They met for lunch again a week later and the week after that at the Acoustic Café.

“Tired of this joint yet?” Cari said as they finished a leisurely visit. “Should we find another?”

“Go for it if you know one as good.”

“Let’s stay here. Our special place.”

His thoughts wandered to her long-ago violin playing, the notes drifting through the darkness as he lay in his bed thinking about her and fantasizing that she wore scant little or nothing.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked.

“Sorry. My mind wandered.”

“May I ask you a question—something that’s been pestering me?”

“Of course.”

“You say you go to mass every week, sometimes more than once. Your life seems medieval. Like you still live like a priest. Have you remained celibate?”

She could still practically read his mind. “That time with you in the cemetery was my only time.”

Her eyes conveyed a mixture of wonder, disbelief, and pity for a second before her expression transitioned to devilment. “You have more self-control than some of your former colleagues.”

“Unfortunately true.”

“For them or you?”

“Maybe both?”

She laughed. “Isn’t life creepy? Here I am, a Methodist teaching at a Catholic college and hanging out with a celibate ex-priest. How weirdly ecumenical can things get?”

“I guess I could be a rabbi or an imam.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “You said you wanted to be back by four. It’s two-thirty. I should go, too.”

“Darn! Just when it was getting good. Conversational coitus interruptus. Oh, listen to crass Cari.”

“You’re not crass. Just delightfully irreverent.”

After they hugged in the parking lot, Cari realized she’d left her sunglasses at the table. “You can take off, I’ll be just a sec,” she said and hurried away.

He started his car and had nearly reached the street when his Ford Focus went clunk! and stopped. He tried shifting into reverse. Nothing. The car would go neither forward nor backward. Cari pulled up behind him and rolled down her window as he emerged from his car.

“I think my transmission has given up the ghost.”

“Saturday afternoon. Not a good time.”

“You run along. I’ll work something out.”

“I’m not leaving you stranded.”

“I’ll rent a car and have this one hauled away. It’s not worth fixing.”

“Do you have to be anywhere tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s open, but—”

“Come with me to St. Paul and we’ll get you back home tomorrow or Monday.” She caught his look. “I have a spare bedroom. Come on. I’d enjoy showing you around my neighborhood. And you have to meet Rhonda.”

A jumble of half-thoughts and fleeting images ricocheted somewhere in his brain. “Okay, let me roll this junker into a corner of the lot. The downslope’ll make it easy.”

Cari backed up to give him room to push the Ford into a parking space. He stepped inside the restaurant to explain the situation and assure them he’d have the car towed. After transferring everything from his car to Cari’s, he called a towing service to make arrangements.

Her tastefully appointed first floor apartment in an old but remodeled single-family building was luxurious compared to his quarters with the Brothers and the two-room apartment he’d occupied at the college. Scrupulously clean and neat, which didn’t surprise him, the place featured a roomy kitchen with a breakfast nook, living room, TV room, and two generous bedrooms.

Why did he feel so ill at ease?

“Care for a drink?” Cari asked.

“Love one.”

“What’s your poison?”

“Beer or Scotch. Or whatever you have.”

“I have a favorite I’d like you to try.” She opened a cabinet and brought out a bottle. “Tullamore Dew, an Irish whiskey. I normally drink wine, but this is so smooth. Try it on the rocks.”

He perused the label while she gathered glasses and ice. They swirled the golden whiskey over the cubes, touched their glasses, and sipped. The liquor’s aroma fell somewhere between Scotch and bourbon.

“Delightful!” Jason said. “I never heard of it.”

“Glad you like it. Rhonda put me onto it a couple years ago. Have a seat. I’ll put out some munchies.”

He slid onto the bench in the nook while she brought cheese and nuts and sat opposite him.

“Is Rhonda Irish?”

She raised her glass. “Don’t think so. Skoal.”

“Skoal.”

Never much of a drinker, Jason found the Tullamore Dew delectable and intoxicating. “Do you ever get back to Freepont?”

“Not as often as I should since my dad died.”

“He was young.”

“Only sixty-nine. I wish he’d had a longer retirement after all those years of work. My mom’s doing fine. I try to call her two or three times a week, but I should see her more than I do.”

She told him more about Saint Catherine, her job, and the Twin Cities. She’d become an avid Twins baseball fan, not so much a Vikings one, and obviously loved the area.

“Ready for a few more drops of Dew?”

“Only a few. Then let’s take a walk before I get high. I’d like to see your neighborhood.”

She poured the liquor, adding a half jigger to her own glass, before replacing the bottle in the cabinet. “Someday I’ll probably want to go south for part of the winter, but not now. Maybe because we’re so far removed from other large cities, people here learned long ago to cope with winter and make it work for them. So many things to do indoors and out. The St. Paul Winter Carnival is wonderful. It’s been going on since the 1880s. They call it the ‘Coolest Celebration on Earth.’ I love it.”

“You’re happy.”

She shrugged in a yes and no way.

He drained his glass and allowed the Tullamore to blunt any remaining edges of his earlier nervousness. “Let’s take that walk.”

Her quiet neighborhood was several blocks from a commercial area complete with shopping, fast food and upscale restaurants, a movie theatre and all manner of services. A clean, prosperous, and safe-looking neighborhood with all the bustling sounds and sights of an urban district.

“I smell a bakery,” he said.

“Oh, one of the best, just ahead. Someday we’ll have to get a loaf of their onion bread. It’s to die for.”

They strolled for an hour.

“Seen enough city?” she asked. “Come on, I’ll show you how close we are to the country.”

They veered in a new direction. A homeless man made eye contact with Jason, who stopped, reached for his wallet, and handed the man five dollars. Moments later, beyond earshot of the man, Cari jabbed him in the ribs. “You just got taken. That guy’s a pro. Works this area all the time.”

“I try to pass them by, but most of the time I can’t. You never know if they really need help or not.”

“That’s why I ignore them.”

Ten minutes later, she led him onto a walking trail in a park along the Mississippi. The river, the greenery, and the quietness created a different world only minutes away from the lively cityscape they’d left behind.

“What a wonderful mix you have at your doorstep.”

“I’m so lucky.” Her breast brushed against him when she slid her arm under his.

“You’ve made the proverbial lemonade from some pretty sour lemons. I refer to your ex.”

She leaned against his shoulder. “Shall we grab a light bite?”

“You’re hungry already?”

“No, but I want to take you to a nice little place I think you’ll like. My treat.”

Luci’s Ristorante lacked the overdone ornateness of many Italian restaurants. Modern and clean, it smelled so enticing that Jason’s hunger kicked in by the time the hostess seated them. The white tablecloth felt starchy to his fingertips.

“The bruschetta appetizer is to die for,” Cari said.

“I’ll have it with a salad.”

“We can split a large mista salad and ask about the soup of the day. Sound good? You’ll love their sausage and potato peasant soup if they have it.”

“Your call. Chianti’s on me.”

After dinner, as daylight submitted to dusk and a rising wind, they strolled to her apartment. Cari once again looped her arm around his at the elbow. They walked without speaking until she had to fish her house key from her purse.

Next Chapter: Chapter Seven