DRAG STRIP DATE

Synopsis:

Darla Rigs is a freshly minted medical doctor with a bright future.  She’s escaped a bad relationship and moved to Victoria, British Columbia.  But now she’s met Luke Bertolucci, a philosopher/stone mason.  Darla likes Luke a lot, but will she be able to put the past behind her and start fresh?

———————————————————————————————————————————————

DRAG STRIP DATE

about 60,000 words

by Jerry Donaldson

It was 7 pm and she knew he wouldn’t be late; he was reliable. Reliable and gentle, but not predictable and staid.  She liked that about him, liked it a lot.  This evening she wore a short,  tight skirt and a crisp white blouse, because she knew he liked that. She felt cool, slim and elegant and that’s the way she liked to feel.  So it was all good.

From the corner booth at Nick’s Cafe she watched through the plate glass the office workers rushing for home way-late; and the skater kids on their battered boards, rolling in pairs amongst grumpy, harrumphing after-dinner shoppers.  And the young lovers, hand in hand and smiling, bound for the beach down past the end of the narrow road. They would sit on the white sand and watch, rapt, the great ocean, mother Pacific, take the sun to her bosom as the world turned dark blue, warm, and sweet.

And then there he was, striding tall, blond and boyishly handsome on the sidewalk.  He winked at her through the glass, knowing right where to look for her because the corner booth at Nick’s was where they always met. Then he was out of sight for a moment, and then he was coming through the door, and then he was sliding into the booth, sliding along the soft, red bum-worn leather, sliding right up next to her.  And then he was kissing her.

The slow-burning fire in her gut flared hot and she he felt the gentle, pure heat rise to her lips. Then, as her left hand slid behind his neck and pulled his lips hard against hers, her right hand reflexively clasped shut the open collar of her blouse, as if to contain the fire before it engulfed her.

Then her right hand dropped limp into her lap and her left slipped gently from his neck to his shoulder. She reluctantly allowed his lips to leave hers. He dropped back against the seat cushion, took a deep breath and stared across the crowded cafe.

Dazzled, she thought. He’s dazzled! And he was, no mistake at all about that. Anyone could see it!

“Hi, Darla,” he said, “How was your day?”

“Much better now, kind sir,” she replied. “And you?”

“What can I say? I put in a full day’s work with nothing but you on my mind! It was torture! Dark and gray and seemingly endless torment! But now I’m here with you and the sun has returned to my sky. ”

His right hand reached for hers. She felt the horny, work-hardened calluses on his stone mason’s hand, and the fire within her banked to a warm, comfortable glow. He turned his smiling, sun-bronzed, outdoorsy face to hers and their eyes met. He had violet eyes, just like Elizabeth Taylor. Stunning, mesmerizing eyes. When they’d first met at the shopping plaza across the road (was that really only a week ago?) she’d assumed he wore tinted contacts. The foolish affectation of a flyweight; not manly at all! But, as it turned out, his eyes were the real deal.

But what about the rest of him? His name was Luke, she knew that. She also knew there was a powerful, animal attraction between them. It was mind-blowing, really. A moth to his flame, that’s how she felt. And that’s why she hesitated, why she held back. She’d been badly burned before, and she was now determined to be responsible and sensible; determined to make her choices wisely.

It’s like buying a car, she thought in her less romantic moments. You have to look beyond the flash and glamour, beneath the red paint and the soft, deep bucket seats. You must resist the satisfying rumble and throb of the engine transmitted through a cherry-red nail-polished hand grasping the shifter. Not give in to the breathtaking rush of speed and danger on an open highway.

Because that way, she thought primly, lies the road to ruin.

She was not at all confident that things would pan out with Luke. Because for one thing he was a stone mason, a tradesman. And she was a freshly minted doctor, an MD bound for glory in her father’s footsteps.  They were worlds apart. And she had history, a history of bad relationships that she was determined not to repeat.

He’d been repairing the low rock wall in the parking lot in front of Stalk’s Supermarket when her bag of groceries had split wide open onto the pavement. He’d helped her gather it all up, and he’d laughed at her obvious discomfiture. Then he’d offered to buy her lunch to make up for it, and against her better judgment she’d accepted. Since that day they’d met for coffee after work five days straight, and they’d talked about things: about him, about her, about the state of the world, the usual stuff. He seemed well-informed and articulate. But, she thought, anyone can stay current. The news is everywhere. All you need is an IPad and you can sound like Brian Williams, for gosh sakes.

But then, this time yesterday, here at the corner booth at Nick’s Cafe, there was an event, a game changer. An older man with grey hair and a tweed jacket had stopped by their table.

“Excuse me dear lady, terribly sorry to intrude,” he’d said to her in a clipped British accent. “I need a word with your tablemate.” He’d looked like one of the professors from the nearby university. Which, of course, he was. She’d nodded, and the polite stranger had turned to Luke.

“Hello young Mister Bertolucci, “he’d said. “I’ve your doctoral dissertation in the trunk of my car and it will save me a trip if I return it to you here, as long as that’s not a bother.”

“Not at all, Professor MacDougall, I’ll come out and grab it from you. And may I introduce my friend Darla Riggs?”

The older man turned to Darla. “I’m charmed, Miss Riggs.” In the European manner, he waited for her to extend her hand before offering his.

“I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” she’d said.  And as the two men left the cafe she’d thought: This is an interesting turn of events. But I need to be careful.

Because, Darla had always liked bad boys.  From high school though university and med school and pretty much right to the present day.  Her ex, Conor, was a bad boy, and she had lived to regret that relationship.  Bad boys were trouble, and she sensed a bit of bad boy in Luke Bertolucci.

She’d met Conor at a kegger in her first year of undergrad at the University in Toronto.  He’d been charming and outrageous, and pretty much from that night they’d been an item.  Darla’s best friend Lily was very frank in her appraisal of Conor from the very beginning.  The day Darla introduced Conor to her best friend she’d been aware that the two were like oil and water.  At the beginning of the relationship Lily had expressed her concerns.

“My old boyfriend Roger knows Conor from way back,” Lily had said.  “He’s bad news.”

”What do you mean?” Darla had asked.

“Roger says Conor drinks too much and picks fights in bars. He borrows money from friends and family and doesn’t repay it. He lies a lot,” Lily had said. ”And he fancies himself a ladies’ man.  He will screw around on you behind your back.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Darla had said.  “He’s a lot of fun to be around and he takes me to nice places. He’s promised to be faithful. And, he explained all about the trouble with his family. He’s just misunderstood, is all.  They are all too hard on him, won’t give him a chance.”

”And the fighting?”

“Anyone can have trouble in a bar.  Conor sticks up for himself.  He’s not going to let anyone push him around.”

“And the drinking?”

“Conor and I have talked about that.  He drinks a bit sometimes when he is stressed.  Perfectly natural.  He’s promised me to take it easy on the drinking, and I believe him.”

“Well, okay,” Lily had said, “I’ve said my piece. Just be careful, is all.”

Of course, Lily had been right. Darla and Conor had moved in together at the end of her second year of undergrad and the relationship had been stormy.  Conor worked in a bar, bartending and bouncing, and he often arrived home very late at night after work, drunk.  Then he would wake up Darla and demand sex.  And, at the beginning, Darla had been willing to accommodate him most nights.

“Because,” she explained to Lily at the time, “he is just so good at it.  Maybe I’m sleepy and I’ve got an early morning, and I don’t really want to do it, but he is so persuasive.  He starts running his big, hard hands all over me, sliding them up underneath my nightclothes and talking dirty and I can’t stop myself. And it’s over pretty quickly, and then we snuggle and he falls asleep.  I watch him for a while in the dark, and then I fall asleep too.  It’s just so hot.”

“I see,” Lily had said at the time, but Darla was pretty sure she didn’t.

Other times Conor had been rough with her, although he had not struck her until right at the end of the relationship, mid-way through Darla’s last year of med school.  He was suspicious and controlling, and he had a way of belittling her in public.  All textbook abuser behaviour, Darla could see now with the wisdom of hindsight.

And the end was bad. It was around Christmas and Darla needed to study for exams. Over the years Conor had become more and more resentful of Darla’s education and the demands it placed on her time, time that he felt should be devoted to him. As the stresses of school increased, and Darla was often unwilling to accommodate Conor’s late-night advances, and he’d become more and more demanding. And the drinking continued, if anything becoming worse rather than better.

He began staying out all night, sometimes not returning home until the afternoon of the following day.  Afterwards he was always apologetic and full of excuses, and Darla would accept his promises to do better.  And then he would do it all again.  He began to get physical during the arguments that were by then an almost daily occurrence.  Once he pushed her hard across the tiny kitchen of their apartment, causing her to stumble and fall.  On two or three other occasions he’d grabbed her forearms and shaken her while screaming into her face.  And she’d forgiven him.  She’d made excuses for the bruises on her arms when Lily spotted them in the change room at the gym.  Lily accepted the explanations, or said she did, but Darla knew Lily was suspicious.  And Darla hated that she was now reduced to lying to her best friend.  She sensed things between Conor and her were coming to a head.

Finally, one night he’d me home long after midnight, drunk and in a worse mood than usual. He’d wanted sex. Darla had resisted his advances, and he’d hit her, hard, several times in the face with a closed fist, before stomping out the door.  That brought her to her senses. She’d stuffed a few things in a gym bag, grabbed her phone and taken a cab to her sister Carol’s, where she’d stayed the night.  The next morning she’d ignored the dozen or so increasingly agitated and threatening voice mails he’d left on her phone.  That afternoon Carol took her to see a lawyer, and the next morning her lawyer obtained an emergency court order evicting Conor from the apartment and ordering him to have no contact with her.  During the court application Darla had had to testify, to explain to the judge what had happened and why she now feared for her safety.  Her lawyer and the judge were both men, and Darla was embarrassed beyond words that her story had to be aired in open court.  But, speaking her truth and hearing herself saying the words somehow made it all real, as if she had up until then been living a strange dream, or watching someone else’s life unfold.

“That’s what many women experience,” Mr. MacDonald, her lawyer, had told her after court.  He was a small, neat man in his sixties.  ”I’ve been doing this a long time, and I think it’s perfectly human to rationalize or explain away the abuse while it’s happening. Getting it off your chest in court is the start of the recovery process.  Speaking about it makes it real.”

Darla was so grateful to Mr. MacDonald after court that she thought she would cry.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she’d told him, standing on the courthouse steps after the hearing.

“Well, you’re not out of the woods yet,” Mr. McDonald had said.  “Often a court order is not enough to keep an abuser away.  Please watch your back, and stay in groups of people as much as possible.  Phone the police if you think you are in danger, or if he contacts you at all.  Change your locks and phone numbers.  Stay off Facebook for a while.  And feel free to call me if you need to.” He’d handed her his card, and then he’d taken his leave.  Darla had watched his neat little gray-suited figure walk down the courthouse steps and flag a cab.  She had then returned to her sister’s townhouse.

Darla’s sister, Carol, was understanding and helpful throughout the entire process. Carol took the week off work and screened her calls.  The sisters were certain Conor knew where Darla was staying, but over the next five days Conor was not heard from, and Darla began to believe that perhaps this was it, that he would just stay away and leave her alone.

Carol and Lily were Darla’s two main support persons.  Carol and Darla had always been very close.  Lily came by after dinner for tea each of the five nights Darla spent at Carol’s.  Lily then went home to care for her own family, and the two sisters stayed up late talking.  On the first night Darla had cried all evening.

“Why am I so stupid,” she’d asked Carol, clutching a damp Kleenex. “Lily warned me, but I wasn’t listening.  I thought I could change him.  I believed him, dammit!”

“Sis,” Carol had said, “you’re getting angry and that’s not a bad thing.  Remember, none of this is your fault.”

