The Splendor of Ordinary Days

by Jeff High

  I pulled along the water’s edge and parked. The grass, to my surprise, had recently been mowed. After spreading the blanket out in the small area in front of the car, I folded my arms and leaned against the hood, taking in the view of the lake. Christine dropped her beach towel on the blanket. Then, before she began to unbutton her shorts, she paused and glanced at me.

  As she had suspected, I was watching her, bewitched with anticipation. A slow, confident smile eased across her face, and for a second I thought she almost winked at me. She pushed her shorts down her long legs and stepped out of them. Then in a fluid, sensuous movement, she lifted her shirt above her head and tossed it to the side.

  There she was, at long last. Silhouetted against the orange glow of the setting sun, her tanned skin, ripe curves, and tall, beautiful body made my heart jump. She literally took my breath away.

  “Christine Ann Chambers. I think now I’m the one who’d like to take a picture.”

  As she walked toward me, I took off my shirt and sunglasses, laying them on the car. Smiling richly, she draped her arms around my neck.

  “So, are you saying you like my suit?”

  “I definitely like what’s in it.”

  I drew her close for a brief kiss. The warm press of her skin, and so much of it, was absolutely intoxicating. She leaned backward, my arms still hanging loosely around her waist. We were both wearing irrepressible, almost giddy smiles that spontaneously erupted into laughter.

  “You are wicked, Christine Chambers. Positively and completely wicked.”

  “And why is that?” she asked mischievously.

  “Oh right. Listen to you playing innocent here while I’m gawking like a schoolboy. You’re gorgeous, Chambers.”

  She looked down. “I’ve had one or two guys tell me that.”

  “I see. And did this happen when you were wearing a bathing suit?”

  “Especially then.” She paused for emphasis.

  “So, a guy ogling and telling you you’re gorgeous is nothing new.”

  “No. But this is different.”

  “Hmm, different how?”

  She searched my eyes and spoke in a low, sweet whisper, placing her finger on my chin. “Because this time it’s this guy, and this bathing suit, and unlike with all those other guys, I don’t mind the ogling.”

  “I’m pretty sure ogling isn’t all I’m thinking about.”

  She cut her eyes at me. “Come on, Bradford. Let’s go for a swim and cool off a little.” She squeezed my hand before turning and running toward the lake.

  I stood there for a moment, mumbling, “Unless this thing is fed by an arctic glacier, I don’t think that’s going to help.”

  We swam out a short distance to where our feet no longer touched bottom. The water was surprisingly cool, but tolerable, especially against the residual heat of the day. We swam and talked and laughed and splashed each other. Christine playfully tried to dunk me, but her efforts only served as opportunities to grab her and bring her down with me. And mixed within the fun and laughter was the occasional stolen kiss.

  The sun set, casting the distant hills into silhouette and shooting an array of orange hues against the cloudless sky. We had moved closer toward the shore to ­shoulder-­deep water. The warm evening air was perfectly still, and our voices echoed softly against the night, our bodies making delicate ripples in the mirrored surface. Soon a lilting moon appeared and our frolicsome conversation ebbed, gently passing into whispers that were sweet, tender, intimate.

  A silence fell upon us. In the low luster of moonlight, I watched the glistening dance of the water on Christine’s face and shoulders. I drew her near, looking into her dark eyes, so completely sincere, pure, magical. All that was strong and beautiful of my life in Watervalley was buried within them. She said nothing, only gazed at me with a face that was wistful and alluring. The left shoulder strap of her bathing suit had slid off and was hanging down her arm, availing an enticing exposure of bare skin. It was im­possible to resist.

  I lifted her slightly in the water, kissing her neck and shoulders. Slowly, she reached around and pulled away her long hair, her voice forming a pleasing hum. It was a small gesture, but a deeply inviting one that ignited in me a cascade of stirring emotion. I pulled her closer. She reached up and ran her fingers into my hair. My kisses grew more lavish, more consuming. Our breath quickened. Down in the water I ran my hands along Christine’s back and around the curve of her hips. She drew closer, and I felt the soft brush of her leg around the back of mine. But this spontaneous movement left her slightly off balance, and she tried to steady herself in the ­shoulder-­deep water.

