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Paddling Upstream

By Strickland83

"She liked the flowers, didn�t she?" Amanda asked excitedly when I called her.

"Yes, you were right about that. Thanks for the suggestion."

"I told you," she said triumphantly. "So tell me everything. What did she serve? What did you do?"

"You were right about something else. She made pasta," I told Amanda, knowing she would take delight in hearing that she was right about that, too.

"Uh-huh," was all she said, anxious for me to continue.

"Oh!" I remembered. "You will love this. She has a cat and you�ll never guess what his name is."

"A cat? I have no idea. Why?� Oh, no! You�ve got to be kidding!"

I grinned as I told her, "Yes, his name is Brisco. She said the name was from one of her favorite books. Then she asked me if I had ever read any Ken Stryker."

"I hope you finally told her this time," Amanda said sharply.

"No, I didn�t."

"You cold-hearted� Listen, you have to tell that girl who you really are. She�s going to figure it out eventually and she�s going to be pissed that you didn�t tell her."

"You know, that cat kept staring at me like he knew something, like he knew who I was."

"Good," Amanda said. "Maybe he�ll tell Lindsey."

Ignoring her comment, I told her, "So you were right about something else. Someone in this town has read one of my books."

"I�ll bet she�s not the only one, and that isn�t the only one of your books that she�s read." Then, after a chuckle, "How strange was it meeting Brisco?"

"I almost felt dizzy for a moment, like I had stepped inside one of my stories. I guess that�s what Alice felt like when she entered Wonderland."

"I hope she saw your reaction," Amanda said.

"She didn�t, but it took a lot of effort on my part."

"How did she serve dinner?"

"It was so nice. She had set this little table for two, and she had me light the candles while she dimmed the lights."

"Ooh, that sounds so romantic. I wish I could have seen you being romantic."

"You wouldn�t have seen much. She�s just a friend, Amanda."

"You have to quit saying that. What did you do after dinner?"

"She took me for a ride in her canoe."

"That sounds like fun."

"It was. I told her I wanted to get one. She offered to let me borrow hers whenever I want."

"When did you kiss her?" Amanda asked with eagerness.

"Kiss? I didn�t," I said, caught off guard that time.

"What?! After all that, you didn�t even kiss her goodnight when you left? Michael!"

"I�m still not ready for that yet."

"Yet! You said yet! There is hope for you still," she declared triumphantly.

"I am not sure she really wants that from me."

"Michael, she wants it. Trust me." Amanda paused, as if thinking about something. "Did she touch you?"

"Did she touch me?"

"Yes, did she touch you? You know, brush against you, or touch your face? Did she put her hand on yours when you handed her something?"

I thought back and it was a pleasant memory.

"Yes, she did, now that you mention it. I guess she did. Several times."

"That woman likes you. You have to make a move soon or you�ll lose her."

"Why can�t we be just friends?"

"She wants to be much more than friends. And you do, too. You just don�t realize it yet. You need make a move soon or she will think you are gay or something."

"She will not!" I said, laughing as I said it.

"So prove it. Kiss her. Touch her. Little intimate things. Let her know you�re interested." A moment later, after I had a chance to think about what she said, Amanda added, "The idea feels nice, doesn�t it?"

"Yes," I said softly, before I had a chance to realize what I was doing. "Uh, I mean, no, yes. Damn, Amanda, I don�t know."

"It feels nice. The very thought does things to you. You know it. You can lie to me but you can�t lie to yourself."

She was right and I knew it.

"What do you two have planned next?" she asked.

"We just talked about maybe cooking together next time."

"There you go. This time, Michael, make sure your hands are all over that woman. Touch her and let her know you enjoy being with her."

"Amanda!"

"I don�t mean feel her up, just caress her. She will love it and you will, too."

I laughed but I couldn�t deny to myself that the thought of touching Lindsey touched me in my heart� and other places. I held that thought close to me even after I got off the call and started drifting off to sleep.

I took another stroll around town the next day and met more people. It was while having lunch at Sam�s caf� on Main Street that inspiration finally struck. It was the first time I really felt like writing since Theresa�s death.

The idea, when it came to me, was so logical. I don�t know why I hadn�t thought about it before. I went right home, plotting in my head as I walked. I sat at my computer and the words came flying out.

I was writing about myself. Well, no, not really. I was writing about Lindsey. She was going to be the main character of my next novel. I was sure she would be excited to find out she was going to be in a Ken Stryker story.

I was at last in the zone, oblivious to everything else. It was like I was sitting in a chair in the corner, watching what the characters were doing. I typed out what I saw them doing and saying, the words flowing from my fingertips. When I finally had to stop to go to the bathroom, I realized that it was dark. I had been writing for hours without regard to the passage of time. It felt so good to be writing again.

It felt so good to be writing again. I never thought I would say those words ever again. Theresa, love, I�m getting back into the groove, I thought. Just like you wanted.

Her imagined answer, when it flooded my mind, chilled me. So do it all. Make Lindsey a part of your life. I don�t want you to be alone.

I trembled. I had lost the moment, the writing forgotten, and I stumbled to the kitchen. I poured a glass of wine and sat out by the pool. I was lost in thought, this time about my beloved Theresa.

