As I got into Rusty Dillingham’s souped-up F350, I wondered how this “date” would go. He had been pestering me for several months, calling two or three times a week, asking me to go out with him. I liked Rusty well enough, from what little I had been around him, but what I had heard about him – football hero, championship marksman, Harley rider – made me wonder if we had anything in common. I didn’t have anything planned for this weekend, and didn’t really want to entertain myself, so I agreed to a “date.”
When Rusty asked what I would like to eat, I told him anywhere but a sushi bar would be fine, so I had no idea where he would go. He headed west on the parkway and I asked where we were headed.
I got a grin – nice one – and he said, “There’s a steak house at Ransomville. My buddies say it’s good. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” I replied. “A rib-eye is always good.” Maybe the restaurant would have a good salad bar to accompany the steak.
We rode a few miles in silence. I didn’t know how to start a conversation as Rusty and I hadn’t interacted much besides chatting a bit when occasionally standing in the same check-out line or he happened to sit by me when I was eating at the pool room, so I just watched the scenery passing by.
Rusty broke the silence. “What kind of music do you like?”
He hadn’t had the radio on when I got into his truck, so I didn’t have any idea what he liked. “Sixties rock and some country rock. The Class of ’89 mostly.”
“The Class of ’89,” he said. “I’ve not heard anyone mention them recently.” He turned on the radio. Clint Black was singing ‘Untanglin’ My Mind.’ “Is that okay with you?” he asked.
“Clint is good most any time.” That got me another grin and I wondered why I’d not noticed his amazing grins before. Or his deep blue eyes.
We rode several miles without talking, just listening to some Clint, interspersed with some Waylon and Willie, Merle, Hank, and an Alan Jackson song or two. When Sawyer Brown’s ‘Some Girls Do’ came on, I glanced at Rusty. He was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and humming along.
He sensed me watching him, glanced over, and asked, “Are you some girl?”
I didn’t know how to answer that, so said, “I don’t know.”
He laughed lightly and we lapsed back into silence.
We got off the parkway at the Ransomville exit, and went right, away from town. Just as I was starting to worry a little, I saw a sign that said “Pete’s Eats Two Miles Ahead.”
“Is that the place?” I asked, wondering who – well, evidently Pete – would give that name to a restaurant.
“Yep,” Rusty answered. “It doesn’t sound like a name for a steak house, but my buddies say it is. Guess we’re going to find out.”
Just as we approached the seven-mile marker – the sign had been at the five-mile marker, the restaurant came into view. It sure didn’t look like a steak house to me, more what I considered country Victorian, a simple two-story roomy house like many I had seen growing up. Rusty pulled into the parking lot, backed the truck under an elm tree at the western side of the lot, and turned off the motor.
“What do you think?” he asked, while leaning on the steering wheel, studying the structure. He turned to look at me. “Are you ready to try this?”
I nodded, suddenly unsure if he was asking about the restaurant or an evening with him.
He gave me an encouraging smile, and we got out of the truck. When we met at the front of the truck, Rusty surprised me by reaching out and taking my hand in his. He held my hand lightly and I curled my fingers around the warmth of his. I looked up at him to find him looking at me seriously.
“What?” I asked.
He didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “I didn’t think you would ever go out with me.”
I didn’t want to ask why he thought that, so told him, “I am now.”
He smiled, tugged on my hand and we walked to the restaurant’s entrance, then went inside.
I definitely did not expect the restaurant to look the way it did. Instead of westerny-type decor I expected, it was similar to the houses my grandmother and ladies her age lived in when I was a kid. Nothing fancy. Hardwood floors. Painted tables and chairs. Tablecloths with printed borders. And all of it lit with simple light fixtures.
A hostess met us just inside the door and led us to a table near a double window that gave us a view of a vegetable garden. I hadn’t seen the garden when we drove into the parking lot. The hostess noticed me looking at the garden and said, “Pete insists on using only tomatoes he grows, so salads or sandwiches with tomatoes are seasonal.”
“That’s unusual,” I said, but nice.”
She smiled, laid two menus on the table and said a waitress would be here shortly to get our orders.
