Thank you for reading the stories from the September Challenge Contest. Last week’s winner was Starting Over — Inspired by Julie Weber.

This week we have 6 stories up for a vote! Please read the stories, pick your favorite and vote on this post!

The Timpanist — Inspired by Jessie Heninger

Playing Debussy — Inspired by Holly Becker

Farmboy Soldier — Inspired by Rob Meyer

The Break — Inspired by Rachel Tear

No Going Back — Inspired by Megan Kidd

When I Woke Up — Inspired by Marianne Badongen

 

Voting will be open until Monday, September 12 at 11:59 pm.

 

Thank you for voting! And feel free to “subscribe” to this blog! Never miss another post! 🙂

 

 

 

Make sure you check out the other 5 stories from this week…The Timpanist, Playing Debussy, Farmboy Soldier, The Break and No Going Back. And vote on Sunday for the week’s best story idea!

Today’s story idea comes from Marianne Badongen. Marianne has been my dear friend for 16 years. I had the honor of traveling to The Philippines to stand in her wedding. She is a missionary and is living the life that we always knew was suited for her! I’m so proud of my lovely friend! Here’s Marianne’s idea…

“Woman age 36 is in a diving accident and is in a coma 2 years. She finally wakes up and tries to fit in her famiy again. Married with 2 teenage daughters.”

When I woke up it was a miracle. For so long I was trapped in my body. It felt like I was buried. I could hear voices. Doctors, nurses. But I couldn’t tell them that I was inside, aware. I was alive.

But that afternoon I opened my eyes. There were lights overhead. I couldn’t move my head for all the tubes and wires secured around me. I heard footsteps. My breathing became rapid. Fear gripped me.

The nurse looked into my face. Drew closer. I blinked. It startled her.

I was the miracle of the hospital. News crews came to film interviews with me and my family. They recorded me in rehabilitation learning to walk again. Took shots of me talking to my husband. A book publisher offered me a hundred thousand dollars for my story.

A woman is in a coma for two years after a closed head injury. A dive gone wrong. Two years of sleep for me. Two years of agony for my family.

But, in all truth, when I woke up I didn’t remember having a family. When my husband came to visit, the nurses would have to remind me that he wasn’t a doctor.

“Darlene, your husband is here to see you, honey,” Nurse Cherri would say. “Your husband Roger. You remember him.”

Roger brought pictures of the house, my girls, our lives together. It was like looking through a stranger’s photo album.

“This is Margie. She’s 16 now,” he said, pointing a girl in one of the pictures. “The other one there is April. She’s 14.”

“And who are they?” I had asked.

“Our daughters.”

“Right. I’m sorry. I’m having the hardest time remembering everything.”

“It’s okay, Dar. You’ll get it.”

“But I’m coming home. Right? You’ll have me at that house.”

“We will. It’s our house, honey.”

“Why don’t Margie and April come to see me?”

“They’re in school. That’s all. Just busy at school.”

Two months after I woke up, I was released from the hospital. Roger drove me in a mini-van that I didn’t remember. He told me that it had been mine. He pulled into the driveway of a house I’d only seen in pictures.

“I’m scared,” I said. “What if the girls don’t like me?”

Roger had laughed. “How could they not like you? You’re their mom. It just might take a little warming up. They’re a little freaked out by all of this.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Just…welcome home.”

He helped me walk up the steps on the front porch. There was a pot with a dead plant inside. I’d wondered if it was one that went neglected while I was in a coma.

“Those were your marigolds. You loved marigolds. Do you remember that?”

“No. Why would I have liked them?”

“You just did.” He held my hand. “You always had strange taste in things.”

We walked inside.

One of the girls looked at me and went into a room, closing the door. The other girl was no where to be seen.

“I wanted to meet them,” I’d said. “You know, try to build a relationship.”

“How about we have a pizza delivered. That’ll bring the girls out of their rooms.”

Margie and April sat on the couch, eating the pizza in silence, looking at me.

“What are you girls learning at school?” I asked, not knowing what else to say to them.

They looked at one another and confused.