When I put down the warm glass of wine, I looked at my watch in the light of the gas lamp. It was one o�clock in the morning. I was so confused, trying to sort out my feelings for Theresa and my feelings for Lindsey.

I went to bed, feeling restless. That night, Theresa came to me in a dream. We were walking along a beach, maybe on the island where we had honeymooned. I could feel her warm hand in mine and I savored that touch. She stopped and turned to me. I looked at her quizzically as she spoke to me.

"We�ll always have the special times we shared. We will always have each other. Those were wonderful times."

I started to speak, to agree, but she silenced me with the light touch of a single finger on my lips.

"You have to live your life now, Michael. Mine is over but yours has many more years. Spend them with Lindsey. I want this for you with all my heart. I really do."

As she spoke those last words, she held my hand to her breast. I was reveling in her softness when I realized she was moving away from me. We were getting farther apart without either of us moving.

�Theresa!" I called.

"Seek out Lindsey, Michael. Let her into your heart."

And then she was gone, faded into darkness. I woke up, crying and feeling empty. I never did get back to sleep. After the sun came up, I put on a swimsuit and walked out to the river.

Standing on the end of the wharf, in the early morning silence, I thought about what I was about to do. Then I dove in, swimming for the far shore. The water was cool, a little colder than I was expecting. I swam hard and made it out to the middle of the river before I became aware of how strong the current was. I was being pulled downstream fast.

A momentary feeling of panic gripped me. I was a strong swimmer but I was far away from shore. I began swimming hard, fighting the current, swimming upstream. As I swam, I thought about the words Theresa had spoken to me in my dream. "Your life has many more years," she had said. It would be stupid for me to drown here in the river.

It wasn�t my time! She had been telling me that. I swam harder, thinking of what else she had said. I swam upstream, fighting hard against the current and thinking about Lindsey. I thought about how I had been swimming upstream ever since I had met her. I was fighting a feeling inside myself. Amanda had tried to tell me that. Theresa had tried to tell me that.

By the time I dragged my wet chilled body out of the water and up the old wooden ladder, I was looking at things in a different way. I was thinking about Lindsey in a different way. Maybe Amanda was right. Maybe it was time to move on.

I rinsed off with the hose and dove into the pool. The pool water, being warmer than the river, was a welcome relief. I swam around the pool as a myriad of thoughts swam around in my head. When I got out, tired but warmed, I got dressed.

The first thing I did was call my agent. I hadn�t spoken to George for a week or so and I wanted to bring him up to date on my writing. He was, of course, delighted to hear that I was writing again. He had been trying to gently urge me to get back into writing, but he was politely letting me get over the loss of Theresa first. I gave him a brief outline of what I was working on.

The next thing I did was sit down at my computer and do some more writing. Having come to accept how I was feeling about Lindsey, my thoughts were flowing freely once again. I wrote all day, breaking only to eat. By that afternoon, I had put down thousands of words. The story was taking shape, though it was a shape that didn�t reflect reality.

The plot started off with an author moving to a small town. From there, though, it told of him falling in love with someone, deeply in love, and of how she helped him through the loss of his wife. I mingled reality with fiction as I crafted the story. That night, I went to bed tired but satisfied.

The next few days were spent much the same. I wrote madly. I even took advantage of the weather and did some writing under the trees in the backyard. Being surrounded by the sounds of nature really helped to inspire me.

It was a few days later, in the afternoon, when I was startled out of my writing trance by the call of, �Hey, Newcomer!" I looked up to see Lindsey paddling up in her canoe. Seeing her caused a panic to grip my heart. I knew how I felt about her but I still wasn�t sure I was ready to face those feelings in the flesh. I hurriedly closed the computer and put it aside.

I walked out onto the wharf and waved to her. "Hello, yourself. How have you been?"

"I�ve been worried about you. I haven�t heard from you since you were over for dinner. I was beginning to think I had poisoned you." She grinned when she said that to take the sting out of it.

I felt guilty when I realized I hadn�t called her. I knew I should have.

"I�m sorry. I started writing, and, well, you know," I said, shrugging.

"I remember you saying something like that. Been writing with a vengeance, have you?"

"Something like that, yes. When I get into a project, I kind of forget my social obligations," I confessed as I helped her out of the boat. The touch of her hand in mine put a nice feeling in the base of my stomach. She put her arms around my neck to get her balance as I swung her up onto the timbers. Once she was standing in front of me, face to face, she didn�t let go. We just looked at each other. My heart pounded and I hoped she couldn�t hear it.

I wasn�t sure if I was comfortable being that close to her, but it felt so nice that I was not about to move her arms. I really didn�t know how to react. I knew how I wanted to act, but I just couldn�t do it. Lindsey looked into my eyes, a gentle smile breaking out on her delicate face.

"Hi," she breathed out.

"Hi," I echoed, lost in a sea of emotion, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

After a moment or two more, I felt the grip of her arms around my neck loosen, just a little. She kept looking at me and smiling. Then, slowly, she let her arms fall away. Her expression had changed, maybe with just a hint of sadness or disappointment.

She started walking to the bank, talking to me as if she knew I would follow. I did, of course.

"So what is the book about?" she asked.

She didn�t turn around until she sat in the hammock, looking pointedly at the closed notebook computer on the ground.

I shook my head but smiled. "No clues. Sorry, but I don�t talk about a book while I�m writing it."