“But I picked him,” Darla said. “It’s as if he had a sign around his neck saying ‘abuser’, and I said ‘that’s the guy for me’.  It’s all so clear to me now.”

“Hindsight is 20/20,” Carol had said.  “Now you have to move on.”  Darla was grateful that Carol did not dwell on Darla’s arguably poor judgment.  Carol had been married to her high school sweetheart, Dave, for about three years, and the marriage ended without any children having been born.  Apparently the divorce was a mutual decision.  Carol had never shared much about the end her marriage, except to say, “High school was over.  We moved on.”  Darla was certain, however, there had been no violence in Carol and Dave’s relationship.  Dave was a quiet, introverted fellow who played viola in the symphony.  He didn’t drink or drug, and his only vice appeared to be the viola.  He practised and rehearsed constantly, so maybe that was the problem.

And so the months and years passed. Darla finish med school and her residency and now she worked in a clinic in Victoria, British Columbia.  The Garden City, 3,000 miles away from her old life, and from Conor.  At least, she assumed Conor was still back in Toronto.  She’d received a couple of weepy messages from him via Facebook about six months ago, which she did not answer, and nothing since  She had elected not to block him, reasoning that it was better she know what he was up to.  Every now and then she’d visited his Facebook page, but there was not much there.  Conor was not a big Facebook user.

So, now that was all in the past, Darla thought, and a new relationship with Luke Bertolucci the stone mason/philosopher was afoot.  Five minutes passed while he spoke to his professor outside the café (she watching them through the window), and then he was back.

“Right, then,” he said, sliding into the worn red leather booth, “where were we?”

Darla slid her arm around his neck and pulled his blond head close to her lips.  She whispered in his ear, “You were about to tell me about your university adventures.” And then her tongue darted into his ear and he caught up his breath.

“Whoa, doll,” he said, “Don’t be writing cheques you can’t cash.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, straightening the collar on his paid shirt and sitting back. “I am very liquid.  Financially, that is.”

“Oh,” he said. “That’s a very good thing.”

Darla was surprising herself with her flirty behaviour. His violet eyes captivated her, and the words just ran off her tongue as if spoken by someone else. But, there’d been no man in her life for quite a while, and maybe the time was just right.

“So,” she said, “what about that dissertation?  You’ve been holding back on me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, and at that moment the waitress came by for their drink orders.  Darla ordered a Singapore Sling, a real old-timey cocktail. Luke ordered a ginger ale, as he always did.  Darla had not yet asked him whether he avoided alcohol altogether.  After living with a problem drinker she’d come to see abstinence as a plus.

Drinks ordered, Luke said, “I’m a doctoral candidate at the University of Victoria. I’m almost done.  Now I guess I’ll be looking for a job.”

“Not stone masonry?”  Darla said.

Luke chuckled and his violet eyes flashed. Gawd, he’s hot, she thought, again.  “I come from a long line of stone masons,” he said.  I started in the trade when I was in middle school back in Toronto, working for my Grampa Gene in the summers and after school. My dad Big Luke also worked for Gene, it’s a family business.  Gene retired five years ago and moved to Florida, and Dad took over the business.”

“Big Luke?” she said, “So you’re Little Luke?”

“No,” he replied, “I’m ‘Lukey’ to my family.”

“I like it,” she said.

“Well,” he said, “just don’t get too used to it. After I graduate it’ll be ‘Doctor Lucas Bertolucci, BA, MA, PhD’”.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I like a man with a lot of letters after his name.”

Their drinks arrived, and there was a pause in the conversation.  She slid closer to him and their legs touched under the table. After a moment she felt his hand on her knee, and her breath caught in her throat.  His hand twitched away.

“Too forward?” he asked.

“No,” she said. She took his hand in hers and returned it to her knee.  She felt the hand slide under the hem of her skirt and slip north on the inside of her thigh. She felt her insides turn to warm mush as his work-hardened paw stroked, and stroked, sliding higher and higher.  There was a mischievous smile on his face.

“Too rough, missy?” he said.

“Just right,” she responded.  “You have a philosopher’s hands.  I hadn’t noticed.”

She struggled to maintain composure.  She was breathing harder.  She was sure every eye in the place was on them.  As if he could read her mind, he said:

“Not to worry, everyone knows we’re just sitting here talking, having a drink.  You know, chilling.” His eyes smiled at her and the stroking continued, persistent, gentle, and hot, so fucking hot, she thought, what he must think of me, why don’t I stop him?

As if reading her mind, he said, “Want me to stop?”

“No. I mean, yes, you have to,” she said. Or I’m gonna come right here and now, it’s so good, how the fuck long has it been, anyhow? How long?  Too long! So she was ready, apparently more than ready.  And then he removed his hand and the room come back into focus.  It was a minute or so before she spoke.

“Oh boy,” she said, “I don’t know about this, you seem to be able to press the right buttons.  I hope you don’t think I’m some sort of slut, or whatever.”

“What I think,” he said, “is that you are the best.”

“I guess,” she replied.

“And there’s something else I need to know,” he said, all serious now.

“And that is?”

He took a pull of ginger ale and dabbed his full sexy, pouty, kissable, lips with a napkin before continuing.

“Darla,” he said, “what do you know about drag racing?”

*

The noise was unbelievable, the air was full of smoke and the smell of burning rubber was strong. And a feeling of urgency surged through the Friday night crowd.  Sure, Darla knew about drag racing, everybody does.  But she’d never seen the sport live, only on television, and the experience was like night and day.  Pairs of cars lined up behind the starting line. The lead pair waited for the starting lights, flashing red, red, red, red, GREEN, and then they leapt into motion together.  The spinning rear tires expanded as they fought for traction, and tongues of flame shot six feet out of the wide-open, unmuffled exhausts. Seven or eight seconds later, a quarter-mile down the track, the dragsters went over the finish line at well over 200 mile per hour, and a parachute was deployed through a hatch in the rear of each car.  Seconds later the next pair of competitors left the line.

“I said, ‘do you want a hot dog?’”  Luke shouted into her ear a second time.  Their seats were a few rows from the edge of the track, and right beside the starting line.

No, what I want is to feel your hands all over my body, she thought.  Or maybe we could ride together down the strip in the back of a 1,000 horsepower dragster, with your member securely tucked inside me, you and I rocking in unison with flames and smoke all around.  What she said, however, was “Yuck, no thanks.” Darla was not a big meat eater at the best of times, and a hot dog sounded vile.  “But you can buy me some popcorn.”

“I’m on it,” he said, standing up.  Or at least, those were the word-shapes his lips formed.  The words themselves were lost in the roar and hellfire as the latest pair of cars left the start line.  She gave Luke the thumbs-up in response, and he headed for the snack bar.

Drag-racing, she thought, sure, why not?  Motor sports of any sort had never interested her, and Darla’s taste in entertainment leaned more toward old movies, stimulating conversation and live music, especially the symphony.  She liked to read, and she played classical guitar, once thinking that music would be her career. She’d practised hard and played recitals.  But when she turned 18 her guitar teacher, Mr. Cushing, told her the truth:  “Darla,” he’d said, “you are technically extremely proficient, and it’s clear you practice religiously and you are very motivated, but you don’t have talent.  Best to think about a different career.”  At the time she had been crushed, but of course Mr. Cushing was right.  She still played guitar for her own amusement, and if anything she felt better about the instrument and enjoyed it more now that the pressure to succeed professionally had been lifted.

But, here she was at West Coast Speedway on a Friday evening along with a few hundred cheering drag-racing fans in colorful nylon windbreakers and baseball hats.  Feeling, as much as hearing and seeing, the noisy rush of power on the strip as each pair of cars blasted away from the start line.  The flash of pure horniness she experienced back at Nick’s Café with Luke stroking her had only abated to a low boil. I’m going to fuck him¸ she thought.  Fuck him until his eyes roll back in his head.  But what would he think? Was he under any illusion that Darla was a prim and proper “nice” girl?  She flipped through her memories of the past five days.  Nothing suggested to her that she might upset his sense of the right and proper if she took the opportunity later on to rip his clothes off and fuck him silly.  So there it was.  Onwards and upwards, as they say.

Then he returned with his hot dog, popcorn for her and diet Cokes for both of them.  She watch him push along the row of seats, past cheering, excited race fans all moving in the opposite direction.  Over the P.A. system the half-time announcement had just been made and everyone, it seemed, was headed for the restrooms and the snack bar. He arrived at his seat and dropped into it in a small shower of popcorn.

“There you go, cookie,” he said. “Popcorn and a coke, a drag-strip dinner.”

“Thank you, sir.  It’s the finest meal I’ve had in a while.”

“Really?  Clearly you don’t get out enough.  I’ve got an invitation to the Faculty Club dining room with Professor McDougall and his wife for tomorrow.  I’d planned to go stag, but maybe you’d like to join me.  We will be discussing my dissertation for part of the time, but the Prof and Evelyn are pretty good fun.”

“A real date, you mean,” she said.

Now, that seemed to take him aback.  He took a bit of hot dog and chewed.  He took a sip of soda, then he spoke.

“Yeeeeah, I guess so,” he said.

Why the hesitation? He’s feeling it just like I am, we do well together. But then he put both of his arms around her and kissed her neck, and the fire within her flared up, again.  And all doubts vanished from her mind. Just do me, I’m burning up!  One night, one week, an hour, whatever.  It’s good now, there is only now, and I am moving forward with this!  But she knew she would re-visit the matter later on, in the quiet of her little condo, with her orange cat Sparks purring in her lap, and the lights down low.

It was full dark now, and with the crowd mainly out of the stands and off buying hot dogs and beer, and the dragsters out of sight somewhere getting ready for the second half, it was possible to talk without shouting.  The night was warm and clear, and Darla snuggled up close to Luke, warm and secure in the circle of his arms.

“Yes, dinner at the Faculty Club sounds yummy,” she said.  “And I really like Professor MacDougall.  He seems so . . . well . . . professorial.”

“His wife Evelyn is great too,” Luke said.  “She plays first violin in the symphony.”

“Really?”  Oh shit, really? She probably knows Dave, Carol’s ex, Darla thought in a panic.  No, she must surely know Dave.  Do the violins sit near the violas on-stage? Of course they do, dammit.  Do members of the symphony party together? Does Dave go to symphony parties? And so on, down the rabbit hole, until Darla’s inner voice finally spoke up:

“So what?” said the Inner Voice.  “Dave’s okay. Stop panicking and let’s just wait and see.”

So, Darla put the matter out of her mind, and re-focused on Luke.  She snuggled a little closer, and then both of then stood up to allow a very fat race fan in a lurid pink tee shirt to pass in front of them on the way to his seat.  He was carrying a giant tub of popcorn and a huge paper cup of soda.  Then they sat back down and the conversation resumed.

“So,” she ventured, “why is a philosopher/stone mason/race fan like you still single?”

“I guess I’m just picky,” he said.  “And all my spare time’s been consumed by school for years now.  But you know how that works, don’t you Doctor Darla Riggs, MD?  You’ve just come out of the wringer yourself”

“I do indeed.  School is a tough go.”

“Or maybe I just haven’t met the right woman,” he added.  “And what about you?  We haven’t spoken much about past relationships, mine or yours, have we?”

“We’ve only known each other a week, so maybe that’s the way it’s done,” she said.  “I don’t know much about dating these days.  I was in a relationship from undergrad up until about 18 months ago, and I haven’t dated since then.”

“Really?”

No, not really.  She immediately hated herself for lying to him, but it was just too painful and embarrassing to get into.  Because about a year ago, for about a month, there had been Brad.  There was no getting around acknowledging the fact of Conor.  He and Darla had been an item for too large a chunk of her history, and the day would come when she would share with Luke the details of the horror show her relationship with Conor became.  But, “the Brad Business” (as she thought of it) she had not shared with either Lily or Carol, her closest confidantes.  It was just too sordid and out-of-character.  A mistake she hoped would never be repeated.  A period of her life she would never share.  And, for now, she pushed the Brad Business away from her mind.

