A Time to Dance

Four years later, the summer she was fourteen, John and his family came back to Lake Geneva and this time spent two weeks. He remembered her, of course, and though he was going into his senior year in high school and she was only a freshman, they again found common ground. By then she could throw and catch a football better than most boys her age, and they spent hours barefoot on the beach tossing the ball back and forth.

  “You’re not so bad for a girl,” John had teased her.

  She remembered holding her head a bit higher. Older boys didn’t intimidate her. After all, her father coached sixty of them every year at the high school, and oftentimes they hung out at the house, playing on the lake or eating barbecued chicken with her family. She cocked her head and stared at John, her heart dancing close to the surface. “And you’re not so bad for a boy.”

  John had laughed hard that afternoon, hard enough that eventually he took off after her, tickling her and pretending she could outrun him. The truth was, he had become a great quarterback in his own right by then and was being pursued by a dozen major universities, including their fathers’ alma mater—Michigan.

  How strange you were back then, John . . . seventeen, star football player, yet somehow content to spend two weeks running around with a little girl.

  One night the two families brought blankets down to the sandy shoreline and her father built a bonfire. There they did something Abby couldn’t remember ever having done before: they sang songs about God. Not the usual silly campfire songs about chickens or trains comin’ round the mountain, but sweet songs about peace and joy and love and a God who cared deeply for all of them. When the songs ended and the adults were lost in their own conversation, John moved next to her and poked her with his elbow.

  “You got a boyfriend, little Miss Abby Chapman?” He grinned, and Abby still remembered the way his blue eyes shimmered with the reflection of the moon on the water.

  She had been sorely thankful it was dark, because her cheeks were hot from his question. Again, years of being teased by older boys paid off, and she kept her cool. “I don’t need a boyfriend.” She nudged his bare foot with her own.

  He nudged her back. “That so?” A grin spread across his face, and Abby hadn’t been quite sure how to take him.

  “Yes.” Her head raised another notch, and she leveled her gaze straight at him. “Boys can be very immature.” She studied him for a moment. “Let me guess . . . you’ve got a different girlfriend every week, right? That’s how it is with Dad’s quarterbacks.”

  John’s head fell back for a moment, and he laughed out loud before he looked at her again. “I guess I’m different.”

  Abby’s eyes grew wide in mock amazement. “What? John Reynolds has no girlfriend?”

  He reached for the football then—it had never been more than an arm’s length away that entire summer—and tossed it lightly in the air a few times. “This is my girlfriend.”

  Abby nodded playfully. “She’ll make a great prom date, I’m sure.”

  He pushed her foot again and lowered his eyes in mock indignation. “Shhh. You’ll offend her.” He chuckled, then his smile faded. “Truth is I don’t have time for girls. I wanna play football at Michigan, like my dad and your dad. Either I work out every day and get better all the time, or someone else’ll beat me to it. Girls can wait.” He reached over and tousled her hair, and at the contact, something changed in his eyes. “Hey, you be careful next year, okay, Abby? Big high-school girl and all.”

  His comment seemed to come out of nowhere. Be careful? Butterflies fluttered wildly in her stomach. “Of what?” She thought she understood what he meant, but still . . .

  He shrugged, his brown shoulders lifting in a way that showed the muscled lines in his arms. “Of guys.” There was another elbow in her ribs, and she had the impression he was trying to say something serious without letting the mood become too heavy. “Know what I mean?”

  “Guys?” Abby nudged his foot again and grinned at him. “Oh, you mean like you?”

  “Come on, Abby . . .” John turned so he was sitting directly across from her. “You’ve looked in the mirror lately, right?”

  “The mirror?” The butterflies were swarming now, and everything in her wanted to believe that John Reynolds was thinking what she thought he might be. He thinks I’m pretty . . .

  John whistled in response and casually shook his head. “You’re gonna be a knockout, Abby. And the boys’ll line up from here to your front door. Especially your dad’s players.” His smile faded and his eyes connected with hers again. “Just be careful.”