She groaned. "You are not making this easy."

"Making what easy?"

"Guessing who you really are."

"You know who I really am. I am Michael Newcombe," I said, holding my arms out in a sweeping gesture.

"You know what I mean," she said, and I did.

Instead of answering, I sat next to her.

"How have things been going at the market?" I asked, trying to change the subject from me to her.

"Fine," she said. "Grandpa has slowed down a bit lately, but there isn�t as much work on the farm right now so it doesn�t matter. I missed seeing you at the market in the mornings."

"I kind of dropped out when I started writing, didn�t I?"

"Yes, you did. I seem to recall the last time we were together there was some talk about us cooking together," she hinted.

"Yes, I suppose there was," I said.

"So?"

"So it�s time?" I asked and she nodded vigorously. "What shall we cook?"

"I don�t know but can we do it in your kitchen? It�s so much bigger than mine."

"Yes, certainly. Do you want to invite some friends over, or will it be just the two of us?"

"I hadn�t thought about inviting anyone," she said.

I realized that I hadn�t, either. I wanted it to be just the two of us and that thought scared me a little, deep down inside.

"Let�s try just the two of us. If we don�t kill ourselves with our cooking, then we can invite others next time," she said with a little laugh.

"Good idea," I said, laughing with her.

"Do you like anything besides Italian?"

A thought struck me and I almost said it out loud. Instead of saying, "I�d love to eat anything prepared by your hands," I said, "What do you have in mind? I�m open to suggestions."

"Then I�ll teach you to cook some local dishes. Maybe fried fish and dirty rice. How does that sound?"

"Messy," I said.

"No, silly, it�s only called that. You�ll like it. Trust me."

"I do," I said and she looked right into my eyes, as if she was trying to see into my soul.

"Okay," she answered, but her words were soft and breathy and with a dreamlike quality to them.

"Do you like Margaritas?" I asked. "I can make some to go with the fish."

"Super. I�ll get the fish, rice and ground beef. You provide the kitchen and the drinks. Deal?"

"Deal," I agreed.

"So what are you doing this afternoon?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Writing, I guess."

"No, you worked all day. How about doing something fun? Let�s go out and, I don�t know, get a pizza or something. You deserve a break after all that writing you�re supposedly doing."

I started to protest but stopped myself. A break sounded really nice, especially a break that included Lindsey.

"That does sound nice," I said with more meaning than I intended.

"So let�s go." With that she got up and walked towards her canoe.

"In that?" I asked.

"Sure. We�ll take the boat back to my house and get my car. That way I can stay out late."

"I�ve never gone to dinner in a canoe before," I said.

"You�ll get used to it," she told me.

"Alright. Let me pick up my computer and lock the house."

"You don�t have to do that, Michael. This is life in a small town," she told me but she waited patiently while I did it anyway. When I got in the boat, she handed me a paddle.

"This time you have to work for your supper," she said.

"I�ll try not to tip us over," I said as I took the paddle.

We paddled upstream to her house. With both of us it didn�t take long. She tied up the boat and we drove to the one pizza parlor in town, an aging Pizza Hut. I hadn�t been out at night since I had moved into town, except for that one dinner at Lindsey�s house. The place was busy and everybody seemed to know Lindsey, greeting her cheerfully by name.

"Hi, I want you to meet my friend, Michael. He�s new in town," she told one group of four at a table.

"Michael Newcombe?" a man asked me.

"Yes," I answered, surprised that he had heard of me.

"The writer?"

I groaned inwardly at his question.

"Yes, that�s me," I said, not as happy. I knew what he was going to ask next.

Sure enough, "What do you write?" was his next query.

"Just a few obscure books," I said, trying to dodge his question.

Lindsey leaned over the table and spoke just loud enough for the four of them (and me) to hear. "He writes under a pen name." Then she stood up and, looking pointedly at me, added, "And he won�t tell me what it is."

"Why not?" one of the women asked.

"I prefer to remain anonymous," I said.

"Oh."

Lindsey took my arm in her two hands and sighed as she said, "He�s probably someone really famous and he wants to be able to mingle with us common folk."

"Come on, common folk," I told her as we all laughed. "I see a table opening up over there."

I took her by the hand and guided her over to the empty booth, letting her sit first and then without thinking about it sliding in by habit next to her. It wasn�t until we were both seated that I realized I should have taken the seat across from her. To move would look foolish so I stayed where I was. Lindsey didn�t seem to mind.

The waitress came by with menus and took our drink order. Lindsey turned to me as she spread her menu on the table in front of both of us.

"What kind of pizza do you like?" she asked.

"Anything except fishies," I said.

"Good answer. I don�t care for anchovies, either. How about a Supreme?"

"Sounds good," I told her.

She chuckled. "When we were in high school, I wouldn�t order onions either, in case my date was going to kiss me."

"You would have made a pretty good Boy Scout," I told her and she frowned. I explained, "You were always prepared."

She smiled at my comment. A silence hung in the air. I finally thought of something to break it.

"This meal we�re going to cook together, what do I need?"

"Do you have a few big skillets?" she asked me.

"Yes, I do," I said.

"You probably don�t have the right spices so I�ll buy you some. Are your Margaritas really good?"