“Yes, really,” she said. “Med school just about ate me alive, and then during my internship I barely had time to sleep, let alone do anything else.”

“I see.”

“Luke, surely you’ve had a steady girlfriend.”

After a short pause, Luke said “Yeah, I did.  We were together for three years. We lived with my parents in Toronto before I left to move here.”

“Did it end badly?” she said. “And, am I being intrusive?” He’s entitled to his secrets, she thought. But on the other hand, if I don’t ask he won’t tell me.

“No, you’re not being intrusive,” Luke said. “And, yes, it sort of ended badly, I guess.”

Emboldened, Darla plowed ahead. “How so?” she asked.

Now he looked up at her sheepishly. “I don’t tell the story much out here, but here’s the short version. My family are Italians, very traditional. Rita and I’ve known each other since childhood, and our parents sort of, well, pushed us together.  Rita’s my first cousin, my aunt Maria’s daughter.”

“Is that legal?” Ouch!  She’d blurted it without thinking. Nice going, dumbbell. “Sorry, that sounded a little harsh.”

“Hey, don’t worry,” he said.  “I’ve heard it all.  And, yes, sex with a first cousin is legal in Canada.”  He took a slug of his pop, and continued. “And, if I may be frank, sex with Rita was something else.  There was a whole, hot, forbidden fruit thing going on, completely aside from the fact that she is a wonderful woman.  But, in the end, it was not to be, we split up, and then my parents would not let me alone about it.  So I moved out here.”

“Wow,” Darla said, “That’s a first for me.”

He grinned at her, and she knew it was okay.  They’d gotten through what could have been an awkward moment. “Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” he said.

She thought briefly about her own gawky male cousin Kevin, but her mind recoiled. “No,” she said, “I’m pretty sure I’ll be dating further down the chain of consanguinity.”

“Good thing *we’re* not related,” he said.

“Amen to that,” she replied.  And then the second half of the drag meet began, as two dragsters tore down the strip in an apocalyptic riot of noise, smoke and flame.

* * *

“So, then what happened?” Carol said over the phone, a few hours later.  As she’d promised, Darla had phoned her sister as soon as she’d returned home.

“Oh, not much,” Darla replied, “We sat and watched the races and talked and ate popcorn, and I thought it was the greatest thing. Drag racing has a lot to recommend it, really.  It’s very involving.”

“Don’t be thick,” Carol said. “I want details.”

“Hang on a sec. Sparks wants food.”  The cat was swishing around and between Darla’s bare legs, meowing loudly.  Darla put the phone down, went into the kitchen and poured some dry food into his bowl.  Sparks crouched over the bowl, crunching and purring.

“So,” Darla said, back on the line, “What were you asking?”

“Darla, tell me or I’m going to bust.   Did you and the philosopher do the dirty or not? I haven’t been laid in a year, and you’re my only connection to the dating world, so spill.”

“Truth?”

“Of course. Let’s have it.”

Darla took a sip of the Perrier she had opened upon arriving home at midnight, and then she continued. “No, we didn’t have sex.”

“No?  Why not?”

Why not indeed?  After leaving the track Darla and Luke had driven back to his place in her little Toyota.  Luke rented a furnished bachelor suite in a very large, old frame student house just off campus.  Darla had not been inside Luke’s place.  She was sure tonight would be the night they got between the sheets together, but it was not to be.  He had said something about “an early morning tomorrow”, which was Saturday.  He confirmed she would meet him at the faculty club at 7 pm the following day for dinner, and then he kissed her passionately and got out of the car.  Left her there feeling very confused.  As soon as Darla returned to her condo, she phoned Carol.

“I don’t know why not.  We’ve been getting along famously.  Lordy he’s hot, Carol!  I’ve never experienced anything like it.  I just want him so much.”

“You’re just a little stale is all.”

“No, it’s more like he knows me, knows everything about me.”

“Did you tell him about Conor?”

“No,” Darla said, “Not yet, but I will.” And then she remembered about the symphony.  “But, check this out. His prof’s wife plays first violin in the symphony, so she probably knows Dave.  We’re having dinner with the MacDougalls tomorrow.”  There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Carol,” Darla said, “does that freak you out?”

“Nooooo,” Carol said after a pause.  “Victoria’s a small city, everyone knows everyone it seems.  I’ll manage.  It’s not as if it’s you’re dating Dave, or anything like that.”

“Well, that’s good then. I guess you must be pretty much over the divorce now.”

“Yes, I am,” Carol said, after another strange pause.  “It’s been years now.”

Then why don’t I feel convinced? Darla thought. You’re hiding something. But that’s okay, you’ll tell me eventually. Tonight I want to talk about Luke.

“So,” Carol said, “what is up with this drag racing thing?  Is he a diehard, lifetime fan?”

“No, he’s not.  He tutors a couple of undergrads for walking-around money, and one of them took him to the drag strip a couple years ago.  Luke goes there a few times in the summers.  He says the noise and smoke induces a “meditative state” for him.  I think he may be pulling my leg about that though.”

“I don’t know,” said Carol, “I’ve heard stranger things.  Dave used to say something similar about television.  He sometimes rehearsed his viola in front of the set.  He refused to use the TV Guide, or be in any way selective about what he watched.  ‘You have to let the experience wash over you’ he used to say.”

“Crazy,” Darla said.  But she thought, Hmm, Dave again.  Curious.

“And Luke’s not a violent nutcase like Conor?” Carol said.

“No.  At least, I don’t think so.  My instincts around that are not the best, as history shows.”

“Well,” Carol said, “how is he around other people?  Do they like him? Does he seem slippery or cagey, or anything like that?”

“Doctor MacDougall seems to like him a lot, but I’ve only seen them together once,” Darla said. “But a funny thing happened last night as we were leaving the track.  We were walking past the snack bar on the way out, and there was a frazzled looking woman standing there with two kids, one a baby in her arms, the other about 2 years old clutching the woman’s leg, and both of them crying their heads off.  I think her husband was in the restroom.”  Darla took a sip of Perrier.

“And then?” Carol said.

“It was weird, a bit.  Luke stopped there about 6 feet in front of the three of them, and he sort of waved his hand and gurgled at the baby.  Carol, it was amazing. Both kids stopped wailing and stared at him, transfixed.  The look on the mother’s face was priceless.  And then we walked away.  I looked back and the toddler was sucking her thumb.  Both kids were quiet.”

“Weird,” Carol said.

“Luke said ‘It’s a gift’ when I asked him about it in the car. He was kidding, of course, but still, it was impressive.”

“And so….”

“Oh, so what!” Darla said. “I’m thinking he would make a good father, so sue me!”

Carol chuckled.  “You’re smitten, that’s for sure.  Just be careful, Sis.”

“I guess you’re right,” Darla said.  “But that’s for later.  Right now I just want to get it on with him in the worst way!  Maybe tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, yes,” said Carol, and then she yawned.  “Tomorrow comes early for me, so I’d better ring off.  And tomorrow night, I want more details.”

“I’ll do what I can, Darla said.  “Good night.”

“Nite.”

Darla then turned off the lights, turned up her white noise machine, and slipped between the sheets for the night.  She fell asleep thinking about Luke.

The following morning Darla was up at 7.  She didn’t set her alarm on Saturdays, because she didn’t have to be at the clinic until noon, but she always woke up early anyway.  Her father used to say, “The key to success is to get up at the same time every day.”  Yes, the late Carl Riggs had had a saying for every occasion.  Darla’s relationship with her father had been difficult from as early as Darla could remember.  She was the fourth of four daughters: Naomi, Rebecca, Carol and Darla, and perhaps Carl had been frustrated that he was not going to have a son.  There had been complications with Darla’s birth, and her mother Diana had nearly died.  In the end Diana was rendered sterile, and there would be no more children.  Maybe Carl secretly blamed her for Diana’s troubles, or maybe he harbored resentment over some other transgression, real or imagined.  Or maybe he was just a natural-born s.o.b.  He died when Darla was 14; a forklift truck toppled onto him in the warehouse where he worked.  Darla did not remember feeling anything at all, no emotion one way or the other, throughout the experience or since.  And she suspected her mother viewed Carl’s passing as a relief.

Because Carl Riggs had been a drinker and an abuser.  Darla did not recall her father behaving inappropriately toward her personally, but she had clear memories of his drinking, his towering rages and the screaming matches with her mother that were a regular occurrence.  Many nights Carl would come home from the bar drunk, her mother would say the wrong thing and the fight would start.  The four sisters were all roughly 2 years apart.  Eldest sister Naomi would gather up the three younger ones and they would go down to Naomi’s room in the basement, watch videos and try to ignore the racket upstairs.  Sometimes Darla thought she saw bruises on her mother’s arms or legs, but never on the face.  Later on Darla realized her father only struck Diana where her clothes would hide any damage.

And it was not lost on Darla that her experiences with her father probably shaped her expectations around relationships with men, and that it probably contributed to her attraction to Conor.  She’d attended many sessions with a therapist after she and Conor split, working her “stuff”.  “In affairs of the heart a human being seeks the familiar,” her therapist had said.  “One’s upbringing shapes one’s decisions about relationships made in adulthood, perhaps at the most subconscious level.”

“So,” she had said to her therapist at the end of one particularly painful, tearful session, “I’m doomed, is that it?”

“Not at all,” the therapist had said.  “You begin by acknowledging the early experiences that affect decision-making in adulthood.  And you learn to recognize self-destructive behaviour before it gets out of control.  But the process of self-realization is a life-long project. Some positive steps you can take are very basic.  Get plenty of sleep.  Don’t forget to eat.  Take time for yourself.  Be careful around the substances, especially alcohol.  And love yourself.”

She was in therapy when she met Brad, but she’d not mentioned Brad to her therapist, not at all.  Her intention, then and now, was to bury the Brad Business deep in the past and not mention it to anyone, ever.

“Alrighty, now,” she said to Sparks, who was lying on the bed by her feet.  “That’s just about enough of that sad crap.  Time to get up and at it.”  Sparks just stretched and yawned.  Her cat’s plan for the day, Darla knew, involved sleeping in the sun that poured through the sliding doors to the tiny deck on her little fourth floor condo, with short breaks to groom himself.  She, on the other hand, intended to make the most of her day.

* * *

Darla showered and put on a terry robe.  She made herself coffee and toast in her little kitchen and took it out onto the balcony to enjoy the early June sun.  Her tidy little one-bedroom condo was on the top floor of a newish building on a quiet street near the water.  She’d borrowed the down-payment from her mother when she was finished her residency and ready to start earn a living. Darla pulled up the local newspaper on her IPhone and read the front page while she ate.  When she was done she put the phone down, closed her eyes and thought about taking out her guitar and practising a few scales.  Then the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Hi Darla, it’s Lily.  How’s it going with lover-boy Luke?”

“Oh, not so bad.  We’re having dinner at the Faculty Club this evening,”

“What’s that, six days straight you guys have seen each other?”

“I think so, I haven’t really kept track,” Darla said.

“Oh, nonsense.  You’re gaga over him,” Lisa said.

Darla sighed.  “Yes, guilty, you’re right.  He’s all I think about.  We were at West Coast Speedway last night, watching drag racing.”

“Good lord, really?  I thought Luke was a quiet academic.”

“He’s full of surprises.”

“So,” Lisa said, “what’s he like in bed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Saving ourselves for marriage, are we?” Lisa teased.

