A Date in Gettysburg

What follows is what I'd call a "light" romance story, with plenty of room for a follow-up.

Bethany, sweet, beautiful Bethany Kowalski, she with those gorgeous and mesmerizing purple-blue eyes and that light mocha skin, velvety smooth with nary a tattoo to mar it. She had a secret admirer. Well, not so secret because she knew me. We were distant cousins, and then only though marriage. I was ten years older, old enough to where her parents had called upon me to babysit when she was nine and I was a nineteen-year-old college student. You know how the song goes: "thank heaven, for little girls, for little girls grow bigger every day/thank heaven, for little girls, they grow up in the most delightful way..."

Bethany certainly had, twenty-one-years old in 2018, the year this story takes place. I hadn't actually seen her in-person since she was nine. I did follow her on Facebook ever since she signed on just past her sixteenth birthday. She was then a junior in high school and had a boyfriend in the same school and grade. Joey was his name, a nice-looking kid who played football for the school team. They were in love, or so it appeared. Graduation pics show them together in maroon cap and gown, smiling for the camera next to her parents, her Polish-American dad and Hispanic mom and her kid brother Josh, then fifteen. Her life seemed set. A year after high school, they got engaged and moved into the house where she spent her formative years. Her parents, meanwhile, had built a bigger house in McSherrystown, Pennsylvania. The house was paid for—all Bethany and Joey had to do was get married and live happily ever after.

But a not-so funny thing happened on the way to Paradise. Their teen love didn't mesh with the dynamics of domestic co-habitation. Joey drank a lot of beer, too much for Bethany, a light drinker at best. They argued more than they agreed. In fact, the only thing they agreed on was that their proposed life trajectory had been blown way off course and it was best they split. Joey moved, then Bethany did. She moved into an apartment with two other girls, leaving her parents with an empty house and unsure what to do with it. She could have moved back with her parents and Josh. But, as I later found out, she objected to the "rules" of their household.

Meanwhile, I continued to follow Bethany on Facebook. Joey was out of the picture, literally, because the pics of she and Joey had vanished, replaced with selfies and group pics of Bethany and her girlfriends. Through Facebook and the family grapevine, I learned that she was working at Starbucks and taking online college courses through Phoenix University. I also heard that her dad, a former railroad worker in his mid-fifties, had undergone back surgery that had left him partially paralyzed.

Facebook and family tidbits normally provide a mere glimpse into the lives of people. If I wanted to know more about Bethany, direct contact was the way to go. I remembered her as a sweet kid, "normal" in every way that a healthy and happy nine-year old girl should be. I won't deny that her having grown into a beautiful young woman added incentive to my curiosity. I wondered if she'd even remember me. "Cousin Cody," she had called me during those few times when I babysat. We played Monopoly and checkers and I was teaching her chess; that is, when she wasn't watching cartoons on her parents' computer or chatting up her friends on the phone.

Well, cousin Cody Davis was now thirty-one, single and doing okay for himself. I had a college degree in business under my belt, plus a thriving home construction business employing about a dozen workers. So many of my ex-classmates from Penn State opted to get their MBA and then matriculate into the corporate world. Not me. Wearing a suit and tie every day and sitting behind a desk? No thanks. I wanted to get my hands dirty. Having worked for my dad's construction firm during the summers, I had a head-start.

Two-thousand-eighteen was the year my five-year relationship with Sarah Zoeller came to an end. We said our final goodbye just after New Year's. Long story short: she wanted to get married and I didn't, and that was that. Of course, it wasn't that simple and easy. Break-ups never are. There was lots of pain, guilt, self-recrimination, all that stuff. I didn't date for months. But by spring of that year, I began "looking" once again, and that's when Bethany came to mind. I knew which Starbucks she worked at and decided one morning to stop by for a cup of java before work.

It was a warm May morning when I pulled into the parking lot in my green F-150 Ford pickup wearing typical work clothes, jeans, a denim, long-sleeve shirt and steel-toed work boots. I sat for a few minutes, wondering if she'd recognize me. I'd seen her on Facebook; she hadn't seen me since she was nine, unless she saw MY Facebook page, which I doubted. I didn't look all that different. I still stood around five-foot-eleven, weighed close to two-hundred. I still had brown hair and sported a light beard and mustache, facial hair I lacked during my babysitting days. She'd never recognize me, I decided.

