There is not a lot of sex in this story. Please be forewarned.
Pointing to the small patch of yellow containing an anachronistic lion, the symbol of a royal house long dethroned on the rear of the car facing hers, she admitted, "I like your bumper sticker."
"You've been to Scotland, then?" he asked, contemplating the ash blond locks and rounded facial features.
"Yes, just once. My grandmother came from Prestwick."
"Ah, yes," he agreed, thinking of the seaside burg with it's crowded main street and the viaduct that led to the historic links. "A beautiful town." She began to fumble with the pump. "Here, let me help you with that," and he unscrewed the gas tank and inserted the nozzle full into the opening.
As the tank was being filled with the expensive solution, they continued their chat. "Where did your grandmother live?"
"Right in town. I actually saw her house."
"Where was it?"
"Caerlaverock Street."
"Oh, yes, just up from the pub that sells Guiness."
"My goodness, how do you know it?"
"Oh, I've taken a few golfing trips over, and Prestwick is prime territory, you know. I've always thought an Irish pub in Scotland was a bit of a travesty."
She giggled, he thought it a sweet sound. As the gasoline meter spun, she explained a bit more about the circumstances of how she'd found the house, how no one had remembered her grandmother, but someone remembered her aunt Elspath, who'd only emigrated after World War II, and then directed her to the doorstep. She'd been, she explained, too timid to knock on the door, but she happened upon a genealogy society in the village and made some friends who she still kept in touch with.
The pump clicked off, and he replaced the nozzle in the holster and replaced the cap. "It was nice talking to you," she admitted, "and if I didn't have a conference call I have to be on, we could talk for hours. But thanks for the help."
"It's no trouble," he shyly grinned. "My name's Ryan."
"I'm Paula." She slid into the seat of her sedan, while he walked forward to complete the filling of his own car. Suddenly, he wheeled, returned to the side of her vehicle.
"Listen," he said as she slid the window down, "I'd really like to talk to you some more about Scotland. Why don't you take my number and we can have lunch some time?"
"Okay," she agreed, a little non-commitingly, "but I'm not sure my husband would approve." Still, she took the number down.
"I don't see why not, he'd be welcome, too."
He watched her as she pulled her car out onto the main road.
Three days later, Ryan received the phone call, a bit surprised; he really hadn't expected her to call. "I've been thinking," she said, "and I'd love to have lunch with you. I'm free on Saturday, if you can get away."
"Not a problem," he concurred, and they decided upon a Chili's in a mall a few miles from the gas station they'd met. "Bring your pictures, I'd love to see them."
At 11:45, she was waiting for him as he stepped into the vestibule. They shook hands warmly, Paula didn't seem to want to release the grip as she peered into his eyes. She carried a computer bag, they were led to a booth barely large enough for four in the middle of the restaurant, sat opposite each other. "It's so nice to see you again," he giddily admitted.
"Me too." She looked around the grill, seeing if anyone she knew might be there. "I feel a little guilty, I've never done anything like this before."
"Like what? Met a friend for lunch?"
"You know what I mean. You're a man, I'm a woman, people could misconstrue."
"Let them," he urged. "It's a public place, and we're simply going to look at photographs." The barmaid came, asked if they'd like drinks. "Please," he ordered, "I'd like a rob roy. I got the taste for them in Edinburgh." He pronounced it in the Scottish manner, Edinburra.
"I'll have a diet," she said, which gained a raised eyebrow from Ryan. "Well, all right, I guess I'll have a glass of white wine."
"That's better. So, tell me, how many times have you been to the homeland?"
"Just the once, four years ago. Hugh and I were there for two weeks. It was the first time we'd ever been out of the country, a gift to ourselves when we got our last boy out of college and also an early trip to celebrate our thirtieth anniversary."
"Thirty years! That couldn't be. He's a very lucky man." This caused her to blush. "Lori and I just passed our twenty-first."
"And she doesn't mind you're here?"
"Well, I told her I was going to Lowe's, and that I might get a haircut. She's working today, anyway, there's no problem. So show me!"
She got her laptop out of the bag, placed it on the table between them, began the slideshow, but because of the odd angle it was difficult for both to see them simultaneously. "Would you mind if I sat beside you?" he requested.
