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.