Sink or Swim

           My pulse raced as Kyle Mitchell sat down at a poolside picnic table with my four-year-old son Billy and me. We were finishing a snack—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and apples.

"Mrs. Forbes," Kyle said, with a smile that highlighted his big brown eyes, "I've never seen anyone take to swimming so quickly as your

son Billy." Billy blushed, and I said, "Thank you."

The two sat across from me at the table in the warm sunshine.

"I like the water!" Billy said, laughing, as he and Kyle bumped fists.

A handsome hunk of a man, Kyle was Billy's swimming instructor here at Preston's newly built Municipal Pool. A non-swimmer, I'd signed Billy up for swimming lessons as soon as I'd heard about the opportunity: Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Three p.m. Six weeks.

"Well," Kyle said, still smiling, while my heart fluttered, "Billy is doing fine. After a week, he treads water well and is mastering the freestyle stroke. "I just want you and your husband to know."

"My dad left us," Billy announced matter-of-factly. "Mom says not to be mad."

I thought my face had burst into flame, and I could hardly find my voice. "It's...been several years," I finally said.

"I'm so sorry," Kyle said, frowning. "My mom raised me—no dad in sight. I know life's not easy for a single mom."

Kyle told Billy to keep up the good work and said he had to talk to other parents. I held my breath as I watched Kyle stroll away—bronzed body sheathed in a white muscle shirt and blue swimming trunks. Eye-candy, indeed.

Poolside gossip among mothers had already clued me in about Kyle Mitchell. He was a graduate assistant at our local college, working on his PhD in recreational therapy. Single.

Me? I worked at home as a web designer and consultant and, luckily, could sneak way to watch Billy learn to swim, a skilled I'd failed to acquire because—well, because of an accident I didn't like to recall.

Wednesday, as I sat in the bleachers watching Kyle guide the kids through their lessons, I caught him glancing up at me several times, smiling. I felt tingly. I smiled back. I wondered if something was going on between us. Don't think about it! I told myself. I wasn't into dating. Like I wasn't into swimming.

After Wednesday's session, Kyle slipped onto the picnic table with Billy and me again. "Great job, champ," Kyle said, Billy and he bumping fists. Then to me Kyle said, "Open swim at 4:00 after Friday's lessons. Would you two like to join me? Sort of a date?"

My eyebrows jumped. My heart began to beat at panic speed. Before I said anything silly like Yes, of course!, I quickly said, "I don't swim—I wouldn't be any fun. Besides, Billy and I have things to do Friday afternoon."

"What things?" Billy said.

I looked at Kyle. I thought my face was on fire again. "I'm sorry—I really should go."

I left with Kyle looking totally disappointed and with Billy pouting. "You should've told him about the accident," Billy said, when we got into the car. "Maybe you wouldn't be afraid of the water anymore."

Ah, the wisdom of kids!

Then I wondered if I were ready for such a change.

After Friday's lessons, I waved Kyle over to Billy and me at the picnic table. As soon as he was seated next to Billy, I said, "I want to apologize for being so rude the other day. And I have something to tell you."

Gathering my courage, I explained that one winter when I was Billy's age I was ice skating on my grandparents' farm pond with my cousins—seven or eight of us. It was my great Grandma's ninetieth birthday.

The ice broke.

I fell though into seven feet or water and was under a minute or so before being pulled out and rushed to the hospital—twenty miles away—where I was treated for hypothermia and frostbite. I concluded with, "I've never tried to learn to swim. I've never stepped into a swimming pool. My tiny high school didn't even have one."

"It's a true story," Billy said. "Grandma told me."

Kevin nodded solemnly. "I understand."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know I've been foolish all these years."

"Look," Kevin said, a big smile marching across his handsome face, brown eyes flashing. "I have the perfect solution. Private lessons. With me as your teacher, you'll no longer be afraid. Guaranteed!"

I blew out a big breath. I loved the way Kevin made my confidence soar. I looked at Billy. I loved the big smile plastered on his face. "Sign me up," I said.

"We can all swim," Billy said, and, all of us laughing, we bumped fists.

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The End

Mr. Average

As I settled into my sat on a DC9, ready for takeoff from Tampa's International Airport, a blond woman perhaps thirty—my age—eased into the aisle seat next to me. Tall, athletic-looking, beautifully tanned, she was dressed in a blue blouse, white shorts and sneakers I lowered my eyes. 

