Crossroads

"You shouldn't swim alone," the woman standing on the dock said as my head broke the water's surface and I swiped a hand across my face. "Especially at night," she added. "You haven't changed, have you?"

I blinked and rubbed the lake water out of my eyes with my fingertips. Standing in water up to my neck, I gazed at a woman dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt.

The full moon over her shoulders made her look like a tall, shapely silhouette standing above me. I blinked again. "Kathy...?"

"Who else?" she said. "And you, Jimmy O'Connor—don't you remember our parents telling us not to swim at night? Never swim alone."

Oh wow! Kathy Logan!

Years ago, she was the bratty kid from the neighboring cabin—our families bought cabins on Mystic Lake. Kathy and I harassed each other all summer, every summer. Night and day.

"How'd you know I was here?" I asked.

She laughed. "I heard splashing. I looked over through the trees and saw a light in your cabin. Figured it had to be you. When did you get in? I spotted a FOR SALE sign in your yard."

"An hour ago," I said, and swam closer to the dock.  I saw the same sign in your yard. My folks have passed away—"

"Mine, too," she said.

We paused a moment, remembering—it was hard not to. Then I said, "Before I sold the place, I figured I'd spend a month or so here, enjoying a little quiet time."

"My thoughts exactly."

I climbed out of the water and onto the dock. We hugged briefly; she didn't seem to mind getting wet. I caught the scent of her perfume—lilac—and I felt my heart beat faster. We eased down onto the dock, our feet dangling. The last time I saw her—like fifteen years ago—she was probably fourteen; I was sixteen.

"Cold?" she asked. "Looks like you're shivering."

I gazed at her in the moonlight. Short, dark hair. Full lips. I remembered her eyes being sky-blue. "Night's warm," I said. "I'll be okay in a second. Tell me about yourself."

She said she was a high school art teacher; she'd just finished her MA; she hoped to complete a few wilderness paintings this summer while living in the cabin. She concluded with, "Divorced over a year ago."

"Sorry about that," I said.

She shrugged. "My ex is long gone, and I've survived, but I'm still trying to put that terrible time behind me. What's new with you, Froggy?"

I laughed. "Haven't forgotten, have you?"

"The frog you stuffed down the back of my dress when I was leaving on a Sunday morning with Mom and Dad for church—how could I?"

"But you got even. Worms in my sack lunch when our families visited the Indian burial grounds."

We both laughed and agreed that those summer days when we were kids were some of the best days of our lives. "Last I'd heard," she said, "you'd graduated from college, head of your class, and had a fabulous corporate job."

"I work for a big chemical company—it's like being on a treadmill night and day. Not married. No time." I explained that the company had asked me to be an assistant in research and development. I'd travel overseas a lot. But lately I'd been asking myself if I really wanted to continue my climb up the corporate ladder.

"What did you decide?"

"I took a leave on absence," I said. "I'm trying to figure out what I really want to do."

She nodded slowly. "My divorce, your job—sounds as if we're both at a crossroads."

"I'm thinking seriously of quitting," I said. "I'd like to teach—like you. Science, though. I want to write a novel about corporate intrigue. I've got a laptop, printer, and reams of paper up at the cabin."

We fell silent, but crickets chirped on shore. Under the glow of the moon and stars, the lake looked as if diamonds danced on its surface. Kathy said wistfully, "Funny we should meet again after all these years."

"Destiny." I smiled. "I think we should make the most of it—get your swimsuit. Change and jump in with me."

She shook her head. "Better idea. I haven't eaten, you probably haven't, either. I'll light the grill. Burgers, chips, and a glass of wine."

"Great!"

I jumped up, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to her feet. Her hand in mine sent a warm tingle rippling though my body. I know she felt the same tingle—and that she was thinking the same thing I was: Together this summer we might figure out our lives. I knew this because she squeezed my hand, cut me a dazzling smile, and said, "We can save swimming for another night."

The End
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Blue Eyes/Brown Eyes

         My emotions were in a whirl.

Alex, here. Mike here. Alex and Mike.  Both here at the same time. The old, the new.

