James Wheatfield

CAMP FOR LITTLE GIRLS

Chapter One

Iris Harrault stepped back and surveyed the summer porch. It was all ready — newly dusted, the plants all green and thriving, the small wicker table intimately laid for two. The whiskey sours were in the refrigerator and the cold supper prepared. She glanced at her watch, and then out the porch screen which looked out over the wooded drive. No sign of him yet. I'll just freshen myself up, she thought, and then he ought to be here.

She walked into the bathroom, and hurriedly combed her short dark hair and applied a natural lip gloss to her lips. Casting a critical glance over her figure, dressed in yellow — her best color — she nodded to herself in satisfaction. Then she heard the sound of the car.

Running out to the driveway, she was just in time to see her husband John step out of their station wagon.

Happily, she ran right up to him and he hugged her, lifting her small frame right up off the ground.

"Mmm, good to see you again, honey," he murmured, kissing her soft scented hair.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him lingeringly on the lips. Arm in arm, they went inside.

Iris immediately got out the frosted glasses and poured them both a drink. They sat on the cool porch, sipping their drinks and chatting about John's trip to New York City.

"Boy, am I glad to be back here!" he said, shaking his head. "How anyone can live in that city in the summer is beyond me!"

"Try running this place by yourself for a week, and then you might be glad to get back to New York!" Iris retorted, only half-joking.