An Extra Week

"Hi there!" a masculine voice called from behind me.

Startled, I swung my head around to see a tall man dressed in a T-shirt jeans, and work boots watching me.

"Didn't mean to scare you, but a storm's blowing in."

I perched on a canvas folding stool on a lonely, narrow dock, easel in front of me, painting a picture of Thunder Lake.

The early evening sun flooded the sky with purple and scarlet, and a bald eagle soared over the blue water.

The man strolled out onto the dock and peered over my shoulder. "Love the way you're capturing the scene. You must be a professional artist."

"An amateur. Are you sure about the storm?"

"Positive. It'll be blowing in over those pine trees across the lake at anytime. Thought I'd help you gather your stuff."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't think we've met."

"Ben Harrison. Owner of Thunder Lake Resort. We get sudden storms all the time."

"Leslie Cartwright," I said.

A handsome man with wonderful blue eyes and longish auburn hair, Ben helped me gather my things. He said he was glad he spotted me on this abandoned dock. All the other guests had retreated to their cabins.

At my cabin door he asked, "You're vacationing alone?"

I nodded, feeling a bit sheepish—a forty-year-old woman alone at a north woods resort in Wisconsin, no husband, kids, or other family around. "I do this every year," I said. "Get away from my job for a week. I relax and do something I really enjoy. Paint. Last year I was in Colorado."

His smile warming my heart he said, "Well, I hope you have a great week."

Then he was gone, and for a moment I felt lonely. I wondered if he was married. We appeared to be the same age. But I told myself, Stop that!" Successful in business—the CEO of my own T-shirt company—I had fit several romantic relationships into my workaholic life but none of them had lasted. Romance was nice, but who had time?

While I was painting the next day on the same dock, handsome Ben Harrison strolled onto the dock at noontime, the sun high above us in a cloudless sky. "See you survived the storm. Lots of thunder, lightning, and pounding rain." He carried what appeared to be a picnic basket.

"I'm so glad you got me off this dock before it hit."

"You've been here since sunrise—I saw you setting up." He held up the basket. "Lunch?"

My heart flip-flopped. I can't remember when it last did that. Was Ben Harrison hitting on me? Glancing at his ringless left hand, I flushed and said, "I'm starved."

We sat on the dock cross-legged, devoured chicken sandwiches, drank homemade lemon aid, and snacked on brownies. We chatted like old friends. "You make all this food yourself?" I asked, and held his gaze.

"All by myself," he said, offering a lazy smile, I think realizing he was answering my real question: Are you married?  "Except for the store-bought brownies," he added.

Then he told me his mom and dad founded Thunder Lake Resort years ago. He'd gone off to college, earned a degree in accounting, had his own firm, and took over the lodge, running it during the summer, after his folks retired and moved to the city. Like me, he'd never married.

"You must love it here," I said.

"I do." Then, "I also love the picture you're painting. Um...you think I could purchase it when you're finished. I'd like to hang it in the lodge."

My jaw dropped. "You're kidding? I mean, I've never sold a piece. I do this for fun. For relaxation."

"I know. And you said you have only a week. But I could show you some really awesome sights around here. A waterfall. A gorge—spectacularly steep rocky walls, a stream running through it. If you'd like to stay longer."

The thought of staying an extra week—maybe longer­­—roaming these woods with Ben—left me breathless. I could do this. My home base was Chicago. Not that far away. I had competent people who could take over for a time. I could commute when necessary. Always too busy, I'd never, ever done anything like this.

"You're a wonderful artist," Ben said. "You ought to see what you can really do."

I gulped in a deep breath. Dare I? I looked across the beautiful lake and then at the handsome man. "All right," I said, and gulped another breath. "Maybe an extra week... We'll see what happens."

"Great!" he said, his awesome smile lighting up my soul. "You won't be disappointed. Believe me."

I smiled back, tried to nod nonchalantly, but my heart was doing that flip-flop thing again.

