Manicotti Kisses
By
Sheila Holmes
Copyright © 2018 Sheila Holmes
All rights reserved.
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Cover by Sheila Holmes
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgments
This novel (and its resultant series) began as a result of a sweet gesture by my husband and dearest friend, Daniel. I spent an entire day in bed with the heating pad pressed against my right shoulder, trying desperately to assuage some of the residual pain from the surgery by which it had been assaulted. My adorable husband wanted to do something sweet for me, and brought me a bowl of noodle soup in a Styrofoam cup. As I lie there thoroughly enjoying the first two bites of its hot goodness, I managed to somehow topple the entire rest of its contents on my until then un-assaulted shoulder, as well as the bed linens, pillow, and featherbed. It was a mess that I had to immediately clean up, but while I did… I came up with this story. It was one of those free-flowing rampant mind wanderings that started with the egg noodles in the soup, meandered into the territory of pasta in general, and wound up at its end when I thought about my favorite pasta in the whole world… manicotti. So, I guess that in all fairness I have my husband to thank for this novelette.
Of all the daughters in the world, I ended up with the best one. (I am so sorry to be the one to disillusion all you other moms.) I just hate to be the one to break this to you, but truth is truth. What she didn’t add to the plot of this tale, she made up for by simply making me laugh and laugh as I wrote it. Her humor is exactly like her dad’s. I need her around me to keep me from sinking into the serious person that I am by nature.
My greatest thanks, however, is to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He is Everything and All Things. I thank Him for helping me continue to write, and pray that my stories will lift Him up as “the only name by which we must be saved.”
Books by Sheila Holmes
Wedding Woes Series
A Wedding Disaster… Or Was It?
A Catastrophic Wedding Reception… Or Maybe Not?
Wedding Designed by Email… KiirstiAan's Nightmare?
Non-Fiction
With This Ring: Creative Ways to Give Your Purity Ring to Your Future Spouse
Christmas Romance Plans (How-to) Series
Christmas Romance: 25 Dazzling Days to Romance Your Spouse 'til Christmas
The Twelve Days of Christmas: A Romance Plan
Awesome Love Series
Becoming His Awesome Beauty: Volume 1
Becoming His Awesome Beauty: Volume 2
Fixing His Broken Ballerina: Volume 1
Fixing His Broken Ballerina: Volume 2
All in a Name Series
Joyful, Joyful
From Grace Abounds Grace (coming Fall 2018)
Christmas, and You Two Series
Christmas Scavenger Hunt
Christmas Snowball Fight (coming Winter 2018)
Manicotti Kisses Series
Manicotti Kisses
Chili Dog Hugs (coming Winter 2018)
Contents
Acknowledgments
Books by Sheila Holmes
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
A Word about Chili Dog Hugs
If You Enjoyed This…
About the Author
"…weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."
Psalm 30:5b, The Bible.
Prologue
Dear Grampy,
Grampy… Do you remember when we came up with that moniker for you? (Because you were grumpy that day at the family barbeque, and in my eleven year old mouthiness, I spouted off, saying that from then on I was going to combine Gramps and grumpy, and call you “Grampy.” Who knew it would stick?!) And, by the way, the word “moniker” that I used up above is thanks to you. Mom told me two months ago… I think it was the day of your funeral, that you almost single-handedly financed my college education. I never knew! And, I’m grateful beyond words!
It was on the second day of my junior year that one of my professor’s used the word moniker. I guess I’ve lived a sheltered life (ha! ha!), because I’d never heard it used before. I quickly looked it up with the assistance of my iPhone. I thought it was such a cool word, and I’ve been using it ever since. So, I guess technically, I am thanking you for both the expansion of my vocabulary and my college education. I wish I’d known that you sacrificed so much for me, so that I could have thanked you to your face.
If anyone had told me that on this particular day I would be writing this letter to you, and on your old, beat up typewriter… (hey, what happened to the little logo thingie that’s supposed to identify the manufacturer? All I can see here is a couple of holes where the logo metal plate should be…) Anyway, I would have thought them crazy. That whole last sentence… the whole paragraph is all messed up, and “wackadoodle.” (See, I remembered that word too!)
Mom thinks I’m at your house today (and I am). But she thinks I’m continuing the attic clean out. She says we only have another couple of weeks before it has to be done. Apparently the new owners need to move in at that time. Anyway…I really just wanted to escape and think through last night’s “events” without anyone watching me.
My natural instinct upon entering the front door here was always to high-tail it (notice I used your favorite term?) up here where it’s quiet, semi-dark, and conducive to thinking. That’s never changed in all these years. I just love it up here! (After the first few times, I started counting my sneezes from the dust that covers this space. As of a minute ago, the count is seventeen.)
• • • •
Well, I broke with reality for about fifteen minutes, but I’m back now. I was kind of zoning, I guess. I was thinking about all the sage advice you used to give me when the two of us used to hang out up here and discuss deep “life truths.” But, as much… maybe even more, I was thinking about what a great listener you were.