I recognized HER right away on that day when the place looked busy even for a morning rush hour. There was Bethany, taking orders and serving customers, take-out and those that chose to sit inside. She was flitting back and forth, smiling at the people who smiled at her, and that was most of them. She wore her light brown hair pulled back, her work doo, I reckoned. Her Facebook pics showed her with long, wavy locks that flowed toward the middle of her back, sometimes with the ends dyed a funky purple. Those pics were less revealing of her height, which I estimated at around five-seven. The girl I knew as a nine-year-old was on the slim side. The young woman of twenty-one wasn't quite Rubenesque but maybe getting there if she didn't control her eating as she aged. The long green apron she wore, standard Starbucks issue, hid much of her busty frame. One of her selfies revealed plenty of deep cleavage. I normally went for slimmer women. Yet she was too pretty to ignore. Again, those beautiful eyes and those prominent cheek bones and full mouth. She had a happy vibrancy about her, something she possessed as a kid.

I waited until she was behind the counter to make my move. Stepping up, I ordered a medium coffee, half-regular, half-decaf. She smiled and went about filling my order. When she returned, I said, "Hi, Bethany. You probably don't recognize me, but I babysat you over ten years ago. We're distant cousins and—″

"Cousin Cody!?"

"That's me."

Her face lit up. "Ohmygod, I don't believe it! How are you?"

"I'm great. I can't believe you recognized me."

She laughed. "Well, you looked familiar. And when you said babysitting and distant cousins, my memory light flashed on. Do you work around here?"

I gave her a brief rundown of what I did. Then: "Look, I know you don't have time to talk. But I'd like to catch up sometime when you're not busy."

"Would love to," she said. We took out our cells and exchanged numbers.

I called her that night. After a brief chat of "catchup," we made plans to have lunch and then maybe tour the Gettysburg battlefield. She lived in a modern townhouse apartment community on the outskirts of New Oxford, about ten miles from Gettysburg. It made sense that she shared space with two other girls because there's no way she could afford it alone, not with what Starbucks paid their people. I wore what I normally wore for work on cool days, jeans and a long-sleeve corduroy shirt. My gray Rockport shoes were ideal for touring a battlefield, a cross between sneakers and hiking boots.

After pulling into the parking lot, I walked a few steps to the door and rang the bell. One of her house mates answered, blond, cute and petite. "Hi, I'm Sandy," she said. "You must be Cody. Come in, Bethany will be down in a sec."

Moments later, she appeared wearing black spandex pants, a gray, V-neck pull-over and sneakers. "Right on time," she said. "Guess you didn't have trouble finding this place."

"Your directions were perfect," I said. "Plus, I'm kind of familiar with the area." The spandex and top drew my eyes to her full, shapely thighs and full breasts. She smiled the way women do when they sense guys admiring them.

On the way to the Dobbin House for lunch, I talked more about my small company, Davis Construction. "Business has been booming lately. We build lots of backyard decks, renovate kitchens and bathrooms and also build additions onto houses. I worked construction at my dad's firm during the summer. Lots of my know-how comes from him." Then I added, "Not to get political, but I give some of the credit for our business boom to President Trump."

She made a sour face, like she had swallowed the proverbial bitter pill. "You voted for him?"

"I did," I admitted. "He must be doing something right, with the stock market booming and unemployment below four percent."

"Well, I don't know," she said. "He seems so self-centered and egotistical. It's all about him."

I couldn't disagree. But even if I did, the last thing I wanted was to get into a political debate. Time to change the subject, I thought, then asked her about her plans for the future.

"I'm not sure what I want to do when I grow up," she said. "But now that I'm twenty-one, I'm trying to find some direction. I've thought about nursing ever since my dad went into the hospital for his back surgery. We'll see." She elaborated after I asked for details. "He was in terrible pain after slipping his discs carrying lumber. Emergency surgery was the only option. Unfortunately, it left him partially paralyzed. He's..." She shook her head, began to get emotional. "Oh boy..."

I reached over and patted her arm. "Bethany, it's okay. No need to go further."

She wiped her eyes and sighed. "I'm fine. Okay, as I started to say, he's in a wheelchair much of the time and can't walk without his walker and then not very well. The docs and his rehab people tell us he'll improve. But it's been a year with little improvement. I hope you don't think I'm a crybaby."

I shook my head. "You're very sensitive and love your dad is what I think. And I also think you could use a big hug right now."

She chuckled. "You're right, I could."

