Setup

  

My twin brother Bobby—I’m Barbara—grinned and said, "I'll leave you and Ian alone. I'm going to see if there's enough ice in the coolers." Bobby scurried off toward the picnic-table shelter. My family and friends were celebrating my parents' wedding anniversary at the county park on a gloriously bright, sunny, Saturday afternoon—Michael and Kathleen Dolan, married fifty years.

I turned toward Ian, the tall, handsome hunk

my brother had left me with. We stood in the shade of an oak tree. Not far away, guys readied to pitch horseshoes, and a mixed group of kids warmed up for volleyball.

"Bobby knows the coolers are full of ice," I said to Ian. "I saw him take care of the ice myself. This is a setup. You know that, don't you?"

Ian smiled at me. Dark hair, bright blue eyes, mega-watt smile—he hadn't changed since I last saw him maybe ten years ago. Like always, the sight of him nearly took my breath away.

"I don't mind us being left alone," Ian said. "I've been thinking about you, Barbara."

"About me?" I blushed and nearly fell backward against the tree.

"When I called Bobby and said I was back in town, he invited me to your folks' party, and I automatically thought of you."

"Ah!" I said. "He probably told you I'm the divorcee in the family. What about you? Married? Probably not. Otherwise, my match-making brother wouldn't have set us up."

"I've left the marriage thing to fate," Ian said. "Figured someday the right woman would come along at the right time."

I'm sure my matching-making brother must have told Ian I'd avoided dating since my divorce three years ago and had become somewhat of loner, a recluse sort of. But Ian and I didn't get a chance to talk any longer, because a friend of Ian's rushed up to him and said, "Dude, haven't seen you in awhile. "C'mon! I need a horseshoes partner." And off they went.

Bobby and Ian had been best friends in high school, playing on the same baseball, football, and basketball teams. Ian's parents were divorced; he lived with his mom, and he spent a lot of time at our house, eating supper with us at least once a week.

I'd crushed on him severely and would have been thrilled to date him, but no high school girl dates her brother's best friend. How awkward! And now I wondered if Ian were back in town to stay or if he were just passing through.

Forget it!I told myself. But I couldn't deny the pull I felt toward him—once again.

The moment I caught Bobby alone at the grill flipping hamburgers, I said, "Why didn't you tell me Ian was back in town?"

"I thought the surprise would be nice. Shake you up a little." Shrugging, he added, "I knew you always like him."

Oh my!  Had my feelings that obvious?

"And by the way," Bobby added, "he's back in town to stay. He's taking care of his elderly mom and setting up his dental practice." Bobby shot me a mischievous look. "I told him you were the meanest police sergeant in town."

At the picnic tables underneath the shelter, my family sat together—Mom, Dad, Bobby, and me. Maybe thirty guests had also gathered. The food was delicious. Ian sat four tables away, and every time I glanced at him he seemed to be glancing at me.

 After short speeches from Bobby and me honoring our parents, while others congratulated them, Ian and I seemed to gravitate towards each other. "Let's take a walk," he said.

"I'd like that," I said, my heart fluttering.

For a minute or two we strolled silently along a tree-shaded path in the park, and then Ian said, "I had a crush on you in high school. Did you know that? I ate at your house every time I could so I could sit across the table from you."

For a second time today, he nearly knocked me over. "What?"

"It's true. I loved you mom's cooking, but I think I was also in love with you."

"You're kidding me!"

"I'm not. But a guy doesn't date his best buddy's sister. At least not in high school. That would be way too weird. You're a police officer now?"

"Guilty as charged."

We stopped walking. Ian turned to me and grabbed both my hands.

My heart nearly exploded.

He said, "Look, Barbara, I'm in town to stay. You wouldn't arrest me if I asked for a date, would you?"

A little breeze blew, rustling the trees, but it did nothing to cool me off or to stop my head from spinning. Finally, I squeezed Ian's hands. He smiled. I smiled. "After all this time and after what you just said, "I'd arrest you if you didn't."

The End

My Yardman

"I don't know how to thank you," I told Ken, my yardman, as we stood on my front porch. "I'm truly grateful."

"I'm glad I was here to help."

My elderly father had tried to boost himself out of his wheelchair—he'd had a stroke a year ago—and had fallen this morning. I couldn't lift him by myself, so I ran out to the front yard where Ken was cutting grass and asked for his help.

"Dad wanted a box of cereal from the cupboard," I explained to Ken now. "I was in the den on the phone. Dad thought he could stand and reach the cereal himself."

Ken smiled a wonderful smile that's like sunshine. "I don't think he hurt himself."

"He didn't, but I scolded him."

Another smile from Ken. "I'm sure you did." He glanced out over the lawn. "Well, I better get back to work."

Ken Roberts had been my yardman for over a month. A widow and a widower, both of us in our forties, we taught in the same school system but at different buildings. Ken taught P.E. I taught music. He liked physical activity and keeping busy. That's why he started his lawn care service several summers ago. With my dad living with me now, I found yard work too much to handle, so I hired him.

Dad lounged in his room enjoying his morning TV programs. I hurried to the kitchen to do the breakfast dishes. I looked out the window over the sink and watched Ken clipping the bushes along my property line. Since the first day he arrived, I found him appealing and had to admit that visiting with him was always the best part of my day.

But I squelched the romantic thoughts that rumbled through my mind. I mean, why on earth would such a handsome man be interested in a widow whose father lived with her?

Finished with dishes, I made fresh lemonade. Later, while Ken was loading his gear into his pickup, I called from the porch, "Want a cold drink?"

"Sounds great."

He ambled over to the porch and up the steps. I handed him a glass of iced lemonade. "Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome."

I sat on the porch glider, wondering if I should invite him to sit with me. The thought made me tingly, and I couldn't bring myself to open my mouth.

