A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts Page 7

Megan was still standing close to her uncle with both hands around her little plastic cup. Clearly she was warming them up.

  Lucy sat on the floor, and Megan immediately crawled into her lap. The little girl was used to that comfort, and Lucy felt a little jealous—missing her parents even more.

  Megan said, “It’s a lady, like you, with a big hat and a blue ribbon around her chin.”

  “To tie it on, you mean. Good idea, I seem to have lost mine and it ended up in the lily pad pond.”

  The kids looked at one another, and the boys got kind of fidgety too.

  The little girl only nodded, and the boys looked relieved. Seems there were more secrets between them. That’s probably how it should remain, Lucy thought.

  Then both boys yawned, the younger clearly following the lead of his big brother.

  Cole pointed to the stairs and ordered, “Be gone, and don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

  They whined together, “Again?”

  “Again.”

  Adam said, “Megan gets to stay up.”

  “Just until she finishes the story, and only because I don’t want you fighting over the bathroom sinks.” Then he turned back to the ladies and said to Megan, “Go on, honey. What happened to the lady in the picture?”

  Lucy imagined the worst, a tragedy—maybe she just disappeared, or was taken by strangers and terrible things happened. Did she fall down a well, off the roof, drowned in the lily pad pond? Lost in the woods and maybe a bear ate her—all options too.

  Silly, that, Lucy thought, hiding her smile (but not very well).

  Cole said, “Megan, she’s not buried in the garden, is she?”

  The little girl giggled. “No, that’s silly. It was just Miss Mildred’s grandma, that’s all. She likes what you’re doing in the garden, Miss Lucy.”

  But did Megan mean Miss Mildred, or Miss Mildred’s grandma?

