Crystal Lake

For twenty minutes it was just the three of us—the sun, Crystal Lake, and me—as I sat on a bench, watching the sun setting behind the pine trees far across the water. Then the handsome construction worker eased onto the bench with me.

Though he left a respectable space between us, butterflies swarmed in my stomach.

"Beautiful sight," he said. "Never gets old."

I'd met him at the nearby Crystal Lake Café, my summer job. He was a carpenter working at the new condos located close to Crystal Lake Cave. Every day I served him three bratwurst with everything and a tall, frosted mug of root beer. Then he tromped outside to eat at a picnic table in the shade of an oak tree. While working, he lived in a motor home at the Crystal Lake Campgrounds.

"I do this sometimes," I said. "Watch the sun set before I go home. Helps me relax."

"I was taking a hike around the campgrounds and lake, my way of relaxing. Glad I found you here."

We already knew a bit about each other. I'd taken a break once and sat with him at the picnic table while he ate—I don't know why I did that. Curiosity, I guess. His soft brown eyes and easy smile intrigued me. I told him I was Wendy Wright, a second-grade teacher, single, who lived in town, and had worked at the café during summertime as a waitress or as a guide in Crystal Lake Cave since I was sixteen, ten years.

He was Cole Hazard, an engineering student at nearby City College, ready to finish his degree this fall, a Marine veteran who worked as a carpenter during the summer to help finance his education.

I also knew he was afraid of caves. At least he said he had no desire to get even close to one. He'd asked me for a date, but I'd turned him down. We both had our fears.

"Amazing," he said now, his eyes swinging from me to the faraway pines. "The sun's a red ball sinking behind the trees. The sky's pink and lavender."

"If you like nature," I said, "you'd surely like Crystal Lake Cave."

He shook his head. "I read about it. Lead miners discovered the cave in the mid 1800s. Lots of—what do you all them? Those things hanging from the ceiling and growing up from the floor? Like icicles."

"Stalactites and stalagmites."

"Right." His face turned to stone. His hands clenched. "I was in way too many caves and other dark places in Afghanistan. I don't need any of that again."

And with that he stood and marched off into the dusk.

I bit my bottom lip. I felt terrible. He must have thought I was pressuring him to explore the cave, a typical guide. I had no idea his fear might be related to combat. I must have triggered a terrible flashback. I needed to apologize, but he didn't show up at the café for lunch the following two days.

He didn't work on weekends.

Saturday I drove to the campgrounds but couldn't find him.

He didn't show for lunch on Monday.

But he shambled by Monday evening just before dusk as I sat on the same bench, watching the sunset. He sat down next to me. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach again.

His smile came slowly. "Sorry about the other night."

"My fault. I understand, and I'm sorry. Really sorry."

"No need to be. It's my problem."

"Where have you been?"

"Took a couple of days off. Went home to think."

I sucked in a deep breath of air. "Look, Cole, to be fair, I've got to tell you something. About dating—I have my own fears."

His brown eyes turned soft. "I know."

"You know?"

"I asked about you. You lost your fiancée in a motorcycle accident two years ago. And haven't dated since."

A huge lump formed in my throat. "It's time I got over that."

Silence descended on us. Who would speak next? Each of us was waiting. "Look," he finally said. "I'll...I'll give that cave thing a try. If you'll be my guide."

Oh my! Would he really do that? How brave! "Uh-uh," I said.

He frowned.

I added quickly, "Not until you've gone on at least two or three dates with me."

A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. He slid closer to me. My heart pin wheeled. "I'd be a fool not to accept this opportunity," he said.

As the red sun began its descent behind the trees far across Crystal Lake, I found my own smile. "How about neither one of us being fools any longer?" I said.

The End

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New Memories

The night I decided to talk to her she sat in front of glowing campfire. We'd been camping neighbors at Sugar Point Campgrounds for two nights, she in her tent along with her golden retriever, me in my truck camper, alone.

I hadn't seen her during the day, only at night as she sat in front of a fire in a folding chair, her dog lying by her side.

I'd spent my daytime hours on the lake fishing, getting up at sunrise—she was still sleeping in her tent—returning just before dusk, then cleaning fish, making supper in my camper, and hitting the sack early.

What did she do all day? Why was she alone except for her dog? I mean, she was a very attractive blond-haired lady of perhaps forty—my age. The license plates on her mini van indicated she was from the same county in the eastern part of the state as I was. Did we live in the same city?

On the third night, curiosity getting the best of me, sucking in a deep breath, not knowing what to expect—she might think me a predator—I approached her campsite, coffee pot and two Styrofoam cups in hand.

"Hi," I said, as she looked up from her chair. "Great fire. Nice cool night." I gazed up at the oblong moon surrounded by a zillion stars, then at her. "Thought you might like a cup of coffee. Decaffeinated, so it won't keep you up all night."

Her dog rose to a sitting position, wagging its tail. "Lady, stay," she said. Then to me, "I'd love a cup of coffee. It's the one thing I forgot to pack."

I set the cups on the picnic table, poured, and handed her one. "I've got sugar—"

"This'll be fine—I don't have another chair."

"No problem," I said. "Name's Chad Arnold. Attorney, from Lewistown."

"Dawn Davidson. Principal, Roosevelt Junior High. New Liberty. Just down the road."

That info pleasing me, we shook hands. Then I sat at the picnic table, and she smiled.

That's all it took to start us off talking. As the oblong moon drifted across the sky and crickets started singing, she told me she was a widow. Her husband had died two years ago. When everyone was younger, the family camped every summer. She was alone now. Her boys had married and moved away. "I did this last year," she said. "Just Lady and me, camping. It's a way to stay in touch with some of my fondest memories."

"I agree—keeping memories alive is important." Then I felt obliged to tell her my story. Divorced five years ago. No kids. Camped and fished with my mom and dad when I was young. Started camping and fishing last year by myself to get away and relax.

She smiled again in the firelight—I loved her smile. Her eyes appeared to be blue. "We didn't fish," she said. "Hiking, waterskiing, swimming, and cooking over a campfire—that was our thing. Lots of singing around the fire, too. My husband played the guitar."

I thought of asking her to go fishing with me in the morning, but since she'd probably never fished before—and I guessed she liked to sleep in—I tossed the idea. She thanked me for the coffee, and we said goodnight. Climbing into my camper, I chided myself for not asking her if she liked to eat fish—we could have a fish fry tomorrow night. But maybe she'd think I was coming on too strong. What to do?

When I came in early from fishing the next afternoon, she and Lady had left in her mini van. The tent was still there, though—she hadn't gone home. I still had a chance. Shortly after I cleaned my fish and showered, she returned. Setting three bags of groceries on her picnic table, she then shuffled over to my campsite, Lady beside her, tail wagging.

She looked flushed, pink rising in her cheeks. Nervous maybe. "Um...I was wondering"—her eyes were definitely blue—"um...if you'd like to eat a campfire supper with me tonight. Hot dogs. Bratwurst."

I swear, my heart jumped into my throat, and it took a moment before I could find my voice. "This is so weird," I said. "I was going to ask you to eat fish with me."

Another smile. A big one that made those blue eyes sparkle. "I asked you first," she said.

"I know. And I can't believe it. Hot dogs and bratwurst it is! You ever been crappie fishing?"

"Uh-uh. You ever been blueberry picking?"

"Nope."

We both smiled this time. And when she said, "I think we've got a lot to talk about," I pictured both of us perhaps making a new set of memories.

The End
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