  Instinctively, and without thinking, I put both hands on her bottom in an effort to stabilize her.

  Christine hesitated and then murmured in a playful, teasing voice, “Dr. Bradford, do you realize that both of your hands are on my behind?”

  I smiled and kept them firmly in place. “Is that so?” Undaunted, I held her tightly, giving her backside a shameless and delightful squeeze. “I believe you’re right, Miss Chambers. That is definitely your derriere.”

  She was smiling through her words. “Derriere, huh? Is that what you doctors call it when you hold a girl’s bottom?”

  “No, actually I call it a good start. What do you call it?”

  She looked down and spoke in a shy, earnest voice. “I call it a first. I’ve never let a guy do that.”

  I blurted my response. “Seriously?”

  My quick utterance held a tone of disbelief. Christine seemed suddenly ­self-­conscious, and there was almost a hurt quality to her words. “Well, yeah, seriously.”

  “So no guy has ever had his hands on your backside?”

  “Nope.” Again she looked down, as if the answer embarrassed her.

  I thought about her words for a moment. If this were true, it perhaps told a larger story about Christine, one that I had only suspected. An awkward silence fell between us. We separated slightly. Softly illuminated by the pale moonlight, she seemed uncertain, tense, searching.

  I said nothing, but I understood.

  Slowly, I reached forward and carefully slid my hands beside her face, lightly cradling the delicate curve of her head. I leaned toward her and pressed my lips to her forehead, gently keeping them there. She seemed to understand this tender gesture.

  She reached up and wrapped her arms tightly around my neck and rested her head on my shoulder, yielding the full measure of her soft body against me. Her voice was sweet, fragile, vulnerable. “I love you, Luke Bradford.”

  I rested my chin on her head and wrapped my arms around her, securely, protectively, and whispered into the darkness, “I love you too, Christine Chambers.”

  Whatever thoughts I had had about the romantic potential of the night were now pushed aside. I truly did love Christine, and it seemed that there was much to think about. Then again, the nearness of her yielding body was maddening, and I couldn’t resist the tempting thought burning in my head.

  “Bradford, why are you squeezing my butt again?”

  “If you must know, it’s a doctor thing. I was just checking for any flaws.”

  Christine pushed back from my shoulder. “And?”

  “Good news. Yours is absolutely perfect.”

  Even in the moonlight I could see the light shaking of her head. She kissed me and laughed softly. “Come on, Doctor. Let’s get to dry land.”

  Once ashore, we wrapped towels around us and sat on the blanket, watching the brilliance of the moonlight shimmering off the lake. Christine settled between my legs and leaned back against me, resting her head against my chest.

  “I love this place,” she said quietly.

  I looked up at the tender stars dotting the night sky. “Yeah, I like coming out here, especially when I get to take you along.”

  Christine had closed her eyes and
spoke in a drowsy, dreamy voice. “Out here, you can take me anytime.”

  I was still gazing at the stars when her words registered. I pressed my chin against her head. “What did you say?”

  Christine sat up abruptly. Her words were flustered. “I said, um, I meant to say that you can take me out here anytime. You know, I mean, bring me here.”

  I reached over and pressed my finger to her lips. “Hush, Chambers.” I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her back toward me, kissing her wet hair. “Just look at the stars.”

  She settled back, her shoulders melting against me. We sat silently for the longest time, and I closed my eyes. It was a moment from a dream.

  But a minute later, Christine leaned slightly forward and turned to me with a puzzled expression. “Luke, do you hear singing?”

