A Not-So-Bad Day

          "Excuse me, miss," the man said. "Do you need help?"

It was 7:30 A.M—a sunny, blue-sky morning in spring. I squirmed and grimaced on a wooden bench that faced the bike path. I glanced up from rubbing the pain in my left calf. 

A fellow jogger with curly blonde hair and startling blue eyes peered down at me.

"I'll be fine," I said, and continued to rub my calf. "Just a bad cramp. Happens when I don't do enough stretching before taking off."

"Sure it's not something worse?"

He was dressed like me, T-shirt and shorts. His gaze sent a warm shiver through me. "It'll go away. I just need to get back to my car."

"Let me help. Please. My name's Alan White—I think I've seen you before."

I darted a look at him. Recognition clicked in my brain, and despite my pain, I smiled. "I've seen you in the hallways and elevators at Mercy Hospital—I'm a nurse. Patty Wilson. Obstetrics."

When he smiled, his left cheek dimpled, and my heart did a little somersault. "I'm in food service management," he said. "New guy in town. Let's see if we can get you to your car."

He held out a hand. I grabbed it, and he pulled me to my feet. While I leaned on his strong right arm, I hobbled along with him toward my car in the parking lot, maybe seventy-five yards away. "I really am glad you came along," I said. "I might've had to crawl to my car. This has already been a bad day."

"Something else happened?"

"Woke up this morning and discovered my air conditioner is out. Repairman's coming Monday."

He smiled ruefully. "I've had days like that."

"This is my car," I said, as we approached a silver Ford Fusion. "Thank you so much."

"Don't mention it. You sure you can drive?"

"Positive. I've already walked off some of the pain."

"Good," he said, and smiled again. "My car's at the other end of the bike path. Be seeing you, I suppose. At the hospital."

"Probably," I said, ready to watch him jog away, feeling a little sad. Was he married? Dating? What was he doing with the rest of his life?

But he didn't jog away. He glanced my new car. Appeared to be studying it. Head tilted, he nodded slowly. "This really is your bad day," he said.

Alarm shot through me. "What?"

"Your car's listing severely to the right—"

My head swiveled. I stared at my car.  "Listing? Severely?"

"You have a flat tire. Passenger's side. Front."

I gasped. I nearly fell over, but I didn't panic. Didn't mutter any bad words. "No problem," I said. "I've got roadside assistance."

"Nonsense," he said. "I'll change it."

"You don't have to—"

"Save your insurance for when you really need it."

While I sat in the grass, rubbing my calf again, feeling the last of the pain ebbing away, I watched Alan change my car's tire. A little breeze blew, and a cardinal sang from a treetop. I wondered what I'd done wrong recently to be punished this way. Furnace, ankle, tire—what was next?

While Alan worked, we chatted. We discovered we both liked our jobs at Mercy; we were single, exactly the same age—twenty-eight—and—to my delight—unattached. Maybe this isn't such a bad day after all.

Finished changing the tire, wiping his hands in the grass while he sat next to me, Alan said, "You'll need to get that tire fixed this morning and remounted. You don't want to drive around on that spare too long. It's only a donut."

"All right," I said. "I can't thank you enough. Um...let me give you a ride to your car."

He shrugged. "It's only a couple of miles away."

"Afraid I might hit a tree—more bad luck?"

I loved his dimpled smile. "All right," he said.

He helped me up from the grass, his hand warm. As I shambled toward my car, he asked, "You sure you can drive?"

"Positive."

While I nudged into traffic to take him to the other end of the bike path, I felt his eyes on me, and I felt heat creeping into my face. What's next? I wondered. I run out of gas? We arrived at his car in no time. I expected him to say something like, Well, this is it.

But as I parked alongside his Camry, he said, "Look, I'm almost afraid to leave you alone—you're having such a bad day already. How about if we drop your car off at a garage, get your tire fixed and remounted—and I'll take you to breakfast while we wait?"

Oh wow!

"I'd love that," I said, my heart doing that somersault thing again with a little cartwheel added.