He gulped half the lemonade down, smacked his lips, smiled, and said. "Thanks again. I needed that. How's your dad doing?"

"Fine. He's napping now."

Ken's soft blue eyes captured mine. "Taking care of him isn't easy for you, is it?" he asked solemnly.

"No, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I don't want him to go to a nursing home."

"I know," he said. "You simply open your heart and do what you have to do."

"The worst part is his lack of mobility. He loves to go places, and I can wheel him out of the kitchen door easily enough—no steps—but getting him in and out of the car is difficult."

"My wife was wheelchair-bound, too. Stroke. Same as your dad."

I blinked in surprise. "Oh, I didn't know that. I mean, I know you're a widower..." I didn't know what else to say.

Ken finished his lemonade, then came over and handed me the empty glass. "Look," he said, rocking back on his heels a bit, "could I come by later in the day, after I'm finished with mowing and trimming and can get home and cleaned up. Don't eat any supper."

My heart leaped into my throat. Was he asking me out on a date? That tingly feeling raced through me. But I couldn't go on a date. Like dinner and a movie. I couldn't leave Dad home alone that long.

Sensing my hesitation, Ken said, "Please say yes, Amanda. You wont' be disappointed, I promise. Neither will your dad. I think I can give us all a lift."

His words confused me, but I said, "All right."

"I'll be here at six, sharp."

At six, Ken pulled into my drive with a full-sized van. When he jumped out and slid the side door open, I nearly fainted. The van was equipped with a hydraulic lift, which made it wheelchair accessible. He must have had it outfitted for his wife.

Smiling that huge, wonderful smile, he took my hand and pressed it into his, the electricity between us startling me. "Where would you and your dad like to dine to night?" he said.

I was nearly breathless. "Anywhere."

His smile grew wider, warmer. "Let's ask your dad."

"Wonderful," I said, leading Ken into house. My heart thumping like mad, I called from the kitchen, "Hey, Dad! Ken's here. Let's go out to eat!"

The End

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TEXTING

Her shy smile highlighted her sparkling brown eyes. "It's great to meet you, Ryan," she said.

"I feel the same way," I said, and swallowed. In fact, I've been dying to meet you raced though my mind, but all I could manage was a timid,

"This is very nice." We sat across from each other at a circular table in the quiet restaurant, strangers, though we'd spent hours texting.

I'm glad she'd spoken first, broken the ice, so to speak, but now we sat, eyes lowered, studying our hands on the table, both of us apparently lost for words. A waitress broke the awkward silence when she dropped menus on the table and said, "How are you folks? Pot roast, today's dinner special. Mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn. What would you like to drink?"

We each asked for a glass of water, and then I said, "We'll need a little time."

The waitress scurried off, leaving us to silently study the menu. Sheila and I had met on a dating site a month ago. I'd discovered her three days after joining the site—Sheila McCoy. Her picture and profile intrigued me. The fact that she was in to sports was a definite plus. She'd been a three-sport star in high school: softball, volleyball, and track. She played softball in college. Baseball was my only sport. I'd played in college, and the fact that we liked sports, I felt, gave us a starting point for a relationship, at least something to talk about. 

Besides that, she was a high school PE teacher, and coached the girls' softball team. I'd been in real estate for the last eight years and was doing well. I'd just joined a slow-pitch softball team for guys over thirty. I'd told Sheila, and she seemed excited for me. I decided the first chance I got today I was going to ask her to watch the team play this Sunday—if I could somehow get a conversation started and find the nerve to ask her.

When the waitress returned, Sheila and I decided to skip the special. We ordered cheeseburgers and fries, along with a salad, and handed the waitress our menus. "I'll take the check," I told the waitress.

Sheila's eyebrows lifted. "You don't have to do that," she said.

"Your treat next time," I said, and then winced, thinking I'd sounded a bit presumptuous.

Falling silent again, we each sipped our water.

This silence between us was in stark contrast to the texting we'd done.

She'd seemed eager to share information about herself with me. I felt the same way about sharing my information. In fact, while texting, I couldn't remember ever being so open, honest, and relaxed with someone I'd just met.

I texted her in the morning before work. She texted back at lunchtime. We texted when we got home in the evening. We often talked on our phones, but it was when I was texting that I felt most bold and confident. Now we were alone, face-to-face, and reality was sinking in: we were still strangers.

The silence persisted. I wished our food would arrive so we could at least talk about that. Or fill our mouths with food so we'd have a better reason for not talking.

Then an idea zapped me. Maybe I could solve this problem. Yes! Plucking my phone from my pocket, I said, "Don't be alarmed. I'm going to try something." I jerked my chair around so my back faced her. My thumbs tapped out a text: Sorry, but I'm really awkward at this—small talk with a date and flirting. Faulty genes, I think.

In a moment her phone rang, a muffled sound, and I assumed she grabbed the phone from her purse. Her reply: Me, too. I'm the worst. My knees were shaking when I sat down...they're sill shaking.

Tapping at the keypad again with my thumbs, I wrote: Why don't we pretend we've known each other for a hundred years? Long-lost friends. No pretense. No holding back.

Her reply: I'd love that.

I spun my chair around and faced her again. She smiled a big smile, a dimple blossoming in her right cheek, which I noticed for the first time. "You look beautiful," I said.

"And you're quite handsome." Then she smiled again. "I remember you said you'd started playing softball. I'd like to see one of your games."

I tried to hide my surprise, but I'm sure I went owl-eyed. "Sunday afternoon. I'll pick you up, if that's okay."

"Splendid."

Our food arrived. Everything looked delicious. But finishing off this simple meal took over an hour because—well, because, though texting was cool, Sheila and I had so much more to talk about, smiling at each other face-to-face.

The End
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