opened the car door and I turned away so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the gift I’d left for him on the seat unless he wanted to. A colleague had once visited Belgium and brought back exquisite chocolates. My husband had loved them. I’d special ordered the box now sitting on the Malibu’s passenger seat. “Thanks,” Travis mumbled. He placed the box in the back. As I slid into the driver’s seat, he glanced over his shoulder, a wistful smile on his face. Recalling old memories, perhaps? Or wanting that chocolate?
I drove out of town, avoiding interstates and keeping to the scenic routes. Music from our shared past drifted from the radio’s speakers from what purported to be an oldies station. Twenty years wasn’t old. I Swear by All-4-One came on. Travis flipped the radio off. Ouch. Another one of our songs. Travis and me, slow dancing in the kitchen, his beautiful voice and my off-key warbling. Apparently, he didn’t want the reminder.
After a time, I turned off the air conditioner and rolled down the windows. He huffed, but then a smile curled up the corners of his mouth. “Honeysuckles! I smell honeysuckles!” He relaxed after that, not holding himself so stiffly.
Okay, the first part of “Operation Simple Things in Life” apparently made a hit. Now for the second stage of my plan.
“The Omelet House?”
Okay, so I’d improvised. But traveling as much as we had made it hard to find a restaurant we hadn’t been to before—at least not together. “Give it a chance, okay?”
Despite the low-key feel of the eatery, I couldn’t complain about the quality of my Spanish omelet.
“That looks good.” Travis examined my meal from across the table.
A young couple sitting two tables down and feeding each other nibbles inspired me. If they could act like two giddy teenagers on a date, then Travis and I could too. “Here, have a bite.”
His eyes widened as I raised a forkful to his lips. Twenty years ago he wouldn’t have glanced around first, but twenty years ago we wouldn’t have been in a family diner, having breakfast for dinner. In the end he parted his lips and I slid the bite inside.
“Oh, that is good.” After a moment he glanced up slyly, raising his own fork. “Want to try my blueberry waffle?”
While normally I’d avoid that much flour covered with syrup, my waistline didn’t matter nearly as much as getting through to Travis. Our waitress smiled when she stopped to refill our water glasses. Later, she drew a heart on the bill before placing it on the table. I tipped her double the price of our meals.
We resumed our journey after dinner, stopping at a hotel with no hope in hell of ever seeing a five-star rating. I rushed into the office and returned with keys before my resolve to keep our evening simple crumbled to dust. “Our room’s around back. We can park on the side.”
“We’re staying here?”
“Sure, why not?” I’d never say aloud that our rented accommodations, complete with worn bedspreads and rummage sale artwork, seemed luxurious compared to his apartment.
While Travis fussed about the room, I dashed down the hall for a bucket of ice to chill the wine I’d brought. Hotel included, so far on this trip I’d spent less than dinner at Winston’s, and yet somehow, being with Travis, acting like ordinary people instead of those who normally left fifty dollar tips, seemed far more precious than rooms with lush mattresses and satin sheets. We’d escaped the city, with its flashy nightlife and distractions, and I’d never been happier—though Travis could bring my whole world crashing down with the “D” word.
I stood in the doorway, dripping ice bucket in hand, and admired the view of my husband, yes, my husband, unpacking our suitcases and carefully lining socks up in one drawer, placing shirts in the next. My Travis. Good to see his meticulousness returned.
I loved this man, plain and simple. If he’d go with me, we’d jump any hurdle—together. Now to convince him to give us a chance.
“Oh. You brought wine.” He stopped his flitting about the room and sat down on one queen sized bed.
Trying to ignore his closeness taxed my nerves, with him sprawled out on one bed and me on the other. A few steps would put us in touching distance—and more. But I wouldn’t force anything he didn’t want to do; after all, he’d not forced me.
“I don’t recognize this vintage.” He eyed the bottle I poured from, filling two