Thanks, Grandma!

Never thought I'd become a master gardener on my first try.

On this bright, crisp Saturday morning, the sight of vegetables thriving in my community garden plot dazzled me. Carrots, radishes, onions, beans, tomatoes, kohlrabi—what was I going to do with it all?

But the perfect combination of soaking rains and warm sunshine this spring had resulted not only in a bumper crop of produce but also of ugly weeds.

That's why I was here dressed in cutoffs, t-shirt, sneakers, and straw hat, hoeing and plucking the stubborn little monsters out of the ground.

Five years ago the city converted a vacant lot of several acres into a garden area open to people willing to stake out a small section and grow their own produce. I was sure my grandmother, who had taught me gardening, would be proud. See what I've accomplished, Grandma!

"Looks like you're working hard—and with excellent results."

The male voice startled me.

I stopped hoeing and stood straight. My breath caught as my eyes landed on a tall, handsome man dressed in a yellow T-shirt, well-worn jeans, and sneakers. His curly black hair glistened in the sunlight, and his awesome smile rocked me. I guessed him to be thirty-something, like me.

"That's your plot next to mine?" I asked, my intense reaction to him embarrassing me a bit.

He nodded, his blue eyes shifting from his plot to mine. "You've got a totally green thumb," he said.

I smiled. "Lived with my grandparents on a little farm in Iowa after my folks died in a car accident—I learned a lot."

He nodded. As he eyes scrolled over me in a gentle way, I felt myself flushing and wished I'd done something with my auburn hair besides letting it flow freely to my shoulders. Wished I'd worn a bit of makeup.

He said, "I usually stop here in the evenings, but you must be a morning person. So that's why I haven't seen you before."

"You're right," I said, tilting my straw hat back. What brings you here this morning?"

"Last night's rain. I knew this would be a perfect morning for tackling weeds. Name's Cody McCune," he added, extending a solid, square hand.

I whipped off my glove, and my heart lurched when his warm hand shook mine in a firm but gentle grip.

"Sarah Mitchell," I said, trying not to gulp.

We went to work weeding, but stopped now and then to rest, and we talked freely about ourselves like strangers do sometimes.

He was a dentist, divorced four years ago, single and still unattached. He'd been gardening for three years. He donated most of what he grew to our local food pantry. "Gardening is great physical exercise," he said. "It also gives me a chance to relax, but more importantly, it's an opportunity to donate to the needy, a cause I firmly believe in."

I decided to be honest with him as he apparently had been with me, but I knew it wouldn't be easy.

I was an accountant with the biggest firm in town—that was the easy part. This is the part that was tough: I'd spent the last two years cultivating a relationship that dried up and died on the vine because the man wouldn't commit. I was gardening to clear my head and release excess energy.

Peering sheepishly at my rows and rows of vegetables, I said, "I got carried away with the planting, but I know what I'll do—donate like you do. That'll be perfect."

"Um...would you like to swap some items?"

I looked at him curiously. A stubble of inky-black beard enhanced his handsome good looks. "Swap?"

"I've got lots of zucchini," he said. "But it looks like I'm going to be short on carrots. Tomatoes, too."

"Sure. I've got plastic bags my car."

A half hour later, finished for the day, after we'd completed our vegetable swap, an outrageous thought zipped through my mind. I inhaled a breath of fresh mid-morning air and hoped I wasn't about to make a fool of myself. "Um...when will you be here again?"

His eyes locked with mine, and my heart jolted.

He said, "Tomorrow morning, definitely. There's still work to be done. You?"

I nodded. "Tomorrow morning." Then I cleared my throat. "I have a great recipe of my grandma's for zucchini bread. I'll bring a loaf."

I beautiful smile lighted Cody's face. "I'll bring a thermos of coffee. There's a picnic table by the parking lot."

"Excellent!" I said, and we high-fived.

As we tromped to our cars, bags of produce and hoes in hand, our shoulders bumped. We both felt the bump and smiled at each other. Then I glanced at the blue sky and whispered silently, "Thanks, Grandma!"

