Holly's Heart Collection Three

by Beverly Lewis

  To appease her, I reintroduced Sean to her. “I’m sure you remember Andie Martinez.”

  He extended his hand like a true gentleman. “Hey, Andie. How’s it going?”

  While I was introducing Paula and Kayla, Jared happened to come over. “This is Jared Wilkins,” I told Sean. Then turning to Jared, I said, “I’d like you to meet my California friend, Sean Hamilton.”

  The two of them shook hands, too, Jared taking the initiative and striking up a conversation with Sean. I was terribly impressed with Jared’s maturity as I observed them together. He’d come a long way since his “jealousy days”!

  Soon the long line of eager tourists began to move. Mrs. Duncan had informed us that this was the week for the White House spring garden tour. “That’s why America’s hometown is overcrowded with sightseers,” she explained.

  Personally, I was glad the competition had been held this month. I couldn’t begin to imagine how crowded Washington, D.C., would be in the summer with school out.

  Sean fell into step with me. We talked about his cross-continental flight and where the Dressel Hills choir stood with the competition so far. “A decision will be made by tonight,” I told him. “The first-place choir gets to sing at the Capitol, in the rotunda, tomorrow at noon.”

  “Cool.” He grinned. “In front of lots of congressmen?”

  “And women.”

  He laughed. “Of course.”

  Soon we were led through the entrance to the block-long building—the John Dillinger “death mask” and the Ten Most Wanted list exhibits greeted us. A gripping crime show!

  Danny Myers and some of the other guys asked questions, but the guide wasn’t stumped by any of them. In fact, he seemed to have an answer for everything, along with additional stories— complete with blood-curdling details.

  Because Sean was pursuing a career in medicine, he was most interested in the crime labs, where technicians did all sorts of scrutinizing work. Things like analyzing handwriting and fibers and determining blood types.

  Next, we were taken to a room filled with over four thousand guns and twelve thousand different kinds of ammunition. Some of the guys in the group got overtly macho suddenly but not Sean.

  He listened and observed, like the young gentleman he was.

  Last but not least, we witnessed the FBI’s very own indoor firing range—noisy and action-packed. We viewed it from behind a glass wall, of course. Personally, I was glad to get out of there!

  After the FBI tour we caught the Metrorail, which sped us away to the National Air and Space Museum. Mrs. Duncan told us, before we ever stepped inside, that this was the most-visited museum in the world. More than nine million people visited each year.

  When our group was divided in half by our adult sponsors, Andie sulked about it—which meant she wasn’t thrilled about her and the Miller twins being separated from Sean and me. I figured she’d get over it. Besides, it was a much better arrangement . . . at least for my guy friend and me.

  The place was literally soaring with airplanes, rockets, and missiles—from the Wright brothers’ 1903 Flyer to the Viking Lander from Mars. I had a hard time keeping up with our small group, though, because I really wanted to just stand and gawk at each exhibit. And the space probes and satellites floating overhead.

  “C’mon, Holly,” Sean called to me once. “I’d hate to see you ‘space out’ in here.”

  I laughed. “You’re pun-ny,” I said about his play on words. And he was. A real wit and a half!

  About an hour later, while we were exploring the huge Skylab space station, suddenly our group vanished. It seemed so weird, especially because just seconds before, we’d all been together—right here in this huge, silver, barrel-shaped orbital workshop.

  “If we hurry, maybe we can track ’em down,” Sean suggested.

  So we rushed through the long middle hall, trying to spot anyone familiar. We even backtracked through each of the two-story hallways, searching everywhere.

  After checking the Albert Einstein Planetarium section, we decided it was futile; besides, we didn’t want to waste valuable sightseeing time. We would go it alone. And secretly, I was thrilled.

  “I hope Mrs. Duncan and the others won’t worry,” I said as we made our way outside into the warm, bright sunshine.

  “Oh, there’s a good chance we’ll run into them,” Sean assured me. “Any idea where they’d be headed next?”

  “Probably somewhere for lunch, but beats me where.”

  My cell phone battery was dead, so I really wasn’t sure about the best approach to take for locating our group. Neither was Sean, but he had a great idea. “Let’s grab a snack. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”

  We walked to a hot dog stand one block away. While we waited in line, Sean and I talked—mostly about the monuments and the attractions. But I really wanted to know his impressions of George Washington University and the college days activities over the past weekend. I decided not to be nosy, though—I’d wait till he brought it up.

  With the sun shining down on us through the newly formed leaves, Sean asked, “What’s your favorite attraction so far?”

  “That’s hard to say,” I replied, telling him about the splendor of the Lincoln Memorial and the drama of Ford’s Theatre. “We saw those Saturday.” I paused for a moment. “What I think I really liked best was the space museum—touching the moon rock was so cool. What about you?”

  “Has to be the FBI building.”

  I wasn’t surprised. The place was perfect for a guy interested in blood and other medical stuff.

  We were finally close enough to the food stand to read the prices—three times higher than in Dressel Hills—probably than any other place in the world, too.

  “How hungry are you?” he asked with a grin.