The menu was varied – steaks, fish and chicken, along with a good selection of side dishes and sandwiches, including tuna salad and egg salad sandwiches; I hadn’t seen them on a menu recently.
Rib-eye steak was on the menu, as were sirloin and T-bone. Today’s special was baked chicken, so I decided to try that, along with a sweet potato and mustard greens.
“What will you have?” Rusty asked, and looked surprised at my choices.
“That sounds good, and I’ve not had any mustard greens for a while. I hope theirs are good,” I told him.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m getting the T-bone, baked potato and sliced tomatoes. It’s nice they’ve got garden tomatoes.”
I agreed just as a waitress came to take our orders. We told her what we wanted, and she took our orders to the kitchen and returned quickly with our drinks and some rolls.
I picked up one of the coffee cups that were sitting on the table, something else I’d not seen recently in a restaurant. It was a white cup with a blue line around the rim, and the saucer had a matching line.
Rusty watched me for a bit, then said, “I’ve got a really pretty set of china. It was in a house I bought and the lady said I could have it.”
“That was nice of her,” I told him. “Do you have it stored somewhere?”
“I’ve got it in the china cabinet that was also in the house. In my kitchen. The cabinet is really pretty, too.” He described the china – white, with pink roses bordering each plate and the outside of the cups.
I was amazed at the details Rusty told of the glass-front china cabinet and the china. He talked about the thinness of the cups, and the tiny gold line around the rim of the cups and the edges of the plates, as well as the oaken china cabinet and the shape of its curved glass door and shelves. This ex-linebacker, who did construction work, rode a Harley, fished, and was a champion shooter, was about the last person I would have expected to wax eloquent about a set of china. There was more to this man than what met the eye.
I told him that it was nice to have a pretty set of china, even if it wasn’t used often. Just to be able to see its beauty each day would be a pleasure. I think I embarrassed him when I said that, for he quickly looked down at the roll he had been buttering before he started telling me about the china.
I chose a roll from the linen napkin lined bread basket, broke it apart and took a bite. Delicious. I could live without bread, but if all breads were as delicious as this roll, I might change my eating habits.
We ate a roll apiece, and finished just as the waitress brought our meals. We thanked her, and when she asked if we needed anything else, we told her we were okay at the moment. She said she’d check on us in a few minutes, and went across the restaurant to another table.
Rusty cut into his T-bone and took a bite. I took a bite of my chicken, which was extremely tender. We glanced up at each other, and nodded at the same time. His buddies were correct – really great food.
We ate in silence, savoring a well-done meal, and when we laid our silverware and napkins on our plates, the waitress returned, carrying dessert menus. As she carried the empty plates to the kitchen, we read the dessert menus.
“See anything you’d like to try?” Rusty asked.
“I’m full,” I said, “but a home-baked chocolate chip cookie would be a nice finish.”
“Okay. I’ll order two,” he said. He gave the order to the waitress and she wasn’t long in returning with the cookies and refills on our drinks.
Evidently we had ordered just before the cookies were taken out of the oven, for they were piping hot. I quickly laid mine back down on the plate, and Rusty did the same a few seconds later.
I was looking out the window at the butterfly weed bordering the restaurant’s wraparound porch, when I saw three hummingbirds appear. They were happily getting nectar from the bright orange blossoms. I was enjoying watching them, and looked across the table at Rusty. He was watching them also. I smiled, thinking how unusual it was that a man like this was quietly watching hummingbirds.
“I like watching hummingbirds,” I said. “They dart around so quickly, then hover while sipping nectar.”
“Have you ever had one light on your hand?” Rusty asked.
“No, but I’ve had them get close enough I could feel the breeze from their wings.”
“If you sit really still, and hold your hand out toward where they’re feeding, one will light on your hand. I’ve had several do that this summer. I’ve got flowers by my porch that they like,” he told me.
Talk about surprises. One, that this man put out flowers that hummingbirds liked, then sat still to let one light on his hand. Two, that he would tell me about it. Kinda went against all the macho image he projected when I saw him out around town.
“That is neat. I’ll have to sit by the butterfly weed in my fencerow one afternoon and see if one will light on my hand.”