“Just a sec, I’m plugging in,” Darla said.  She fished the earpiece out of her purse, plugged the connector into the IPhone and put the earpiece into her ear.  She put the phone in the pocket of her robe, then stood up took her plate and coffee mug into the kitchen.  “Hi Lily, I’m here.”

“So,” Lily said, “what’s the story.”

“Well, first off, I’m not a total slut,” Darla said, “I do like to get to know a man a bit before I throw myself at him.”

“Yeah, yeah, standard disclaimer,” Lily said. “Now let’s have it.  I’ve seen his picture, he’s a babe.  You like him, he likes you. What’s the hold up?  Planets not aligning?  Religious or philosophical differences?”

Lily was kidding, of course, but Darla reflected on that statement for a bit.  I wonder what Luke does believe? We’ve haven’t discussed any deep stuff yet. But, maybe that was part of the attraction.  All she knew was that he was a super-hot, intelligent man who liked her.  How much more did she need to know? Would further knowledge of his beliefs at this early stage help her avoid a repeat of Conor, or Brad?  I could start by finding out about his studies, she mused¸ find out what his academic passion is. That would be a start. And, I guess that will come up at dinner this evening. Hmmmmm.

“Hello. . . hello.  Earth to Darla, are you there?” Lisa said.

“Yes. Hi, sorry.  I was thinking about what you said,” Darla ran water into the kitchen sink and turned up the volume on the phone.  “Conor and I never talked about big-picture stuff.  You know, religion, spirituality, that sort of thing.  It just never came up.”

“Well, the less said about Conor the better,” Lisa said. “Just so you are watching for the signs with this one.  Have you heard anything from Conor lately, by the way?”

“Nope, nothing.”

Lisa changed the subject. “You going to the pool this morning?”

“I could do a quick swim, yes.  I have to be at the clinic at 1.  Meet me at the Y?”

”Yup.  See you in a half an hour.”

“Okay, bye”

Darla finished cleaning up her breakfast dishes and left them on the draining board.  She dressed hurriedly in jeans and a tee shirt, grabbed her gym bag and left the apartment.  “Bye, Sparks,” she said to the cat on her way through the door; he did not reply.  Then she was in the stairwell headed down the five flights of stairs leading to the building’s underground parking.  She tried to avoid elevators as much as possible, preferring the exercise involved in climbing stairs.  Her little Honda was parked in a far corner of the garage.  She was very aware of the dangers gloomy, remote areas pose to women, so, as always, she held her keys in a closed fist with one key sticking out between her fingers, ready for use against an assailant.  She looked carefully around her, and she looked in the back seat closely to be sure no one was there.  Once satisfied that everything was as it should be, she got in the car, started it up and drove slowly across the garage, up the ramp and onto the street.

The YMCA was located three blocks from the walk-in clinic where Darla worked, so she parked her car at the clinic and walked.  Lisa was already there, sitting in a chair by the front desk, reading a magazine.

“Hi, Lisa,” Darla said.

“Hi, yourself.”  Lisa was a tallish woman with brown hair, brown eyes and a preference for yoga pants.  She was bit on the curvy side for yoga pants, but Lisa didn’t care who thought what about how she looked.  She had a sunny disposition and a rapier wit.  “Shall we get in there? Aquafit starts in 25 minutes, so we can do a few laps before then.”

“Sounds good.  I have to be quick anyway.”

So the two friends changed into their bathing suits, showered and got into the pool.  In adjacent lanes they matched each other nearly stroke for stroke, up and down the pool, over and over.  Both were strong swimmers.  At the end of 20 minutes, other swimmers were gathering for the next time slot.  Lisa and Darla hauled themselves out of the pool, refreshed and invigorated, and headed for the showers.  They had just entered the women’s change room when a commotion started up out in the hallway.  There was the sound of running feet, and then someone was knocking frantically at the change-room door.

“We need a doctor, now !” a male voice shouted, “Is there a doctor around?”

Darla and Lisa looked at each other for a long moment.  “Come on, dude, that’s you!” Lisa finally said, “Go on, move it!” So, Darla dropped her towel and headed out the door, still in her bathing suit.

In the men’s change room a scene of near-panic ensued.  A very fat man lay on the cold tile floor, convulsing, arms and legs flailing and flecks of foam on his lips. Other men stood about, frozen into inaction.  A boney old fellow with long gray hair and faded, blurry old tattoos on both arms  sat on a bench, rocking and saying over and over, “Oh no, oh no, Vern’s sick, he’s sick, somebody get a doctor, doctor.”

Darla’s training kicked in, and she took charge.  “Move back, all of you,” she said, “I’m an MD.  He’s having a seizure.  Give us some room, make room!”  The small crowd parted and moved back.  The old man on the bench continued to rock and wail.  “Lisa,” Darla said, “go tell the desk to call 911.” Lisa moved swiftly and silently to do so.

Darla then picked from the group a young blond man. “You there,” she ordered, “Sit with him (indicating the old man on the bench), calm him down.”  The man did as he was told. “It’s okay,’ he said to the old fellow, “the doctor will help your friend.”

Darla turned her attention to the fat man on the floor, and she took the actions her training dictated. “Somebody, give me a dry towel,” she said.  Several towels were immediately offered.  Darla took one, folded it and placed it under the man’s head.  The fat man continued to convulse, and Darla held her hand on his chest and spoke softly to him, with her eye on the wall clock over the door.  After four and a half long minutes the convulsions finally stopped.  He was still unconscious, however, and Darla enlisted an onlooker’s help in gently moving him onto his side.  She continued stroking his back and speaking softly to him while the small group watched silently.  On the bench, the young blond guy had his arm around the old man with the tattoos.  The old fellow continued to rock gently, but he was quiet.

Darla then realized that she recognized Vern, the fat man on the floor.  She had last seen him at the drag strip, wearing a pink tee shirt and carrying popcorn and a drink back to his seat.

Then the ambulance paramedics, a man and a women, arrived with a stretcher.  There must have been a siren, but Darla hadn’t heard it.  Darla introduced herself.

“I’m Doctor Darla Riggs,” she said to the male paramedic. “I work at the Seymour Clinic over on Howe Street.  I arrived maybe a minute or so after the seizure began.  The convulsions lasted another four and a half minutes.  His name is Vern.”

She then stepped back and let the emergency crew do their thing.  By now the seizure had ended, but Vern was still only semi-concious.

“Thanks for the info, Doctor,” said the male paramedic, “He’s slow in recovering from the seizure.  We’d better take him to the emergency room for a few routine checks.”  Then he addressed the group: “Does one of you people know him?”

“This man does,” said the blond man sitting with the old tattooed fellow.  “His name is Warren.”  The female paramedic sat beside Warren and spoke gently to him.

“You know this man?” she asked, indicating the semi-conscious Vern.

“Yes, yes, I do, yes,” said Warren.  “He’s Vern, my friend Vern.  He lives in my building, he takes me swimming.  Is he okay? Poor Vern, poor Vern.”

The female paramedic patted Warren’s knee.  “Don’t worry, Warren,” she said, “we’re taking Vern to the hospital and he’s going to be fine.  Do you want to come with us?”

Warren turned his head to speak to the young blond man.  He was clearly quite upset.

“Charlie, my new friend Charlie, what should I do, do?”

“Vern, I think you can go with this nice lady and her friend,” blond–haired Charlie said. “They’re going to help Vern but they need to take him to the hospital.”   Charlie winked at Darla, and she smiled back at him.  We’re getting though this she thought.  Thank heaven for nice people!

“You come too, Charlie, you too?” said Warren to Charlie.

“Warren, I don’t think there’s room for all of us in the ambulance.  How about you and I ride to the hospital in my car, and we’ll meet Vern there?” Charlie said.

Warren thought on this for a bit, while the paramedics loaded Vern onto the stretcher and prepared him to travel.  The he spoke. “Yes, Charlie, let’s go, let’s go,” he said.

“Okay, Warren, let’s go get dressed then,” Charlie said.  To the paramedics he said, “We’ll see you in emergency.”  Warren took Charlie’s hand and the two of them disappeared into the lockers.

“Wow,” said Lisa, “what a nice guy.  He drops everything to help out a stranger.  I wonder if he’s single.”

“Okay, Lisa,” said Darla, “I’ll leave you to follow up on that, because I am definitely going to be late for work if I don’t leave right now.”  To the paramedics she said, “You’re good?”

“Yes,” said the male paramedic. “Thanks for your help, doctor.”

“Okay,” Darla said, “goodbye everyone.  Lisa, let’s go get dressed.”

The two women left the men’s change room and went into the ladies’.  Darla took a very quick shower and dressed in the change of work clothes she kept in her locker.  Lisa was still drying off when Darla left.

Out on the street, Darla walked toward work and reflected on the activities back in the locker room.  She had done her duty in a way that she was proud of, and that felt good.  But her good mood lasted only until she arrived at the clinic.  Because parked directly across the road from the Seymour Clinic she spotted Conor’s old, black BMW sedan.  And it was not empty.  There was someone sitting in the driver’s seat.

* * *

Darla ducked into the clinic with her heart in her throat.  The waiting room was full of patients, as usual.  She crossed the waiting room, responded to a young staffer’s cheery ”Good afternoon, Doctor Riggs” with a muttered “oh, yes, hi”, then went into the staff washroom and locked the door.  She stood for a good five minutes, leaning on the sink cabinet and staring into the mirror until her breathing slowed.  How did he find me? she thought.  Once her breathing and heart rate return to normal, it became obvious  how Conor located her.  She was a medical doctor and her name and office address would be published in the Physicians Directory her professional association published annually.  The more pressing concern was: why was he in Victoria and what did he want?

She‘d neither seen nor heard from Conor since that awful night back in Toronto, when he had attacked her in a drunken rage.  She briefly considered the unlikely possibility that the present situation was an awful coincidence, a cosmic joke.  Maybe Conor had sold the BMW, and the new owner had driven it to Victoria and parked it in front of the clinic.  No problem, nothing to worry about, just a funny story to tell Lisa and Carol over drinks.  But, in her heart she’d known this day would come, and she recalled the words of her lawyer, the courtly Mr. Robinson: “Watch your back”.  Okay, she thought¸ it is what it is, get out there and do your job.­ So, she washed her hands and dried off with a paper towel.  She took a final look in the mirror, then turned, unlocked the door and walked back to the reception desk.

The regular receptionist, a mild young woman named Rachel, was on lunch.  The office manager, Sandra, was covering for her, as she did at lunch every day.

“Hello, Sandra,” Darla said.  “How is everything going today?”

Sandra was a middle-aged woman built like a fire plug.  She wore thick, heavy frame eyeglasses and her steel-gray hair was pulled back into a bun.  Sandra had been in the medical profession for 30 years or so and she brooked no nonsense.  Everyone else in the clinic trod carefully in her presence.

“We are close to being on-schedule, Doctor Sims.  It’s been pretty steady all morning, but there are three physicians on duty, including you, so maybe we’ll be able to close on time today.”  The clinic was open to walk-in patients from 8 am to 5:30 pm, six days a week.  On a busy day it might take an hour past then to see the last patient treated.

“That’s great, Sandra,” Darla said.  Then she asked, as casually as she could, “Say, was a man in here asking after me today?”

But, having dealt with the basic pleasantries, Sandra had already moved on.  “Next please, number twenty-seven.  Number twenty-seven, please come to the reception desk,” she announced to the crowded waiting room.  A harried looking mother with a toddler on her lap responded, and got to her feet.

“Sandra?” Darla repeated.

“I heard you, Doctor,” Sandra said without looking up. “No-one spoke to me, and Rachel didn’t say anything.  You’ll want to check with her when she’s back from lunch.  Your first patient is in Examining Room 3.”

“Thanks, Sandra,” Darla said.  By now the young mother was standing at the desk, and Sandra was taking her particulars.  So Darla walked down the hall to Examining Room 3, took the patient’s file out of the rack on the door, opened the door and went inside to see her first patient of the day.

