The following is an excerpt from a short story about summer love. The setting is South Lake Tahoe, around Labor Day, 1959:

 

Tahoe Blue

from Children of Vallejo

They hiked carefully on the path beside the river, avoiding the rocks and roots and willow branches that guarded the trail, heading steadily upstream in search of a picnic spot. This would be their last day together; Sandy and Becky were heading back to the Bay Area in the morning. Darin and Nick had a few more days to fill. They’d decided to spend the day picnicking along the Upper Truckee River near the cabin where the girls were staying.

Darin couldn’t believe how fast the days had gone by. The four of them had found good reasons to be together every day and most of the nights, and since that night parked at the beach, he and Sandy had always found time to be alone together. He realized that he was addicted to the smell of her hair, the taste of her kisses, and the way she felt when he held her in his arms. He was not ready for summer vacation to end.

They came upon a promising stretch of sandy riverbank and Nick and Becky elected to stop there. Darin had a particular place in mind that he wanted to show Sandy, and so they continued on the path. They rounded a bend and there it was: a long, deep pool with a lovely stretch of white sand. At its head, a great pine tree had fallen across the stream, its giant root base exposed on the west bank. They spread an old blanket on the sand, dropped the beach bag that held their lunch, and walked carefully out onto the fallen tree to a point about mid-stream. There they sat peering down into the dark water below the massive trunk.

“Just watch for minute, until your eyes adjust,” Darin said. “You’ll see. There! See them?” Darin pointed down into the pool where two large trout were swimming lazily by.

Further downstream, a fish broke the surface and glinted in the sunlight, disappearing back into the dark water, concentric waves moving out across the pool. They sat on the log watching, waiting for more of the brightly colored trout to pass by.

“This pool is too perfect,” Sandy said, standing up and heading for the beach. “I’m going in!” She reached the blanket, stripped off her khaki shorts and unbuttoned her sleeveless blue cotton blouse. “Don’t worry,” she called, “I’m not going to get naked.” She waded into the stream up to her knees, wearing a white cotton bra and briefs, and then dove headfirst into the quiet pool. “Oh!” she yelped as she came to the surface, “this water is freezing!” She swam downstream with a smooth, well-practiced breaststroke, did a neat kick turn and started back.

Darin was waiting for her on the sand when she stood up and stepped out of the water. He handed her a beach towel from the bag and watched her dry off quickly, goose bumps breaking out all over her body, her teeth chattering.

They sat down on the blanket while she dried her hair, combed it smoothly, then pulled it back and fastened it in a ponytail. “Oh, look,” she said, glancing up at the sky.

They laid back on the blanket, side by side, gazing up into the cloudless blue sky. High above them, a tiny silver dot marked the progress of a jetliner heading east, a long white contrail trailing behind. The tall pines surrounding the stream formed a rustic picture frame and the silver plane was the lone subject.

“If I was on that plane …” she began, pausing to consider, “I’d be on my way to Paris … and I’d wait tables in a café on the Left Bank at night … and write short stories and work on my novel all day … and I’d prowl through the bookstalls and sit in the sidewalk cafes and watch the tourists go by … and I’d meet Ernest Hemingway and he would become my dear friend and mentor … and I’d call him Papa and he’d call me The Kid … and we’d motor out into the countryside through the beautiful little villages … and we’d stop for a fabulous meal, with a different wine for every course … and when we got back to the city, there would be a cable waiting to tell me that my latest story had sold … and soon, I could afford to quit my job and write full-time.” She finished emphatically, waited a few seconds, and then turned toward Darin. “How about you?”

“Me? If I was on that plane … I’d be on my way to New York … to see the Yankees play at Yankee Stadium.”

Sandy laughed out loud. “Oh, how romantic! You and I are like oil and water.”

“No, listen … I’m not through. You’ll be with me, and we’ll go to the stadium, ‘the house that Ruth built,’ and I’ll show you the monuments in centerfield to The Babe and Lou Gehrig and all … and we’ll have seats behind the first base dugout, and we’ll see all the great Yankees—Casey, Mickey, Yogi, Whitey, Moose, Hank, and Don Larson … and I’ll teach you about the offense—when to steal, and when to bunt, and when to hit-and-run … and the defense—how it sets up for different hitters, and how the shortstop and second baseman turn a double play … and I’ll teach you to keep score, and you’ll sit with your pencil and your scorecard, wearing your Yankee cap … and you’ll love the game as much as I do.”

She looked at him, studying his face. “Okay,” she said. “But do I have to wear the cap?”

They laughed as she stood up to get dressed, stepping into her shorts and picking up the blue blouse. He stood in front of her, folding the wet towel, preparing to stuff it into the beach bag. Then she took his right hand in hers and placed it on her left breast.

“See … my bra’s nearly dry.”

He could feel her nipple like a little stone in the palm of his hand. She took his hand away and put on her blouse.

“Come on, let’s go find Becky and Nick.” She looked at him and saw that he had something to say. “What? What is it?”

“You were wrong,” he said.

“About what?”

“You said your butt was too big and your boobs were too small … wrong, on both counts … and I’m never going to wash this hand again.”

Sandy laughed out loud, and Darin laughed with her as they headed downstream to find their friends….

***

Darin turned the letter over and over in his hands, admiring the familiar handwriting, so graceful and precise. He and Sandy had stayed in touch for a while, but this was her first letter in several weeks, and when he called, she was never in. He had a pretty good idea what was inside. He made his way to his bedroom at the back of the house, flopped down on his bed and ripped open the envelope. As he suspected, it was a classic “Dear John” letter.

“Darin,” she wrote, “my boyfriend David and I are together again, he decided not to go east for school, we’re both at Stanford now, and we realized ours was a serious and committed relationship. I will always cherish our time together last summer, and I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t want to string you along either. And so, this will be my last letter. I hope you’ll understand.”

Darin locked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, her letter resting lightly on his chest. He wasn’t hurt, or even disappointed, just a little blue. He had already taken the summer of 1959 and stored it away carefully in a place for special memories. He knew that at any time, he could close his eyes and she’d be there, swimming smoothly across that deep still pool, sunlight reflecting from her body, white gold in a Tahoe blue setting, perfect forever.

_____