“Mother,” I said, “don’t you think it would be more reasonable for you to hold off making judgments about people until after you’ve met them?” I wished I’d bitten my tongue.
“If you’re referring to this John Perry,” she said coolly, “a man twenty years older than you . . . I don’t need to know any more than that.”
Our conversation ended quickly. As I hung up the phone after defending John to my mother, I was suddenly aware I was far more interested in him than I had pretended. I envisioned him, placed myself in his aura again...the way he acted, spoke, looked at me. I loved the way he made me feel, as though his own honor had somehow rubbed off on me, making me important, too. Hearing about his heroic exploits had expanded my understanding of military life, and being exposed to the larger-than-life figures of his father and his great-grandfather had strongly heightened my sense of history. In addition, when John mentioned being ostracized by his family despite his unwavering generosity, my caregiving instincts were deeply stirred. After this last ego-battering conversation with my mother, I appreciated John’s attentiveness and kind words to me all the more. He made me feel valuable and important.
I glanced over at the kitchen wall clock and realized I should have left for school ten minutes ago. I hated to be late. I hopped off the stool, grabbed my briefcase and jacket, and ran to the car. As I zoomed down the freeway, I couldn’t help wondering, might John Perry, despite our age difference, be the salve to heal the abrasions of my soul?
I was still thinking about John the next morning when I noticed that a Johnny Mathis concert was coming up soon on my calendar. Why not offer my extra ticket to John? No big deal. Going together to the Concord Pavilion for the concert would be a fun evening, that’s all. There was nothing unusual about a woman inviting a man for a date these days. It was perfectly acceptable.
I called Debbie. She gave me John Perry’s work telephone number, the only number she could provide.
John sounded pleased to hear my voice when I called him. He told me how much he had enjoyed meeting me, and revealed that he’d wanted to call me but hadn’t wanted to seem forward. He gladly accepted my invitation and, to my delight, invited me to join him for dinner before the concert. I hung up the phone, giddy as a schoolgirl. This famous man wanted to go out with me. Me! I twirled into the lab and circled the center bench, like
West Side Story
’s Maria, singing “I Feel Pretty.” Fortunately no one was around to hear me make a fool of myself.
During the two weeks before the concert, John and I kept in touch by telephone. I relished each call and looked forward to our conversations. The night before our Pavilion date, I was surprised when he said he was calling from the Oakland airport. He’d just gotten back from L.A., he told me. He and Ted had gone together on business, and Ted was there with him. They agreed it would be great fun for Debbie and me to meet them for dinner at La Cigale in Walnut Creek. “How about it?” he asked.
“Sure. When?”
“Tonight.”
My heart sank. I wanted to go, of course I did, but I already had plans to barbecue with Jenna, my boarder. Jenna was an Excelsior intern, just for the summer, and I loved her company. She had needed a temporary place to stay, and I had just moved into a brand-new, three-bedroom home in Antioch only five months before. My finances were stable, but the extra income she provided was the perfect remedy for my FNS (financial nervousness syndrome), and we’d become friends in the meantime. Much as she and I enjoyed each other’s company, we were both so busy we rarely spent an evening at home at the same time. Tonight was to be one of those nights. The charcoal in the Weber was already heating up. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”
“Oh, come on. Drive over to Ted’s and meet us. We’ll probably pull in about the same time. We’ll have a drink first, then go together to La Cigale. You’ll love its Country French atmosphere, and I know the owners. They’d love to meet you.”
“Sorry, I can’t, I have other plans. Jenna and I are going to enjoy a quiet, relaxing evening at home.”
“You want to relax? Relax over dinner with me. Have your barbecue another night.”
“No, I made these plans, and I don’t break plans I’ve made with friends.”
“Just a minute.”
I heard muffled conversation but could not make out the words. After a few moments John came back on the line. “Okay. This is perfect. Do you know Dan?”
“Debbie’s son, Dan?”
“Right. Ted tells me he’s home from college this weekend. So it’s perfect! Bring Jenna along with you. Dan will come, too.”
