Golden Earrings

I'd waited nearly a seven months to see her again. When I entered the Crafts Building, I spotted her at her booth where she'd be selling her many specialties—scarfs, headbands, stocking caps, sweaters, shawls, blankets.

All meticulously and colorfully crafted, the work of a genius, I thought.

She saw me right away—Allison McGregor, the woman I loved. But after all this time, I still wondered if she loved me.

While twenty or thirty other craft people set out their wares for our city's annual Flea Market and Craft Show, she rose from a chair behind her booth.

She met me just inside the main entrance, where I stood aside so others could amble by. Smiling, her face flushed, she offered me her hand—small, delicate, warm.

"I knew you'd be here," she said, smiling. "At least, I was hoping."

I grabbed her hand, shook it, perhaps held it a bit too long, and said, "Why wouldn't I be? It's where we met a year ago. And I'm a crafty person myself, as you know." The flush in her cheeks deepened. What a raven-haired beauty she was, hair flowing loosely in curls beyond her shoulders. Slender and willowy in jeans and a white V-neck sweater she'd not doubt made for herself.

"We need to talk," she said, her blue eyes latching on to mine.

"Yes, we do," I said, nodding. "I haven't contacted you because you asked me not to. But now it's time to talk."

"After the sale," she said, and scurried away.

I'm a wood carver by night, a city engineer by day. Allison heads up the County Clerk's Office. Besides that, she sews, stitches, crochets, knits—you name it. We met last year at this craft show when we happened to set up our booths next to each other. It was my first experience at selling my carved, miniature creatures: owls, mallards, pheasants, loons, deer, elk, wolves, foxes.

My figurines intrigued her but not nearly as much as she intrigued me. We chatted during the sale. We were both the same age, thirty-five. She was divorced just three months ago, no kids. I'd never been married. She showed me how to engage with prospective customers to insure a sale. I asked her to dinner that night after the show. She hesitated but said yes, and thus began my courtship of Allison McGregor.

Our dates ranged from lazy weekends working on or crafts together to casual movie dates and sometimes dress-up symphony encounters. From the beginning, I knew she was the one for me. She was talented, fun, thoughtful, and loving. On our three-month anniversary, we dined at an upscale restaurant. After dinner, while we each sipped a glass of wine, I drew from my suit pocket a tiny, black-felt, jewelry box and presented it to her with a big smile, thinking she'd be pleased. But she looked fearfully at the box, as if she were afraid to accept it, so I took her hand and gently dropped it into her palm.

Her fingers trembling, she opened the box, and then—I swear—a look of relief swept across her face before she gushed, "Earrings! They're beautiful!"

"I thought you'd like them," I said, my smile even bigger.

The very next day, when I called, she dumped me. At first she said, "Things are moving too fast." Then, "I'm not ready for a serious relationship yet." Finally, "I don't think we should see each other for a while. Please don't call."

Today, when the craft show was over, the browsers leaving, the vendors packing up, she scurried across the floor and stood in front of me again. Biting her bottom lip, looking me in the eye, she said, "I owe you an apology."

"No, no, no—no you don't," I said, waving a hand. "Took me awhile but I figured it out. You thought that little black-felt box held an engagement ring, right? You weren't ready for anything like that."

Her eyes lowering, she studied her hands clutched in front of her, then looked back up at me. "My marriage was a total disaster—I still don't talk about it. I—" She faltered.

I untangled her hands and held them. "You don't have to talk about it," I said. "Ever. Unless you want to someday."

"I simply wasn't ready to make a commitment again. I needed time."

"And now?"

My heart thumped as I waited for an answer.

Wiggling her hands free of mine, she tucked her long, curling black hair behind her ears. In the lobe of each one gleamed an earring—a gold, heat-shaped diamond stud. That was good enough for me. A huge smile leaped onto my face as I said, "Dinner tonight after we pack up?"

Her smile matching mine, she said, "I'd love that."

The End
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Lost and Found

On Labor Day our village of Cherry Creek hosts not only a parade, food vendors, and a fireworks display but also a village-wide garage sale.