Moments after I pulled up to the Dobbin House parking lot, I gave her that big hug. I wanted to kiss her, but thought it might be too soon. Instead, I held her for a few moments, enjoying her warmth, the sweet scent of her shampoo, the contours of her curvaceous form and my own sense of being protective.

When we parted, she did what I thought was going too far, too soon; she gave me a quick kiss on the mouth. "Thanks, I DID need that," she said. "Okay, no more tears." She laughed when I told her she might cry from the delicious onion soup I was going to recommend.

Inside, we were seated among a sizable lunchtime crowd. She glanced around, then said, "George Washington could have eaten here."

She was right. The stone building went up around the same time the country's founding fathers were meeting in Philadelphia about severing their colonial ties with Great Britain. With its walls of exposed stone, wooden beams, brick floor and Early American furniture, diners could experience at least a semblance of what GW or others of that era might have. The lighting was subdued and relaxed, produced from lanterns hanging from the ceiling. "Atmosphere is a big reason why I like this place so much," I said. "The food's good, though nothing fancy. But you can't beat the atmosphere." I wasn't talking just about the space but about how pretty Bethany looked, especially the way her bluish-purple eyes sparkled through the soft lighting.

Bethany did order the onion soup, along with a salad. After the waitress took our menus, she said, "Cody, I really appreciate you taking me here."

"My pleasure." Not only pretty, but such a sweet kid, I thought, mannerly and polite. "I'm surprised that you haven't been here before. How come?"

"I'm not really sure. Our parents took us to some nice places. But for some reason, they bypassed the Dobbin House. Joey, my ex-boyfriend, said it was too fancy-schmancy for him. Silly, I know." She talked a little about Joey when I asked, told me he was her high school sweetheart, told me they lived together, were engaged and then broke up. "All for the best," she said. "What about you? Ever been married?"

I chuckled. "I'm one of those guys who can't commit." I paused to gage her reaction. Then: "Actually, like you, I wasn't ready, I guess. Me and Sarah were together for five years. We didn't live together but we got close. Love, mutual respect, all that good stuff. She was ready, but I wasn't. We moved on. And here's another first of sorts. You're the first girl I've taken out since my breakup. Now, don't tell me I'm the first guy you've been out with since YOUR breakup."

"You're the first guy I've been out with since my breakup." She raised her right arm. "True. I've met guys in bars with my girlfriends. Flirted with others online. One of Joey's friends even called to ask me out, to which I politely declined. But that's as far as it went. Your timing was perfect, Cody, because it appears that we're in the same place." She turned to see the waitress approaching. "And here comes our order."

*****

"I'm not really a big Civil War buff, it's that this place gives me a sense of peace," Bethany said. We were sitting on a boulder among the outcropping that was called Devil's Den, scene of some of the worst carnage during those three bloody days in July of 1863. "Ironic, isn't it?" she continued. "All that violence that happened here and I feel a sense of peace."

I couldn't resist showing off what I recalled from Lincoln's Gettysburg address. "'The world will little note nor long remember what we say here.' Lincoln was wrong, of course, because his words will live on."

"You're right, they will," she said. Then she about floored me when she quoted the very next line: "'It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.' "See, I know my history, too," she said proudly.

"I'm duly impressed," I said. On impulse, I reached up and touched her face, feeling the velvet softness of her skin. "Bethany, you're awfully pretty. And smart to boot."

She drew me a bashful, blushing smile. "Thanks. Well, right back at you, Cody, because I think you're kind of hot, with that outdoorsy look, your tan cheeks, beard and mustache and strong build and all." She looked away and giggled. "Gosh, when you babysat for me, little did I know I'd be saying stuff like that. To me, you were this old guy in college."

I laughed. "And now I guess I'm this old guy with his own construction business."

She grinned, showing those lovely cheek bones and alabaster teeth. Then she said, "I'm beginning to understand what my parents told me about aging. That the older you get, time seems to shrink. I mean, ten years doesn't seem as long to me as it once did. Anyway, you're hardly this old guy, even though, ha ha, thirty still seems a long way off to me."

"Be here before you know it," I said.

We got up and continued our "tour," strolling through the Peach Orchard and reading the monuments atop Seminary Ridge, the bluff where Union forces massed and fired at the Confederates during Pickett's Charge. "What a terrible loss of life," I said. "How could a great general like Robert E. Lee not see the futility in what he ordered?"

