BooksBarbecue
Back At Dawn Save as PDF
Chapters (39)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 1
  6. 1
  7. 1
  8. 1
  9. 1
  10. 1
  11. 1
  12. 1
  13. 1
  14. 1
  15. 1
  16. 1
  17. 1
  18. 1
  19. 1
  20. 1
  21. 1
  22. 1
  23. 1
  24. 1
  25. 1
  26. 1
  27. 1
  28. 1
  29. 1
  30. 1
  31. 1
  32. 1
  33. 1
  34. 1
  35. 1
  36. 1
  37. 1
  38. 1
  39. Copyright

I paid for two tickets, two sodas, and a large popcorn. There were several other couples inside the theater and I was happy to be among them. It had been a very long time. Before the movie started and after the lights went down, Carolyn leaned over and kissed me on the cheek and nuzzled against me, wrapping herself around my arm with her head on my shoulder. It became obvious how the rest of the day would go and I sat there with a grin as the opening previews played.

We both cried at the end. I knew I would. The damn spider had put me in another sentimental mood, and when we walked outside, the snow was falling heavily again and the flakes landed upon Carolyn’s face and melted. I yearned desperately to drink the water from her cheek, and I told her so. I pulled her to me, kissed the top of her head through the hood pulled over it, and it was then that I knew I was in trouble. Loneliness. I had learned to live with it for so long that I had forgotten how nice it was to have someone. I had lived with it and now I was a fool to remember this other way.

We stopped at a wine shop on the way back, walking hand in hand up and down its three meager aisles. I grabbed a bottle I knew well that I used to sell while working for the wine importer.

“What is that?” Carolyn asked.

“About as close to heaven as I can ever hope to get.”

She punched me in the arm. “No, really.”

“La Pousse d’Or. A French Burgundy.”

“What kind of wine is it?”

“Pinot Noir.”

She looked at where I’d gotten it.

“It’s a sixty-dollar bottle!” she said.

“It’s worth double that.”

“You’re not going to get it, are you?”

“I will if you promise to stay the night.”

“I’ll promise to stay the night only if you don’t get it.”

“How about this: I buy the bottle, make a nice dinner to complement it, and you stay the night anyway?”

“Stratton, that’s too much money,” she pleaded.

And she was right, of course, but in the end I bought the bottle and justified it by reminding myself of the hundred dollars I had knocked off my rent by talking to her. In my way of thinking I owed it to her.