  The End

  The Gardener

  * * * * *

  “Forget love, I'd rather fall in chocolate.“

  ~Sandra J. Dykes

  ~~~

  BLIND DATE

  Olivia Danvers was always better at first sight than at conversation—and definitely at what came after. Her mother, who had always called her Libby, said she was one of those pretty girls, the kind that every guy noticed when she walked into a room, but if they got up the nerve to talk, her intelligence scared them off.

  Moms are like that.

  But that would be true of the offspring of a Miss America runner-up and an astrophysicist who had been near the front of the line to be the next astronaut. He got distracted by his new wife and baby daughter and gave up his place, maybe his dreams.

  Her mother felt bad about that and tried to make it up to him ever after. They were a ridiculously happy couple, as far as Libby could ever tell, and so she was raised like that.

  It left her with unreasonable expectations as to what life was really like.

  Her mother would say, first about boys and then about men, “It’s their problem, not yours. There’s nothing to be done about that, except maybe act dumb or look mousy, and I don’t want you ever to do either one.”

  Her father would add, “Promise me, Libby, because when you get out of this suburb and into a big city, things will be different for you.”

  Normally, a girl told all that about herself and life would have been conceited, but for Libby, it was just the opposite. She felt . . . lesser.

  After all, she wasn’t quite as pretty as her mother, nor was she quite as smart as her father. The combination they had made—that would be their only child, a beloved daughter—was just that: less than either one of them.

  That being said, her parents were right about moving away to a bigger city when she went to college. How many girls want to admit that her parents were right about anything?

  But it had been true in high school and even more in college: Most guys were already too scared to talk to her because of her looks, especially given her chosen field of mechanical engineering. She figured that was because there just weren’t that many women in her classes.

  The young men who were not afraid were really not worth talking to—they were arrogant and shallow and spoiled, mostly jocks or rich kids who had always gotten whatever they wanted and got into the college because their parents had money.

  Libby had plenty of real friends, both male and female, and so she really had no reason to complain much. Some of the guys she knew were from school, and some were brothers of her girlfriends or dorm roommates or even the boyfriends’ friends.

  Libby wondered why they never fixed her up with any of those, but she never wondered out loud. At least, not since hearing herself referred to as the ‘Iceberg.’ That was in the library when she was hovering behind the encyclopedias—she tended to do that a lot, because when she got bored or missing home, she read them just like she did as a kid.

  Served her right for being . . . geek-like. Whatever the reason, there were never any dates for her like other girls, and she felt like a freak. She hadn’t thought before as to how she became such an outsider, but she woke up one day to the realization, and it seemed too late to change course.

  So even though Libby had promised her folks, eventually she couldn’t help it: She took steps to blend in a bit more. She started with seldom talking at social gatherings and found that a lot more people talked ‘at’ her than before. It seems that more people liked to talk than to listen, and turns out that she was not one of those.

  It helped for a while, but the only thing worse than shallow fellows quickly leaving her presence out of boredom or fear were those who took her silence as permission, and lingered too long, trying to put their hands on her somewhere.

  She stopped going to parties then and just listened to the chatting of her friends instead at the places where all students gather. She knew plenty of guys from her college classes in her major too—they weren’t friends, barely acquaintances. But she’d sit at their tables in the Commons or the library café and they’d make room, but then ignore her the rest of the time.

  Sometimes they would invite her to parties, but not often. Finally, one said, “Look, it’s like this. You’re a girl, and you know a lot of girls because you live in the dorm, and we’re mostly guys, and couldn’t you help us out sometime?”

  Ah, Libby, the dating service, she thought.

  But she said, “Yeah, I could do that.”

  Her friends in the dorm and her classmates ended up happy. Some dated, some even married, and she was sent an invitation to their weddings, but she never attended.

  She went to graduate school, while most of the others moved on to their jobs. It was like starting all over again. Not talking much was now habit, but this time around, she tied her hair back and started wearing baggy clothes and not much makeup and big-rimmed glasses with regular lenses (because her eyes were astronaut-perfect).

  Her mother would be ashamed of that, because it was giving in. Sometimes Libby called her folks just to talk, and they always asked about that:

  “Getting out on the town now and again,” her father would ask. “I suppose you have to make new friends now that the others are all graduated and moved away.”

  “Met any nice boys,” her mother would say, but then immediately talk about all her friends who now almost had grandkids.

  It was still sweet of them to care, and that’s as much as they nagged her about anything. She knew they were proud of her, of her grades and her career potential—what else had she given them?

  Some things just couldn’t be helped, and Libby decided that her career came first. And really, she was quite good at working with computers too. The machines didn’t care what she looked like either, nor that she was quiet when she did her work, or hummed a little off-key without noticing that she was humming at all.

  She finished her second degree with honors and landed an impressive job in a big city in another state. It was just like her mother had promised too—even better than college
had been better than high school.

  But Libby was set in her habits by then, and she preferred to watch life and relationships from a distance . . . mostly. Sometimes she felt a little lonely, but put that down to traveling so much, which she did for her new assignment in this particular technology group.

  She was a contractor now for a large firm that installed computer systems and did upgrades for government entities like cities and counties and states. Most times she was on her own, though she could always call in more help, and once in a while, she was able to hire college students as interns.

  Libby settled into a routine, and the years passed since college. She received birth notices for some kids of friends from the dorm, or classmates she’d had as an undergrad, and of course, every friend that her mother ever had supposedly also had grandkids.

  She sent the obligatory present, mostly something her mother told her that a new child must have. Every time she asked, Libby felt like she was letting down her parents again for not doing the same thing. But really, how could she when she’d spent all her life avoiding contact—at least since she was eleven and puberty had set in early?

  Early on, it was her looks. Then it was her brains.

  It still sounded conceited to her, and self-exile was still easier. Besides, she had yet to meet a man who could handle both of what her parents called her lucky traits.

  She was lucky too. How many people could say that?

  Libby hated to admit it, but at her latest birthday she finally had too: She had given up on love. She loved her job, and her folks, of course. She loved her friends and their memories then. But being ‘in love’? That was a mystery.

  Then things got worse—anytime she was in a remote assignment for more than a few weeks, the locals would always try to set her up with so-and-so:

  “He’s sweet.”

  Translation: He’s homely and shy and lives with his mother.

  “He’s a widower with a lovely little girl.”

  Translation: He needs to find her a mother.

  “He’s divorced, but the kids live with his ex-wives.”

  Translation: No way in Hell.

  In Libby’s estimation, blind dates set up by co-workers seemed to be pointless. But the folks at her new contracting assignment were insistent. They were nice people; she didn’t want to be rude. Eventually, they’d figure out that she was a lost cause—just like she already knew.

  But one day, she must have been hungry and distracted with work, because someone asked her, and she just nodded her head automatically. When it finally dawned on her what it was all about, it was too late to cancel out.

  ~~~

  Libby had seen him before—which is why she avoided him then. This job was another short-term contract—six months tops, and then she’d be back to home ground. She didn’t want to get attached to someone here, and then be missing him and wondering for the rest of her life if she’d passed up the future.

  Her mother said, “Always with the excuses.”

  Libby had that coming. What started at warnings and life lessons from her parents had become excuses for avoiding life instead.

  She had to admit then that while she was a coward, she was also an optimist. She had read encyclopedias while growing up and missed out on those fairy tale story books: Knight in shining armor, damsel in distress, Rapunzel in the tower, let down your—

  Libby felt herself blush—had she said any of that out loud?

  Why was she so nervous? Heavens, was this what some guys thought when they saw her?

  He really was rather good-looking.

  They sat now in a booth in a pub—he was no longer in uniform and she might not have known him . . . not true, she’d have noticed those eyes. They were blue, with dark lashes—lots of them, long ones too. She liked brown eyes, and hazel too. Blue eyes were never her favorites, but she liked them on him.

  It was her idea, this place. It was a dive, dark and kind of stinky with stale smoke and booze, but the food was good, even if ordinary and cheap. It was fast too, but different than asking to meet at a fast-food joint, which seemed . . . cynical.

  They ordered drinks first—he had a beer, she had iced tea.

