Margot Dalton - New Way to Fly

“Hello?” Brock said, lifting the receiver and glaring at Alvin, who had finished the salami and was now giving speculative attention to Brock’s uneaten apple on the coffee table.

“Hello to you. Is this my best man?”

“Vern!” Brock said, grinning cheerfully. “Hey, it’s almost time, ol’ buddy. Did the condemned man eat a hearty meal?”

“Look, Brock, I’m not getting executed, I’m getting married. I think there’s some difference, you know.”

“That,” Brock said, “depends entirely on your point of view. What’s up?”

“Just checking,” Vernon said, sounding almost too happy to contain himself. “Making sure you’re going to remember to bring the ring, and all that.”

“Look, Vern, I like you some, but if you bother me one more time about that damn ring, the wedding’s off. I won’t come.”

Vernon chuckled. “Come on, have a heart. It’s a big day for me, Brock. I’ve waited forty years for this woman, you know, and I want everything to be just perfect.”

“Well, you sure do sound a whole lot happier than any man has a right to be,” Brock said, feeling suddenly wistful. “An’ you don’t have to worry, Vern. I’ll bring the ring, unless Alvin eats it before I can get it to you.”

“If he eats it,” Vernon said in the dark tone of one who was well acquainted with Alvin’s habits, “then Manny will just have to do a little emergency surgery this afternoon. You tell Alvin that, Brock.”

Brock chuckled. “I’ll tell him,” he said, looking down at Alvin, who seemed to understand the conversation, and was eyeing his master with sudden deep apprehension.

“So, it’s three o’clock at the courthouse, okay? Second floor?”

“Yeah, Vern. As if you haven’t told me that about a thousand times already. I’ll be there.”

“Are you dressed yet?”

Brock laughed. “No, Vern, I’m not dressed yet. I just finished pulling a couple dozen porcupine quills outa one of my little Brangus bull calves, an’ now I’m having my lunch.”

“But…shouldn’t you be getting ready by now? It’s past one o’clock,” the other man said.

“Vern, settle down,” Brock told him gently. “Everything’s gonna be just fine. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be there before three, an’ I’ll have the ring, an’ you an’ Carolyn will get married, an’ then we’ll all go out to the Double C for a nice big party. Nothing will go wrong. Relax, okay?”

“I guess you’re right,” Vernon said. “I just can’t believe it’s really happening, Brock. I’m so damned happy.”

“Well, you deserve it, fella,” Brock said gently. “An’ I’m happy for both of you. I truly do wish you all the best, Vern. Now, go have a stiff drink or something, an’ try to pull yourself together, an’ I’ll see you in a little while.”

They said their goodbyes and hung up. Brock sat staring at the telephone for a long time. At last he levered himself upright, dislodging Alvin, who had fallen asleep on his master’s stocking feet. He walked to his bedroom.

Unlike the rest of the house, this room was tidy, with a bright woven rag rug on the hardwood floor, a clean faded spread covering the neatly made bed and a bank of worn colorful books in handmade shelves along one wall.

Brock gazed wistfully at the books. Normally, he allowed himself a half hour or so of reading in the middle of the day, a treat that he looked forward to all morning.

But then he recalled the panicky tone in Vernon Trent’s voice and shook his head.

“Poor ol’ Vern,” he said to Alvin, who had followed him into the room and was trying to scramble up onto the bed. “I guess I should try to be early if I can, just so he doesn’t fall apart before the ceremony gets under way. Alvin, you’re such a mess,” he added, watching the fat dog struggle in vain to scale the high old-fashioned bed. Alvin fell back heavily onto the rug.

Brock scooped up the dog and tossed him onto the bed, grinning as Alvin gathered his dignity with an injured air, turned around briskly a few times and sank into a ragged ball in the center of the mattress, ears drooping contentedly, eyes already falling shut.

“Gawd, what a life,” Brock commented enviously, watching the sleepy dog for a moment. Finally he turned, stripped off his shirt, jeans and socks, and padded down the hall to the bathroom, his hard-muscled body gleaming like fine marble in the shaded midday light.

He showered energetically, singing country songs aloud in a pleasant deep baritone, toweled himself off and then examined his face in the mirror, fingering his firm jaw.

“Better shave again,” he muttered aloud. “There’ll likely be somebody taking pictures, an’ Carolyn’s not gonna like it much if I’m showing a five-o’clock shadow in every photograph.”

He lathered his face and began to shave carefully, thinking about the strange twist of fate that had brought his dream woman to appear to him on the same television screen with Beverly Townsend, the daughter of the woman that his friend Vernon Trent was marrying today.

Because, of course, Brock was fully aware that if he decided to make use of this connection, he could learn more about the mysterious woman, maybe even get to meet her.

He paused, razor in his hand, and gazed into his own dark eyes, wondering if he really wanted to meet Amanda Walker. After all, there was a certain risk to having dreams come true. The woman in his fantasies had warmed and sustained him through a lot of hard lonely years, but would the reality of her be as satisfying as his dreams?

Brock frowned, thinking about the woman in the velvet chair, recalling her air of sophisticated grace and calm elegance. That hadn’t really disturbed him, because he’d always pictured his woman as being quiet, gracious and serenely poised. What did bother him was the kind of superficial ambience the television commercial exuded, the popular idea that “image was everything.” And despite her serenity the woman on the television screen seemed ambitious, almost a little hard-edged.

Brock shook his head, still gazing thoughtfully at his reflection. The misted glass of the mirror shimmered before his eyes and he saw her face again, that lovely pure oval with the warm sapphire eyes and a mouth made for kissing. She was gazing at him, inviting him, lips softly parted, blue eyes full of tenderness and an alluring elusive promise so wild and sweet that his knees went weak and his body began to tremble with longing.

Then, abruptly, she vanished and Brock was staring into his own brown troubled eyes again, feeling strangely bereft.

“You’re such a fool,” he told himself, gripping the handle of his razor in a shaking hand. “You’re such a goddamn fool.”

Grimly he returned to his task, forcing himself to concentrate on the day ahead. But then he remembered the joyous tone in Vernon Trent’s voice and his friend’s unashamed declaration of happiness, and he felt lonelier than ever.

At last he finished shaving, rinsed off his razor and cleaned the sink mechanically, then wandered back into his bedroom to dress.

He paused in front of his closet, gazing in brooding silence at the few clothes that hung there, mostly Western-style shirts and clean folded jeans.

When Vernon had asked Brock Munroe to be his best man, he’d questioned Brock tactfully about suitable clothing for the occasion, and Brock had assured his friend that of course he had a dark suit.

And he did, but it was the same suit he’d worn to his high school graduation, almost twenty years ago. Brock lifted the suit bag from its hanger and unzipped it, examining the garment inside and wishing that he’d taken the time to buy something new for the wedding.

Brock frowned, holding the plain black suit aloft in his brown callused hands and gazing at it. He’d tried it on recently, and it still fitted reasonably well. How could anybody possibly tell that it wasn’t brand-new?