“It’s summer, Darlene. No school in the summer,” Roger told me.

“Silly me. I guess I’ve just been in a coma for the last two years. Remembering the seasons is a little much for me right now.” I tried to poke fun at myself. No one laughed.

That was how it was. For weeks. Roger would go to work and leave me home with the girls all day. When they weren’t in their rooms, they were staring at me.

“Margie, April can I talk with you, please?” I asked after a month. “I made brownies.

I had learned that food would bring them out of their rooms.

“Sure,” Margie said. “Is there ice cream?”

I served them large bowls of warm brownies and melty ice cream. The stuff their faces. And, of course, stared at me.

“Can I ask you both a few questions? I’m trying to figure out what life was like, you know, before.”

“I guess,” April said.

“Well, what did you call me?”

“Just ‘mom’.” Margie.

“Well, then, feel free to call me that now.” I ate a small bite of my brownie. “How did I live for two years without this?”

“I know, right?” April smiled. But then went back to being sullen. “It’s weird that  you’re here.”

“It is?” I tried not to show my hurt.

“Yeah. We didn’t think you’d be back. Not ever.”

“April, no more. You remember what Dad said,” Margie whispered.

“What kinds of things did I cook?” I asked, changing the subject.

They giggled. The first time I’d heard that.

“Mom, you never cooked,” Margie said. “If you did, the smoke detectors would go off!”

We sat for hours. They told me all about myself. My favorite color. Yellow. My best friend. Lori from down the street. I loved watching soap operas and reading romance novels. Two things I couldn’t imagine myself ever enjoying.

“Oh! And you used to blog a lot.” April opened the laptop. “Like, you used to write things about work and us for everybody to read.”

“I’m a writer?”

“No. Not really. You just wrote stuff.” Margie explained what she meant. “Here maybe if you read this you’ll remember something.”

I read late into the evening. Even after Roger came home. I learned that I was a very loud, happy person.  My stories made me laugh and cry. But I still couldn’t remember a thing.

Then I found the latest of the posts. Written by Roger.

“Please pray. There’s been a terrible accident. Darlene is in a coma. She may not survive the night,” the blog read.

Another day, “Dar’s still sleeping. I sure do wish she’d wake up. The girls are too scared to visit her anymore. With all the breathing machines and heart monitors and catheters, well, I can’t say I blame them.”

Yet another, “I don’t know how long I’m supposed to live like this. I can’t see her like this anymore.”

Then one written three days before I woke up, “We’ve signed the papers. In a week we’ll remove life support. It’s going to kill me. I feel like I’m making a decision to have my wife murdered. Or put down like a dog. This is the worst day of my life. Today I stopped believing that God loves me.”

Could it have been true? Were they going to let me die? My heart broke. Not because of the decision. But for how painful it had been for them. For Roger, Margie and April.

The last entry. The day after I came home. “She’s different now. Quieter. Confused. She doesn’t remember anything. But I don’t care. God is good and I know He cares! My Darling Darlene is alive and awake. She’s here and she’s still my love. I just have to relearn how to love her better. And she no longer loves marigolds. I couldn’t be happier.”

I was loved. I was a miracle.

The bedroom was dark. Roger snored loudly. Yet another new thing to me. I stumbled over his work boots and landed in bed.

“You okay, Dar?” he asked, waking.

“Yes,” I answered.

My head nestled on his shoulder with his arms wrapped around me felt familiar.

Rob Meyer is a member of the Kava Writer’s Collective (a fun, awesome, talented group of writers from West Michigan). Rob writes mystery/suspense (think Hitchcock Magazine). Rob is the father of 4 children (3 of which have aspirations of writing). He is a loyal friend, family man and has a servant heart. 

Here’s Rob’s story idea…

“1917 Michigan farm – A young farmboy, William, eager to go off to war, talks to his rural pastor, a veteran of the Spanish American War, about whether God approves of killing to “save the world for democracy”. The pastor is torn between patriotism and memories of his experiences. William is mainly concerned about pleasing his father, an opinionated man who has never seen war.”