  “A little.” But I certainly didn’t want him to think he had to pay for me. Quickly, I pulled out my wallet. The face of George Washington on my one-dollar bills gave me an idea. “Hey, want to visit the Bureau of Engraving and Printing this afternoon? My stepdad highly recommended it.”

  Sean promptly found his tourist guide and map. “Sounds like fun. I hear they print more than thirty-five million bills every day.”

  I was surprised at how agreeable he was. Andie would say he was only trying to impress me. But I had a different take on the way Sean handled himself around me. And it had nothing to do with trying to sway or influence me. Nope. Sean was a well-bred, very nice Christian guy.

  Secretly, I hoped our friendship might continue for a long time. At least, until he and I came to know God’s plans for our lives. Of course, no way would I discuss the book I’d read recently. Not with Sean. I wouldn’t want him to think I was bold or, as my mother called it, forward. According to her, no one ever attracted a nice boy by chasing him.

  Surprisingly enough, I’d found this to be true in the past. The best way to attract friendships with boys was to allow them to do the pursuing.

  And over hot dogs, fries smothered in ketchup, and plenty of soda, I let Sean do just that.

  IT’S A GIRL THING

  Chapter 15

  Sean did end up paying for my lunch, even though I told him I was quite capable of handling my own financial affairs.

  He wouldn’t hear of it. So I guess I could actually say this had just been my very first real date—even though I’d tried to convince myself that I wasn’t interested in the formal dating thing much anymore.

  Mom had made a rule years ago that I had to be fifteen to go out on an actual date with a guy. Oh sure, I’d spent lots of time in groups with boys from our church, but for some reason, I’d built up this whole date thing in my mind. Longing, waiting for the second I turned fifteen.

  Funny thing, though. My thinking had begun to change, partly because of that cool book, and for another reason, too. Sean was my good friend. The way I saw it, our relationship was fabulous—and absolutely appropriate for our age—just the way things were. To think of him in a romantic, gush
y sense would surely spoil things. I couldn’t risk anything happening to the beautiful rapport we shared.

  So I was determined to shove out the first-date notion and focus on simply sharing with and listening to my friend.

  After lunch we walked nearly three blocks on the Mall, toward the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. Ordinary sights and sounds captured our attention along the way—little kids from a day care having a picnic, and a group of older folk on bicycles.

  We soaked up the gentle, warm breezes of a romantic April afternoon . . . er, I mean a pleasant one.

  Finally I couldn’t wait any longer. I simply had to ask the question burning inside me. “What do you think of the university here?” I blurted.

  Sean smiled as we walked, glancing at me as if he might be ready to discuss it. “I want to check out two others before I make my final decision. You know, take my time about it.”

  “So you’re not really wild about George Washington University?’

  “It’s great—but too far away from California.”

  “Where are the other schools?” I asked, genuinely interested.

  “One’s KU—Kansas University.” He paused for a moment, a wide grin spreading across his face. “And the other is UCCS—the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs.”

  “You’re kidding! You might go to school in my state?”

  He stopped walking and turned to me. “Wouldn’t it be cool, Holly? And so handy for me to see you more often.”

  “That’d be fun,” I admitted as a curious feeling caught me by surprise.

  I was glad it was his turn to ask questions. “Any idea where you might go to school?”

  We resumed our walk, the smell of daffodils in the air. Letting my hair blow freely, I told him some of my future aspirations. “Well, I’m really interested in becoming a published book author . . . someday. It’s hard to say what school I should attend for that sort of thing. I know I want to study plenty of English and American literature before I attempt a novel or anything serious. Besides, Mrs. Ross, my English teacher, says a writer needs to live and experience life for a long while before attempting a book.”

  Sean listened with rapt attention. In fact, both of us were so caught up in conversation, we almost missed turning south at Fourteenth Street.

  “What are the chances of your show choir taking first place?” Sean asked later as we waited for the next available tour in front of the gray building—where America’s paper money was printed.

  “Well, if you could’ve heard the other groups sing, you might think we had zero chance.”

  “Really? Which ones were best?”

  I told him my three top picks—one of them included the all-girls group from New York. “I guess when it comes right down to it, we’ll have to trust the judges’ vote.” I shook my head. “Man, I’d hate to be the one picking.”

  He stepped back a bit, studying me. “What if—just what if—your choir is chosen? When would you be going to Austria for the international competition?”

  “Why do you want to know?” I wondered what he was really asking.

  “This summer?” he persisted.

  “Sometime in mid-June, I think.”

  By the way he nearly chuckled, I had a funny feeling he was fishing for something.

  “C’mon,” I pleaded. “What’s up?”

  “Let’s just see if your choir wins or not.” That’s all he would say.

  I was beginning to feel comfortable with him. Really comfortable. That’s when I decided to bring up the subject of the book I’d read. And I was careful not to be too forward about it, either. “It’s really incredible—the concepts in the book, I mean.”

  “Who’s the author?” he asked. “It sounds familiar.”

  I began to tell him more. Afterward I hoped I’d done the right thing. “So, what do you think?” I asked, noting a sign warning tourists about taking photographs. “Is it a radical idea?”

  “There’d sure be a lot fewer broken hearts in the world.”

