by Amanda Tru
He couldn’t stand there like an idiot. The words wouldn’t come. So, he took her hand and pulled her down beside him on the sofa. “I kept trying to find a good time—the perfect time—to do this, but it just won’t come. You know how I feel about you—”
“I don’t!” Eyes wide, Jennie jumped up. “That’s the problem. You don’t talk about anything. We just exist together. We don’t have that… that… well, whatever it is couples have when they’re right. We don’t!”
The words weren’t what he’d expected to hear, but Wayne was too far gone to let that stop him. He pulled her back down beside him and took her hands in his. “Well, I’m telling you now. I care about you—”
“I care about you, too, Wayne, but—”
“Good. Then I don’t see why we have to date for months and months. I know—”
Her white face stopped him. Except for two very red rings around her face and the bright pink sides to her nose, Jennie lost all color for a moment. Then her face flamed. She jumped up once more and began pacing. “Why are you doing this to me? Are you insane? You hear me tell Desiree that I don’t want to see you anymore, and you what? Propose? Were you really going to propose?”
“I—” His voice cracked, and heat rose up his neck to burn his ears. “I—”
“Please go, Wayne. I can’t believe—” Jennie shook her head, eyes closed. “I was so worried about not wanting to ruin a nice friendship, but I don’t think I’m comfortable with that anymore.”
He made it to the door in a semi-dazed stupor, but before he exited, understanding swept away a bit of the fog. “You told Desiree you were breaking up with me?”
Again, she blanched. “You didn’t hear that?”
Wayne opened the door. “No. I just heard what a great guy I was and how you wanted to be the person to push me to be a better man.”
Only when he reached his van did Wayne realize just how pathetic that sounded. “Oh, no…”
With that thought spinning dizzily in his mind, he did the only thing he could think of. He called his mom.
A call from Tabitha asking about a shipment of flowers that arrived just as she was about to leave sent Lena out the door. “Can you stay until I get there? Wayne probably forgot the roses. I’ll be right there to inspect and pay.”
Her mirror said she should change out of loungewear, but her coat would cover, and it wasn’t as if anyone could tell unless they owned said clothes themselves. At the door, she hesitated again. What if he comes back?
It didn’t matter. She couldn’t keep the driver waiting. The sight of one of the local cruisers turning onto Oak Drive slowed her until she reached the town square. However, the moment she turned into the alley that ran behind The Pettler, Lena punched the gas and came to a jolted standstill in Wayne’s usual parking spot.
The muted scent of roses beckoned as Lena stepped into the workroom. Hank, the driver, stood waiting and looking exceptionally impatient. Tabitha, however, killed that idea. “Wow. He barely grabbed that clipboard after setting down the last box, and you opened the door! Talk about timing!”
A scowl at her confused the girl until Hank laughed. “So much for trying to guilt Lena into having dinner with me.”
Lena rolled her eyes and flung one hand into the air before reaching for the clipboard and beginning her count. “As if I would ever. Your wife would kill us both.”
“I don’t have a wife.”
Lena ticked off the first box. “That’s what they all say.” She peered over the top of the clipboard and eyed Tabitha. “Don’t believe them.”
The teasing continued as she opened every box and inspected the contents. Overkill, perhaps, but this close to Christmas, she didn’t want to risk needing to get replacements in time. She’d heard horror stories of apologies that some place couldn’t do anything until “after the first of the year.”
However, every box looked perfect. Lena set Tabitha to filling the large, walk-in refrigerator buckets with water while she signed for the roses and paid Hank. “Receipt…”
“Aw, Lena. You know all my tricks.”
“Coming back in half an hour won’t change my mind.” She softened at the slight wilting her words caused. “But you make a lady feel good because you tried. Thank you.”
That’s all it took. Rejection with a compliment. Hank walked out whistling. Yes, it was a lonely, country tune she’d heard somewhere, but he still whistled.
