The Neighbor Guy

Every year for the past three years, on the date of my husband's death, I've taken time to view CDs on our living-room TV that highlighted our wedding—the ceremony, the reception, and our departure.

Saturday, two o'clock in the afternoon, I sat on the couch, legs folded underneath me, crying, smiling, sometimes even laughing, reliving that precious day.

I knew that some day I'd have to stop this ritual. But when?

Smiling now, I watched a scene in which my dad, looking handsome in his tuxedo, stood at the head reception table, glass of pink champagne in hand, and toasted Jake and me.

That's when the doorbell rang, jolting me back to reality.

Who was at the door? A salesman? Lord, I didn't want to talk to anyone.

I wiped my eyes with a tissue, zapped the TV, and hurried to the door.

Denny, my next-door neighbor, stood on my front porch smiling sheepishly through the screen door, his right had twisted behind his back.

"Hi," he said. But after he caught a good look at me, my eyes probably red-rimmed and tearful, he backed away cautiously. "Sorry, Liz. I knew this was a bad day, but..." His voice trailed off. "I'll come back later—maybe tomorrow."

"No," I said, pushing the screen door open. "Come in. Please. I...I was just reminiscing."

He bit his bottom lip and nodded. "Yeah. I know. Me, too."

When Denny stepped into the house, I caught the scent of fresh cologne and wondered why he kept his right hand stuck behind his back.

Denny Patrick had become my husband Jake's best friend and, therefore, one of mine. Denny moved in next door after Jake and I had lived on Cedar Street for four years. The two guys instantly connected. A mechanic, Jake knew everything about repairing cars and things like lawnmowers and snow blowers. A carpenter, Denny knew everything about home repair. Together they tackled project after project.

We enjoyed backyard cookouts together. Denny often brought a pretty girl but never the same one more than twice. I asked him once about not having a steady girlfriend. "I haven't found the right one," he answered, shrugging. I told him he'd better hurry. He wasn't getting any younger. He smiled and said, "I'll wait."

But all of the camaraderie, all of the good times ended when Jake at age thirty-eight died of a heart attack while at work. During the past three years Denny'd helped me out with mowing grass and removing snow, with plumbing and electrical problems.

Now, as I backed up slowly, wondering what was up with Denny, he followed me into the living room. He spotted a CD on the coffee table, clearly labeled with a black-felt pen: WEDDING.

He glanced at the blank TV, then his eyes landed on me. He cleared his throat. "This is clearly the wrong time." His face flushed. "I've made a huge mistake."

My eyes narrowed. "Denny, what are you holding behind your back?"

He cleared his throat again and now shuffled his feet. "I have no right to be here."

"Dennis," I said. "What's going on?" Jake always called him Dennis when they had a moment of disagreement on a project. "What are you holding behind your back, Dennis?"

He clamped his eyes closed for a second, and then whipped out a beautiful, deep-red rose, its long stem wrapped in green tissue. "This is really awkward. Um...I thought we might go out tonight. Maybe deal with Jake's death—I miss him, too—by talking about him. Or maybe by talking about...us."

I gaped at Denny. With his unruly red hair and charming smile, he was truly handsome. Watching him mow my lawn, his muscles rippling under his white T-shirt, I sometime thought about an "Us", but I always quickly dismissed the notion. He was Jake's friend—my friend. The neighbor guy.

I took the rose from Denny's hand, and with my other hand wiped the last of my tears from my eyes. "Thank you," I said. "Thank you. You are so very thoughtful. And sweet."

"But not very smart, huh?"

Life is cruel sometimes, taking away people we love so unexpectedly our heart breaks, but sometimes life offers opportunities that beg to be explored.

I gazed at the rose in my hand, sniffed it, and decided to listen to my heart. "A date?" I asked.

"Dinner?" Denny said, his eyebrows rising, his voice hopeful. "A late movie? I'll come over at seven?"

I grabbed a deep breath. "I'd love that," I said, heat rushing though my body.

"Oh, wow!" Denny said. "You are so cool, Liz."

