Monday is the Apostle Paul’s version of hell in Second Peter. “In their greed these teachers will exploit you with stories they have made up. Their condemnation has long been hanging over them, and their destruction has not been sleeping. For if God did not spare angels when they sinned, but sent them to hell, putting them into gloomy dungeon to be held for judgment…”
I’m in an earthly gloomy dungeon. Nancy Faraday, my client for the day, and spouse of the renowned Lester, is freaking out. Lester is CEO of Faraday Financials, a huge mortgage lending company throughout the Valley of the Sun and environs. His influence is felt in many venues – fundraisers, business ventures, nonprofit organizations and, yes, even churches. Lester is a do-all, be-all sort of man. And he drives poor Nancy over the edge.
“Lizbeth, I can’t seem to get these napkins folded right. Help, please.” At least Nancy came close to my real name.
“Nancy.” I bite my lip and try not to shake her by the shoulders. “This is supposed to be fun, relaxing. It’s a barbeque, not a prom.”
“I need to be the perfect hostess. Les is counting on me,” says married for only nine months Nancy.
I take a big gulp from my handy water bottle, bite my tongue and give it to her straight. “Marriage is not about performing!”
Nancy’s huge mahogany brown eyes form soup tureen proportions. And get moist. She turns aside and makes an effort to fuss with napkins. Why, I wonder, would anyone use linen napkins for a barbeque? White, yet!
I tuck my errant tongue back in its place. “I’m pretty good at napkin folding. I’ll teach you a trick.”
“It’s not just the napkins, Beth, but I’ve never had formal training.” I must have given her a dumb look. “You know, schooling for the elite. How to be a lady, how to entertain. Charm school.” The look of defeat on her pretty face tugs at my heart. I open my big mouth again.
“Nancy, charm is what God gives you. It’s not something you learn or go to school for. YOU have charm. You are a lovely warm person who has a big smile. You’ve got charm, honey. Have you ever read Proverbs 31?”
“You mean in…the Bible?”
“Yep. Best description of the perfect woman.”
“I’m…Les and I aren’t very religious.” If possible, her eyes got more huge.
“Well, it’s just a suggestion.” I start forming the meat patties and chopping onions and red peppers for the salad. Nancy goes back to fussing with the perfect napkin design using my trick.
Just before the first guest rings the bell, I sense it’s about time to give her a big bear hug. She seems startled; then hugs back, her tiny arms around my ample waist. “Thanks, Beth, I needed that.” So much for remembering my name.
The barbeque is turning out perfect. Guests are laughing and I’m flipping burgers. I’m actually having a good time, until…“I like mine killed, barely.”
Smoldering Crayon blue eyes. I know Crayons can melt if heated, but can they smolder and twinkle? I flip another burger and it lands on the patio. Heavens, Betsy, what could be worse? Using my handy chef’s towel I scoop it up and deposit it in the trash. Maybe Nancy and Les have a dog.
I glance his direction and pray the beads of sweat on my brow don’t show beneath my bangs. I slide a fresh burger patty onto the grill. “Killed, huh? Have you ever heard of salmonella, mad cow’s disease?” I hope I sound funny, but doubt it. Noel locks his Crayon eyes somewhere between my collar and my waist. I feel like he’s chatting with two of the most prominent parts of my body.
“Yeh, I like my meat really rare.” He emphasizes the last three words. I stare at his bolo tie. What is it with men who wear strings around their necks? Only in Arizona! Maybe Texas, too.
My confrontational mouth leaps ahead of my common sense. “I have a problem relating to men who wear nooses around their necks.” I want to add, “Especially cute men,” but common sense throws itself in my path for once. Thanks, mouth, now I endure the embarrassment of heat searing my neck and face, and hands trembling. When I try to take Noel’s burger off the grill it flies dramatically through the tepid air and lands with a splat on his left Topsider. Red cow blood from the perfectly cooked patty oozes beneath the shoe’s tongue and soaks his no longer oatmeal-colored sock. The hem of his khakis has a creeping pink stain. He gazes for a moment at the mess, somehow locks his eyes with mine and grins.
“Great flip! Let’s repeat that. This time I’ll hold the bun and catch it.”
What a guy! A real forgiver. Who knows where this relationship will go. If there is one.
“Oh, Noel, are you okay? Here, let me wipe.” Nancy, the hesitant hostess, appears with a roll of paper towels. She swipes and mops and sends me a glare while squishing the lost patty in her hand. She doesn’t get it, but she is trying. She doesn’t have a clue about the chemistry between Noel and me. He snickers, and I blush. I know I do because my post-menopausal body starts to drip with perspiration. I push my bangs off my forehead and flip another burger, this time onto the bun. He smiles, thanks me and moves to the buffet table to scoop up a huge mound of Aunt Lorrie’s chicken salad. Good choice Noel. It’s the best.
