A Different Kind of Forever - By Dee Ernst Page 0,5

her.”

“You like everyone. It’s disgusting how nice you are to people. I bet you know the grocery clerks by name.”

“Evelyn, Maggie, Sophia, Lorraine, -“

“Oh, stop it. Now, you’re just showing off. Do you worry about not having someone in your life? At your age?”

Diane shrugged. “I have lots of people in my life, Marianne - you, my kids, my friends, Evelyn, Maggie, Sophia. I don’t have a man in my life, but that’s fine. I’m really very happy, you know that.”

“Yes,” Marianne mused. “You are a very successful single person. That man at the bar also looks very successful. Are you sure?”

Diane gathered her purse. “I’m tired. Doing nothing all day wore me out. Are you ready?”

Marianne drained her glass, and they left. Diane went home, watched TV with Jasper purring on her lap, and fell asleep on the couch. Sunday was another rainy day. She worked on her play, called her mother in Ohio, and napped until the girls came home.

The week began again, and another Tuesday. She ran errands in the morning, the dry cleaners, the library. She decided to treat herself to Moe’s, a small, crowded deli with great sandwiches. Standing in line, she wavered between corned beef and pastrami, but it was Moe himself who made the choice, wincing at her corned beef request. She picked up a cream soda, and then headed out to Bloomfield Park, a large, green oasis. She parked her car and walked toward a picnic table under a barely leafed-out maple tree, next to the duck pond. She was alone in the park except for a man and a dog playing out on the ball field.

She opened her sandwich and took a bite, then opened her soda. She needed to work on the second act this week. It was running way too long. She was running lines in her head when she heard someone yelling. She looked toward the noise, and jumped up in alarm. The dog that had been romping playfully in the ball field a few moments ago was racing toward her. The animal’s owner was running behind.

“He wants your sandwich,” he yelled. Diane stared at her sandwich, then at the rapidly approaching dog. It was huge, shaggy, long ears streaming back. No way was the owner going to catch it. She grabbed her sandwich in both hands, scrambled on top of the picnic table and stood, waiting.

“He wants your sandwich,” the man yelled again, so she stuck out her hand and the dog bounded up, snatching the sandwich from between her fingertips and landing gracefully a few feet away. Diane stared at the animal in amazement, then turned as the owner came running up to her. He was completely winded, gasping, bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“I’m so sorry,” he panted. “But my dog really loves pastrami.”

Diane stared at him. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

The owner of the dog nodded his head. “Oh, I know,” he gulped. “It’s probably the silliest thing I’ve ever had to say.”

Diane began to laugh, a tickle that began in her throat and bubbled up. She felt tears streaming from her eyes. No one would ever believe this. The owner started to laugh with her. He seemed very young, dark hair cut short and as he lifted his smiling face, she saw startling blue eyes, an angular jaw. Suddenly, she stopped laughing.

“Oh, my God. I know you.”

He was still breathing heavily. “I’m Michael Carlucci, and this is Max.” The dog had finished and was sitting quietly at his master’s feet. Michael gazed up at her. “I’m very sorry. Can I help you down?”

“Oh. Yes, please.” She felt suddenly awkward, and reached down to take his hand. She climbed down off the table carefully, her skirt riding to mid-thigh, heels unsteady on the grass. They were suddenly eye to eye. He was not much taller than her, slim, in a white polo shirt tucked into faded jeans, a thin belt around his waist. His arms and hands were beautiful, she noticed, sculpted and strong-looking.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “I thought you were somebody else. You look just like Mickey Flynn.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s me. Michael Flynn Carlucci. I was named for my Irish grandfather.”

“I thought it was you. There’s a life sized poster of you in my daughters’ bedroom. Your hair was longer.”

“Yeah.” He ruffled his hair with his hand. “Well, it’s the end if the tour. I can lose the look.”