I didn't want her to think I was staring—she was absolutely gorgeous.

While she buckled up, she said, "Hi."

She had to be somebody's wife, somebody's girlfriend. Nobody that beautiful walks around unattached. "Hi," I said. "Been vacationing?"

"My folks retired and moved to Largo two years ago. I try to visit them every summer. You?"

She was actually talking to me! Asking me a question? Me! I couldn't believe it. Hardly any awesomely good-looking women ever strike up a conversation with me. I'm what you'd call average, I guess. My whole life I've simply blended it.

Not tall, not short. Not fat, not skinny. Not handsome, not ugly. Brown hair and eyes. "My mom's a widow," I said. "My folks used to winter in a condo at St Pete's Beach. When dad died, she sold he place back home and moved there. I always visit for a couple of weeks."

"Same here. Golfed every day."

"I wish I'd golfed more as a kid—too busy with football. But I still play some."

I couldn't believe how easy she was to talk to. Is this my lucky day?

But once we were airborne, she plucked a thick paperback from a tote bag and started to read. Still, after she'd read a chapter or two, she'd stop, cast a glance at me, and smile. Every time, my heart tumbled.

Our flight was headed for St. Louis, two hours away, where after a forty-five minute layover, I'd board a plane for Moline, Illinois, my hometown. Miss Beautiful Blonde was probably headed for Detroit or Minneapolis or Anchorage.

When we landed in St. Louis, while pushing up from her sat, she said, "Nice to have talked to you." She offered me another smile that seemed to say she was sorry we didn't have a chance to know each other better.

I must be dreaming. "Same here," I said.

I lost sight of her in the terminal and gave a deep sigh of regret. It was noon, so I grabbed a bite to eat from an airport vendor and then nearly fell over when I spotted her among the passengers waiting to board the flight to Moline.

Her face lighting up, she said, "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for a plane to Moline International. You?"

"Me, too. I live in Rock Island. We're practically neighbors." And then she smiled, apparently pleased.

"I'm the assistant parks and recreation director in Moline," I told her, hoping she'd be impressed. "Mark Hanson."

"Lexi Flynn," she said. "Physical therapist, Saint Luke's Hospital in Rock Island."

We shook hands, her grip warm and firm; my heart picked up beat.

"Are you the Mark Hansen who beat Rocky High in football five or six years ago, throwing three touchdown passes in the final quarter?"

I nodded sheepishly. "I was third string. Your guys flattened our other two QBs. That game was the highlight of my athletic career." The highlight of my life I almost added, but was glad I didn't.

"My boyfriend played for the Rocks. He was totally bummed. So was I, a cheerleader."

"Sorry about that."

We laughed. Then I asked, "Did you marry the kid from Rocky High?"

"Haven't married at all."

"Me, either. Dating?"

"No one special."

Just as I fancied she was looking at me with interest, the call for Moline passengers to board their plane squawked over the loudspeaker. I hoped I'd be lucky enough to sit next to her again. But my seat was near the tail, and she slipped into a seat near the front.

After the plane landed in Moline and we headed together toward he baggage carousel, she said, "Funny how things work out. Our flight, I mean—that we should have this tiny connection."

"Remarkable."

"When I first saw you," she said, blushing a little, "I thought I saw something special, something different about you—I don't know how to say it."

"Something special about me? You're kidding?"

"Not at all. A look about you, such a nice-guy look."

"Me?"

"I'm a very good judge of character. I hope I'm not embarrassing you."

"Not at all." The smile on my face felt huge. Boldness gripped me. "After we get out luggage, do you need a ride? Friends of mine left my car here."

"Great." Her blue eyes surveyed me. "How about a round of golf tomorrow. Or the next day?"

"I'd love that."

"Wonderful."

As Kathy and I stood in front of the carousel with other passengers, waiting for our luggage, my heart refused to slow down. I jiggled my car keys in my hand. I decided that when I got home, first thing, I was going to stare into a mirror really hard, trying to see what she saw. Maybe I wasn't Mr. Average at all.

The End
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Play Ball

"You been checking out our new assistant coach?" my best friend Nikki says.

My eyes swing toward first base, where Brian Mathews stands in the sun on this warm Sunday afternoon, tanned arms folded across his chest.