  CHAPTER 17

  Intruders

  We both stiffened, endeavoring to be deathly still and listen. Christine was right. In the nearby darkness, the delicate tones of a woman’s voice were drifting up from the grassy descent some hundred or so yards away. It wasn’t like the man’s voice that I had heard at the ruins. That one seemed to echo on the wind. This one had a lilting, earthy quality that cut through the still night air. We couldn’t make out the words, but the tune was a simple and repetitive folk song. And it was growing louder, the singer coming closer.

  We sat frozen, both of us momentarily unnerved at the thought that we were not alone. Admittedly, though, there was nothing threatening in the mellow notes. It occurred to me that whoever it was had no idea we were there. I pressed a finger to my lips and gestured for Christine to move around the side of the car with me. We crouched low near the door and listened. The woman’s voice moved ever closer and was coming from directly in front of the ­Austin-­Healey. Suddenly it stopped and was followed by giggling laughter. A second voice, that of a man, joined the first.

  I had heard enough. I stood up, reached across the dashboard, and pulled out the knob for the headlights. Illuminated some fifty yards away were the outlines of a man and a woman. The man held up his arm to shield his eyes, and the woman raised both hands to her mouth, muffling a gasping shriek.

  “Who’s there?” I called out in a firm, clear voice.

  They stood still for only a split second before he grabbed her hand. They ran out of the path of the headlights and into the darkness.

  “Hello,” I called out again, but there was no answer. By now Christine was standing beside me.

  “Where’d they go, Luke?”

  “I don’t know. They took off. I think I scared them half to death.”

  “Could you tell who they were?” Her voice still carried a slight tinge of worry.

  “If my guess is correct, I think it was a couple of teenagers. They sure moved quickly. Did you not see them?”

  “No, they were gone by the time I stood up.”

  “So I guess you didn’t see the way they were dressed?”

  “What about it?”

  “From the looks of it, they were Mennonites.”

  We loaded up our things, and I drove the car slowly across the grass in the direction that they had fled. I was at a loss as to how the two of them had gotten inside the fence, thinking that the road gate was the only access. I soon had my answer.

  The enclosed area including the lake encompassed eleven or more acres. I headed toward the encircling fence, some two hundred yards away. Once there, I drove along beside it. After a short distance, a small passage gate came into view of the headlights. I hadn’t known there was a second way into the property.

  I positioned the car’s lights on it and got out to take a look. The ­chain-­link gate was three feet wide and tightly padlocked. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the metal ties holding the chain mesh had been removed, allowing for easy entry by simply lifting it up. Unless you looked closely, it appeared perfectly secure. Beyond the gate lay a path that was quickly swallowed by thick woods. The two Mennonite teenagers were nowhere to be seen.

  As I was heading back to the car, something on the ground caught my eye. I picked it up and walked over to look at it in the car’s headlight. It was a white handkerchief.

  I got in the car and handed it to Christine. “They’re long gone, but I’m certain they were Mennonites.”

  “There are initials embroidered on this handkerchief,” said Christine as she held it toward the dashboard lights. “ELY.”

  I shook my head. “No idea, except the ‘Y’ could possibly mean Yoder. I was thinking the girl could be Jacob’s daughter, but her name is Rebecca. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Excitement over.”

  “What do you think they were doing here?”

  I dropped my chin, giving Christine a disbelieving look. “Probably the same thing we were doing, sans the really cute ­two-­piece bathing suit.”

  “So, you did like the bathing suit, huh?”

  I thought about responding with some boyish, clever remark. But somehow, somewhere in the course of the evening, something had changed. Something in Christine’s words, in her willingness, had placed an earnest solemnity upon me that I did not yet fully understand. Instead, I reached over, held her hand, and smiled warmly.

  “Very much, Miss Chambers. Very, very much.”

  CHAPTER 18

  A ­Well-­Kept Secret

  The next few days passed like a blur. A work crew showed up at the Fox house next door and in the course of two days installed a crisp white picket fence around the backyard. Rhett was now the ­ever-­vigilant nosy neighbor, standing sentinel at the kitchen door and peering through the glass anytime Maggie was let out to play. I half expected to walk in on him holding a pair of binoculars, salaciously wagging his tongue, or tail, or both. He was apparently quite smitten.

