Ashleigh's Dilemma Read online

  She really didn't think Patrick would try anything other than a brief kiss, though. He knew her too well, but you never know... he might… men will be men. She threw any further thought of that possibility completely out of her mind, it was so impossible. Of course, if he did, she would have to remind him just how impossible it really was. God, she really hoped not!

  Ashleigh recalled the first time she'd allowed a man to kiss her. It had been late at night on the steps leading up to the Engineering Building when she had been up at Hopkins. They had been studying together – mainly because he was good at math and she needed his help. He stopped her half way down the stairs, making her turn back – and then he had kissed her. No warning; not so much as a hint he might try such a thing. He had immediately stepped back, looking down at her from the step above, waiting for her reaction. She said and did nothing; she just turned and continued back down the steps as if nothing had happened. He followed and when it came to the path that led one way to her residence and the other to his, he took the fork that led to his own saying a quiet, “Later...,” as he disappeared into the night.

  Not a word was said between them about it afterward; not then, not ever, and it never happened again. It was as if it had never happened, even though she found herself thinking about it all the time – another involuntary reflex, she realized. No matter what she tried, from staying up late, to redoing homework for a third time, to eating an entire box of chocolates at one sitting, she couldn't help herself from having the memory his kiss. The warmth, the wetness, his eyes closed, hers open intruded into every thought for days and days, repeating over and over, her heart each time swooping and dropping like it had that night. It lasted until she saw him try the same thing on another female student, and then she felt nothing other than a brief sense of relief due to the fact that, with another woman involved, the likelihood of him ever approaching her again was very remote indeed. After that realization, neither he nor his kiss entered her mind again. Not until now, that is.

  She had not thought or felt the same about Patrick’s kiss; just sometimes at night in the warm comfort of her bed as she was falling asleep did she feel that way again, like an echo from the past.

  Ashleigh gathered the plates and spoons, knives, and forks and set them on the counter, ready. She glanced at the clock – any minute now. She was wearing black slacks and a high neck tan sweater that showed her figure. She wore a silver pendant about her neck that Patrick had given her for her birthday – although, technically, it wasn't really her birthday. He had been a day short.

  “Happy birthday, Ashleigh!” he had said, seemingly proud of himself that he had deducted the correct day out of three hundred and sixty five possibilities – except for leap years when there’s three hundred and sixty six.

  “It's not my birthday!”

  “Well, if you're not going to tell me your birthday, how am I ever supposed to know?”

  “I suppose you could look it up; it’s easy enough to do so, I'm sure. Ask my secretary; she'd probably volunteer it.”

  “I'm not going to do that – I'll only know if you tell me.”

  “Then you will never know.”

  “I will just have to guess – and I've guessed that today is your birthday.”

  She could feel her color rising. He was impossible, she thought, but said, “I hate to disappoint you!”

  “I'm not disappointed – here's your gift.”

  It was a pendant, a Mayan figure engraved in silver. It was beautiful. It wasn't what she had expected at all. “Thank you. Thank you, Patrick!” was all she could say. She almost kissed him to thank him, but then changed her mind, not wanting to give him any ideas.

  “Happy Birthday, Ashleigh.”

  She had felt like a fool but at the same time oddly pleased. Later, she thought she should have kissed him, just quickly on the cheek. It wasn't as if she didn't kiss people; she had kissed possibly hundreds of people when you added them all up to include family members, Christmas parties, New Years, colleagues one has known for many years leaving the office and moving on. It was expected. She should have kissed him, she knew.