"Did you ever have one made in a VitaMix?"

"No, what is that? Health food alcohol?" she asked, laughing.

"It�s a kind of big blender. The ice is about the consistency of, oh, maybe an Icee."

"That smooth?" she asked, surprised.

"Yes, that smooth."

"I can�t wait to try it," she said.

"And I can�t wait to make it for you."

Lindsey seemed to settle in the seat a little closer to me, but it was probably just my imagination.

The waitress returned with our soft drinks and we ordered the pizza. At the last moment, Lindsey asked her to hold the onions. Once we were alone again, Lindsey tore off the paper on the end of her straw, pointed the straw at me, and blew. The rest of the white paper came off and flew in my face. She laughed at my surprise.

"I�ll get you for that," I warned, and tried to do the same thing to her.

Lindsey squealed and grabbed at the end of my straw, defusing my attempt at retribution. I realized that I really liked the sound of her laughter.

While we waited for the pizza, we talked about unimportant things. She told me about her friends.

"With all you do, how do you have time for friends?" I asked her.

"I always make time for my friends," she said with meaning. Then, stronger, "When are we going to cook? How about tomorrow afternoon?"

"Can we delay it a little? I want to spend tomorrow writing. I�m thinking about the day after."

"Okay. That will work," Lindsey said with a tiny note of disappointment in her voice. "Maybe I could bring you dinner. If you�re that busy writing, you said you sometimes forget to eat."

"Thanks but I like to write alone." When I saw the expression on her face, I knew I should explain. "It�s not you. I need to be alone when I write."

"Okay. But you can�t even take a break for dinner?" she asked.

"When I�m on a roll and really writing, it hurts to stop. I can�t just stop because it�s dinnertime. I�ll remember to eat, but not at a set time. It�s better that I write until I reach a stopping point. I need to get some writing done. My agent wants to see more of the story so he can start marketing it."

"Your story gets sold even before it�s written?" Lindsey commented with surprise.

"Yes, the publisher negotiates a price and buys the story I am still writing. That is what an advance is all about. It�s payment up front of future royalties. What the publisher gets out of it is that I am committed to delivering the finished story or I have to return the advance. It�s a great motivation for the writer to finish the story."

"You get paid for something you�re going to do. That sounds backwards," she observed.

I tried to put it into terms that she could understand. "It is like when a farmer sells a contract on his crop. He sells in advance the right to receive the harvested crop."

"Grandpa is a truck farmer. He sells the vegetables after they�re harvested." She shook her head as she said it. "I take your word for how you get paid. I just don�t understand why it�s that way."

"Regardless, I have to get some writing done. Let�s cook the day after tomorrow."

"Okay. I can wait," she said. After that, the conversation turned to more mundane topics. She told me about the other people who sold vegetables at the market, who had really good produce and who never to buy from. I was surprised by how much town gossip she picked up working at the market. Then again, it was a small town.

Before long, the waitress returned and slid the freshly baked pizza onto the table. Lindsey served each of us a slice. She grabbed her slice and took a bite.

"You�re going to burn your mouth!" I tried to warn her.

"I know. I always do. That�s how I eat pizza. I can�t wait for the first piece to cool," she said as she tried to suck in air and then take a big sip of her drink. I laughed at her discomfort.

"I know. It�s stupid but I always do it," she said, laughing along with me. "Impatience."

I nodded, taking a small bite of my pizza now that it had had a chance to cool.

"It�s not as good as your pizza," Lindsey observed.

"It�s different, that�s all. I actually borrowed a few of my techniques from Pizza Hut."

"Really? Which ones?"

"The oven temperature for one," I said as I thought about it. "The cheddar cheese, too. They used to sell a pizza that added sharp cheddar cheese on top for that extra kick."

"You might have borrowed a few of their techniques, but your pizza still tastes a whole lot different from this."

"Thanks," I told her. Then I remembered something. "You didn�t burn your mouth when you ate my pizza."

Lindsey smiled. "You didn�t let me. By the time we sat down to eat, yours had cooled enough."

That is how the whole evening went, with us talking about little unimportant things. The best part of it was just being with her. I really enjoyed that.

After dinner, she took me back home. When we got to my house, I got out. It surprised me when she got out, too, and followed me to the front door. I opened the door with a measure of trepidation. I remembered what Amanda had told me and I felt like I wanted her to be wrong. I wasn�t ready to get involved in a physical relationship with Lindsey. It wasn�t that I didn�t want that to happen. I just wasn�t ready. Not yet.

I unlocked the front door and let her in, turning on the light as I closed the door. There we were, all alone�just the two of us�in my living room. She walked lightly to the sofa, turned around, smiled sweetly, and sat. I followed and sat next to her. She turned towards me.

"I had a nice time tonight, Michael."

"I did, too. I�m glad we did that."

"So what will we do now?" she asked.

"I don�t know," I answered nervously.

Lindsey studied my face for several seconds, appearing to be deep in thought. When she spoke, her expression had changed to one of concern.

"Michael, is there someone else?"

I looked around the room, confused, and looked back at her. "Someone else? What do you mean?"

"Are you seeing someone?"

"No, no one," I answered, finally understand and feeling even more nervous.

"Do you like me?"

"Yes, Lindsey, very much. I really enjoy spending time with you. You can always make me smile."