"I know it's been a bad day for you," he said, releasing his dimpled smile at me. "But—well, it's been a really good one for me..."

The End
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The Man in the Silk Paisley Vest

 As I circled the measuring tape around his chest, Ethan raised his arms. He was the last of the five groomsmen I was measuring for paisley silk vests to be worn with their tuxedoes. Suddenly the fitting room in my shop felt warm.

I don't know why. The other four men were mannequins to me, but Ethan's warm chest and back and the scent of his musky cologne somehow made him come alive.

Finished with the groomsmen, all of them tall and handsome, perhaps my age—twenty-five—I said, "I'll call when it's time for a fitting." Four of the five groomsmen, smiled, said, "Thanks," and piled out the door.

But Ethan—blonde and broad-shouldered, perhaps the tallest of the men—lingered and said, "I can't believe how you can measure someone, then take a piece of cloth, cut it, sew it, and make it into a piece of clothing—I mean you're making the bridal dress and the bridesmaids' dresses, too, aren't you?"

"And dresses for the flower girls," I said, and felt flattered that he was interested. I knew if I looked into his blue eyes, I'd blush, so I looked away and said, "Sewing's in my blood. My mom and grandmother are seamstresses, too. They're helping with this project, and someday I'll be taking over their business, with lots of help from them, of course."

"I understand what it takes to be creative," he said. "I build clocks. Early American grandfather clocks, German cuckoo clocks—you name it, and I want to say I appreciate your artistry. I think it's awesome."

This time I couldn't stop myself from blushing. "Well...thank you."

We talked a bit more. We were both single, not involved with anyone. I gathered Ethan was too busy to become involved romantically. Besides working as a clockmaker, he was also studying to be a jeweler. Suddenly he glanced at his watch and said he had to run; it was nice to meet me. I hated to see him leave, but I knew I'd see him again and wondered if he'd be thinking of me.

A week later he showed up with the other groomsmen for the fitting of the vests and again lingered as the others left. "My vest fits beautifully," he said. "It'll be a life-long treasure." Then, "How have you been, Carly?"

His asking and his remembering my name amazed me. Was he truly interested? "Been working like crazy finishing the dresses for the wedding." Thinking I might coax him into staying a bit longer, I said, "Would you like a cup of herbal tea?"

My hopes rose when he said, "I'd love a cup of tea," but they plummeted when he added, "But I can't stay," and shot a looked at his watch. "I'm in a hurry this morning. Well...I'll see you sometime."

But I wouldn't see him. There were no more fittings. A handsome, intriguing man—someone whom I could be interested in—had just walked out of my life. My heart ached a bit. Get over it, Carly! Be happy.

Then a week before the wedding, an invitation came in the mail, a hand-written note at the bottom. Sorry for being so late with this. Please attend. I want you to witness your beautiful creations. RSVP.

A single woman attending a wedding alone stands out like a sore thumb, but I shoved that thought aside: I'd love to see my dresses, and I knew Ethan would be there.

A lively reception followed a beautiful wedding. When the music started, Ethan eased onto a chair next to me, a warm smile sweeping across his face, and my heart skipped. "Your dresses have made this affair even more elegant. And you look spectacular."

Heat rushed over me. "Thank you. And so do you."

He gave me a sly grin.

"It's my paisley vest. Shall we dance?"

As Ethan and I circled our arms around each other on the dance floor, a slow tune beating softly in the background, his cologne scent drifted about, and I felt as if I'd melt. "I hoped you'd be here," he said. "I checked the guest list, saw your RSVP, and then hoped you'd be alone. Because I've been thinking..." His voice trailed off.

"Thinking...what?"

"Well, I almost called you a dozen times since we first met."

I gazed up at him. "Why didn't you?"

"Look," he said. "I'm...always so busy. Always on the run."

"I know that feeling."

"I've decided I need to re-prioritize my life. Put first things first." He cleared his throat; his Adam's apple bobbed. "That means...I wonder if we could spend some time together...if you don't mind."