So...ten o'clock Monday morning, after watching the parade, the day sunny and bright, I stood in front of the billboard in the village park checking out the garage sale posters.

A poster that caught my eye featured a close-up photo of a smiling little girl with curly blonde hair hugging a huge teddy bear.

My heart lurched. I thought for a second one of our school children was missing—I'm the secretary to the elementary school principal. But the text below explained that Deebo, the teddy, bear was missing. Last seen at the Machine Shed Restaurant, Highway 150, just outside of town, ladies restroom, three weeks ago. The poster also listed a cell phone number to call if Deebo were spotted in a garage sale and promised a reward.

"I know it's a long shot," a deep masculine voice said, startling me. I turned and looked up into the face of a perfectly handsome dark-haired man with sparkly blue eyes. "I don't believe we've met," I said.

"Ken Lawson," he said, smiling a warm smile I couldn’t resist. "I'm Jennifer's dad—the five-year-old girl in the picture. We're trying to find her teddy bear."

"I'm Laura White," I said. "Your daughter is such a beautiful girl. How did she lose the bear?"

He shrugged. "Long story."

"I've got time," I said. "I remember as a kid I had a beloved teddy bear. I would've died if I'd have lost it."

We wandered over to a picnic table under an oak tree and sat down. To my surprise, Ken explained that he was Linda Stewart's husband. She was a classmate of mine in high school. She left town after graduation to seek a Hollywood career. She didn't make it, but she married a lawyer—Ken Lawson—the man sitting in front of me—and they settled down in California.

"She died in an automobile accident a year ago," Ken said. "I moved here this summer because this is where Jennifer's grandparents live, her only relatives. Mine are deceased."

"What a wonderful thing you've done."

He went on to tell me about the teddy bear. Two weeks ago after arriving in town, he'd taken Jennifer to an amusement park. On the way back, she couldn't quite wait to get home to use the bathroom, so they stopped at the Machine Shed. She took Deebo into the restroom with her and forgot him. "It was late when we got to the restaurant that night," Ken said. "Both of us dead tired. I think someone working there found him and took him. I checked with the Shed the next day, but no one remembered seeing Deebo."

"And you think somehow Deebo might show up in a garage sale?"

"Crazy, huh? But I've got to do something. I've tacked posters to telephone poles, too. Jennifer's lost a lot lately."

My heart ached for this man who was willing to move across the country for his daughter, and I felt fired up. "You take the south side of Main Street," I said. "I'll take the north. We'll stop at every sale. Meet back here at five."

"It's a deal!" We shook, his hand warm and firm in mine.

Would you believe it! I found Deebo. I actually found him!  I nearly dropped dead.

Five o'clock in the afternoon, Ken, Jennifer, and I sat at the picnic table under the oak tree. Jennifer smiled, giggled, and hugged Deebo. Ken smiled and hugged Jennifer. I sat across from them, smiling. I explained that the lady who sold Deebo to me for three dollars, said her daughter collected stuffed animals, but since the girl went off to college recently, the lady was selling them—with her daughter's permission, of course. Yes, the girl had worked at the Machine Shed for a time. She quit because of school.

Still smiling, still clutching Deebo in a fierce hug, Jennifer said, "Thank you, thank you, thank you, Ms. White."

"You're very welcome."

Ken looked hesitant. His lovely blue eyes landed on mine; my blood rushed.

"It is Ms. White?" he asked.

I nodded. "Divorced long ago."

"Jennifer and I would be honored if you'd, like, hang out with us, eat, and attend the fireworks later."

"Oh, please, Ms. White!" Jennifer said.

"And you have a reward coming," Ken said. "Plus three dollars."

With Ken's eyes still locked on mine, I couldn't ignore the fireworks in my own heart.

"No reward," I said. "And forget the three dollars. But I'd love to hang out with both of you," I added, and wondered I'd found more than a lost teddy bear.

                                                  The End

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Lunchtime

"Someone's stolen my lunch!" I blurted.