  She added, “And please, add extra lemon?”

  The waitress/barmaid gave her a look. Libby would have preferred a beer too, but it didn’t do to drink when you had to drive after, especially when you were sitting across the table from sort-of-a cop.

  She said, “I’m sorry, without your name tag, I don’t remember your name.”

  “Levi, Levi Ryker.”

  Trooper Ryker, she thought; Ryker, that’s German.

  They sat in silence, but she didn’t notice, as she was still thinking about a work-related problem. It was easier than thinking about this situation, which she’d been avoiding for weeks . . . well, most of her adult life.

  What was that again about being a coward . . .

  Libby knew now that she was just avoiding disappointment. What if all those years it wasn’t because the guys were shy, or that she was too smart for anyone.

  What if she was just . . . the boring one?

  Someone played something on the old jukebox. It was a vintage song, a slow one and heavy metal that might have passed as a love ballad for a motorcycle gang.

  She liked it, but she’d always been able to think with tunes in the background. Tunes drowned out all the other noises in the background like a screen for bugs . . . bugs, software bugs . . . and her current distraction.

  Finally he said, “You don’t say much.”

  Clearly she wasn’t being entertaining.

  She said, “I was thinking.”

  He frowned. It made quite a difference in his looks—like a thick cloud intruding on a sunny day.

  Scary face—even better; Libby found she had goose bumps.

  Didn’t her mother say that women like bad boys, but that they make lousy husbands?

  He wasn’t a bad boy though; he just looked like one.

  She laughed, couldn’t help it. He now had that ‘Why are you speeding through my town?’ look. It must be quite annoying to those he would be giving the ticket then and there.

  Still, how dare he disapprove? Couldn’t they just get through this so that the people who had set up this blind date would give up and be resigned to her status as an iceberg?

  She said, “Yes, I was thinking. That scary to you, or just boring?”

  “I’m not bored. I like watching your face.”

  She said, “Is that good or bad?”

  He didn’t answer.

  So scary then, she thought. He wasn’t the first man she’d known to edge away without actually physically leaving, but he was the first who was brave enough to admit it. She was almost sorry to see him going.

  Yet, he was still sitting there, waiting.

  Wait, what? ‘I like watching your face.’

  Again, Libby felt herself blush. She decided to be honest. “I have a problem.”

  “Oh,” he said, suspiciously.

  That tone sounded like it was related to his work. In law enforcement, he was used to dealing with people with problems—usually ones to do with breaking the law and then making excuses for it or asking for inappropriate favors.

  “Can you fix this parking ticket, please?”

  “I have to go to the bathroom, officer, really bad. That’s why I was speeding.”

  “I swear my blinker bulb just went out not a minute ago.”

  “That’s not mine, officer, I give people rides all the time. Can’t you let this one go?”

  He’d probably heard more than she could possibly imagine.

  She said, “It’s to do with my work, a frontend design for remote access to the robotic arm on the—”

  Libby stopped. Her head echoed: “Lame.”

  He smiled slightly. “Really? You do a lot of that?”

  “What, thinking or working with tin men?”

  He smirked.

  She liked that, and to her grea
t embarrassment, her mind flashed to this man, with his German name, in an SS uniform—dark, lots of leather . . . ruthless. Like a wolf in disguise, stalking her . . . but in a good way. Her tummy felt a little strange, like some little bird was inside, tickling her with feathers.

  She added, “I do that for a living.”

  “I know, our mutual friend said. I don’t like to talk about my work either. It’s to do with people, and they—“

  He stopped, took a sip of his beer.

  The waitress took their order.

  He continued, “Look, what we do in law enforcement—it’s nobody else’s business. It’s a privacy issue, and sometimes people are embarrassed too. More likely they are annoyed, and sometimes angry. Other times, they think they are smarter than us and that might be true individually, but—”

  “Collectively, they are not. Collectively . . . cumulatively . . . I think you may have just solved my problem. Thanks.”

  She smiled for no good reason. He seemed to like that, and now his own smile was back.

  Seeing people at their worst, maybe the worst in their lives—it must be a draining job, even if you think it’s a calling. The only thing worse than people in those dire straits was dealing with them every day and night.

  Draining, it had to be, and dangerous too. She did not like that part at all. What had her parents said—There, but by the Grace of God, go I.

  She said, “Do you at least get good benefits? Vacation? Retirement plan?”

  His eyebrows went up.

  It was a hard job, she figured, they didn’t get paid enough. She was embarrassed knowing that her own salary for this contract was about double what any trooper like him made in a year. Libby was ashamed to admit that she had looked that up.

  She didn’t say anymore, just watched him as he was watching her. Her mind was racing though, and it must have shown in her eyes.

  Finally he smiled again, just one side this time. It gave him a dimple and she melted a bit more. That SS officer disappeared too—this man was one of the good guys.

  A funny little voice from a kids’ movie said inside her head: “Are you a good wolf, or a bad wolf?”