A Coupon for Love

The lovely blonde and I had crossed paths many times in the Save More grocery store: the produce and meat sections, the bread and cereal aisles.

Everywhere. She always smiled brightly—as if we weren't strangers at all—and nodded hello. Of course, I followed with a smile of my own and a friendly, "Hi. How are you today?"

"Great, thank you. Really great."

I loved her perky smile, one that suggested everyday in her life was a blue-sky day.

She apparently liked to shop when I did: 6:00 A.M., when the store was practically empty of other shoppers. Since only one checkout lane was available so early in the day, we frequently met at the register.

She always carried a compartmentalized billfold stuffed with coupons. As the checkout lady rang up her purchases, she forked over the appropriate coupon. One morning, she purchased a small bottle of wine, and the checkout lady asked her for an ID. The lady peered at the driver's license, scanned it, handed it back and said, "Have a great day, Sue."

"Thanks," she said. "I plan on it."

That's how I learned her name was Sue. I guessed her to be between twenty-five and thirty. Right at my age, thirty.

The next time we met—I was inspecting the apples—she said to me, "Hi, how are you today?"

At that moment I decided I definitely wanted to know her better. She had to be single—I'd never seen a ring on her wedding finger. If she were going with someone, she'd surely tell me. I dropped an apple into my plastic bag with the other five. "I'm doing great, Sue. How about you?"

Her head tilted, a question mark on her face.

I tried for my best smile. "I heard the checkout lady call you Sue last week." Gathering my courage, I added, "I'm Max Peterson. Assistant lawyer for the school district." I swallowed. "Single."

She looked at me, a bit wary, I thought, as if "lawyer" or "single" were bad words, but she said, "Sue Sullivan. Single. Home Economics teacher at the high school."

"Whoa! No kidding? You mean we work for the same employer?"

I felt overjoyed. We had something in common. And we were both single. But a frown skated across Sue's face as she said, "You'll have to excuse me—I'm in a hurry this morning."

With that she pushed her cart down the detergent aisle, took a hard right, and headed for checkout. My shoulders slumped. Obviously one of two things had happened: I'd come on too strong too fast. Or she distrusted lawyers.

I'd never clipped a coupon before, but that night I clipped a Save More meat coupon from the newspaper. When I saw Sue again, I intended to impress her with the coupon—something to talk about. And I had a plan. But I didn't see her the next week or the next. I heaved a sigh. I'd frightened her away.

But maybe not!

On the third week I spotted her again—by the canned soups, a smile back on her face. After I greeted her, she said, "I'd like to talk to you after we check out."

She ended up behind me in checkout. When I placed a package of two New York strip steaks on the belt, I happily whipped out my meat coupon, but to my dismay, the checkout lady informed me my coupon had expired. Obviously, I felt totally embarrassed. And deflated, my plan shot down.

Sue cocked her head. "Not to worry," she said flashing a smile and handing the checkout lady an up-to-date coupon.

When we met in the parking lot by her car, I said, "Thanks for the coupon. I thought maybe you'd given up shopping here."

Her blue eyes dipped, then met mine. "I knew what was happening between us, Max. I saw it coming. But before I could let it happen, I had to settle another matter."

"It's settled?"

She nodded. "He left long ago, but I had to make sure he was out of my head. Forever."

I looked at her, a bit sheepish.

"I'd hoped to impress you enough with my first ever coupon that you'd say yes to dinner at my place. Steaks, obviously.  Wine."

Her chin lifted, her smile the brightest ever. "I can't say no. My coupon gives me an investment in those steaks, too."

"That it does," I said happily.

"I'll bring the wine."

My heart hammering, I helped unload Sue's groceries into her minivan. We set up a time on Saturday evening for my place, and when she drove away, I thought, Maybe I found a coupon for love. One that doesn’t expire.

The End

Enjoy reality! Contemporary YA fiction with an impact. Don't wait! Visit: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=jon+ripslinger

Once Upon a Cold Winter Night

I hated winter. Hated snow, ice, and cold. Always did.

