Chapter Two
Two
“No pilots.”
Vivian’s roommate, Polly, gaped at her. “Honey, why not? I thought you would be thrilled. Do you know how hard it is to find a decent date these days, and here I found us two. And not just any dates—think of the uniforms, those flight suits are so dashing and—”
“You can’t expect them to show up in their flight suits for a date.”
“Well, no, maybe not for a date, but you can imagine what they look like in their flight suits,” Polly countered with a twinkle in her eye.
“I’m not really one for uniforms…”
“Or pilots, apparently,” Polly added, casting a sidelong look at Vivian as they walked into the bar together.
In just two months of sharing an apartment in Arlington, Vivian had learned that Polly did everything with gusto.
Their apartment was filled with the sound of records playing during the evenings when Polly wasn’t working at the hospital, usually accompanied by the melody of the door opening and closing, heralding dates or friends who stopped by for casual gatherings that started off as groups of three or four and often swelled to parties of two dozen or more.
It should have annoyed her considering how different they were, but Vivian was pragmatic enough to acknowledge that without Polly’s outgoing nature, their apartment would be a far quieter place.
Polly brought the party to them and frequently pulled Vivian outside of her normal routine—much like she had this evening.
The invitation to join Polly had come at the last minute, and Vivian had barely had enough time to change her clothes from a day at the newsroom before they were jumping into a cab together.
She should have asked more questions. But if she was being honest, she’d come home from another demoralizing day of fetching coffee rather than writing stories, fending off increasingly lecherous come-ons from her coworkers, convinced that trying to make it as a journalist was proving more and more elusive with each day she spent in D.C.
She just needed a story. The right story. A story that would prove to her editor that her writing had value. So far each one she’d pitched had been summarily shut down, leaving her relegated to doing the grunt work for her male coworkers whose voices often were the loudest in the newsroom.
“Just stay for an hour,” Polly cajoled beside her. “If it’s boring, you can go home to watch Perry Mason, and I’ll give your excuses.”
Vivian laughed. “Are you going to tell them that I ducked out to watch Perry Mason?”
“If that’s what it takes. I promise I won’t subject you to a bad evening. Although, if Joe’s friend Frank is anything like him, I think you’ll have a good time despite your aversion to pilots, which you really must explain to me sometime.”
Vivian scanned the room, trying to pick their “dates” out of the crowd.
It was a busy night in the city, and the bar was popular for the seafood it offered, the room already teeming with young professionals looking for romance, others with more professional bents in mind, clearly intent on networking.
“How did the two of you meet anyway?” Vivian asked.
Why had she never thought about going out like this? She’d already spotted at least one young member of Congress at the bar. Maybe this was where the stories were happening, a way to finally feel like she was tapped into the scene. She should come back tomorrow night and people watch at the bar.
“He came into the hospital with a sprain in his shoulder,” Polly answered.
“Motorcycle accident. We started talking while he was waiting to see the doctor. Joe’s here from out of town.
He asked if he could invite his buddy Frank, who he had plans with tonight, and I said sure, that I’d bring someone for his friend. ”
“And they’re both pilots?”
“That’s what Joe said, although his friend Frank lives here. He’s stationed at the Pentagon. What do you have against pilots, anyway?”
“Nothing,” Vivian lied. She shrugged. “Just not my type. I’m not exactly a risk-taker.”
“Let me guess, you go for one of those quiet, academic guys?”
“Something like that.”
“Alright, so you’re not going to meet the love of your life tonight—but Joe’s friend Frank is supposed to be a nice guy. Worst case, we got to get all dolled up and eat some amazing seafood.”
Vivian could go for some shrimp right now, and the bar was known for it. Besides, there was always the promise of pajamas and Perry Mason waiting for her if the evening went downhill.
“There they are,” Polly whispered, linking her arm through Vivian’s and propelling her forward.
Two men stood at the bar. One, muscular and blond.
The other, equally built and brown-haired.
They were both dressed in slacks and a collared shirt, nary a wrinkle in sight, their clothes pressed with military precision, their leather shoes so shining that Vivian hazarded she would be able to see her reflection in them.