Do you remember that one day that I rambled on and on about that boy across the street, and how I liked him, but he wouldn’t pay any attention to me? I told you how he ignored me no matter what I did? Even when I made those chocolate chip cookies and took them over to him that Saturday morning? I’d worked for hours making those dumb things, took them across the street, knocked on his door. When he was the one to answer, it surprised me. I thought it’d be his mom and I could just ask her to give them to him and say I wished him a happy birthday. Anyway, his presence stunned me and I promptly dropped the entire plate of them on his porch. Broke the dish and destroyed the cookies. First, the imbecile laughed hysterically, then like a faucet turned from cold to hot, he switched immediately to anger, telling me that now he’d be the one who’d have
to clean up the mess. Remember how I said I’d never forgive him? And, now that I think about it, it was a couple of years before I’d talk to him again. Weird thing was that he turned out to be a nice guy. Did I ever tell you he’s studying history at the university? Though I don’t know why. He said its his pre-cursor for entering seminary. Frankly, he’s too cute to go to seminary. Because that means he wants to be a preacher. What a waste! BTW… don’t even get me started on how handsome he is now.
Whoa! I’m getting sidetracked!
Ok, where was I? Oh, yeah… So, anyway, I always thought (and still do) that you were the best listener. You never made fun of me and my silly comments and questions. You never tried to give me pat answers and platitudes. You never tried to show me how spiritual you were by quoting Bible verses and stuff (well, actually you did share some verses, as I think about it). But, you were never obnoxious about it. Just so sweet.
Grampy, I miss you something awful! *Sigh*
I guess, if I can just get back to it without getting sidetracked anymore, I really want to share with you today what I can’t sit down yet and tell Mom and Dad. Not that they wouldn’t be sympathetic. Actually, that’s what I fear. They’d give me the “poor baby” reactions, complete with hugs and pats, and strokings of my hair and cheeks. I just don’t think I could take all that mess right now. I mean, I know I’ll sit down and tell them all about it soon, but just not today. They have no clue about last night’s… what?… I can’t even think of a word to express how unbelievable it was!
I know that if you were here, instead of with Jesus (I know that’s where you said you’d be after you died… and I do believe it, but not with as much fervor as you did), you’d sit down right over there in that big nasty, dingy recliner that Grandma hated, burrow in, and listen intently until I talked it all out.
But, you’re not here, so when I discovered this typewriter this morning, I decided I’ll just tell you the whole story as I’m lulled into a semi-stupor by the clickety-clack of these typewriter keys. These old typewriters just crack me up. Sooo archaic!
Anyway, Grampy… this re-telling of what was supposed to be the most amazing and romantic night of my life is just for you. (Hold onto your hat, Dude!)
Chapter 1
Ok, so I guess I’ll begin with yesterday morning, the day of the “event.” It was beautiful out. Summers are gorgeous here, don’t you think? What I love about summer is that it gets pretty hot during the days, but the humidity is usually pretty low. So I can take the heat. In fact, there’s nothing I love more than to spend early mornings playing tennis with David. (I know, when did I stop hating him for laughing at me over the chocolate chip cookies? Weren’t you listening? I told you he turned out to be a nice guy!) Then I go out in Mom’s garden out back and weed for an hour or so. Yes… in answer to your question, I like to weed. I don’t have to think while doing it, so it’s kind of therapeutic. Then I finish by doing the unthinkable these days. I lie in my swimsuit on the hammock out back and sunbathe for an hour or so. I know… I know… skin cancer and all that!
But, I didn’t do any of those things that “special” morning yesterday. Jeremy hadn’t said for sure that last night was going to be the night. The night! You know… the one that I would remember for the rest of my life as being the most beautiful and romantic night that would live in my memory forever. Excuse me while I puke!
Instead of my enjoyable Saturday morning activities I listed above, I spent the entirety of the day preparing for what I just knew was coming that night. Or, should I say, hoped was coming that night. I picked out the dress I was going to wear. It’s that one I wore to the last Valentine’s Day party at church with Jeremy. The pale blue one that makes my eyes look “bluer-than-blue,” or at least that’s how he describes it. If he told me once at that party, he told me ten times how much he loved that dress. It worked out kind of cool in that I didn’t have to do any shopping.
