Every Bride Needs a Groom

by Janice Thompson

  Tears ran down my grandmother’s face. “Paul Bradford proposed to me the summer after I graduated from college, but I turned him down.”

  Alva scooted to the edge of the sofa. “Why would you do a fool thing like that? If you loved him, why not marry him?”

  Queenie swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Because as much as I cared about him, I cared about my sister even more. Even if she wouldn’t speak to me all these years.”

  “Are you saying you turned the man down because of me?”

  “Of course I did. I thought you had feelings for him, and I didn’t want to hurt you. You were the last person on God’s green earth I’d want to injure.”

  “Were?” Alva gave her a hopeful look.

  Queenie sighed. “Are.”

  “All these years I didn’t know what to think.” Alva rose and paced the room. “I wondered why you didn’t marry him. Wondered if he’d broken your heart.”

  “Well, you can rest easy on that count,” Queenie said. “He didn’t break my heart. I broke his. And I’m not sure he ever got over it.”

  At that, the room went silent.

  “You’re just plain crazy, you know.” Alva stopped at the edge of the fireplace and looked at the photograph on the mantel. “You always have been, but this really takes the cake.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Queenie squirmed in her chair.

  “No, I mean it. Paul Bradford was in love with you and you let him slip through your fingers because you were more worried about me? I’d say that’s the definition of crazy.”

  Queenie bit her lip. “You might be right.”

  “Maybe it’s not too late, Queenie.” I gave her a hopeful look.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he’s a widower. You’re a widow. Maybe you two should . . .” I left the sentence open-ended.

  “Not. Going. To. Happen.” Her jaw clenched.

  “Because he’s Presbyterian?”

  “No.” Pain flashed in her eyes. “Because too much time has passed. It’s water under the bridge now.”

  “But I want you to be happy.” Alva walked toward her sister and took a seat in the chair next to her. “You still can be.”

  My grandmother’s eyes filled again, and she swiped at them with her hand. “Alva, I had the best husband a woman could ever ask for. Joe meant the world to me. I’m sorry you never really had the chance to know him. You would have loved everything about him. So don’t worry about my happiness. God turned my broken heart into the most wonderful experience of my life.”

  “So why the tears?” I gazed tenderly at my grandmother. “Is it possible you’re starting to have feelings for Reverend Bradford again?”

  “I let go of those feelings years ago.”

  “But Queenie, no one would blame you if they . . . resurged. You know?”

  “I’m too old for feelings.”

  I shook my head. “No one is too old for feelings.”

  “I am. I’m eighty-two. Eighty-two-year-olds should be more practical, less emotional.”

  “If anyone has earned the right to be emotional, it’s someone your age. So don’t apologize if you are smitten. And by the way, love knows no age limits. Is it possible—even a teensy-tiny bit possible—you’ve got some feelings for Reverend Bradford?”

  “His name is Paul.” Her words came out as a whisper.

  “Paul.” I gave her a bright smile. “He showed up at Sam’s the night you collapsed. Did you know that?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I’m not surprised.”

  “I’d venture to say he’s in love with you now.” I don’t know where the words came from, but I’d obviously spoken them aloud, based on the look of shock on my grandmother’s face. “Isn’t he?”

  Her gaze shifted downward and then back up to me. “Yes. He is.”

  “Really?” I got it right!

  “Yes, I have it on good authority he is crazy about me.” Queenie sighed. “Head-over-heels, can’t-sleep-nights, can’t-walk-straight, can’t-remember-if-he’s-fed-the-cat crazy.”

  “How do you know that?” Mama asked as she walked back into the room with a tray of sandwiches in hand.

  “Because he told me.” Queenie tried to stand, nearly stumbling in the process. “Yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.” She finally managed to stand upright. “He’s told me every day for the past six months. Every single morning there’s a note on my front door that says, ‘You are loved.’”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “Want the proof?” Queenie hobbled over to her desk and opened the drawer. She reached inside and came out with a folder stuffed full of handwritten love letters, which she pulled out and showed us. My father happened in at that very moment with several cups of coffee on a tray.