And despite the differences in their hair color, the inch or two between them in height, the fact that the blond one was a bit more broad-shouldered, there was something in the way they carried themselves, as though they were standing at attention even when they were seemingly relaxed.
A group had formed around them, about a dozen or so people, their laughter reaching where Vivian and Polly stood.
Whatever the blond one said—his face animated as one hand moved in the air, the other in a sling with decidedly less movement, as though he were mimicking the actions of two objects—airplanes, perhaps—interacting with each other—the crowd was rapt.
Men elbowed one another and gestured with knowing grins at the blond man’s antics as though they had personal familiarity and experience with the aerial display being acted out in front of them.
There were a few women in the little group that had formed, and by the smile the blond one gave a pretty redhead standing near him, the men knew the attention they drew and were happy to encourage it.
Polly was going to have her hands full tonight, and the odds of Vivian sitting at home in front of the television rose exponentially. Were they going on a double date or joining the audience of a late-night variety show?
She didn’t blame Polly for trying, but neither one of them could have been less Vivian’s type.
Polly was right. Vivian tended to gravitate toward quiet guys, the intellectual ones more inclined to academic pursuits than athletic ones.
Physical appearance did little for her, but rather the common denominator with the admittedly few men she’d dated was that they were all smart and funny.
Ultimately, a good conversation carried the day, and this hardly looked like a discussion with reciprocal give-and-take, an interest in getting to know each other.
No, this was a performance, and Vivian couldn’t help but think whatever woman ended up on a date with the blond one would probably feel like she was perpetually in the audience of his ongoing show.
Polly strode toward the blond one, a wide, easy smile on her face that suggested she was completely undeterred by the scene before her.
It wasn’t surprising considering Vivian had yet to see anything that intimidated her roommate.
It was likely what made Polly such a good nurse.
She came home with stories of situations Vivian couldn’t fathom being placed in, but Polly navigated them all with the same calm, affable temperament.
If anyone could handle a man who was a handful, it was Polly.
The blond one broke off in the middle of whatever he was saying, his airplane-hands abandoned, a cocky smile affixed on his lips, and between the sling and the reminder of just how Polly had met their dates for the evening—
This must be the infamous Major Joe Mitchell.
Objectively, she could see what had attracted Polly.
Her roommate had described Joe to a T. He was five or six inches taller than Polly and Vivian, broad-shouldered, and undeniably handsome. He resembled something out of central casting if one were looking for a heroic type.
The crowd behind him slowly dispersed, story time clearly over, as Joe fixed his attention on her roommate with the same focus he’d adopted earlier when he was captivating the audience.
Once they’d finished exchanging pleasantries, Vivian’s gaze connected with Joe’s, and she carefully schooled the expression on her face.
Polly liked him, and out of respect for her roommate, she’d make him feel welcome even though there was something about the whole business—the crowd, the cocky smile, the glossy appearance—that felt like far too much for her to take him seriously.
Their gazes caught, and for a moment she wondered if she hadn’t been quick enough to hide her opinion of him, because Joe’s eyes widened slightly as though he’d registered her reaction and was a bit taken aback that she wasn’t as impressed by him as everyone else seemed to be.
Polly missed the exchange entirely—or she was too eager to care—because she smiled widely and said, “Vivian, this is Joe Mitchell. Major Joe Mitchell. Joe, this is my roommate, Vivian.”
Joe’s lips quirked at the emphasis Polly placed on his rank, his attention still on Vivian as though he was gauging her reaction to Polly’s introduction of him.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Vivian.”
He had a voice made for television or radio, and she could see how it would help draw a crowd.
Somewhere on the periphery of her vision she noticed Joe’s friend and Polly chatting with each other. Joe held his hand out to Vivian, and she placed her palm in his, their fingers grazing as they shook.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she replied.
And then he smiled. Really smiled. Not the smile he had given the crowd earlier, that glossy, impersonal, too-slick smile, but something altogether different that had her glancing away, a nervous sort of energy radiating from the point where their hands met through her body.
The redhead near the bar shot her a curious glance.