After Denny bolted out of the house, I put the rose in a vase in water, gathered my CDs and tucked them far away in the back of my bedroom closet.

The End
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Stormy Weather

"Who let you in?" I asked, frowning at the young man on the stepladder in the living room. He was hanging a ceiling fan.

"Who are you?" he asked, releasing a beautiful smile that startled me.

He balanced a five-bladed fan on top of the ladder with one hand, a screwdriver clutched in the other.

I stood in the doorway, the keys to this chalet in the north woods jiggling in my hand. "I'm—well, a guest for a time. Mrs. Draper said the place would be empty." I wondered if he sensed my annoyance at his presence—I wanted so desperately to be alone.

"I'm the electrician. You probably didn't see my truck—it's parked around back. Mrs. Draper sent me a key. Putting fans in nearly every room. Been getting hot here in the summer—no air-conditioning. I've worked for her before. She didn't mention a guest."

"Mrs. Draper is my boss. She offered to let me stay for a week or two...or longer..." My voice trailed off.

"She's my aunt." His eyes traveling over me—why did I blush? —he added, "Welcome. My name's Brandon West. Your friendly electrician."

"Shelly Harper."

I hoped I hadn't sounded rude. Saying nothing else, I hauled my suitcases into a bedroom of this marvelous vacation home in the wilderness. I unpacked and lugged in a cooler full of food to stow away in the fridge. My boss, Angela Draper, had suggested I spend some time here. She had inherited the place from her folks. My recent failed marriage and my parents' sudden divorce—after 40 years of marriage—had really rocked me and had shaken my belief in love and happiness and—well, just about everything else. I simply needed to get away for a while, be alone, and clear my head.

"Leaving now!"—Brandon's voice calling from the living room.

I scurried from the bedroom to the front door where Brandon was folding up his ladder. "The key?" I said.

"Nearly forgot." He fished it out of his jeans pocket and dropped it in my hand. "Be back from time to time. More fans to hang. Need to pull some wires for two-twenty in the kitchen. I'll call."

"All right."

"Summer season's just beginning" he said. The village of Lone Wolf will be crowded with sightseers. Fine restaurants and curio shops everywhere. I hope you have a great time." Again, he overwhelmed me with a heart-jolting smile.

"Thank you." I didn't add that I intended to spend my time in this secluded chalet alone.

I didn't sleep well that night. A storm kicked up. Lots of thunder and lightning. Trees creaking in the howling wind. And of all things: Near dawn I heard a wolf's cry, which sent shivers rippling through me. Should I really be here alone?

Brandon didn't show up the next day. The stormy weather persisted, a windy, hard-pounding rain. I sipped ice tea and read all day—no satellite TV during the storm—and wondered if I liked being this alone. But I told myself I did. The stormy weather fit my mood perfectly. It was good for me. Like a companion.

Brandon came by the next day—still raining—to install the last of the ceiling fans. "Sorry about the weather," he said. "It's keeping you holed up here while you should be in town having fun."

"I'm perfectly fine with the weather. I like being alone."

He looked at me curiously. No smile this time. "Something wrong?"

I certainly wasn't going to share my problems with a stranger. "Nothing," I said. "Not a thing."

Now a tiny smile played across his lips. "Instead of hoping for the storm to pass," he said, "you should learn to dance in the rain. My grandmother told me that after I girl I was about to marry jilted me at the altar."

Brandon left me with that thought pounding in my brain. And I wondered, Wouldn't dancing in the rain be much better than wallowing in gloom?

More rain the next day when Brandon came in the afternoon to "pull wires" to the kitchen. After he finished, he smiled that devastating smile—like sunshine—and said, "Rain again tomorrow. Really sorry about that."

The thought that flashed through my mind sent my heart rattling against my rib cage. I swallowed. Okay! Here goes...deep breath. "Would you like to stay for supper? I have tons of food." I bit my bottom lip.

"You sure?" he said. "I mean, I thought—"

"I'm positive."

His head titled. Another smile. "Should take the truck back to the shop. Go home. Shower. But I could be back in an hour."

