An Unlikely Match. Arlene James

you,” she said.

      Nodding, he glanced back down the street, frowning. “Maybe I’d better have a word with our inventor.”

      She caught him by the arm before he could turn away. “Uh, why don’t I treat you to a root beer float, instead. He’ll leave after we go inside.”

      Asher lifted his eyebrows. “A root beer float? I haven’t had a root beer float since…actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever had a root beer float.”

      “Well, it’s about time you did, then,” she told him, pulling him through the door with her.

      He went along because, really, what else was he going to do? Dig in his heels like a recalcitrant four-year-old?

      Redolent of peppermint, the shop spread out in a straightforward manner, with a single cash register and short counter at the front perpendicular to the door. Rows of products ran horizontally through the center of the store, providing a clear line of vision from the glassed-in prescription counter at the back.

      “Hey, sugar! Be with you in a minute,” Kent Monroe’s gravelly voice called out.

      “It’s okay, Grandpa,” Ellie answered, tugging Asher toward the candy-striped counter along the far wall. “We’re going to have a treat.”

      “Help yourselves.”

      It had been ages since Asher had parked himself on one of those small, round stools at the soda bar. He usually visited one of the specialty coffee shops on the square these days. Something about those red vinyl-covered seats edged in chrome and fixed atop a stationary metal pole made him feel silly. Still, he sat when Ellie motioned him to it. She rounded the corner and slid behind the counter.

      “Now, let’s see,” she said, looking around her, “maybe you’d prefer something other than a float. Say, a cream fizz or a sarsaparilla?”

      “Really?” he said, leaning his elbows on the counter. “A sarsaparilla? No, I don’t think so.”

      “Well, then?”

      “Maybe you’d better choose.”

      She smiled. “A float it is, but a very special one.”

      He watched doubtfully as she squirted a measure of dark syrup into a tall metal cup, added a firm scoop of vanilla ice cream, blended the ingredients and then divided the resulting sludge between two tall, fluted goblets. She flooded the goblets with cola from one of the fountain taps, forming an impressive lather on each. Plucking two straws from a container, she shoved them into the goblets and carried both around the counter, where she took a seat next to Asher, facing backward.

      “A cappuccino root beer float,” she announced, plunking his down in front of him. Hanging her elbow on the counter, she took a long pull on her straw then drawled in a thick, syrupy voice, “For the sophisticated palate.”

      Asher didn’t know whether to be amused or wary. He took a careful sip and arched his eyebrows, surprised by the rich flavor. “Mmm, that’s good.”

      “It is,” she agreed, spinning around on the stool so that they faced the same direction, “and terribly addicting. I limit myself strictly to five a week.”

      He sputtered a chuckle around his straw. “You’re kidding.”

      “I couldn’t get through that door back there if I had five of these a week. A girl can dream, though, can’t she?”

      “Is that what you dream of?” Asher asked offhandedly, helping himself to a napkin from a dispenser.

      “No, not really,” she answered, suddenly serious. She stirred the drink with her straw, drawing languid circles in the thick foam. “I dream of what every woman dreams of. Husband, home, children. Romance.”

      “Romance,” he echoed sourly, with a shake of his head. “Romance will wreck the other three, if you’re not careful.”

      “Is that what happened to your marriage?” she asked softly. “She wanted romance to go along with the home and husband?”

      That came surprisingly close to the truth—so close, in fact, that Asher heard himself say, “Life is not romance. It’s a lot of hard work and, if you’re very blessed, part pleasure.”

      “And that’s it?”

      “That’s all I’ve ever had time for.”

      “But what about other things, like children?”

      “We didn’t get that far,” he said tersely, “but I can’t imagine that adding kids to the mix would make room for romance.”

      “I think your definition of romance is too narrow,” she told him. “You’re talking about grand gestures of the flowers-and-mood-music sort. Sometimes romance is just knowing that you’ll be together at the end of the day. It’s wanting to be together even when the demands of life necessarily separate you.”

      “According to her, the ‘demands of life,’ as you put it, was the only part that I was any good at.”

      “Maybe she wasn’t any good at some of her parts, either.”

      “What makes you say that?” he asked, shooting Ellie a surprised look. “She seems to have done okay the second time around.”

      “Maybe she has more in common with her husband this time, or maybe he doesn’t have to work as hard as most. A wife has to be supportive of a hardworking husband.”

      “Even if it means giving up what she wants and needs?”

      “Why would it?”

      “Maybe he just doesn’t have time for her. What then?”

      “Then he doesn’t really care for her.”

      He stared at Ellie, his worst fear laid bare.