And there sat Alex, my former boyfriend, across from me at a picnic table in LeClaire Park under the shade of an oak tree.

I had just sat down when up he sauntered, smiling with his incredible blue eyes, asking if the seat across from me was taken.

I should've told him, Yes, it is. Mike is down the street getting our lunch from a sidewalk vender. Mike and I were on our noon break. I'm a teller at the bank. Mike is the new owner of the Print Shop across the street from the bank.But all I could manage was, "Why are you here, Alex?"

"Smile," he said. "Your smile is beautiful. I stopped at the bank and asked for you. Where's your lunch?"

"It'll be here soon. Someone's bring it."

I don't think the notion that a man might be bringing my lunch entered Alex's mind. I glimpsed his square-jawed face. "It's been over a year," I said. "Why are you suddenly here?"

"I made a mistake." He leaned across the table toward me, as if he might try to stand and kiss me. "I've been miserable since we broke up. I need to apologize."

 I leaned back, out of his reach.

When we'd split, I thought I'd never love anyone else again. To love once, so intensely, I told myself, was to love always. I would never even try to love again. For months I struggled to tear Alex O'Hara from my memory, but despite my efforts, I awoke every morning thinking of him. During the day, I saw him on the street and in crowds everywhere—the illusion of him. And I dreamed of him. Nightly.

"How have you been?" he asked.

"Fine."

"I never stopped thinking about you, Casey." His blue, blue eyes crisscrossed me. "Look—I really do want to apologize..."

I waved a hand. "I shouldn't have been fooled so easily. What will Lisa think, your stopping by at lunchtime to see me?"

He shrugged. "She won't care."

My eyebrows arched. "You've broken up."

"A week ago. But, hey, it's all right." He licked his lips. "Smile, will you? I finally realized we were meant to be—you and me, Casey and Alex."

I glanced over Alex's shoulder and spotted Mike hurrying across the grassy park in the sunshine, a small white bag dangling from each hand, burgers and fries in one bag and milkshakes in the other.

"The very first clue," I said to Alex, "that we were not meant to be, should've alerted me: You suddenly couldn't find time for us. You stopped answering your cell when I called, and you stopped texting me altogether."

"Casey, please..."

I bit my bottom lip. "And when you sent an e-mail saying we needed to 'take a break,' the truth finally hit me. You'd found someone else."

"I know I was acting like a jerk—I just didn't know how to tell you..."

I'd lived through this moment—facing Alex—a thousand times in my dreams, but none of the emotions I expected to feel surfaced. Not anger—not self-pity—only a bit of sadness.

"You don't seem angry," Alex said. "How about a smile? Please?"

"I'm not angry. Not anymore."

And then Mike, looking confused, stood behind Alex. Alex sensed someone's presence. He stood from the picnic table, and the two men faced each other, both frowning.  Mike set our lunches on the picnic table.

My breath caught. "Mike," I said, trying to stay calm, "this is Alex O'Hara." Before the two men reached to shake hands, I added, "Alex, this is Mike, my boyfriend."

Mike blinked. Alex's hand stopped in midair, but Mike grabbed it quickly and gave it a hardy shake. Each guy said, "Glad to meet you."

Alex glanced at the tree branches above him. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. "Boyfriend?" he said to me.

I nodded. "What did you expect?"

 "Well," he said, "I should get going." His eyes met mine. "Um...call me sometime, Casey."

I shook my head. "Not a chance," I said, as Alex strolled away.

"That's him?" Mike asked. "The guy who broke your heart?"

"I thought so at the time."

A dazzling smile spread across Mike's handsome face. I loved his dimples and his curly brown hair.

"I'm really happy with my new status," he said. "Boyfriend. I didn't expect that. Cool."

Now it was finally my turn to smile. "How long have we known each other? Three weeks? Four?"

"Four. Long enough to be your boyfriend."

Mike wrapped me in his arms. I gazed into his eyes. I remembered a time when I thought only Alex's blue eyes could excite me, but Mike's brown eyes, I decided, were far more exciting and tender and loving. And there in the shade of the oak tree in the park, on our lunch break, my brown-eyed boyfriend and I kissed for the first time.