Now I was smiling. "I'd like that," I said, looking forward to dancing in the rain.

The End
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Flirting

Was this handsome man flirting with me in the YMCA cardio room?

While five or six other people walked or ran on treadmills, I lumbered along at five miles and hour on a treadmill. Eyes straight ahead, I was listening to music on my iPod and getting ready to shut the machine down when I sensed someone at my side. I turned my head and gazed into the blue eyes of a perfectly well built, silver-haired man about my age—fifty.

"Is there a problem?" I asked, pulling off my earbuds.

"No problem," he said with a wonderful smile.

Then I glanced at my wristwatch and realized I was five minutes over my half-hour time limit. "I'm so sorry," I said, embarrassed, feeling my face go red. "I got totally lost in the music...and my thoughts. I didn't hear the machine beep that my time was up."

"Happens all the time," he said, smiling a smile that this time made my heart jump. "They should program these machines to stop after a half hour." Then he said, "You were going at quite a pace—lookin' good. Very good." He nodded approvingly.

He is flirting with me!

For some stupid reason shyness gripped me, and my eyes lowered. Why would he be flirting with me? I was all sweaty, wore no makeup, and had pulled my hair back in a long ponytail.

Though I didn't look forward to working out three nights a week for the last year, I enjoyed the results and did think I was looking pretty good. Maybe he was flirting. But I had not idea how to flirt back. Too many years had passed since I was young.

"Name's Phil Parker," he said, extending his hand. "New in town two months ago. City building inspector. Been thinking I need to get back in shape."

"Amber McGee," I said, shaking his warm, dry hand with my sweaty one. "Head city librarian. Working out is much better than sitting around every evening watching TV sitcoms and cop dramas, snacking."

"With that I agree," he said, unleashing an even bigger smile.

Then I said something I might have said as a teen but never as a widowed adult until just this moment: "You're looking good yourself."

My breath caught, and I felt my face turning red again.

"Thanks," he said. "Would—"

"You better get started on your workout," I said, offering my own smile.

"Look, Amber—I was wondering if—"

But I didn't give him a chance to finish. I turned, headed for the showers so I could cool off, and I managed to leave the Y without seeing him again. This sudden encounter with Phil had unnerved me a bit. I wasn't used to speaking to strange men—let alone flirting.

On the drive home, I thought about Phil. He must be single, or he wouldn't have flirted with me like that, would he? I'd been alone for ten years. My husband died after a long battle with cancer, and though I loved him dearly, I suddenly wondered if, after all this time, I was ready to start over.

I also wondered if Phil would call. He knew my name. I was the only Amber McGee in this small town's telephone book. But neither one of us had established that we were single and available. I worked out three nights a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. This was Wednesday. I'd have to wait a day for a chance to maybe see Phil again.

Friday evening at the Y, I nearly fell over when I found him waiting for me.
"Shall we?" he asked, pointing at the treadmills.

"Why not?" I said, smiling.

We walked slowly on side-by-side machines. I told him about my marriage and its sad ending. He told me his ex-wife had run off with one of her co-workers six years ago, another sad ending. We worked out on the weight machines for a half hour, chattering between sets. I couldn't remember being so at ease and comfortable with a man I'd just met.

Finished, we headed for our respective shower rooms. I was positive I felt his gaze on me as I walked away—was I strutting a tiny bit, being just a little flirty? Perhaps.

We met in the Y lobby, our gym bags in hand.

Phil's gaze catching mine, he smiled that awesome smile and asked, "Amber McGee, would you like to do something with the rest of the evening?"

I felt warm all over.

"Do something? Why, Phil Parker, are you flirting with me again?"

"That I am, Ms. McGee."

We left the Y and strolled down the street to a little nearby coffee shop where we ordered large cappuccinos and flirted some more. Six weeks later we were engaged and tomorrow is our wedding. Seems flirting is like riding a bike: A girl never forgets how.

The End

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Me? Cry? No Way!

