*A repost of an old romance story with a fresh edit.*
Chapter 5
Anxious dreams pushed Sam to consciousness. Finding himself alone in bed, he bolted upright. The green teddy was draped over the back of the desk chair and Sherry's clothes were gone. He ran to the window. Her car was gone, as well. After pulling on shorts, Sam searched for a note, or any sign that she left without regrets, but found no clue. In his mind’s eye, Sam replayed their after-cuddling for hints of trouble. They had snuggled spoon fashion, cooing appreciation to one another. He had kissed her neck and shoulders, hugged and caressed until she’d drifted off to sleep inside their warm cocoon, or so he thought. Maybe he had fallen asleep first, and she was angry.
'Was I insensitive? God, I hope I didn't make her feel used. Everything happened so naturally. It felt so right.' He picked up the telephone to dial and realized he didn't know her number. Running downstairs, he looked it up in the church directory. Four rings later, the answering machine picked up.
'What can I say? Who would hear this?' Sam hung up before the beep.
He looked at the clock and read 3:00 p.m. 'I have time.'
Sam grabbed the directory, jumped in his truck, and sped the twenty miles to the city. On the way, his fingers would drift up, and he’d enjoy a sniff of Sherry's sweet residue, to indulge the memory.
Stopping at a new florist shop, he asked the clerk to help design a simple arrangement of Forget-me-nots and roses.
On the card, he wrote:
Dear Sherry, Thank you so much for your gift. I hope the sting wasn't too painful.
With great affection,
The Green Hornet.
He sealed the envelope and gave it to the clerk, asking, "How soon can this be delivered?"
The florist glanced at the wall clock and then read the address on the delivery receipt. "For an extra $25.00 we can deliver it tonight. Otherwise, we’ll deliver it tomorrow."
"Add the twenty-five and deliver it tonight, please." Sam handed over his credit card, not caring if he was being ripped off.
She smiled, and taking an educated guess said, "Good luck, I hope it works."
"Me too," he said, and walked out.
The future in fate's hands, Sam headed to his mother's farm to pick up Chris. While he drove, he thought about his parent’s 41-year marriage. Most of what he held true about love and relationships came from watching them care for each other. His father taught him how to keep his priorities straight, how to focus on your wife as the only woman in your life.
As Sam approached the rolling fields of the family homestead, he was reminded how wonderful growing up in the farming community had been. There was a unity within families and between families, and he wondered if he’d made a mistake when he chose not to farm the land. It was something special to work only one field away from home -- and something monotonous.
Since his father's death ten years ago, his mother had rented the pastures to neighbors, so she could afford the upkeep and stay independent. Instead of milkers, the barn was filled with city folk's horses -- weekend cowboys, buying a slice of the country life.
Sam turned into the driveway. His mother sat on the porch swing, reading the newspaper, like every summer night. Parking the pickup in back, Sam entered the kitchen. Chris was at the table, dunking fresh baked oatmeal-raisin cookies in a tall glass of milk.
The smell transported Sam back to second grade. "How's it goin', Son?" He kissed the top of his head, then walked to the sink, and sadly washed Sherry off his fingers.
"Good Dad. I helped Grandma make some cookies. Want one?"
Sam picked one from the top of a warm pile and it melted on his tongue. "Mmmmm, you guys should start a bakery." He tousled Chris’s hair. "I'm goin' out to talk to Grandma."
"Okay... Hey Dad, what's a spider's favorite place on a computer?"
Sam stopped, played dumb, and said, "I give up. What?"
"A website! Get it?"
Sam laughed. "Very funny. Stay in school."
"Daaad."
Out on the porch, Sam walked over to his mother and kissed her curly white hair. "Hi, Mom. How ya doin'?" and sat down in the wicker rocker.
"It's a good life if you don't weaken," she said, without removing her eyes from the paper. "How's everything with you, Son?"
He didn't answer right away, and eventually felt her eyes burning into him over the top of the paper. "What's eating you?"
Noncommittal, he asked, "How many years difference was there between you and Dad?"
Mom was good at reading between the lines. "Who is she, Sam?"
Lying, he said, "No one in particular. But I’ve been thinking about the single women I know... and most of them are a lot younger. Someday I plan on dating again, and I don't want to make a fool of myself."
"Why not? That's what a woman does to a man. Makes him think with that head in his pants first, then she convinces the one on his shoulders that he can't do no better. How do you think we control you oafs?"
"C'mon, Ma!" Her frankness always flustered him.
"Oh, you want a serious answer." She put down the paper. "Your father was eleven years older. Not that it mattered much."
Sam waited, expecting more.
"When he got back from the war, he needed time to settle down. They didn't give emotional problems fancy names like Post-traumatic Stress Syndrome back then. He suffered nightmares a long time after. Other girls just passed him by year after year, their loss."
Her eyes were swimming. Embarrassed, she picked up the paper and talked through the headlines. "It's a matter of understanding each other, and loving the person's heart. We all make mistakes... but down deep where it counts, we don't change much. Once a good person, always good. Your father had problems, but his heart was in the right place."
The paper trembled slightly in the bony grip.
Sam broke a lengthy silence. "I remember one summer, when Dad and I were coming back with a wagonload of hay. He stopped at a hedgerow to pick some wild flowers for you, and taught me the best lesson about choosing a wife. He said, 'Son, when you marry, pick a woman that's too good for you, and then spend the rest of your life proving you deserve her. You'll live a happy life'."