So why did I agree to a weekend ski trip to Snowstar with my best friends, Kathy and Jan? Answer: I didn't want to spend the time alone. Besides, they pointed out that a lot of eligible young men roam the slopes at Snowstar.

Experienced skiers, Kathy and Jan hit the ski trails first thing Saturday morning, but I took skiing lessons on the Bunny Hill,

feeling clumsy and idiotic, while the Dynamic Duo raced down the challenging slopes, probably with a different guy every time.

That night as I sat alone at a table in the lodge cafeteria waiting for my buddies, all the muscles in my body seemed to ache.

A man stopped at my table. Startled, I shifted in my chair and looked up into the brightest blue eyes I'd ever seen—a man with a soft, easy smile and head of curly brown hair.

My heart picked up a beat.

"I was in your class this morning," he said. "Sort of a refresher course for me. You look discouraged."

I managed to smile. "I was totally out of my element."

"You'll be okay. Hang in there."

My first impulse was to say, No way!  But I squared my shoulders and answered bravely, "I will."

"Good," he said. "I'll look for you on the mountain tomorrow."

While I blinked, surprised at his encouragement, he turned and walked casually away. Then I smiled. His kind words lifted my spirits a bit.

At breakfast the next morning in the cafeteria, my eyes searched for the man. I wanted to point him out to Kathy and Jan, but he was nowhere in sight. They probably thought I'd made him up.

I spotted him again at midmorning. He zipped by me on a gentle hill, then plowed to a stop, and waited for me to catch up. It wasn't the cold that took my breath away—it was the sight of him. His windblown hair shone like copper in the bright winter sunshine, and his eyes mirrored the blue sky.

"Morning," he said. "See you're getting the hang of it."

"A little."

"You alone?"

I nodded. "My two girlfriends just left. They're off somewhere racing down steep hills."

"These lesser hills can be fun, too," he said. Then he told me his name, Sam Cooper. I told him mine, Holly Forbes.

For the rest of the morning, he was at my side, offering tips on stopping, getting up when I fell, and dismounting the ski lift without tumbling off first—always smiling and patient with me.

"Lunch?" he asked, after probably realizing I'd had enough skiing.

Over burgers and fries and hot coffee, he told me he was a corporate lawyer in Madison. I told him I taught high school English in Madison. He seemed pleased that we lived in the same city. And so was I. Indeed.

We discovered we were the same age, twenty-seven. Neither one of us was dating. He'd skied as a kid but not at all in the last ten years. A few big shooters were coming in from out of state for a meeting next week at his firm, and they wanted to ski. He said he needed to get some time in on the slopes before they arrived.

Finished eating, he wiped his lips with his napkin. "You ready for another go at the hills?"

"I can't." My eyes dipped. "Skiing's simply not my thing. I need a hot tub, a sauna—my muscles are screaming."

That's when I knew I'd blown it. He was here to enjoy the snow and the cold, not to entertain a whining, winter-hating wimp like me. I felt my heart plunge. You idiot, Holly!

"Look," he said. "I understand—tired muscles need to recuperate. How about dinner tonight? And then a hayrack ride?"

My heart rebounded into my chest.

"There's supposed to be a giant moon out tonight," he said. "The lodge provides plenty of warm blankets—that's what it said on the hayrack flyer."

I swallowed and answered calmly, "I'd like that."

That night in our cottage, with Katy and Jan hovering about, I dressed in jeans and a soft angora sweater.

"You forgot your insulated long underwear, girlfriend," Kathy said. "It's going to be zero tonight. What if it snows? You know how you'll like that."

"She'll be okay," Jan said, smiling mischievously "There's more than one way to keep warm on a hayrack ride."

I grabbed my parka from the closet. I turned and offered my friends my brightest smile. "Cold weather and snow," I said, "don't seem to bother me much anymore."

That's when Kathy and Jan threw my gloves and stocking cap at me. Then they threw me out the door into what I knew would be a cold but spectacular winter night.