Peering into the break-room fridge, I shoved several lunch bags aside. Still, the brown-paper sack with my name ERIN printed in big black letters remained AWOL.

Lunchroom pranks weren't unusual at McLeod Wholesalers, so I closed the fridge door, planted my hands on my hips, and mustered a smile.

"All right, guys, who's got my lunch? It's not much—tuna salad sandwich, carrot sticks, and low-fat chips."

Six co-workers sat in the tiny break room at round, cafeteria-style tables, while three more employees filed into the room. Two people, while eating and studying their crossword puzzles, didn't look up. Three others looked at me and shrugged. It was handsome Alex Martin, the single guy from accounting with the honey-brown eyes, who smiled and said, "Forgot your lunch? Sit down. I'll share. I've got plenty."

The word "forgot" rang in my ears like a gong. Darn! This morning I was running late, and in my haste I had forgotten my lunch. I clearly pictured it still sitting on the kitchen table.

"Be my guest," Alex said, pointing at a chair across from himself, his smile devastating.

I didn't eat lunch in the break room. I always grabbed my bag from the fridge, hurried back to my cubicle desk, ate quickly, then donned my headset and began working again. Staying busy, working hard, studying, and avoiding people—especially handsome men—I'd found, was the easiest way to mend a broken heart.

With his foot, Alex pushed out the chair. "Have a seat," he said, still smiling. Don't be bashful."

I'm not a bashful person, and I would've refused Alex's offer regardless of how gorgeous he looked—I loved his curly, rusty-brown hair. But I was hungry. I'd had time this morning for only a piece of toast slathered with peanut butter and jelly and a glass of orange juice. I couldn't face the thought of working in my cubicle this afternoon—starving.

"You're very kind, Mr. Martin," I said, sitting across from him. "You're right. I forgot my lunch. No one has stolen it."

"Happens," he said. "You get up late, rush around and bang, you forget your lunch." Then, "Call me Alex. I know you're Erin Mackenzie—I asked about you. And I'm glad to meet you."

With that, smiling again,

Alex unwrapped a huge ham sandwich with Swiss cheese, then set out celery sticks, and a big red apple, which he cut in two with a jackknife.

My intention was to eat quickly, leave abruptly, and avoid a long, soul-revealing conversation with Alex, but I realized since he was sharing his lunch with me, leaving would be rude, so I listened as he told me about himself. He'd earned a degree in accounting from State University four years ago, had worked elsewhere for a couple of years, and had been with McLeod only six months. I gathered he wasn't dating and wasn't married.

His charm curled its way into my heart. His brown eyes seemed to flash, and his voice held a deep, friendly timber. I told him I'd been with the firm three years and, going to school part time, I would complete my degree in retail management shortly. I wasn't dating, either. And then I said, "You asked about me?"

"Beautiful woman grabs her lunch from the fridge everyday, talks to no one, then hurries off to her cubicle—I was curious."

A lot of gossip goes on around here, so I was sure Alex already knew about my wedding fiasco. I didn't mention it, and by the time we finished sharing his lunch—which I thoroughly enjoyed—we were talking and laughing as if we'd know each other for years.

Alex glanced at his watch, and then his gaze swept over me. "Five minutes left. Listen, Erin, I know we've only just met—"

Oh my! Was he going to ask me for a date? I wasn't ready for that. But he seemed to be such an outgoing guy, charisma written all over him, that I might be tempted. Still, what was I to do with the vivid picture of Rick leaving me at the altar that flashed in my brain daily?

I shoved my chair back, ready to rise and escape.

"Erin, what I wanted to say is we should do this more often. You know, have lunch together."

The thought startled me. But made perfect sense. So simple. Lunch together. Get better acquainted. Maybe that picture of me alone on the altar would fade and eventually disappear.

My heart somersaulted. What I was about to do seemed totally unlike me. I took a deep breath. Smiling at Alex, I said, "I'll bring lunch for both of us tomorrow. You won't be disappointed."

