Worth the Effort

    “Had some of that once. Wasn’t worth the effort.”
    I managed not to snicker too loudly at Duncan’s comment about the mayor, who had stopped by our table with her fake politician’s smile and pleasantly bland expression. (Politicians must take classes on that.) I had known and loved Duncan since first grade, and was used to his blunt comments, but that one I sure did not expect.
    “Really?” I managed to ask without giggling.
    “Yeah. She hinted around a few times about another date, but I never asked her out again.”
    I grinned at Duncan. He grinned back and asked, “Want some dessert?”
    “Sure,” I replied and picked up the dessert menu.

    Duncan and I were on one of our occasional “dates” – if you could call them that. We’ll eat out together, sometimes go to a movie, and on days nothing strikes our fancy we ride around the countryside for a couple of hours. He is always a perfect gentleman, opens the truck door for me, walks me to my door, kisses me on the cheek as he says good-night.
    I’m not sure if he knows I love him. I’m not sure how he feels about me past our being best friends.
    Duncan dates other women frequently. I’ve seen him out with them; he acknowledges my presence when he sees me, often introducing me to his date and telling them I am his best friend.
    But does he care for me more than that?

    I selected crème brûlée, hoping the restaurant had a chef who made it on-site. Duncan chose the lava brownie. (Gotta love a man who loves chocolate!)
    We talked about the weather while awaiting our desserts; a fine snow had been falling when we arrived at the restaurant. Unless the weather turned nasty, a light dusting would probably be tonight’s accumulation.
    Our desserts arrived. The crème brûlée, while not the best I’ve ever had, was good. Duncan said his lava brownie was perfect. 
    We finished our desserts, Duncan paid our tab, and we walked out of the restaurant to find that the snow had stopped and the clouds were breaking up. 

    When Duncan stopped his truck in front of my garage, he asked, “Do you want me to drive you to work tomorrow?”
    “No. I don’t see any need for you to do that extra driving, especially since the snow stopped.”
    The reflection of the headlights off the garage door allowed me to see Duncan nod. I had no idea why he had asked about driving me to work. I always drove myself, no matter the weather.
    Duncan started to get out of the truck to walk me to the door. I laid my hand on his arm and told him, “You don’t have to get out.”
    Duncan looked down at my hand. We rarely touched one another.  
    “Allie . . .” Duncan started, then stopped. He rubbed the back of my hand and looked through the windshield.
    Unsure of his mood, I kept quiet.
    He turned back toward me and asked, “Allie, do you mind if I come in tonight?”
    I didn’t know how to answer. I wanted Duncan, but I didn’t want to rush things as he had frequently said he didn’t like pushy women. I wasn’t sure he would like my question, but I asked anyway.
    “What are you asking, Duncan?”
    “Allie . . .” Again he stopped, this time looking me in the eye. “Allie, I’ve dated a lot more than you ever do. I’ve been looking for something and didn’t know what. You always listen to anything I tell you, without judging or ridicule. You’ve been the one person I could rely on being there for me no matter what.”
    Duncan paused, turned my hand over and laced his fingers through mine. 
    “I did a lot of thinking last weekend after my date with Roxie Jones. I think me saying you are always there for me pissed her off, and, you know Roxie, she never was one to keep quiet about something. She told me that she knew why I never got serious with any woman, just used them and moved on, that you were the only one for me and that I was too dumb to realize it.
    “I sat home Saturday and Sunday, drinking and thinking about that. And finally came to my senses. Allie, you are the one I always turn to for comfort, for understanding, for a relaxing day. I think I’ve always known you love me, but were afraid you’d drive me away if you said anything. I’ve taken advantage of that and shouldn’t’ve.”
    Duncan took a deep breath, squeezed my hand, then continued.
    “Allie, I’ve taken you for granted. Never meant to but I have. I’m sorry about that and if you’ll let me into your life, I will do my best to never take you for granted again. Will you let me in?”
    I squeezed Duncan’s hand. This man I love with all my heart was trying to say he loved me, but couldn’t quite get there. I understood his unspoken questions, his fears, for I had them also. Could we be together, as Duncan and Allie, and still be at ease with one another, share a life together, really together, without becoming disillusioned? I did not know the answers. All I knew for certain was that I love Duncan and want him in my life.
    “Duncan . . .” I was the hesitant one now. How could I tell him I loved him unconditionally, always would? “Duncan, I’ve loved you for years and have tried to give you the room you seemed to want. I will let you into my life but can we take it slow?”
    “Allie, I will do anything you want to have you by my side for the rest of my life. May I come in tonight?”
    He leaned over and gently kissed my lips. 
    I returned his kiss, knowing Duncan was worth any effort.