  It was as if someone had opened a trapdoor to her heart and released the butterflies all at once. In their place was a feeling deeper than anything she’d felt before. More than a crush, more than what she’d feel for a summer friendship on the beach. Instead, in that instant there was something deep and intimate—like a best friendship— that took up residence in her heart and set down roots.

  Abby sighed, drawn back to the gravelly pathway of the present and the light snow that had begun to fall.

  Roots that held firmly to this very day.

  What happened to us, John? How could anything have come between us?

  Abby felt tears in her eyes and she blinked them back. If she was going to remember how she and John had been, she might as well not stop now. Not with the best part, the sweetest days of all, just footsteps ahead.

  John had gone back home with his family a few days later, and before Christmas he signed a letter of intent to play football at Michigan—just like his father and hers decades earlier. Three years passed, and instead of summer visits John’s family sent newspaper clippings. He was easily one of the most talked about quarterbacks in the country and often the topic of conversations in the Chapman household. Once a year Abby’s parents drove to Ann Arbor and took in a game, but Abby stayed home, busy with high-school life and certain that John Reynolds had forgotten about her.

  Then one September afternoon in 1977 the phone rang in the Chapman house.

  “Hello?” Abby was out of breath, seventeen, and busy cheering for her father’s high-school team.

  “Hey—” the caller’s voice lingered—“long time no talk.”

  Abby’s heart caught in her throat. Months and years had passed since they’d been together, and John had been right—the offers had been plentiful. But none of the boys had ever made her feel the way John had that long-ago summer night, their bare feet touching in the sand. And now there was no doubt in Abby’s mind that the deep voice on the other end of the phone belonged to him. “John . . .”

  There was a chuckle that warmed Abby’s heart. “Don’t tell me the cute kid from all those summers ago has grown up?”

  Once again she’d been thankful he couldn’t see her blush. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Okay, I have a question for you.” He was teasing her, taking his time, and Abby couldn’t believe it. He remembers me . . . after college, after everything he’s done since then . . .

  “I’m listening.” Do I sound older . . . more mature? More—

  “Every year your parents come all the way to Ann Arbor to see me play . . .” he interrupted her thoughts, and she could picture the way his eyes danced, just like they’d danced that night on the beach, the last time she’d seen him. “And each time I ask ’em where you are, and you know what they say?” He hesitated for effect. “They say, ‘Oh, Abby . . . she’s busy with her friends, busy with school.’ I mean, come on, Abby. Not a single game . . . you couldn’t make it out for even one?”

  Abby felt her confidence growing. That fall she was just a few months shy of her eighteenth birthday, and with John on the line everything felt right with her world. “Hmmm. Let’s see, now . . . If I’m remembering right, I don’t recall you ever inviting me. Not that I blame you—I mean I’m just a cute kid. What would a big-time Michigan QB like you want with a punk little girl like me, anyway?”

  John allowed a silence, and she could practically see him grinning through the phone
lines. “So how old are you now, anyway, Abby?”

  “Almost eighteen.” She tried to sound official, mature, but as the words escaped her mouth she was struck by the fact that they sounded downright silly. He would have just turned twenty-one. He’s not interested in me. He’s just playing with my—

  “So, was I right?”

  At first she’d been confused. “About . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  “About the guys lined up at your door.”

  That was the moment when it had all started feeling like a dream. Why’s he doing this? He couldn’t really care, could he? “There’ve been a few.”

  “Okay, okay . . . so who’s the lucky guy?” He was still teasing, still playing with her and making it impossible for her to tell if he were even a little interested.

  She giggled out loud. “You’re crazy.”

  “No, I’m serious. I want details . . . I warned you, Abby. Don’t forget that.”

  “No one. Just friends, that’s all.”

  “Oh, sure . . .” His words were drawn out and playfully sarcastic. “I know your type. String along some poor fool, make him think he has a chance.”

