High school was a socially frustrating experience for me. I lived in a conservative small town, and there were few students with whom I shared much in common.

My cousin Kate made considerable efforts to provide me with healthy social interaction. She often invited me to sporting events and dances at her school, which was nestled in the suburbs of a large city forty-five minutes from my home. I quickly formed relationships with some of her closest friends.

Shortly after spring break, every high school in the region began planning their senior prom. My school always used this event to honor aspiring beauty queens, boorish student athletes, and pompous wealthy students, most of whom were sons and daughters of local business owners.

From my perspective, prom was a ridiculous custom, hardly the pinnacle of my social development, and I didn’t plan to attend. One phone call from my cousin changed all of that.

Kate insisted on taking me to the prom at her school. She and our mutual friend Kelly had just ended turbulent relationships with their boyfriends. The girls decided to attend the dance without dates, rather than enduring a rugby scrum as dozens of guys rushed to ask them out.

I accepted my cousin’s gracious invitation and prepared for the prom with heartfelt enthusiasm. My first mission was to find a tuxedo. There were local rental places, but everything they stocked was rather generic. Finding something with a little more class would require a trip out of town.

Edmund’s Formal boasted a vast inventory, and area residents routinely consulted them when planning weddings and other formal functions. Their store was an hour away, and I made the trip on Tuesday afternoon, just days before the prom.

I was happily cruising down the interstate and listening to my favorite radio station when everything went wrong. Two cars, less than one hundred yards in front of me, collided while making reckless lane changes. They spun out of control and screeched to a halt, obstructing both lanes.

The road was packed with commuters traveling at highway speeds, and cars began piling up like something out of a demolition derby. There wasn’t adequate time to stop, so I swerved toward the shoulder, narrowly avoiding the pileup. My car went into a violent skid, rolled over, and came to rest in the ditch.

Several minutes passed as I regained my bearings and assessed my situation. Aside from being startled and sore, I felt fine. Common sense told me I should remain still until the paramedics arrived, but there was a strong scent of gasoline in the air. Fearing a possible fire or explosion, I unfastened my seatbelt and abandoned my car.

The magnitude of the accident became apparent as I reached the roadside. Fourteen mangled cars were stacked in the middle of the interstate, and there was broken glass and twisted metal everywhere. It was an eerie sight, and my initial reaction was one of shock.

Paramedics, firefighters, and state troopers raced to the scene and searched the wreckage for anyone in need of medical attention. Additional ambulances were summoned, and several motorists were extracted from their vehicles. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell if any of them were seriously injured, but it seemed likely.

I was quietly watching this drama unfold when a state trooper approached me. He called for a paramedic, who promptly sent me to the hospital as a precautionary measure.

There were excellent doctors on call at the emergency room. They determined that I had some nasty bruises and badly strained muscles, but no other injuries. The attending physician gave me some medication for pain, and what he described as a mild sedative to help me sleep. I was formally released, and my parents were waiting for me in the hospital lobby.

During the ride home, I was overcome by a profound sense of sympathy for those seriously injured in the crash. If circumstances had been slightly different, it could have been me. That realization sent chills down my spine.

My father sensed that I was anxious, and he tried to distract me with a trivia game we’d used during family trips when I was a child. It helped pass the time, and we reached the city limits without incident. I was eager to go home, but my parents had other plans.

“Your grandmother has high blood pressure, and she’s worried sick about you,” my mother explained. “I don’t think she’ll calm down until she sees that you’re okay. We’re going to her house right now.”

Grandmother was standing on the front porch when we arrived, and she watched with concern as I stumbled out of the car and limped toward the house. I spent a few minutes assuring her that my injuries weren’t serious, and she escorted me to the kitchen where she’d prepared a feast comparable to a large holiday meal.

The food smelled heavenly, but my thoughts were racing, and I simply had no appetite. Grandmother was convinced that a good meal would soothe my nerves. She was encouraging me to eat when a car pulled into the driveway. Kate burst through the front door moments later, followed closely thereafter by her parents.

My beautiful cousin, who typically dressed like a cover girl, was uncharacteristically disheveled. Her hair was matted with sweat, there was dirt on her knees, and she was wearing a grass-stained track uniform.

Before I could ask, Kate explained that she learned of my accident during a track and field competition at her school. She'd rushed to see me without first taking time to shower or change. I was touched by her concern, and her arrival had an immediate impact on my morale.

There was an awkward moment, however, as Kate tried to hug me and I assumed a defensive posture. My muscles were extremely sore -- the mere idea of a hug sounded painful, but she promised to be mindful of my injuries and gently wrapped her arms around me.

Grandmother quickly prepared additional plates for Kate and her parents. She also informed my cousin that I’d shown no interest in food, and the medications prescribed for me by the emergency room physician could not be taken on an empty stomach.

Kate immediately filled my plate with Herculean quantities of homemade spaghetti and poured what I would describe as an aquarium-sized glass of milk, which she expected me to drink. I truly wasn’t hungry, but she began to exert her considerable charms in an attempt to stimulate my appetite. That was all it took, and I began to eat.

Throughout the meal, Kate doted on me to the point of excess. She poured beverages for me, refilled my plate, and even wiped spaghetti sauce from my chin. Her concern for me was genuine, but she was being far too overprotective, and I got the impression something was bothering her. I chose not to pry, however.

The meal lasted more than two hours and featured multiple courses, including a massive selection of desserts. Things culminated when grandmother unveiled a pan of her trademark piecrust, glazed with melted butter, sugar and cinnamon. When none of us could eat another bite, we collectively agreed the meal was over.

It was nearly ten o’clock, and grandmother suggested that we relax and watch television in the living room for a while. Her favorite local station usually ran an abbreviated newscast followed by reruns of M*A*S*H and WKRP – two of my favorite programs.

My muscles were extremely stiff, and I hobbled away from the kitchen table with the gait of an arthritic old man. I was out of breath by the time I reached the living room. Kate joined me on the couch just moments before the news began.

The freeway pileup was the lead story, and the report was laden with ghastly images of the crash. My badly damaged car was clearly visible in an aerial shot filmed by the station’s news helicopter, and Kate watched the footage with a shocked expression.

“I can’t believe you walked away from that,” she said while reaching out to take my hand.

“To be honest with you, neither can I,” I replied with a hint of anxiety in my voice. “I only missed the pileup by a few feet. It was really close.”

I was hoping the anchorman would mention if there were serious injuries or fatalities in the accident, but that information wasn’t available yet. I would have to wait until morning to learn the fate of the other motorists.

My mother and Kate’s parents, awestruck by the graphic news footage, began peppering me with questions about the crash. They weren’t trying to be ghoulish or insensitive, but their queries were making me uncomfortable. Grandmother and Kate diplomatically encouraged them to change the subject, and we shared a pleasant conversation for the better part of an hour.

Fatigue was getting the best of me, and I decided it was time for bed. Kate, however, had other ideas. She asked me to remain in the living room while she showered and changed. I promised to comply, and she dashed to the bathroom.

Kate’s mother sat beside me on the couch, put her arm around my shoulder, and chuckled.

“You poor guy,” she said. “Kate usually spends an hour in the bathtub. You probably won’t be going to bed before midnight.”

“That’s okay,” I replied. “After the day I’ve had, I’m not sure I’d sleep anyway.”

My aunt spent a few minutes chatting with me about movies, sports and the weather – basically anything that didn’t involve the freeway pileup. I was enjoying our conversation when her demeanor abruptly changed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s Kate,” she sighed. “She was deeply affected by all of this… far more than you realize.”

Kate’s mother explained that the initial reports of my accident were somewhat sketchy. The entire family spent much of the afternoon on pins and needles, waiting for information. This process was especially difficult for Kate.

“Your mother called me this afternoon and said you were involved in the crash, but she didn’t know anything about your condition at that point,” she said. “Your uncle and I picked up Kate at school, and she insisted on coming here right away.”

Cell phones were in their infancy at the time of this incident – not many people owned them. Kate and her parents had no way to communicate with anyone while they were driving to grandmother’s house. They made the trip, not knowing if I was alive or dead.

To make matters worse, every radio station on the dial was providing live coverage of the crash, and reporters were speculating about the possibility of fatalities. These news bulletins only served to frighten my cousin.

“Kate finally became so hysterical that we pulled into a gas station about twenty miles from here,” my aunt explained. “I jumped out of the car, used the payphone, and called your grandmother. She said that you were banged up, and your parents had gone to meet you at the emergency room.”

Kate’s emotional reaction to my accident suddenly made sense. We’d been inseparable since childhood, and she spent a substantial part of the afternoon wondering if I was dead. I was glad her mother chose to confide in me.

“What can I do for Kate?” I asked.

“Just try to be patient with her,” my aunt replied. “I know she’s smothering you, but you kids have always been so close, and this whole thing has left her really shaken up. She needs to spend time with you right now.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve never minded spending time with your daughter. It’s not a problem.”

Kate’s mother smiled, hugged me, and offered to watch television with me until her daughter finished bathing. Kate was in the shower for quite a while, and her mother and I shared an entire episode of WKRP and a few minutes of Cheers while we waited for her to return.

The aroma of tea tree shampoo and floral bath soap began to waft through the house, and I’m sure that grandmother’s hot water heater was completely drained. After what seemed like an eternity, the bathroom door swung open. I could hear the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and Kate strode into the living room with the grace and beauty of a runway model.

My cousin’s shapely form was accentuated by the silky pink pajamas she was wearing, and her hair was flawlessly styled. Perhaps for my benefit, she'd decided against wearing socks, opting instead for a pair of open bedroom slippers. Her toenails were painted an elegant shade of candy apple-red, a color I’d previously encouraged her to wear.

I had no desire to pursue a romantic relationship with Kate, but her physical beauty wasn’t lost on me. My heart was pounding, and I’m fairly certain I was staring at her. She approached me and smiled.

“You’re sweet,” she laughed while kissing my cheek.

Grandmother and our parents made their way to the kitchen, where they began to clear the dinner table and wash dishes. Kate remained in the living room, helped me to my feet, and guided me down the hallway to the guest bedroom. I was growing increasingly tired, and it was a struggle to stay awake.

The bedroom was a welcome sight, and I was eager to lie down. Kate, however, was determined to “prepare” the room before I went to bed. This was a seemingly unnecessary gesture, but I didn’t argue.

While Kate was putting the finishing touches on my sleeping quarters, I ducked into the closet, which was only slightly smaller than grandmother’s bathroom. Many articles of my clothing were stored there for occasions when I stayed overnight. Comfort was my priority, and I donned an oversized football jersey, sweatpants, and white cotton socks.

I stepped out of the closet to find that Kate had given the room a makeover. She’d made the bed with freshly laundered sheets, placed a serving tray of snacks and beverages on the dresser, and tuned the radio to my favorite soft jazz station. I couldn’t have asked for a more relaxing environment in which to sleep.

Kate was still thoroughly spooked by my brush with death, and she continued to fuss over me. She escorted me to the bed, turned down the covers, and tucked me in. She also attempted to engage me in conversation, but I quickly lapsed into a deep, almost comatose sleep.

My dreams were laden with haunting images of the crash, and I awoke an hour later with my heart pounding, feeling like I’d just run a series of sprints. Kate hadn’t fallen asleep yet, and she was kneeling atop the covers, watching over me.

“Are you okay?” she asked while affectionately stroking my hair.

“I can’t seem to get the accident out of my mind,” I replied.

Kate leaned forward, kissed my cheek, and climbed out of bed. She crossed the room, poured a glass of water, and retrieved the bottle of sedative pills that were sitting on the dresser.

“You need to get some rest, and the doctor said this medication would help you sleep,” she said.

I’ve always been exceedingly sensitive to medications. There was no way to predict how this particular drug would affect me. I nonetheless decided to give it a try, hoping it would help me to relax.

Sitting up proved difficult, and Kate lovingly assisted me. She encouraged me to drink the entire glass of water because the pill was rather large. When I was finished, she took the empty glass from me, placed it on the floor, and returned to bed.

I’d become partially uncovered while sitting up to take my medication, and I was struggling with the blankets. Kate tucked me in again and curled up beside me, atop the covers. She also began gracefully rubbing her feet together and wiggling her toes. This wasn’t an attempt to tease or entice me. It was simply a nervous habit she’d developed over the years.

My cousin’s beautiful feet were just within reach, and I began to caress them affectionately. This was largely an instinctive action on my part. I wasn’t consciously aware that I was doing it, but Kate certainly noticed.

“Does that help?” she giggled. “You seem much more relaxed.”

My face became hot, and my cheeks must have been a magnificent shade of burgundy. Kate did her best to reassure me, although she was clearly amused by my embarrassment.

“Foot Monster, it’s okay,” she chuckled. “I really don’t mind.”

Kate repositioned herself and carefully placed her feet on my chest, mere inches from my face. She’d obviously been tanning, and her skin was a tantalizing shade of golden brown. There was a remarkable contrast between the suntanned tops of her feet and her milky soles, which were softer than silk. I was happily fondling them when the medication began to reach my bloodstream.

The emergency room physician who described this as a “mild” sedative obviously never sampled the drug. I was overcome by an intense wave of drowsiness, my speech became groggily slurred, and I faded from consciousness with Kate’s feet pressed against my cheek.

Morning came, and I awoke to the pleasant aroma of homemade bread. Grandmother was preparing another of her world-class breakfasts, and her timing couldn’t have been better. I was famished.

My eyes were bleary, and it took a few moments for my vision to clear. I scanned the room and found that Kate was gone. She’d gotten up before me, presumably to share breakfast with grandmother and our parents. I was eager to join them.

Climbing out of bed proved unusually difficult because my muscles stiffened overnight. My first attempt was unsuccessful, and I decided to rest before trying again. I was just beginning to catch my breath when the bedroom door suddenly opened.

Kate entered the room carrying a serving tray filled with an assortment of fruit juices, homemade rolls, and pastries. She sat on the edge of the bed, covered me with a large napkin, and smiled.

“Good morning sir,” she said. “Breakfast is served.”

My injuries didn’t warrant bedside service, but Kate was determined to wait on me. She buttered several rolls and poured a glass of orange juice for me.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” I laughed. “That sedative hit me really hard.”

“Well, you used my feet as a pillow until at least three o’clock this morning -- that was really cute by the way,” she said with a growing smile. “I fell asleep sometime after that.”

It was mildly embarrassing to know that Kate spent a good portion of the night watching me sleep. However, I appreciated her concern, and I was enjoying her company.