  The doorbell rang. He was on time. He was always on time. She wondered how he timed his arrivals so well. Perhaps he stood on her porch marking the minutes until it was time to ring the bell? How else could he be so exact, often right down to the second? He might have waited on her porch, examining his watch, watching the seconds tick by heading up to the hour. The neighbors would think him trespassing, perhaps a door to door sales person, or a religious zealot trying to sell their version of God They probably think about calling the police - except for the bags, of course: the Chinese food would give him a free pass to stand there for as long as he liked. Or had he sat in his truck and waited? It would less conspicuous - except, of course, for that mammoth gas-guzzling truck of his sitting in her driveway; there would be nothing inconspicuous about that. Mostly likely, he would have driven around the block. How many times, though? She could see his truck slowly creeping past - once... and again... - speeding up and then coasting around the block so as to arrive at exactly the right moment. Yes, that’s how he did it; yes, yes…

  Ashleigh composed herself and answered the door. Her heart skipped... or was it twisting? She didn't have time to think about the sensation.

  “Hi...”

  “Hi...”

  She could feel heat rush up from within and fill her face, imbuing it with a healthy and yet involuntary glow. How many years had she tried to control that and never could! If she could eradicate involuntary reactions like that, she would. Too bad there wasn't a pill for it – and, of course, there is; but that was going too far. She'd just have to put up with it.

  His hands were full – he lifted the bags indicating he could not open the door and she opened it, squeezing past him onto her porch before following him.

  He smelled good - he was using an aftershave she hadn't smelled before. Patrick was not a handsome man – a little small of frame and plain featured for her tastes - but he was physically fit with no gut on him like many of the couch-potato men she knew. He loved to hike and kayak. His hair was cropped short in a military style. He was deeply tanned and his blue eyes were like lights against his face. She had also felt his warmth as he brushed past. With only one word spoken, she could feel the warmth in him, the greeting warmth. He sometimes radiated like that.

  But, of course, that made no sense. It was delusional on her part: a trick of her mind. People don't radiate. They speak and converse and gesture but they don't literally radiate. What a silly fool she was; she would have to watch that!

  She took the bags and ran to the kitchen to place them in the warmer. It was, indeed, delusional on her part. She was imagining something that cannot be real. It was like trying to read someone’s mind, or believing that someone could project his or her thoughts toward another person: total nonsense. He was probably thinking about just about anything instead of radiating – like the hockey game he might be missing tonight – it was Saturday – or some detail of his business; the cold weather – not good for the trees; or any random thought that might be passing through his mind. If she thought he was radiating it was only because she herself thought so. Anyway, he had not kissed her... The timing had not been right.

  “So what is your calling,” she had once asked him.

  Patrick loved trees.

  “I'm an Arborist – do you know what that is?”

  “Of course I know what that is!” she had snapped back.

  “I'm only saying because you looked puzzled.”

  “I'm not puzzled; I've just never met an Arborist before!”

  When they walked together, he would stop and point out one type of tree or another, sometimes reaching for a leaf, often feeling the texture between his fingers but never breaking it off.

  “This is a Norway Maple,” he'd announce.

  “I know that.”

  He'd stop again: “Pin Oak.”

  “I can never tel
l the different oaks – too many of them. What did you say that one was again?”

  “It's a Pin.”

  “Got it.”

  Truth is, once she realized his profession, she'd checked out The Audubon Field Guide to North American Trees and carefully studied it before going to bed just so she could hope to keep up with him as he pointed out yet another variety.

  “Ever seen a Douglas Fir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever stand beneath one?”

  “No... I don't think so.”

  “It reaches up, way up. It's one of the tallest trees in North America. It seems to hold up the sky.” He watched her carefully when said this. Patrick had a spiritual side to him and she was just beginning to find out how deep it went. He'd added, “When you stand in a forest made up of such trees you feel enclosed and protected, like you're in a church.

  “...Ashleigh?”

  “I'm listening...”

  “Okay... do you know what I mean, then?”

  “I'm not religious. I don't believe in such things.”

  “But you're not made of stone - you would feel something.”

  “That's not true. You would feel what you feel and I would feel what I feel.”

  “Look up, then.”