By the time she got the first set of stems trimmed and stepped into the refrigerator, Tabitha had filled the first row of buckets. Lena waved her off. “I’ll do the rest. I can trim while each one fills.”
“I can do it. You—”
“I’ve done it before. Is a perfection. I start the fill, I cut the stems, it is full enough by the time I return with the roses. Go home.” Still, the girl looked uncertain, so she added, “Thank you. I needed a few hours to myself.”
With one quick hug and a kiss to each cheek, Lena sent Tabitha home. The faint rose scent that had greeted her now became overpowering as dozens of roses filled the back room, their boxes laid open while Lena worked quickly.
Ramon came down not a minute after she turned on her favorite Leona Boyd album and immersed herself in roses and the Spanish Guitar. “Magdalena?”
“Roses came.” If she said more, he’d hear the uncertainty in her tone. She heard it herself. Even her hands trembled as she acknowledged its presence in her heart. What am I going to do?
“Magdalena?” he repeated.
“I have to put them in the water. I cannot stop to do the chitchat.”
“Something happened.”
Lena worked faster. Ramon just waited. She’d filled three more buckets before she stopped and met his concerned gaze. “The store? Wayne’s ankle?”
A nod. That was it. He only gave one hint of a nod.
“It was a jewelry store. He went to buy me a ring—to do the propose.” She shook her head. “To propose.”
“And you thought he was like Alejandro. How did he hurt his ankle?”
Heat filled her cheeks as she turned to take another bunch of roses to the refrigerator. “He caught a woman falling off a ladder.”
“Magda…”
“I know, Ramon! I still must think about it.”
“And maybe cut the flowers first?”
She stared at the roses in her arms—the untrimmed stems mocking her. “Sí.”
The faint squeak of Wayne’s brakes stopped her mid-snip. Eyes wide, she shot a panicked look at Ramon. “What do I do?”
He came to her, gave her a hug and kissed her cheek. “Talk to him, mi amor. He is a good man. He loves you. Talk.”
Lena stared at the roses in her arms as if they’d tell her what to do—tell her something less terrifying than Ramon’s suggestion. When they said nothing, she looked up, desperate. “Hijo…”
But he was gone, and Wayne burst into the workroom.
“Lena?” He stared around him. “I thought you’d gone?”
The rose order. How had he forgotten it? Lena stood there, arms full of blooms looking like she belonged in a garden instead of the utilitarian workroom. A deeper look showed her… startled and… embarrassed? Before he could apologize, his phone rang.
Mom.
“Hey, mind if I get this really fast? I’ll be right back to take over. You—”
Over the ringtone, she waved him off saying, “Go. Talk.”
Wayne stepped back outside and climbed into the warm van. “How did you know, Ma?”
“Well hello to you, too. How’d I know what?”
“That Jennie wasn’t the one.”
Her relief, though wordless, filled his van and wrapped him in comforting arms. “Son, you told me. In everything you said and didn’t, you told me. Now I have something to tell you.”
“She dumped me.”
Only the faint sound of a haunting rendition of “Silent Night” answered.
“Ma?”
“Who, son? Who dumped you?”
>
“Well, both of them, but Jennie today.” He clenched his jaw against the ache that called forth tears he couldn’t afford to risk. Not now, Lord. Please not now.
“Talk to Lena. She knows you bought the ring now.”
He’d just started to ask what she meant when her words became all too clear. “What did you do?” The nervous clearing of her throat sent his own nerves doing the tango up and down his spine.
“I called about the ornament—to make certain she got it.”
It didn’t make sense. “She? Wait, Lena or Jennie?”
“Lena, dear. I called Lena because I had Emma send the ornament to her house. She got it. She asked about it. I told her when and why you bought the ring. The rest is up to you.”
His nerves formed an army and burst into attack mode. “Mother! That wasn’t your—”
“I know you’re probably angry,” she continued.”
“Furious? Livid? What other synonyms am I neglecting? How could you interfere like that? I was dating Jennie!”