Breakfast was delicious, but the accident still weighed heavily on my thoughts. I asked Kate to turn the radio on. It was time for the morning news, and I was hoping for information about the condition of the other motorists.

Grandmother's favorite local station offered the best news coverage in the region, and the freeway pileup was their lead story. Kate and I assumed the death toll would be staggering, but the reporter referred to the crash as ‘miraculous’ – there were no fatalities, and no serious injuries.

The fact that everyone survived the accident filled me with a tremendous sense of relief. It suddenly seemed appropriate to laugh, have fun, and continue making plans for prom night.

I also experienced an abrupt resurgence of my foot fetish. I playfully grasped Kate’s ankles and attempted to remove her shoes.

“No feet!” she laughed while trying to fend off my advances. “We’re short on time, and I want you to finish eating.”

Kate explained that my mother had scheduled an appointment for me at the Doctor’s Park Medical Clinic. Our family physician worked there, and my family wanted her to examine me as a precautionary measure. I questioned the need for this appointment, but I chose to cooperate.

While I finished breakfast, Kate rifled through the closet and selected clothes for me to wear. I climbed out of bed, hobbled to the bathroom, and spent the better part of fifteen minutes showering and getting dressed.

My spare set of car keys was sitting on the kitchen table. I grabbed them and proceeded to the front door. The reality of my circumstances hit me as I stepped outside and surveyed the driveway.

“Oops… I don’t have a car anymore,” I sighed. “I forgot about that for a moment.”

Kate offered me a ride, and she was escorting me to her father’s car when grandmother and our parents announced they were coming with us. Our family never did anything in an orderly fashion, and this had the potential to become a circus. We persuaded them to let us go by ourselves.

The clinic was unusually quiet, and there were few patients in the lobby. Kate and I had just begun to browse some magazines when a nurse politely directed us to an examination room. The doctor joined us less than five minutes later.

Dr. Henderson was a rather attractive woman in her early forties. She was a highly skilled diagnostician, and her compassionate demeanor made her popular with local residents. She’d been my primary care physician for more than seven years.

My appointment began with a series of routine tests. Dr. Henderson checked my reflexes and observed my pupil dilation. She also asked me to get undressed because she wanted to look for contusions and other wounds that may have been overlooked by the emergency room physicians.

I stripped to my underwear and climbed onto the examination table. Dr. Henderson began methodically probing my flesh. There was nothing inappropriate about her actions, but my adolescent body was hormonally charged, and her touches were mildly arousing. I feared they might produce unintended results, but she concluded her examination without incident.

Dr. Henderson was pleasantly surprised by my condition. She found some minor bruises on my chest and back, but aside from that, I was relatively unscathed.

“Your biggest problem is your muscles -- they’re strained to the point of being taut,” she explained. “I’m going to give you a muscle relaxant that should relieve some of the pain and stiffness.”

The muscle relaxant was an ugly green pill with a vulgar aftertaste. I gulped it down with a glass of water and popped a handful of breath mints into my mouth. I’d always been prone to adverse drug reactions, and Dr. Henderson asked me to remain at the clinic for a while, just in case.

“I’ve got other patients waiting for me, but I’ll come back to check on you in twenty minutes,” she said. “If you have any problems, page the nursing staff immediately.”

Dr. Henderson left the room and closed the door behind her. The air was cool, and I’d begun to shiver. Kate gathered my clothes and helped me get dressed. She was adjusting the collar of my shirt when I sensed that she was troubled.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Kate sat beside me on the examination table and stared at the floor. I put my arm around her shoulder.

“Sweetie, I’m alright,” I said in a reassuring tone. “I’ve been hurt worse than this playing football at school.”

“I know, but you could’ve been killed yesterday, and this entire mess was my fault,” she replied. “You wouldn’t have been on the road scrounging for a tuxedo if I hadn’t invited you to that stupid dance.”

“This was NOT your fault,” I said in a reassuring tone. “Nobody forced me to go shopping for a tuxedo. That was my choice. The highway was crowded, people were driving way too fast, and things just got out of hand.”

My words did little to comfort Kate. She truly felt responsible for my accident, and she continued to obsess about the many terrible things that could’ve happened to me. I could only think of one way to put her mind at ease… I needed to show her that I was fine.

“Sweetie, if you’d really like to help me, there is something you could do,” I said.

“Anything,” she replied eagerly.

I leaned forward, grasped Kate’s ankles, and lifted her feet into my lap. She offered no resistance, probably because she was afraid she’d hurt me. Her shoes were 1980’s vintage canary yellow pumps, and they slipped off rather easily.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I just want to play with your pretty feet for a while,” I said with a smile. “I’m sure that will cheer me up.”

Kate wasn’t angry, but she wasn’t entirely comfortable indulging me in such a public setting. She was unwilling to use physical force to liberate her feet, and she compensated by voicing her objections in an especially stern tone.

“Foot monster, we can’t do this here!” she whispered through clenched teeth. “This is a medical clinic!”

I ignored Kate’s protests and began tickling her feet. She made some rather comedic attempts to scold me as a stream of high-pitched giggles poured from her mouth.

"He-he-he-he... hahaha… stop that!” she demanded. “Ha-ha-ha-ha... I’m not kidding… hee-hee-hee… ha-ha-ha-ha-ha… st-ha-ha-hap it!”

Kate was unusually ticklish on this particular morning, and her laughter came in desperate heaves as I probed her tender soles. She frantically pleaded for an opportunity to negotiate with me.

"Hee hee hee… pleeeheeheeeze st-ha-ha-ha-ha-hap!” she begged in a breathless voice. “Hahahahaha… foot monster… pleee-ase st-ahahahahap tickling me-hee-hee… hee-hee-hee… I swear… hahaha… I’ll make a deal with you… just stahahap!"

Kate needed a chance to catch her breath, and I was eager to hear the terms of this “deal” she’d spoken of. I stopped the tickling but maintained my grip on her ankles. She was thoroughly winded, and it took a few minutes before she was able to speak.

“Sweetie, you need to stop this,” she said in a calm, persuasive voice. “Let me have my shoes back, and I promise to let you play with my feet when we get to grandmother’s house. Okay?”

“That sounds wonderful,” I replied. “Just let me tickle your feet for one more minute, and I promise to stop.”

Kate was frustrated, but not the least bit angry. She giggled, smiled, and made one final attempt to reason with me.

“Foot Monster, Dr. Henderson will be coming back soon,” she said emphatically.

“You’re right,” I replied. “We’d better get started!”

Kate’s eyes nearly leaped from their sockets as I plunged my wiggling fingers into the tender flesh of her arches. She covered her mouth with her hands in a desperate attempt to conceal her laughter from the nurses who were standing in the corridor just outside of the examination room.

I’d promised Kate the tickling would only last one minute, and I began counting down from sixty seconds. This assured that I wouldn’t get carried away and lose track of time.

Thirty seconds remained, and Kate no longer had enough air in her lungs to produce audible sounds, aside from the occasional squeal. She slumped forward and rested her head against my shoulder as her entire body shook with silent laughter.

I was gleefully tickling my beautiful cousin when the door suddenly opened and Dr. Henderson entered the room. She approached the examination table and stared, seemingly at a loss for words.

Kate was red-faced and gasping for air. I’d stopped tickling her, but she continued to giggle and smile. Her bare feet were resting in my lap, and I must have looked quite guilty.

Dr. Henderson whacked me on the head with a brown manila folder and scolded me. She then smiled, tenderly grasped Kate’s ankles, and lifted her feet from my lap.

“What did you do to this poor girl, and where are her shoes?” she chuckled.

I could offer no plausible explanation for my behavior, so I remained quiet. Dr. Henderson snatched Kate’s yellow pumps from the table and helped her put them on.

“Mister, you should be ashamed of yourself!” she exclaimed.

I’d known Dr. Henderson long enough to recognize that she wasn’t truly angry with me. If anything, she was amused by the situation. However, when she continued to admonish me, Kate rushed to my defense.

“Doctor, please don’t get the wrong idea,” she said. “He’s actually very sweet, and I really do love him. Right now I’m just glad that he’s okay.”

Dr. Henderson was deeply touched by Kate’s concern, and she spent a few minutes assuring her that I was fine. She also advised me to take it easy for a few days.

“I’m keeping you out of school for the rest of the week,” she said. “The main corridor at your school is longer than a football field, and I don’t want you walking that far just yet.”

This was better than I could’ve hoped for. Kate’s parents planned to remove her from school as well, which meant we could spend the remainder of the week together. Dr. Henderson sensed my enthusiasm, and she cautioned me.

“The medication is obviously making you feel better, but don’t get carried away,” she said. “Your muscles are badly strained, and they need a chance to heal. Just slow down for the next few days, and don’t overdo it.”

I promised to follow Dr. Henderson’s instructions, and she handed me some free samples of the muscle relaxant, enough to last a week. Kate was concerned that I might lose the pills, and she tucked them in her purse for safekeeping.

There was nothing further to discuss, and Dr. Henderson politely escorted Kate and me to the door. She encouraged me to come back if I had problems, but I didn’t expect that I’d need to.

The muscle relaxant was working quite well. I was still very sore, but my limbs were more flexible than they’d been since the accident. I lumbered toward the parking lot at a faster pace than Kate would’ve liked, and she urged me to slow down.

“Hey, you heard what Dr. Henderson said!” she shouted. “If you don’t take it easy, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Kate’s words simply didn’t register, as I was suddenly feeling playful and silly. Perhaps it was a side effect of the medication, or the unadulterated glee of knowing that we had a five-day weekend to share. Whatever the reason, I was acting like a giddy child.

I threw my arms around Kate, essentially trapping her in a bear hug. She giggled and implored me to behave. This seemed like a perfect opportunity to remind her of the deal she’d made with me in the doctor’s office.

Kate was relieved to see me feeling better, but she was worried that I might overtax myself. She used our agreement as leverage.

“I’ll honor our deal, but you have to do exactly what I tell you,” she said, attempting to sound authoritative. “When we get to grandmother’s house, I expect you to rest and give that medication a chance to work.”

“Kate, I promise to behave for the rest of the day,” I answered happily.

“That would be a first,” she giggled. “I’ve never seen you behave for more than five minutes. For now, just get in the car… carefully.”

Kate began to relax for the first time since my accident. She smiled and laughed as we drove away from the medical clinic, and I knew we’d have fun together during our extended weekend.

I’d hoped to spend some time alone with Kate when we reached grandmother’s house, but that didn’t happen. Grandmother and our parents were generally overprotective of us, and the freeway pileup only served to heighten those natural tendencies. They rushed to greet us as we entered the house.

Kate’s mother was a registered nurse, and she asked what seemed like dozens of questions about my appointment and Dr. Henderson’s findings. Grandmother and my parents also chimed in, and I couldn’t respond fast enough to satisfy them. I almost felt like a superstar athlete being hounded by reporters after a big game. This relentless interrogation continued until Kate charged to my rescue.

“Whoa, hold on everybody!” she exclaimed. “He’s supposed to be resting. Let’s finish this discussion in the living room.”

Grandmother and our parents immediately stepped aside. Kate escorted me to the living room and ordered me to lie down on the couch. I was determined to preserve our agreement, and I followed her instructions without question.

Kate spent a few minutes propping me up with pillows, until she was satisfied that I was comfortable. She also removed my shoes and began massaging my socked feet. Her techniques felt surprisingly good, especially considering her relative lack of massage experience.

Grandmother retreated to the kitchen and began preparing lunch while our parents stood beside the couch and launched another volley of questions about my medical appointment. It took a while, but Kate and I finally convinced them I was fine.

Lunch was ready, and grandmother summoned our parents to the kitchen table. She also delivered a large serving tray to the living room so Kate and I could share a private lunch on the couch. This gave us an opportunity to visit, and we began discussing our plans for the weekend.

Kate had been absolutely wonderful to me, and I was determined to make prom night a special experience for her. She tried to downplay the importance of the dance, but I knew she was disappointed by the way events were unfolding. Because of my accident and the breakup with her boyfriend, she’d missed the opportunity to reserve a limousine and shop for a dress.

There was nothing I could do about my cousin’s romantic life, and women’s fashion has never been my forte… with the possible exception of shoes. I decided to concentrate on finding a limousine, but every rental company in the area was booked solid for prom night. I feared it might be an impossible task, until luck intervened.

The telephone rang, and my father took the call. I couldn’t hear what was being discussed, but he appeared in the living room moments later.

“Son, I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation,” he said. “What’s left of your car just arrived at Donnie’s garage. Someone needs to get down there and sign for it.”

Donnie was a long-time family friend who owned a popular garage and used car lot. He was a skilled mechanic, and one of the finest auto body specialists in the county. He’d also been a part of my life since the earliest stages of my childhood.

It was difficult growing up in a neighborhood devoid of children my own age, but Donnie took me under his wing when I was only five years old. He invited me to his garage several times each week, where he showed me the vehicles he was working to restore. He also took me for rides in the many exotic cars that found their way to his lot.

Donnie’s garage was less than a mile from grandmother’s house, and Kate offered to drive me there. I also think she was curious and wanted an opportunity to inspect the wreckage.

My car was sitting in front of Donnie’s garage when we arrived, and it looked far worse than I remembered. The body had a texture comparable to that of crumpled aluminum foil, and there were deep gouges on the roof from my slide through the ditch.

Kate began looking pale as she surveyed my damaged car. There was a moment of levity, however, as I kicked the front bumper and the driver’s side mirror fell to the ground and shattered. Donnie emerged from his garage with a hearty laugh and called out to me.

"Young man, I could be wrong, but I think you'll be needing a new car," he said with a chuckle. "If you're open to the possibility of driving an older vehicle, I may have an option for you."

Donnie explained that he'd just acquired a car from a local family, and it was in excellent condition. It was a dark blue 1977 Buick Century with virtually no rust on the body, a decent paintjob, and what appeared to be a factory interior. I glanced at the odometer, which read 35,000 miles.

"What’s the story behind this car?" I asked. "She appears to be in really good shape."

Donnie reached into the glove compartment and produced a complete maintenance record. He also showed me the title.

"The car belonged to an elderly woman who passed away a few months ago," he explained. "Her kids are settling the estate, and they've got tons of money. This car means nothing to them, and they practically gave it to me. I could sell it to you for $150."

This was an absurdly low price for such a pristine car. Donnie was clearly doing this as a favor to my family and me. I wasted no time accepting his gracious offer.

It seemed like a long shot, but I wanted to ask Donnie about limousines. He was well connected with garages and auto dealerships throughout the county, and I thought he might know where I could find a limo. My intention was to surprise Kate on prom night.