She thought about that. Then, with a look of resignation, she stood.

"Two days. The day after tomorrow we cook together. I�ll be here around three."

With that, she started for the door. When she reached it, she turned back to look at me and said, "I really did have a nice time. I�m looking forward to the day after tomorrow." Then she left and closed the door behind her. I stood staring at the closed door, stunned and confused.

From outside, I heard her car start. The headlights shone through the curtains as she backed out of my driveway. Long after she had left, I was still sitting in the living room. I was trying to figure out what I really wanted.

Two days later, after lunch, I got out my VitaMix and a bottle of Tequila. The ice machine was full and I had already bought the frozen mixes at the grocery store. Two large skillets were on the stove, awaiting Lindsey�s arrival.

When Lindsey got there, she came in like a whirlwind. There was a knock on the door but before I could get to it, it opened. Lindsey�s smiling face appeared and she was holding plastic shopping bags in both hands. I hurried to take them from her and carry them to the table.

"This is a lot of food," I said.

Lindsey grinned as our conversation mirrored the one we had the last time we had dinner at my house.

"I wanted to leave you with leftovers so you don�t starve yourself when you�re writing," she told me. Then, she added, "Even though you won�t let me read it."

I started to toss out a reply but instead let it die. I did what I always did. I changed the subject.

"Where do we get started?" I asked.

"First things first. Get some milk and yellow mustard. Stir them together in a shallow glass dish. We�re going to soak the fish." Lindsey then headed to the sink with the bag of fish and began rinsing the filets.

I fixed the dish as she requested and brought it over to her.

"Now add a little black pepper," she said as I set it down. "And an egg. Beat it with a fork to break up the yolk."

She began dropping filets into the yellowish mixture as I watched her.

"This will give the fish a milder flavor. We�ll soak them while we cook the other stuff," she explained.

When the fish were taken care of, she washed her hands before searching through the remaining bags for a red and white box. She turned to the stove.

"From a box, Lindsey? I made pizza for you from scratch," I teased, grinning.

She reached out with both hands and reached up to grab my shoulders. I enjoyed the contact.

"Newcomer, there are a few things you have to learn about cooking if you�re going to live in Louisiana. First, Zatarain�s can make many things better than we can. There is no shame in using a mix as a starter."

She got the ingredients ready for the dirty rice but then turned to me.

"This takes less than an hour to cook so we can wait until the fish is about ready to fry. Where are those famous Margaritas you were promising me?"

I smiled and took the VitaMix container to the ice machine to fill it. In short order, I was noisily pulverizing ice with the mix and tequila. I drew off the first glass and handed it to Lindsey before filling one for me. When I turned off the motor, I heard her.

"Whew! That was loud." Then she took a sip. "Newcomer, you are a man of valuable talents. This is wonderful." Another sip. "You are going to have a hard time convincing me that you are not wasting yourself by writing."

"I am glad you like it," I told her.

I placed a straw in her glass.

"For the next batch, I�ll add strawberries."

"Next batch? Michael Newcombe, are you trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?"

"Not before this meal is cooked," I said, laughing and pointing to her. "Tonight you are the head cook."

She raised an eyebrow as I said the first part.

I topped off our glasses and we walked outside. She led the way to the waterfront and I followed, enjoying the view.

The day had been hot, but the frozen drinks were easing its sting. Lindsey went for the hammock and I joined her. Unfortunately, as we both sat down, she leaned too far and fell over backwards. I had to lean forward suddenly to avoid joining her on the ground.

I stood hurriedly and rushed to her side. She was alright, laughing so hard that she couldn�t speak at first. Her drink had not flown out of her hand. Instead, it had dumped in her shirt. With the shirt soaked in frozen Margarita, her nipples were making their presence known. Lindsey looked up at me and I held out a hand to help her up.

"I feel like such a fool," she said. Then, looking down at her shirt, "And I�m giving you quite a show."

I just smiled, enjoying the view.

"This is cold," she protested.

"Come on back to the house. I can loan you a t-shirt while we throw yours in the washer."

We laughed about her accident on the way back to the house. I went to my closet and pulled out a t-shirt. It was going to be big on her, but it was all I had to offer. I held it out to her.

"Ah, a clue!" she said as she read it.

Confused, I turned it around and looked at the front. It bore the name of my publisher. I felt a momentary wave of panic.

"Sorry. I just grabbed the first one. It�s clean, I promise that."

"Thanks. I�ll go change," she said and went into the bathroom.

I put her glass in the dishwasher and fixed her another drink while I waited for her to come out.

The sound of the door opening caught my eye. Something looked different about her when she walked into the room. I couldn�t quite place it. My breath caught in my throat when I saw her in my t-shirt. She made it look so good. Still, something�

Lindsey sheepishly held out the wet shirt, in a cold wet bundle.

"I�m sorry. My bra was wet, too. Can you wash both of them for me?"

"Sure," I told her and took the bundle from her. As I was dumping the shirt into the washer, her bra tumbled free. Of course! That was why she looked different.

I started the machine and returned to the kitchen, trying hard not to stare at her chest. She was so firm that she really didn�t need the bra. When she moved, they barely jiggled. What gave it away was how her nipples protruded, still erect from the cold.

"Thanks for lending me the shirt," she said as I handed her a new glass.