When I pulled the dress out of the storage bag, my assumption was that it was going to be in perfect shape, since I only wore it the one time for the party at church. Wrong! It didn’t need cleaning or pressing, which was good, since its tag said: Dry clean only. However, upon inspection, there was an almost microscopic spot about two inches above the left breast. (Am I allowed to say breast to you? I mean, you’re my Grampy.) Anyway… I tried using the spot remover that Mom uses on the carpet, but rather than removing it, it simply smeared it until it was a faded gray smudge about the size of a penny. My first reaction, of course, was to panic, until I remembered that Mom has that little gold brooch with the blue aquamarine in the middle. You remember, Grampy, it’s the one you gave Grandma on your fiftieth wedding anniversary. I knew you would love the idea that Jeremy’s proposal would come on the evening that I was wearing Grandma’s brooch. (Interestingly, it never occurred to me that since you’d given it to Mom, not me, that she might prefer I didn’t use it, or at least ask first.) It remedied the problem perfectly when I pinned it in position, so any guilt feelings I might have had at not getting Mom’s permission to use it were completely obliterated when I held the dress at arm’s length and saw that it looked just wonderful. Whew! Catastrophe averted!
The only real problem with that outfit was that the shoes I originally wore with it made me taller than Jeremy. He’s only one inch taller than I am, and the heels are two inches on that pair. Frustrating! Not that it bothered him. But it did bother me. I’m already five feet- eight inches. With the heels, I’m five feet- ten inches. That’s tall. And since that puts me an inch above Jeremy, I knew I’d feel like an Amazon woman when he popped the question, instead of the petite and feminine little flower that I wanted to feel like. (Where is the Amazon? I can’t remember. I guess what your money purchased in my vocabulary expansion by-passed my geography knowledge altogether.)
Anyway…
After digging around in the three brown boxes, sixteen inches deep of random pairs of shoes, I got off the floor of my closet and realized that the sandals I had just pulled out of one of them had a deep blue stone that was missing. (I use the word “stone” lightly. It would be more accurate to say “blue colored glass.”) There wasn’t a prayer of me emptying those boxes to retrieve the blue “stone,” if it was even in there. So, I did the next best thing. I popped the same “stone” out of the other sandal. And, if you turned your head slightly to the side, squinted until your eyes were almost closed, then held something solid in front of your face that you couldn’t see through, you could almost believe that the shoes were actually designed that way… on purpose. That missing piece of blue glass, as I look back now with 20-20 vision, was an omen of what was to come that evening.
The dress and shoes having been decided upon, my nails were the next consideration. I had already made the decision to give myself a mani-pedi. I wanted a soft pale pink that would compliment the soft blue color of the dress. But first, I needed to shape my fingernails and cut my toenails. (Oh… do you even know what a mani-pedi is? It’s a term used to define polishing one’s finger- and toenails.)
All was going fine until I accidentally cut the big toe of my right foot. In trying to cut the nail short, I became overzealous and not only reduced the length of the nail, but did likewise to the toe itself. Do I even need to expound on the quantity of blood that darkened the surface of the bathroom countertop, where I had my foot hiked up?
Twenty minutes, four alcohol-doused cotton balls, sixteen sheets of two-ply toilet paper, four Bandaids, and a bucket-load of tears later, the toe stopped bleeding. Once the pain subsided enough that the tears would stop flowing so that I could focus on my task, I gave one half-hearted coat of hot pink polish to my toenails. (Yes, I said hot pink!) My reasoning in using the hot pink was that the blood that still spotted the toe would blend better with the bright vivid hot pink, so that I didn’t look like I’d walked into a lawnmower blade.
Nobody, as it turned out, was home during the day, so I was able to first vent by screaming and ranting about the mishap, then whimperin
g at the gnawing pain, then telling myself that ultimately it would be worth it all when Jeremy slipped the ring on my readied and outstretched finger, and I sweetly and tearfully answered his choked and emotionally delivered question with, “Yes, my love!”
Chapter 2
Let’s see… by my count, that’s four mishaps so far, before our “special” date even began. Wait? Is that right? Stain on dress, matching heels too high, sandals with missing stone, and cut toe.
Oh, wait! I forgot one.
Well, I’m not sure how to count this one. Now, or later in the evening. Well, it started early, but lasted all evening, so I’ll just go ahead and put it in now.
I had worked myself into quite a “dither.” (That word is just for Grandma. I’m not really sure what it means, but I got the gist of it when it was used in context by her.) I was getting so stressed over the things that were starting to go wrong, and decided my best course of action would be to go grab a mint or something sweet out of Mom’s candy jar and “take five” out on the back porch. So that’s exactly what I did.
Problem was and still is, that I’m not someone who can sit and suck on candy until it finally dissolves. I have to be chewing whenever anything is in my mouth. So that’s what I did. And, when I chomped through the mint, I think I must have ticked it off, because it bit back. I’ve never had a toothache before, so I wasn’t sure what I should do. This particular problem never did go away. I haven’t told Mom yet, but I’m sure I’ll have to go to the dentist on Monday. Right now it is barely discernible, but last night it ached viciously even before the the point we were seated at the restaurant until I crawled in bed after our date.
Wait a minute… let me think here. I think I’m getting ahead of myself. Oh, well. Just remember, Grampy, that I had a toothache last night that just kept getting worse and worse. We’ll get back to that later.
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