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Outside, I open my car door for her, and she murmurs her thanks.
When I slide into my own seat and glance over at her, I can’t help enjoying the way the light from my dashboard makes her look.She sure knows how to dress up an old Camaro.“So what kind of food do you like?”
“Oh, I’m easy.”Her eyes widen.“I mean, my taste in food is easy.”
She’s totally stumbling over her words.I recall how hesitant she was to invite me over for dinner.I better tread carefully here, because I’m getting the feeling that she hasn’t had a date in a while and might bolt if I do the wrong thing.
Someone should write a manual for dating divorced moms.Hell, that’s her occupation, I recall.She might take on the task.
I rattle off some options downtown and we settle on O’Toole’s.Not the most romantic setting, but a good place to take in the atmosphere of our little city on the Chesapeake Bay.
My car pleasantly hums as we go over the Navy Bridge.
“So, um, your car,” she begins slowly, as though she hasn’t had to make small talk with a man in a long time.“What’s the story there?”
I glance at her.“Why do you think there’s a story?”
She giggles, for the first time looking more at ease.“There’salwaysa story when it comes to vintage cars.”
“You’re kind of right.It was my grandpa’s.Same grandpa I was named after.Same grandpa who was a SEAL in the Navy way back.”
“Talk about following in someone’s footsteps.”
“I guess so.He gave it to me just about a month before he died.It was like—he just knew what was coming.Told me he was giving it to me because he knew if I got it, I’d keep it.Take care of it.He didn’t want everything he owned to just get divided up or sold off when he was gone.”
“I totally get that.”
“Got a soft spot for nostalgia?”I grin.
She laughs again.“Come on.You’ve seen my tree.I have way too many homemade ornaments on there to be able to deny that I’m totally a nostalgia girl.I mean, some of the ones that Nicholas made in preschool are borderline hideous, I’ve been told.But to me, they’re like works of art.I just can’t let go of anything that my son made over the years.It probably sounds nuts to you but…”
When her voice trails, I interject, “You’re talking to a guy who’s poured too many paychecks into keeping Grandpa’s car running.I get it.Besides, Christmas is all about the memories.”
“You’re right.It is.”
I find a parking spot right off of Ego Alley, the narrow slip of water packed with boats adorned with Christmas lights.
“I love how they do that every year here,” she says, giving a nod toward the boats when I open her car door for her.
“Decorate the boats?Yeah.It’s nice.If I retire here one day, I’m totally getting a boat and entering it in the boat parade they do in December.Did you take Nicholas to it this year?”
“Absolutely.We do all the usual Christmas things together.At least, before he leaves for his dad’s.”
I frown.“I’m sorry to say this, but that kind of sucks.It seems like your ex gets to swoop in and take him at the best parts of the year.”I probably am overstepping by saying it.But I don’t care.
“It does.But we’ve kind of settled into a schedule.And he needs to take him when school’s out, so…” She shrugs.“Besides, when Nicholas comes home after the new year, we always celebrate our Christmas.Just a little later than normal.”
“Well, you’re a champ for putting up with it without complaint.”
“I kind of have to.It’s important that he has a good relationship with his dad.I don’t want any bitterness from me to leak into the picture.”
“Selfishly, I’m kind of glad to have you on your own tonight.”I open the door to O’Toole’s, and it buzzes with activity, the same as it always does around this hour of night.It doesn’t matter what day it is.It’s a quintessential Annapolis crowd angling for a seat at the aged mahogany bar.
I opt for a table for two by the window instead.As we sit, I suggest, “If you’re up for it afterward, I found out there’s a Christmas concert over at the Navy chapel at eight.Handel’sMessiah, I think it said.I figured you might like the Christmas music, with what you said about caroling.And this way, I don’t even have to sing.”
Her eyes widen considerably.“You want to go to a concert after dinner?”She sounds disbelieving as she says it.
“Why, thank you.I’d love to,” I answer in a joking tone again, because I notice it tends to put her at ease.“But yeah, if you want to.Or do you prefer to be the one singing rather than someone else?”