Farmboy Soldier

William slung feed into the chicken coop. The hens scurried to get the kernels, pecking each other to get more.

“Stupid chickens. Don’t ya know the fast you get fat the faster you get ate?” He hated the chickens.

For that matter, he hated all the animals. Farm life wasn’t his joy. Twenty-one years he’d spent on that farm; the whole of his life. He would have rather lived in the city, worked in a factory. Anything, anywhere but there on the farm. Even if he had to join the army. The danger would be worth the escape from the tractor and slaughterhouse and the barn.

“A boy should fight for his country,” his father had said. “Every boy should be willing to lay down his life for his fellow countrymen.”

But his father hadn’t fought in any war. He hadn’t even served in the military.

However, Uncle Hezron had fought. He was a cavalryman in the Spanish American War. A war hero, no less. Rescued his fellow soldiers, killed many of the enemy. Then he came home to become a pastor.

“War is a terrible thing, William,” his uncle had said. “Killing for democracy is still killing. Death is death. Murder is murder. It doesn’t matter why you kill. It’s just that you killed.”

William was torn. He seemed to go from one decision to the next hourly. He wanted to serve his country. But he didn’t want to have to kill. He wanted to stay home. But didn’t want to become a farmer.

“‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,'” his father had quoted scripture. “Son, the greatest love is for you to fight in this Great War and lay down your life for us here at home.”

“We are called to love one another,” Uncle Hezron had said. “And to love our enemies as ourselves. Killing our enemies in war isn’t following that command.”

“I’d be mighty proud of a son who fought in a war,” his father had said.

“War is not the will of God,” his uncle had said.

William sneaked behind the barn and placed a wad of chaw in his lip. It was his guilty pleasure. But it helped him to relax.

Stay or enlist.

Fight or be at peace.

He didn’t know. Couldn’t figure it out.

He pulled a letter from his back pocket. It was a letter from the university. An invitation to enroll in classes for the fall. It hadn’t seemed like an option before. Suddenly, it was an alternative. He could study law or medicine or business. Graduate and have a fine job in the big city.

It wouldn’t please his father.

But William was becoming a man, and less concerned about such things.

“Willie!” his mother voice screeched. 

He walked to the house. She stood on the back porch, flour covering her apron. Concern covering her face.

“What is it, Ma?”

“Your name’s been called up in the draft.”

“I’m going to war.”

The choice was taken from him. Part of him was relieved.

Congratulations to Julie Weber for her Week One win! Her idea was GREAT!

Check out Starting Over

 

Warm thanks go to Alex Skye and Kristi West for submitting beautiful story ideas as well. The voting was so close!

All three of these stories were wonderful to write! Thank you, ladies for the wonderful ideas!

Each week we’ll have a winner…then we’ll have a vote at the beginning of October to select the Ultimate Story Idea Winner…who will win an awesome Freeset T-shirt!

And keep checking in to read all the stories for the month of September! All inspired by my readers!

In order to make sure you don’t miss a post, feel free to subscribe by email!  Just enter your email address to the right of this post.

And, as always, thank you for reading!

~Susie

Today’s story was inspired by Jessie Heninger as a part of my September Challenge Contest.

Jessie is a very dear friend. I’ve known and loved her for MANY years. She is sweet, energetic, talented and will take a bullet for her dog. No. Really. She would. It’s just a testimony to her loyalty and devotion. You can find Jessie at Confessions of a Housewife where she blogs about motherhood, thrifting, being a wife, etc. You can also check out her furry friend blog Memoirs of a Golden which tells the stories of her adorable dog, Ranger. Yup. THAT dog…the really protected dog.

Also, don’t forget to vote for the 3 stories from last week. Find the stories and the voting instructions here. You have until midnight (9/5/2011) to cast your vote! GO!!!!

This was Jessie’s idea…

“Alice is 14 in 1951. She wants to play timpani in the school band, but the director says “no” because she’s female. He thinks she should play the flute or clarinet.”

The Timpanist

My great-granddaughter is coming to my apartment. I’ve been told that she is in need of some good, homemade cookies. Peanut butter-chocolate chunk. That’s my Junie’s favorite cookie.

