It Happened on Maple Street

“You said you had separate bedrooms,” Tim said. “I didn’t know if that meant . . .”

“I haven’t had a man inside me in so long, my body probably couldn’t even take it . . .”

I’d found a way to warn him, at least.

“Oh, it’d take me. I have no worries about that.” His voice had softened. And deepened. My body responded to it.

“How about you?” I asked, to distract me from own confusion. “How long has it been for you?”

“I haven’t slept with anyone since Denise left.”

“There’s been no one?”

“Not even a date.”

“Wow.” I’d been afraid to ask. Afraid of the answer. “I’m shocked.”

“I take that as an insult.” He actually sounded a bit put out. “Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean that I don’t have standards.”

“I know that,” I hastened to assure him. “But you’re gorgeous, Tim. I can’t believe that there weren’t women after you the second they knew you were free.”

“I hurt two women because I couldn’t commit to them,” Tim said. “I wasn’t about to hurt a third.”

God, I loved this man. And I couldn’t wait to see him.

Whatever happened.

Twenty-Four

ATLANTA WAS AN OKAY CITY. I LIKED THE SOUTHERN feel. The accents. The trees. It was warm enough.

I’d been there with James.

And here I was, back in the city to admit, for the first time in my life, what I’d suffered because of him.

Unpacking the few things I’d brought took five minutes in the four-star hotel room. Makeup out in the bathroom. The DVD player that traveled with me all set up beside the bed. In less than twelve hours Tim would be there. He landed at 6:00 am and was stopping by to say hello before his morning meeting.

I had to eat. More accurately, I had to have a drink, and I couldn’t drink without getting some food in my stomach. Room service, available through the hotel’s fine-dining establishment, was way more than I needed. And far too expensive. But there was a pub downstairs that had salads. And more important, a full bar.

It took another ten minutes for me to make it down there, look over the menu, and order. Leaving me a good eleven hours before Tim.

And then I noticed that I was the only person in the bar who was there alone. And I remembered. It was Valentine’s Day.

A day for lovers.

Fitting that I was there alone.

I picked up my phone and dialed.

“Hello?” Pat Potter, my closest writer friend picked up.

“Hi. I need to ask you a favor.”

“Of course.”

“I’m in Atlanta. To see Tim. I’m due to see him in the morning for the first time in almost thirty years. He could be a mass murderer for all I know . . .” I was rambling. I heard myself. And I couldn’t stop.

What was I doing meeting up with Tim like this? I wasn’t eighteen any more. I’d learned the hard way that a woman was never safe. And here I was leaving myself wide open for further hurt and humiliation and . . .