heard that some of those Billy Bobs could be pretty insufferable about their allegiance to the Lone Star State. Maybe he went by initials only, like PC or JB, or worse yet, a nickname like Bubba. (When I first moved south, I’d met a Bubba Levy, so I knew it could be.) Then again, he might not be too keen on Yankees, let alone one with a New York accent. Could I—should I—dive in and phone this guy? So what if I’m blown off by the Texan? Could I handle another rejection? Rejection? I don’t even know this guy! Enough, already. Either call the guy or forget about it.
And so I inched up to the phone, bit my finger, contacted the operator, gave her the Texan’s full name, wrote down his number, took a breath, and dialed.
You will hang up after only five rings, I told myself.
He answered on the fourth.
“Um . . . hi . . . is this Terry? You don’t know me but Marlene gave me your name and number. She said you were new here, too. I thought you might like to get together some time.”
“Marlene? Oh, yeah, she’s married to David from work. What was your name?” His voice was soft and smooth, without a trace of a Southern accent.
“Fran, my name is Fran. I’m teaching at Mountain Tech. That’s where I met Marlene. We work together. I moved here from Chapel Hill last August with my son, Matt. He’s spending the weekend with his father, so I was wondering if you might like to get together. It’s the first cold night we’ve had and I’m planning to build a fire.”
Am I crazy? Get together? Build a fire? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Well, I guess I could. I was supposed to meet some friends at a bar in town, but things got mixed up at the last minute. Looks like I don’t have anything else going, so I’m available. I live downtown. Where are you?”
Oh, God, here goes . . . don’t let him be a serial killer . . .
“I’m renting a house up in the hills. On a dirt road, kind of out of the way. A few miles from town.” Great. If he is a serial killer, I’ll make a terrific victim; the lonely college teacher, living up in the hills! Oh, Lord, what am I doing?
But I pressed on.
“I’m not familiar with the roads around here. In fact, they scare me to death. And my sense of direction is pretty lousy. But I’ll do my best with directions and hope you can find me.”
“What time?”
“How about 8:00 or 8:30?”
“See you then.”
Of course it was unwise, even dangerous, to have invited a complete stranger to my isolated home. But an impulsive current had overtaken me. I craved some male attention because, frankly, I no longer felt desirable. After all, my husband had flat-out rejected me. But as soon as I hung up the phone, I was tempted to call the stranger back and cancel. However, I was lonely, and didn’t want to spend the evening alone, feeling sorry for myself. So emotions trumped reason, as they often did back then. Months later, Terry admitted, “You know after you called it crossed my mind that I might get lucky and score that night. Your invitation was mighty seductive.” He grinned and patted my arm. I blushed.
I had two hours before his arrival. I ran water for a hot bath and soaked in bubbles. Then I powdered my skin, curled my hair, polished my nails, dressed and undressed. And re-dressed. Like a frazzled designer before a fashion show, I rifled through my meager wardrobe. Too baggy, wrong color, too formal, too flimsy, too hippie, too dowdy, too flashy. (Too tight wasn’t a problem, as I was down to ninety pounds from my normal weight of 125, probably from the stress of the impending divorce.) I finally settled on a turquoise turtleneck, bell-bottomed jeans, plain gold hoop earrings, a gold bangle bracelet, beige socks, and tan sandals. After dressing, I pirouetted in front of a full-length mirror like a debutante. Not bad, I thought. The jeans fit snugly, but not too tight, and the nipples of my small breasts were visible beneath my shirt, but not brazenly. (This was during my—and seemingly the entire country’s young, female population’s—braless phase.) Understated, casual, “appropriate for the occasion,” as my mother used to say.
As I carefully applied my powder, blush, a dab of mascara, and lip gloss, I felt like a fourteen-year-old on her first date. My first date? Irish Teddy Riley. We went to a movie in Flushing. Exodus with Sal Mineo? Or was it Ben Hur with Charlton Heston? Teddy from Brooklyn with his blond hair, blue eyes, and pug nose. After high school, he joined the army and was stationed at Fort Dix, New Jersey, for basic training. I started dating his best friend, Bobby. We wrote a few times, lost touch. Years later, my cousin Cosmo told me Teddy was a fireman, married, with a child. First date, first kiss, first love, you never forget them.
And now my first date in eighteen years.
Just before eight o’clock, I put a bottle of wine on to chill, built a fire, and fiddled with a stubborn curl as I checked and rechecked my image in a mirror.
8:30. The Texan didn’t show.
9:00, 9:15, 9:30. Still no Texan.
I stared at the fire and cursed my impulsivity. I might have been dumped, but I’d never been stood up. Then again it might not be such a bad thing. After all, this guy could be a thug, a psycho, or a deranged vigilante like Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver. My embarrassment was tinged with relief. Maybe I’d been “asking for trouble,” as my mother often warned me. These days, I’d kill one of my nieces for even contemplating such a move. But back then, I paced before the kitchen window, scanning the road for an approaching car. Seated briefly, I flipped through old magazines. Standing again, I poked resignedly at the dying fire . . . and then . . . .
A knock.
At 10:00 p.m. A smile. An apology.
“Hi. Sorry I’m so late. I really mean it. I got completely turned around in these hills and couldn’t find my way back to the main road. Couldn’t even find a house so that I could call you on the phone. No offense, but you live way out of nowhere. Look, I know it’s late and I can leave right now. I’m really sorry about all of this.”
“Well, I’d just about given up on you. Come on in, it’s freezing out there.”
Psychologists who study such things report that people feel positive or negative within seconds of a first encounter with a stranger. The reaction is visceral, immediate and, most times, permanent. My first impression was favorable: short guy, curly brown hair in need of a cut, kind amber eyes framed with wire-rimmed glasses, small hands, stubby fingers. He looked like a young Richard Dreyfuss without the nervous edge. Cuddly like a stuffed bear from my son Matt’s animal kingdom. He wore faded blue jeans, scuffed white sneakers, a denim shirt, and a brown-and-beige checkered lumber jacket. His voice was gentle, without the trace of a Southern accent. A definite plus, for this Yankee. I detected a faint smell of Old Spice, which reminded me of my father. Another plus.
The Texan carried a six pack of Bud and a small paper bag.
We stood in the dim hallway and searched for words to wrap around those first awkward moments.
“Cold night.”
“Yes, some frost. Didn’t expect it so early.”
“Nice place, but pretty far out.”
“Yes, I got lost when I came