Maybe it’s me with the chemistry problem.
~
Chronicles 10: “Now Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, ‘Oh that You would bless me indeed and enlarge my border, and that Your hand might be with me, and that You would keep me from harm that it may not pain me!’ And God granted him what he requested.”
It’s my morning mantra, before I even tumble out of bed. I know, Christians don’t believe in mantras, but I’ve never found another word that describes a repetitious prayer. Maybe I should stop asking God to enlarge my border. According to the Bible scholars I’ve read, enlarging borders can mean expanding our relationships by witnessing for God, even just meeting other people in unusual circumstances, often non-believers on whom we have an influence.
I shove off the aromatic eye pillow and claw at my puffy eyes. Could we get a little more concrete here, God? A bit more definitive? What exactly are borders? Never mind. I will trust the Holy Spirit to direct me. He always seems to have the answer I need.
That brings to my soggy mind a sermon, oops, message, I heard recently in church. Pastor gave a long discourse on how the Holy Spirit is a “Him.” Not a ghost or ethereal being, but an actual being like Christ. The gist was we need to call on him specifically, not just ask Christ to send him, but treat him as we do Jesus in our prayers and supplications. A new concept for me.
Struggling with this idea, I fling my ham-like legs into the air one at a time, carefully pointing my toes toward the ceiling fan wobbling above. Then I do my version of my former trainer’s pelvic tilt, lifting my ample bottom off the mattress with feet firmly planted and knees locked. This is the sum total of my morning workout. Feeling the crunching in my knees and the tightness in my hips, I succumb again to the hotel-quality mattress, my one personal extravagance. Could heaven on earth get any better? Eyes closed, I pray for all my loved ones, as well as those I’ve blatantly promised to pray for in weaker moments of empathy.
The day begins with, unfortunately, a look in the mirror. Alice in Wonderland I’m not. A shower, a dusting of makeup, tousling of hair locks does wonders. A new woman emerges—bright and confident.
Yep, I asked God to enlarge my border again today. My request either shows how dumb I am or how much I trust him. Maybe the word is not trust, but vulnerable. I do trust God. He’s stood by me in the worst of times, and cheered with me in the best of times—to paraphrase Chuck Dickens. Now comes the big question.
Do I meet Noel for lattes at Starbucks as he suggested, or pretend to forget? My day is basically free since it’s the day after Labor Day. No clients, no obligations, except Noel. Why me? Why him? The chemistry seemed to be there, but he’s a movie star handsome Cary Grant type, and I’m me. He’s so attractive I imagine women swooning over him in line at the market, grabbing his pre-packaged pork chop meal and insisting on paying for it. Then casually leaving the
ir business cards next to the thingy we all slide our debit cards through.
I talk to myself a few minutes in the mirror then pull on a pair of black capris and a black jersey with a high collar to hide the birthmark at the base of my neck. Black is good. Slimming, sophisticated. I slip into sling-back two inch sandals, plunk a pair of dangling silver earrings in the tiny little holes in my lobes, wet my lips with my tongue as models are instructed to do before being photographed and check my gold watch, a gift from Uncle Albert before he died. The letch. It’s nine-twenty-five. Fifteen minutes to get to Starbuck’s on Frank Lloyd Wright Boulevard.
~
Oh, but for the grace of our good Lord, there might go me. I slide down from Old Sassy’s high seat and land with a thud on the blacktop, twisting my ankle. As I give the dented front door a masterful kick with my modest sling back sandal, I stupidly spin around on the other foot. Now two ankles are aching. Good, show, Betsy. Nosiness is not your forté. My eyes can’t help themselves, poor dears. A voluptuous upper body prances past me followed immediately by a bobbing derriere. Frizzy, bleached white hair bounces tickling bare shoulders that display clear plastic bra straps under a halter top. That’s what I said, plastic straps. As if we observers couldn’t tell they’re there. Duh. Mind you, this woman looks about my age. Her makeup must have been applied three times to get that depth of caking. Lips so puffy and eyes so uplifted, only her cosmetic surgeon knows for sure. And only he or she knows about the taut derriere and those two protrusions between her armpits. My attitude is one of…well, we won’t go there with that thought.
I smooth my jersey over my hips and feel a lot better. At least I’m me, not a phony wannabe. My hips have history—spread lovingly by the births of three children. Although I don’t know the genetic reason for them, I suspect my birth mother also had Aphrodite-ish hips. Aw, Aphro, the Goddess of Love and Beauty.