The End
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A Rainy Day

The rap on the driver's side window of my Jeep Cherokee startled me. I push-buttoned the window down, and my heart jumped. Derrick Reid, the owner of Reid Electronics, the man who had interviewed me only hours ago, poked his head inside my vehicle.

The late afternoon rain had soaked him.

Me, too, before I'd dived into my Jeep. He blinked in the torrent.

"May I join you?" He jumped as thunder clapped overhead.

"Door's not locked."

He piled inside. Slammed the door. I push-buttoned his window up, then started the Cherokee and cranked on the heater/defroster.

"Sorry to pester you," he said, swabbing the rain off his face with the palm of his hand. "My car won't start. Won't turn over at all. Not a sound."

"I've got jumper cables."

"Good. I...can't find mine."     

"Could be a loose battery cable or a starter, though."

He blinked again, probably wondering how a woman could know such things. The résumé of mine that he'd reviewed before interviewing me today for a position as his executive secretary, didn't include the fact that I was born and raised on a farm where my family and I drove nothing but old vehicles constantly in need of repair.

But from my résumé he knew my marital status: Single. And my age: twenty-eight. And my work history in his company, starting as a receptionist and quickly working my way up to a junior secretary.

"When you got in the car," I said, "did your dome lights go on?"

He thought a moment. His curly, wet hair was walnut-brown, his eyes a shade darker. My heart started to leapfrog, just as it had when I first sat down in front of his desk for my interview—which didn't go very well. Again I pursed my lips and scolded myself: Get a grip, Judy. Maybe he's only thirty-something and single but he's the big boss.

"The dome lights came on," he said. "Radio, too. And the windshield wipers."

"It's not a dead battery. Or a loose cable. A jump won't do you any good. It's probably your starter."

He glanced at his watch.

"You in a hurry?" I asked.

A strong gust of wind blasted my Cherokee and rain swept across the windshield.

"Umm...not really," he said, but he looked sheepish.

"What are you driving?"

"Eighty-seven Cadillac."

I tried not to look surprised because I didn't want to embarrass him. I mean, the CEO driving an old car like that—I couldn't believe it. But he must have sensed my surprise because he said , "Look, when I was ten, I could build a computer component by component. At twelve, I could hack into my school district's computer system to change a friend's grade, but cars I know nothing about. They don't impress me. "

"I've got a cell phone, I can call a wrecker."

Thunder and lightning rocked us.

He shot another glance at his watch. "I need to get home," he said. "It's...well, it's Beasley."

"Beasley?"

"My Basset hound—a big baby, afraid of thunder and lighting. He's going berserk right now."

A smile rippled across my face. "Well, why didn't you say so, Mr. Reid? I'll give you a ride home. You can all a wrecker in the morning. Will you need a ride to work?"

"I'll  call a cab."

"Nonsense. I'll pick you up, if you like."

He shook his head. "I couldn't ask you to do that."

"Why not?"

I felt his gaze on me, a gaze far different from his all-business look when he interviewed me. This was a warm, appreciative gaze. "Um...all right," he said. "If you're sure you don't mind."

"I don't."

Windshield wipers clacking, headlights on, I pulled out of my parking spot onto the street and drove slowly through the rain.

"May I offer you something, Miss Allison? Gas money...?"

"Absolutely not, Mr. Reid."

"May I call you Judy? Call me Derrick."

"I'd like that...Derrick."

"I'm sorry about your interview." Now he sounded contrite. "I hope you're not terribly disappointed."

"I'm not. I knew going in I lacked experience."

"Let me assure you, Judy, you have a great future with the company."

"Thank you. "

Silence for a moment.

"Look," he said, "Driving me from and to work, that's not part of your job description. I'm thinking perhaps dinner tomorrow night. Sort of my humble way of saying thanks."

My pulse spiked, my heart started that leapfrogging again, and I felt warm despite being soaked.

"Dinner would be nice."

"You choose the place."

"All right." I stole a glance at him.

He was smiling at me hugely—a warm smile—and I smiled back.

"We look like drowned rats," he said.        

"No doubt," I said, but I was thinking I'd never seen a lovelier rainy day.

The End
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