It Happened on Maple Street

Who was this girl?

And how in the hell had the world spun so completely on its axis? In the space of a week I’d transformed from the bookish girl who no one noticed, to sitting alone with the man of my dreams. My Tim.

I had no idea what to say.

I knew about romance novels. About dukes and earls and worldly businessmen who flew their own jets and ate girls like me for their afternoon snacks.

And . . .

I knew boys. Of course I did. I lived every day of my life with two of them. They liked sports. And I was the best darn Little League scorekeeper I knew.

“You sure your mom’s not going to care that you’re bringing me home?”

“Yes.” I was positive about that. My parents had despaired over my lack of interest in dating. I’d heard “Get your nose out of that book” so often, I’d started hiding out in the bathroom to read when my parents were still up. Didn’t seem to matter how long I took in there, they never bothered me.

And that was not something I was going to tell the man sitting next to me. He was not going to hear about me using the restroom. Ever.

Or about my penchant for romance novels, either. After years of living with my brother’s ribbing about them, I knew better than to confess my life’s plan.

The fact that I’d never had a date, that this was my first-ever date, fell in that same category.

What guy would want a girl no other guy wanted?

I drove. Hoping I didn’t do something stupid.

“Don’t worry about my dad,” I told the man sitting next to me. “He won’t be home when we get there.” Dad was on duty at his real estate office and wouldn’t be home until after Tim had to leave. Mom and I had made certain of that.

“My older brother isn’t there, either,” I chattered away, making turns, driving too fast, slowing down too quickly when I came to lights. “He’s away at college,” I said. “I miss him like crazy. He and I are only thirteen months apart, and last year when he left for Armstrong was the first time in my whole life that we’ve been separated, and I hate it.”

Tim nodded. I caught the motion out of the corner of my eye, and stole a full glance at him. He smiled.

Oh, God. That smile.

He seemed interested in what I was saying. So I kept talking.

“He’s a musician. So’s my dad. They play by ear. But Chum, that’s my brother,” I said, embarrassed, as I always was when I first told people my older brother’s name. It wasn’t his given name, but it’s all I’d ever known him by. “Chum plays guitar. He’s really good. I play, too, but only for me. I’m not good like he is.”

I talked fast. Always had. My brother had teased me about being an auctioneer when I grew up because I talked so fast. Could I help it that I had so many thoughts that they had to race themselves out of my brain?

Another nod. And I said, “Chum’s real name is Walter, like my dad and grandfather. When he was born my grandmother was changing him and said that there were too many Walters and told him that he’d always be her little chum. The nickname stuck. None of us ever called him Walt.”

I was rambling. Free thinking. It was better than panicking. Or worrying about everything that could go wrong. “I remember when we took him to school a year ago August. The whole family went. It was horrible leaving him there. And on the way home, we were in this podunk place in Alabama, where Armstrong University is, and my dad made a wrong turn and we had to stop at this farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere to ask directions, and the old farmer guy, he looked at us and shook his head and in all seriousness told us we couldn’t get there from here. Can you believe it? Like, what, we could never go home because we were there? I mean really . . .”

We were getting closer to my house. Closer to Tim meeting my mother. She just had to like him. I was going to die if she didn’t like him.

I was afraid of my father, but next to my childhood soul mate, Jeanine, who lived with her folks in Wisconsin, my mom was my best friend.

And I was bringing home a person who I would gladly leave my mother’s house to be with.

How crazy was that? I barely knew him.

And how could I walk in my house feeling the things that Tim made me feel? I was tingling in places a good girl didn’t tingle. Would it show? My mother knew me so well. Would she be able to tell?

Would the neighbors see me pull up with Tim? Would my little brother be home? Was the sky still blue and the grass still green?

I was Tara Gumser.

And I was bringing a man home with me.