Find Wonder In All Things by Karen M. Cox

used to.”
    He mentally kicked himself for bringing it up. It made it sound like he was hiding something, but that wasn’t why he didn’t want to tell her about it. That New Year’s happened before he spent the best summer of his life in Kentucky — before he watched as his Mountain Laurel blossomed right in front of his eyes. He was another man last year, and everything was different now.
    James walked over and put his arms around his girl, nuzzling into her neck. “If I wanted a crazy party this year, I would have found one. I’d rather be with you.”
    She smiled at him over her shoulder and put her arm over his, holding him to her. After another squeeze, he released her and returned to his cutting board.
    The song changed to a tune that had just come out and was sweeping through the dance clubs around Cincinnati. No doubt, the radio stations would overplay it, but it was a catchy song. James grinned over at Laurel in amused expectation. “Let’s see what you got, Elliot.”
    She smiled mischievously, held a celery stalk up to her mouth like a microphone, and put one hand up in the air, reminiscent of a Supremes pose. Belting out the song’s signature line, she began a hip gyration that had him laughing — and damned if he wasn’t a little aroused again too. Even after she turned back to her vegetable peeling, her little wiggle kept going like a siren’s call. He moved in behind, put his hands on her hips, and joined her in a suggestive rhythm. She tossed him a coy glance from under her lashes, and he spun her around to face him, insinuating his leg in between hers. He instituted a bump and grind, both hands on her rear end. She laughed and broke away, singing, “Everybody chop now . . . ”
    * * *
    While the stew simmered, James brought out his guitar and settled on the couch, picking out several tunes in a row, one blending seamlessly into the next.
    Laurel brought two beers from the kitchen and settled herself in the big soft armchair, one leg thrown over the leather-covered arm. She listened, quiet rapture on her face.
    “You’ve been practicing,” she said, as she watched the elegant ease of his hands moving over the neck of the guitar and the graceful way he plucked the strings.
    He noodled around, grinning, before he answered her. “Been writing too.”
    “Play me something you’ve written.”
    “Most of my stuff’s instrumental. No lyrics.”
    “Okay, so lyrics will come later when you’ve got something to say. Let’s hear what you’ve got so far.” She nodded, encouraging him with her expression.
    “Well these are what I’ve been working on lately . . . ” He leaned back against the couch, strumming a couple of his tunes.
    “James, they’re wonderful! They remind of country music or Southern rock. You should head to Nashville. You could play at the Bluebird Café.”
    He laughed softly. “You almost make me believe I could.” There was a quiet pause while he sat up, looking at her intently. “This one’s yours.”
    She cocked her head to the side, a question in her smile.
    “I wrote it for you.” His fingers moved over the frets and strings in an intricate, delicate melody. He couldn’t look at her because a sudden, surprising shyness overtook him.
    She put down her beer and moved to sit on the floor at his feet. When he finished the tune, she seemed to realize that no words were needed, only an adoring smile and sweet kiss on the mouth — so that was what she gave him.
    The evening stretched languidly into night. They ate dinner, washed up the dishes by hand, and sat together, telling stories about school and friends, and remembering funny anecdotes from summers gone by, completely forgetting about the time. After some undetermined length of time, he glanced at the clock and it was 12:34.
    “Happy New Year, Mountain Laurel.” He leaned in to kiss her.
    “Happy New Year. I had no idea it was already after midnight.”
    “Me neither.” He gestured toward the window with