Page 72 of The Party Line

He parked the truck near an enormous oak tree with roots as big as my waist running on top of the ground. I looked around for the picnic table, but apparently either a bunch of kids had stolen it or else the wood had rotted and it had been washed away by one of the floods in the last twelve years. Connor opened the door for me and gave me his hand to help me out of the truck.

“Grandpa and I have fished right here ever since I was a little boy,” he said as he opened the back door.

When I saw that he had a real picnic basket, a quilt, and a tote bag, I figured that maybe—just maybe—Mama wouldn’t think history was repeating itself.

“I’ll carry the tote bag.” I picked it up and followed him near the tree.

His memories were different from mine. I had had my first beer, my first kiss, and my very first dance with a boy right here under that big tree. Some of the kids I’d partied with shucked all their clothes and dove right in, not caring if the water often looked like thin chocolate milk. I wondered if my parents had ever skinny-dipped in the river.

He spread the quilt out on a grassy area just a few feet from the tree roots and put the basket in the middle. I set the tote bag off to the side, and he dropped down on his knees. “Turn around and don’t look until I get everything set up,” he said.

The sound of tinkling glass and what sounded like a match being struck added to the duets the tree frogs and locusts were performing. I’d never been fishing in my entire life, but when a couple of fish flopped out there in the water, creating little ripples all the way back to the shoreline, I wondered if Aunt Gracie, Davis, and Jasper had ever come down there. I made a mental note to ask Jasper about it when I took him his evening meds.

“Okay, you can turn around now,” Connor said.

It looked like something out of a movie set: Two places set with real plates, wineglasses, and cloth napkins. Twinkle lights all around the quilt and a bouquet of yellow roses in a crystal vase right in the middle.

I gasped. “How did you ...”

“I wanted you all to myself tonight, but you deserve a special first date.” Connor stood up and took me by the hand. “Welcome to Café River. Please come in and be seated.”

Mama, there’s cloth napkins and flowers. Does that count as a fancy place?

“Would it be all right if I take a picture of the café before we mess it up with food?” I asked.

Connor led me the half a dozen steps to the quilt. “Are you one of those people who post food pictures on Facebook?”

“Nope.” I shot half a dozen photos with my cell phone. “But this is so beautiful I want to send a picture of it to my mama. And, Connor, don’t kid yourself. You are definitely a romantic.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Lila, you are a breath of fresh air to this drowning man,” he said.

I wanted to lay my hand on my chest and sigh.

“No comment or smart remark about that being a lame pickup line?” he asked.

“No, I’m enjoying letting it sink into my heart. That is even more romantic than all this is. Whoever told you that you weren’t romantic should be exiled from the human race.”

“What I said was the truth. Every time I’m around you, it’s like the world lights up in Technicolor.” He motioned to a place setting.

I truly felt like I was in one of those old romantic movies when I sat down. “Thank you for this beautiful date.”

He sat down and leaned across the space and kissed me. “I’ve ordered a shooting star for you. I hope the company doesn’t run out of them before you get yours.”

“If they do, we’ll have to do this all over again,” I whispered.

“Anytime, darlin’. Anytime. Now, there’s not a big selection on the menu, but we don’t have to wait for it to be cooked and served.”

“It’s got my favorite food of all time on the menu: fried chicken,” I told him.

He passed the container of chicken over to me. “You mentioned that when Gina Lou said they had had it at her folks’ house last Sunday.”

Yep, a whole lot better than a bologna sandwich and then a romp in the back seat of an old car.

“You pick up on so much. What was it like to be a military kid? Is that part of it?”

“I usually lived on a base with other kids—some younger, some older, and lots in between. I made friends, and then some of them moved, new ones came in, and finally I was the one who moved. We were usually in one place a year, or maybe two. How about you? What was it like to live in Ditto your whole life?”

“Like you said, it was life.” I shrugged. “Same friends until I left.”

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