  “This,” my grandmother said as she clutched the letters to her breast, “is all the proof anyone will ever need. Paul Bradford is head over heels in love with me.”

  32

  Let the World Keep On A-Turnin’

  It’s important to give it all you have while you have the chance.

  Shania Twain

  My father very nearly dropped the coffee tray when he heard his mother’s impassioned speech about Reverend Bradford.

  “W-what did you say, Mama?” The cups on the tray rattled this way and that.

  “I said that Paul Bradford’s head over heels in love with me. And if you need any proof, this is my July folder of love notes. Would you like to see June? May?”

  “Are you serious?” My father set the tray down on the coffee table and stepped toward her.

  “They go back for several months.” She pointed at the drawer. “The man’s been driving me out of my ever-lovin’ mind telling me how much he adores me. I thought I’d go insane if I didn’t tell someone.”

  I couldn’t help the laughter that escaped. “Oh, but Queenie! This is the stuff romance novels are made of. Wow. Double wow. That’s so cool. And so . . . romantic.”

  “I know.” She sighed and took a seat once again, still holding on to the letters. “He’s always been the romantic sort. Time hasn’t changed that.”

  “Then why not put the poor man out of his misery once and for all and marry him?” Alva asked.

  “I can’t.” Queenie shook her head. “I just can’t.”

  “Why?” Mama asked.

  “Ooh, let me guess.” I put my hand up. “It’s because he’s Presbyterian?”

  Queenie laughed. At first it came out as one of those lightweight chuckles, but eventually it morphed into a full-fledged belly laugh. “Oh, good grief, no. I have nothing against the Presbyterians. Nothing whatsoever. I never have.”

  “You don’t?” Mama and I spoke in unison.

  “No.” Queenie’s face turned the prettiest shade of pink. “I just stayed away from the Presbyterian church—especially for prayer meetings—because I knew he was there, slipping love notes into my purse when no one was looking. I couldn’t think straight when I was around the man. I just wanted to toss caution to the wind and run straight into his arms.” She fanned herself with one of the love notes.

  “Then why didn’t you?” I asked.

  “Because I worried about what people would think.” She looked at her sister. “I worried about what you would think. Even after all these years, your opinion matters most to me.”

  “I think you’re nuts, but I’ve already said that.” Alva slapped her hands down on her knees. “Listen, if I ever turn down a perfectly wonderful man, it won’t be to save face with you or anyone else. It’ll be because he’s not the right fella for me. And by the way, I might’ve convinced you that I had an infatuation with Paul Bradford, but trust me, we would’ve been miserable together.”

  “Really?” A hopeful look crossed Queenie’s face. “You mean that?”

  “I do. For one thing, I can’t abide a man in a robe.”

  “A bathrobe?” I asked.

  “No.” Alva shook her head. “That robe
he preaches in. Reminds me of a woman in a dress. Seems kind of strange to me.”

  “Seriously?” Queenie said. “I think he looks perfectly wonderful in it. I feel closer to heaven when I see a reverend in a robe.”

  “And there you have it. He makes her feel closer to heaven.” I laughed. “Write that down, Queenie. Leave it on his door tomorrow morning, and just see how he responds. I have no doubt in my mind you’ll end up making his day. His week. His year. He’s been waiting for this and deserves to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I could. I just don’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . .” She paused, and I could almost read her thoughts. They were the same thoughts Mama had expressed every time she feared one of us kids might be moving away.

  “You’re afraid of change,” I said.

  She nodded. “Everything is running smoothly right now. If I interrupt the flow of that, who knows what’ll happen.”

  “So what?” Pop shook his head. “Seriously. So what? That’s what I was saying before about Friday night at Sam’s being a blessing in disguise. We’re stuck in a rut and I’m tired of it.”

  Queenie looked startled, but Mama even more so.

  “Stuck in a rut?” she said.

  “Yes, Marie. Stuck, stuck, stuck.” He paced the room, clearly agitated.

  Mama shook her head. “But Herb, I like things to stay the same. I thought you did too.”

