When we had all sat at the table, Papa looked at us suspiciously. “Why do I feel there’s something you two want to tell me?”
“Because there is,” Mama said.
He sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “Go on.”
“Emmie has been asked out on her first real date,” she began.
He unfolded his arms and sat forward quickly. “Date? When?”
“When was she asked out, or when is the date?”
“Both,” he said, the corners of his eyes tightening with impatience. Having been brought up in the military world, Papa had that snap to everything he said most of the time, especially anything he asked, but lately, all Mama had to do was look at him with her soft, loving eyes, and he usually began to soften.
“She was asked today for this Friday night.”
“What sort of date?”
“To go to the movies.”
“And you approve?”
“I wasn’t much older than she is now when I went on my first date,” she said.
“You’re French,” Papa said, as if that explained any behavior he would disapprove of.
“It was all right for me to be French when you asked me out on a date. Do you remember our first date?” she followed quickly, which was a very good question strategically.
“Of course. We went to dinner at a restaurant on the Left Bank in Paris.”
“No,” she said. “That was our second date. The first date was a walk.”
“Oh, I don’t call that a date.”
“To me, it was a very nice date. I wouldn’t have gone out with you again if it wasn’t. That’s how much you know about going on dates.”
“All right, all right.” He looked at me. “Who asked you on a date?”
“Evan Styles.”
“Styles? Why do I know that name?”
“His father is Martin Styles. He works for the mayor.”
“Oh, right.” He thought for a moment and then looked at Mama. “So, all of this happened so suddenly. Was it because of the new clothes she wore to school?”
“No,” I said, even though I thought my new look might have attracted his attention. “He is taking French and wanted me to help him.”
Papa shook his head. “You know that’s just an excuse, right? I’m sure he’s not just interested in French.”
“I know, Papa, but I have to let him think I believe him,” I replied, and Mama laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“She’s right about that. You always have to let a man think you believe him.”
“Very funny, Vivian.”
“You don’t have to worry about this girl. Très bon, Emmie.”