The Rescue

The owner saw her approaching, checked to see if she needed him or just her groceries, then set his magazine aside.

She motioned toward the bags. "Would you mind if we left this here for a few minutes? We have to get some other kinds of bags that loop over the handlebars."

Despite the fact he was already halfway across the store and pulling a six-pack of Coca-Cola from the refrigerator, Taylor strained to hear what was going on. Denise continued.

"We're on our bikes, and I don't think I can get this all home. It won't take long--we'll be right back."

In the background her voice trailed off and he heard the manager answer. "Oh sure, no problem. I'll just put them behind the counter here for now."

Soda in hand, Taylor started toward the front of the store. Denise was shepherding Kyle out of the store, her hand placed gently on his back. Taylor took a couple of steps, thinking about what he'd just overheard, then made up his mind on the spot.

"Hey, Denise, wait up. . . ."

She turned and stopped as Taylor approached.

"Were those your bikes outside the store?"

She nodded. "Uh-huh. Why?"

"I couldn't help but overhear what you told the manager and . . . well . . ." He paused, that steady blue gaze holding her motionless in the store. "Can I give you a hand getting your groceries home? I'm heading right by your place, and I'd be happy to drop it all off for you."

As he spoke, he motioned to the truck parked right outside the door.

"Oh no, that's all right. . . ."

"Are you sure? It's right on the way. Take me two minutes, tops."

Though she knew he was trying to be kind, a product of a small-town upbringing, she wasn't sure she should accept.

He held up his hands, as if sensing her indecision, an almost mischievous grin on his face. "I won't steal anything, I promise."

Kyle took a step toward the door, and she put her hand on his shoulder to stop him. "No, it's not that. . . ."

But what was it, then? Had she been on her own so long that she didn't even know how to accept other people's kindness anymore? Or was it that he'd already done so much for her already?

Go ahead. It's not like he's asking you to marry him or anything. . . .

She swallowed, thinking of the trip across town and back again, then loading up all the groceries to transport home.

"If you're sure it's not out of your way . . ."

Taylor felt as if he'd achieved some sort of minor victory.

"No--it's not out of the way at all. Just let me pay for this and I'll help you carry your things to the truck."

He returned to the counter and set the Coca-Cola by the register.

"How do you know where I live?" she asked.

He looked over his shoulder. "It's a small town. I know where everyone lives."

Later that evening, Melissa, Mitch, and Taylor were in the backyard, steaks and hot dogs already sizzling over charcoal, the first vestiges of summer lingering almost like a dream. It was a slow-moving evening, the air bruised with humidity and heat. The yellow sun hovered low in the sky just above the stationary dogwoods, the leaves motionless in the still evening air.

While Mitch stood ready, tongs in hand, Taylor nursed a beer, his third of the evening. He had a nice buzz going and was drinking at just the right pace to keep it that way. After catching them up on what had been happening recently--including the search in the swamp--he mentioned that he'd seen Denise again at the store and that he'd dropped her groceries off.

"They seem to be doing fine," he observed, slapping at a mosquito that had landed on his leg.

Though it was said in all innocence, Melissa gave him the once-over, eyeing him carefully, then leaned forward in her chair.

"So you like her, huh?" she said, not hiding her curiosity.

Before Taylor had a chance to answer, Mitch cut into the conversation.

"What did he say? That he liked her?"

"I didn't say that," Taylor said quickly.

"You didn't have to. I could see it in your face, and besides, you wouldn't have dropped her groceries off if you didn't." Melissa turned to her husband. "Yeah, he likes her."

"You're putting words in my mouth."

Melissa smiled wryly. "So . . . is she pretty?"

"What kind of question is that?"

Melissa turned to her husband again. "He thinks she's pretty, too."

Mitch nodded, convinced. "I thought he was kind of quiet when he arrived. So what's next? You gonna ask her out?"

Taylor turned from one to the other, wondering how the conversation had spun in this direction.

"I hadn't planned on it."

"You should. You need to get out of the house once in a while."

"I'm out all day long. . . ."

"You know what I mean." Mitch winked at him, enjoying his discomfort.

Melissa leaned back in her chair. "He's right, you know. You're not getting any younger. You're already past your prime."

Taylor shook his head. "Thanks a lot. Next time I need some abuse, I know exactly where to come."

Melissa giggled. "You know we're just teasing."

"Is that your version of an apology?"

"Only if it makes you change your mind about asking her out."

Her eyebrows danced up and down, and despite himself Taylor laughed. Melissa was thirty-four but looked--and acted--ten years younger. Blond and petite, she was quick with a kind word, loyal to her friends, and never seemed to hold a grudge about anything. Her kids could be fighting, the dog might have messed on the rug, the car wouldn't start--it didn't matter. Within a couple minutes she'd be back to her old self. On more than one occasion Taylor had told Mitch that he was a lucky man. Mitch's answer was always the same: "I know."

Taylor took another drink from his beer. "Why are you so interested, anyway?" he asked.

"Because we love you," Melissa answered sweetly, as if that explained it all.

And don't understand why I'm still alone, Taylor thought.

"All right," he finally said, "I'll think about it."

"Fair enough," Melissa said, not bothering to hide her enthusiasm.