"I certainly couldn�t have you frying fish topless. That would be dangerous," I said.

"Yes, for both of us," she quipped.

I gulped as I realized what she was implying. While I tried to be embarrassed at the implication, my cock was definitely not being shy about anything. I saw her look down at my pants and I blushed furiously.

Lindsey gave me a hug, which only made matters worse. I knew she could feel what was happening to me. Thinking about it made the situation even more apparent. For my part, her breasts felt heavenly through only the thin t-shirt. I didn�t dare to look down to see how apparent my problem was. It felt like she would have no problem judging my size.

"Don�t be ashamed, Michael. I�m flattered to see your reaction."

I wanted to relax but I couldn�t. Especially that part of me.

She took me by the arm and led me outside.

"Let�s try sitting again. I�ll be more careful." After a few moments of thought, she started giggled uncontrollably.

"What is so funny?" I asked.

When she caught her breath, she looked at me and said, "We can talk about the first thing that pops up!" and started laughing all over again.

I am sure I blushed mightily all over again. We sat in the hammock, my erection still asserting itself despite my best efforts, and Lindsey tried making conversation. Despite everything, my cock was not going to relax anytime soon. Sitting together in the hammock, we naturally slid close to each other and my arm was pressed against the side of her breast. The only thing I could think about to fix that was to put my arm around her and I was not ready to do that, either.

So I sat there and chatted with Lindsey as my erection throbbed in my pants. I had not been like this since�

That did it. Thinking of Theresa short-circuited the problem. I was relieved, yet I wasn�t. Being that close to Lindsey was enjoyable. I did the best I could to keep up my end of the conversation while I tried to convince myself that it was somehow alright for me to feel this way about Lindsey.

In time, relaxation took over and we both enjoyed ourselves. I couldn�t think of a better way to spend the afternoon than being this close to Lindsey. Eventually, it was time to return to the kitchen.

I refilled our glasses as she took out the fish. Opening another box with Zatarain�s name on it, she began breading the fish. She also gave me directions on what to do with the dirty rice. We worked side by side, accidentally brushing an arm or hip against each other from time to time. It felt so right, so natural, to be working with her like that.

By the time I had made the dirty rice, she was finishing frying the fish. The smells coming out of my kitchen were very nice. We had only worked halfway through the Margaritas so I threw in some strawberries and reblended the mixture. We ate outside by the pool again.

"Do you have any more lights that you can turn on?" Lindsey asked.

"Yes, I think so," I answered.

Fiddling with a few switches, I turned on more lights. With the underwater pool light, the gas lamp and a few lights on the house that lit the deck, we had plenty of light. As we sat down to eat, Lindsey was looking towards the river, studying something.

"What are you looking at?" I innocently asked.

"Oh, nothing. How do you like the meal?"

"I love it. I never thought I would be eating dirty food but it is really good. I like how you did the fish, too."

"That is nothing fancy. It�s basic staples here. I will have to teach you more about how to cook local," she said.

"Anytime," I told her.

As I ate, I enjoyed the view of my lovely dining companion. She looked really great in that t-shirt. Thinking of what she didn�t have on under it was enjoyable, too.

After dinner, we went back to the hammock. This time, we lay down in it side by side and looked up at the stars through the pine trees. It was heavenly lying next to Lindsey.

She was sipping her drink when a particularly bright light moved rapidly overhead.

"Look! The International Space Station," she said and pointed with her free hand.

"How do you know that?" I asked as I watched.

"I�m a science teacher, and I like astronomy."

"I wish I had had a science teacher like you when I was in elementary school," I said.

"Flatterer," she said, putting her hand down on my leg.

I almost winced out loud in pleasure at her touch. I wanted to turn over, take her in my arms and kiss her. But, I just couldn�t. Even though she was dead, I still felt married to Theresa.

We stayed out there for hours, side by side. The drinks had long since been finished. We had talked about everything. I never wanted to get up and move away from Lindsey, but I had to pee. When I started to move, Lindsey asked what was the matter.

"After all those Margaritas, I need the bathroom," I said.

"Yeah, me, too. I just didn�t want to get up. This feels so nice," she said.

I wondered how she might have meant that.

We walked back to the house and each occupied a bathroom. When those needs were taken care of, I went to the kitchen to start cleaning up. Lindsey soon joined me, brushing against me as we worked. In short order, the kitchen looked like we hadn�t cooked dinner in it. As we finished, I found Lindsey giving me pointed looks, like she was trying to see if I was going to do something. I just had no idea what she expected me to do.

"Thanks for the help, and for dinner. I really had a great time," I told her.

I took her shirt and bra out of the dryer, trying not to handle the bra.

"Yeah, even the part where I spilled my drink all over me was kind of fun," she said with a pleasant smile.

She took her clothes from me.

"Keep the t-shirt," I suggested.

She looked down at it and smoothed her hand over the fabric, over her trim stomach.

"Thanks. It will remind me of you."

I smiled at her comment.

"And it gives me one more clue to your true identity."

"You never give up," I accused without heat.

"Not until I find out who you are," she said, teasing.

There was a lull in the conversation. I felt self-conscious, not sure how to end the evening. Lindsey did.

