The Fourth Date

It had been over 4 years since her mother's death. The pale pink walls of the dining room had been painted over with a deep taupe paint. The English chintz love seat set in the living room were replaced with a green sofa and love seat. The Morris chair; reupholstered in a modern check print. She stood inside the dining room and peered into the living room. In 4 long years her life had completely changed. Her father had promptly replaced not only their home decor but also began dating a new woman within months of her mother's death. Very little of her mother resided out in the open.

Her heart pattered a bit as she went into the kitchen. She had just finished frying the breaded eggplant that would be the basis of her famed eggplant parmigiana. She'd only made the dish several times since her mother's death. The cat,  placidly sitting in her window seat, peered outside. She desperately wanted her mother to be there to talk to. She had so many questions about love, pleasing a man and growing up. Instead of the questions, she focused on preparing the salad. He'll be here soon and everything needs to be perfect. I hope he's not early but then again, I hope he's not late. I hate waiting. The waiting makes my nerves worse.

The back doorbell rang. She jumped before throwing off the apron and scurrying to the door. He stood with the screen door open as he waited for her to unlock the door. In his right hand were a dozen pale pink roses.

"These are for the, what I hope will be, the happy hostess." he said happily as he entered the back entrance.

She wanted to run into his arms and tell him how much she had missed him. She refrained instead.

"Thank you! Gosh they are such a light and pale shade of pink that they're almost white!" she radiated as she took them from his hands and quickly headed to the kitchen. She talked as she quickly grabbed a vase, filled it with water and plunked them into water.

He smirked as he watched her. Tessa was an extremely social creature. He wasn't a sensitive man and therefore wasn't hurt by her lack of appreciation for the flowers. He knew what she wanted was to talk to him and present a perfect meal.

"I'm told by many of your friends that I'm in for quite a treat." he openly praised. He leaned against the door frame of the kitchen while she tore the washed lettuce into very small bites of food.

"Well...perhaps they over sell me? I do absolutely adore cooking but I'm not sure if it'll be a treat...yet." she didn't look up but continued to prepare the salad. He wanted to laugh at her intensity. She was a perfectionist.

"I take it you enjoy making the lettuce pieces as small as possible?" he easily asked.

She frowned. "Well I actually hate making salad. Such a pain in the neck. Nevertheless it drives me nuts to have these huge hunks of lettuce in my salad. I feel like one shouldn't need a knife when eating a salad."

He only nodded. What was there to say? "Well you certainly are particular."

She looked up with concern. "Oh I'm so sorry. I'm so opinionated on the stupidest of things. Do you prefer your salad in larger pieces?"

He looked started. "Oh I'm merely making an observation. I could never be bothered making the pieces so small. I'll eat it, however you make it."

About a 1/2 hour later they were seated in the dining room. He sat across from her. She wondered what he was thinking. He was such a catch and so good looking. His dark hair gently bent up a bit in different sections and was a stark contrast to his blue eyes. In the candle light his eyes danced with amusement. Matthew was a man who seemed constantly amused.

He was toying at the floral patterned silverware.

"I set the table with my mother's china. This pattern was actually featured in Martha Stewart a while back. My mother was so proud. She picked up this set little by little at flee markets in the 70s." she wondered if she'd said too much. Did she sound like she was boasting?

He took the a bite, chewed then grinned. "Oh wow! No your friends weren't wrong. You're a fabulous cook. This has got to be the best eggplant I've ever eaten. No wonder your father begs you too cook. I would too!"

She smiled, "Well I'm glad it's ok. I always worry that the food won't come out the same when cooking for new people."

"It came out the same. But...this pattern is quite nice. You don't see red dishes every day. Your mother had great taste. Did she choose the wall color as well? It doesn't seem to quite go with the dishes." he said as he continued to eat.

She played with her food before speaking. He tried to catch her eyes but she was staring straight into the plate of uneaten food.

"I'm sorry if I said something to upset you. It wasn't my intent. Sometimes I say things without thinking."