In Aunt Eleanor's Button Box: 2

 My dear Henry,
    It has been five years since you left this earth. At times, it feels like it was only yesterday; other times it feels like it’s been an eternity. I miss you every day, your smile, your easy ways, your strength of body and soul, your unwavering love for me.
    Henry, I met someone a few weeks ago. His name is Samuel. Some ways he is like you, others not at all. He says he loved me as soon as he saw me. Does he? Can he? I know I’m not a beauty, have no special talents or assets, nothing that I can think of that would have drawn him to me.
    When I add in that he is several years younger than me, famous, wealthy, and has younger, beautiful women shamelessly flirting with him, how can I believe he loves me? How can I trust him?
    He knows I don’t trust him and that peeves him considerably. How can I trust him, Henry? We have known each other such a short time and I know so little about him besides his public persona that I’m afraid to trust him. You know how I am, Henry, how few people besides you I trust in any way.
    Henry, my love for you is still as strong as when you were alive. How is it possible that I love Samuel more than I ever imagined I could love again? And therein lies some of my problems in trusting him, for right now I don’t trust my own heart.
    This was so sudden. One day I was still adjusting to being alone, without you. The next day Samuel and I met at a benefit luncheon. My heart fluttered when we were introduced and he shook my hand; it had never done that with any man but you, Henry.
    My lack of trust is turning into fear. I don’t know if it is the fear of loving again and not knowing if his love is as true as yours, Henry, or simply fear of the unknown. I don’t know which fear would be easier to overcome.
    You know my heart is tender, Henry, how easily it can be broken, how easily it forgives. That has always been my curse, a heart that is caring and loving, and forgives too quickly. I am thankful God lent you to me for the time we had together; it showed me that someone did love me, completely and truly.
    I love you, Henry.

Eleanor

In Aunt Eleanor's Button Box: 1

 Dear God,
    How have I wound up at this strange point in my life? My Henry has been gone five years. I never expected, at my age, to have another man in my life, especially one who is quite a bit younger than me.
    We met by chance, and my heart fluttered when we shook hands. He pursued me, something that has puzzled me, for I have seen younger and prettier women flirt with him. What does he see in me?
    I love him, at least as much as I can, for my dear Henry is still in my heart and always will be. Can I love two mean equally? Can I love Samuel as much as he needs and deserves? I hope I do and that our love will last.
    Dear God, I know what I am doing is morally wrong, for he is married. I know I should tell Samuel good-bye and not see him again. So far, I’ve not been able to. 
    Having him in my life lifts my moods and brings a peace of mind that had been missing since Henry’s death. I did not realize how much I had missed that peace of mind until Samuel appeared. Nor how much I needed it.
    Dear God, help me with this. Samuel says he prayed for a good woman and You sent me to him. I don’t know. I know You are all-powerful and can do anything, but I do not know Your intentions with Samuel and me.
    Please send me some sign. One way or the other. A clear and powerful sign that I can easily understand. 
    Thank You for all that You have done for me.
    Amen.

Notes in Grandma's Handkerchief Drawer

While walking in the rain, we held hands, splashed in puddles, kissed beneath an elm tree. You laughed with me when the rain fell harder, drenching us on this summer afternoon.

* * * * *

Your blushing bride
I am not
Rather, your older woman
Who recalls with pleasure
Our lovemaking

* * * * *

Wrapped in your arms, I can pretend the world has gone away, feel only your love and strength, let my defenses down, if only for a moment.