The afternoon passed.  Patients came and went and Sandra’s prediction was accurate.  At 5:30 Rachel locked the door and turned the ‘open’ sign over to ‘closed’.  Three patients remained in the waiting room, and Darla arranged with the other two physicians that she be allowed to leave.  Of course there was some good-natured ribbing.

“Hot date?” said Doctor Milne, a graying woman in her mid-sixties with four grandchildren.

“Uh, oh, yes,” said Darla.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” said Doctor Milne with a wink.

“I won’t,” said Darla, “see you on Monday.”  Then she gathered up her things and left the clinic.  She had by now spoken to Rachel, the receptionist, who reported no-one had asked after her.  There was no black BMW parked across the street, and by now Darla was wondering whether she was over-reacting a bit.  There’s more than one black BMW in the world, she thought.  And the feature that made the car so memorable to Darla, the peculiar skull decal on the hood?  Well, anyone can buy one of those. Maybe there’s a hundred cars around with that exact same decal. So Darla resolved she would not stress.  She would watch her back as advised.  And by gum, she thought, I’m going to get Luke unto bed tonight and fuck his brains out.  So, she stiffened her back, walked to her car in the clinic parking lot, and drove home to get dressed for dinner at the Faculty Club.

She met Luke at the Faculty Club at 7:30. Located behind the Arts Building, among the mature trees on the Eastern edge of the campus, the Faculty Club was a large, converted Arts and Crafts-style home, built long before the University was incorporated.  On the main level were the dining room and cocktail lounge, upstairs on the second floor were two meeting rooms, and in the basement was a games room equipped with a pool table, card tables and stacks of folding chairs.  Gardens surrounding the building featured dozens of varieties of heritage roses, all maintained by enthusiastic volunteers.  The building boasted a covered veranda on three sides, and it was in a chair on the veranda that Darla found Luke.  He was engrossed in the campus newspaper and whistling tunelessly through his teeth.  She stopped at the bottom of the veranda steps and took a good, long look.

He was wearing a blazer and lightweight gray flannel slacks.  White dress shirt and narrow rep tie, brown leather shoes with argyle socks.  She wasn’t close enough to see, but she knew he’d be freshly shaved.  She couldn’t detect at this distance the delightful, very expensive after-shave he preferred.  She liked the way he was dressed, so casually elegant, and so . . .so . . . academic.  She especially liked that he wore a necktie, rather than leaving the shirt open and gaping at the neck as so many men did these days.  That was Conor’s practice, and to Darla it just looked sloppy.  God, he’s hot,  she thought.  He looked up over the newspaper and saw her.  A smile spread across his face.

“Hey, Darla,” he said.

“Hey, yourself.”

Luke folded his newspaper and placed in the magazine rack beside his chair.  He got up, walked down the stairs, took her by both hands and kissed her on the cheek.  Darla felt weak in the knees.  The fire within flared up and she felt the rush of blood to her cheeks.  He let her left hand go and placed his now-free right hand on the small of her back.  She became aware that “Lady in Red”, that slow, sweet, sappy 90s love song was playing somewhere, providing a faint soundtrack to this incredibly romantic moment.  Without further ado she placed her left hand on his shoulder and her head against his chest, and now they were dancing.  Slow and sexy, round and round, their lower bodies pressed together, for a wordless two minutes, no more, they moved together in perfect unison. She felt her nipples harden and her womanhood moisten, and she thought¸ my God, if he touches me down there I’m going to come, right here and now.  How can this be? And then the song ended and he kissed her cheek, then reluctantly moved his hand from her waist.  And then they stood and gazed into each other’s eyes for a few more magic moments, until a trio of girls passed by them, giggling, and went up the steps and into the Faculty Club.

“Luke, what just happened?” she said.

“Dunno, babe, we were just feeling it, I guess.  The old blood was a-boiling.”

“I’m falling for you, Mister Mason/Philosopher, you’re in my bloodstream.”

“Same,” Luke said, “And now we’d better get inside.  Evelyn and Bruce are waiting for us in the lounge.”

“Who?” she said.

“Dr. and Mrs. MacDougall.”

Now she felt like a complete ninny. A  sex-crazed ninny,  she chided herself.  “Of course, yes.  I hadn’t heard you use his Christian name before.”

“Come on, cookie,” he said, “let’s get in there.”

The lounge was a cozy, oak-panelled room in the rear of the building.  Darla’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, and then Luke was guiding her toward a booth in the back.  Doctor MacDougall and his wife sat there.

“Doctor MacDougall, you know Darla from the coffee shop,” said Luke.

“Hello, my dear, how nice to see you again.  And, please, both of you, call me Bruce,” Doctor MacDougall said.  “Evelyn, this is Darla Riggs.  Darla, please allow me to introduce you to my wife, Evelyn.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Evelyn,” Darla said.

“Yes, the pleasure is mine,” said Evelyn. Evelyn was a round, cheery little woman with twinkling eyes and a ready smile.  Her British accent, it seemed to Darla’s untrained ear, was the same as her husband’s.  Evelyn turned her attention to Luke.  “And young Mister Bertolucci,” she said, “so nice to see you again.”

“Hi, Evelyn,” Luke said. “Can I order drinks for everyone?”

“I think we’re fine, aren’t we dear?” Evelyn said, looking at Bruce.

“Yes, we’re fine,” said Bruce. “You young folks go ahead and order.”

“White wine for me,” Darla said to Luke.

Luke walked to the bar to order drinks.  Darla settled herself into the booth with the older couple, and exchanged the usual pleasantries.  The pleasantries attended to, she did what she had decided to do earlier, to deal head-on with the matter of Carol’s ex, Dave.

“Evelyn,” Darla said, “Luke tells me you play violin in the symphony.”

“That’s right,” Evelyn said.  “Are you a symphony-goer?”

“I am, replied Darla, “I have season tickets.”

“Very good!  It’s always good to meet a patron of the arts.”

“And,” Darla ventured, “you may know my sister’s former husband, Dave Dennison.  He plays viola.”

“Ah yes, Davey-Boy!” said Evelyn, “We are close friends.  He is a very entertaining fellow, lots of fun to be around.”

Darla bit her tongue before she said out loud what she was thinking: are you sure we are speaking about the same Dave Dennison?  Because, “lots of fun” was not anything she would have ever said about the staid, serious Dave Dennison she had known for so many years.

Evelyn continued: “Aside from our work with the symphony, “she said, “Dave and I play in the same ukulele orchestra.  Strictly amateur, for diversion, you know.”

Ukeleles?  Dave?  Darla was amazed.

“Luke tells us you play the guitar,” said Donald. “And that you are very good at it.”

“He’s being charitable,” said Darla, “I just play for my own amusement these days.” And she thought, Luke’s never heard me play, so what’s he talking about?  She cast a quick glance at Luke, and he smiled and winked, just for her, because he was out of the MacDougalls’ line of sight.  And she thought, What a nice, ‘couplesie’ thing to do!

“Perhaps,” said Evelyn, “you would be interested in the ukelele.  Our group is always recruiting new members.  We just play for fun, for the social aspect.  Sometimes we perform at seniors centers.”

“As it happens,” said Darla, “I own a ukulele.  I began playing when I was a child, and then I kept it up though high school.  I was pretty serious about the guitar until around graduation time, and the uke was a diversion, a stress reliever.  I played in a ukulele group back in Montreal.”

“Well, fancy that,” said Evelyn. “You must consider joining us.  We practice once a week.  Not many of us make it to every session, that would be too much like work.  There might be as few as six of us at a rehearsal, or as many as fifteen or so.  We meet in the recreation room downstairs at 7 pm each Wednesday.”

“That sounds like fun, I’ll give it some thought,” Darla said.

During this exchange, Luke had returned from the bar with two glasses of white wine and seated himself in the chair beside Darla.  Now he reached over and gave Darla’s hand a gentle squeeze.  She turned her head, and saw that he was beaming at her.  And so the two couples relaxed and enjoyed their drinks in the cozy little lounge, and Darla put her stresses and troubles behind her for a while and enjoyed good company.  At 8 pm the quartet moved to the dining room to order dinner and were seated at a window table.  Darla order seafood bisque to start, and her entre was poached salmon.  The food was delicious and the company stimulating.

Everything was just so, so .  .  .  right, and Darla felt happier than she had in days.  The MacDougalls were a lively, engaging couple, and Darla felt as if she had known them forever.  They discussed music, current affairs and university life.  Darla related her experience at the YMCA that morning, dealing with Vern’s epileptic seizure.

Bruce said, “It sounds as if that chap was jolly lucky you were there.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Darla.  “Lots of people know first aid, and helping out someone having a seizure is a pretty straight-ahead business.”

“Don’t ever think that way,” Evelyn said.  “You stepped in and helped out, and not everyone can do that.  I think you will be a wonderful physician.”

Too soon, it seemed, dessert and coffee were served, and then the last plates were cleaned away by the smiling bus-girl and dinner was over. The two couples said their good-byes on the walkway in front to the Faculty Club.

“It was wonderful, just wonderful to meet you,” Evelyn said.  We must have you two over to our house for dinner at some point.”

“That would be great,” said Darla. “And I will give serious thought to the ukulele orchestra.”

“Do,” said Evelyn. “You would enjoy it, I’m sure.”

And then the two couples separated.  “Take a little stroll?” Luke asked Darla.

“Sure, let’s walk the Ring Road,” said Darla.

“Alrighty then,” said Luke, and the young couple began walking along the sidewalk beside the Ring Road, Luke slid his arm around her waist and Darla was in heaven.  They strolled in silence for a few minutes among the lengthening shadows, enjoying the warm evening.  After a bit, Luke said, “That’s quite a pair of coincidences, your brother-in-law being in the symphony, and then the ukuleles.”  He leaned in to nuzzle her neck, and Darla thought she might float away on a cloud of joy.

But, there it was, was the matter of her ukulele, and the ukulele group in Toronto.  And, again, hanging over everything was Conor’s oppressive presence.  Would she ever be done with him?  She had given up the ukulele shortly after she moved in with Conor.  She’d told her friends and family she was just too busy, that university took up all her time and the ukulele had to go.  That she was losing interest in the instrument and her ukulele friends, and that it was time to move on.  None of which was true.  The truth was simple and brutal: Conor didn’t approve.

No, he didn’t approve at all.  He didn’t want her out and about having fun in the evening, while he was at work. Her place, he felt, was at home.  The fights with Conor over her ukulele became nastier and more frequent, and in the end she had given up the activity in the name of domestic peace.  But domestic peace remained elusive, and soon Darla found herself giving up other activities and interests.  Anything that didn’t involve Conor was suspect in his eyes, and over the years she spent less and less time with friends and family, and became more and more isolated.  Because that’s what Conor wanted.

“We were so worried about you,” Carol had said shortly after Darla and Conor split.  “If I phoned for you and Conor picked up, I could feel his hostility right down the phone line.  He viewed me as competition, I think.”  And Lisa said the same sort of thing.  Darla’s contact with her other two older siblings, Naomi and Rebecca, had become infrequent and strained.  Naomi had taken on the role of caregiver to the three younger girls in the years prior to their father’s death, and shortly after he met his end she’d moved to South Africa.  It was not until after Conor was removed from Darla’s life that she really understood how painful it had been for Naomi to hear second-hand from Carol about Darla’s problems.  The rift in the two sisters’ relationship was still only partially healed.

And, she remembered, now Conor might be right here in Victoria.  Should I share that with Luke? she wondered. Or will that just worry him?  If she and Luke were to continue seeing each other the subject was bound to come up.  And not just that uncomfortable bit of history.  That and all the other things that remained unexamined: her violent ex-boyfriend, his cousin-romance, the “Brad business”.  Why can’t we just start fresh? she thought.  Be two young lovers on a brand new planet: no history, no baggage, just a bright, exciting romance in the here and now.  Getting to know each other’s bodies, as well as our dreams and plans for the future.  Leaving the past in the past.