“Whom you did not and do not love.” Again, she cleared her throat. “It may have been wrong of me…”
“I’ll say! Mom, how could you?”
“Now you sound like Lydia. You even scaled that emphasis just like her.”
“Great. I’m girlie now.” Wayne tried to control himself. Tried and failed. “You had no right to interfere—”
His mother broke in with that stern tone that had once made him quake in fear. Now it only added to his ire as she said, “I had every reason to believe that you would accept my so-called ‘interference.’ After all…” He winced as he realized what she’d say next. “—you were the one who deliberately sent flowers and an ‘I love you’ note to someone for someone not ready to do it himself.”
“Low blow.”
Her retort came almost the second he finished speaking. “You should know.” Before he could respond, she added, “Look, son. I love you. And I suspect I’ll call and ask your forgiveness at some point, but right now I’m rather pleased at turning your own ideas on your head like this. Go inside. Talk to her. She loves you. You love her. Fix this.”
With that, the phone went dead.
Oh, great. Aloud he prayed, “Lord… what do I do now?”
The answer came in a soft whisper in his heart. Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.
As he opened his door, a text message dinged. From his mother. Two simple sentences.
The Lord is patient as He woos us to Him—even when we push Him away. Be like Jesus.
“I don’t like you right now, Ma,” he muttered to himself. “I hate it when you’re right.”
Still, he pushed open the door and hurried into the workroom. Lena was gone.
Wayne closed his eyes and prayed like he’d never prayed before. He lost himself in pleas for wisdom, for forgiveness, for patience, kindness, longsuffering, endurance, hope. For unfailing love.
“Wayne?”
If he’d sounded girlie when he asked his mother how she could have butted into his relationships, he must look it now as he fought to control his reaction to seeing her standing there, staring at him. “Hey.”
Lena took a step closer. “Are you all right?”
“No.”
In a moment, she had one arm around him, ushering him to the door. “You go home. Rest. I will do this. Is fine.”
He shook her off and shook his head at the same time. “No… You go. I’ll stay.”
A slow smile formed—that one he knew so well. Was she… flirting again?
“We’ll both stay. Get it done.” As Lena turned, Wayne could have sworn she whispered, “Together.”
The questions he’d ached to ask for weeks rose to the surface, but that still, small voice in his heart reminded him. Love is patient.
The thought that he hadn’t been so patient mocked him, but Wayne ignored it and grabbed the nearest box of roses. That’s when he saw it—every box open. “You inspected them all?”
“Of course! If they are bad, we do not pay. They have…” She snapped her fingers. “What is the word for a reason to replace them quickly.”
You are a savvy businesswoman, Lena. “Incentive.”
“Sí! Incentive. But, they are perfect. Only one stem looks wilty, but you say they sometimes revive.”
Wayne was certain they would.
As he worked, Wayne watched her—when she left the room, when she bent to pick up fumbled cutters, when she paused to sniff one here and there. Each time she caught him watching, his face and neck flamed.
That smile returned and warmed his heart each time he caught it.
A cry of frustration erupted from the refrigerator. She’s poked herself with a thorn. But when he arrived, he saw her toss a rose into the garbage. At the sight of him, she threw up her hands. “How are we to work with broken stems? I cannot pick up every rose to check before I send Hank away!”
“It’s just a rose, Lena. I ordered extra because this happens.”
“No. The ones in the middle,” she snapped as she shoved past him, “they do not break. They are put there to hide them. At the top or the bottom—the outside. There they break. I am not eh-stupid!”
Each time he carried a new dozen roses into the refrigerator, that lonely broken bud called to him. At first, it seemed to mock, but as they carried in hundreds of roses for the upcoming week of Christmas orders and two last-minute weddings in Brunswick, it spoke to him. Soothed him.
Only four dozen roses remained when Wayne mustered the courage to hint what pushed and pulled across his heart. He followed her into the refrigerator and scanned the row of buckets. “It looks like only one rose is actually broken. I may have overbought.”
