Free Heart-strong by Bonnie McCune

Valentine’s
Day. Or exchange news. Or something. Let me know. If you want to.”
    With this masterpiece of ambiguous shilly-shallying, Rachel
waited in vain for Jim to connect.
    * * *
    Valentine’s Day was fast approaching, and Jim was constantly
receiving little reminders from his mother about the date’s suitability for
popping the most important question in a woman’s—or a man’s—life. Every time he
went to Super Shop, he felt surrounded, drowned, with Valentine paraphernalia.
Candy in red velvet boxes; cards large and small, funny or sentimental; red,
white, and pink roses and carnations; even those fussy and frilly little
do-dads that women seemed to favor although men usually despised them, like
figurines bearing the saying “I wuv ooo.” While he wasn’t sure if he was ready
to take a huge step, he decided to stop diddling around.
    Just as he did at work, Jim approached the decision
rationally, logically, even scientifically. He spent some time making lists of
the qualities he wanted in a wife, cross-indexed with Donna’s and Rachel’s
traits. Looks, intelligence, stability, sense of humor, education, career,
principles, religion, politics, volunteer activities, hobbies, skills, the
inventory was extensive. The women were well-matched, each one higher in some
attribute than the other. First things first. He’d promised his mother he’d
consider Donna. So despite his major attraction to Rachel, he called Donna and
made a date for the evening of February fourteenth.
    Donna could be his dream woman, mused Jim as he sat across
from her in a little French restaurant designed for romantic trysts, licit or
illicit. The waiters were so discreet, they hid their order pads from sight,
and the air was heavy with scents of lavender and rose. Candles on every table
and wall gleamed off silver and crystal and made Donna’s fair hair gleam. She
smoothed it down. She didn’t talk a lot, thought Jim. Just as well. She wasn’t
always dithering on like Rachel. Of course conversation was a little hard to
make.
    “How’s your son?” Jim as k ed
to fill the silence. He didn’t really care, h adn’t
seen the boy s i nc e
just after Christmas.
    “He’s fine. He was on the honor roll at school. His trumpet
teacher said he ’ s v er y tal ente d. And
he’s t he for w ard f or t he
bas ketb all t eam.”
    “That’s nice,” said Jim. The kid
sounded close to perfect. He wondered if Donna’s son and Scott were on the same
basketball team and if Scott were as bad at that sport as he had been at
soccer. Probably didn’t know enough to stay in position on the court. The waiter
brought the French onion soup. Donna spooned it away from herself, raised it to
her lips. No stringy cheese clung to her silverware.
    “Good soup,” commented Jim, wiping the cheese dripping from
his mouth on his napkin.
    “Yes,” Donna agr e ed. “A
touch too much garl i c, ho wev er.”
    Not like Rachel at all. Rachel would have adored the soup or
hated it. N o middle ground for her.
    “How’s wor k ?” as k ed J i m as he
pushed the soup a w ay in fa v or of a roll.
    “It’s fine. My supervisor said a manag e rial posi t ion
is ope n ing up. He’s recomme n din g me for i t .”
    “Think you’ll get it?”
    Donna opened her eyes wide. They were green, carefully made
up wi t h green shadow t o ma t ch. “Of course. I ca n hardly wait. I’m sure I can improve the
departmen t al efficiency one hundred percent . ”
    “I’m sure you can,” agreed Jim, thinking about his own work
style where he sometimes accomplished better results by sacrificing efficiency
for human connections.
    Rachel was notoriously disorganized. Oh, she got things
done, and done well, b ut she was al w a y s misplacing
papers, spilling cups of cof f ee, losing her
keys. He could almos t visualize her sitting
across from him. She would be laughing at some silliness in life—the price of
apples, say—or complainin g a b out politics. Her hair w ould
be in h