She put the bundle of clean clothes down on the table and stepped up to me. I looked intently at her, wondering what she was going to do. She put her arms around my neck and my heart pounded. Other parts awakened as she pressed her body to mine and I felt the softness of her boobs against my chest again. She looked into my eyes. I thought I saw a moment of indecision. I knew what I wanted to happen, what I didn�t want to happen.

She moved her face closer to mine. Then, at the last moment, she brushed her lips against my cheek.

"Thanks. I had a great time," she whispered into my ear.

I reveled in her touch, in the closeness, in her softness, in her scent. She hugged herself to me for what seemed like an eternity, a too short eternity, then she released me. I truly regretted the loss of that closeness.

She picked up her clothes and headed towards the door. I followed her out and watched her get into her car. Just before she backed out, she rolled down the window. I leaned towards the open window to see what she wanted to say. She just put her hand on mine, her warm touch giving me a thrill.

She smiled and said, "Goodnight, Michael."

Then she left. I stood there, watching her taillights disappear around the corner and reliving the warm touch of her lips on my cheek.

Later, after I had gone inside, I called Amanda. She was, of course, anxiously waiting to hear how the afternoon had gone.

"She kept brushing against you in the kitchen?" Amanda asked.

"Yes, we were working closely together." Then, as an afterthought, I added, "It was nice."

Amanda chuckled. "I bet it was," she said with meaning.

She was quiet for a few minutes, listening as I talked. Then, she spoke up.

"Michael, you might not want to hear this but you need to. That girl has it bad for you. She really likes you."

"Amanda," I said.

She continued on unimpeded. "And you really like her."

I wanted to deny it but I wasn�t sure I could.

"Tell me more," Amanda said.

I got to the part where Lindsey spilled her drink. I left out the part about her nipples and my erection. When I told her about the second time in the hammock, when we were lying side by side, I heard Amanda draw a heavy breath.

"Did you kiss her tonight?" she asked me. Her tone was neutral.

"Not exactly. Well, kind of," I answered.

"What?" Her surprise was very evident.

"Well, we kind of kissed when she left."

"What do you mean exactly? Kind of?" she asked.

"I guess she kissed me. On the cheek."

"She kissed you? Michael, Michael�, you have to start taking the initiative."

"I am just not sure�"

"After what happened tonight, you should have no doubt that girl likes you. The touching, the hammock, her kissing you. You should have kissed her, though."

I thought about what Amanda had said. Amanda�s next question caught me by surprise.

"When she changed shirts, did she take off her bra?"

"What? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Did she, Michael? She did, didn�t she?"

"Yes, but�" I started to answer.

Amanda sighed heavily. "You have to make a move soon. When a woman does that, she does it so you notice her body."

"She said it was wet, like the shirt."

"I know." Amanda giggled. "I�ve used the same excuse. Look, it might have been wet, but she wore the t-shirt without a bra for your enjoyment. I bet her nipples were pretty prominent."

"They were," I said before I realized I had said that out loud.

"Now you�re talking like a man. Don�t let this opportunity slip away, Michael. You have to do something and quickly."

"I, I�m not sure I can."

Silence hung in the air.

"You have to. She is practically throwing herself at you."

I thought about that. I thought about it even after Amanda and I had said goodnight and I was lying in bed in the dark. I knew I wanted Lindsey, but I still felt guilty. Like Amanda said, I had to make a choice. Either I had to start pursuing Lindsey, or I had to be ready for her to slip away. Sleep came late and it was fitful when it finally did come.

I slept in late, and got a lot of writing done when I finally did get going. I stopped for lunch at two in the afternoon. I took out the leftovers from the night before, thinking of Lindsey as I warmed the fish and rice. While I ate, I tried to give thought to how my book was going to end.

I usually have a general idea of the ending I am writing towards, but the actual details aren�t clear until I have written the entire story. Along the way, my plan often gets derailed as ideas crop up. It is almost as if the characters take on lives of their own and direct the plot their own way.

In mid-bite, I stopped. A forkful of rice and meat hung untouched, my hand not moving. I had known all along that the plot was mirroring my own experiences of late. That was my plan but it had all changed. Now I was writing what was happening to me. I thought back over what I had written during the morning, then to what I had planned next. I didn�t know what I had planned next. I was writing exactly what was happening to me. What came next in the story depended on what Lindsey did next.

I had never let someone else dictate what happened to my story. The plot was mine�until today. After I finished lunch, I called my agent. The last conversation was to tell him I had started writing again and I was sure he would be anxious to hear how it was going.

"Hi, George. How are you?" I started.

"Michael! I was about to call you. You�re keeping me in suspense, my friend. You are still writing, I hope?"

The sound of his voice was reassuring, as it had always been for me. I could see George in my mind�s eye, see him sitting at his desk. Manuscripts were piled high and there was a view of the city behind him. It had been almost a year since I had been to his office but the memory was still fresh.

"Yes, yes, I�m still writing and it�s going well."

"Has anything changed? Is the plot still what we talked about?"

"You know me," I said.

"Yes, I do. That is why I�m asking. I know you drift and we both know that is usually a good thing. I just want to know what I should be selling."

"I am still on track. The same general idea."

"Okay, good. When can I read some of it? And when do you think you will be finished?"

"Always eager,"� I said with a grin.