Stretching the phone cord, I squeezed past the dining room table to look out the sliding glass door to the back deck. Jenna was stretched out, relaxing. Exactly what she sorely needed, and what I needed. No pressure. No expectations. No demands.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I hate to put her on the spot.”
“Why don’t you ask her?” he said simply. “What could it hurt?”
I thought about it. Even before I met John at Debbie’s dinner party, I learned that as much as I prefer to make plans carefully, spur-of-the-moment decisions often worked out even better. Holding on to that thought, and the delightful feeling that John desperately wanted me with him tonight, I went out to Jenna. She’d already heard all about John from me, of course. Now I told her that he was on the phone, urging us to join him and the others for dinner. “Are you up to it?” I asked. “Please be honest.”
“Hmm,” Jenna mused. “Tell me, what do you know about Dan?”
“He’s a darling, a senior, majoring in physics at UC Berkeley. Very friendly and good-looking, too . . . blue-eyed, blond, and very athletic.” I smiled. This could be a good match.
She grinned, apparently entertaining the same thought. “But, what about the fire and . . . that?” She pointed to the Pyrex dish filled with our marinated New York steaks.
“Jenna, if you really want to go on this adventure, we’ll simply douse the charcoal, refrigerate the meat, and go. You can grill the steak tomorrow night.” I walked over to the TV tray beside the grill, saying over my shoulder, “Invite a friend over.” I turned and winked at her. “Maybe a ‘new’ friend.”
“I like the way you think,” she said. Her eyes widened. “Wait! I haven’t got a thing to wear. I didn’t bring anything with me decent enough to wear to a place like that.”
I picked up the dish of steak and said, “Come.” She followed me into the kitchen. I put the dish down and picked up the phone. “You win,” I told John. “We’ll see you at Debbie’s.”
Jenna wrapped the not-to-be-eaten-tonight food with plastic wrap. “Barbara, what will I wear?”
“Pick whatever you want from my closet,” I offered with a smile. “Except for the red jersey dress.” She chose the white summer chiffon with spaghetti straps and a matching sleeveless bolero.
An hour and a half later John held the beveled-glass door to La Cigale open for us, and we stepped into the small reception area. The hostess recognized John and smiled at us warmly. “Welcome,” she said in a soft French accent. “Captain Perry, so good to see you again.” As she led us to our table I looked around at the charming decor...lace curtains and tablecloths, colorful fresh flowers, the room lit only by candles. The ambience was created for romance.
Dinner was exceptional, each course a culinary delight. John carefully selected a different wine to accompany each of the many courses and, as we indulged ourselves, he regaled us with more of his exciting stories, which fascinated everyone. Even better, I could see that Dan and Jenna appeared fascinated with each other. Yes! Deciding to do this had been the right choice.
We were having dessert when John excused himself and strode off to the kitchen, emerging a few moments later with Marcel, the owner and chef. At our table, John made the introductions. Marcel nervously wiped his hands on his apron and, in a charming soft accent, apologized for his attire. John said something in French to Marcel, who answered in French, and before I knew it they were involved in a lively conversation. It was slightly awkward for the rest of us as we sat there quietly with our eyebrows raised in surprise while we wondered what he might be saying. Finally, Marcel bowed and returned to the kitchen. John resumed his seat.
“I didn’t know you spoke French,” Ted said.
“Actually, I speak seven languages. English, of course.” John grinned, picked up his wine glass and sipped from it. “And Spanish, Dutch, German, Italian. Let’s see, what did I leave out?”
“French,” Debbie said.
“French,
naturellement
!” He snickered, staring at the six fingers he had extended as he recalled each language. “One more.” His eyes stared upward. “Oh, yes, Swahili.”
“Why so many?” Jenna asked.
“I’ve been stationed around the world. Some I learned when I was at the Monterey Naval Language School.”
“Swahili!” I said, laughing. “I have a hard enough time with English.” I looked into his twinkling blue eyes. “So tell us. What were you and Marcel discussing in French?”
“Nothing, really,” John replied sheepishly.
“Come on, John,” Ted said. “Out with it.”