  Clayton Ross continued to come in daily for his dressing change. He was always polite and respectful, but quiet. And as the days passed, the fervor from Luther’s article seemed to ebb, so I saw little point in bringing up the matter with Clayton. Still, sometimes at the diner I would overhear an occasional disparaging remark about the Mennonites.

  Word was also getting around about John Harris’s initiative to build a new war memorial, and the idea appeared to be enthusiastically and universally endorsed. Unfortunately, the memorial also provoked comparisons to those who had not fought in the last century’s wars, the Mennonites, fostering a ­mind-­set of resentment that seemed to creep into the daily discussion. The majority of the townsfolk had tolerant and accepting spirits, but it required only a few malcontents to keep the pot stirred.

  On the last Tuesday night of June, Connie cooked dinner for me. What had once been a daily ritual was now an occasional event. Her time was consumed with Estelle and the bakery, and my time was devoted to spending every possible minute with Christine. My house continued to be magically spotless and the laundry clean, but our meals together occurred infrequently. In some ways, Connie was my closest confidant, my best friend. So all day Tuesday, I was greatly looking forward to seeing her.

  That afternoon I arrived home to a surprise. Both sisters had come for a visit. I remembered Connie’s remark that the two of them had a Tuesday evening ritual of dinner and an Elvis movie. It looked like I was in for a night of great food and Viva Las Vegas.

  I found them in the kitchen engaged in an energetic conversation about their upcoming family reunion.

  “Estelle, honey, what is wrong with you? What kind of woman goes looking for a man at a family reunion?”

  “I didn’t say anything about looking for a man. I just said I hope Cousin Flora brings her brother, Tyrell. She’s related by marriage, so I think he’s fair game. He’s such a sharp dresser, and so polite.”

  “Sweetie, I hate to break it to you, but Tyrell is not just a sharp dresser. He’s also a hairdresser. Far be it from me to judge, but I don’t think he’s interested in female companionship.”

  �
�Well now, that’s where you’re wrong. He was awful keen on me last year till that little accident.”

  Although I had been standing in the kitchen during this conversation, neither of them acknowledged my presence. No greetings, no salutations, no change of subject. Yet, there was something wonderful in this treatment. It seemed that I was a family member whose arrival was not worthy of formal gestures.

  Meanwhile, Connie continued to lecture her sister. “Sweetie, that was your own fault. If you hadn’t been acting like the goofy fairy had just visited you, that accident, as you call it, wouldn’t have happened.” Finally, Connie turned to me. “Luke, it’s almost ready. Go upstairs and get yourself washed up.”

  “Are you kidding? I want to hear the rest of this. What accident are you talking about?”

  Connie gave her sister an admonishing glance and uttered a superior “Humph.”

  Estelle explained, “It was just a little allergic reaction. I accidentally ate the wrong food.”

  “­Umm-­hmm. Little, my foot. Your lips swelled up so bad, it looked like you had two hot dogs glued to your face.” Connie was erupting in laughter . . . so much so that she put one hand to her chest and the other on the kitchen counter to steady herself. “Sweetie, you know I love you, but for the life of me, your lips looked like a baboon’s butt.”

  “That’s all in the past,” Estelle responded indignantly, clearly not sharing Connie’s amusement. “Besides, I don’t care what you have to say about it. I’m going to Nashville the weekend before the reunion and get me a mani, a pedi, and some new shoes.”

  “What kind of new shoes?” inquired Connie.

  “Some athletic shoes. I need to get some with lavender to match my outfit so I can play in the reunion volleyball tournament.”

  Connie was aghast. “Volleyball! Girl, what are you thinking? You’ve got no business playing volleyball with your heart condition. Besides, I’ve seen chess players with better reflexes than you have.”