I glanced at the Sunday morning newspaper headlines—Tornadoes Rip Georgia—and shook my head. Then I blinked when my six-year-old daughter, Melissa, said, "Did Luke ask you to marry him, Mommy?"

"Sweetheart, where did that question come from?"

I left the paper on the counter and set her bowl of cereal in front of her.

She carefully poured milk from a half-gallon jug by herself.

"Didn't spill a drop!" she said happily. "Don't people who like each other get married?"

I smiled. My daughter amazed me—so young, so precocious. Stroking her head of curly blonde hair, I said, "Sometimes."

"I'd marry him. If I was old enough."

That afternoon, Luke McAllister—the man my daughter said she'd marry—backed his pickup into my drive. The swing set he promised to erect for Melissa lay packed in cardboard in the bed of his truck.

He jumped out of the cab, smiling.

While I stood in the drive, Melissa ran to him. He picked her up under her arms, hoisted her high above his head, and said, "I'll have this thing up in no time, princess."

"Can I help?"

"You bet!"

Setting Melissa down, he ambled over to me. The first sight of him each day—tall, lean, and tanned—always took my breath away. Circling an arm around my waist, he kissed me lightly on the forehead. My knees turned to rubber; my heart rumbled. His brown eyes full of warmth, he said, "And you, my lady, may help, too."

"Thank you, kind sir."

"Got something to tell you later."

"What?"

"Later."

Unpacking the wooden-framed swing set and erecting it turned out to be a trouble-free project. Luke was a carpenter. He'd arrived here in Hapersville, Iowa, shortly after last year's floods tore through the town's residential section. He was a construction worker—my age, thirty-five—never married—who drifted from one disaster to another, helping put towns back together. The work made him feel needed, and he loved the adventure.

We met when he ate meal after meal at the Lunch Box Café, which I own and operate. I was sure I was in love with him, but I would never be able to commit to him. Though he worked now for a local builder, I never knew when the next disaster in some far away place might take him away. I couldn't stand the thought of another "Dad" walking out on Melissa. Or on me.

The swing set included two swings, jungle bars, and a slide. After Luke tightened the last bolt and nut, Melissa cried, "Swing me, Luke! Swing me!" And he did until I finally suggested, "Melissa, sweetheart, I think Luke's worked hard, is thirsty, and would like a nice cold glass of lemonade. Try the slide. We'll be right back."

Inside the house, as I fetched lemonade from the fridge for Luke, I glanced again at the newspaper headline—Tornadoes Rip Georgia—and my heart lurched. I knew instantly what news Luke intended to share with me. He was leaving Iowa soon—maybe tomorrow—for Georgia, for a place where he was needed, for a new adventure. Erecting Melissa's swing set was his final act of generosity for Melissa and me.

 I swallowed. I won't fall apart, I told myself. I won't cry. No way! The man has a right to his own life.

When I brought the lemonade to the table where he sat, he reached for the glass, and our fingers touched. I felt electricity, but I reined in my emotions. "Luke," I said, calmly, "I don't know how to thank you. For—everything, actually."

He gulped his lemonade, then set the glass down. "Hey, it was fun. It's what I do. The smile on your face and Melissa's—that's my payment."

But I'm leaving—I knew that was his next line.

I felt my world turning upside down, but before he made the dreaded announcement, Melissa called from the back door, "Mommy! Luke! Watch me hang by my legs."

At the door, Luke and I watched as Melissa, indeed, hung from the jungle bars by her legs. My breath caught. "Be careful, sweetheart."

 It was Luke's next words that rocked me: "Marry me, Allison."

I spun around. My eyes popped. "You want to...marry me?"

He looked sheepish. "Um...I'm sorry. I forgot to say I love you." He brushed my cheek with his fingertips. "And that I've been named foreman for Nelson Construction. No more roaming for me. If you'll have me."

My breath caught again. My heart hammered. "We—I have to talk to Melissa."

"She approves," he said, smiling. "She already told me so."

Oh wow! Amazing.

While Melissa still hung upside down, my world suddenly righted itself. Luke's kiss was soft and sweet. And I said I wasn't going to cry.

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The End