Good Enough

"I'd like you to meet my parents," Brittany said, sitting across from me at the oak-shaded picnic table. We'd strolled to the park, only a block away from our building, for a picnic lunch on this warm, sunny afternoon.

I smiled at her. What a gorgeous, blue-eyed redhead she was.

I couldn't believe she was so interested in me she wanted me to meet her parents.

"Are you going to tell them about us before we make the trip? We've been together, what, maybe two months now?"

Brittany studied the paper plate in front of her: hotdog, potato salad, beans, and chips. Like my plate. Then she looked at me and bit her full, luscious bottom lip. "I think we'll surprise them."

I puffed out a sigh. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

Here's the deal. Brittany and I are from different worlds. I'm a blue-collar guy—a mechanic who owns his own garage and tow truck. I also have three other mechanics working for me. At age twenty-eight, I'm doing well. CENTRAL AUTO SERVICE. But Brittany's a paralegal, on her way to becoming a lawyer. We met when she brought her ailing car in to be serviced and I got it running again like it was new. As a bonus, we discovered we lived in the same apartment building, she on the fourth floor, me on the seventh. What can say? Chemistry took over.

The thing is, I work in coveralls and steel-toed work boots and come home grimy and greasy, smelling of exhaust. She wears dress, blouses, skirts, and heels and smells of flowery perfume. My hands are thick, gnarly, and calloused, nails grimy. Hers are dainty, soft, and beautiful, nails painted. She doesn't seem to mind our differences, but what will her folks think?

Brittany's parents lived two hours away. I suggested we take her car, a sporty little red sedan, but she said my old pickup was fine. I said I'd wear my finest pair of slacks, a shirt with a collar, and my shiny black loafers. She said my baseball cap, a T-shirt, jeans, and my cowboy boots would be okay. She wanted her folks to see the real me.

Oh man!

See, the other thing is that from what Brittany has told me about her folks, I'm sure elegance surrounds them. They're retired doctors living in a gated community. I'm also sure they expect their only child—the most beautiful girl in the world—to snag a guy who is sophisticated and smooth, someone with a great job, and even better prospects. Like a junior partner in a well-established law firm.

I'm none of the above.

On Saturday, Brittany called her folks early in the morning, asked if she could come for lunch, and said she had someone important she wanted them to meet.

I sat at her kitchen table and flashed a big grin. "I'm important? Me? Levi Jones? I feel honored. But why did you wait so long to call?"

"I didn't want to give them time to plan anything. Like invite a mysterious stranger over to the house for me to meet." She made an adorable pouty face. "That's happened before."

"Ahh! I understand."

After we'd driven out of town, headed across county in my pickup, Brittany at my side dressed in white shorts and a red top, she said, "You don't need to be nervous, you know?"

But I was a bundle of nerves, my fingers continually flexing on top of the steering wheel. "Look, I'm not what your folks are expecting."

I glanced at her. Her chin lifted. "What do you think they expect?"

"Someone older. Someone with an education, well-spoken, and well-established. Big bank account."

"Well," she said, "they'll have to settle for a hunk with curly black hair and a wicked sense of humor—a guy who is kind, generous, and gentle? A guy named Levi."

An ear-to-ear grin raced across my face, and my chest exploded with pride. "You talking about me?"

Brittany laughed and playfully fist-bumped me on the shoulder. "Who else?"

After the guard at the Crestwood Community gate let us by and I parked in front of her parents' palatial residence, I gulped and thought I might lose my nerve. I cannot do this! I said to myself. But Brittany flung her arms around my neck. "Look, everything will be fine." She kissed me quickly. "Just because I'm in love with you doesn't mean my folks have to be."

My breath caught. That's the first time in our two months together either of us had mentioned the L-word.

"Love?" I said, bewildered but happy.

"Love! Don't you just love the sound of the word? L-O-V-E!"

"I do! I love it!"

"Well," Brittany said, kissing me again, then reaching for her door handle. "Let's see if my parents are good enough for you."

The End
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Crystal Lake

For twenty minutes it was just the three of us—the sun, Crystal Lake, and me—as I sat on a bench, watching the sun setting behind the pine trees far across the water. Then the handsome construction worker eased onto the bench with me.

Though he left a respectable space between us, butterflies swarmed in my stomach.

"Beautiful sight," he said. "Never gets old."

I'd met him at the nearby Crystal Lake Café, my summer job. He was a carpenter working at the new condos located close to Crystal Lake Cave. Every day I served him three bratwurst with everything and a tall, frosted mug of root beer. Then he tromped outside to eat at a picnic table in the shade of an oak tree. While working, he lived in a motor home at the Crystal Lake Campgrounds.

"I do this sometimes," I said. "Watch the sun set before I go home. Helps me relax."

"I was taking a hike around the campgrounds and lake, my way of relaxing. Glad I found you here."

We already knew a bit about each other. I'd taken a break once and sat with him at the picnic table while he ate—I don't know why I did that. Curiosity, I guess. His soft brown eyes and easy smile intrigued me. I told him I was Wendy Wright, a second-grade teacher, single, who lived in town, and had worked at the café during summertime as a waitress or as a guide in Crystal Lake Cave since I was sixteen, ten years.