"My boy, you work to make me money. I like to make money. The faster you write, the faster you make me money. Do I have to make it any simpler?"

George said that with a hearty laugh. We had often joked about that very thing.

"I am trying to make both of us money as fast as I can," I answered. It was my usual comeback.

"I want to throw an idea out for you to chew over. I�ve been thinking about this and I want you to give it some serious thought. I don�t need a decision right away."

"What is it, George? You know I trust you with my career. If you think it is a good idea, I�m always willing to listen."

"You�ve been with one publisher since you started. This time around, I�d like to shop the book. Maybe put it up for auction. You have enough following to do it, and I�ve had some inquiries. A few other publishers are very anxious to get a chance to run with a Ken Stryker novel."

I leaned back in the desk chair, blew out a breath, and looked at the cypress ceiling. A minute passed as I thought.

"Michael? Are you still there?"

"I�m here, George."

"What are your initial feelings? What is in your gut?"

"This company has been good to me. They took me on when I was unknown. I feel I owe it to them."

"You owed them what was on the contract you signed. For each book, you gave them a novel and they gave you promotion and royalties. You satisfied your obligations. You don�t have any future obligations with them. You did what you agreed to do. That contract is in the past. We�re talking here about future contracts."

"Yes, I know that." I sighed.

"Look, it is my job to sell the book. I think it is time to shop around. See what the others will offer. Think about it. Call me back in a few days."

"Okay, George, I�ll think about it."

"I want you to give it some serious consideration."

George knew me too well. He knew I didn�t like change and he knew I would put this off if I didn�t have a deadline.

"I will call you back in two days," I said in resignation.

"Thank you. You know I was worried about you running away like you did."

"I didn�t run away. I moved away."

"You ran away."

Silence took up the next half minute.

"Hell, I�m not faulting you, Michael. Losing Theresa like that is something I can�t begin to understand. I�ve never been through that. I�m just glad you started writing again."

"George?"

"Yes, Michael?"

George�s voice had changed. He sounded like he was in "father" mode now, giving advice.

"How do you know when it�s time to move on?"

"Are we still talking about publishers?"

"Maybe� maybe not. How do you know?"

"Shit, son, I don�t know. You just have to feel it inside yourself."

"It is hard to be sure," I said and George didn�t respond.

"I will call you in two days with an answer, George."

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"You know I thought the world of Theresa, don�t you?"

"Yes, I do. I also appreciate that you came to the funeral. You were a big support to me."

"Sometimes it is time to move on, Michael."

"You know me too damn well, George."

"That�s my job. Now get back to writing and make us some money."

I didn�t get right back to writing. I took a walk about the backyard. I wanted to clear my head so I could get back into the plot. My head was just a jumble of thoughts. So many changes were crashing down upon me.

When I finally sat down at the computer, I couldn�t write. I wasn�t ready to continue that story and I knew I couldn�t force myself. If I did, I would just write crap. Half an hour later I found myself sitting in the hammock, computer on my lap, trying to outline a new story and missing Lindsey. Changes.

A line from an old song popped into my head. I kept hearing it over and over again. The stuff that dreams are made of. That might work for a title. I did some searching and tracked down an MP3 of the song on my computer. It had been one of Theresa�s favorites. She used to like to listen to it over and over. I had ripped it from her CD so I could listen to it when I was traveling and missing her.

Watching the sky, the computer on my stomach repeating that song over and over, the hammock gently swaying, I lay there until sunset. In the gathering darkness, I walked back to the house. I changed and went for a swim to try to work off stress and tension.

Amanda called that night. She could tell from my voice that something was wrong. I tried telling her it was just confusion over George�s suggestion. She knew it went deeper than that. I never could lie to her.

"You have to move on, Michael. Theresa wanted this for you."

"Who said anything about Theresa?"

"Your mood."

I chuckled. "Am I really that transparent?"

"To me you are."

Silence.

"Did you talk to Lindsey today?"

"No. I was writing."

"All day?" she asked.

"Yes. No. I worked on a new plot, too."

"You never work on more than one story at a time."

"I can change," I said, sounding like I couldn�t even convince myself.

"Forget everything else, Michael. Decide on one thing. Are you going to make a play for Lindsey or let her go? She deserves a decision."

"I don�t know yet."

"She won�t wait forever. It�s not fair to keep her hanging like that, anyway."

"I�ll do the same thing I did for George today. I will give you a deadline. I will decide something by tomorrow."

As soon as I said that, I regretted it.

"Good. I will hold you to that."

"Any chance you might forget?" I asked her.

"Nope. I�m writing it down. Michael will decide by tomorrow night what he is going to do about Lindsey. There. It�s in writing."

"I don�t know if I can do this, Amanda."

"If you don�t make a decision, she will make one for you."

"You�re right, aren�t you?"

"Of course I am."

We both laughed at her statement.

My first thought after we had hung up for the night was What have I done? I had committed myself to taking a step�a big step�and by tomorrow night. I had to do something or cut Lindsey loose. I certainly didn�t want to lose her friendship. I thought I wanted more.

That thought struck me like a bolt of lightning. It seemed to jump out at me. I did want more. Was I ready for more? Could I let myself go like that? I warred with that thought until I fell asleep. I didn�t know it yet but the decision had already been made for me.

Continued in Chapter 4

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