She’s having a terrible time at school this year. She’s being teased. One day it’s that her hair is too curly. The next is that she doesn’t have the right cellular phone. It seems like something different makes her a target every day.

Her father insisted on this private school. He said it would be worse for her at public school. I say he’s just paying top dollar for her to be bullied. But why would he listen to his old grandma anyway?

But my Junie is 14 years old. It’s a tough age. All those hormones taking charge of the body and emotions. That can’t help matters much. And, really, those wires they make her wear on her teeth. I guess they call them braces. They seem more like torture devices than anything.

I’ve been trying to remember what it was like for me when I was 14. Golly, that was 60 years ago. If that doesn’t make a lady feel old, well, I don’t know what will. But, really, life was so different then. Being a kid was easier. Nobody wore tight jeans and skimpy tops at that age. And, if they did, they were sent home in a hurry. There were even a few families in my neighborhood that didn’t have telephones yet. Life was just simpler.

My only problem was Mr. Beamon. He was my first band director.

When I was 14, Mr. Beamon decided to kill my dream.

—

When I was a little girl, I wanted nothing more than to be in the band. I got my very first chance in 1951. I was 14 years old and an 8th grade student at Chester A. Arthur Junior High.

There had been a lot of changes that year. My father died in a farming accident. My mother, unable to live where her beloved husband had died so tragically, sold the farm. She moved us to the city. My brother and I were thrilled.

“Do you think they’ll have a school band?” I’d asked my mother. “I really hope they do.”

“I asked the principal. He said they indeed have a band,” she’d answered. “What do you think you’ll play? A flute? Clarinet?”

There was only one instrument for me. I had been dreaming about it for years. Ever since I listened to my first symphony.

“I want to play the timpani,” I said.

“The what?”

“You know, the really big drums. They sound like thunder coming up overhead.”

“You want to play drums, Alice? Isn’t that more of a boy instrument? Don’t you think that the xylophone would be better?”

I, as a matter of fact, did not think that the xylophone would be better. I was sure that the band director would welcome me as the new timpanist. On the first day of school, during the first band class, I told him my intentions.

“You want to play what?” Mr. Beamon asked. Then he laughed, puffed on his cigarette. “No. No, little lady.”

“No?” I was devastated. “But I’m willing to learn. I promise I’ll practice three hours a day. I’ll do anything. Please let me play timpani.”

“Nope. Can’t do that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Listen, girlie, the timpani is a man’s drum. You gotta be strong to play a drum like that.”

“But I am strong.”

He laughed again and walked away. “Now, kids, get in your seats!” he hollered.

The students obeyed. Well, except for me. I didn’t have a seat.

“You,” Mr. Beamon called to me. “Go sit in the percussion section. I need a xylophone player.”

I rushed to the seat. It was three seats away from the timpani. I was determined that by the end of the school year I would be pounding those drums. Then Mr. Beamon would have to eat his words.

—

Mr. Beamon chose Edwin Rithner to play the timpani. He was an impossibly thin boy. If I remember correctly, his glasses were bigger than his face. He played the timpani with about as much passion as a child eating brussel sprouts.

“I hate it,” he confessed to me one day after class.

“How is that even possible?” I asked. “It’s the most beautiful sound ever made.”

“I guess if you like loud, boingy sounds.” He pushed up the thick, plastic framed lenses. “I just hate music, is all. I’d rather be on the chess team. But my father thinks that’s for sissies.”

“So, you wish you could quit the band?”

“Yes. That would be the best thing to ever happen in my whole life.”

That’s when I got my first idea.

—

In late September, Edwin and I had it all figured out. He just had to hurt his left arm. We got my brother in on the scheme. He would slam Edwin’s left arm in a locker.

The problem was, my brother slammed it a little too hard. Edwin’s arm snapped in two places. But he was happy. He promised not to tell on my brother because it got him out of playing the timpani.

“We’ll just do without the stupid drum,” Mr. Beamon said.