Now they were approaching the Student Union Building.  A live band played in the pub there on the weekends, and the rumble of bass and drums rolled out through the open doors and windows, and into the soft, warm university evening.  Groups of undergrads laughed and talked together on the lawn in front of building. All so carefree, she thought.  Life gets so complicated after graduation.

Luke pulled her closer and put his arm around her shoulders.  She smelt that beautiful after-shave and she snuggled into his chest.  Tonight’s the night. I’m going to ravish him as soon as we get indoors somewhere!  It’ll be smoke, and noise, and flashing lights! Raucous, all-in, pounding, pumping, world-ending sex!

And then he spoke up.  “Wanna hit the Speedway?” he said. And, she realized, that was exactly what she wanted.

“Yes,” she said, “that sounds about right.”  And then she slid her hand down onto his tight little butt and gave it a squeeze.  He jumped a little in surprise, and turned to look at her, as if he was seeing her for the first time.  “That’s right, mister smarty-man.  Let’s go dig all that noisy action.”

“Well,” he said, “in that case, let’s git!”  And git they did.

* * *

Tonight at West Coast Speedway the action was on the quarter-mile oval dirt track.  By the time Darla and Luke arrived the heat races were done, and the main event was set to begin.  The grandstand was full of rowdy, cheering race fans, and the couple found seats near the very top row, where there was space and a chance, as Luke so gracefully put it, “to suck some face.”

“Ouch,” said Darla, “that sounds a little graphic.” But she knew what he was getting at, and she was on the same page.  A little privacy to snuggle, and neck a bit, maybe feel each other up. But, the Inner Voice was feeling prim and proper tonight.

“It would make sense,” the Inner Voice said, “to do this indoors.  Not out here in the open where anyone, a patient for example, could see you.”

Oh, balls to that, thought Darla, I want to get into this trip!  Beer, hot dogs, noise, baseball caps and dirt. And, after last night, when Luke had unceremoniously left her, unfucked and unsatisfied, at the end of the evening, she was feeling reckless and enthusiastic.  So, bring it on, start the race and let’s get into it. She was beginning to see West Coast Speedway as the ultimate getaway, much more fun than guitars, ukuleles and quiet discussions about eighteenth century German philosophy.  Gee, who knew?

So, seated way up at the top of the grandstand, with a giant yellow “Pennzoil” banner right behind them and paper cups of beer in hand, Luke and Darla huddled together.  A nice, cool night-breeze had come up, and Luke had brought a giant blanket with grizzly bears on it and wrapped both of them in it.  On the track two dozen colorful open-wheel race cars were lining up in pairs, preparing for the green starting flag.  It was just possible to carry on a conversation over the sound of revving engines.

“This race is sprint cars, and it’s the feature race,” said Luke.  “The cars down there on the track worked their way through the eliminations earlier in the evening, and now they will do 40 laps to decide the over-all winner.”

Darla placed her hand in Luke’s lap and stroked his manhood.  She felt it stiffen through his flannel slacks. She leaned in close and slid her tongue into his ear.  “Ooh,” she teased, “I love it when you talk dirt-track to me, big boy.”  But Luke was determined to finish his short lecture on dirt track racing.

“Dirt track racing has been around for a hundred years,” he declared. “The track is not dirt, really, it’s clay.  And it’s not smooth, it’s full of rocks and whatnot.  The cars have 800 horsepower V-8 engines.”

And then, the green flag dropped, the thunder of a two dozen roaring motors rolled up the grandstand and washed over them, and conversation became possible only by shouting.  And, just like last night at the drag strip, she felt herself drawn in, consumed by the spectacle before her.  Several laps into the race the cars had spread out a bit.  Each car sported a large wing on the roof (“for down-force,” Luke shouted into her ear), and was covered in sponsor’s advertising.  The driver’s cockpit was protected by heavy wire screen (“to keep the rocks out”).  The cars slid madly into the turns, and accelerated down the short straightaways in a spray of wet clay.  Darla was transfixed.  She began to stroke Luke’s member through his flannel slacks, slowly, steadily, persistently.  She felt his breathing quicken.  He was rock-hard.

Man, that feels good, Luke thought¸ Smart, sexy, funny:  this gal’s got it all.  And yet, he was cautious.  Since he’d ended his marriage to Rita and moved to Victoria, he had avoided romantic encounters.  He told himself that was necessary in order for him to focus on his graduate studies.  And, truly, between the University and his part-time stone masonry job, he was a busy man.  But he’d been floored by Darla.  Since the first day they met (could it really have only been a little over a week ago?), he had thought about little else.  Thoughts of Darla filled his head every waking hour.  And the way he responded to her, that was new too.  He was living a bold, manly fantasy, living free and easy and basking in her presence in a way he could not have dreamed as recently as last month.

Because the end of his marriage to Rita had been far messier than he had let on.  And, if he and Darla were to continue on into a real, grown up relationship (which seemed to be a possibility), he would have to come clean with her, tell her about what his relationship with Rita had really been about.  But, first, he would have to come clean with himself about that chapter of his life.  Find his way through the fog of shame that clouded the matter and made moving forward impossible.  Luke had made great strides forward academically and socially here in the Garden City, true.  But the wreckage of his life in Toronto in the final years was weighing him down and preventing him from moving into the next phase of his life, and from becoming the man Darla deserved.

And tonight, sitting in the grandstand with Darla snuggled up close, he felt ready to break clear of the past.  And he resolved to have a heart-to-heart with Darla . . . beautiful, sexy, wonderful Darla . . . and let the chips fall where they may.

“Holy moly,” said Darla, jumping to her feet.  “Look at that!”  Down on the track two cars, fighting for the lead mid-way through the corner, had tangled wheels, and a collision ensued.  Other cars plowed into the two leaders, and there was a major pile up.  The crowd leaped to its feet and a roared as one person.  On the track cars crashed into each other and slid in every direction.  One car, number 101, rolled over and over and wound up in the infield, upside down.  Parts of sprint cars flew through the air.  One of the cars caught fire, and flames licked all around the driver as he fumbled with his safety harness, trying to break free of his burning car.

“Watch the corner marshalls,” Luke shouted into Darla’s ear.  “They know just what to do.  Watch for the yellow flags to come out.”

All the cars involved in the pile-up had now finally come to a halt.  At intervals around the track corner marshalls were waving yellow flags, and the drivers who had, through luck or design, avoided the pile-up slowed their cars and maintained their positions.  A cloud of smoke hung over the area.

“Yellow flags mean caution, and don’t pass,” Luke said.

“Don’t they stop the race?” Darla said, “What if someone’s hurt?”

“That’s the red flag, and it only comes out in the absolute worst cases,” Luke replied. “Pile-ups are part of the sport.  The cars are fitted with roll cages and harnesses, and the drivers have safety suits and helmets.  And sprint cars are top-heavy, so they roll over a lot.”

“I guess,” said Darla.  She was unconvinced, and she wondered briefly if she should volunteer to get involved.  But, men with fire extinguishers were running to the scene, and soon the burning car was extinguished and the driver freed, apparently uninjured.  Other drivers got out of their crashed cars, and walked off the track.  The cars that could still roll were pushed off the track onto the infield, and tow-trucks with flashing lights arrived to remove the more badly damaged cars.  Track workers with brooms, shovels and pails moved about picking up parts and pieces.   In the infield half a dozen race workers surrounded the flipped car, several of them on their knees and apparently communicating with the driver.

“See,” said Luke, “they’ve done this many times before.”  And Darla relaxed a bit.

Soon the clean-up was almost complete and the track was clear.  The yellow flags were still waving and the cars still in the race continued to travel around the oval, though at far less than race speed.  But in the infield the race workers still surrounded the upside-down Car 101, and the crowd of race fans grew quiet.  A gate at the far end of the grandstand opened to allow an ambulance to cross the track and drive onto the infield, its lights flashing.

“I hope he’s okay,” said Darla.  Luke said nothing.

The minutes ticked by and the crowd was quiet.  Every eye was on Car 101.  The ambulance stopped near the scene, and two paramedics got out to join the group surrounding the wrecked sprint car.  But there was no sign of the driver and Darla feared the worst.

Then, the group of race workers around the car pulled back, and Darla saw an arm appear though the driver’s side opening.  Willing hands pulled back the wire safety mesh and a second arm emerged, and then a helmeted head.  And then the driver hauled the rest of his body clear of the car and onto the grass of the infield.  And still the crowd held its collective breath.  The driver lay there on his back while the paramedics fussed over him.

And then, the driver was getting slowly to his feet with a paramedic on each arm.  And still the crowd was silent.  The driver walked an uncertain two or three steps with the paramedics’ assistance, then he stopped and waved them away.  He stood there slowly unfastening his helmet, and still the crowd waited.

Then the driver of car 101 took off his helmet and thrust it up, stiff-armed, over his head. The crowd exploded into a mighty roar of cheering and whistling.  The driver shook his long red hair loose, and he waved at the crowd with his free hand.  He walked around waving and blowing kisses, and the crowd loved it.

Darla exhaled loudly, realizing that she had been holding her breathe.  “Wow,” she said, “he’s okay!”

“Yes indeedy,” said Luke.  “He’s hamming it up a bit, but the fans are right into it.  And I guess he earned it.”  The crowd continued to roar and cheer and whistle, while in the infield the all the drivers and race workers shook hands and slapped each other on the back.

In due course the race resumed, and too soon (in Darla’s view) it was all over.  The winning driver burned donuts on the track in celebration after the checkered flag, and was then joined by his crew for an ecstatic round of backslapping and high-fives, while the crowd cheered and cheered.  Eventually, Luke and Darla worked their way down off the grandstand, and joined the crowd of race fans streaming slowly to the exits.  On the track the pit crews were loading their cars up onto trailers for the ride back to their home garages.

“They come from all over the Island,” Luke said.  “The cars damaged in the big pile up will be repaired over the next few days, and they’ll all be back next Saturday night.”

To Darla that was reassuring, comforting almost.  “So, they’ll all get another chance,” she said.  By now the young couple was in the dark parking lot, headed back to Darla’s little Honda.  On impulse, Darla pulled Luke to a stop, then reached up and pulled his face down to meet hers.  The young lovers exchanged a long, deep, delicious kiss that went on and on.  Tongues intertwined and each drank deeply of the other’s breath until the outside world shrank away to nothing and there was only now.  Luke, sweetheart, lover, she thought, take me now! I can’t stand it, my heart is full, my ears are ringing and I’m yours!  And the kiss went on and on.   Until the honking of a car horn intruded, and they remembered they were standing squarely in the middle of the road to the exit.  They turned their heads, bathed in in the headlights of the honking car, frozen in place like the proverbial deer.

Darla moved first.  She broke off the embrace and tugged Luke out of the way of the honking car.  But, then the passenger’s window rolled down, and a male voice was speaking her name from the waiting car.

“Doctor Riggs, hello, hello,” the voice said.  Darla peered at the car more closely.  Then the passenger door opened and a familiar fat man squirmed out and straightened up with a grunt.  It was Glenn, whom she had last seen being loaded onto a stretcher in the men’s change room at the YMCA.  He was wearing a blue nylon windbreaker with “Argus Towing” in a circle on the back, and his name embroidered across the shoulders in gold letters.

“Doctor Riggs, I’m Glenn Ransom.  I didn’t thank you for helping me this morning, I’m so happy to see you,” Glenn said.  “Are you a race fan?”