“I need to speak with you privately,” I whispered. “Can you help me get rid of my cousin for a few minutes?”

Donnie scratched his beard and looked at me with a puzzled expression. I’m sure he wondered why I wanted Kate to leave. He nonetheless fabricated a delicate excuse to get her off the lot without hurting her feelings or arousing her suspicions.

“Kate sweetheart, could you do me a favor?” he said affectionately. “I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Could you walk up the street to Saunders Deli and buy a sandwich for me? “

Kate was happy to be of assistance, and Donnie handed her the money to pay for his food.

“Wait a minute… here’s a few extra dollars,” he added. “Buy something for you and your cousin too.”

Kate took the money and promised to return quickly. Saunders Deli was only a few hundred yards away, and I knew she wouldn’t be gone more than twenty minutes. Donnie waited until she was out of earshot before resuming our conversation.

“Okay, your cousin is gone… what's on your mind?" he asked.

"It's Kate... she's really disappointed," I sighed. "She wants to arrive at the prom in a limousine, but every rental company in the area is already booked. I was hoping you might know of some out of the way place where I could still find a limo."

Donnie stared at me with a growing smile, and I knew I'd come to the right person for help.

"How do you feel about cars that are somewhat retro?" he asked.

"I love old cars," I replied. "Why do you ask?"

Donnie instructed me to follow him, and we walked toward the rear of the parking lot, just behind the garage. There were a handful of rusty, banged up cars back there, including a few that were covered in tarps.

"I always thought this area was reserved for project cars you were trying to resurrect," I said. "What are we doing here?"

"Well, I may just have the answer to your prayers," he said while directing me to a rather large vehicle that was concealed by a tarp.

Donnie peeled away the oil-stained car cover to reveal a beautiful 1941 Cadillac Imperial. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this car, it was an elegant touring limousine with stylish curves, old-style white-wall tires, and a luxurious passenger compartment.

"Donnie, this is beautiful!" I exclaimed. “Where did you find her?”

"She used to belong to some hoity-toity ambassador to Spain or France, or some damned thing," he replied. "Somewhere along the way, she was fazed out of service and forgotten. I found her rusting to pieces on a farm about thirty miles from here."

I examined the car from bumper to bumper, searching for the rust and imperfections Donnie spoke of. I found none.

“Donnie, she’s in factory condition!” I said.

"Not really, but thanks for the kind words," he replied. "All I did was torch out the rusty spots, weld in some clean sheet metal, and throw a coat of black enamel on her. I want to do a factory restoration someday, but parts for this car are expensive and hard to come by."

To an untrained eye, Donnie's repairs were perfect, and the car appeared to be in showroom condition. He beamed with pride as I complimented his handiwork.

“What’s the rental fee?” I asked. “How much are you asking for her?”

"No charge son," he replied. "You’ve had an awful week, and I've known you and your family for years. The limo is yours for the weekend."

"You’re a lifesaver," I said while hugging him. "Thanks."

Donnie had really come through for me. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that Kate’s limousine dilemma was solved. Then it dawned on me that we had a serious logistical problem.

“Wait!” I said while slapping my forehead. “Kate lives an hour away, and we’ll be going to the dance from her place. How will I get the car?”

“Relax… my brother and I will deliver the car,” he replied. “Just give me the address and tell me when to show up.”

I once again thanked Donnie for his assistance. He responded with a smile, pulled the tarp over the car, and glanced at his watch.

“Uh oh,” he said. “Your cousin will be back any minute. If you really want this to be a surprise, we’d better get out of here.”

Donnie and I did not want to risk the possibility that Kate might see us coming from the back lot, so we sneaked around the building and crept through the side entrance. As it turned out, she hadn’t returned yet.

“Well, it looks like we’ve got a few minutes,” Donnie said. “Have a seat, and I’ll get the paperwork for the Buick.”

There was a large leather chair in the corner of the office, and I made myself comfortable. Donnie riffled through his filing cabinets and produced a handful of papers that he needed me to sign. The prospect of once again owning a functional car was appealing, and I happily presented him a check for $150 to cover the purchase of the Buick.

Kate returned as I was signing the last of the paperwork, and she congratulated me on the purchase of my “new” car. She also doled out chicken sandwiches, breadsticks, and sodas from Saunders Deli.

Kate and I enjoyed sharing lunch with Donnie. The food was terrific, and he entertained us with stories of his youth, including a few spicy tales from his days in the army. I would have been content to stay and visit for a while longer, but Kate pointed out that grandmother and our overprotective parents were probably worried about us.

Donnie tossed me the keys for the Buick, and I thanked him for all that he’d done. He smiled and winked, a silent acknowledgement of our pact regarding his limousine. Kate walked me to my “new” car and instructed me to follow her to grandmother’s house. She seemed mildly paranoid that I might have another accident, and she encouraged me to drive slowly.

There was virtually no traffic, and the drive to grandmother’s house was uneventful. However, I was ambushed the moment I pulled into the driveway. My mother and father scurried outside to admire my car, and Kate’s parents were just a few steps behind them. They asked a myriad of questions.

Instead of spending quality time with Kate, I was essentially forced to stand in the driveway and provide an annotated history of the 1977 Buick Century. It seemed like this cross-examination would never end, until grandmother called out to us from the front porch. She’d been baking, and she ordered everyone inside for homemade cookies and root beer floats.

Kate took my hand and guided me to the kitchen. Grandmother served us two enormous root beer floats and a plate of cookies big enough to accommodate a football team. We wasted no time digging in, and our parents followed suit.

This started as a pleasant family gathering, but grandmother and our parents initiated one of their predictable, mind-numbing conversations about the latest local gossip. Kate and I politely excused ourselves.

There was a small, secluded porch on the north side of the house, which had become enveloped by pine trees over the years. The rest of our family rarely went there, and it seemed like the perfect place for Kate and me to talk without being interrupted. We carefully made our way through the prickly pine branches and sat on the porch steps.

Kate seemed preoccupied, and I encouraged her to tell me what was wrong. She admitted that she was feeling a bit stressed out. My accident was quite traumatic for her, and seeing the badly damaged remnants of my car at Donnie’s only served to remind her just how easily I could have lost my life.

“I don’t think you understand how scary this whole experience was for me,” she explained. “We've been together since we were little kids, and those stupid news bulletins on the radio made it sound like everyone on the freeway was probably dead. I didn’t even find out that you’d survived the crash until my mom phoned grandmother from that gas station.”

“Sweetie, try to let this go,” I said reassuringly. “Things could’ve turned out badly, but they didn’t. I’m fine, and we’re going to have a wonderful time this weekend… I promise.”

Kate threw her arms around me, and I was about to offer some additional words of encouragement when my father came trudging up the path. He was updating his checkbook and wanted to know if I’d gotten a receipt when I purchased my car. I stood up, rummaged through my cluttered pockets, and produced the sales slip.

Dad apologized for the intrusion as he was leaving, but he’d walked in at a rather sensitive moment. His unexpected appearance disrupted my visit with Kate, and it took a few minutes for us to collect our thoughts and resume our original conversation.

We’d barely uttered a handful of sentences when another member of our family stumbled up the path and crashed through the trees. This time it was Kate’s father. He was going to the grocery store and wanted to know if there were any snacks he could get for us. This was a thoughtful gesture, albeit poorly timed, and we thanked him for thinking of us. He promised to get a bottle of our favorite root beer and politely went on his way.

Kate absolutely adored her dad, but she was frustrated that our conversation had already been interrupted twice. Grandmother’s side porch was normally an out-of-the-way place where we could find privacy, and it was truly ironic that our fathers had picked this occasion to stop by.

It seemed unlikely that we’d be interrupted again, and I tried to restart my conversation with Kate. Her thoughts had begun to shift from my accident to the prom, and I think she was wondering how we’d salvage the weekend after everything that had happened.

I’d always thumbed my nose at prom, partly because the social stratum of my school was so lopsided. Jocks and rich kids were perpetually showered with praise and placed on a pedestal, while the remaining students were treated as unwanted refuse and made to feel inferior. The dance was just another bogus forum designed to honor this supposedly elite class, and I refused to be part of it.

Kate’s school was substantially more progressive, and her classmates were far more enlightened than mine. She’d always looked forward to her senior prom, and to some extent, I think she’d romanticized it. Her ideal vision for the week hadn’t included an ugly breakup with her boyfriend, and my car accident was certainly an unexpected twist as well.

There was obvious tension in Kate’s voice as she recapped the events of the preceding five days. Dwelling on the subject was doing nothing to lift her spirits, and I decided it was time to change the subject.

“Hey, all of this talk about car accidents and bad boyfriends is depressing… let’s talk about something else,” I said.

“Like what?” she replied.

"Well, you'll never guess what happened to me today," I said while struggling to contain a smile. “I was at a doctor’s appointment this morning, and I met this really pretty girl.”

Kate didn’t immediately recognize that I was talking about her, but once she figured it out, her body language changed and she started to laugh.

"Really... you thought she was pretty?" she asked with a smile.

“Oh my God, this girl was absolutely gorgeous, and that’s not even the best part,” I grinned. “She had really cute feet and she promised to let me tickle her!”

There was a sudden look of recognition on Kate’s face as she remembered the promise she’d made when we were leaving the clinic. She smiled nervously as I gently grasped her ankles and casually removed her shoes. Her feet were warm, remarkably soft, and slightly moist from being crammed into those high-heels for so many hours.

I lovingly fondled and caressed Kate’s beautiful feet for a few moments, until the urge to tickle finally took over. She began to emit girlish titters and guffaws as I stroked her soles with delicate, feathery touches.

It wasn’t my intention to torture Kate, just tickle her enough to make her laugh and smile. Her toes began to flex and curl in unison as I traced a series of figure-eights on each of her soles with my fingernails.

“How cute, the little piggies are waving at me,” I teased. “Let’s see if I can remember how that story goes. This little piggy went to the Laundromat, and that little piggy watched TV… no, no, no… that’s not right. Oh drat, now I’ll have to start over!”

Kate was giggling like a little girl, seemingly enjoying my efforts, and I was contentedly playing with her toes when both of us heard voices and a pair of clumsy footsteps coming up the path. It was our mothers, stumbling over loose rocks and pine branches on their way to check up on us.

I quickly released my grip on Kate’s feet, and she scrambled to put her shoes on and compose herself. By the time our mothers appeared through the trees, there was no evidence of what we’d been doing, but the intrusion left us flustered.

Kate and I wanted to be alone for a while, and it simply wasn’t possible with members of our family barging in every few minutes. Their intentions were good, but the situation had officially become intolerable.

“Kate, we’re getting out of here,” I whispered.

“Where can we go?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but I’ll figure something out,” I replied.

Truth be told, I already knew where I was going to take Kate, but I wanted to surprise her. Branford’s Mile Away Hideaway was a roadside motel located on a county highway two miles from town. Most of their business consisted of weary travelers who were just passing through, and I’d stayed there a handful of times with friends. Their rooms were clean, but badly out of style, with ugly green carpeting and wood paneling from the early 1970’s.

On this occasion, the décor of the motel was unimportant. It was a secluded location where Kate and I could find some privacy, and the price was certainly reasonable – $24 per night. I knew we’d have fun, but the first step was to get our parents out of our hair.

Kate and I helped our mothers down the badly cracked sidewalk near the old porch and escorted them around the house to the front door. They’d planned to share some snacks in the kitchen, but we persuaded them to eat in the living room instead.

With grandmother and our parents assembled in one place, it was time to implement our patented “divide and conquer” strategy – a parental distraction tactic we perfected during childhood. Kate kept our family pinned down in the living room while I hobbled through the house gathering provisions for our evening together.

My first stop was the guest bedroom, where I had a large duffel bag filled with foot massage supplies stashed in the closet. It was heavy and bulging at the seams, but I managed to lug it to my car and sneak back into the house without being noticed.

I was hoping to surprise Kate with an elaborate meal of some kind, but that plan hinged entirely on the selection of leftovers in grandmother’s fridge. Luckily, there was a surplus of delicious food from our family meal the night before.

While Kate continued to keep our parents busy in the living room, I crept around the kitchen, attempting to find Tupperware containers to put the food in. I accidentally clanked a couple of glass baking dishes together while rifling through a cabinet, and grandmother must have heard the commotion because she appeared in the kitchen a nanosecond later.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Your parents are driving you nuts, and you kids want to go someplace where you can have some peace and quiet. Am I right?”

“You’re a mind-reader,” I replied.

Grandmother understood our need to get away for a few hours, and she also appreciated the fact that I was trying to plan a nice meal for Kate.

“Let me pack some food for you,” she said. “I’ll throw in some of the spaghetti I was making for supper. It’s one of Kate’s favorites.”

I watched as grandmother efficiently wrapped homemade bread and pie crust in Saran Wrap, and I was greatly impressed as she poured several servings of piping hot spaghetti into a small crock pot without spilling a drop or getting burned. She neatly placed all of these items in a large wooden picnic basket and set it on the table.

The food was fabulous, but I needed something to serve it on. Grandmother invited me to rummage through her cabinets and see what I could find. There were several sets of vintage china and antique glassware, and I selected some elegant champagne glasses and floral-patterned plates. I also found some silverware, cloth napkins, and a classic Italian pizzeria-style tablecloth.

I’d almost concluded my search when I noticed five sets of cut-glass glass candleholders and an unopened box of candles wedged in the far corner of the top shelf. I thought they’d be a wonderful alternative to the tacky outdated fixtures and harsh incandescent lighting at the motel.

There was nothing else I needed, and I thanked grandmother for her help. She joked that she enjoyed being my accomplice and helped me carry the picnic basket and other items to my car.

Butterflies formed in my stomach as I fastened my seatbelt and pulled away from grandmother’s house. This was my first substantial drive since the accident, and I was mildly nervous, but those feelings quickly faded as I thought about my evening with Kate.

I was confidently cruising toward the city limits when I decided to stop at Rick’s Liquor Store. They sold Peninsula Cooler – a delicious, non-alcoholic cooler that Kate and I always loved. I grabbed a case and also purchased some long stemmed roses from a display at the checkout counter. The manager threw in a small bag of ice, and I continued on my way.

It took less than ten minutes to reach the motel. There were few cars in the parking lot, and they were obviously having a slow business day. I found the manager in his office watching a ball game on a portable black & white television. He was thrilled to have a customer, and he rushed to assist me.

I presented my driver’s license, signed the necessary forms, and paid for the room with cash. The manager gave me a key that resembled a credit card and escorted me to a room on the far end of the property.