“But, sir, I can play it,” I said. “I know the part.”

“There’s one problem. You’re still a girl.”

Edwin joined the chess team. At least one of us was happy.

—

October was when Mr. Beamon introduced the Christmas concert music.

I wore overalls and a flannel shirt to band class and tucked my hair into the back of my shirt. I thought I could convince Mr.  Beamon that I was a new male student.

“Do you really think I’m stupid?” he asked.

I suppose I had thought that for a moment.

—

By November I had considered giving up my dream of playing the timpani. I’d never even touched the actual drums or mallets. The disappointment was wearing on me. And I missed my father. Changing towns and schools and friends all in the same year proved too much for me.

I sat in the band room at lunch time. The timpani stood, uncovered, across the room from me. Mallets were placed on the drum head. I turned and read the sign on the wall. Mr. Beamon had written in black marker on yellow paper, “DO NOT TOUCH any instruments that aren’t yours!”

But he wasn’t there. I was alone. No one would ever know.

I picked up the mallets and very gently let them drop on the drum. The sound thrilled me. I did it again and again. Eventually, I forgot myself and played booming thunder and raging wind. The swell of waves and the gentle fall of snow. The range of the instrument surprised me.

“Hey!” Mr. Beamon’s voice snapped me back to reality. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m sorry,” I was afraid. This act of disobedience was sure to get me fired from the band. “I shouldn’t have touched it.”

He crossed his arms. His face was a combination of annoyance, anger and wonder.

“Do that again,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Oh, quit it out with the apologizes. Just play that drum again.”

From that day forward, I was the timpanist.

Just two years ago I retired from the community symphony. All the pounding caused my shoulders and wrists to ache. Old age will get us every time. But it was a good ride. My passion for the music only grew with every year. To this day I picture Mr. Beamon’s face when he discovered that I was more than he’d wanted to believe.

—

Junie and I sit at my kitchen table. She’s wearing a new pair of jeans. She says they’re what all the kids wear. She tells me that she just wants to be like everyone else.

“Well, I think it’s good to be the person God made you to be. Even if that means you’re a little different,” I say, nudging the cookie plate toward her.

She hasn’t had even one. She’s been here for over an hour.

“Being different is the kiss of death, Grammy.” She takes a cookie and picks it apart. “Anything that makes you stand out is bad.”

“Things are just not like they were when I was your age. I guess I just wouldn’t be able to understand.”

“Yeah. Probably not.” She puts a small piece of cookie into her mouth. “It’s like I have to be who everyone tells me to be. I don’t get to pick anything for myself.”

“I understand that.” I pour her a glass of milk. “Have I ever told you the story of when my family moved from the farm and I met Mr. Beamon?”

Maybe things aren’t as different as I’d thought.

Today is the day! Time to VOTE!

Don’t know what I’m talking about? Well, read about our contest here.

Every Sunday bring your chance to vote for the story idea that you liked the most! Here are the three to vote on…

 

Good-bye, George — Inspired by Kristi West

Starting Over — Inspired by Julie Weber

Boston and Babies — Inspired by Alex Skye

 

 

Please read all 3 of the stories before voting in the comment section of THIS post. Voting will be open until Monday, September 5 at Midnight (Michigan Time).

 

And feel free to subscribe to this blog to keep up to date on all the inspired stories this month! And share this blog with friends!

 

Thank you! And Happy Voting!

This story is part of my September Challenge Contest. You can check out the other entries this week; Good-bye, George — Inspired by Kristi West and Starting Over — Inspired by Julie Weber. Make sure you vote on Sunday, September 4. And then check back every day in September for more contest entries!

Today’s story is inspired by an idea submitted by Alex Skye. Her idea was…

“Setting: A small city and a big city

Character: A woman, about 25. Spontaneous, quirky, sweet but untrusting, smart but uncertain. Analytical.

Dilemma: Go out on her own to the big city to live a crazy, fun, but probably unstable life, or stay in the small city to settle down, marry, and raise babies.”

“What’s wrong with you, Lacey?” Regina asked her daughter. “You look awful.”