  She looked - and the sun was cascading down in shards of gold and silver through the high branches of an overreaching oak and it made her feel, for a second, that she was in the midst of a dream. He caught her look of surprise and smiled. She could not help but smile with him, but without knowing why she was smiling, not completely.

  Patrick followed her to the kitchen. “So... this is the Ashleigh's Palace?” he said, not really asking, looking about. “I don't think I've ever been allowed beyond the front door before...”

  He had once asked what it was like beyond the front door of her home, hinting widely, so she thought at the time, that he wanted to be let in.

  “Functional,” she'd said.

  “Like the Engineer you are?”

  “I suppose.”

  Finally allowed within, he looked about, absorbing the detail: “Nice.”

  “I like it.”

  “It's more than just functional, Ashleigh. You’re not a robot nor a Nun confined to her cell. This looks like a woman’s home. I can feel the warmth in it.”

  “Warm?” she wondered as she instinctively glanced at the thermostat, thankfully not making a comment before realizing what he meant. She blushed at her own stupidity. He probably wondered why her face changed color. She certainly was not about to tell him.

  Patrick motioned out through the sliding glass doors leading to her backyard where a magnolia – a magnificent and beautiful tree and her favorite - was in full bloom. “You don't see something as beautiful as that every day, Ashleigh. Is that the real you out there?”

  Ashleigh started, once again missing his meaning; “How am I like a Magnolia? Am I tall and wide with waxy green leaves and sprouting flowers all over my body?” she injected, and then, once again catching up, her face flamed red. If he had not been standing there she would have pounded her forehead with the heel of her hand to knock some sense back in. “Damn!” she thought, almost cursing aloud, but thankfully not; but her face probably gave her away which added to her frustration.

  He again motioned outside the window; “I see the pine I planted for you is doing well.”

  Ashleigh stepped across the distance between them and stood beside him wondering as she did so if that hadn't been his intention all along. “Yes...” She could feel the closeness of him; their shoulders were almost grazing; “If I'm the Magnolia, you're the pine,” she said.

  He laughed.

  She had said something important and had not intended to. “Here!” She diverted his attention and turned to the refrigerator; “I have something for you!” She opened the door and pulled lifted out a bottle of beer from the lower shelf.

  “Ah, you do listen!”

  “I try to.”

  She opened it and began to pour it into a glass, creating too much foam. She handed him the glass and the bottle. “It doesn't look like it's all going to fit...”

  Patrick didn't mention the foam. “Thank you, Ashleigh.” He gingerly accepted the glass and the half-empty bottle, carefully sipping off the foam before it plunged over the edge.

  Ashleigh was thinking how fortunate she was to have found and selected the correct brand. She had remembered him once saying, ‘Sam Adam's’ as he described how much he delighted in his end of day treat. The man behind the counter seemed to know what it was. “Six or a twelve?” he'd asked. “Six – I don't think he'd drink more than that.” She didn't mention any of that to Patrick. She said instead, “You know, that's probably the first beer I've ever purchased.”

  “You've done brilliantly!”

  “Is it the correct brand?”

  “It is.”

  She smiled and felt a rush of satisfaction, but said, “I'm afraid I won't be joining you. I think that stuff is disgusting!” Of course, she had already told him she didn't drink: not beer, not wine, no liquor of any kind, not even coffee.

  “So I suppose you're into drugs instead?” Patrick had asked, teasing her.

  He was often teasing. It bothered her. Sometimes she didn't know when he was teasing or not. “No, I do not!” she'd snapped back but then quickly realized she had over reacted, but still didn't apologize. He often caught her off guard like that. He may not have had her snappish reply coming, but he was playing with her and so deserved it. She would have to watch it, though. She did not wish to be caught off guard like that again. At the time, she'd offered, as a way to soften the moment, “I like water, and sometimes skim milk, and, of course, soda - Doctor Pepper is my favorite.”

  When hearing this he had laughed aloud, “Oh well, that explains everything!”

  “What does?!”

  “Your taste buds stopped growing sometime after you reached twelve!”