“There are no other guests in this part of the motel,” he said. “You’ll have lots of privacy, and it should be fairly quiet. If you need anything, just let me know.”

“Actually, I could use some help unpacking my car,” I replied. “I was in an accident yesterday, and I’m still sore. Would you mind?”

“Not a problem,” he said. “Give me your keys, and I’ll move your car for you as well. This will only take a few minutes.”

True to his word, the manager parked my car just outside the door of the motel room. He also removed my bags from the back seat, carried them inside, and placed them on the bed. I thanked him for the service and offered a tip, but he politely declined.

The room was surprisingly well furnished, with a king-sized bed, two large dressers, and a small dining table with four chairs. I spent a few minutes weighing my options, trying to decide where to begin.

Kate was obviously having a stressful week, and my goal for the evening was to make her feel pampered and appreciated. Treating her to an elegant dinner was an important part of my plan, and I decided to set the table.

Grandmother’s Italian tablecloth was more than large enough, and it brought a touch of class to the otherwise drab room. I neatly arranged the antique plates, champagne glasses, and silverware in their proper places. Kate always enjoyed dining by candlelight, so I positioned two candle holders in the center of the table.

There was a large countertop just outside of the bathroom, and I decided to use it as my cooking surface. I placed the crock-pot there and plugged it in.

Grandmother’s piecrust and homemade bread didn’t need to be kept warm, and I set them on the dresser closest to the table. There were several large ice buckets on the countertop, and I used one to chill a few bottles of Peninsula Cooler.

The stage was set for my meal with Kate. My only remaining task was to organize my foot-massage supplies. I’d recently ordered a collection of massage products made from combinations of organic food-grade oils like almond, olive, and coconut. I arranged them on a large bath towel at the foot of the bed.

My duffel bag also contained a set of large basins that I often used to soak Kate’s feet. I couldn’t envision using them on the carpet, so I carried them to the bathroom and filled each with soothing warm water. It occurred to me that Kate and I would need a place to sit while I bathed her feet, so I grabbed a spindle-back wooden chair and a comfortable bench stool from the other room.

Everything appeared to be in place, although there was still the issue of lighting. I stationed the remaining candleholders throughout the motel room, making sure to save one for the bathroom. They produced a warm, shimmering light, which instantly created a cozy vibe.

The room turned out better than expected, and there was nothing left to do but get Kate. It was only four o’clock, and I was way ahead of schedule. I checked my wallet to make sure that I had the room key, and rushed out the door.

Driving back to grandmother’s house took a matter of minutes, but it seemed like hours. I couldn’t wait to pick up Kate and take her to the motel. In many ways, I was like an eager child on Christmas morning, counting the seconds until it was time to open presents.

When I reached the house, Kate was nowhere to be found. Grandmother and our parents were chatting in the living room, and I carefully avoided them so I wouldn’t get sucked into a lengthy conversation.

The bathroom door was partially open, and I could hear the sound of running water. Kate’s vibrant yellow pumps were lying on the floor, and she was standing in the bathtub, fully clothed, washing her feet. She’d always been concerned with hygiene, and she must have suspected that my plans would involve footplay of some kind.

For a lifelong footman like me, this was a breathtaking sight. I remained in the hallway, enjoying the show as Kate gracefully arched and flexed her shapely feet and wiggled her toes under the water. I thought I was being discrete, carefully peering through the partly open door and retreating in “peek-a-boo” fashion whenever she turned in my general direction.

What I didn’t know was that Kate had been aware of my presence from the moment I entered the hallway. She’d allowed the exercise to continue for my benefit – and perhaps to tease me just a bit – but she finally decided to let me know I’d been discovered.

“Sweetie, you can come in here and watch if you’d like,” she chuckled.

My cover was obviously blown, and it would have been pointless to remain in the hallway. There was a comfortable wicker chair in the corner of the bathroom, and I placed it next to the tub so I could enjoy the remainder of Kate’s foot-washing exhibition from a better vantage point.

I probably looked like a wide-eyed patron in the front row of a gentlemen’s club as I watched my cousin repeatedly lather and rinse her feet beneath the flowing faucet. Her bewitching movements kept me spellbound for several satisfying minutes, during which I barely allowed myself to blink.

I’d almost begun to lose track of time – and everything else for that matter – when Kate abruptly turned off the water and stepped out of the tub. It appeared the game was over, until she covered my lap with a large bath towel and asked me to dry her feet. I was more than happy to be of service.

Kate was quite graceful, skillfully balancing on her left foot while I lovingly cradled her right foot in my lap and blotted it dry. I’d just begun to repeat the process on its mate when the concerned voices of our parents echoed through the house.

“Good grief… not again,” I whined, unable to hide my irritation over this latest interruption. “They probably want to know where we are and what we’re up to. We’d better get in there and show them we’re okay… then we’re leaving!”

Kate rolled her eyes in frustration, removed her foot from my lap, and hurriedly put on her shoes.

“Come on… let’s go,” she sighed while taking my hand.

Our parents were waiting for us in the living room, and we matter-of-factly informed them we were leaving. They were hopelessly paranoid that we’d be killed in a car accident or some other calamity, and they were about to forbid us from going out when grandmother rushed to our aid.

“Wait a minute… we’ve been smothering these kids all day long,” she said in a commanding tone. “They just want some time to themselves so they can talk without being bothered. Let them go, they’ll be fine.”

In most family disputes, grandmother’s word was final, and that proved to be the case on this occasion as well. Our parents immediately eased up, aside from making us promise to drive carefully and come home at a reasonable time – things we would have done anyway without being asked.

There was always the possibility that one of our parents would engage us in some form of longwinded, last-minute conversation, and we didn’t give them the chance. We hugged our mothers, thanked grandmother for her support, and bolted from the house like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

Kate still had no idea where I planned to take her, and she became increasingly curious as we walked to the car.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “Do I even get a clue?”

I skirted the issue and politely reminded Kate to put on her seatbelt. That only sidetracked her for a moment, and she was about to repeat her original question when I presented her the roses from the liquor store.

Kate was genuinely touched that I’d gone to the trouble of buying her roses, especially considering everything that had happened to me in the previous twenty-four hours. She was also willing to trust me, at least for the moment, and she stopped interrogating me about our destination.

I started my car, tuned the radio to our favorite soft jazz station, and set a course for the edge of town. It was rush hour – by small town standards anyway. There was a bit more traffic to deal with, but not enough to fluster me.

Kate and I exchanged playful smirks on the way to the motel, and I could feel her curiosity building as we pulled into the driveway. I’d never taken her there before, and she still had no idea what I was planning.

The moment I parked the car, Kate was ready to jump out, but I placed my hand on her shoulder and asked her to wait. She was becoming quite antsy and didn’t understand why I wanted her to stay seated, but she honored my request.

My muscles had begun to stiffen again, and I groaned while climbing out of the car. I was moving substantially slower than usual, but I made my way to the passenger side and opened Kate’s door for her. She smiled and blushed slightly as I kissed her hand and helped her from the car.

“You’re so sweet,” she giggled while leaning closer to kiss my cheek. “Where are we going now?”

“We’re already here,” I warmly replied.

I'd parked close to the building, and our room was literally no more than ten feet away. I gently grasped Kate's arm and escorted her to the door, where I could clearly detect the aroma of scented candles and grandmother’s homemade spaghetti.

The lock made a loud clunking sound as I inserted the credit-card-style motel key, and the door swung open. Kate’s curiosity was more than piqued by that point, and she eagerly stepped inside.

I'd only seen my cousin look that surprised a handful of times before. Her eyes widened, and she stood just inside the doorway, smiling broadly and visually taking inventory of the room. She was clearly flattered that I’d planned such an elaborate, almost romantic evening for her.

My efforts were being well received, and I decided to go a step further. I politely excused myself, ducked into the bathroom, and returned with a white towel draped over my left arm, pretending to be a waiter.

“Madame, your meal is ready,” I said in a phony French accent. “May I escort you to your table?”

Kate was truly enjoying my performance. She giggled and smiled as I ushered her to the table, offered her a chair, and served up a heaping plate of spaghetti, bread, and pie crust, all while remaining in character.

“Madame, your ‘dîner’ is served,” I said, doing my best to exaggerate my already comically terrible accent. “Would you care for a glass of our finest house wine?”

Kate had no idea what I was talking about, but she smiled and nodded as I grabbed a bottle of Peninsula Cooler from the ice bucket. The cap snapped off with a twist, and I briefly sniffed it, pretending it was the cork from a bottle of vintage wine. I offered the cap to Kate and proceeded to fill our champagne glasses.

I’d done a masterful job of setting the table while simultaneously putting on a stage performance of sorts. I was having fun, but it was time to drop my French persona and join my cousin for our meal.

Kate was impressed and amazed that I’d been able to assemble the food, foot massage supplies, and candles, and deliver them to the motel in the brief amount of time I was absent from the house.

“How did you manage all of this?” she asked.

“I had some help,” I confessed, referring to grandmother and the motel manager.

Kate was continuing to compliment my efforts when I realized that I’d forgotten to bring a radio. Our motel room was equipped with a badly worn, early 1970’s vintage alarm clock with an AM/FM feature. I feared it might not work, but it hummed to life when I turned it on, and I tuned it to the same station we’d been enjoying in the car.

The soft jazz melded seamlessly with the candlelight, enhancing the mood and bringing an air of elegance to the room. I rejoined Kate at the table, and we shared a brief toast before proceeding with our meal.

Dining at the motel gave us a much-needed opportunity to relax, unwind, and talk without being interrupted – something we’d been unable to do at the house. Our conversation started out rather breezy, consisting of the usual exchanges about sports, movies, and popular music, but it became slightly more serious by the time we finished eating.

Kate had unanswered questions about the accident, and she’d been reluctant to ask them until that moment. She wasn’t obsessing, but we’d only spoken of the crash in somewhat general terms, and she wanted to hear what happened from my perspective, not that of a news reporter.

If roles had been reversed and Kate was the one who’d narrowly escaped serious injury in a large-scale freeway collision, I would’ve been shaken to my core and filled with questions. Her request seemed perfectly natural, and I felt comfortable sharing my experience.

I calmly recapped everything that happened, from the abrupt stoppage of traffic and my last-second swerve, to the scream of my car's breaks and the sensation of sliding through the ditch upside down. Kate reached across the table and held my hand as she listened to my story, and I could almost hear the “what if” thoughts echoing through her mind once again.

“Honey, that was way too close,” she sighed. “I’m so thankful you’re okay.”

“Kate, I’m better than okay,” I replied reassuringly. “Honestly, I’m doing great.”

“Well, that crash had to be scary, and I really want the rest of this week to be fun for you” she said as her grip on my hand tightened. “If there’s anywhere you’d like to go or anything you’d like to do, just tell me, and we’ll do it.”

When Kate made this thoughtful offer to entertain me, I’m sure she’d envisioned taking me to a ballgame or movie, treating me to a restaurant meal, or perhaps going shopping at our favorite mall. I had something else in mind.

”Gee, there’s still the small matter of that promise you made at the doctor’s office this morning,” I suggested, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Maybe we could start with that for now.”

Kate was amused by my response to her offer, and the air of seriousness that threatened to overshadow our conversation moments earlier quickly dissipated.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” she asked with a chuckle.

“Yup,” I flatly answered.

There was a prolonged silence as Kate continued to squeeze my hand and smile at me. I’d almost begun to wonder if she’d go through with our deal when she rose from her seat, carefully pushed my dishes aside, and sat directly in front of me on the edge of the table.

Removing one’s shoes is a commonplace activity for most people, but Kate had taken it to the level of an art form, almost reminiscent of a striptease. She made a series of seductive, circular movements with her feet, and her canary yellow pumps teasingly lingered on her toes before falling to the floor beside my chair.

I felt rather silly that, in less than a minute, I’d gone from being cocky and collected to a quivering basket case...  and all because my cousin wiggled her bare feet at me. Kate handled the situation with considerable grace, just as she’d done so many times before. She dismissed the incident with minimal commentary and offered to proceed with the game.

“Well, that certainly was… um… interesting,” she said with a chuckle. “What’s next?”

Kate’s willingness to continue indulging me — especially considering what had just happened — was nothing less than a gesture of unconditional love and loyalty. It seemed entirely inappropriate to reward her devotion by immediately inflicting ticklish tortures on her, so I decided to postpone that portion of my itinerary until later in the evening.

I rose to my feet, took Kate’s hand, and began guiding her across the room. She assumed that I wanted her to lie down on the bed — that was, after all, a common posture for many of our footplay sessions. She’d leaned forward and was preparing to crawl onto the mattress when I stopped her.

“Sweetie, not there,” I said, placing my hand on her back and gently steering her away from the bed.

Kate looked somewhat confused by this unexpected redirection, but she nonetheless followed me to the bathroom without questioning my intentions. Her eyes widened and she began to smile as she stepped through the doorway.

This was an unexpected technical problem, and I could only think of one viable solution. I placed the bar against the bottom of Kate’s right foot and began aggressively dragging it back and forth from her heel to just beneath her toes, trying to generate some lather.

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We’d almost reached the city limits when I started having second thoughts about returning to the house.

One of my objectives for the evening was to recreate the ambiance of the romantic prom week Kate had been dreaming of, as much as possible within the parameters of our relationship. Simply driving home and calling it a night wouldn’t accomplish that, and I knew there had to be a better option.

I was quietly brainstorming when the disk-jockey announced he was going to play a series of slow songs after the commercial break. That gave me an idea, and I made a sharp turn onto a rustic country road leading to the lake, which was less than a mile away.

Lake Cravatte was relatively small, perhaps no larger than nine or ten football fields pieced together, but the park surrounding it was picturesque and beautifully landscaped. The hill overlooking the lake was a popular picnic spot and one of the highest points in the area, with a magnificent view of the water, the surrounding countryside, and a portion of the town as well.

Kate had visited the lake with me many times before. I’m sure she realized where I was taking her, but she had no idea what I was up to. Her expression was one of absolute curiosity as we arrived at the entrance to the park.

“What are we doing here?” she asked with a smile.

“You’ll see,” I casually replied, hoping to stall her for a few moments longer.

The commercial break was still in progress, thanks to an unusually longwinded, painfully hokey ad for a local hardware store. That bought me the time I needed to reach the top of the hill and pull into a parking spot before the disk-jockey played the next song.

Just as I’d done at the motel, I stepped out of the car and asked Kate to wait for me. She smirked, folded her arms across her chest in mock frustration, and agreed to stay
put.