She drew a wistful smile. "I guess it's like anything else. You think things are going to go one way and then they go another way. Then you look back with the benefit of hindsight and say, how could I have failed to see that?" She looked past the big, tall monument (atop it was a bronze statue of some general on his horse) where we stood and then out across the fields toward where the Confederates began their ill-fated charge. Beyond, lay the horizon, looking a purplish-blue, an appropriate match for Bethany's eyes. She shook her head, looked lost in sorrow.

"It sounds like you can relate to that in a personal way," I said.

She nodded and faced me. "Yes. Silly me, I was sure that Joey and I were going to marry and make a life together. Then it was only a short time after we moved into my parents' old house that I realized it could never be. It wasn't just his drinking. We both were just too young to make that sort of serious commitment."

"Any regrets?"

She shrugged. "Not really. You live and learn. Joey was my first boyfriend. I fell in love at age sixteen, then fell out of it at age nineteen. Like they say, you never really know someone until you live with them. But it wasn't just Joey that I didn't know but myself, how I'd adjust to that situation. Not too well, it turned out. But, no regrets. My life is pretty good now. I'm working and furthering my education. And today I reconnected with someone who I hope to see again, and not just in Starbucks. And, speaking of seeing you again, I continued to play chess after you had taught me. We'll have to play sometime."

I was somewhat surprised. Not to be sexist, but boys still greatly outnumber girls when it comes to playing chess. Plus, Bethany didn't seem to have the focus needed for a game with millions of combinations of moves and counter-moves. Obviously, I had been wrong. "Sure, will look forward to it," I said.

I also looked forward to something else—and it had nothing to do with chess. I reached out and took her hand. "I know you've been here lots of times. But have you ever been kissed here, right here, next to this great monument on Seminary Ridge?"

She smiled and brushed back the hair that blew in her eyes. "Can't say I have. But I hope I'm about to be."

Eyes closed, I absorbed the exciting feel of her curvaceous body and the warmth that flowed from her soft lips. The juxtaposition of doing this here didn't escape me, becoming romantic with this sweet, beautiful girl on ground that had once been the scene of horrendous bloodshed. When we parted, her eyes met mine in silent communication. What sort of future might we share together? I asked myself among the noise of rustling wind and chirping birds. "You have that look," she said, chuckling. When I asked what look, she said, "Like you're in some kind of deep thought. Are you?"

"I'm excited is all," I said, "Excited about being with you and looking forward to seeing you a lot more."

She nudged her face against my chest and fumbled with the buttons of my shirt. Then she picked her head up and said, "Me, too...even if you did vote for Donald Trump," she teased. "Anyway," she continued, "I'm excited about being with you also. Only I don't want to get my expectations up too high. You know, it's like what I said about expecting things, good things that turn out to be not so good. There was that whole thing with Joey and what happened to my dad."

I held her tight as she snuggled against me. "No expectations. No serious plans. We'll take things as they flow. All I know now is that I like you. A lot." She melted into my arms and we went at it once again. A few of the tourists strolling by chuckled. Absorbed in our passion, we ignored them.

Moments later, we walked hand-in-hand back to my truck, a more private place to neck, although I wasn't sure she wanted to go further. I learned different when I put the key in the ignition, preparing to drive off, and she said, "Not so fast. This date isn't over yet. I still need to be babysat."

"I'm up for that job," I said, cued in to what she meant.

Briefly, my mind flashed back to the nine-year-old in pigtails, when I WAS her babysitter. Now I was someone else to her, someone as yet undefined but eager to fulfill this new "babysitting" role. Good thing I had opted for the upscale F-150 equipped with three, closely-spaced seats in back. We had plenty of room to pick up where we had left off on Seminary Ridge, plenty of room for our hands and tongues to roam and explore. Around us, on the parking lot, I could hear car doors opening and closing. No matter, our smooching got more passionate as the minutes passed, replete with soft moaning and endearing phrases whispered between heavy breathing. This was the sort of first-date intimacy I had always craved, a physical connection driven by strong emotion. I knew that going "too far" on a first date could ruin some of the mystery that surrounds someone you've just begun to see, and I sensed that Bethany felt the same way. We kept our clothes on. Well, sort of. She raised her top and bra, granting me access to her breasts, full and luscious. I made a half-hearted, almost comical attempt to get into her pants, an attempt she gently rebuffed. "There'll be plenty of time for that," she said. This was high school stuff, though fun nevertheless.