He was Cole Hazard, an engineering student at nearby City College, ready to finish his degree this fall, a Marine veteran who worked as a carpenter during the summer to help finance his education.

I also knew he was afraid of caves. At least he said he had no desire to get even close to one. He'd asked me for a date, but I'd turned him down. We both had our fears.

"Amazing," he said now, his eyes swinging from me to the faraway pines. "The sun's a red ball sinking behind the trees. The sky's pink and lavender."

"If you like nature," I said, "you'd surely like Crystal Lake Cave."

He shook his head. "I read about it. Lead miners discovered the cave in the mid 1800s. Lots of—what do you all them? Those things hanging from the ceiling and growing up from the floor? Like icicles."

"Stalactites and stalagmites."

"Right." His face turned to stone. His hands clenched. "I was in way too many caves and other dark places in Afghanistan. I don't need any of that again."

And with that he stood and marched off into the dusk.

I bit my bottom lip. I felt terrible. He must have thought I was pressuring him to explore the cave, a typical guide. I had no idea his fear might be related to combat. I must have triggered a terrible flashback. I needed to apologize, but he didn't show up at the café for lunch the following two days.

He didn't work on weekends.

Saturday I drove to the campgrounds but couldn't find him.

He didn't show for lunch on Monday.

But he shambled by Monday evening just before dusk as I sat on the same bench, watching the sunset. He sat down next to me. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach again.

His smile came slowly. "Sorry about the other night."

"My fault. I understand, and I'm sorry. Really sorry."

"No need to be. It's my problem."

"Where have you been?"

"Took a couple of days off. Went home to think."

I sucked in a deep breath of air. "Look, Cole, to be fair, I've got to tell you something. About dating—I have my own fears."

His brown eyes turned soft. "I know."

"You know?"

"I asked about you. You lost your fiancée in a motorcycle accident two years ago. And haven't dated since."

A huge lump formed in my throat. "It's time I got over that."

Silence descended on us. Who would speak next? Each of us was waiting. "Look," he finally said. "I'll...I'll give that cave thing a try. If you'll be my guide."

Oh my! Would he really do that? How brave! "Uh-uh," I said.

He frowned.

I added quickly, "Not until you've gone on at least two or three dates with me."

A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. He slid closer to me. My heart pin wheeled. "I'd be a fool not to accept this opportunity," he said.

As the red sun began its descent behind the trees far across Crystal Lake, I found my own smile. "How about neither one of us being fools any longer?" I said.

The End

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New Memories

The night I decided to talk to her she sat in front of glowing campfire. We'd been camping neighbors at Sugar Point Campgrounds for two nights, she in her tent along with her golden retriever, me in my truck camper, alone.

I hadn't seen her during the day, only at night as she sat in front of a fire in a folding chair, her dog lying by her side.

I'd spent my daytime hours on the lake fishing, getting up at sunrise—she was still sleeping in her tent—returning just before dusk, then cleaning fish, making supper in my camper, and hitting the sack early.

What did she do all day? Why was she alone except for her dog? I mean, she was a very attractive blond-haired lady of perhaps forty—my age. The license plates on her mini van indicated she was from the same county in the eastern part of the state as I was. Did we live in the same city?

On the third night, curiosity getting the best of me, sucking in a deep breath, not knowing what to expect—she might think me a predator—I approached her campsite, coffee pot and two Styrofoam cups in hand.

"Hi," I said, as she looked up from her chair. "Great fire. Nice cool night." I gazed up at the oblong moon surrounded by a zillion stars, then at her. "Thought you might like a cup of coffee. Decaffeinated, so it won't keep you up all night."

Her dog rose to a sitting position, wagging its tail. "Lady, stay," she said. Then to me, "I'd love a cup of coffee. It's the one thing I forgot to pack."

I set the cups on the picnic table, poured, and handed her one. "I've got sugar—"

"This'll be fine—I don't have another chair."

"No problem," I said. "Name's Chad Arnold. Attorney, from Lewistown."

"Dawn Davidson. Principal, Roosevelt Junior High. New Liberty. Just down the road."

That info pleasing me, we shook hands. Then I sat at the picnic table, and she smiled.

That's all it took to start us off talking. As the oblong moon drifted across the sky and crickets started singing, she told me she was a widow. Her husband had died two years ago. When everyone was younger, the family camped every summer. She was alone now. Her boys had married and moved away. "I did this last year," she said. "Just Lady and me, camping. It's a way to stay in touch with some of my fondest memories."

"I agree—keeping memories alive is important." Then I felt obliged to tell her my story. Divorced five years ago. No kids. Camped and fished with my mom and dad when I was young. Started camping and fishing last year by myself to get away and relax.

She smiled again in the firelight—I loved her smile. Her eyes appeared to be blue. "We didn't fish," she said. "Hiking, waterskiing, swimming, and cooking over a campfire—that was our thing. Lots of singing around the fire, too. My husband played the guitar."