I made my way to the passenger side at the best pace I could muster and opened Kate’s door for her. She chuckled and grinned as I bowed my head, kissed both of her hands, and once again helped her from the car. I escorted her to a spot in the middle of the parking lot and abandoned her there, which only served to further rouse her curiosity.

“Sweetie, what are you up to?” she laughed while stomping her feet like a fussing child.

“Just wait there for a minute,” I pleaded while hastily limping back to my car.

The radio station was still playing advertisements as I opened the driver’s door and scooted across the front seat, but I knew the commercial break would be ending soon.
I quickly put the windows down and cranked the volume of the car stereo so Kate
and I would be able to hear the music from the parking lot.

I thought about turning on the headlights, but it wasn’t necessary. It was a beautiful spring evening and the skies were clear. The moon and stars were shining brightly enough to softly illuminate the park and make the water sparkle.

The final commercial finished playing as I stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind me. Kate was grinning ear to ear and filled with anticipation as I rejoined her in the parking lot.

“Will you please tell me what we’re doing here?” she laughed.

Before I could offer an answer, the disk-jockey returned to the air and announced the next song – “Sweet Love” by Anita Baker. That was my cue, and I stepped closer to Kate while gently taking hold of her hand.

“Madame, may I have this dance?” I asked, invoking a watered down version of the French accent I’d used at the motel.

Kate paused for a moment, speechless, deeply moved, and unable to do anything but stare at me and smile. It was apparent that no one else had ever surprised her with a gesture like this, which made me feel even better about my decision to bring her to the lake.

The muscles in both of my legs were really starting to bother me – like the burning sensation of a badly pulled hamstring – but I was determined to make this a special night for Kate. I smiled pleasantly, took the lead, and guided her across the parking lot, both of us gently swaying in time with the music.

There was no one else at the park, which didn’t surprise me given the fact that it was after ten o’clock on a weeknight. Kate and I enjoyed utter solitude while dancing through four more ballads beneath the stars on the hilltop overlooking the shimmering lake. The setting couldn’t have been more romantic.

When the last of the slow-jams had played, we remained on our makeshift dance floor and hugged. I could feel the stress and commotion of the preceding twenty-four hours fading away, and I would’ve been content to stay there for another hour, but it was time to go.

Our parents were professional worriers, and we honestly thought they might call the
police – and perhaps the National Guard as well – if we didn’t get home by eleven o’clock. It seemed best not to test their already frayed nerves.

Kate put her arm around my waist and leaned into me as we strolled back to my car, neither of us truly wanting to leave the lake. I scurried ahead of her at the last minute so I could open her door, but she paused before getting in.

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Kate and I were so keyed up about our second day off from school that we awoke a bit earlier than usual. I’m thinking it must have been well before 6 a.m., because the sunrise newscast was still playing on the local radio station. 

The soothing bath, the prescription drugs, and my aunt’s stretching regimen seemed to have made a real difference for me, as my legs weren’t hurting nearly as much as they had the night before. I was able to get out of bed and move around without too much effort. Kate was thrilled to see me doing so well, and she jumped out of bed and rushed over to give me a hug.

“Good morning!” she said, kissing my cheek and playfully rustling my hair with her fingers. “You look great! How are you doing?”  

“Well, I’ve only been awake for a minute or so, and I’ve already been hugged and kissed by a really pretty girl,” I replied. “On the whole, I’d say my day is off to a great start!”  

My flattering comments made my cousin smile, and she once again threw her arms around me in a carefully scaled down version of her patented bear hug. The two of us remained there for a while, embracing, laughing, and exchanging affectionate dialogue as the early morning sun began peeking through the bedroom curtains.

This was a heartwarming moment, one I would’ve happily prolonged for an hour or more, but I suddenly remembered that we needed to get back to the motel to gather our belongings. I felt it was important to take care of that before our parents woke up — I didn’t want to go through the hassle of explaining why we were leaving the house so early.

Both of us felt liberated as we drove away from her house. School was in session and our classmates were confined to the doldrums of their respective classrooms, but we were free to cruise the city streets and enjoy a fun-filled day together.

Kate didn’t deplore her school as I did mine, but she nonetheless let out a jubilant cry of “yippee” as we passed the building. Our medically authorized truancy had spared her from an arduous morning of senior algebra and home economics, and she saw that as cause for celebration.

The radio station we’d been listening to wasn’t coming in especially well, and Kate asked me to search for an alternative while she focused on her duties as chauffeur. Every frequency on the dial seemed to be broadcasting a talk show or morning newscast, but I eventually stumbled onto our favorite 80’s station, which was playing an hour of commercial-free classics.

Kate hadn’t told me what activities she had in mind for our day together, and I honestly didn’t care. We could’ve gone to the hardware store and stared at plumbing supplies for three hours and I would’ve enjoyed it as long as she was with me.

It was sometime after nine o’clock, and the early morning rush hour had already subsided. Traffic was moving quite well, and there were surprisingly few cars on the road as we skirted the downtown.

Kate was still trying to keep our destination a secret, although I more or less figured it out when she pulled onto Lakefront Drive , a large thoroughfare that ran parallel to the waterfront. She’d been talking about taking me on a boat cruise for more than a month, and I had a hunch that was her game plan for the morning.

My suspicions were quickly confirmed as Kate drove us to the marina and parked in the lot of Wendiere Cruises, a local company that offered sightseeing tours and a water taxi that ran during the summer months. Their tour-boat, which resembled a drastically scaled down version of a cruise ship, was positioned beside a large pier and tethered to the dock with a series of ropes.

Announcements were ringing out over a loudspeaker, encouraging prospective passengers to line up and buy their tickets. Kate immediately dashed across the parking lot and purchased passes for both of us. She’d no sooner rejoined me when the gangplank was lowered and ticket-holders were encouraged to come aboard.

There was a brief delay as the crew scrambled to release the dock lines and conduct mandatory last-minute safety checks – procedures they’d undoubtedly performed hundreds of times. The boat rocked abruptly as the props roared to life and we motored away from shore.

By my estimation, there were roughly fifty passengers, most of them retired seniors. Kate and I stood out amongst this predominantly geriatric crowd, and we drew some unsolicited attention as well. We were standing by the rail, nestled together, when I overheard an elderly woman refer to us as “newlyweds” and comment that we were a charming couple.

This had happened to us many times before, and we’d found it easier – and a bit more fun – to indulge people’s assumptions about us, rather than trying to explain the true nature of our relationship. Kate threw her arms around my neck and affectionately kissed my cheek, essentially putting on a show for our newfound admirers who continued to stare and speculate about our history.

There were only the mildest of breezes and the waters were calm, which made for a smooth ride as we cruised more than a mile from shore. Neither of us had ever seen the skyline from this vantage point, and the view was breathtaking.

The captain made several passes, trolling back and forth in a series of leisurely maneuvers, giving passengers ample opportunity to enjoy the scenery. He even took us further up the shoreline a few miles north of town before returning to the dock.

Our cruise had taken more than an hour, and it was just after eleven o’clock as we drove away from the waterfront. Kate felt lunch should be our next priority, and she already had a specific place in mind for our picnic.

Water Tower Park , so named because it was home to the city's first water tower, was a popular destination among area residents. The historic tower, retired by the city sometime after 1930, was situated atop a remote hill near the city limits and surrounded by tall pines and lush green grass.

On most weekdays, the park was rather quiet, making it an ideal spot for anyone needing a respite from the hustle and bustle of the metroplex. Kate hoped we’d have the entire place to ourselves, and for the most part, she got her wish.

There were only three people in sight as we traveled the winding access road to the top of the park – an elderly couple walking their dog, and a businessman seated at a picnic table more than two-hundred yards away. None of them seemed to notice our arrival.

Kate parked in the shadow of the old tower and began unpacking her picnic supplies, which included enough food and beverages for at least five people, and a large blanket that she carefully spread out on the ground. She had no idea that I’d brought provisions too, and she was genuinely surprised as I produced her trusty lawn chair from the trunk and positioned it in the middle of the bedspread.

“When did you find the time to put that in my car?” she asked.

“Oh, I took care of that earlier while you were in the house packing our lunch, and I also made sure to bring this,” I replied, handing her my satchel of foot lotions and oils.

Kate grinned as she unzipped the leather bag and eyed the assortment of massage paraphernalia I’d smuggled to our picnic.

“You’ve got enough stuff in here to start your own spa,” she laughed.

“Hey, anything worth doing is worth doing well,” I jokingly retorted. “Besides, I was just trying to be prepared. It isn’t every day that I get to skip school and spend an afternoon rubbing a pretty girl’s feet.”

My flattering words were enough to make Kate blush slightly, and she continued to smile while reaching out to hug me. She also realized that I’d be removing her shoes at any moment, and she decided to save me some time. While placing her hands on my shoulders for balance, she disposed of her lime green wedges in rather sensual fashion, deftly depositing them on the grass with her toes.

Our lunch was ready to be served, and Kate returned to the center of the blanket, barefoot, to prepare picnic plates and pour sodas for us. I paused for a moment to admire the tantalizing contrast between the navy blue fabric of the bedspread and my cousin’s golden-brown, suntanned feet. It was a sight that would’ve made any self-respecting footman’s heart skip at least a few beats.

Things only got better as Kate knelt beside the picnic basket, her tender soles facing skyward, completely vulnerable. This was simply too good to pass up.

While my thoughtful, unsuspecting cousin was focused on her task, neatly placing food on our plates, I crouched behind her, rested my head on her right shoulder, and began to scribble my fingers from her heels to her toes and back again with light, feathery strokes.

“Honey, whatcha doin’?” I asked innocently.

“He-he-he-he-he... trying to serve lunch…. ho-ho-ho-ha-ha... and you’re not helping… ha-ha-ha,” she protested through her giggles.

Kate wasn’t the slightest bit angry – I actually sensed that she was pleased to see me having so much fun. However, she was going out of her way to prepare a wonderful lunch for us, and I didn’t want to spoil things with an inappropriately prolonged or intense bout of tickling. I allowed my fingers to travel the entire surface of her soles a few more times and decided it was best to stop.

My efforts were rewarded with a series of adorable ‘sing-song’ giggles that continued well after the tickling had ceased, and I was pleased to find Kate bubblier than ever once she’d composed herself.

“Whew, that really tickled,” she said, the mere memory of the experience causing her to smile.

“Sorry sweetie, I couldn’t help myself,” I replied, affectionately wrapping my arms around her waist and once again placing my head on her shoulder.

“No worries, I still love you,” she answered good-naturedly while turning to face me so she could kiss my cheek and wink. “Are you ready to have lunch now?”

I glanced down at the blanket and discovered that Kate had somehow managed to finish filling our plates and pouring our beverages. Moreover, she’d done it while I was tickling her feet, and without spilling a drop or complaining about my mischief.

It was obvious that Kate was trying to make this a special day for me, and I truly wanted to return the favor. She was about to serve me lunch when I took the plate from her, gently grasped her arm, and steered her toward the lawn chair.

“You’ve done enough, now it’s my turn to wait on you for a while,” I explained.

Kate smiled and perched on the edge of the chair, sitting upright in an almost formal posture. She was trying to save enough room for me to sit beside her, but I had other plans. I placed my hands on her shoulders, eased her into a reclined position, and propped up her feet with one of the pillows she’d brought to the park.

“Honey, this is really nice, but where are you going to sit?” she asked concernedly.

”Don’t worry about me… I’ve got it covered,” I answered while handing her one of the picnic plates she’d prepared, along with a glass of cold root beer and some napkins.

Kate watched closely as I sat near the end of the chair, slid beneath the pillow, and comfortably positioned her feet in my lap. She wiggled her toes and flashed a knowing grin as I unpacked my satchel of foot massage supplies and generously lubricated her soles with a rich, organic, avocado-coconut oil blend.

I borrowed heavily from the choreography of the foot massage I’d given Kate the night before, performing her favorite techniques on her arches for several minutes before moving on to the balls of her feet. She repeatedly sighed throughout the process, and at one point, I almost thought she might fall asleep. 

Kate was thoroughly enjoying the foot massage – she described my techniques as “heavenly” – but she was also concerned. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and there were more than 500 milligrams worth of potent prescription drugs rattling around my empty stomach.

“Honey, this is wonderful, but please get something to eat before those pills burn a hole in your gut,” she said.

“No problem,” I obediently replied, snatching one of the sandwiches from my plate without first taking the time to wipe away the profuse quantities of massage oil that were dripping from my fingers.

The gourmet bun was literally glistening as I raised it to my lips and took a big bite. It was a spectacle that made Kate cringe.

“Sweetie, you’ve got that massage stuff all over your hands and you’re going to make yourself sick,” she said, troubled that I was ingesting such a large quantity of massage oil.

“No worries, it’s edible!” I cheerfully replied.

To illustrate my point, I grabbed an empty hamburger bun from the picnic basket, used it to wipe the excess massage oil from the soles of Kate’s feet, and crammed it into my mouth.

“See?” I uttered in a muffled tone, my mouth full of partially chewed bread product. “It’s not a problem.”

Kate buried her face in her hands and roared with laughter in response to my demonstration. She was deeply amused, yet slightly grossed out at the same time.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she giggled as her entire face turned beet red. “You just wiped my feet with that bun.”

“Hey, your feet are clean … I washed them this morning!” I shot back sarcastically, pretending to be offended.

Under ordinary circumstances, Kate and I would've gone to Westridge, a true goliath among shopping malls, with two stories, more than sixty stores, a five-screen movie theater, an arcade, and a food court larger than a typical college basketball gymnasium. I relished the idea of being there on a school day, but there was a basic logistical problem. 

The massive complex spanned an entire city block, and there was no way to traverse the grounds without a great deal of walking – far more than I could undertake without aggravating the strained muscles in my legs and potentially ruining my chances of being able to dance on Saturday night. Kate wisely proposed an alternative.  

The Greendale Shopping Center was less than a mile up the road and comprised of modest, family owned stores pieced together in a sort of L-shaped configuration. It was basically a glorified strip mall, small enough for me to navigate without much walking, yet large enough to keep us entertained for a while.  

There were only a handful of cars in the parking lot, and Kate found an empty space alongside the building, mere feet from the sidewalk. I hopped out and started toward the nearest shop – a small but trendy music store decked out in bright orange “SALE” signs and posters for a number of popular recording artists.  

This tiny shop had a remarkably diverse inventory, despite their limited floor space. I quickly found several CD’s I’d been thinking about buying for almost a month, including albums from some of my least mainstream favorites like Swing Out Sister. Kate, meanwhile, picked out an 80’s compilation set, a rare Nicolette Larson single, and a handful of recordings from artists who were topping the charts at the time.  