His blue eyes fixed on me. He seemed a little breathless, waiting for an answer, and I couldn't stop my mouth from hanging open a bit or my heart from fluttering. Mind? Do I mind?  "I don't mind at all," I said, and snuggled in closer to his paisley silk vest.

The End

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The Computer Guy

The young man trying to sell me a computer stood behind the counter and smiled at me patiently. "Ma'am, your best bet is to scrap your old computer, buy a new one, and get high-speed Internet."

I'd been to two previous stores, and this nice young man was the third clerk to tell me the same thing. Don't try to upgrade your ten-year-old dinosaur.

Dump it. Buy new.

 "We have a convenient layaway plan," he said.

"Thank you," I answered, politely. "I'll think about it."

I didn't need a layaway plan. What I needed was a brain that could deal with all this modern, complicated technology. And I needed one fast because my married daughter—an only child—I'm a widow—and her husband were moving 500 miles away soon. I wanted to be able to e-mail her, exchange pictures with her, video chat with her and her husband and see my soon-to-arrive grandson on a web cam. But if you’re a technology-challenged person like me—if you hate change—what do you do?

I was leaving the store when a tall, silver-haired man—quite good-looking—stepped up to me and said, "May I talk to you for a second?"

A frown gripped my face. "Excuse me?"

"Don't be alarmed. I'm a computer consultant." He smiled the most wonderful blue-eyed smile. "I overheard you conversation with the clerk. And, well, I think I may be able to help you."

"A computer consultant?" He appeared to be my age, fifty-five. I didn't know if I were more interested in his smile or that fact that I might've found someone who could actually help me. Or was he a clever scammer?

He handed me his card: BRIAN FITZGERALD. Computer Support Specialist. The card also listed his telephone number and his email and website addresses. "I have unlimited references," he said. "And you can check me out with the Better Business Bureau."

I thanked him, and my heart warmed when with a tip of his head, he smiled again and said, "I look forward to hearing from you."

When I got home, I called my daughter, Tracy, on the phone. "Talk to him, Mom. And while you're at it ask the computer guy if he knows anything about cars. It's time you got rid of that junker, too."

Website, references, Better Business Bureau—Brian Fitzgerald checked out perfectly. Emailing him, I explained my computer needs. I agreed to meet him at a store that he said would offer me a variety of choices. When we were leaving, my shopping cart full, he said, "How about lunch? My treat."

His blue eyes met mine again, so softly this time that I thought my heart might melt. Get a hold of yourself, Lindsay! He's a computer guy. Like the cable guy.

"All right," I said.

Over lunch we talked about computers—about modems, high-speed Internet, and applications He assured me that he would set everything up for me, including a printer, and help me through what I was sure would be a long learning process. "I know change is difficult," he said. "But we all have to do it."

We drifted into talking about ourselves. Brian was a widower, an electrical engineer who had retired early and who now kept himself busy with his computer business. No kids. I told him I was an elementary school art teacher, the proud parent of a married young woman who was suddenly moving away because her husband had found a better-paying job.

In a week, my computer system was up and running. In a month, thanks to my very, very patient tutor, Brian, I was performing all the tasks I'd dream of. I should also mention Brian and I were on a first-name basis, emailing, and seeing each other every Friday for lunch to discuss...well, computer problems. Mostly.

On this particular Friday, over our tossed-salad lunches, Brian said, "Have you thought seriously of making any other big changes in you life, Lindsay?" His blue eyes locked with mine, and my heart felt as if it were going to tilt before it melted. I knew what he was thinking, but I said, "I—I need a new car."

"I can help."

My face felt red. "And I was thinking of"—I blew out a soft breath—"well, of making a major change in our relationship."

He smiled. "I think I know the perfect application."

"This has nothing to do with modems," I said. "Or web cams."

"I know." His hand reached across the table and covered mine. His smile grew wide. Warmth streaked up my arm. "This has to do with matters of the heart," he said.