I thought of asking her to go fishing with me in the morning, but since she'd probably never fished before—and I guessed she liked to sleep in—I tossed the idea. She thanked me for the coffee, and we said goodnight. Climbing into my camper, I chided myself for not asking her if she liked to eat fish—we could have a fish fry tomorrow night. But maybe she'd think I was coming on too strong. What to do?

When I came in early from fishing the next afternoon, she and Lady had left in her mini van. The tent was still there, though—she hadn't gone home. I still had a chance. Shortly after I cleaned my fish and showered, she returned. Setting three bags of groceries on her picnic table, she then shuffled over to my campsite, Lady beside her, tail wagging.

She looked flushed, pink rising in her cheeks. Nervous maybe. "Um...I was wondering"—her eyes were definitely blue—"um...if you'd like to eat a campfire supper with me tonight. Hot dogs. Bratwurst."

I swear, my heart jumped into my throat, and it took a moment before I could find my voice. "This is so weird," I said. "I was going to ask you to eat fish with me."

Another smile. A big one that made those blue eyes sparkle. "I asked you first," she said.

"I know. And I can't believe it. Hot dogs and bratwurst it is! You ever been crappie fishing?"

"Uh-uh. You ever been blueberry picking?"

"Nope."

We both smiled this time. And when she said, "I think we've got a lot to talk about," I pictured both of us perhaps making a new set of memories.

The End
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Neighbors

My new neighbor—a beautiful, slender redhead—wobbled near the top step of a six-foot ladder on a sunny spring afternoon, tossing last fall's soggy leaves out of the gutter along the front of her house.

I parked in my drive and hopped out of my car.

The ladder—an old, rickety wooden one—appeared ready to buckle.

At any moment, I expected her to tumble and hit the ground. She'd be lucky if she didn't break her neck. I yelled: "Need any help?"

But she didn't answer, so I scuffed across the lawn, waving at her. When she spotted me, she clambered down the ladder and waved back. Despite dirt smudges on her chin and cheek, she smiled a most winsome blue-eyed smile.

"Hi, I'm Lilly Carter. We're neighbors, I guess."

"Carl Foster," I said, and extended a hand.

She whipped off a brown glove and we shook. I confess, at the touch of her warm hand in mine, I my heart jumped, but if I thought we were going to be friendly neighbors, I was disappointed. She refused my help with the gutters, saying, "I've got to do these things myself."

"But everyone needs help once in a while," I said. "It's what neighbors are for."

She thanked me but dismissed me.

I tried to help her a few more times. When she attached her garden hose to the outside faucet and water squirted everywhere, I recommend she insert a washer at the end of the hose. When she couldn't start her lawnmower—one that the previous house owner had left in the garage—I told her I could change the spark plug and oil and clean the fuel filter, but she refused my help. She came home the next day with a new lawnmower.

That rebuff hurt. I wondered if we'd ever be anything but strangers living next to one another.

The next week, a buddy clued me in about Lilly. I'm a plumber, and my buddy Jeff's an electrician. He'd come over to hook up a new electrical box for me and recognized her the second he spotted her pruning the hedges in front of her house.

"We went to high school together," he said. "Lost Nation. About a hundred miles from here. Homecoming queen. Every guy in school was dying to date her. Her family's rich, man. Her old man's a real estate developer. She should be a fashion model living in New York. What's she doing living next to you?"

"Beats me."

A week later disaster befell me. On a Saturday morning I dashed outside to get my mail from the box at the curb, and when I dashed back, I realized I'd pulled my front door closed and had locked myself out of the house.

I had two choices: Break a window to get in. Or ask my not so neighborly neighbor for help. But would she?

Standing on her front porch, while she smiled at me warmly, I explained the situation. "All my windows are locked," I told her, "except the bathroom one. But it's high up and the window's narrow." I felt sheepish. "I need someone slender to climb through."

Her eyes brightened. "I'd be glad to. Where will I find your keys?"

"Kitchen table probably."

My ladder sat in my basement; hers was broken. So I hoisted her up to the window. She wiggled through, no problem, suddenly out of sight. "You okay?" I called.

Smiling, she stuck her head of blond curls out the window and dropped my keys down to me. "You left them on the bathroom sink," she said.

I unlocked my back door, and when I entered the house, I found her sitting at the kitchen table. "I'd like to talk to you," she said, blushing a little. "I haven't been a good neighbor—I'm trying very hard to be an independent woman."

Intrigued and smitten, I sat down across from her.

She said her parents were wonderful, loving, kind, and thoughtful, but she needed her freedom. That's why five years after earning her degree in marketing, she'd finally taken a job away from home as manager of a cosmetics store here in the mall. "But I do realize, like you told me when we first met, everyone needs help once in awhile."

"That's true. Everyone."

She lowered her blue eyes, then looked up at me hopefully. I loved her eyes and curly hair. "The old gas grill I found in the garage won't light," she said.

"Spider webs clogging the burners, probably. Propane tank might be empty. I can fix all that. If you'll let me."

Her smile was the brightest ever. "Then perhaps we can have a cookout tonight, neighbor."

I nodded slowly and felt a grin breaking wide across my face. "Yes, we can," I said. "Yes, indeed—neighbor."

The End
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