“They should replace it and the wilted one.”
He caught her gaze and held it for a moment before shaking his head. “Lena, if we only have one damaged rose among all the beautiful blooms surrounding us, I think we can bear that minor loss.”
“The pennies add into dollars.”
“But making too much of one minor thing can damage our relationship with our supplier. Relationships are more important than a thirty-three-cent rose.”
Lena couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from him, but Wayne watched her try. The muscles in her neck tensed, her jaw clenched. She swallowed, and… were those tears at the corners of her eyes?
“You are a forgiving man, Wayne Farrell. I want the justice. You give the mercy.”
He nudged her from the refrigerator, racking his mind for some way to keep her thinking well of him and still hinting that he’d been a fool. “Everyone needs mercy sometimes, Lena.” She’d just lifted an armful of roses to trim when he added, “Sometimes in our pain, we do stupid, stupid things, and in the end, we only cause more pain.”
Rigid, stiff. Her shoulder blades looked as if she were ready to begin a dance. Wayne shifted just enough to see the profile as her cheek lay against the rosebuds. Why did a woman like that ever give me a second glance?
He hadn’t expected a reply—not the way she stood there, immobile. Then the whisper came. “What do you do when you cause pain like that, Wayne? How can you fix that kind of hurt?”
I blew it. God forgive me, I blew it. Wayne fumbled for an answer and came up with only an inadequate, “You can’t, I guess. You can only ask forgiveness and hope to receive it.”
A dozen roses tumbled to the floor. Lena stared at them for a moment before rushing out the back door. Wayne called after her—chased after her—but only the taillights of her Lincoln responded.
She’d never make it home with tears falling. At Market Street, she turned and drove to the little Prayer House that sat on the corner. The lights glowed, showing someone s
till inside. Of course, she took her turn there on Thursday nights between nine and ten o’clock. She knew where the key was kept in one of those realtor-like lock boxes in the back.
The man who sat in the corner chair smiled as she entered. That smile faded almost immediately. “Mrs. Rojas?”
She brushed aside his unstated question, shaking her head as she found a chair and dropped into it. The tears fell faster. Her shoulders shook. He’d leave her alone for another minute, maybe two. But if she didn’t gain control of herself…
The first sob ripped through the room and drowned out the soft, instrumental music playing. The man—why could she not remember his name—stood and moved to the chair beside her. “Would you like me to pray?”
She’d had every intention of shaking her head, but Lena nodded.
A hand on her shoulder, his voice low but clear, he prayed. She’d learned in her time at the prayer house, that people often prayed by reminding God of what He knew. This man didn’t. It must be Mr. Stephens. He always sounds a little different from the others.
“—ask that You show me how to help her. Please give me the words, the Scripture, and the discernment to know what and when to share and when to be silent so You may speak. Please comfort her heart and give her peace.”
He waited, giving her time to pray as well. Lena tried and choked. Mr. Stephens pleaded once more for her comfort before asking it all in Jesus’ name. “Amen.”
“May I say something, Mrs. Rojas?”
Lena could only nod.
“For Christians, it all comes down to love—loving the Lord with all our hearts and loving our neighbor. So when things go wrong, sometimes all we need is to see where we’ve failed to love.”
With that, he stood and walked away, but a minute later, he returned with an open Bible and pressed it into her hands. The words swam before her eyes, but as Lena brushed them away, she focused on three small, semi-familiar words. “…record of wrongs.”
She dabbed at her eyes, struggled to compose herself, pleaded for help from the Lord. He gave it. The tears cleared and she could read the whole thing. “‘… it keeps no record of wrongs.’” She flipped the Bible over and stared at the spine. NIV. She’d never read it quite like that. I’ll buy one. That diversion did little to quiet the prompting in her spirit. I do, though. I keep the record. At home. In my Bible, it is there, so I never make the same mistake.