“Norbert asked me to marry him,” Lacey answered.

Regina jumped from her seat at the table, knocking over the ash tray and a cup of coffee that was mostly cream.

“I just knew he would! Oh, honey, this is the best news I’ve ever heard!” Regina smashed her daughter’s head onto her breast, thrashing her with a wild hug. “He is such a good boy. Always has been. And so strong. You know he’ll take good care of you. Oh! And the babies the two of you will make! Just beautiful. Let’s just hope they don’t get Uncle Rodrick’s nose. Or Norbert’s mother’s hips. Good-ness but does that woman scrape both sides of the door when she passes through.”

Lacey wiggled her way out of the hug. Straightened her pixie cut, magenta dyed hair. She plopped down on the stool next to the kitchen counter.

“Did you set a date yet? I just think an autumn wedding would be so pretty. We could dye your hair back to normal, get some of that special Hollywood make-up to cover up the tattoos. Oh! You’ll be a lovely bride once we change your ‘look’ a wee bit. Did you want to wear my wedding dress? I still have the cowboy hat that matched it.” Regina had clearly been looking forward to that day for a very long time.

“I said ‘maybe’.” Lacey slammed her head on the counter three times.

“If it’s a fall wedding, the bridesmaids could wear a nice burnt orange. Or brown. But maybe it would be more of you and Norbert’s style to have flashy, wild colors.” She pointed a fake fingernail at her daughter. “You know, I was looking at a wedding magazine the other day. This one bride had all the colors of the rainbow. Yes, she did. Come to think of it…there were two brides at that wedding. I wonder if it was a double wedding?”

Lacey lifted her head. “I told Norbert that I wasn’t sure I wanted to get married.”

“Maybe next year, then? We could book everything way in advance and save a little cash. I read online that there was this one bride who started with a toenail clipping and traded it for a peanut and kept trading things until she got her wedding dress. Hey, in a year you could trade enough stuff to do that.”

“Mom, I’m not doing that. That is insane. It just is.”

“Well,” she said with a hurt tone, “I thought it was pretty smart. And in this economy…”

“Anyway, I told him that I wasn’t sure I wanted to get married. Ever. Not even when I’m 50.”

Regina grasped her fists to her left breast. She found a chair and slowly, dramatically, lowered herself into it. “Well, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“But he, he’s perfect for you.”

“It’s not about him, Mom.” Lacey stood up, walked to the fridge. “I just want more from life.”

“What more is there than getting married and having babies?” Regina lowered her hands. “That’s what I did. And look at me. I’m living the good life.”

“Right, the good life for you.” Lacey opened the freezer and pulled out a popsicle. “It’s going to be different for me.”

“How can it be different?”

“Seriously? You don’t remember?”

“You know,” Regina nodded at the popsicle. “If you blow into the paper it won’t stick so much.”

“I already have a security deposit down for an apartment in Boston. And there might be a job all lined up for me.”

“Right. The barmaid job.”

“Yes. And we call them bartenders now. Even the ladies.”

“Well, this world certainly is changing quite a bit, isn’t it?”

Lacey and Regina were silent. For several minutes the only sound in the house was the ticking of the clock.

“It’s too quiet here.” Lacey finished eating and threw away the stick.

“I keep those for crafts, Lacey.”

“Not that one.”

“What kind of trouble are you planning on getting into if you move to Boston?”

“There’s a band that needs a bass player.”

“You aren’t musical.”

“You never let me be in marching band.”

“Because those kids are nothing but trouble makers.”

“They are not, Mom. Anyway, we might travel a little.”

“Young lady, do you have any idea how old you are?”

“Yes. I’m pretty sure I have an idea.”

“You are 25 years old. Do you know what that means?”

“Half way to 50?”

“Oh. Yes. You are. How about that. I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“Crazy, right?”

“Yes.” Regina remembered her train of thought. “But do you know what happens to your body at 25?”