* * * * *

Love in the summer. Born of a chance encounter. Sweet as dewfall. Peaceful as dawn’s first light. Fragile as a butterfly’s wing.

* * * * *

Notes in Grandma's Knitting Basket

I watch you sleep. My morning routine has not disturbed you. You look at peace in sunlight filtered through sheers. I hope you are dreaming of me.

* * * * *

A breeze rustles oak leaves

Crickets chirp in the grass

Cuddled on a Lone Star quilt

We enjoy the day together

* * * * *

I love your laugh. It lightens my moods, lets me know you are happy with me, for how could you laugh so freely, so easily, if you were not.

* * * * *

A rooster’s crowing awakens me at first light. I stir, and your arm tightens around me, pulling me into your love and early morning pleasures.

* * * * *

Found in a Thunderstorm

    Damn! I was lost, which I guess was appropriate as I was looking for Lost Acres Campground. I hadn’t seen sign of any habitation for at least ten miles, not even a battered mailbox. Rain was coming down in sheets and the wind behind it was rocking the Explorer. Flashes of lightning illuminated more trees than what my headlights revealed.
    Finally, I applied the brakes and stopped the Explorer in the middle of the road. I hadn’t seen any place to turn around, and the GPS had given up on locating a satellite about fifty miles back. Since most roads eventually lead to somewhere and I had seen no Dead End Ahead signs, I could only surmise this road would connect at some point to a road with a number sign and maybe, if the fates were smiling on me, a sign telling where a town might lie.

    The rain showed no signs of slackening any time soon. The lightning was increasing in intensity and the last few claps of thunder had rattled loose bits of the Explorer. I decided I might as well go on down this road on which I was the only traveler at the witching hour. The gas gauge showed nearly three-quarters of a tank so I could drive another hundred miles before worrying about that.
    I removed my foot from the brake pedal and resumed rolling on my way. The white line glowed brightly in the beam of the headlights, as if it had recently been painted; that made me feel a little less lost for surely such fresh paint indicated civilization couldn’t be far away.

    Twenty minutes later the rain began to lessen in intensity, and the lightning and the thunder were further apart, causing me to hope the storm would dissipate soon. The headlights and lightning were lighting up the roadsides enough that I could see the trees were thinning out. Maybe Lost Acres Campground wouldn’t be much farther.
    A flash of yellow ahead surprised me. It was a sign indicating a sharp curve to the left; it was the first road sign I’d seen since getting off the Interstate and onto this two-lane thoroughfare.
    Around the curve, the density of the trees increased. Damn! I was hoping for something, anything, to let me know I hadn’t gone into a different dimension where I was the only human being present. 

    As the thunder and lightning moved into the distance, the rain had settled into a moderate rhythm, not enough to hinder visibility, but enough that it would soak me to the skin in a few seconds if I had to get out in it. 
    The wind had slackened to a moderate breeze, waving unmown roadside grasses. When I caught a glimpse of something white, I thought it was a reflection of the headlights on a wide blade of grass. As I got closer, the white became more distinct and I could tell it was a nameplate on a mailbox – at least it was the right height.
    Thank goodness! It was a mailbox and the nameplate said Lost Acres Campground and there was a wide driveway beside the mailbox. I turned in, very glad I had found my destination, and that I had rented a cabin. I wouldn’t relish putting up a tent in this weather, nor on the sodden ground.
    After a quarter mile or so the driveway put me at the office – a cabin just large enough for an office. It had a sign by the door that said Office, and the phone number underneath that information was large enough I could read it without getting out into the rain.

    A sleepy voice answered my call. “Lost Acres Campground. How may I help you?”
    “This is Grace Reynolds,” I replied. “Sorry to  be checking in so late, but the rain slowed me down.” Not to mention the umpteen miles of nothing that I had driven through, much slower than the posted speed limit.
    “I’ll be right there,” the masculine drawl informed me before he hung up.
    Ten minutes later, a Chevy pickup pulled up beside my Explorer. A man emerged, ran to the office door, unlocked it and went in. I got out of the Explorer, dashed to the office’s porch, and followed him inside.
    He removed his slicker and hung it on a coatrack beside the door before he went to the check-in counter and perused a wire-bound calendar that was open to today’s date. “Grace Reynolds. Checking in today and staying a week. That correct?”
    Then he looked up at me.