She looked up. "Oh no! It's completely fine. My father redecorated shortly after my mother died. The walls used to be a pale shade of pink. They were the shade of the roses you brought me actually. The woman he's now dating felt uncomfortable with another woman's decor so he changed it." She didn't want to say anything more. The evening wasn't going as she had planned. It was only their fourth date and she wanted them to have an evening of laughter and not one of her groaning on the past. She wanted to change the subject.

He intently held her gaze before looking away. He seemed grieved but didn't immediately say something. He took a sip of water and continued to eat. It felt like hours had passed.

"That must've been quite hard, having someone paint over the memories you had of your mother." he said quietly. "Of course, I don't mean any disrespect to your father or the woman he's dating but it must've been hard for you?"

"It was." she stated simply. She didn't want to have a heart to heart with Matthew. She had turned so many men off by her just being herself. She wanted to be a light hearted fun person that he'd fall wildly in love with and not someone who he'd feel sorry for.

"What was your mother like?"

She breathed in to steady her voice. She wished she didn't have to talk of her. It wasn't that she didn't want to, it was that speaking of her almost always brought her to tears.

He stopped eating and looked at her.

"She's so hard to describe in a few sentences. My mother is the person who taught me what love is. She allowed me to love her the way I wanted to. Our love was like a rope that knotted our souls together. We just loved each other. We spoke 3 times a day even though we lived together and spent a lot of time talking about everything from motherhood, being a daughter and other stuff. She was my best friend, mother and spiritual mentor. How can I describe her? The words about her would fill an ocean." tears began to well up in her grey eyes.

He nodded. "You have a way with words...so in what ways did you love her?"

She looked at him blankly.

"You said she allowed you to love her in the way you wanted to. How did you love her? In what ways?" he tilted his head to one side and looked at her.

She looked up toward the ceiling and prayed to die. This was so not how she intended to show him a good time. Can't I just change the subject? Why'd I go and mention my mother? Dad said men will leave if I'm always sad and crying. Besides, I have a happy life. I'm not sad all the time. This is just a sad subject!

"Well, I'd leave my mother little notes written in the voice our family house cat. They'd be cute little things like 'I love to bite your ankles at the steps each morning. In fact, that gives me such delight'. Or I'd make up little songs about the cat or something that made us both laugh. Once she sent me a letter in college. It was written in the voice of our cat about how much the cat, or should I say "she" missed me. I really wish I had saved it. It was brilliant." she laughed as she began to tell about her mother.

"Wow, she sounds really neat. Tell me more..." he stated enthused.

"I think the thing I remember most of my mother was her imagination. I definitely have that from her. She was a master at play. Have you ever seen the movie 'Finding Neverland'?"

He shook his head no. She continued. "Well, my mother was that character. 'Finding Neverland' is about the playwright he wrote the play 'Peter Pan'. Well my mother was like John Barry. She created a world filled with scorelines. Every other day we'd play with my Barbie dream house. Only this wasn't any ordinary Barbie dream house. This was a rate G soap opera where each Barbie was a character. The storyline developed with each play time. On the 'off' days we played with my American Girl dolls. They had a Victorian story line complete with Samantha, the main character, Bonnie, a southern belle and the negro maid. I would charge up the driveway after school, shove my backpack into the coat closet, gobble down my afternoon snack and beg my mother to play with me. That daily hour was the highlight of my life." She was beaming. Her grey eyes danced with excitement as she wistfully looked past him and into the memories of her past. While the pale pink walls were coated over with taupe, at that moment she was back in time. The memories of her past flickered through her memory as the flames on the present table skipped before them.

"She sounds almost as remarkable as you." he said gently.

"Oh no, I could never be as phenomenal as her. Even the memory of her takes my breath away." she smiled. "But I'm sorry to talk so much of this. I really want to know and hear all about you."

He gazed at her. "What is there to tell and how would I tell it? Apparently you're a master storyteller about to weave some one's heart around your own memories. I'm left with only wanting to know more."