  “There was a time when I did, yes. But something’s stirring inside of me and I can’t seem to stop it. I’m . . . bored.”

  “Bored?” Mama paled. “But consistency is a good thing. I like to know that you’re coming home from the store at 5:05 p.m. I like to know that Katie and the boys are tucked into their beds at night.”

  “You do know we’re all in our twenties, right, Mama?” I said.

  “Of course I know. I gave birth to you. But that doesn’t make the changes any less painful. In fact, it makes them worse.” She sighed. “Is it really so awful to know that everything around here moves like clockwork? Friday nights at Sam’s. Thursday evenings in choir. Sunday morning and evening at church.”

  “She likes routine,” Pop said.

  “And control,” Mama said. “I like to be in control of it all. So when things happen that are out of my control—”

  “Like Queenie being hospitalized or Beau falling for a sweet gal who lives in Dallas?” I offered.

  “Yeah, like that. It rocks my boat.”

  “Your mother has never cared to have her boat rocked.” Pop gave me a knowing look.

  Ew.

  “Point is, all of these changes of late have upset my apple cart, and it’s really got me rattled.”

  “Peach cart might be a better choice of words,” Pop said. “But you know what? Forget the apple cart.”

  “W-what?” Mama looked stunned. “What did you say?”

  “I said forget the apple cart. Kick it over. Embrace change.” He gave my mother a funny look. “I think I have the answer, Marie. It’s been staring me in the face all along. You and I . . . we’re going to do something different. Something totally unexpected.”

  “We . . . we are?”

  “Well, sure. If the kids can all accept the changes that life has to offer, then so can we. I say we get on that big ship—the new one in Galveston—and go to the Cayman Islands.”

  “The Cayman Islands?” Mama’s eyes widened. “Herb Fisher, we rarely leave Fairfield except to run to the mall in Dallas, and that’s only a couple of times a year. How can we go to the Cayman Islands?”

  “That’s my point. That’s exactly why we must go there. And Cozumel. I understand the ship makes a stop there. We’ll go to one of those private islands and go snorkeling.”

  “Snorkeling?” Mama looked aghast. “I’ve never snorkeled a day in my life.”

  “Then you’re long overdue.”

  Queenie rose from her chair and announced that she had to make a run to the bathroom. As if the woman could run. “My goodness, this is all so exciting,” she said. “You’ve got me so worked up that I hope I make it to the powder room.” She gave me a little wink and added, “Fill me in when I get back.”

  My father took a few steps in my mother’s direction. “Don’t you get the point, Marie? It’s time to break with tradition. Do something new. Adventurous.” A dreamy look came over him. “Shoot. Maybe I’ll sell the hardware store.”

  “What?” Mama and I said in unison.

  “Why not? A man can’t work forever.”

  “But you’re only fifty-seven,” Alva said. “Too young to retire.”

  “So what?” He shrugged. “There’s no law that says a man has to work until he’s sixty-five. I’ve got some money put away. And if we sell the store, we’ll be set for our golden years. Maybe we can jaunt around the country in an RV like my old friend Buster Haggard.”

  Mama leaned over to whisper, “You might recall that Mr. Haggard lost his marbles at about this same age. Bought an RV and hit the road. We haven’t seen him or his wife Mabel since. Last I heard, they bought a little cabin in the mountains in New Mexico.” She shivered. “Can you imagine?”

  “I can!” Pop clasped his hands together. “Let’s follow in Buster’s footsteps.”

  “You want to hit the road and never come back?” Mama looked floored by this. “You want people to say we’ve lost our marbles?”

  “No. But doggone it, Marie, I love the idea of doing something different. Let’s skip Sam’s this coming Friday night.”

  “Skip Sam’s?”

  “Sure. Let’s drive to Dallas and eat a steak. A giant, juicy steak at one of those big, fancy steakhouses. And afterward we’ll go to that cheesecake place and spend eight dollars on a slice of cheesecake.”

  “Surely you jest.”

  “Surely I don’t.” He waggled his thick brows. “Try me.”

