Fourth of July Kisses

Cole's kiss was a zinger—a toe-curling kiss that melted my heart and set of an alarm in my brain. Danger!

I must admit, though, I allowed myself to savor the kiss for maybe one whole minute—all right, maybe two minutes—before I gently placed my hand on his chest and eased him away.

"What was that?"

I asked, hardly able to breathe, heat rushing to my face.

A sheepish grin crept across his face. "I've wanted to kiss you since we met. Tonight I decided I'd get it over with."

"I thought we said we knew better."

"But we're only human. I am, at least."

"We said we'd be friends. Date on special occasions. Like tonight."

"I'm sorry..." he said.

That's when I kissed him back, my heart thudding against my chest—I'm human, too.

When we broke the kiss, he grinned again. "There...our curiosity's been satisfied. I kissed you, you kissed me. We don't have to do that again."

"Amen," I said.

We began ambling back along Mystic Lake's sandy beach toward the Starlight Ballroom, where all of us company employees were enjoying our annual Fourth of July barbecue and fireworks later. Darkness had settled in. Blazing stars and a brilliant full moon already cast a silver glow over the water.

Inside, the ballroom, as I made my way to the restroom, my best friend Carrie Wilson cornered me. "Gone a long time, weren't you, Kiley?" she said, and smirked. Married to a wonderful husband and raising two marvelous kids, Carrie possessed the marriage I'd dreamed of having when I married Roger three years ago.

"It was getting warm in here," I said. "And noisy. We decided to take a walk along the beach before the fireworks started."

"And—?"

"And nothing."

"Your cheeks are flushed. Maybe you created your own fireworks."

I looked away, another blast of heat rushing to my face. Maybe I was still a little dazed from kissing Cole.

"I've seen how you two look at each other," Carrie said, smirking again. "His flashing eyes, his dimpled chin—I know you're attracted to him. He's fun, he's thoughtful, he works hard—what's the problem?"

"The problem is he's divorced, too. Over two years ago. Same as me. We both married because we thought we were in love. A foolish mistake. We've agreed on that."

"That doesn't mean you can't fall in love again."

"It means we're happy just as we are—unattached. Just friends. And not friends with benefits, either."

"You're in denial, girlfriend."

Later, when I found Cole outside, we drifted along with the other party-goes to the beach where we sat on a blanket in the sand. Across the narrow lake, the city of West Haven set off its fireworks. As I sat close to Cole, enjoying his nearness and warmth, I watched in awe as the sky exploded with streaming rainbows of color.

When the fireworks ended and Cole picked up our blanket, shook the sand off, and folded it, I wondered if two kisses were enough to change our minds about love. Maybe change our lives forever.

Could two kisses be that potent?

We plodded through the sand toward the parking lot. Cole's hand snuggled itself around mine. My heart jumped—we never held hands. "How long have we had this arrangement?" he asked.

"Not that long," I said. "Um...maybe three months."

"Do you think it's working?"

"Perfectly, until you—"

"Kissed you?" he said.

"But I kissed you back."

"I know. That was greatly appreciated."

"So it's not all your fault," I said, sheepishly. "Still, we made a pact, remember?"

He nodded.

"We even shook hands on it," I pointed out. "No fooling around. Not even holding hands. Especially no kissing."

"Right."

While others hurried by us, we stopped under a tree, alone. "So what happens to us now?" he asked.

"We obviously can't trust ourselves."

I backed up against the tree. As he moved closer to me, my heart thudded. "Does that mean—?"

He didn't finish, but I knew what he was asking. Is it over between us? I gulped. I hated the thought. "I like you a bunch, Cole. Really, I—"

His forefinger sealed my lips. "Then let this moment be our personal Declaration of Independence against old fears," he sad. "We toss them out. We relax and face each moment as it comes."

I blew out a long breath. I liked the idea. Loved it! in fact. Raising my head, I gazed at him and smiled. The moonlight glimmering through the tree's leaves dappled his face.

"All right," I said.

"I suggest we seal this new pact not with a handshake but with our own brand of Fourth of July fireworks.

Again, I knew what he was thinking.

Our third Fourth of July kiss was more of a zinger than the first two. This one, under the tree in the moonlight, positively sizzled.

The End

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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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