The End
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The Invitation

         Standing in my bedroom at the window, I watched Adam Wells as he pounded the final nails into the deck that he'd built this spring onto the back of my house under a huge oak tree.

A tall man, about forty, athletic-looking, dressed in blue overalls and a short-sleeved denim shirt, he straightened now to take a kink out of his back. 

The first time I met him, I felt a flash of attraction that kicked my heart into double time.But after I regained my senses, I thought about how different he was from my husband Brian, dead now over five years.

Brian's casual charm and flashing smile had swept me off my feet years ago. The man working on my deck seemed quiet. Reserved. Not shy—just low-keyed. Yet each time I saw him, a warmth stirred inside my heart that I hadn't felt since Brian was alive.

I watched now as Mr. Wells shambled across the deck to knock on the sliding glass door leading to my kitchen. I hurried from my bedroom.

We'd talked quite a bit, Mr. Wells and I, during the past month. He'd been in business for himself over fifteen years—Wells Home Improvement Services. I checked his references; they proved to be impeccable. Three years ago cancer had taken his wife quickly, no warning.

I opened the sliding door for Mr. Wells. He stepped into the kitchen. He was square-jawed, his beard stubbly with flecks of gray. Brain shaved every morning—I hardly knew he had a beard.

"Nearly finished," Mr. Wells said.

I fetched him a glass of water with ice from the fridge. "Hot out there this afternoon?" I asked.

"Too hot. But that oak tree's shade has saved me every day." He took the glass in his large, callused hand right hand and drank deeply. Brian's hands had been small and well manicured. He'd been a vice president at the bank.

"Need to get some gravel under the deck," Mr. Wells said. "Keep the weeds out."

He handed the glass back to me. Our fingers bumped. The touch was electric. I stepped back. The fact that I could be attracted to a man so different from my deceased husband bewildered me. I didn't know if I should fight the stirring in my heart or embrace it.

"I'll take care of the rock myself," he said. "Probably Saturday."

"Take care of it?"

"No charge."

"You can't do that," I said, and frowned. "You'll lose money."

He smiled—a warm, crinkly smile that barely parted his lips. "It's left over from a different job. It'll just go to waste."

Mr. Wells helped me place the patio furniture and grill—all of which I'd ordered earlier and had been sitting in the yard—on the deck. And then I shocked myself. My heart bounding into my throat, I asked boldly, "Would you be my guest for dinner, Mr. Wells? Saturday, perhaps?"

He blinked, as if he hadn't heard me correctly but said, "Why don't you call me Adam?"

I felt myself blushing. I wasn't sure what to say. But I'd asked the man to dinner. Why not use first names? "Call me Karen," I said, smiling. "We'll eat on my new deck, if you like. And break in my new grill."

"Wonderful."

"About seven? What would you like?"

Again that slight smile. "Anything—I'm tired of my own cooking."

Adam spread the gravel under the deck Saturday morning when I was at the store. When I returned home, I caught him just before he drove away in his truck. "Steaks," I told him. "New York strip. Sautéed mushrooms. Baked potatoes. Tossed salad."

"Sounds excellent."

That night, Adam arrived promptly at seven at my front door and handed me a bottle of red wine. "I love a glass of wine with dinner," I said. "I'll put it in the fridge."

Brian didn't drink. Not even wine with dinner. Not a drop.

While Adam and I ate on the deck, chatting all the while, I felt totally alive for the first time in a long while. But again: He was so unlike Brain, so different—so very different—how could I trust my attraction to him? Finished eating with a sigh, he said, "Charcoaled steak—can't beat it."

"I'm so happy you've enjoyed everything."

"Thank you for a wonderful evening."

"There's desert," I said. "Pecan pie. And then...well, how about an old movie. I have lots of DVDs."

"Excellent."   

We clinked glasses and sipped our wine. A warm light danced in Adam's eyes, and I felt my heart speeding into double time again. "This is all so different for me," he said.

"Dinner with a lovely lady...a glass of wine...a movie."

"Different for me, too."

"But different is good, right?" he asked quickly, as if alarmed.

My smile probably stretched a mile across my face. I felt flushed but—finally—at last—without fear—I embraced my attraction for Adam Wells. "Different," I said, "is perfect."