“Hello, Glenn, I’m happy to have been of assistance,” Darla said. “And, yes, I consider myself a race fan.”  She turned to Luke and said, “Luke, this is Glenn.  He and I met at the “Y” this morning.”

“Pleased to meet you, Glenn,” said Luke, leaning in to shake Glenn’s hand.

“The same,” said Glenn.  “Doctor Riggs is being very circumspect and correct in protecting my privacy, but I don’t mind telling you that she and I met while I was undergoing a full-on epileptic seizure.  The paramedics told me how she helped me while I was unconscious, and they told me her name.  I didn’t have the opportunity to thank her at the time.”

“And you, Glenn,” said Darla, “I guess I don’t have to ask if you enjoy the Speedway.”

Glenn chuckled, “Yes, I can say without reservation that motorsports are a big part of my life.  The epilepsy prevents me from holding a race licence, so I crew for one of the sprint car teams.  Let me introduce you to a couple other team members.”  Glenn turned and beckoned to the car idling in the aisleway. “Come on out, guys,” he said. “Come and meet some people.”

The driver’s door and both back doors opened; two men and a woman got out and walked over.  All three wore the same blue “Argus Towing” jacket that Glenn wore, and Darla recognized the two men immediately. One was Warren, whom she had last seen with young, blond Charlie in the men’s change room at the “Y”.  And the other was the red-haired driver of Car 101, last seen on the infield with his helmet thrust defiantly skyward, as if challenging fate to take its best shot next time.  When the red-haired driver turned to close the car door behind him, she saw his name on his jacket: Lance.

“Doctor Riggs,” Glenn said, “I think you know Warren, and this is Lance, our red-hot driver, and Emily, his wife.”  Handshakes were exchanged all round.

“That was quite a crash, Lance,” said Darla.  “We were a little worried.”

Lance scuffled his feet and looked anywhere but at Darla’s face.  She couldn’t see clearly in the dim light of the parking lot, but she’d swear Lance was blushing.  “Oh, yes, on Lap 9, me and Donnie mixed it up a bit,” he said.

“Donnie drives for the JP Autoparts team,” said Glenn.  “They are our main rivals.”

“Donnie’s fast,” added Lance.

“Not as fast as you, sweetie,” said Emily.  She was a head shorter than Lance, with blond hair and big glasses.  She smiled up at Lance and he bent down and kissed her.  A horn honked.

“Hey you guys,” a man’s voice shouted from a large four-wheel drive pickup that had pulled up behind the Argus Towing team car.  “Get a room!”

“That’s Donnie,” said Warren, tugging on Glenn’s sleeve. “He wants to go home.  So do I, so do I.”

“That’s right,” said Glenn.  And then in a loud voice, so that Donnie and the JP Autoparts team could hear him from their idling pick up truck, he said “The JP team’s in a hurry to get home and make their car fast enough to keep up with the big boys!”

“Wait until next Saturday night!” Donnie shouted back.

“We’d better go,” Glenn said to Darla. “Thanks again, Doctor Riggs, and nice to meet you Luke.  Hope to see you next weekend.”

And then the Argus Towing racing team, Glenn, Warren, Emily and Lance got back into their car and left the parking lot in a spray or gravel.  The JP Autoparts team was right behind them.

“Wow,” said Lance, watching the two sets of taillights disappear up the road.  He turned to Darla and pulled her into his arms.  “You’ve had a big day, cookie.”

“Yes,” she said, “I guess I have.  She placed her cheek against his white shirt (he still wore his necktie), and she pressed the entire length of her body against his.  She listened to his breathing and the beating of his heart.  She felt warm and comfortable, and the two of them stood there as other cars passed, pulling out of the parking lot.  We are all there is, she thought, Luke and I, we are love.  By now it was after midnight, and Darla was beginning to feel a little done-in.  More than done-in, she was bone-tired.  But happy.  Warm, contented, whatever words fit.  And, she realized, home in bed was where she needed to be.

“Luke, lover-boy,” she said, “Let’s call it a night.  I’m beat, I’ll drive you home.”

There was no push-back from Luke on this.  Truly, he knew he wanted Darla badly. More badly than he had wanted anything.  He yearned to take her to bed, and to make slow, serious love to her until they both lay sated and exhausted, watching a pale yellow sun rise into the gathering dawn.  A dawn that could be the first dawn ever, the emergence of a beautiful new world in which he and Darla were the first two people.  A new world where the two of them became one and all their problems were behind them.  But it was late, and he knew he still had to clear away his Toronto wreckage, in order to be able to come into that new world clean and strong and new.  To be the whole person she deserved.

So, the two of them got into her little Honda and drove back into town.  Arriving at the old converted house where Luke lived in his tidy studio apartment, Darla pulled to the curb, put the car in park and threw herself into Luke’s arms.  They kissed long and hard, and he held her against him while she nuzzled his neck and purred helplessly into his ear like a cat for several minutes.  Then she said, “Okay. You, out.”

“See you tomorrow?” he said from outside the car, leaning down to speak through the passenger’s window, a huge grin on his face.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, and I’m sleeping in,” Darla replied.  “I’ll text you after lunch.”

“Goodnight,” he said.  She watched him turn, walk up the front steps of the house and go inside.  And then she drove toward home through dark, quiet street, smiling. What a wonderful evening, she thought, I’m in heaven!

She made the final turn onto her street, and drove to her building mid-block.

Parked in front of her building was an all too familiar black BMW.  Her heart dropped. Conor had found her

Darla saw him standing in the pool of light at the front door of her building as she drove by.  Conor was smoking a cigarette and staring into the road.  She pulled her Honda to the curb a hundred feet past her building, because didn’t want to be trapped in the parking garage.  Remember what Mr. MacDonald said, she thought, stay with groups of people.  But it was late, and there were no people around.  She sat there behind the wheel for several minutes, while memories of Conor’s abuse rolled through her head.  Tears rose to her eyes, and she felt close to panic, until the Inner Voice spoke up.

“He’s just a guy you knew once,” the Inner Voice told her.  “You’re not the woman you were then, and you are probably going to have to confront him sooner or later.  You can do this.”

Darla considered calling the police, but decided against it.  He’s not going to attack me right there at the front door, she thought, and maybe he’s changed, gotten sober, something like that. It’s been years.  So she texted Carol: “Conor’s car out front, going in, text you after.” She knew Carol was probably in bed with the phone off, but at least there’d be a record, she reasoned.  Then she gathered up all her courage, got out of the car, locked up and walked the hundred feet back to her front door.  The sidewalk was well-lighted, thank goodness for that.

“What do you want, Conor?” she said. He was wearing a gray suit, which surprised her.  She’d never seen him in anything but blue jeans. “Do I have to call the police?”

“Hey, Darla,” he said, “I’m not here to cause trouble, just to say ‘hi’, let you know I’m in town in case we run into each other.  I don’t mean to freak you out.”

“It’s too late for that,” she said.  “Why were you hanging around my work today?”

He looked genuinely puzzled.  And not just that, Darla noticed, he seemed, well, different. He appeared to have lost a few pounds, for one thing. Also, his hair was neatly trimmed, and a lot shorter than she remembered.

“Sorry, Darla, don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“You weren’t parked on Howe today, in front of the Seymour Clinic?”

“I was on Howe today, yes, but I had business down there.  I’m starting work at an investment firm,” he said.  “Listen Darla, I’m just letting you know I live in Victoria now, it’s a small place, and we’re going to run into each other now and then.  And, after we split I had a chance to think about things.  I quit drinking eighteen months ago, went back to school and finished my business degree.  I’m going to be an investment adviser.”

And, just like that, Darla felt the old tug. So many times during their relationship she had thought, maybe it’s just the drinking; maybe he could be a good partner if he just settled down a bit; maybe it’s just been tough times at work. But then the Inner Voice spoke up, loudly.

“Forget it, Darla,” the Inner Voice said.  “You’ve  been there, done that. Walk away.”

Good advice.  “Okay, Conor,” she said, “I’m happy you’re making some positive changes, and I wish you well, but I don’t want to see you regularly.  I want to live separate lives.”

She was surprised by his response.  “Yes, Darla, I agree,” he said.  “We’ll leave the past in the past.”  He looked at his watch, and then he said, “It’s late, and I’d better get going.  Nice to see you again.” With that, he walked away, down to the sidewalk and his parked BMW.  He started up the car and drove way into the night.  Well, Darla thought , wonders never cease.  She used her key to open the front door and went inside.  She decided to use the elevator tonight, and she rode up to the fourth floor.  She opened the door to her apartment, went inside and left her keys on the hook by the front door.  She was exhausted.

Ten minutes later she was standing at the bathroom sink brushing her teeth, half asleep and on auto-pilot.  She splashed her face and got into pyjamas. She remembered to text Carol: “all good, no worries, TTYT,” and then she turned off both ring and vibrate on her IPhone.

She got into bed and turned off the light, and then she had a thought:  How did Conor find out where she lived? On a different night such a thought might have cause her to ruminate for hours, tossing and turning and worrying.  Not tonight, though.  She closed her eyes and the last thing she remembered was Lance, standing in the infield at West Coast Speedway with his helmet thrust skyward, while the crowd cheered and cheered.

* * *

Over at his little studio apartment, Luke was sitting at his computer, editing his doctoral dissertation in a desultory manner.  He wasn’t feeling as if he could sleep anytime soon, so he reckoned to get a little work done.  His upstairs neighbours were having a party, judging by the sounds coming through the ceiling.  But it was all good, they were nice people and it was, after all, Saturday night.  Luke was not going to let anything bring him down, push him off the cloud upon which he floated.

The end of Luke’s marriage had left him feeling empty, worthless and depressed.  There were elements of his relationship with Rita that caused him shame and embarrassment, beyond the fact that they were first cousins.  Rita had a red-hot temper, and she had been emotionally and, occasionally, physically violent toward him.  But that was something he never talked about.  Accusing Rita of abuse would have caused a terrible rift in his family.  And, he had to acknowledge, it was also not what an Italian male admitted to.  It wasn’t macho.  And then there was the sex.  As he had admitted to Darla (yesterday, a week ago; he couldn’t remember), in a fit of candor that terrified him at the time but appeared not to have fazed her at all, sex with Rita was mind-blowing.  Especially the make-up sex.  It almost made the fighting and abuse worthwhile.  But not completely.  Luke and Rita’s marriage was doomed.  Luke knew he would never bring a child unto such an unhealthy relationship, and so it was just a matter of time.  One night, in the midst of a particularly nasty fight she’d thrown a pan of hot grease at him and given him a third degree burn on his chest. He still had the scar, It was pure luck that the grease hadn’t landed in his face. Today he couldn’t even remember what the fight was about.  He just drew a blank; there were so many fights.  He never knew what would set her off.

The night of the last fight he had walked out the door and never looked back.  Rita called and called, and offered tearful apologies, but he knew it would all happen again if he relented and returned to their home.  Then she started in on his parents, and they pestered and pestered, until he finally pulled up stakes and moved to Victoria, right across the country.

In the immediate aftermath of his marriage and final separation, Luke had not believed would ever manage to find the optimism and trust required to commit to another person, even at the most basic level.  Luke had some long-time friends, but they mostly lived back in Toronto.  He had found it tough to connect with people in Victoria, especially since he did not drink and found socializing in the evening to be more of a strain than a diversion.  And he was busy with school and his job.  And that was one reason meeting Darla was such a miracle.