The End
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Easter Morning

The sun rose brightly above the treetops at Mt. Olivet Cemetery and chased away the chilly Easter morning air. A daughter, an only child, I stood over my folks' gravestone and spoke to them, telling them about my year.

It's a ritual I'd been following since they died four years ago, only months apart after long, happy lives.

"Mom, Dad, I'll be graduating in June—a registered nurse! Hurray! " I threw my head back and grinned at the cloudless blue sky. "And I have a job lined up at a Genesis Convenient Care Clinic. Double hurray!  Aren't you proud of me? Took awhile—six years—working nights, going to school part time, but I made it, and I can't thank you enough for your love and support."

I paused to catch a breath.

I was talking out loud to my folks. I always did. I know it's stupid, but I felt surely they could hear me better if I talked out loud.

"No, Mom. No, Dad. No guy in my life. No romance. That part of my life is hopeless. No future grandchildren, either. You guys can't help me with that. Sorry. School. Working. Studying. There just hasn’t been time."

I paused again, but not to catch my breath.

I'd heard a nose—a twig snapping?—and felt a presence behind me.

I spun around. My jaw dropped, and a shiver rippled up my spine.

I stared at a tall man dressed in a blue blazer, dark slacks, a white shirt open at the throat—a sandy-haired man about my age. My concern wasn’t how much he'd heard but what were his intentions. Was he a stalker?

I barely sucked in enough air to remain calm.

"Don't be alarmed," he said from ten feet away in a soft voice. "I'm here for the same reason you are. I've just spoken to a loved one and was on my way back to my car—I heard someone. I came over..."

I backed up, but when I saw his warm blue eyes and handsome features, I relaxed and felt a bit sheepish. "I come here every year," I said. "Easter's always been a special holiday in my family. My dad came back from Viet Nam on Easter Sunday, wounded but safe and alive."

"My wife died of cancer," he said, nodding solemnly. "Three years ago. On Easter Sunday. She—"

He halted abruptly and swallowed.

"I'm so sorry," I said.

He looked at me. Shrugged. "She was always positive and upbeat and told me to get on with my life, let her know how things were going, and so that's why I come here every Easter morning, but there's not much to tell." He smiled for the first time. "It's a wonder we haven't met before."

"I'm here really early this morning because the weather's so nice."

"I'm Tim McFadden," he said, his smile growing huge. "Your painless dentist."

I smiled back. "Riley Hanson, your newly graduated nurse in June, ready to save lives."

"Congratulations," he said, as we shook hands, his grip warm and firm. Then, "Where's your car?" he asked. "Maybe we can walk together."

Turns out, we were headed in the same direction, and as we meandered among the tombstones and trees, chatting in the early sunlight, he slipped in the fact that he had no children, and I—well, I mentioned I'd never married.

When we reached our cars parked on a gravel lane, we stopped alongside mine. He cleared his throat. He looked serious. Oh Lord! Was he going to ask me for a date? In a cemetery? On Easter Sunday? We'd known each other—what? Ten minutes. Fifteen—tops.

He cleared his throat again, shuffled his feet, and finally said, "You're talking to the Easter Bunny—you probably didn't know that, did you?"

What I didn't know was how I stopped from laughing. "The Easter Bunny?"

He nodded. "After services, St. Paul's Church has an Easter Egg Hunt in the churchyard for kids. I always volunteer to be the Easter Bunny in a furry costume—long, floppy ears and a bushy tail." He cleared his throat once more.

"Would you join me for services and the hunt?" He glanced at his watch. "In an hour?"

That was enough time for me to go home and dress for church, which I intended to do anyway. Why not St. Paul's?

I peered over my shoulder toward my folks' grave and blew out a deep breath.Then smiling up into Tim's handsome face, I said, "Mr. Easter Bunny, I'd love to attend services—and help with the hunt. But only if you guarantee I don't get trampled."

"Guaranteed!" he said, laughing. "See you in church."

Climbing into my car, I said really loud, "Thanks again, Mom and Dad!"