The End

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An Office Kiss

         "Good morning, Mr. Parks," my secretary, Katie Wells said, stepping into my office. Same smile as always, same lilting voice. But her eyes darted away from mine. "You've got a busy morning scheduled, sir."

I stood up behind my desk. Cleared my throat. "Katie...um, I mean, Miss Wells, about last night—I'm sorry."

"Me, too. We weren't very smart."

My smile felt weak. "I somehow forgot about...business.

What I did was totally stupid."

"It was only a kiss, Mr. Parks."
"More than one," I reminded her.

"My fault, definitely," she said. Then she finally glanced at me, a look of desperation in her deep brown eyes.  "Could we just...just forget it?"

"I think so. I mean, we have to. You know the rule here at Harding and Harding—no romantic fraternizing between employees."

"I know," she said softly. "Now about your schedule this morning, Mr. Parks..."

The sun streaming through the big window behind my desk gleamed off Katie's chestnut hair. No company vice-president could ask for a better secretary than Katie Wells. Her attention to detail and her willingness to assume responsibility—unbelievable. Add to that her buoyant personality—a guy would be a fool to ruin a professional relationship with an outstanding employee like Katie Wells. Unless...unless...

I nodded. "All right, Miss Wells," I said, and reassumed a boss's demeanor. "Let's tend to business."

After a hectic, conference-filled morning, I ducked into Tom Hart's office and slumped into the chair in front of his desk.  "You're looking glum, pal," he said. "What's up?"

A college buddy of mine, Tom was in charge of human resources. He's the one who sent Katie to my office for an interview over a year ago. I tried to explain what happened last night. "We were working late in my office, we finished, we ordered pizza in, we were relaxing—"

"Oh, no—don't tell me!"

"I found myself looking at her as if I'd never seen her before. I was no longer her boss. All at once I kissed her, and she kissed me back...and then she darted out of the office. Like the roof was caving in."

Tom nodded thoughtfully.  "Only one thing to do."

"What?"

"Recommend her for a promotion—a better job, a different department, more responsibility, more money—I'll help. In fact, I already have something in mind. We'll even send her off to a different building. She'll thank you, and the temptation for both of you will be gone. Though you'll have to break in a new secretary." Tom offered a consoling smile. "I'll recommend someone matronly-looking this time, pal."

At five that afternoon, Katie sat in the chair in front of my desk, looked at her notepad and said, "Tomorrow morning, Mr. Parks, ten o'clock—fiscal meeting. I'll have your material ready."

"Good. Good." I swiveled back and forth in my chair. "Miss Wells," I said, "I have news for you." She looked alarmed—maybe she thought she was being fired. But she said nothing. "I'm recommending you for a promotion."

Her jaw dropped, nearly landing on her notepad. "A promotion?"

"Yes." I cleared my throat. "I've been thinking of your career development. Mr. Cummings, VP in Public Relations, has been looking for an assistant—not just a secretary—but an assistant. This will be a great advancement for you."

Katie stared at me. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Mr. Parks?"

"Look, Katie. Things are different now, and I know how important your career is to you. I'm not going to ruin everything for you because of...you know...my mistake. A foolish office kiss."

Her jaw lifted. "Apparently you don't know me very well, Mr. Parks."

"I know that you’re the best secretary a VP's ever had. You're bold. Independent. You anticipate problems and handle them wisely. You're decisive."

"I resign," she said flatly.

I nearly fell out of my chair. "You can't—I won't let you!"

"I love my job with you, Mr. Parks, but I've known for sometime time now I don't want to be a corporate ladder-climber. Too much of a rat race. I rather go back to teaching first grade. Which I loved. Even if it was less money."

I stood up. What was she telling me? I was afraid to ask. Afraid to hope. Because if I were reading her wrong, I was about to make a total fool of myself. Again. I gulped. "You're saying—?"

"I'm saying I'd like to eat out tonight, Andy. Instead of in the office. Something besides pizza."

As she stood up and smiled, her full lips had never looked so inviting.  I stumbled around my desk, wrapped her in my arms, and kissed her again. This time with impunity. "Your resignation," I told her, "is accepted. Gladly."