Our cookies had cooled, so we enjoyed the flavor of freshly-baked cookies. As we sipped our drinks afterward, the waitress brought our bill and Rusty paid her, adding a generous tip. She thanked him, asked if we wanted anything to take home; we both told her no. She thanked us again, and wished us a good evening.
We returned to the truck just as the supper crowd was beginning to arrive. I was glad Rusty had made our “date” time late afternoon instead of evening. We had enjoyed a quiet meal, and I guess each other’s company, as this was our first “date.” I wondered what would happen now. Would he take me directly home or have something else in mind?
As we settled into the truck, and Rusty started the motor, he asked, “Would you like to ride around a while?”
“That sounds good,” I told him. “I’m free all evening.”
He pulled out of the restaurant’s parking lot and headed back toward the parkway. Once there, he headed west again.
“Do you bowl?” he asked.
“Badly,” I replied, “but if you want to bowl some, I can watch you and keep score.”
“We’ll do something else.”
“Okay,” I told him.
We rode in silence for a mile or two. Rusty had turned the radio off when we arrived at the restaurant, and hadn’t turned it back on after we got back on the road.
“Anything you’d like to do?” he asked.
“Nothing I can think of at the minute.”
“Would you like to go to the overlook at the Westfork dam? It’s a pretty view.”
“That would be nice,” I said. “I’ve not been down there for two or three years.”
He took the next exit and the road to the dam. I wanted to learn more about this man, but didn’t know how to start a conversation with him. After his discussions of china and hummingbirds, I had no idea what to say.
Rusty finally started a conversation.
“What do you do with your spare time?” he asked. “I seldom see you out except during the week.”
So . . . he watched for me.
“I read a lot. Write some short stories. Do yard work and house work. Listen to music. Nothing much, really. What about you?”
“I keep up with my target practice. Fish when the mood strikes, and do regular upkeep on the yard and house. When I’m caught up on all that, and the weather is good, I’ll take my bike out for an afternoon.” He paused, then asked, “Do you like to ride motorcycles?”
“I’ve not thought about it, to tell the truth. I tend to do quiet things.”
“You are quiet, aren’t you?” he asked, then didn’t say anything else.
We were nearing the overlook, and I looked at the lake as we crossed the dam. When we got to the overlook area, Rusty parked and asked,” Which side of the dam do you like to look at?”
“I’ve like the lake side,” I told him, “especially at this time of day with sunset reflected on the water.”
“Me, too,” he replied as we got out of the truck.
Once again he took my hand. We walked to the lake side of the overlook. Whomever had designed this overlook apparently enjoyed sitting and watching sunsets as there was a bench running along the side of the overlook nearest the lake.
We sat on the bench at the furthermost end, still holding hands. We sat there quietly, watching a few boats heading toward the docks on the other side of the lake. Some ducks were paddling near the dam, and I could hear songbirds in nearby trees. It was cool enough that a cricket or two were chirping.
I was enjoying the view and the sounds of nature when Rusty lifted my hand and kissed my fingers.
That surprised me. This man definitely had two sides – the “don’t mess with me” attitude he projected in public, and this softer side I was seeing today. Now I had to learn which one was an act.
I tightened my fingers around his, and felt his tighten in return. I looked up and he was smiling at me.
“Where do we take it from here?” he asked.
Talk about unexpected questions. “What do you mean?”
“Will you go out with me again?” He looked at the lake. “I’ve been wanting to take you out for quite a while, but didn’t know how to ask. You’re always nice when I speak to you but never give any indication if you’d be interested in me.” He looked down at our hands, then at me. “I finally decided I’d ask until you agreed to a date.” He smiled. “And now I don’t know what to do.”
I smiled back, and studied Rusty’s face. I did want to learn more about this ruggedly handsome man.
“Neither do I,” I replied. “Maybe start by getting to know each other better.” I looked down at our linked hands. “If that’s okay with you.”
He squeezed my hand tightly. I looked back up at him, and now he was grinning.
“Will you go out with me tomorrow night?” he asked. “And many more nights?”
I agreed, and we watched the sunset and talked until the mosquitoes caused us to retreat to Rusty’s truck.
