“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”
– John Steinbeck –
In case you missed Part I:
"Baby, It's Cold Outside" by Duncan Cary Palmer
Although this tale was inspired by a contest,
and though I had not intended to write more, by popular demand I return now with Part II.
I suspected from the start, and have now strongly been made to understand, that it was unkind—nay, cruel—of me to leave readers hanging, holding their breath, at a beautiful woman's front door...
Will my reading audience ever forgive me? I hope they'll let me know after reading further.
Baby, It's Cold Outside (source)
"Baby, It's Cold Outside - Part II"
~by Duncan Cary Palmer~
As he stands on the front stoop, colored lights decorating the evergreen in the bay window facing the street play across his expectant face. He scarcely notices the gusts of biting cold wind tugging at his collar. His mind is instead filled with the memory, earlier in the day, of her warm hands nestled in the crook of his arm, and he focuses on the footsteps now approaching the door.
The entryway to her Tudor-style cottage dominates the corner of the home. The footsteps stop, and the porch light comes on, revealing an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway. The sound of the deadbolt turning draws his attention back to the door, and he blinks in anticipation. One glimpse of her face will more than repay his long trek through the falling snow.
The door swings open.
"May I help you?"
He scarcely notices the biting wind. (source)
Before him stands a strapping young man in a tan cardigan sweater vest and dress slacks. The man, no more than half his age, holds the door with a well-muscled right arm.
Palpably shaken, his voice wavers.
"I... must be... in the wrong place." Confusion clouds his face. "I'm sorry, I thought this was the home of a St. Albans student I know."
"Forgive my manners. Won't you come in out of the cold?"
"Uhhh, thank you."
Stepping past the stranger, he finds himself in a sizable and well-appointed foyer. He stomps off the snow clinging to sandals and socks. Hearing the door close behind him, he relishes the stillness and warmth.
"You're definitely in the right place, assuming it's Liz you're looking for."
Liz! Hearing her name makes his heart race. Who is this fellow? As if he can't guess. I've made a complete ass of myself, showing up here.
"Let me take your coat."
It's really only a light jacket, but he hands it over nonetheless. The young man hangs it alongside the bright yellow, fur-collared coat that Liz had been wearing earlier. How could I know her all these weeks and not know about a boyfriend?
"Please, come sit by the fire and warm up." Noticing his sandals, the stranger looks away.
The glory of the Christmas tree. (source)
They enter an impeccably decorated living room. He scans the wainscoted walls, eyes coming to rest on a well-executed watercolor of a minaret reflected in an oasis. Candles flicker on a side table, and the glory of the Christmas tree is enhanced by reflections from the bay window. An angel in lace graces the top.
The young man shows him to one of a pair of corduroy upholstered wing chairs on opposite flanks of a large stone fireplace, then restarts the stereo at a reduced volume and seats himself in the other chair.
"Liz is showering, but she should be out soon." His expression is pleasant enough, though noncommittal.
Despite an awkward silence, the prospect of seeing Liz any moment is invigorating. They sit quietly for a minute, gazing into the fire. The fragrance and the occasional pops and sparkles tell him it's real wood, not one of those ceramic log and gas flame simulations. As gradually returning warmth takes the edge off, the other man breaks the silence.
"So, what are you pursuing at St. Albans?"
Gathering his thoughts, he tries to put the best face on an embarrassing situation.
"I've always been fascinated by biblical archaeology. I'm an entrepreneur, and after launching and selling several successful enterprises, I was able to retire a bit early and begin pursuing that interest. I signed up for a Near Eastern Studies course at St. Albans, and, well, that's how I met Liz."
"That sounds quite interesting."
"Thanks. May I ask what it is that you do?"
"Sure. I coach the varsity football team at Central High."
Oh, just great. Tall, dark, handsome, and a jock to boot. But, before he can respond to this latest revelation, the sound of footsteps from the oak-floored hallway announce Liz's approach. He turns that way just in time to see her emerge into the living room.
Liz is an angelic vision. (source: Jacob Postuma)
An absolute vision, Liz is looking downward, still brushing her freshly washed, strawberry blonde tresses. They cover the shoulders of an off-white chenille blouse that complements the natural beauty of her form. Breathless, he rises to face her. She hasn't seen him yet, preoccupied with her hair. What should he say? How will she react?
After a few steps toward the fireplace, she finally raises her head. Catching sight of him for the first time, her brush stops in mid-stroke. Then, like a sudden burst of sunlight, Liz breaks into a smile. Dropping her brush on the carpet, she closes the remaining distance in a few rapid steps and throws her arms around him, leaning her glowing face against his chest.
Pulling back and looking up, "What are you doing here? It's such a nice surprise to see you."
Returning the hug, somewhat embarrassed but relieved by the warm welcome, he braces her at arms length and smiles back.
"I don't know. I just got it in my head to take a walk, I guess. When I got caught out in the snow, I remembered you'd mentioned that you live on this corner, so I came and knocked on your door." I can't tell her why I really stopped by.
"Well, I guess I'd better introduce you two. You haven't met somewhere else before, have you?"
It's time to face the music. He steels himself for what is about to come next.
The rest of the story: Conclusion
Appreciation to The Writers' Block for editing support.