The End
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Blind Date

           My eyes scanned each male who entered the Java Java Coffee House alone and took a seat by himself. Two men had done so in the last ten minutes. Each time my heart thumped, and I wondered, Is this my blind date?

I had arrived early—my date was for five o'clock this afternoon—and had taken a seat by myself in a corner at a table for two, where I had a great view of the front door and of the rest of

the Java Java patrons. I felt as if I wanted to chew my fingernails off. Would I be stood up? Or worse, would my date waltz in, take one look at me, and scurry out?

My hand shaking a bit, I carefully sipped my coffee. I tried to appear casual—just a forty-year-old widow on her first blind date, a woman who hadn't dated anyone in twenty years, a woman who wasn't nervous or frightened. Almost ready to bail.

The first man who came in alone and slumped into a chair two tables away from me couldn't be my date. True, he looked my age, but he was overweight and bald, glasses perched on the end of his nose. My best friend Elaine had set this date up. Henry Stone, my date, was her husband's friend. The two men worked for the same engineering firm. Like me, Henry had lost his spouse to cancer several years ago. Elaine said he was tall, good-looking, and clean-cut, though very hesitant about dating. "But not to worry," she assured me. "Dating again will be a great adventure. Better than planned. You'll be the perfect couple."

I'd brought a hardcover book with me so I could appear to be a lady who'd stopped for coffee to relax while she read. I held up my book. Last Kiss. A mystery. I flipped to the first page, but I couldn't concentrate.

I felt someone staring at me. Has to be nerves.

Over the top of the book, I glanced at the other man who had come in alone, bought coffee, and had taken a seat up front by the big glass window. Sandy-haired and dressed casually in a blue polo shirt and new jeans, he certainly looked tall and clean-cut. Handsome, too.

I realized I was staring at Mr. Handsome. He was staring back. He looked strangely familiar. How can that be?

I gulped. I blushed.

He smiled now, and I smiled back. My heart started pounding. He got up and ambled toward me, his coffee in hand. Oh my gosh! He is my date!

I closed my book and laid it next to my coffee.

"How do you like the novel?" he asked.

I gazed up into the warmest, killer blue eyes I'd ever seen. I felt my pulse in my throat. "I...I was just starting it."

He looked sheepish. "Um...I hope you don't think I'm off base here—"

"Not at all." My words sounded like a croak.

"Would you like a cinnamon roll with your coffee?"

"Yes...yes...of course," I said, hoping I hadn't sounded too eager. When he turned toward the counter, my cell phone chirped. Elaine's text message said: So sorry. Henry phoned. Said he couldn't make it. Jerk!

I nearly fell off my chair. Who I had just—?

The handsome, sandy-haired man appeared with a monster cinnamon roll on a plate along with two pads of butter, plastic knives and forks, and napkins.  "I wrote the book you're reading," he said, sitting across from me and flipping Last Kiss over. "I'm a local author. See. There's my picture on the back cover. I was wondering what you thought. About the book," he added, and smiled.

His picture and a blurb filled the book's back cover. Robert Cruz was a retired police officer, forty-three, who had used his vast experience in law enforcement to pen his first novel.

"I just made arrangements," he said, for a book signing with Readmore Book Store. I decided to stop for coffee. I spotted you, my book in your hand..." He cleared his throat. "Are you all right?"

I couldn't catch my breath. I must have appeared pale. "This is so weird."

Why fib? I told him my name—Susan Crosby—and explained about my blind date, how I thought he—Robert Cruz—was my date...and well, yes, and how I'd been stood up. We laughed. We split the roll. Buttered it. Delicious. We chatted. I discovered he was divorced long ago; I told him about my husband's death. Finally I said, "I've never met a famous author before."

"You still haven't," he said, and smiled. "And I've never been anyone's blind date..." He looked sheepish again. "That is...um, if you wouldn't mind, Susan."

I ate my last morsel of the cinnamon roll and drank my last drop of coffee, sweetness and warmth flowing through me. "Not at all. This adventure," I said, "is turning out better than planned."

The End
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