“I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”

“Well, I got this email forward. It said that there was a woman in Ypsilanti, Michigan. She wanted to wait to get married and have kids. Well, she didn’t pass along this forward about baby ducks that had a curse on it. It  said, ‘if you don’t pass this on you’ll be cursed’. Well, she finally got married at 25 and her eggs were all dried up. Gone. Cursed.”

“Because she didn’t send a forward about baby ducks?”

“Right. Well, that’s not the point, is it? The thing is, if you wait too long you’re going to have problems getting in the family way.”

“Thanks, Mom. You are full of sound advice.” Lacey walked toward the door. “I’ll let you know what I decide. But, just so you know, this conversation did absolutely nothing to help me.”

“Well, that’s good, honey. That’s what I’m here for.” Regina watched her daughter leave the room and walk up the stairs to her bedroom. “Wait. What did she say?”

—

Lacey rested in her bed. She could smell the neighbor’s cows. The sweet and yet not so nice smell that she’d always known. She thought of the one 4-way stop intersection in town. A gas station on one corner, A&W on another, feed and tractor supply store on one and the sheriff station on the last. Her father was the sheriff.

She realized that if she stayed in that place she would never be more than the sheriff’s daughter, the hairdresser’s sister and Norbert the Farmer’s wife. And the mother to the 14 kids that he so desperately wanted.

The thought of that life made her woozy.

But, then again, Norbert was sweet. When he’d found out that magenta was her favorite color he’d planted nothing but bright pink flowers in his yard. He wrote songs for her. He couldn’t sing, and he knew it. But he would sing them anyway. Because he loved her so much. She smiled, remembering the time set up a romantic picnic in an open field of his farm. Nothing bad happened, nothing funny. It was just the most perfect picnic ever. It was the first time he told her he loved her.

She loved him. Couldn’t imagine life without him. Boston without Norbert would be a little less sweet. But, then again, he would never be happy in a big city. He liked the smallness of his life. He liked knowing the sounds and smells and feelings of the land.

There was a tapping at her window. It was Norbert. Lacey motioned for him to come in.

“Hey, Lace.” He stumbled into her room. “I always feel like an idiot doing this.”

“But do you really want to have to go through my mother?”

“The window’s fine.”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m alright. A little sad, disappointed. You know.”

She nodded her head. “But you knew I was planning on moving.”

“I was hoping I could change your mind.”

She sat up, leaned against the wall. “I can’t stay in this town.”

Norbert looked at his hands. Dirt from the farm stained them. No matter how hard he scrubbed his skin he couldn’t get the dirt to come all clean. His hands were rough. Full of callouses. The hands of a hard worker.

“Then I think you should go.”

She reached for him, to hold his hand. Her hands were soft, smooth.

“But what about you?” she asked.

“I’ll be fine.” He looked at her, squeezed her hand, smiled a tiny bit. “A fella came by the farm today. After our…talk.”

She nodded.

“He said he wanted to look around. So, I gave him the grand tour. He said some developer wants to buy up land around here to. They want to turn it into a new suburb.”

“Yuck. I hate suburbs.”

“I know you do. Well, this guy wants to give me a whole lot of money for the farm.”

“You aren’t going to sell it, are you?”

“I was thinking about it. Maybe buy a little house in Boston. Give us a good start.”

Her heart fluttered. And then it sank. “But you love that land. It was your grandpa’s farm.”

“I know. I thought about that. Gave it a good thinking over. But there was one thing I kept coming back to.”

“What’s that?”

“I love you more.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. Kissed his cheek. “I love you, too.”

“So, does that mean your answer’s ‘yes’?”

“I don’t know.” She let go of him. “How about this. You give me six months in my apartment in Boston. Then ask me again.”

He smiled at her. “It’s not the answer I want.”

“I know.”

“But I can wait for you. You’re worth the wait.”

“Thank you, Norbert.”

“Well, I have to get to bed. Sunrise comes pretty early.” He kissed her lightly. “That’s one thing I wouldn’t miss about the farm.”

“I love you,” Lacey said.

“I know you do.”

He clumsily folded himself to get out the window. She watched him walk to his truck. He waved and blew her a kiss.

She slept, dreams of Boston and babies in her mind.