From the music store, we wandered to the neighboring shop, which reminded me of Pier One Imports. Their shelves were filled with high-end kitchen accessories and elegant glassware, including champagne glasses and candleholders. I didn’t really need anything — I already owned enough glassware to start my own store — but I thought it would be fun to browse, and Kate was all for it. 

There was a distinctively ‘new age’ feel about this shop, and much of their merchandise reflected this contemporary theme. The entire south wall featured intricate displays of unique cobalt blue glassware, including some hand blown pieces from a local artist. Kate stood transfixed in front of those shelves for at least ten minutes, during which I slipped away to seek out possible prom gifts for her and our mutual friend Kelly.

It only took me a minute or so to find a series of crystal champagne flutes unlike any I’d ever seen before. They were tall, slender, and made of frosted glass with gold leaf trim along the top, and they came with a glass table vase. I thought the girls would love them, and I placed two sets in my shopping basket and scurried to the cash register.  

The woman at the front counter couldn’t have been nicer to me. I explained that some of my purchases were intended as a surprise for Kate, and she quickly placed those items beneath the register and out of sight while she wrapped them in a fancy gift box with a red ribbon. She also topped the package with a large gift tag labeled “Mom” to further assure that my cousin wouldn’t discover her present.  

Seeing the bogus tag on Kate’s present made me feel a bit guilty that I hadn’t actually gotten anything for my mom, so I walked down the nearest aisle and grabbed an etched glass candleholder and a faux antique cut-glass serving tray. I also picked out a few gifts for Kate’s mom and our grandmother.  

By the time Kate joined us at the register, I was standing rather innocently with a series of beautifully wrapped packages, none of which appeared to be for her. I could tell by her reaction that she didn’t suspect a thing, and I winked at the clerk, silently thanking her for helping me.  

My new friend pleasantly smiled back at me and reached across the counter to help Kate with her selections. She’d picked out a pair of cobalt blue dinner plates as an early Mother’s Day gift for her mom, a coffee mug for her dad, and a few miscellaneous trinkets for herself.    

The clerk rang up Kate’s purchases in record time and also did a beautiful job of wrapping each item for her. We complimented her efforts, thanked her for her kindness, and went on our way.

Kate didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of walking from store to store while toting bags filled with glass breakables, so she carried our purchases to the car while I remained on the sidewalk and waited for her. It only took her a moment to place our packages on the back seat and rejoin me.

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We’d started walking back to the car when I noticed a second-hand store across the parking lot, in what used to be an A&P grocer. The building was slightly run down, with loud orange and brown trim from the 1970’s, and a glass storefront that showed off the equally dated interior. I felt it was worth exploring, and Kate agreed.  

The store was laid out much like a typical Goodwill, with aisles of clothing wracks and shelves full of household items and trinkets. I could hear people working in the back room, but the main floor was being staffed by a lone employee – a rather lethargic, elderly woman with goldfish-bowl bifocals and a badly out of date beehive hairstyle that was perfectly in sync with the décor of the building. She seemed oblivious to our presence, as her attention was focused on a black & white television that was stashed beneath the counter near the cash register.  

It must have been a slow business day -- I'm assuming this store actually had "busy" days. There were only two customers, both of them on the far end of the room rummaging through bins of used silverware and other kitchen items.  

Kate was more interested in clothes than can-openers, and she started browsing the store's surprisingly generous selection of jeans. Some were fashionably worn, while others looked almost new, and she quickly found a pair that caught her eye.

The neighboring aisle consisted of women’s apparel; including skirts, sweaters, and what seemed like dozens of blouses. Kate began sifting through the hangers one by one, meticulously inspecting each item – a plodding process that had the potential to take an hour or more.

I felt this was an opportune moment to excuse myself and do some browsing of my own. It was my intention to explore the remainder of the store, including their selection of sporting goods, but I didn’t get very far.

I’d no sooner rounded the corner when I spotted one of the largest racks of women’s shoes I’ve ever seen. It was easily thirty feet long and four shelves high, containing footwear of every conceivable style.

Kate was already trying on clothes, and I was confident that she’d have no objections to modeling shoes for me as well. She’d indulged my innumerable requests for games of ‘shoe store” since childhood, and she often gave me a preview of her latest footwear purchases during our weekend visits.

I snatched an empty shopping cart that someone had abandoned in the middle of an aisle and began stuffing it with sandals, clogs, and high heels, including a variety of classic pumps, some disco era spectators, and a pair of white stilettos. There was also a pair of classic Dr. Scholl’s perched atop the highest shelf, and I wasted no time grabbing them. These particular sandals had always been among my favorites and I routinely begged Kate to wear them. She’d occasionally hesitate because they left her feet especially vulnerable to my tickling fingers, but more often than not, she’d choose to humor me.

I’d assembled a rather impressive collection of shoes, and all that remained was to find a place to put them. There was hardly anyone in the store, but I still wanted to assure that Kate would have some measure of privacy during this exercise. The fitting rooms were wide open, and I chose the largest one, which was equipped with a wooden bench, a comfortably padded chair, and a full-length mirror.

My shopping cart narrowly fit through the doorway, and I emptied its contents onto the floor and arranged them beneath the bench. I’d no sooner finished when Kate came looking for me. She peered into shoe-laden fitting room and instantly recognized what I had in mind.

“I don’t even need to ask,” she giggled, sarcastically rolling her eyes skyward.

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Kate’s homemade pizzas were nothing less than a delicacy, and she’d developed strict protocols she followed when making them. For starters, she felt it was blasphemous to use pre-shredded cheese, pre-packaged crusts, or mixes of any kind. Everything had to be from scratch, including the sauce, and the process of creating these masterpieces could take an hour or more.  

I’m sure Kate expected me to rest on the couch while she worked, but our session at the second hand store had only served to whet my appetite for playing with her feet. While she was busy lining up her recipe book, measuring cups, and other essentials, I marched into the kitchen and dumped the shopping bags of shoes onto the floor near the stove.  

“What are you doing?” she asked, sporting a broad grin.

“You still have to finish trying on your new shoes,” I casually explained, doing my best to pretend there was nothing unusual about my request.  

Kate laughed out loud as she surveyed the growing pile of footwear and the boyish enthusiasm with which I was presenting them to her.  

"Sweetie, I wouldn’t mind… really… but this can’t work,” she said, unable to resolve the logistics of my proposed exercise. “I need to stand while I'm cooking.”  

"No problem," I cheerfully answered while plopping down on the floor beside her, continuing to plead my case. “See? I’ll just sit down here while you make our supper for us. You won’t even know I’m here!”

"Alright, alright, alright... I'll play along, but don't blame me if I spill oregano or tomato sauce on your head," she chuckled while continuing to assemble her baking supplies.  

“I won’t say a word… really… I promise,” I said while rummaging through the pile of shoes.

Kate was truly enjoying my antics, and she didn’t mind participating in this rather unusual exercise. She gracefully disposed of her shoes, kicked them under the table, and offered me her right foot.  

“Well, which ones do you want me to try on first?” she asked pleasantly while pointing her toes.

I briefly surveyed the pile, trying to decide where to begin. The red heels I’d been so drawn to at the store seemed like an obvious choice. I grabbed the right one and held it at a convenient height and angle.  

The ruby red shoe effortlessly slipped onto Kate’s shapely foot, and I quickly offered her the other one. She glanced down at the stylish heels, seemingly pleased with how they looked.  

“Hey, these shoes really do something for me,” she said, referring to the fact that the three inch heels made her taller.  

“Yeah, they do something for me too,” I playfully shot back, my comment laden with obvious innuendo.  

Before I had the chance to offer any further editorial comments, Kate whacked me across the head with a large, fluffy oven mitt and kicked off the red heels, sending then flying across the room.  

“Next!” she exclaimed with a giggle, commanding me to grab another pair of shoes.

It didn’t take long for me to make my next selection. Sitting precariously atop the pile was a pair of classic 1950’s black pumps that Kate didn’t have time to model for me at the store. I was convinced they’d look wonderful on her… and I was right.  

Despite being more than thirty years old, the ebony shoes looked surprisingly contemporary, and they accentuated the graceful curvatures of Kate’s ankles and arches while also affording me a peep-toe view of her nail polish.  

“These look adorable on you,” I exclaimed rather geekily while caressing the tops of her feet with both hands.

Kate could see how much I was enjoying myself, and instead of asking for another pair of shoes, she decided to model these for me a while longer. She even threw in a shoe-dangling exhibition similar to the one she’d performed the night before, carefully shifting her weight from one foot to the other and allowing the vintage pumps to hang from her toes.  

This was truly a stirring sight, especially for a lifelong footman like me. I started to get a bit rambunctious, playfully reaching out to snatch the dangling shoes from my cousin’s feet, but she quickly calmed me down with one of her gentle, non-verbal strategies — a generous sprinkling of oregano and Italian seasonings applied to the top of my head.

“Hey Kate, do I look like a slice of pizza?” I asked with a laugh while trying to brush the condiments from my hair.  

“Well, you do now!” she merrily fired back, reaching down to dab my cheeks and the tip of my nose with tomato sauce.  

“Touché,” I humbly responded, conceding the point.

Kate allowed herself a moment to admire her handiwork and giggle, but she quickly grabbed a napkin from the table and dotingly wiped the sauce from my face. She also combed the remaining spices from my hair and offered to continue our game.  

And so the process continued. I selected various styles of footwear, and Kate patiently tried on each of them while continuing to prepare our dinner. It was an inspiring display of multitasking, one that I was enjoying a great deal.  

But much to my chagrin, the exercise reached its inevitable conclusion — Kate finished modeling the last of the shoes. She’d actually tried some of them on twice just to humor me. I was having a wonderful time fondling her feet and I didn’t really want to stop, but she’d already indulged me for the entire afternoon and it hardly seemed appropriate to ask anything more of her.

The game was officially over, and I must’ve looked disappointed because Kate lovingly reached down, gave me a consoling pat on the head, and offered me the chance to continue. 

“As long as you’re down there anyway, I could use a footrub,” she said with a wink, providing me an excuse and an invitation to continue playing with her feet.

I was deeply touched and thoroughly elated that Kate was so willing to extend our activities. There was, however, a minor logistical issue that had to be resolved.  

Kate needed to stand facing the stove, close enough to comfortably reach the burners. This meant there wasn’t enough room for me to sit in front of her. The only viable alternative was to station myself slightly behind her so she could continue cooking while I rubbed her feet.

I didn’t consider this an ideal position from which to administer a proper footrub, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me, and Kate did her part to make the process easier. She repeatedly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, essentially standing like a flamingo in order to give me unrestricted access to each of her soles.  

In all our years of footplay, this was the first time I could recall giving Kate a foot massage from this particular posture, and it was an intriguing process. Her tender soles were just inches from my face, and there simply aren’t enough superlatives to do them justice. I committed each line, wrinkle and curve to memory as I gently kneaded the balls of her feet and soothingly caressed her arches.  

Kate had been cooking up a storm, but she paused for a moment and looked down at me with a rather analytical expression that caught me off guard. I almost wondered if something was wrong until she clarified things.  

“Honey, I honestly didn’t think this could work, but what you’re doing feels reeeaally good,” she laughed while wiggling the toes of her right foot, which I was tending to at the moment.  

It meant a great deal to me that Kate was so pleased with my efforts, as I took great pride in my foot massage skills and truly loved pampering her. I’m sure that I was beaming as I looked up at her, and she smiled affectionately at me as well before once again turning her attention to the homemade sauce she was preparing on the stovetop.

I wasn’t keeping track of time, but I’m guessing that I massaged Kate’s feet that way for another ten minutes or so before she signaled me to stop. Her request caught me by surprise and I immediately wondered if she’d grown tired of my techniques, but she assured me that wasn’t the case.  

“Sweetie, that felt wonderful… honestly it did,” she said, tenderly patting the top of my head with a potholder. “I just need to stop for now so I can carry this pizza crust to the table and put the toppings on it.”  

I’d been so wrapped up in massaging Kate’s feet that I hadn’t even noticed her making the crust and slipping it into and out of the oven. It smelled delicious, but it was also scalding hot. I hurriedly crawled out of my cousin’s way, giving her a clear path to the table so she wouldn’t get burned.  

Kate skillfully transferred the scorching tray to a hot-pad and reorganized her workspace, neatly arranging her tomato sauce, olive oil, and other essentials so they were conveniently within reach. She then grabbed some blocks of farm-fresh cheddar and mozzarella from the fridge and pulled up a chair beside the table.

The instant my cousin was seated, I hurriedly scooted across the floor and positioned myself directly in front of her chair. She didn’t understand my intentions, and she was sweetly offering me a chair and inviting me join her at the table when I grabbed her ankles and lifted her feet into my lap.

“Oh, I get it… you’re not finished yet,” she laughed.

“Anything worth doing is worth doing well,” I answered with a wink.

Kate grinned, winked back at me, and resumed work on our dinner as I proceeded with the massage. She was focused on her task, though she periodically paused to observe my techniques and approvingly wiggle her toes.

I was almost entirely preoccupied with Kate’s feet, though I did look up a few times to watch her topping our pizza. She had the skill of a true artisan, and she meticulously basted the crust with olive oil and sauce before shredding and applying the cheese, ultimately finishing things off with a sprinkling of perfectly blended seasonings. 

It wasn’t all that long — perhaps seven minutes or so — before Kate had completed her masterpiece, and she tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention and ask for her feet back.

“Um, I need those,” she said lightheartedly. “Our pizza has to go in the oven.”

I politely let go of Kate’s feet and scooted back to give her room as she carefully toted our dinner across the room and slid it into the oven without displacing so much as a crumb of cheese or a drop of sauce. She then took a moment to double-check the oven temperature and set the timer before returning to the table. 

Kate once again sat in front of me, placed her hands on her knees, and grinned as she wiggled her feet in the air, trying to determine if I had any interest in further play. 

“Well, we’ve got fourteen minutes,” she said. “Is that enough time for you to work with?”

“Watch me,” I responded cockily as I once again lifted her feet into my lap.

Kate chuckled and reclined in her chair as I went back to work. She was enjoying my techniques, but I was becoming frustrated by the lack of a massage medium — my hands simply weren’t gliding over her soles as freely as I would’ve liked. I hadn’t even considered lubricating her feet while she was standing because I feared that she could slip and fall, but now that she was sitting it was fair game, and I began looking for options.