  “No, really.” She was laughing harder now. “There’s no one. I don’t have a boyfriend. Besides, you should talk. Mr. Hot Stuff on Campus. Your line probably wraps around the stadium.”

  “Oh-hooo. Very good.” He paused a moment and his chuckling faded. “Actually, I’m still seeing the same girl, the one I was dating the last time I saw you.”

  Abby stifled a giggle, picturing the way he’d cradled the football that night on the beach. “Paula Pigskin, wasn’t it?”

  He laughed. “Yep. Me and my ball, together forever.” His voice grew more serious. “Like I always say, girls can wait.”

  Her heart soared with hope, and she chastised herself. Be real, Abby. He’s too old for you. “So, your motto hasn’t changed much since high school, huh?”

  “Not much.”

  Neither of them said anything for a beat, then John picked up the conversation. “So what’s your answer?” He was upbeat again, having fun with her. But the teasing was gone, and Abby knew instinctively that he was serious.

  “You mean it, don’t you?”

  He huffed in mock indignation. “Of course I mean it. You haven’t seen me play once. And I know for a fact that your parents are coming out again this season—mid-November.”

  Mid-November. The idea was suddenly very appealing. “Serious?”

  “Sure.” John’s tone was light. He probably sees me as a little sister. “I’ll show you around the campus. Introduce you to the real big men on campus.”

  “Your offensive line?”

  “You got it.” They both laughed. “So, what’s your answer?”

  The memory of how she felt that day warmed her heart even now. “Okay, okay. I should be done cheering for football by then, and if I’m not too busy . . .”

  “Oh, right. I wouldn’t want to cramp your style or crowd your schedule.” He was still teasing her and she decided to be serious.

  “No, really. I’ll come.” She paused. Should I tell him? Abby closed her eyes and plunged ahead. “I’ve always wanted to see you play.”

  “Oh, sure.” John’s voice grew quieter as he continued talking. “I can tell by the effort you’ve made.”

  A giggle made its way to the surface. “I watch television, you know. You’ve been doing great, John.”

  “What? Miss Too-Busy-to-Come follows Michigan football?”

  “Not like I have a choice. It’s like a national holiday around here when the Wolverines are on TV. My dad gets the Ann Arbor paper delivered by mail so he can follow it each week. He’s so proud of you, John.”

  He cleared his throat. “And you . . . ?”

  Why was he acting like this? He couldn’t possibly be interested in her as more than a family friend, could he? “Yes, John—” she bathed her words in a protective, teasing sarcasm—“I’m proud, too. I’m sure that makes your day.”

  There was a hesitation. “Actually, it does.” He waited again, almost as though he wanted to say something else. Instead he wrapped up the conversation. “I’ll see you in a couple months then, right?”

  “Sure.” She felt her eyebrows lower in confusion. “Did you want to talk to my dad or something?”

  “Nope. Just you. Figured I’d never get you out here for a game if I didn’t ask you myself. What with your busy schedule and all . . . well . . . I thought I better give you plenty of notice.”

  The months of waiting were unbearable. Everything about the high-school football season that year seemed dull and unimportant compared with the idea that John Reynolds wanted her to watch him play college ball. Better yet, he wanted to show her around campus.

  A cold blast of winter wind startled Abby from her memories, and she snuggled deeper into her coat, picking up her pace. John had been bigger than life back then. A hero, really. Someone talked about in homes across the country, an athlete known for his physical talent, good looks, and high moral character. His name was mentioned in connection with college football’s most prized award—the Heisman Trophy. Yet there she’d been—all of seventeen years old—believing that he really wanted to see her. Her, of all people.

  Abby blinked and the past disappeared. She stared straight ahead and felt the pull of gravity on her lips, realized how it tugged her mouth downward, giving her a perpetual frown. It wasn’t just the passing of time that had aged her. It was her relationship with her husband, as well. When was the last time she’d laughed at one of his jokes? The ridiculous ones that left a new batch of high-school students in stitches every semester. She forced a smile, sad that it felt so foreign on her face. A farm and a frozen pond came into view on her right, and she stopped for a moment, trying to picture the way she’d looked that November day as she and her family took their seats at Michigan Stadium.