    I nearly gasped. I could not believe who I was seeing. Michael. My life-long love. We had not seen each other since my eighteenth birthday, when I aged out of the foster system and enlisted in the United States Air Force. Twenty-three years and a hundred and four countries later, I had decided to retire and tour my home country to see what all was here.
    And here I was. Facing the one person I never expected to see again, nor have to explain to him why I had left so suddenly, and never let anyone know where I was. Nor who I had become. Reynolds was my birth name, but I had gone by Jackson while living with that set of foster parents; I think they were the only people in town who knew my birth name.
    His brown eyes were as intense and guarded as I remembered. His black hair had gray threaded through it. There were a few lines on his face and he had a full beard. But there was no mistaking who this was – my Michael.

    He found his voice first. “Grace. My saving Grace.”
    I couldn’t reply. I didn’t know what to say. I knew I couldn’t tell him that, while getting groceries for my foster mother three days before my birthday, I had overhead his mother tell one of her friends that, “He can fuck that worthless foster bitch’s brains out as far as I’m concerned, but no way in hell will she ever be welcome in my house.” 
    Four days later, after minimal contact with Michael, blaming senior finals for my absence from his life, and collecting my diploma, I had packed the pertinent documents and hitchhiked to the nearest Air Force recruitment office. 

    Now, nearly twenty-five years later, I was face-to-face with the man I had dreamed about often, no matter where I was, nor what my duties were at the time. Korea. Hawaii. Guam. Kuwait. Morocco. Germany. Japan. England. Afghanistan. Memories of Michael traveled with me. And questions. Had he married? Was he happy? Does he remember me?
    He remembered me. My heart fluttered the way it always did when Michael’s eyes warmed as he looked at me. My fingers twitched, wanting to feel the soft texture of his curling hair. I swallowed hard. I had to get a grip on my emotions. I had been cooler and calmer when in Afghanistan.
    “Hi, Michael. This is a surprise.” I didn’t tell him that if I’d thought he was running Lost Acres Campground, I would have found another campground.
    “Grace. My saving Grace. I never expected to see you again.” He walked around the counter, opening his arms for a hug. 
    I couldn’t refuse him. I went into his arms. We held each other for several minutes, not speaking, quietly savoring our sudden reunion. He had called me his “saving grace” many times in high school, for I always listened to his dreams that his parents harshly dismissed as flights of fancy, expecting him to bend to their wills. Michael wanted to fly free of anyone’s expectations except his and mine. 
    I knew I had broken his heart by leaving and never contacting him. I had never forgiven myself for that callousness. Judging from his welcome, Michael had forgiven me.

    We finally took a step back from each other, although Michael grasped my hands tightly. 
    “Grace. I never thought I’d see you again but looked for you in any town I’ve been in, hoping I’d see you across a restaurant or in a bookstore. Where have you been?”
    “A little bit of everywhere. I joined the Air Force and retired a year or so ago.”
    “The Air Force? I never considered that.” He pulled me back into his arms. “I can’t believe you’re really here. In my arms again. Grace.”

    I couldn’t answer him. I was fighting tears. This precious man that I was certain I had hurt deeply with my disappearance still loved me, apparently unconditionally. I didn’t want to give up his warm embrace, for I had dreamed of it every night, missed it every waking moment, wanted his strength and love with me constantly. 
    Now, could I have it? If he asked why I left, could I tell him? Should I tell him? No. I couldn’t let my bitterness at his mother cloud Michael’s love for me. I’d concoct some story, some way, to cover my sudden departure from our hometown. 
    Tonight. Tonight I would relish being with Michael again. We could talk of what we’ve done since we last saw each other, skim the surface of twenty-plus years, avoid whys and why nots, and the pain I’m sure lurked just under the skin for both of us.
    I love Michael. I always will.