Though I hadn't anticipated the way that day would end, I wonder if perhaps my heart had known something of it, even though my head had not. I think sometimes we understand things deep inside ourselves and we keep them buried there, where our mind can't reject them . Do you? At any rate, I found myself thinking of my first kiss, and what came next, after Lucien closed the door behind him. All I wanted to think about was him, but thoughts come as they do.

Ballarat, 1934

It was an unseasonably warm day in early February and Jean had been in an unreasonably bad mood. Or so her mother seemed to think.

"Take care with the dishes," her mother called out. "Do you think we can buy new if you break them?"

She was tempted to throw one on the floor just to watch it shatter at that comment. How far would the shards fly? Would there be a pattern to it? How many would she have to break to find out. But, of course she wouldn't, it would be wasteful and foolish, not to mention spiteful. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her dishcloth and set the dishes carefully on the drying rack, instead. Summer break was coming to an end and young people were headed back to school and her last conversation with her mother still hung about them like a dirge.

It had taken a lot of courage for Jean to broach the subject, but courage isn't always rewarded. Sometimes it's just the opposite. Much like ambition, or even curiosity, sometimes it just gives life a way to break your heart. Not every farm girl got to graduate from high school, her mother pointed out. She had already sacrificed a lot to allow Jean to do that. She should be grateful for what she'd already learned and not be thinking she was someone she wasn't.

Jean loved to see things grow and she loved to see things heal. There were entire subjects devoted to that at the tertiary school in Ballarat. She didn't have to become a nurse, or even a teacher. She told her mother that.

"I just think there's more to learn, mother. The world is so big."

"But not for us, Jean," her mother had said. "You weren't born to a doctor, you were born to a farmer, and an old one at that. Look around at what we've been given and be grateful. Many have less and so will we if you keep thinking like this."

"But mother," Jean had tried, "I just want to take a few classes. It could help us here, if I took agriculture classes. Or, I could take nursing and help with…"

"With what? With our old age?"

"I just love to study, mother," Jean said softly.

"Oh, I see," her mother stepped forward and put her hand, with its long thin fingers and weathered, freckled skin, on Jean's hair. "You still think life is kind. You think what you love matters. Love what you're given, that's how you get through this life. I'm blessed beyond measure because I was given you. And there's no one as easy to love as my Jean."

Jean nodded. She should have said she loved her, too. But she didn't just then. She just felt like she needed to run away, and the only place to run was inside herself.

There were more dishes to clean that evening. Her anger had dissipated already. Because what good would anger do? But somewhere, deep within, her heart was unsettled. She did love to study, she had told the truth, but it wasn't just that. What she really wanted was adventure, and how foolish was that? Her mother had been right. Jean should have known better. She could learn to love this life, this farm, this town, if she really tried.

A soft rap came at the door. Jean hurried through the kitchen and pulled it open. Her parents had gone to bed just recently and she didn't want them to ask about the visitor. She had an idea who it might be.

"Christopher," she said opening the door quietly.

"Is anyone awake?"

"You shouldn't be here," Jean said.

"But you're glad I am." He smiled and it made his eyes sparkle. Jean was a little glad but she was also a little annoyed that he was being so presumptuous. She didn't need to get in any more trouble today. "Just come outside with me for a minute," he said, pressing.

"Mother just went to bed, but she may still be awake."

"Your mum loves me. Even if she is, she won't be mind. You know I'm right." Jean stood there in the long blue dress she'd made herself staring at Christopher and the night sky behind him. Good girls didn't go out into the night with boys, not even the boy next door. And Jean had always been a good girl. But her fingers were raw from tending the garden and her back ached from doing the dishes and her pride hurt from her mother telling her that's all she'd ever do. Maybe she'd have to take her adventure where she could find it.

"Be quiet!" she warned him as she stepped outside into the summer night. The air was still warm from the heat of the day. The earth radiated it up to them as she followed him down her front path. But he stopped just at the edge of their flower garden, any farther and her mother could see them from her second story window. He nodded to the left and cut through her vegetable garden. She was careful not to tread on anything she'd tended so carefully earlier, but he just tromped on.

"Christopher!" She called after. "Watch where you're stepping!"

"Shh!" He turned around and held a finger to his lips, then pointed up the window. "You're the one who said to be quiet."

Well, yes, but her mother couldn't hear her now.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as she continued to follow. He didn't stop to tell her.

She'd grown up next door to Christopher Beazley her whole life. It wasn't the first time she'd tramped through the fields with him. But this felt different. He felt different. For one, she had to jog to keep up with him. He walked so fast and she had on house slippers. But soon they reached the old willow tree and he turned around and caught her by the shoulders in the moonlight. She gasped.

He held his finger to his lips again, but he was teasing her. Then he backed her up and leaned her against the tree. "Kiss me Jean Mary," he said.

"Christopher!"

He'd flirted with her plenty when they were both in school, but there wasn't anything to it. If anything, she'd felt like seconds, practice. He flirted with everyone.

"Just once," he said, stepping closer. His hands gripped her hips and he leaned closer till their lips were nearly touching.

Sometimes the first step of an adventure is accomplished in one very small movement. She leaned in and caught his lips in hers. They tasted like salt and cigarettes which didn't really surprise her. But she was surprised at how his body melted into hers and how hers responded. She felt part of him. She felt flushed and thrilled and scared to death. But she pulled harder on his lips and his tongue slipped into her mouth as his hands grabbed her hips harder still and his body leaned till she felt the tree bark through her thin cotton dress.

It was time to be done. She couldn't pull back because she was up against the tree. She tried to turn her head but couldn't quite break free, so she pushed against him with both hands. He kissed her harder, just for a minute, then stepped back, slowly, when he was ready.

"You're a good kisser, Jean Mary."

She smoothed out her dress, and with it, some of her pride, and said, "Well don't sound so surprised."

He laughed and said, "I'll see you soon," and ran off into the night, toward the Beazley farm.

She stood there against the tree for a minute, still feeling a little shaken. There's no harm in a kiss, she told herself, and it was something besides taking care of the house. As she walked back, carefully picking out the path by the starlight, she felt a chill. This is what adventure feels like, she told herself. Learn to love it.