  She could tell he was joking but she nonetheless bristled. “You like what you like, I like what I like!” She could not keep the ice out her voice no matter how hard she tried.

  Patrick had never married. She'd thought it odd at first. Most people their age were married, or had been married. Not him, though; and not her, either - but, then again, she knew she was not like everyone else; marriage was not for her. She once told herself she would never stoop to say the words, “To honor and obey...” particularly the “obey” part; that was definitively not for her. It was one of the first things she'd told Patrick about herself.

  He just shook his head. “You once said you’ve never been in love, and I believe that now,” he'd said; “There's only been you. You wait – when you do, finally, fall in love, it will change everything and you’ll forget all about that crap.”

  She had again bristled. She knew it was true, but she'd bristled.

  There had been one other, though, she reminded herself thinking she had at least some experience in the matter – something that Patrick incessantly inferred that she did not. Anyway, she liked to think there might have been something to it - but in the end, he had preferred someone else. He would otherwise have been nearly perfect. His name slipped out of her mind… God how she hated that! It made her worry that she might be losing her edge if not her mind. She remembered the essentials if not his name: not a bad looking man, dark eyes, good build, and tall for an Asian. He was a linguist studying at the School of Fine Arts up at Harvard. He was fully versed in ten languages, all of the base European, and many Asian. With all that command of language, you would have thought he would have a lot to say but the truth was he rarely spoke, which made him just about perfect. He was one of the quietest men she had ever met – a rare find. They had met at a party and they had – or, rather, she had - talked all evening, she winding up the evening with a full revelation of her love for differential equations and he smiling politely all the while. She dreamed about him for a while, the mere thought of him like a pulse of warmth inside her. She imagined
she was in love; she was a woman, he was a man; it was natural she should feel something like that toward someone who was obviously so compatible. It was biological, an involuntary impulse, like blushing; something inherited from the animal kingdom, she knew.

  The woman he ultimately ended up with was a friend of hers, one of the few women who, like Ashleigh, graduated with a PhD from the Hopkins School of Engineering that same year. He preferred female Engineers, it seemed.

  “What about you?” she asked Patrick, unable to remove the sarcasm from her voice, instantly frustrated by her inability to control even that. But Patrick had merely shrugged and, unlike him, seemed reluctant to provide detail. “It was a long time ago,” he'd said only; “I was just a boy,” and he’d held his hand waist high above the gravel path they had been walking along.

  Eventually he told her. His family and many others had to run from their native Rhodesia, when the new government of Zimbabwe enforced the redistribution of the land. Most went to South Africa, many returned to England; some emigrated to the United States and Canada. His girlfriend's family had decided to stay and he hadn't heard from her since. From the news that came out of Rhodesia in those days, he was pretty sure she was dead. Her name was Kristin; he'd been seventeen, she sixteen. “What makes you think she's dead?” she'd asked but he wouldn't say.

  The thought of Patrick being in love with someone, other than herself, bothered her a bit. It was silly – more than silly; it was impossible and ridiculous - but she could clearly imagine his sixteen-year-old girl friend. Very few of her dreams are as vibrant as her imagination – funny how that is. Most of her dreams were in black and white, consisting of nothing more than a confusing jumble of silliness. But she could see Kristin clearly in her mind’s eye: she had blond hair pulled back against flashing green eyes, a small nose, a sensitive mouth, brilliantly white teeth, and, of course, perfect skin that would be deeply tanned since she was a country girl and would therefore be outside a lot. She imagined Patrick kissing her behind the corncrib – or if not a corncrib whatever dwelling was needed to support the type of agriculture they practiced. She could see her leaning back against the whitewashed boards as he leaned shyly into her, kissing her gently, shyly, and she returned his kisses, again and again, her pretty chin rising and falling as she carefully placed each returned kiss. He held himself off her with one arm held up, palm flat against the boards, setting the pace, kiss after gentle kiss.