  They’d arrived two hours early with plans to meet John on the field before the game. She could see her dad, still robust and healthy back then, waving his arm at the rest of them. “Come on, I know right where he’ll be.”

  Abby had tossed her long hair over her shoulder and followed her father, determined not to let her nervousness show. Besides, what did she have to worry about? The whole thing was probably more her imagination than anything else. But just in case, she had worn her new black jeans and a formfitting white turtleneck sweater. Her mother had commented on the drive over that Abby had never looked prettier. She had no reason to be nervous, but as they approached the entrance to the locker rooms, Abby thought she might faint from the uncertainty of it all.

  John appeared almost immediately, wearing Wolverine sweats, his short dark hair combed neatly off his face. Abby sucked in a quick breath. He was gorgeous. Much better looking in person than on TV or in newspaper photos. And much more a man than he’d been the last time they were together at her house that summer.

  “Hey, how’re you doing?” He was breathless, his face filled with energy, and his eyes quickly moved from her father’s to hers. “Abby . . .” His eyes grew wide and he moved closer so he was only a few feet away, his six-four frame towering over her. Even with her parents and younger sister standing around them, Abby could see the admiration in John’s eyes. “My gosh . . . you’ve grown up.”

  She’d expected him to tease her, since that was the side of John Reynolds she knew best, but his eyes held pure admiration and not a trace of humor. Unsure of how to respond, she laughed lightly and cast him an exaggerated upward glance. Lord, don’t let my heart fall out of my chest. “Not as much as you have.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I shot up a bit.”

  She was still studying him when her father stepped up and put his arm around John’s broad shoulders. “Perfect size for a Wolverine quarterback. And I believe it’s true when I say never—not before or since— has Michigan had a quarterback like you, son. You’re one of a kind.”

  Abby savored the chance to study John’s face, his pron
ounced cheekbones, and she found herself agreeing completely with her father’s assessment—even if all he threw were interceptions.

  John’s cheeks reddened slightly. “Thank you, sir. Did you find my folks?”

  “Not yet.” Abby’s father glanced at the rest of them and nodded toward the field. “Let’s take a walk around. I wanna show you the spot where the greatest play in history took place.” He waved at John. “Go get suited up. Beat ’em good now, you hear?”

  Abby and her sister had seen the famous spot—marked on the field only by the memory of the play—on trips to Ann Arbor when they were little. They’d heard the stories again and again. But still they turned to follow him, thriving on the memories every bit as much as their father did.

  “Hey, Abby, wait.” She turned around, her heart still pounding loudly.

  “Yeah?”

  The rest of Abby’s family stopped and turned also, waiting expectantly for whatever John was about to say. He shifted his weight and hesitated, looking from Abby’s father to Abby and back again. “Uh . . . can Abby and I catch up a bit? She can meet you back in the stands, maybe?”

  Everything about Abby’s world tilted crazily. He wants to talk to me? Wasn’t it all just a joke? His way of trying to be nice to a family friend? Suddenly it seemed much more serious, and Abby could hardly contain her excitement. After a slight pause, Abby’s mother took her father’s hand and answered for him. “That’s fine, John. You two go right ahead and catch up.”

  When her family was out of sight, John turned back to Abby. “Thanks for coming.” His voice was gentle, tender, and though his eyes sparkled in the ice-cold early morning sun, there was not even a trace of teasing or silliness there.

  Abby adjusted her scarf and grinned at him. “I told you I would.”

  John shrugged, his eyes still locked on hers. “I was afraid you’d think I was joking.”

  What’s he mean? Where’s all this going? Abby swallowed and angled her head curiously. “You . . . you weren’t?”

  “No, I wasn’t.” He hesitated and ran his thumb gently along the curve of her cheek just below her eye. “You’re so beautiful, Abby. Do you know that?”