The End
Enjoy reality! Contemporary YA fiction that will rock your heart. Don't wait! Visit: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=jon+ripslinger

Designated Driver

I wonder if there is anyone else at this New Year's Eve party having a miserable time. The last guy who danced with me and left me alone at my table just a minute ago stepped all over my feet.

Not all his fault, though, since he seemed a little tipsy.

Really, I shouldn't be here with all these people enjoying the McGrath Engineering New Year's Eve party in the Gold Room of the Blackhawk Hotel. Everyone else is sipping a drink and chattering, or listening to the six-piece band playing oldies while dancing up a storm.

I don't fit in. I don't make small talk easily, I don't have the face or figure many guys would give a second look, and I don't drink. Which brings me to the real reason I'm here.

For the second year in a row my work-place friends Edna and Alice—also my best friends—asked me to be their designated driver? But why? I wondered. They hardly touch alcohol. The answer hit me in a second. It was an obvious scheme to get me out among the living.

This year when they begged me to be their driver, I agreed. I hadn't had plans for New Year's Eve since my divorce three years ago and didn't want to spend the night alone again. I'd experienced too many nights like that in the last couple of years. So I said, "Sure, sounds like fun."

But now I could kick myself, and I'm thinking my best bet to get though the evening is to leave this center-ring table close to the dance floor and hide away at a table in a corner—I have my eye on one—and sip on my ginger ale with a twist of lime.

I'm ready to move when Edna comes prancing up to our table. She looks marvelous in her slinky black dress.  She says, "Saw you dancing three times tonight, girlfriend. Told you guys couldn't resist that flaming red hair of yours."

I don't mention I danced only three times in the last three hours—it's now ten-thirty—and that the last guy was a little tipsy and probably thought my flaming red hair was on fire.

Then Alice races up, tucking her long, loose, blond hair behind her ears. "I just met the most marvelous guy," she says, bubbling with happiness. "You know what you should do, Erin—do like I did. Go up to the bar where all the single guys are, order a drink, and smile at one. Hit on a someone, girlfriend!"

My friends scurry off, and I decide the only hit I'm going to make is on that empty table off in a corner. I grab my purse and my drink. I rise and weave my way around crowded tables only to realize that a hunky-looking, blond-haired man in a dark suit, white shirt open at the collar, is sitting alone at my table, a drink in his hand.

Hit on someone!

Isn't that what Alice said?

I grab a deep breath, and my heart pounds like mad.

I'm thirty-five years old, and I've never done anything like this before. I pull out a chair and sit across from the guy, my eyes darting to his ringless left hand. "Hi," I say, hardly able to breathe. "Are you alone?"

"I am," he says, appraising me with an amazing smile, then glancing at my left hand. "I'm a designated driver for my mom and dad."

My eyes pop wide open.

How can this be?

I surely look as if I don’t believe him.

He explains that his folks retired from McGrath Engineering four years ago. They love this party, but neither one can drive at nighttime any longer. He always volunteers to be their chauffer. "I'm Eric Jensen," he says when he finishes. "I'm a fireman. Would you like to dance...?"

"Erin Fisher," I say. "Accountant for McGrath Engineering. I'd love to dance. I'm a designated driver, too."

"Are you kidding? Both of us?"

While we glide across the dance floor, I explain about driving for my girlfriends, Edna and Alice, and that they really don't need a driver. They were dragging me out into public.

After three dances, Eric and I sit at our little table in the corner, chatting and chatting. We like the same movies, music, and food. Spots, too. Baseball. We lose track of time.

Suddenly the band is playing Auld Lange Syne. Lights flash, kazoos blare, people sing and cheer.

When Eric leans in to kiss me at the table, my heart explodes.

"May I call you in the morning?" he asks, breathing on my lips. "We'll go out for breakfast, if you like. I'll be the designated driver."

"Please call," I say, and kiss him back. "Designated driver is not such a bad gig."