Most of Kate’s baking supplies were still on the table, and one item in particular caught my eye — the large bottle of rich, organic olive oil she’d used on the crust of our pizza. This was a primary ingredient in nearly all of the massage blends I owned, so it seemed a perfect choice.

“Honey, can you give me some of that?” I asked, cupping my hands in the air.

Kate didn’t immediately get why I wanted the olive oil — after all, to her it was just a cooking ingredient. She didn’t respond to my request until I once again cupped my hands in the air and gestured a bit more empathically.

There was a look of reluctance on Kate’s face as she carefully poured more than two tablespoons of the Italian, extra virgin oil into my cupped hands, hoping it wouldn’t spill all over me and the floor as well. I successfully captured all but a few drops of it and hurriedly slathered the rest onto her feet.

Kate found it funny that I was using one of her favorite cooking ingredients as a massage product, and she giggled as I worked the oil into her soles with brisk, circular movements.

“That’s my mom’s most expensive cooking oil… and it’s also part of our dinner,” she said with a laugh. 

“Well, it should be really good then,” I coolly answered. 

Kate continued to giggle as she returned the glass bottle to the table and once again sank back in her chair to enjoy my work. She closed her eyes and sighed as I worked my massage magic on her arches and the balls of her feet. I became deeply relaxed as well, losing myself to the experience with each gentle stroke and caress. 

Both of us had achieved an almost out-of-body level of relaxation when the moment was irreparably shattered by the harsh, piercing tone of the stove timer. It seemed far louder than usual, and it abruptly snapped us back to reality. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kate had enjoyed every one of my surprises that week — the flowers, our candlelit dinner at the motel, and dancing at the lake beneath the stars. I wanted to keep this streak of sweet, borderline romantic surprises going, and I already had something in mind.

Earlier that day, Kate had mentioned that we should share sodas and hang out on her balcony — a second-floor patio deck equipped with a small picnic table and, of course, a great view. It seemed like the ideal setting for my plan, as it would afford us a measure of solitude, and the weather certainly couldn’t have been better.  

Kate and her parents would be gone for at least thirty minutes, and that was just enough time to pull everything together. My first stop was the kitchen, where I quickly rounded up a large platter of snacks and some beverages from the fridge, including the leftover coolers from the night before. I also grabbed the vase full of flowers from the table, carefully carried them upstairs to the guest bedroom, and set them on a dresser while I opened the door to the deck.

It had been three months since the last time Kate and I had gone out there together, and a few things had changed in that time. Her dad had restored the picnic table, thrown a coat of fresh paint on the deck rail, and made good on his promise to buy a luxuriously padded chaise lounge, which he’d placed in the southwest corner of the deck, overlooking the back yard.
 
These subtle improvements breathed new life into the forty-year old patio and gave me some additional ideas for my evening with Kate. I’d helped her mom organize a few closets just a month earlier, so I knew exactly where to find the accent pieces I wanted.  

Tucked away in the hall closet just outside of my aunt and uncle’s bedroom was a forty-foot long strand of multi-colored party lights with oval-shaped, two-inch bulbs. They had a slightly Christmassy look about them, but I didn’t think that would matter. I also remembered that Kate’s mom had stashed a selection of colorful plastic tablecloths and a box of thrift store champagne glasses in the bathroom closet, and I snatched those as well.  

It didn’t take long to neatly wind the strand of lights around the deck rail and plug them in. They were absolutely dazzling, and I knew they’d look even better after sunset. The plastic tablecloth probably cost no more than a couple of dollars at a discount store, but it looked surprisingly classy and helped to complete the scene.  

I’d become an accomplished caterer, due in no small part to the many times I’d prepared surprise dinners for Kate. I had no trouble setting the table, arranging the flowers, and pouring the drinks, which were still perfectly chilled.  

The only thing missing was music. Kate kept a spare boombox with detachable speakers on a nightstand in the guest bedroom, and I hauled it out on the deck. There was plenty of cable to work with, and I unspooled the speakers, placing them on opposing ends of the patio.  

Just as I’d done the night before, I tuned the dial to Kate’s favorite soft jazz station. Their primetime lineup generally consisted of slow jams, including some from our favorite pop artists. I thought it would fit the theme of the evening quite nicely, and I also remembered that the host of the program took dedications later in the evening.

I had no fears about possibly coming across as hokey, and I grabbed the wall phone at the head of the stairs and called the station — their phone number was engrained in my memory from the many times I’d heard them recite it on the air.

The nighttime disk jockey, Jim, was already on duty, and he was every bit as cool as he seemed on his show.  

“What can I do for you, my man?” he asked in a friendly voice.  

I politely introduced myself, requested one of Kate’s favorite songs, and offered a brief dedication. Jim wrote down the information and asked if there was a particular time I wanted him to put this on the air. I asked him to wait until just after nine o’clock.  

“No sweat, my man, look for your song at about five minutes after nine,” he replied. ”You and your lady have a great night.”  

I chuckled at Jim’s description of Kate, though in some ways it wasn’t entirely inaccurate. Our conversation ended and I returned to the deck.  

I’d completed my tasks in record time and the patio looked truly marvelous,
but I’d forgotten one important thing… my foot massage supplies. The ones I’d used earlier that day were still riding around in the trunk of the car — the same vehicle Kate and her folks had taken to the store. Luckily, I had backups stashed in various parts of the house (yes, I really was that obsessed about foot massage).  

The best of these spare sets was carefully hidden in the closet of the guest bedroom, and it included several oils, lotions and creams, all neatly concealed in a leather satchel. I grabbed this collection and also made sure to nab a pillow from the bed and a couple of bath towels from the linen closet on my way back to the patio.  

Kate’s dad had positioned the chaise lounge in the best possible location — a discreet corner of the patio that was shielded from the neighbor’s to the south by a cluster of pine trees. I placed the pillow, the towels, and the lotions at the foot of the chair, arranging them as neatly as possible.  

Kate and her parents returned roughly ten minutes later, just after eight o’clock.
I quickly turned off the party lights and cowered behind the railing as they pulled into the driveway, not wanting to give away my position or the surprise I was planning.  

I almost felt guilty for lurking upstairs while they lugged several bags of groceries to the house, but it occurred to me that I wouldn’t have been allowed to help anyway because they wanted me to take it easy. There was a good deal of clamoring coming from the kitchen as the groceries were being put away. It sounded like a major undertaking, and I assumed that I wouldn’t be seeing Kate for a while.

What I didn’t immediately realize was that Kate’s parents were the ones making all of the noise… Kate had excused herself to come looking for me. She began calling out to me as she walked through the house, and I wasn’t sure what to do.  

I’d been hoping to remain quiet and let Kate find me, but I didn’t want to scare her. She was already a bit on edge because of my accident, and if I didn’t answer her, she might think something was wrong and get spooked. I crept to the top of the stairs and called out to her.  

“Kate, everything is cool… I’m upstairs,” I shouted, quickly retreating to the patio and pulling the door shut behind me.  

Within a matter of seconds, I heard Kate climbing the stairs and walking around second floor looking for me. It only took her a minute or so to search each room and figure out that I must be on the patio.  

I’ll never forget the expression on my dear cousin’s face as she opened the door and saw that I’d prepared yet another surprise for her. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened as she scanned the patio.  

“How do you come up with these ideas?” she asked breathlessly, smiling and reaching out to hug me.  

“It’s not that hard,” I answered. “Besides, I just want the rest of this week to be nice for you.”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” she giggled while kissing my cheek.  

The two of us stood there smiling at each other and making direct eye contact for a moment, after which Kate began walking the deck, admiring the lights and the table I’d set for us. She didn’t seem to notice my foot massage supplies on the chaise lounge, probably because she was so preoccupied with everything else.  

“Would you care for a drink?” I asked, pouring her a glass of cooler and inviting her to join me at the picnic table.  

Kate eyed the champagne glasses and gave me one of her familiar “You thought of everything!’ looks. She joined me at the picnic table and we shared a bottle of cooler while making conversation and watching the sunset, which was truly glorious.

It got to be a few minutes after nine, and I knew that Jim would be playing the song I’d requested and reading my dedication at any moment. I reached for the boombox and turned up the volume a bit to assure that Kate wouldn’t miss it.  

The station had just come out of a commercial break, and Kate was pouring herself another glass of cooler when Jim came back on the air and read my dedication.  

“Alright my children, this one is from my man out in the burbs to his lovely lady Kate,” he said, in a deep, sultry voice that reminded me of Barry White. “Katie, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me… you ARE my world.”  

With that, Jim put on the song I’d requested — “You’re The Best Thing” by The Style Council — and that’s when Kate realized the song and dedication were meant for her. This had long been one of her favorite songs, one we’d danced to many times before.

Kate covered her mouth with her right hand and looked up at me, wide-eyed, stunned and speechless. I reached for her hand and helped her to a standing position.

“Care to dance?” I asked.

In all honesty, there wasn’t much room for dancing, and I’d learned my lesson about overexerting myself the night before at the lake. Kate threw her arms around me, and we more or less hugged and swayed to the music while remaining somewhat stationary. She looked up at me and smiled as the song reached its primary refrain.

'Cause you're the best thing that ever happened, to me or my world’

The song lasted for just over five minutes, and when it ended, Kate stared at me in silence. She was clearly moved by the dedication Jim read on the air — even though I’d heavily borrowed the words from the Style Council’s lyrics.

“That was really sweet… what else do you have in store for me?” she asked jokingly, not expecting that I actually had any more surprises for her that night.

“Just one more thing,” I answered while taking her hand.

“You mean there really is more?” she laughed.

I guided Kate toward the chaise lounge, and she still didn’t notice my foot massage supplies… at least not right away. She seemed distracted by all that I was throwing at her, though she quickly regained her focus when I sat her down, scooped her feet into my lap, and removed her wedge sandals.

“You do realize that I’ve spent most of my day taking my shoes off for you,” she laughed. “It would’ve been a whole lot faster I’d just gone barefoot all day.”

“I like that plan!” I excitedly shot back. “Let’s try that tomorrow!”

Kate playfully whacked me across the shoulder, laughed, and leaned back in the chair, making herself more comfortable as I began the foot massage. It was the fourth one I’d given her that day, but she hadn’t grown tired of the process.

“You just keep getting better at this,” she sighed.

To me, Kate’s words were the highest possible form of praise, and I must’ve been glowing as brightly as the colorful party lights on the deck railing. I proudly executed a perfectly sequenced medley of her favorite techniques as she drifted off to a state of deep relaxation.

I’m not sure how much time passed after that — I vaguely recall that Jim had played at least seven songs. Kate was absent-mindedly grinning and staring up at the stars, almost seemingly in a trance, and I was lost in what I was doing… so much so that I didn’t hear the creaking sound of the patio door being opened.

Kate’s mom had come to check on us, and I only became aware of her presence when she was standing right beside me clearing her throat.

“Well, well, well… I wondered where you kids went,” she said, amused by the spectacle of me massaging her daughter’s feet.

I was startled — big time! I’d spent years trying to keep my foot fetish from the rest of the family, and I couldn’t believe I’d let my guard down to the point where one of our parents could walk in on us.

My first reaction was one of blind panic. This is it! Kate’s mom knows about my foot fetish! She has to know! How can she not know??? Oh crap… I blew it! She knows everything and she’ll tell the whole family! This is a disaster!

These and other frantic thoughts raced through my mind uncontrollably, until I regained my wits and remembered that Kate’s mom had already caught me rubbing her daughter’s feet just a few months earlier. That encounter didn’t seem the least bit suspicious to her — in fact, she thought it was sweet. I was reasonably sure that would be the case this time as well, if the situation was handled correctly.

Acting casual seemed like the best course of action — far better than freaking out and acting like I was trying to hide something — so I maintained a passable poker face and continued what I was doing. Kate followed suit, partly because she was trying to protect our ‘little secret’ as she sometimes called it, but also because she was enjoying the foot massage so much that she simply didn’t care who’d walked in on us.

“Hi there, mommy,” she said rather sarcastically, sporting a cheesy grin and giving her mother a classic ‘Queen of England’ parade wave.

“Hello to you as well, young lady,” my aunt answered, giggling at Kate’s cockiness and the spectacle of our interactions. “You certainly seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“Oh yeah… your nephew is really good at this,” my cousin replied rather candidly.

There was a brief pause in the conversation as Kate’s mom stepped closer to the chaise lounge so she could observe my massage techniques close up. I felt extremely self-conscious knowing that I was being scrutinized this way by my aunt, and things only got worse as she tried to draw me into the conversation.

“Tell me the truth… does my daughter force you to do things like this for her all the time?” she asked with a chuckle.

I wasn’t quite sure how to answer the question without potentially giving away my foot fetish, and I felt incredibly uncomfortable as I searched for the right words. Kate sensed my uneasiness and came to my rescue by jumping back into the conversation, intercepting her mother, and trying to change the subject.

“Mom, I never force your nephew to do anything… he’s just really sweet,” she explained. “He comes up with these things on his own. By the way, did you notice what he did with the patio?”

“Yes, I did,” my aunt replied while admiring the deck. “Young man, this is really beautiful…. a neatly set table, flowers, champagne glasses… even lights on the railing. How did you manage to do all of this while we were at the store?”

“It wasn’t that hard,” I answered rather modestly, hoping to avoid a lengthy discussion.

“Well, I can tell that you’ve made Kate’s day, and I thank you for that,” she said thoughtfully.

Kate’s mom once again directed her attention to rather lavish foot massage I was giving her daughter, and she couldn’t help but smile. She also seemed to recognize that this was the right time to excuse herself so Kate and I could be alone for a while.

“Katie, you’re obviously in good hands, so I’ll be going downstairs now,” she  said. “If either of you need anything, you’ll know where to find me.”

Kate’s mom took a moment to hug each of us and wandered toward the patio door. She paused before leaving, just long enough to look back at us and smirk. It was all too apparent that she was still amused by our interactions, and I could also tell that she thought we looked really cute together.  

The patio door creaked shut, but I waited until I could hear Kate’s mom descending the stairs before I let out a prolonged, relieved exhale and resumed my conversation with my cousin.

“That was a bit closer than I’d like,” I said uneasily. “What do you suppose your mom is thinking right now?”  

Kate could see that I was feeling rather insecure, and she smiled thoughtfully while trying to find just the right words to put me at ease. There was a brief delay as she withdrew her feet from my lap, sat up, and reassuringly placed her arm around my shoulder.

“My mom thinks you’re really sweet and she also thinks I’m lucky to have you… I think she’s right,” she said, leaning closer to kiss my cheek.