"Single. Never been married," Nikki says.

"You already told me."

I'm sitting next to her on the bench in the dugout, pounding my fist into the pocket of my fielder's glove—a glove I haven't used seriously in ten years.

"He's gorgeous," Nikki says.

"I told him you're a widow."

"Do you need me in the outfield or are you trying to fix me up again?"

Nikki smiles. "Both, Chloe."

Since my husband Tom's death of cancer over two years ago, Nikki and her husband Frank, the team's head coach, have tried at least a half dozen times to get me romantically involved. "Step up to the plate and take another swing at life," Nikki always says. "Play ball."

I glance again down the first base line. Tall, muscular, and outrageously handsome with auburn hair, Brian does look like someone special. Nikki has also informed me he's the new head baseball coach at Blackhawk Junior College and teaches in the history department with Frank.

"You're up!" Nikki punches me in the ribs with an elbow.

My heart's in my throat. Even though this is a only a practice game in a slow-pitch league for women over thirty that Nikki's finally talked me into playing, I know I'll make a fool of myself.

Our lead-off hitter walked. The second batter struck out, but the next batter singled the runner to third. I have a chance to bat the two runners in. I let the first two looping pitches go by—then smack the third into right field for a long single and race toward first. I'm wondering if my hit is deep enough to score both runners. It is!  Wow!

After the inning is over, Brian smiles at me, his whole face lighting up, as if he's found something precious—a diamond, maybe. "You really smack the ball for such a slender thing."

"Thanks," I say, a red-hot blush rushing to my face.

Though I bang out a triple in the fourth inning and another single in the seventh, I miss two line drives in the outfield, both of them screaming over my head because I misjudged them. My sloppy fielding allows two runs to score in the seventh inning, and the Wildcats drop the game 6-5 because of me. I feel terrible.

Nikki says, "Wasn't your fault. You played well, Chloe. Come to practice this week? Join our team?"

I hate to disappoint her, but I say, "I don't think so."

"You need to forget about that job once in awhile," she says a little sternly, like she's my mother, hands clamped to her hips. Then her eyes lower, and she looks sheepish, "Sorry. I didn't mean to harp."

I'm an administrator at an assisted living facility. I love the people I'm helping, and I admit since my husband's death my job has become my life. I feel wanted and useful.

In the parking lot, by my car, Brian strolls up to me. A soft twinkle in his brown eyes holds me a moment. "I don't think we've been officially introduced. Brian Mathews. Nikki's told me a lot about you."

"Chloe McGuire," I say, as we shake hands, the warmth in has hand radiating up my arm, my breath catching.

"Anyone ever tell you you've got a great bat? You're a natural?"

I blush again. "Did you see the balls sailing over my head in the outfield?"

"You need a bit of practice. How about if I hit fly balls to you? In no time, you'll be fielding like an all-star."

I shuffle my glove from hand to hand. I picture myself ending up with a sore arm or maybe a sprained ankle. But Brian's voice is warm and friendly. "All right," I say.

We wander over to an empty diamond. I'm dusty and sweaty from playing, my blond ponytail flopping through the back of my ball cap, but I feel comfortable with Brian. I start talking about myself—I never do that. "I was a center fielder in high school," I say, "but I gave up softball in college. Earning my degree became more important."

He tells me he played college baseball, dropped out of school, played in the minor leagues, couldn't make the majors, then went back to college, graduated, earner his masters, and is now working on his Ph.D.

Brian hits pop ups, fly balls, and line drives to me.

After a half hour of hard work, I find myself diving for the ball or spearing it above my head almost as if I were a teenager again, full of enthusiasm and fire, but lacking the endurance I once had.

Finally, I cry, "Time out!" Tired as I am, though, I feel strangely alive.

"I like the aggressive way you're attacking the ball," Brian says, shaking my hand again. "How about we both go home, take showers, dress, and I'll take you out to dinner tonight. We'll talk softball"—he gives me that devastating smile, his brown eyes twinkling—"and about your spot on the team."

My eyes slip away from his. Butterflies flutter and collide in my stomach.

This could be he start of something exciting. I'm certainly feeling wanted. Maybe I can be useful to the team.

Is this what you want, Chloe?

"All right," I say, smiling bravely while punching the pocket in my glove. "Dinner would be great. I think it's time I play ball again."

The End
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