Page 19 of No Kisses for the Neighbor Next Door

“No, I haven’t and, yes, I could eat something.”

We talk about the previous year’s Spring Fair. I tell him which were the high points for me, in between sips of soda.

“Gosh. Apart from being an all-round fun day, the battle re-enactment is what makes the fair special.” I put my empty glass down on the table. “The Historic Society is very serious about attention to detail. They research thoroughly every aspect from what they wear; the guns they use; even what they eat and drink. They are all about authenticity.”

“Apart from throwing in a medieval castle,” Cam says, laughing.

“Yes, well. I’m sure the symbolic aspect is correct. Westie, Mr Weston, who owns the car yard. He’s one of the most active members. He’s so knowledgeable about what happened around here in the late eighteenth century.”

“That’s cool. And I’ll bet there’s loads of info at the library.”

“That’s right. There’s a whole section on local history: documents, photos, and letters. And not only from newspapers and official sources. We have some very personal accounts from ordinary people who lived here. I suppose I’m a bit of a history nerd.” I feel a little shy about sharing my passion for local history. “But when you hold something in your hand that was written by someone just like you, two hundred plus years ago, I get tingles.”

“Wow. I had no idea the library had that sort of collection.”

“If you’re interested. Come in any time and I’ll show you some of my favorite pieces of old crumpled paper.”

Cam and I don’t do much event planning that night beyond making a spreadsheet with color-coded headings. We have dinner at The Old Oak, then Cam gives me a ride home.

At my house, Cam says goodnight, which is followed by a pause before he says, “That was the most enjoyable event planning meeting I’ve ever been to. And I’m looking forward to the next one.”

“Me too, Cam.”

We stand close together for a minute on the sidewalk between our houses. I want him to kiss me. But then I suddenly feel overwhelmed and remember that we are not dating and that nothing is going on.

“Goodnight then,” is all I can say before turning to walk briskly back to my house.

A couple of days later. I’m just putting the finishing touches to the display about tobacco: a combined effort with students from the high school. The kids have done a great job telling the story of the sacred and medicinal plant of ancient cultures, which morphed down the centuries into modern big business, fueling health risks and addiction. I stand back to view the display with pride and satisfaction.

“Hey, that looks great,” says a loud whisper, surprising me. I whirl around so fast I’m almost off-balance. It’s Cam.

“Thanks.” Regaining my equilibrium. “I was inspired by Westie. Do you remember the fire at his car yard? He’s still trying to quit, so this might help him.”

“Of course, I remember that ‘fire’.” Cam makes bunny ears around the word fire. “My first day here. And first callout. It was a monumental day… And I met you.”

“Yes. That’s right.” I feel a blush beginning to color my cheeks, so I focus on being professional. “Now, how can I help today? Or is this just a social visit?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about what we talked about the other night, and you said there were documents from years back you could show me. So, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to maybe see what makes you so nerdy.”

“Alright.”

Cam follows me down to the back of one of the aisles, to the section on local history. I feel his presence close beside me as my fingers walk over the spines of colored folders.

“Here are some news stories. In chronological order.” I extract a cardboard labeled binder from the shelf and hand it to Cam. “I also have a collection of letters.” I pull out another folder. “The really old ones are too fragile for the shelves. I’ve made copies that are in here, but the originals are locked away in the office. You can see them if you’re interested.” Cam nods and we make our way between the rows of bookshelves to my office, a glorified closet at the back of the library. I unlock the door to the cramped space which is filled up with a desk, shelves, and two chairs. There’s only just room to open the door.

“Welcome. Please have a seat.”

Cam sits at my desk as I reach up to find what I’m looking for. Then, while I’m on tiptoes, Cam stands up and puts his hand on the folder I’m reaching for.

“Here. I’ve got it,” he says close to my ear. His words cause goosebumps up and down my neck.

“Thanks. You can look through them here, if you like.” Suddenly, feeling flustered at being in such a confined space with the tall, well-built firefighter, I put my hand on the door handle and step out, saying quickly, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

My heart is racing. I gulp down a deep breath outside my office, then I notice someone at the counter. An elderly woman is looking around, waiting to check out a pile of books. Kevin is nowhere to be seen, so I go over to scan the books out for her. The woman stacks the pile of literature in her bag, says thank you and goodbye, and then leaves.

This mundane task calms me, and I return to my office where Cam is perusing the delicate yellowing letters in their protective plastic pockets of the folder.

“This one,” he says pointing to the page, “… is really touching. From, I think I’ve read the name right, Belinda, to her husband, Edward. It’s sweet. She writes about him coming home from the war, and the quilt she is making for their bed. And the garden. And how much she was paid for the corn harvest.” Cam laughs. “She tells him she wouldn’t settle for anything less than a dollar a bushel.” Cam looks up at me. “Belinda sounds like a don’t-mess-with-me kinda gal.”

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