The End
Enjoy Reality! Contemporaty YA Fiction that will rock your heart. Don't wait: Visit: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=jon+ripslinger

Snowstorm

I creep up to my new neighbor's house in the howling midnight snowstorm like I'm a burglar, the snow stinging my face. Except I'm not a burglar. A burglar doesn't carry a heavy-duty flashlight, shining it on his victim's front door.

All lights in the neighborhood blinked out a half hour ago—I'm on a rescue mission. I'm a fireman; it's what I do.

I rap loudly on the front door, realizing the sound is probably more frightening to the lady and her daughter who live here than the storm. But right now it's ten below zero outside. With no power in the area—therefore, no heat in the house—the pair will be half frozen to death by morning regardless of what they wear. Besides, the license plates on the lady's car reveals she and her daughter are from Florida. They probably need serious help.

I rap again, harder. I must sound as if I'm trying to break in—a burglar, indeed. Or someone worse. "I'm your neighbor!" I shout, hoping my voice carries over the howling wind and through the door.

Doorknob in my gloved hand, I feel a click and a twist of the knob. The door opens an inch. I press my lips to the crack between the door and the doorjamb. "It's you're neighbor," I shout. "Patrick Sullivan. My house is warm and lighted—I have a home generator. You're both welcome."

The door opens halfway. Without shining the light in their faces, I find the woman and her young daughter shivering in the darkness bundled in parkas, looking frightened and anxious. The woman grips a baseball bat in both hands, ready to swing. "Honest," I tell her, smiling. "I'm here to help."

Sipping hot chocolate at my kitchen table, eating store-bought cookies, we get acquainted. Mandy Abbot and her eight-year-old daughter Claire have been my new neighbors for a week. A widow, Mandy has come to this little town in northern Iowa to take over as the CEO of a major health care center in nearby Webster City. I tell her I'm a fireman and reveal I'm single. Never married.

I explain this little town is filled with lots of old trees. In storms like this, branches break, power lines snap, and the power goes off. It's why some of us around here have a home generator. It kicks in when the electricity shuts down. Mine keeps the furnace and fridge running and a few lights burning.

Our chat winding down, the three of us finally decide it's time for bed. I show them a bedroom down the hallway they can share. Little Claire, giving me a mighty hug, says, "Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. Thank you, very much. I was really scared."

I tell her and her mom that I'm glad I could help. Tomorrow's Saturday. Sleep in. Then I head to the living room where I peer out a window, marveling at the whirling snow. Back in the kitchen, I find Mandy waiting for me. She's my age perhaps—nearly forty—an unbelievable blue-eyed beauty snuggled in jeans and green sweatshirt. Swiping her long auburn hair aside, she says, "I just wanted to thank your again—and apologize for the baseball bat." She looks sheepish. "Claire and I were victims of home invasion once, three years ago."

"And when you heard the loud banging at the door, you didn't know what to think."

"Exactly. All those terrible memories came rushing back."

"I'm glad I could help," I say again. As our eyes meet, my pulse unexpectedly spikes like crazy. Her cheeks flush pink. What's going one here? And then we quickly say good night.

The next morning, while I dress, I'm filled with regret. The power's back on. My guests will be leaving.

I rap lightly on their bedroom door, get no response, and head for the kitchen, where I'm nearly rocked off my feet when I'm greeted with the smell of coffee, bacon, eggs, and find Mandy at the kitchen counter mixing waffle batter in a bowl.

"Good morning," she says brightly, and tells me she stocked her kitchen when she heard the storm was coming. She trudged home early this morning through a foot of new snow and brought things back to my house. "Making breakfast is the least I can do for your helping Claire and me survive last night."

I collapse in a chair at the table. I'm totally astounded. I rub my hands through my scruffy beard. The thought that leaps into my mind is private, but it jumps out of my mouth: "I could get used to us having breakfast together." Then my face turns hot, a three-alarm fire. "I'm sorry.... That was inappropriate."

Mandy turns from the stove, smiling, spatula in hand. "Give us a little time, Patrick Sullivan," she says. "We'll see what happens."

The End
Enjoy reality! Contemporary YA fiction with an impact: Don't wait! Visit: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=jon+ripslinger