The End

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Bravery

"Officer Blair is a policeman," my six-year-old daughter Lucy said, a big smile on her face. "Like daddy was."

We sat at the kitchen table while Lucy gobbled down her after-school snack—peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat bread and a glass of milk—and I listened to her chatter about her day.

This was an after-school ritual I tried to follow faithfully.

"He's going to be there everyday this week," Lucy said, "talking to classes about stranger-danger and smoking and drugs and other stuff. He wants to talk to small groups—that's why they didn’t pile us all into the gym at once."

I handed Lucy a napkin, and she wiped her mouth. "Was he interesting?" I asked.

Lucy's eyes lit up. "He was, Mom! He's not married—I asked him. And he's tall and has nice brown hair and at the end he said we could ask questions, and I also asked him if he knew Daddy and what happened to him."

"Oh, my. Tell me you didn't."

"I can't lie, Mom. I did. And he said he knew all about Daddy. Daddy was a big hero, and he was at Daddy's funeral with all the other policemen." Lucy gulped her milk, smiled at me, and added, "I told him after all this time I still didn't have a dad, and that you came to pick me up everyday after school."

My breath caught. I thought I might fall off my chair. But why I was surprised? One thing I've learned about being a single mom and raising a precocious six-year-old—who would be seven this Sunday—is that you have to learn to deal with unexpected situations. And Lucy was right. She didn't have a new dad because—well, because I wasn't looking.

The next day when I picked up Lucy at school—I'm a certified public accountant and work from my home—Lucy said, "Officer Blair wants to meet you, Mom."

My heart skipped. I grabbed Lucy's hand and intended to hurry us to my parked car, but we took only a step before we found ourselves standing in front of a perfectly handsome policeman dressed in uniform. "Hi," he said. "I'd like to introduce myself. I'm Officer Tyler Blair...and you're—?"

I swallowed. "Linda Hart."

He seemed nervous. Hesitant. "I...I knew your husband...and I just want to say after two years we all still talk about him—about how brave he was saving that family—mom and dad—three little kids—from a home invasion but—"

Officer Blair halted and now looked a bit sheepish. I'm sure he didn't want to remind Lucy and me what happened that night. He cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "I wanted to let you know...your husband is a hero to be well remembered."

"Thank you."

Then Lucy piped in with, "You should come to our house to see us sometime, Officer Blair."

I cringed. Twin spots of heat flamed in my cheeks. Officer Blair looked pink-faced, his feet shuffling. But he reached into his breast pocket and said, "My card, Mrs. Hart." His blue-eyed smile was absolutely gorgeous. "Cell phone and landline—in case you'd like to talk sometime. Over coffee, perhaps..."

On the way home, belted into her seat next to me in the car, obviously pleased with herself, Lucy said, "You're going to call him, aren't you, Mom?"

What could I tell my daughter? That I was a coward. That since Carl's death I've been afraid to be involved in a relationship. Lord, a police officer would be the last man I'd consider—a man who could easily bring back so many memories. Like the memory of my husband being unbelievably brave, and now look at me...a total coward.

After we'd finished the supper dishes that night, Lucy grabbed Officer Blair's card off the cupboard and studied it. "I'll call if you want me to, Mom."

I frowned at her.  Choices battled in my head. Then sitting at the kitchen table, I punched in the numbers on my cell phone. "Tyler Blair..." I said when he answered, "this is Linda Hart. I was wondering..."

I told him Saturday night we'd be making tons of cupcakes for Lucy's birthday party on Sunday. Even some to take to her class at school on Monday. Would he like to help Saturday night? Tyler and I chatted for nearly ten minutes—maybe more—he was so easy to talk to—and when I hung up, my heart was thumping.

Lucy's eyes were big. "What'd he say?" she asked, breathless.

"He loves working with chocolate frosting."

Lucy flung her arms around my neck. "You're so cool, Mom!"

I sat back in my chair, almost limp. I didn't know about being cool, but I hoped I'd just shown just a bit of bravery. For my daughter's sake. And mine.

The End
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