 I blew out another soft breath. I turned my hand over and squeezed the computer guy's hand. Indeed, change is good. 

The End

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The Perfect Accident

           He was a tall man, about forty, quite handsome, athletic-looking, dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved denim shirt. His rusty-colored hair was cropped short.

As he shambled though the front door of my friend Liz's Coffee Cup Café, he glance anxiously at the patrons eating breakfast in the booths and at the tables.

Then he drifted over to the counter where I perched on a stool, the only woman alone at eight in the morning in the café.

I had to be to work at nine. I'm a legal secretary.

I wondered if he could tell I was a widow over forty. Truthfully, I've always been a hopeless romantic, believing in real-life fairy tales and had felt another good man—like my deceased husband, Tom—would someday come along, if only by accident. But after three years, it seemed I was wrong. Still, I was hopeful.

The man with rusty-colored hair slid onto a stool two places away from me, to my right, in front of the donut display. Force of habit, I guess, but I glanced at his left hand, and noted that it was ringless. I raised my head, and that's when our eyes met. Collided is more like it. His eyes were deep blue, and my heart skipped. He said, "Um...are you from around here?"

"Born and raised right here in Waverly. You?"

"New in town. I'm the new manager at Menards."

"That super hardware/lumber store down the road?"

He nodded. "I decided to stop to try this place for breakfast and—"

Liz appeared with my platter of French toast with two strips of bacon and an egg, over easy. She'd set me up with several blind dates, and now that she saw I was talking to this stranger, she gave me a big smirk, then looked at the man. "May I help you, sir?"

"I was stopping for breakfast—"

"Best breakfast in town," Liz said.

"—but when I was parking, my cell phone fell off the dash—I shouldn't have laid it there. Stupid, but I reached to catch it, and in the process I swerved and put a major dent in someone's car, driver's side door."

Liz darted a look at me. Her car wasn't parked in the lot, but mine was.

"I'm not sure," the man said, "the door will even open. I thought I'd ask...if you know who drives a late-model red Jeep."

I gulped. "I do."

"I'll keep your breakfast warm," Liz said.

As the man and I slid off our stools to go outside and check out my car, he said, "I'm Max Green—"

"I'm Anne Tobias."

"I've got insurance so there's no worry."

In the parking lot, in the sunlight, I saw that the gash in my Honda's door was long, deep, and ugly. "I'm sorry," he said. He looked so sheepish that I caught myself feeling sorry for him. "If you've got time this morning, we'll take your car to the body shop of your choice for an estimate."

"I can call in, take the morning off."

He offered me his cell phone. "Would like to call your husband?"

I told him I was a widow. He said he was sorry to hear that and then asked if he could buy my breakfast. "I owe you that," he said. "At the very least."

Inside, he sat next to me on a stool. While his eyes seemed to appraise me, I felt myself blush. He ordered what I had but with two eggs. We both asked for coffee, no cream nor sugar. He said he was from upstate, his first time in Waverly. He hoped to settle in and make this assignment at Menards permanent. He was divorced long ago. No kids. I told him my kids, twin girls, were both in college, seniors.

Our chatting was easy and friendly. Like old friends. Lots of smiles all around and a laugh or two—I felt my heart warming. Finally he said, "Um...this is so strange, us meeting like this..."

"I know. A dent in my car door."

He bit his bottom lip. Seemed hesitant. "Um...would you like to do something over the weekend? Dinner? A movie?"

I tried to stop my eyes from flying wide open. He's asking me out!

My breath caught for a moment. Be calm, I told myself. "There's a blues concert in the park Saturday night."

"Sounds great. Dinner? A concert?"

"All right, I'd like that."

After we finished breakfast, smiling, he said, "Let's take care of your car."

He thanked Liz for a great meal and left a hefty tip. Liz gave me a wink. As we got up to leave, he said, "Really, I'm sorry about banging into your car. All my fault."

He opened the front door for me.

I felt myself grinning hugely. "It's all right," I said. "Sometimes accidents have a way of turning out perfectly."

The End

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