  I agreed. And I didn’t tell him, but I knew that the minute I let a boy hold my hand, the relationship had already begun to change. I didn’t want physical attraction to become more important than friendship.

  We talked more about it, and soon he was pulling out his wallet and asking me for the name of the author. I waited while he jotted it down, inching along with the crowd.

  At last we were inside and listening to an informative but brief spiel on the production of currency. How it was designed, engraved, and printed. Progressing along, we watched as thousands of dollars zipped through the printing presses. There were forklifts hauling crisp, green dollar bills, and other interesting things to see, like tons of postage stamps and passports.

  Seeing the passports made me think of Sean’s secretive comment. Why did he want to know about Austria? Was he going there this summer?

  Partway into the tour, Sean leaned over, and before I could stop him, he aimed his camera and it flashed.

  “Halt right there, young man!” a deep voice bellowed into the crowd. The burly guard whipped out his two-way radio and began reporting the infraction as he headed straight for us.

  Tugging on Sean’s shirtsleeve, I said, “Didn’t you see the sign back there?” I was sure he hadn’t. But that didn’t seem to hinder the guard.

  “Hand over that camera!” the stern command was given.

  I cringed. Was my friend going to jail?

  “It’s against the law to take pictures in a federal building.” The guard was obviously wired up.

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” Sean spoke up. “I didn’t see any sign, otherwise I would’ve kept my camera in its case.”

  I worried that Sean’s expensive camera might be confiscated— his precious pictures erased.

  “How could you miss seeing the signs?” the guard demanded, now out of breath and surveying Sean’s camera. “They’re posted everywhere.”

  Sean glanced at me and said tenderly, “I was lost in conversation with my girlfriend.”

  That helped. The guard hesitantly returned the camera— backing off. But my heart sure didn’t. It was going berserk. And after all our logical, serious talk about the fabulous book.

  After all that . . .

  Girlfriend!

  Shoot, I was so bewildered by the unexpected comment, that at the end of the tour in the visitor’s center, I purchased a bag of shredded money as a souvenir!

  What was I thinking?

  IT’S A GIRL THING

  Chapter 16

  “Do you think we’ll ever catch up with Mrs. Duncan and the choir?” I asked, still rather dazed, yet reluctant to end our private talk.

  A boyish grin spread across Sean’s handsome face. “Let’s see the Washington Monument next.” He studied his map and discovered it was only a few blocks north of us. “It’s not far— look for the park and fifty American flags.”

  I checked my watch. Two o’clock—still plenty of time.

  “Is it true the monument stays open till midnight?” I asked. “A friend of mine once told me he climbed all 898 steps and rode the elevator down at midnight.” I didn’t tell him the friend was Jared Wilkins, who had visited it while on summer vacation with his family.

  Sean held my hand briefly as we crossed the street, but I knew it was only out of concern for my safety. Besides, I wasn’t complaining. After all, my own father, now a Christian, had approved of Sean Hamilton right from the start—another one of the important principles taught in the book I’d read.

  As it turned out, none of the Dressel Hills choir members was anywhere near the tall marble monument or its reflecting pool to the west. But Sean and I had fun riding the elevator to the top. The view was great, too. Exceptionally clear. We could see for a zillion miles in all four directions.

  “Just think,” I joked, “if we had binoculars, we might be able to find Mrs. Duncan and the choir from up here.”

  Sean laughed, but I sensed he wasn’t terribly worried about catching u
p to the others. Not yet. The day was young. And since we were in the vicinity, we paid a solemn visit to the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial. Sean found his uncle’s name on the black granite wall and asked one of the park employees to make a rubbing of the name.

  Baskets of flowers and personal letters, along with many other gifts, had been left behind at the wall. People in uniform, and others not, stood and cried openly. After a few moments of observing this perpetual silent yet emotional drama, I began to have a modest understanding of the pain and loss that comes with war.

  Slowly and thoughtfully, Sean and I walked back to the reflecting pool. There, we sat on the grass and watched the ducks, talking softly about the effects of human cruelty.

  After we’d rested our feet, we caught the Tourmobile to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and the Eternal Flame at John Kennedy’s gravesite in Arlington National Cemetery. Sean went camera-crazy, insisting on taking shots of me at each of the famous landmarks—even at some general’s gravestone I’d never heard of. Actually, it got to be comical, but I knew it would be a long time before we might see each other again, so I cooperated and put on my best smile for him.

  Back at the hotel, I waited—actually sacked out on the bed for an hour—before Andie and the twins ever returned. And what a joyful reunion it was!

  “We thought you’d eloped or something,” Andie joked.

  I sat up and blinked my sleepy eyes. “Was Mrs. Duncan worried?”

  “Not really,” Paula chimed in. “Anyone can take one look at Sean and see he’s a responsible guy.”

  Kayla was nodding her approval. “It was nice, probably, that it worked out this way . . . right?”

  “If you’re asking if I planned it, well, I didn’t.”

  “But if you could do it over, would you get lost again? That’s the real question.” Andie was being silly. But she was right, and I knew it.

  Somehow or other, it had seemed almost providential that Sean and I spent the afternoon together.