  “But I can get lemon pound cake at Sam’s for a fraction of the cost,” Mama said.

  “And you do. Every week. But when we’re in Jamaica—”

  “Wait.” She put her hand up. “Who said anything about Jamaica?”

  “The cruise I was talking about. It stops in Cozumel, Grand Cayman, and Jamaica.”

  “You’ve really been researching this?”

  “For three months. Even talked to a travel agent.”

  “We know a travel agent?”

  “My third cousin twice removed. She lives in Waco and I sent her an email. Anyway, when we’re in Jamaica we’ll eat jerk chicken and drink virgin piña coladas.”

  “I’ll die of botulism.”

  “But what a way to go, Marie.” He grinned. “Can you imagine the stories our kids—and grandkids—would tell? Grandma and Grandpa went to Jamaica and breathed their last breath on a tropical island, drinking piña coladas and eating contaminated chicken. It’ll be great.”

  “Herb, you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Maybe. But it’s about time, I daresay.”

  Now Mama started pacing the room. “I don’t think you understand. If I go on a vacation to Jamaica, who’s going to take over the choir while I’m gone? Everyone knows the choir is my domain.”

  I raised my hand. “I have a suggestion. Let Bessie May do it.”

  “Bessie May?” Mama’s cheeks flushed pink.

  “Sure. She’s been dying to take over for as long as I can remember.”

  “But she has arthritis,” she argued. “She couldn’t possibly lift her arms to direct. Not long enough to get through three verses and a couple of choruses.”

  “Then let them sing one of those praise choruses the kids sing,” Pop said. “They don’t have a lot of words. Surely she could last that long, arthritic joints or not.”

  Mama looked as if she just might faint. “Herbert Fisher, are you actually suggesting that I let Bessie May lead a contemporary worship song while I’m gone?”

  He nodded and looked as calm as if he’d just said, “Hey, let’s eat grilled
cheese for lunch.”

  “But Herb. Surely you don’t mean that.” Mama’s eyes reflected her complete shock at this idea. “A praise chorus?”

  “I do mean it. And if you feel like arguing with me, I’m up for it. I can think of all sorts of other suggestions to change things up. At the church. At the store. In our . . . private life.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “That reminds me, I’ve been thinking about changing the color of the paint in our bedroom. That tan color is so depressing. What about something in a great shade of red? Not a bright red, but more of a wine color. Doesn’t that sound romantic?”

  At that, Mama had to sit down.

  My father took a seat next to her. “Marie, the point is, I’m ready to do something different. Unusual.”

  Mama turned to me, her hands trembling. “It’s finally happened. Your father has snapped. I’ve heard of this in men his age but never dreamed it would happen to him. To us.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to say. I’ll miss you after they take you away to the padded room, Herbert.”

  “Don’t be silly. Say you’ll dance with me, Marie.” He rose and grabbed her hand. “We might need to take salsa lessons before we get on the cruise ship. I hear they’ve got dance competitions, and I’ll want to enter.”

  “He’s running a fever.” Mama rose and felt his head. “I’m sure of it. He’s delirious. Someone needs to call 9-1-1.”

  “Delirious, yes.” My father chuckled. “Feverish, no. Unless you mean feverish for you.” He planted a huge kiss on her, dipping her à la Dancing with the Stars.

  Mama came up from the kiss, her cheeks blazing red. “Well, if that doesn’t beat all.”

  “What did I miss?” Queenie asked as she hobbled back into the room.

  “Pop’s lost his marbles,” I said.

  “They’re going on a cruise,” Aunt Alva added. “To Jamaica.”

  “Does that mean they won’t be here to eat dinner at Sam’s Friday night?” Queenie asked.

  “We’re not leaving that quickly,” Pop said. “But you people can expect some changes around here, that’s for sure.”

  “Fine by me. I’d like to go to Lonestar Grill on Friday. I hear they’ve got great chicken-fried steak.”

  “Or maybe you could come to Dallas for a few days and stay with Katie and me,” Alva suggested.