He was smitten from the very first day they met in the Stalk’s parking lot, gathering up her groceries.  Part of his present dilemma was, how to discuss with her the truth about his marriage to Rita. It was all so embarrassing and shameful, and he didn’t see how she would ever understand.  Deeper than that, however, were the psychic scars with which he had been left.  Would he be ever be able to trust another woman?  What if it all happened again?  The truth was, his knowledge of the other sex was somewhat limited.  He’d been a virgin when he met Rita, and for better or worse, everything he knew about sex she’d taught him.  And sex with Rita, when it was good, was spectacular.  A red-hot, mind-blowing experience that invariable left him feeling satisfied, exhausted and, well, manly.  And the feeling was mutual.  Rita came to orgasm quickly and hard, and she was quite vocal in the throes of passion.  She was satisfied, he was satisfied, everyone was a winner.  In bed, anyway.

His phone vibrated, and he looked at the screen.  The number was not one he recognized, but he picked up anyway.  He glanced at his computer screen and noted the time: 1:45 am.

“Hello, Luke Bertolucci here,” he said into the phone.

“Hello,” a female voice said, “I hope I have the right number and I’m terribly sorry to bother you.  This is Carol Riggs, Darla’s sister.

“Hello, Carol.  What’s up?”

“I know we haven’t met or anything, but Darla has told me all about you, and I know you and she were going on a date tonight, and I can’t get a hold of her and I’m a bit worried,” said Carol in a rush, all the words jammed together. “Have you heard from her?”

“Just a sec,” Luke said.  He examined the call history on his phone.  No call or text from Darla was there.  “Nope,” he said to Carol, “nothing.  What happened exactly?”  Luke was not the type given to panic, or jumping to conclusions.

“Well, she texted me after midnight to let me know her ex’s car was in front of her condo building.  They have some bad history, and even though I got a second text 20 minutes later saying everything was fine, I still thought I should check with you.”

Luke thought about that. “Well, Carol,” he said, “I don’t know either you or Darla very well, so I don’t know what to say. But if she texted you that she was okay, then maybe we should take her at her word.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line, and then Carol said, “Yes, yes, of course you’re right. I’m sorry, I’m just being silly and I shouldn’t be bothering you this late, I just worry about Darla so much.”

“Not at all, Carol,” Luke said, “I was up working anyway.  And, I guess it’s appropriate that we meet, even if it’s under these unusual circumstances.  She talks about you a lot.”  Luke thought for a moment, and then he said, “Say, Carol, how did you get my number?”

“I made Darla give it to me, sorry,” Carol said.  “I just wanted to be able to contact her while she was with you, she talks about you a lot too, and I just worry.  It’s because she had such bad luck with her last guy, Conor, and oh, now I’ve said too much about that.  I’m such a ninny.”

“Don’t worry Carol,” Luke said, although now he was getting a little worried. “This is the same Conor she texted you about tonight?”

“The same,” Carol said, “he was nasty to her and she moved here from Montreal partly to get away from him.  She was probably a little freaked when his car showed up in front of her house.”

“Nasty, like, abusive?”

“Yes, but please don’t tell her I said anything, although I’ll tell her all about this call when I do talk with her, we don’t have any secrets,” Carol said.

Poor Carol sounded so upset, Luke decided to take a chance and be very direct. “Carol,” he said, “calm down.  Take a breath.  I’m sure everything is fine, Darla is a smart woman, and if there was trouble she’d have found a way to contact you.  Is anyone there with you?”

“No, I’m alone here,” she said.  “And you are being so patient with me, I just. . .just.” With that Carol broke down sobbing.

He let her go on for a while before speaking. “Oh, Carol, I’m so sorry you’re upset,” he said.  “Are you okay on your own?   Is someone there with you?”

Luke waited patiently while Carol snuffled, blew her nose and composed herself.  “No, I’m here alone,” she said. “You’re so very kind, but I’ll be fine.”  There was another pause and then Carol continued. “I was a bit triggered when I found out from Darla that my ex-husband Dave works with, correct me if I don’t have this right, the wife of your doctoral advisor?  That they both play in the symphony”

“Yes,” said Luke, “that’s right.  Evelyn MacDougall is her name, she’s Bruce MacDougall’s wife.  She plays first violin.”

“That’s right, yes, that’s what Darla told me,” Carol said.  Her voice brightened a bit.  “Darla said they are very nice people.  She phoned me earlier this evening to tell me she was going with you to the races after the Faculty Club.”

Must have been while Darla was in the ladies room at the Student Union Building, Luke thought.  “Darla tells me you and she are very close,” he said.

Carol chuckled, and Luke was relieved that she seemed to be back on track.  “Yes, we are,” she said. “Probably three calls a day.  I hope you don’t think all we talk about is you, but I guess we do talk about you because it’s just so great that Darla is happy, and you’re happy, and oh there I go again.  I’m sorry, Luke, I do get lonely and I have doubts about the decisions I’ve made, and I don’t know why I’m boring you with all this, except that you seem like a nice person.”  Carol’s voice broke and she sounded once again on the verge of tears.

“It’s okay, Carol, I’m listening.”

There was yet another pause, and then Carol continued.  “My marriage to Dave failed, but not for the same reasons Darla left Conor, and I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but I sometimes wonder if I made a mistake. Dave and I got together when I was fifteen, the year before my father died.  We were so young, and then, well, it’s just that things between Dave and me had gotten so, I don’t know, boring and dull, I guess.  Or maybe just boring and dull compared to what I was used to, with the shouting that went on in my house growing up.”

“Shouting?” Luke asked.

“Oh, there I go again,” Carol said.  “Minimizing, that’s what my counselor calls it.  Much more than shouting.  My father was an abuser, he beat my mother, our mother, and none of us were sad when he died at work.  That sounds horrible, but there it is.”

“Darla hasn’t said much about her home life growing up,” Luke said.

“You know, Luke, Darla and I don’t talk about our home life as kids either.  There were four of us, all girls.  Darla is the youngest, then me, then Rebecca and Naomi.  Naomi sort of took over as mother to the other three of us when things got bad at home, when our father was on the warpath,” Carol said. “And then Darla went on to marry someone just our father, and I picked the exact opposite.  And neither one of us was successful.”

“So, this Conor, Darla’s ex, was abusive?”  Luke found himself saying.  He reflected that this was an awfully frank conversation to be having over the phone with someone he had not yet met in person, about someone he had only know for a little over a week.  But, it’s all okay, he thought, I know it.  It’s good and right, and Darla will forgive me. Because it was now apparent that the two of them had a lot more in common than he’d thought: they had each suffered abuse in an intimate relationship.  But, he thought, there was no abuse in my family growing up, so why did I end up with Rita?  Are we really that influenced by our upbringings when we select a mate?

“Yes,” Carol said, “I’ll let Darla tell you the details, if that what she’s of a mind to do.  Again, I hope you don’t think less of me or think I’m speaking out of turn.”

“No, it’s okay,” Luke said. “I think everything is going to be fine.”

Carol laughed at that remark, a short, musical burst.  “You are an optimist,” she said.  “Just like Darla said.  She really likes that about you. But I guess she likes a lot about you.”

“I try to be positive,” Luke said.  “It’s too easy to sink into all the bad stuff that goes on.  I like to believe that everything works out for the best.”

“I agree,” said Carol, “I have to watch out not to get too involved in the news these days.  So much of it is bad.  Sandy, my counselor, tells me to be careful about that.”

“Same here,” said Luke, “Although between work and school, I don’t have a lot of free time to watch television these days.”

“But you do enjoy the race track, Darla tells me.  Have you always liked car racing?”

That, Luke thought, is an interesting question. Prior to moving to Victoria, Luke had had no interest in car racing at all.  An acquaintance had first taken Luke out to watch drag racing at Westcoast Speedway shortly after he entered the doctoral program at the University of Victoria.  Luke had been hooked from the first outing.  He loved the noise and the smoke and the incredible rush of power as the cars leapt off the line and blasted down the track.  He loved being with the crowd, loved the feeling that they were all in it together, shouting and cheering, eating hot dogs, drinking beer and escaping day-to-day reality.  A night at the track left him feeling easy, relaxed, at peace.  All very foreign to a quiet, stone-mason/philosopher.

And, he was realizing, it made him horny.  There, he’d said it to himself, admitted it at last.  The rush of speed and power revved up his libido.  The way erotic movies, oysters or candle-light dinners did it for other folks.  And, he thought, it seems to have the same effect on Darla. I wonder what Darla is like in bed, he thought, and I wonder what is stopping me from getting on with the next stage of this relationship? It was easy to blame it on Rita, to imagine his poor psyche had taken a mortal hit, to say to himself he was being cautious, trying to avoid the problems and hurts that occasioned even a healthy relationship.  Am I going to wait too long? he thought. Let Darla get away because I’m a chicken?

“Uh, Luke?” Carol said, “You still there?”

Luke shook off his reverie. “Yes, yes, I’m here.  Sorry, I was thinking about the question.”

“I wasn’t expecting a detailed analysis,” Carol teased. “But, you are a philosopher, so it’s expected I guess.”  Carol had a sense of humor, apparently.  And Luke was glad he was able to help her have a laugh, even at his expense.  So they shared a chuckle.

“It’s funny,” he said, “I’ve never been into cars, or sports either for that matter.  I don’t even have a driver’s licence.”

“Really?”

“It’s very relaxing, a wonderful diversion,” he said, warming to the subject. “It induces a sort of meditative state, like yoga.”

“Okay,” Carol said, “Now you’re pulling my leg.”

“Guilty,” he said.  “But, even so, it’s not too far off the truth.  The noise and the . . . I don’t know . . . the *immediacy* of car racing, especially drag-racing, just sort of crowds out everything else, all my troubles and concerns.  Does it better than anything else for me.  But, even as I’m saying this I’m not really catching the essence of it.  I feel like I’m over-thinking it.”

“It’s a good explanation,” Carol said.  “Dave and I like music, all sorts, so that’s mainly what we did.  Recitals, opera, the symphony of course, all that sort of thing.  But we also did rock festivals, went camping sometimes for three-day events.  It was fun, I guess.  It seems I’ve sort of stopped doing the musical events since Dave and I separated.”

“Do you miss it?” Luke said.

“I think I do.  Maybe I just don’t have anyone to go with anymore,” Carol said.  “Darla is very musical, but she doesn’t do concerts, really.  I think she still feels a little sad she didn’t make it professionally as a classical guitarist.”

“Yes, she did mention that to me,” Luke said, “T’was not to be, unfortunately.”

“No, t’wasn’t”

“Tonight Evelyn invited Darla to join a ukulele group.”

“Ha!” said Carol.  “She’d enjoy that.  You should encourage her.”

A pause in the conversation followed, during which Luke realized he was getting quite sleepy.  “Carol,” he said, “I’m done-in.  I’ve really enjoyed our conversation, but can we pick it up later.  Maybe in person some time?”

“That would be fine,” she responded.  “You’ve been so kind and helpful, and I feel like we’ve known each other forever.  I can see why Darla likes you.”

“Good night, Carol.”

“Nitey-night.”

Luke muted the ringer on his phone and placed it on the kitchen counter.  He, briefly thought about calling Darla, but decided against it.  He stripped down to boxers, which was how he slept, then he went into the loo and brushed his teeth.  He returned to the living area, folded out the lumpy sofa-bed that he slept on and got into it.  As he did every night, he renewed his resolution that the day he finished his doctorate and got a job his first purchase would be a real bed.  And he’d rent a full-size apartment, or maybe buy a condo and begin living like a real person instead of a starving student. He fell asleep minutes later, thinking about Darla.  Beautiful, amazing Darla.

Across town, Carol sat at her kitchen table in a ratty pink robe, doing a crossword puzzle.  She was a troubled sleeper at the best of times, and she did not expect to log much sack time tonight.  Did I sleep better with Dave beside me? she wondered.  She couldn’t remember; her marriage to Dave seemed like a dream, now.  She paused to stare at the wall and chew on her pencil.  I can’t remember.  What exactly was it about Dave that I thought I couldn’t live with?  There was no ready answer to that question, so she sighed and returned to the crossword.

(to be continued)