Hearing Kate speak of me with such unequivocal affection was deeply moving.
I felt a need to return the sentiment, but I simply couldn’t find the right words... or any words, for that matter. Fortunately, I didn’t have to.  

Jim, our disk jockey friend, was still hard at work turning out perfectly meshed sets of slow jams for his faithful listeners. He picked that moment to play “You Bring Me Joy” — another breathtakingly romantic Anita Baker ballad. I invited Kate to dance with me again, and she quickly threw her sandals on and joined me on our patio dance floor.

The moon and stars were shining brightly, much like the lights I’d strung along the patio railing, and street lamps throughout the area were casting a soft orange glow over the entire neighborhood. It reminded me of the beautifully staged lighting I’d seen in many romantic films over the years.  

Kate looked up at me and smiled as we slowly moved to the rhythm of Anita Baker’s beautiful melody, which was one of her all-time favorites. There was no dialogue between us as we savored the scene and enjoyed the poetic lyrics of the song. The words didn’t exactly match the dynamics of our relationship, but the sentiments of unwavering love and affection were spot on.  

When the music finally stopped four minutes later, I was expecting an intermission, but our friend Jim returned to the air and announced that he was going to play three more commercial-free quiet storm classics. Kate thought that might be too much dancing for me, and she more or less backed me into a corner of the deck near the railing and held me closer to her as the music played.

Jim started off his triple-set with two timeless slow jams that greatly enhanced the already romantic vibe of the evening — “Still In Love With You” by Al Green, and “You’ve Got It” by Simply Red. I didn’t think our disk jockey friend could possibly outdo himself, until he played his third and final selection — “Make It Last Forever” by Keith Sweat with Jackie McGee. This song was absolutely magical, and it exuded everything a slow jam should be. Kate and I were swept away by it, and we were almost nose-to-nose by the time it ended.  

Commercials had been playing for more than a minute before either of us fully realized that the music had stopped. Kate leaned in to kiss my cheek, but she froze with her lips pressed against my face and began to giggle.

“Um… we have an audience,” she whispered, concluding her comment with another kiss.

“Mrs. Phelps?” I responded knowingly.

“Uh huh,” she laughed while discretely peeking over her left shoulder.  

Mrs. Phelps was a kind, elderly woman who’d been Kate’s neighbor to the north for a number of years. She was actually very sweet but also a bit curious. She’d apparently spotted us dancing near the corner of the deck and took interest in our activities.  

Kate and I stared at each other for a moment, smirking and silently deciding how to handle the situation. It was almost time to conclude this part of our evening and leave the patio anyway, and the jig was obviously up, so we chose the most obvious course of action. 

“Hi Mrs. Phelps!” we called out in unison while standing by the patio railing and waving.  

Mrs. Phelps made no attempt to hide the fact that she’d been spying on us, and she cheerfully responded to our greeting with an enthusiastic wave from the open window of her bedroom. We smiled and politely acknowledged her a final time before leaving the patio and stepping inside to rejoin Kate’s parents on first floor. 

Kate and I descended the stairs, side-by-side and holding hands. Her dad was nowhere to be seen as we wandered through the living room and dining room, but we could hear her mom rustling about in the kitchen. She was tending to a plate of freshly baked cookies when we entered the room.  

“Ah, there’s the happy couple,” she quipped, unable to resist teasing us for the rather cozy scene she’d found us sharing an hour earlier. “Grab some chairs and make yourselves comfortable.”  

Kate dismissed her mother’s comment with a chuckle and offered me a chair near the window. She grabbed the neighboring one for herself, but she’d barely gotten seated when her mother rushed over to give her another ribbing.  

“Gee Katie, I’ll bet your tootsies feel really good right about now,” she giggled, amused by her own sarcasm. “Your sidekick was giving you quite the footrub when I walked in on you two.” 

Kate didn’t want to embarrass me by engaging her mom in a lengthy discourse about my foot massage skills, and she offered a carefully measured response that helped bring the matter to a close.  

“What’s wrong mom… are you jealous?” she said, her tone laden with sarcasm.  

“As a matter of fact, yes,” my aunt responded with a laugh. “Soft music, dancing, candlelight, a foot massage… and that beautiful patio! Good grief!”   

Kate and her mom shared a few more moments of playful banter before moving on to other topics. I was grateful for the change of subject, though I did take comfort in the fact that my aunt found nothing unusual about the foot massage I’d given her daughter.

The cookies were wonderful, and I probably ate three servings of them before Kate had finished her first, though I made sure to save plenty for her and her mom. It only took the three of us ten minutes or so to make the entire tray disappear.  

Kate wondered where her dad had gone, and her mom explained that he had some errands to run and he’d be back in a while. She promised to keep us entertained while he was gone. 

My aunt had always been a thoughtful host, and she repeatedly offered us beverages and additional snacks while we visited. She also surprised me with a handful of presents.  

Earlier that day, I’d made a passing comment that some of my automotive accessories were lost in the crash — they were most likely launched out the passenger side window. Kate’s mom must have been taking notes, because she thoughtfully replaced each of the missing items with new ones. She’d even thrown in a plastic dashboard Jesus and a Hallmark card with twenty dollars in it. 

Kate wasn’t expecting anything, but her mom handed her a beautifully wrapped package that turned out to be a collector’s edition of the Cary Grant film “North By Northwest” on VHS. This had long been one of our favorite films, and I immediately knew what we’d be watching before bedtime that night.  

It was getting late by that point, and Kate’s mom suggested that Kate and I should think about getting ready for bed. She also raised a question that caught me off guard. 

“Are you kids done with the patio for the evening?” she asked.  

“Well… um… yeah,” I responded, surprised and puzzled. “We hadn’t planned on going out there again tonight.” 

“Good enough… thanks,” my aunt cheerfully answered. “You kids have a good night.” 

Kate and I stared at each other for a moment before hugging her mom goodnight and thanking her for our presents. Both of us wondered why she was so interested in our patio, but we let it go. 

On the way to Kate’s room, I made a brief detour to grab sweatpants and a comfortable t-shirt from my suitcase, which was leaning against the wall in the dining room. The first-floor bathroom was nearby, and that seemed like the best place to change my clothes.  

Kate asked me to give her a ten-minute head start before joining her — she needed to changes her clothes as well, and I suspected she was also planning to do something special to her room. I nodded and promised to take my time. 

My cousin’s bedtime wardrobe selections had been absolutely stunning on each of the previous evenings. I was curious to see what she had in mind for this occasion, but I purposely slowed my pace to give her the head start she’d requested.  

Instead of rushing through my usual routine, I spent extra time washing up, brushing my teeth, and getting dressed. There was no clock in the bathroom, but it seemed apparent that more than ten minutes had passed.   

I took off for the bedroom and knocked before walking in, just to be sure. Kate invited me in, and just as predicted, she’d managed to put together an alluring ensemble, one that might have looked plain on anyone else. 

Instead of conventional sleepwear, my cousin had thrown on a white tank top, a slightly oversized denim shirt with the buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up, soft pink, knee-length workout pants made from a form-fitting material that reminded me of spandex, and of course, bare feet. She truly looked beautiful, and I made sure to let her know that I was impressed.

But Kate had done more than fuss with her wardrobe in the ten short minutes I was gone. She’d also strategically placed a dozen or so candles around the room and put together a small serving tray with snacks, fruit juice, and champagne glasses. These were nice touches that gave the modest bedroom a cozy vibe similar to that of our room at the Mile-Away. 

“North By Northwest” was already loaded in the VCR, and Kate motioned for me to join her on the bed so we could start the movie. It took a few minutes to arrange our pillows and get comfortable — we eventually settled near the end of the bed, snuggled together, facing the television. 

The opening credits rolled as the VCR hummed to life, and it didn’t seem to matter that I’d seen this movie before. I found myself anticipating each scene as if I were enjoying it for the first time. Cary Grant and his co-stars had no trouble holding my interest…  until my cousin began to distract me. 

Kate literally leaped from the bed to see who was there — and she nearly kicked my hand in the process. The mystery driver was her dad, and she felt we should greet him.

“Come on,” she said while motioning for me to join her. “Let’s go say goodnight.”

I didn’t really want to leave the bedroom — I’d missed my favorite pair of female feet by no more than a split second, and I was feeling rather flustered. I didn’t complain, however. Kate had been positively saintly about indulging my foot fetish all day long, and going with her to greet her dad was the very least I could do.

My uncle was seated at the kitchen table preparing to have a bedtime snack when we entered the room, and he immediately invited us to join him. He began giving us a recap of his day, including the details of his late night errands. 

Kate was enjoying this chat with her dad, and I remember feeling more than a little guilty because I hoped it wouldn’t turn into a lengthy conversation. I had nothing to worry about, as luck would have it.

Kate’s mom came bounding into the kitchen and all but snatched my uncle from his seat. Both of them bid us a hurried goodnight as they left the kitchen, and I could hear them marching up the stairs just a few short moments after that.

Something about this exchange didn’t seem kosher to Kate, and she wondered what her mom was up to. I was slightly curious as well, though I was far more interested in getting back to our movie.

I tried nudging Kate toward her bedroom, but she raised her hand to my face and essentially shushed me.

“Did you hear that?” she asked while gesturing toward the kitchen ceiling.

There was an audible sound of footsteps directly above our heads, which meant that Kate’s mom and dad were stepping out onto our patio deck. This only served to further pique my cousin’s interest, and she insisted that we go investigate.

I was far more interested in returning to Kate’s room, but I really didn’t get a say in the matter as she grabbed my arm and more or less yanked me out of the kitchen. She guided us up the stairs with considerable stealth, and we could hear music playing in the background as we reached the landing.

The bedroom door and the door to the patio were wide open, and we were able to observe her parents from a fairly discreet spot in the hallway. They were listening to our disk-jockey friend’s radio show and sharing a ballroom-style slow dance to “Soon As I Get Home” — a song Kate and I had danced to a handful of times before.

My cousin thought it was wonderful that her parents were getting some additional mileage out of my handiwork on the patio. She was also more than slightly amused to see them dancing to and clearly enjoying such contemporary music.

“Write this one on your calendar,” she whispered with a laugh. “My mom and dad are slow dancing to Babyface.”

Kate’s parents were oblivious to our presence, and we remained in the hallway for the remainder of the song, gently swaying to the music and watching them dance. It seemed appropriate to give them their privacy after that point, and we once again crept down the stairs.

I’d been concerned that Kate might want to go back to the kitchen for a while, but she escorted me directly to her room and closed the door behind us. She didn’t seem to notice how eager I was to continue our move night, probably because she was too busy giggling about her parents... especially her mother.

“My mom is such a rascal,” she chuckled. “That’s why she wanted to know if we were done with the patio for the night. She was planning to use it!”

The better part of two minutes passed as Kate continued to giggle and speculate about her mom and dad’s plans for the remainder of the evening. I was only mildly curious at that point, largely because I was far more interested in getting back to watching Cary Grant with my lovely, barefoot cousin.

“Should we finish our movie now?” I asked, trying to tactfully usher the process along.  

Kate liked my suggestion, and she hopped onto the bed with childlike enthusiasm, grabbed the remote, and rewound the film to someplace just after the opening credits. She also began repositioning herself on the mattress, trying to find the most comfortable posture. 

I stood beside the bed, waiting for my cousin to get settled. It was my intention to position myself as close to her feet as possible, but she was full of energy and kept moving around. I finally had to postpone my plans and join her on the mattress.

The movie resumed, but I was so preoccupied by that point that Kate could’ve swapped out Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint for an instructional video on dishwasher maintenance and I wouldn’t have noticed. I simply couldn’t think about anything but the lovely soles and wiggling toes that were just out of reach. 

It seemed a bit brutish to simply dive across the bed and harshly grab Kate’s feet, especially after the beautiful evening we’d shared on the patio, so I began looking for more subtle ways to initiate another round of footplay. I reached out to tenderly place my hand on my cousin’s soles, but she moved them out of the way at the last second as she once again reacted to something on screen — I think it was the scene where Cary Grant was being chased by an airplane.

This went on for more than ten minutes — I’d discretely make a move toward Kate’s feet, and she’d lurch at the last second and once again move out of reach.

The week had been so hectic that Kate and Kelly never got around to shopping for dresses, and I still needed a tuxedo. We visited several clothing stores, but their shelves had already been picked clean by hordes of eager prom-goers.   

Time was running out, and it seemed unlikely that anyone in the area would
have appropriate formalwear at such a late date. The situation seemed hopeless, until Kelly had an epiphany.  

There was a local clothing store that featured a variety of period clothing, including vintage formalwear — Kelly only knew about them because they’d provided wardrobe for the school drama club when they did a play set in the roaring 20’s. She’d never actually met anyone from this store, but she said the clothes were fabulous.  

The girls instantly fell in love with the idea of attending the dance in retro attire, and I was quietly celebrating the concept as well. Our limousine, which the girls still knew nothing about, was a vintage car, and now our wardrobes would vintage be as well. It was a lead-pipe cinch that no one else would arrive at the prom in a 1940’s limo sporting clothes of the same era, and I knew we’d make quite a splash. Besides, this was probably the only store within fifty miles that hadn’t been overrun by teenagers, so the girls and I unanimously agreed to give it a try.  

Elaine’s Antique Boutique was located in a spacious, late nineteenth century manor with elegant columns lining the massive front porch. Walking through the front door was like entering a museum, as the walls were adorned with vintage theatre and motion picture memorabilia, including props, autographed photos, and playbills from some famous Broadway shows. There were also rows of clothing racks filled with suit-coats, dresses, and other attire from seemingly every era.

I stood awestruck by the sheer variety of clothing and theatre artifacts on
display, and the girls were equally impressed. They were fawning over a rare autographed photo of Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn on the set of “Charade” when the owner of the boutique entered the room.  

Elaine was tall and willowy, still possessing considerable charm despite her advanced years. She warmly greeted us and thoughtfully asked how she could be of assistance.  

There was a brief pause as the girls and I stared at each other, trying to decide who should speak first. Kelly nominated herself as our official spokesperson and proceeded to recap the highlights of our week, including our last-minute struggles to find clothes for the dance.

As it turned out, this was the first time high school students had ever come to the boutique searching for prom clothes, and Elaine couldn’t have been happier. She’d enjoyed working with the teens from the drama club, and she was thrilled that young people were so enthusiastic about going to the dance wearing attire from ‘her era’ as she called it.  

“It’s such a treat to see young people so interested in classic fashions,” she excitedly explained while directing us toward the main room of the ground floor. “I’m going to send you kids off to that dance in style!”