"No, I suppose not." The tone was guarded, reticent. But she moved over on the bench, as far as possible, and together they sat, gazing at scenes of the lowlands and highlands. Salads were delivered, through the munching they continued the travelogue. When the waitress asked if they would like another round, Paula said, "Oh, I shouldn't . . . but okay." The restaurant was only half full, so neither felt guilty about staying in the booth while they chatted of Ayrshire and the Dumfries and the Grampians. Finally, the photographs - there must have been several hundred - were exhausted, and the drinks were as well. Along the way, the couple had shared their experiences, begun to view each other with warmth.
Then, Ryan ordered another drink, Paula decided water would be just fine. Since there was no need for them to sit alongside each other, Ryan moved back over to 'his' side of the booth when he returned from the restroom. "So, tell me," he pumped, "how did Paula get to be Paula?"
She was startled by the question. "What do you mean?"
"You must have come from somewhere. Had a childhood, went to school. I know you have children. Tell me."
"My goodness. Well, I grew up in a small town in the northern part of the state . . ." As she told her life story, Ryan listened studiously. Paula was taken aback with the attention, it had been so long since anyone - particularly a man - had taken notice of her. He asked questions at the right times, making sure he had the names of her three children correctly. When she ran out of things at the tip of her mind, he asked for a detail, summoning an anecdote.
Ryan looked at his watch, gasped, "Oh, look at the time. I've got to be going! I'd love to stay longer . . ." He helped her on with her coat, another courtesy she wasn't accustomed to, and escorted her to her SUV. "My, that's a large car for such a wee woman!"
"I know. I'd rather have a compact, but Hugh wants the status of a big expensive car." Her statement was accompanied by a rancorous mien. He opened the door for her, and she gave him a restrained hug, one meant for a friend, nothing more.
"I tremendously enjoyed this," Ryan said, "do you think we could get together again?"
"I liked it too, I don't see why not."
"I'll call you then." He watched her drive off.
That night, as she put the roast and mashed potatoes in front of her husband and they watched a sitcom together, she thought of how Ryan had seemed to care about her.
Two days later, in the rush of the afternoon traffic, her cell phone rang. "Hi, am I catching you at a bad time?" he queried.
"No, I'm just driving home from work."
"Good. How was your day?"
"Rotten. One of the guys got a little uptight, blamed me for a mistake he made."
"That's too bad. Did you call him on it?"
"No, I'm miss goody-two-shoes when it comes to that. I should have stood up for myself."
"Yes, you should have," he agreed.
"How was your day?" she asked in response.
"Not bad. It would have been better if you had been around."
"Oh, that's sweet."
"So, when can we get together again? I felt so alive after our lunch!"
"Well, I don't know . . ."
"Maybe we could have drinks after work?"
Paula thought, would this be right? Should I encourage him? After all, we're both married . . . After perhaps ten seconds of silence, he continued, "What about Wednesday night? At Chili's?"
She surprised herself by responding, "All right." After all, it was only drinks, wasn't it? It wasn't like she was committing adultery, after all, not like . . .
Over coffee Wednesday morning, she told her husband a little white lie. "We're backed up, and I might have to work late. There's some left over pasta in the fridge." Hugh just grunted, hardly looking up.
Ryan was waiting for her in a booth. "You look wonderful," he complimented.
"Oh, come now." She knew she didn't look anything of the sort, she was much to plump to be 'wonderful,' she was harried after the day's work and she'd barely had time to freshen up her lipstick and comb her hair during the drive. But it was nice of him to think so.
She ordered a wine, he had a glass of his own in front of him, and they looked over the appetizer menu. "Is there something you'd like?"
"What are pot-stickers? They look interesting."
"We have to have them, then," he agreed.
The talk that night was of families. How she'd loved her mother deeply, only to have her pass away of a brain tumor while she was in her senior year of high school, and how sad Paula had been not to have her at the wedding. Her father had married three years later to a woman she didn't see eye to eye with, but he seemed to love her deeply for the last twenty years of his life.
She found out, when she inquired, that Ryan and his wife only had one daughter, now married and living out of state, and that his wife was a real estate agent who spent most weekends and many evenings out on sales calls. "That must be terrible," Paula explained.
"I don't know," he rejoined. "At least it keeps down the bickering. We don't really have much in common anymore, I guess."
"Yes, I feel that way sometimes."
"Really!? You seem so happy."