One by one we cajoled him, until finally John said, “Oh, all right, I’ll tell you.” He shifted in his chair and lowered his eyes. Slowly, a little smile appeared. Then he looked at me. “I told him I was attracted to you.”
My heart began to pound, and I could feel my face burn.
John didn’t skip a beat. “Marcel said you were a beautiful woman, a striking combination with brunette hair and fawnlike eyes, so very French. I told him I was interested in pursuing you, but felt I was too old. Marcel replied that age didn’t matter in affairs of the heart.”
Had I just imagined what John said? After all, my heart had been thumping wildly. I glanced at the others. Each was looking at me, smiling. I knew I should say something, but simply could not speak. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John watching me as well. The famous Admiral Perry was watching
me
, wanting to pursue
me.
It was a dream. It had to be. Finally, I simply lifted my wineglass, sipped, looked at John, and smiled.
On the following evening, our first planned date started off badly. John was very late, and I began to worry. When he finally arrived, I suppose he sensed my distress and apologized profusely, explaining that he had misjudged the distance out to Antioch. We left immediately and were only a bit tardy for our reservation at the Italian restaurant near the Pavilion. As dinner progressed and John once again charmed me with his manners, attentiveness, and spellbinding tales, the annoyance I had felt earlier vanished completely.
At the Pavilion I spotted Pam and George Rammell. Pam and I worked together, and she was one of my best friends. They were talking to their neighbors, Gretta and Barry, who in turn invited us all to their house after the performance. Later, as we sat around the living room, we discussed Johnny Mathis, and how incredible his voice still sounded after all these years. Barry brought in a round of drinks.
“I’m waiting for them to get Frank Sinatra,” Gretta said.
Pam piped up, “Gretta knows everything there is to know about Sinatra. She’s a huge fan.”
John, seated beside me on the sofa, his long legs stretched out, casually remarked, “I know Sinatra.”
“You do?” Gretta leaned toward John. “How so?”
“When he married Ava Gardner in nineteen fifty-two, I stood up for him at their wedding.”
“That’s odd,” Gretta said. “I don’t remember you being mentioned in the news stories.”
“Reporters never care about who stands up for celebrities,” John said.
“Why did he have you as his best man?” I asked.
John beamed. I couldn’t wait to hear this story. “Sinatra knew my commanding officer. He ordered me to fly them down to Cuba on a military plane. The guy who was to be the best man couldn’t make it, so Sinatra asked me to stand in as a proxy.”
“Hmm,” Gretta said. “I don’t remember a Cuban wedding.”
“I was there,” John assured her. “They may have staged a public wedding later, but I was at their private ceremony.”
Gretta rolled her eyes and opened her mouth, apparently ready to argue. Then, shaking her head, she said she’d get us some more munchies. I figured she knew less about Sinatra than she had thought.
As the evening continued, John dominated the conversation with lively accounts of his experiences. When John told one of his war stories, George spoke up, pointing out that John was mistaken about some of his so-called facts. George tried several times to correct John, but each time John was adamant about his facts being correct. Finally, George dropped the subject, as Gretta had done earlier. John, I thought, was most convincing.
I was so pleased that my friends seemed to look up to him. I wanted them to know more about him. Because they were all bridge buffs, I mentioned that John was a master bridge player.
“Great,” Pam said. “Then we’ll have to have a bridge dinner sometime soon.”
As John and I were the first to leave that night, I had no way of knowing until years later that after we’d gone, my friends discussed John and agreed that he was opinionated and had dominated the conversation. They were convinced John had a serious problem with exaggeration, that he was delusional. They could not understand my attraction to him and argued about whether one of them should talk to me about him. In the end, they agreed I’d probably dismiss their concerns and might even get angry. Because they valued my friendship, they agreed to accept John, exaggerated stories and all.
While they were deciding that, I was deciding something too. Back in Antioch, we pulled up to my house and I invited John in for a brandy. The house was mine and I loved driving up to it and living in it . . . all two stories, three bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, and double garage of it. It was a great satisfaction and a point of pride that I could reward myself with such a beautiful place after having worked hard for many years. I could control my life in a way that was visible to everyone.