The End

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A Man With a Beard

"Okay—here's the deal," I told my best friend Carla. "I'm not a romance-novel kind of girl. I don't believe in love-at-first-sight. I don't believe in moonlight and passionate kisses that destroy your knees as you fall into his arms."

Carla sat in a chair across from me in my office.

I'm Dean of Students at Mount Saint Clare College for women—Dr. Alexis Anderson. Carla's an English Professor, head of the department. She's forty, married twenty years, three kids. I'm forty and never married. Not involved with anyone. Well...except....

"Let me get this straight," Carla said, eyeing me. "You spend the summer in a wilderness cabin. You meet a tall, bearded, pony-tailed mountain man—"

"Forest Ranger."

"Whatever. You carry on a passionate affair—"

"We dated...a couple of times."

"And now that you've left the wilderness and school's started again, you can't get the guy out of your mind. You mope around like a zombie, but when you talk about him there's a twinkle in your eye—and you can't figure out if you're in love. Am I right so far?"

"It can't be love. I mean, something like this just doesn't happen to me."

"Who says you're different from any other woman?"

Maybe Carla was right. Who says I'm different?

I'd spent last summer living in a cabin on Lake Mystic in a state wilderness area not far from the college—reading, relaxing, and getting ready for this school year. It was the first summer I'd taken some time off. When a raccoon took up residence in the attic of my cabin, I called the state ranger's office. That's when Max Winter, dressed in uniform, appeared at my cabin's door—tall, broad-shouldered, piercing blue eyes, heavily bearded. He trapped the pesky raccoon and released it fifty miles away. The problem is I think he captured more than the raccoon—he'd captured my heart, but he didn't release it.

He visited me several times at the cabin. "Just to check on you," he said the first time. "Bears and cougars around here occasionally. You've got to be careful. Don't leave food out. You like living here in the wilderness by yourself?"

"Love it. School's always so hectic. This gives me a chance to get away. It's the first time I've spent the summer like this. I have a condo in town I'll go back to when school starts."

One night we sat around a campfire and ate bratwurst on toasted buns and devoured s'mores. He looked handsome and rugged in a camouflage shirt, tight-fitting jeans, and shiny black boots—my heart skipped rope the entire night. He told me his grandfather and dad had been loggers in these parts, but logging days had passed, so he became a ranger because the wilderness was in his blood. He'd never married. Our first date was a fish fry at Smokey Joe's Roadside Inn where, after devouring bass and walleye, we had a blast line dancing. A good night kiss in front of my cabin in the moonlight buckled my knees as I fell into his arms, and more dates followed.

But at the end of summer we both agreed that though we didn't live very far apart, we came from different worlds—academia and the wilderness—and well—that was it. We parted.

The first month of school ended, and Max still haunted my memory. One Friday afternoon, Carla popped into my office, closed the door, and said breathlessly, "There's a man out there at the secretary's desk asking about you."

My eyebrows jumped. "Brilliant blue eyes. Heavy beard?"

"Clean shaven. Crew cut. New jeans and pressed shirt. Truly handsome."

"Probably a father worried about his daughter."

When a tentative knock sounded at my office door and I said, "Come in," Carla jumped up and left. I stood up behind my desk in front of man whose face was familiar but unfamiliar. But for only a second. My mouth dropped, and I collapsed into the swivel chair behind my desk. "Max—?"

A smiled swept across his face. His lake-blue eyes sparkled. "Dr. Anderson?"

"What are you doing here, Max?" My mouth and lips could barely form the words.

"Took a little time off. Thought I'd visit your world like you visited mine—I haven't been able to forget you, Dr. Anderson."

"Lexi—please."

"I've really have missed you, Lexi."

Then I did something only a character in romance novel would do. I popped up out of my chair, stepped around my desk, and cupped the man's smooth cheeks in my hands. Right there in my office I kissed him. "I think we can blend our worlds," I said, my heart hammering.

"You think? Honestly?"

"Honestly. But you've got to let your beard grow out," I said, kissing him again. And again.

The End
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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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