because, come Sunday morning, he was at her door, wearing a tank top, cutoff jeans and old gym shoes. "Can we talk?" he asked.

Still in her PJs, Amber invited him in. Her parents and sister were downstairs, so they went up to her room. She sat on the edge of the bed, taking note of his bloodshot eyes and hair, unkempt, with a cowlick sticking up toward the back, a major departure from the neat way he normally kept his light locks. "Frank, you look like you've been up all night."

"Most of it," he said, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "How was your date?"

"It was okay. The music was great. You might like classical yourself if you gave it a chance."

"I said I'd take you to the symphony. Even though it's not my thing."

He paced the small room for a few seconds, then sat beside her. "So what about the guy you were with? Are you gonna see him again?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Maybe? You like him, don't you?"

"He's okay." She thought Doug Gibbens was more than okay. And yes, she planned to see him again. But how to tell Frank who she pictured tossing and turning and pacing while she was making out with a new man in her life. "Frank, listen, I love you but I'm not ready to get married."

Frank shook his head and stood up. "I knew it!" He began pacing again. "Amber, you didn't talk like this before your date with this guy. We were plannin' a life together. Then you meet this customer of yours and all the sudden, all our plans get blown to hell."

She reached out to take his hand, but he kept pacing. "Calm down, Frank, it's not like that. I'm not in love with him. But getting tied down when I'm not even drinking age...Well, I just don't want that right now. Like I told you, I'd like to take some college courses. And I sure don't want to be stuck behind the counter of a dry cleaner all my life. Don't you want what's best for me? You would if you really loved me."

Frank stopped pacing, then threw his hands on his hips. "I bet one thing. I bet this guy can't do for you what I can do for you in bed."

"I haven't slept with him, Frank, if that's what you're thinking. We had dinner, we went to the symphony and then back to his place to hear more music."

"Dinner and back to his place? You told me you were just going to the symphony."

Amber felt like throwing him out. Raising her voice, she said, "Stop interrogating me! We're not married, not even engaged. You're getting yourself all worked up over nothing."

He shook a finger in her face. "Am I? You haven't been fully up-front with me about you and this dude from the start. There's more to tell, and you know it."

She sighed. "This is exhausting. Look, I've said all I think I need to say."

"He's got money, don't he?"

"Don't he? I think you mean DOESN'T he, Frank."

"Oh, listen to you, Miss Grammar Perfect. Talkin' down to me now. What's this dude, an English teacher or something?"

She stood up, folding her arms against her chest. "Frank, I think it's best you leave."

He stepped back, glaring at her in tight-lipped hostility. His bloodshot eyes now looked menacing as well as sad. Frank had never hit her, so Amber didn't expect him to, though he looked like he wanted to. Then came the slap across her face. Not hard enough to hurt, at least physically. Emotionally, it hurt enough to leave her in tears, as he stormed out, bounded down the stairs and then out the door.

*****

In the days that followed, Frank called her a few times to apologize. She accepted his apology, while apologizing herself for talking down to him. She still wasn't ready to see him. "I need my space, time away from you to think things through," she said. "Please respect that, Frank. I'm sure you will, knowing the good guy you are."

Amber's need for space did not include space from Doug. She didn't think twice about accepting his invite for a Sunday afternoon around the Bucolic Hills Country Club pool. "I want to show you off," he said. "You'll be my trophy date. Bring your bikini."

Trophy date? She'd never been anyone's "trophy," and she didn't plan to start with Doug. Still, she laughed it off, thinking that the comment wasn't made to offend her. "Just his sense of humor, I guess," she told her mom Sally.

Doug's trophy talk rubbed Sally the wrong way as well. "Just don't let him use you," Sally advised her.

Amber kept that in mind when Doug picked her up. "Bring your bikini?" Doug asked when she got into the car.

Amber unzipped her backpack and pulled out the white and yellow garment. "Right here. I hope you're not disappointed that it's not a thong. I refuse to wear those things."

"Not at all. What you brought will expose plenty of that great body of yours."

Amber couldn't deny that she enjoyed all the gawks she got just wearing street clothes. Even so, she didn't want to feel like she was on display for some rich guy to show off for his rich friends.

The pool was big and L-shaped, with a smaller pool attached for young children. Loungers and round tables equipped with umbrellas stood around the concrete pool deck. Two brick bath houses with weathervanes atop the slate, slanted roofs stood nearby. No surprise, this place didn't look anything like the public pools the city provided. Unlike those municipal pools, Bucolic Hills kept their facility up—there were no cracks in the cement or shaggy looking chairs or loungers. And it was all white people here, prosperous looking white people, people like Doug who had gone to college and held well-paying jobs. Again, she felt out of her element, though she got a kick out of the guys checking her out as she walked from the pool to the women's bathhouse, wearing tight blue shorts and flip-flops. She knew it made Doug happy, watching his "trophy date" from the inner-city turning heads.

Doug, already in his swim trunks, was waiting for her at the entrance when she emerged in the bikini that he had requested she wear. "If you're not the finest fille here," he said, "I don't know who is."

"Thanks," she said, not altogether sure what fille meant. She looked around, noticed that she wasn't the only fine "fille." Many of these women, most of them older than she, looked like the type that made regular trips to a health spa. They looked well-groomed and cared for. What's the word? Chic. Lathered up with sunscreen, their bodies glistened under the hot noonday sun.

Just then, a slightly overweight guy around Doug's age approached, one of the guys who had ogled her, Amber noticed. "Hey, Gibby, you've been holding out on me. New girlfriend?"