I spy Noel sitting outside under the so-common-in-Arizona-to-beat-the-heat overhead misters at a small table. His gray speckled head is lowered over a large paper cup. Eyes squished closed, he seems to be praying. I try to approach quietly on tiptoe, but my sandals farrumph, and their hiccupping sounds give me away. His head jerks up and he grins. I’m sure my heart thumps louder than my sandals. Goose prickles sneak up my arms, and I feel beads of moisture forming a mini Niagara Falls down my back. Must be the heat, even though I’ve been impervious to it for years.
“Hi. Hot today, huh?” Another clever intro, Betsy.
To his credit, Noel rises and pulls out a chair for me. Wow, a gentleman in the twenty-first century. Who would have thought? I preen a little, fussing with my hair and setting my voluptuous fake designer purse on an adjacent chair. I stare at it; delighted the turquoise scrollwork matches my shoes perfectly.
Noel returns with the decaf fat-free hazelnut Frappuccino I requested. I take a sip and smile. He forgot the light whipped cream on top, but who cares. The man is gorgeous. Did I mention his eyes? The Crayon blue-colored orbs above cheeks that must have been carved by a Renaissance sculpture are riveted on moi. I try to think of something clever to say when he preempts me.
“Who woulda thunk it?” He grins mischievously using my Nana’s old phrase. “Two kindred souls.” Are we? I wonder. I rack my brain about what “kindred” means. Are we bonded, bound, in the same spirit? Hopefully, in the Holy Spirit. I want to question what he means. Instead, I grin back, wimp that I am.
“We are?”
“Sure, brought together by fate and Bett.”
“What about Nancy and Les?”
“Oh, that was a coincidence.”
“Really? And meeting at Bett’s wasn’t?”
“Preordained, planned.”
This conversation is getting way beyond my sanity level. I cross my painfully twisted ankles and shift my now squashed bottom in the plastic chair. Wetness, from heat in the one hundred plus degree air and my body, is seeping through my black linen cropped pants. I think I’m sticking to the dirty white plastic chair. I gather my scattered thoughts and pose a brilliant question.
“What does that mean? Explain, please.”
He looks at me like I’m not quite all there. I feel dense. Am I so clueless I can’t figure out what this man means? I don’t believe in fate, or preordination. And, I certainly didn’t plan our initial meeting. Did someone else?
“Thanks, Noel, for the coffee.” I rise gracelessly, stumbling over my own feet hampered by two twisted ankles. Grabbing my purse I skitter toward Old Sassy. I ignore the slapping of leather soles behind me. As I slide into the worn leather seat, the feeling is good and familiar, like an old friend. We exchange smells—my Estée Lauder Pleasures Intense and Sassy’s Turtle Wax from her recent detailing, both luxuries.
“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?”
Noel is banging on my car window with his fist. I try to pretend I can’t hear him over Old Sassy’s rumbling, but my “honesty is the best policy” nature kicks in. Since the car window won’t open more than an inch, (gotta get that fixed sometime when I have an extra hundred fifty), I’m compelled to open the door. Noel reaches a hand toward me and clasps mine. Is he being forward, or just kind?
“I guess we’re not on the same wavelength, Noel. I don’t believe in fate. I do believe God sometimes orchestrates things, like friendships. But, fate, no. And, what’s that comment mean about us meeting at Bett’s was planned? Was I set up?”
He gives my hand a little squeeze and shuffles in his now clean Topsiders. A rosy flush illuminates his nose and creeps across his cheekbones. The man stares at his shoes for a full thirty seconds. “I guess I should have told you. I’m Bett’s chiropractor. If you know anything about how long it takes to loosen the tension in a stiff neck, it’s—well, chiropractors and patients establish a relationship, chat a lot. I suppose you could equate it to chatting with your hair stylist or manicurist.” He swipes a fist of knuckles across the bridge of his nose.
“I’m telling this badly. Bett knows I’ve been lonely since my wife died several years ago. She suggested I attend her little soirée, as she called it. Said she had someone special she wanted me to meet.” He squeezes my hand again, and a shiver slides up my arm like a nylon zipper. I think he must be a good chiropractor, with a masterful touch. I space out, wondering how his long fingers would feel on my tense neck. And, why did Bett think I was “someone special”?
I yank my hand back and glare. “Me? She wanted you to meet me?” My voice rose several octaves above its normal squeal.
So, that’s why she conned me into opening the door and serving the salad that afternoon. To “present” me to Noel, like a goose on a platter.
I deliberate about Bett’s possible agenda being Ms. Matchmaker. I can’t think of anything it would get her personally. Bett is a bit egocentric, but she’s not the kind of person to use others deliberately for her own gain. She’s not unkind, not money-grubbing, not seeking stardom; she’s just semi-crazy Bett. A nice woman who started a small boutique business with a unique idea that grew by leaps and bounds.
I’ve known Bett for about five years, since I started Heavenly Catering. She’d called me from a Yellow Pages ad—she claimed. She actually interviewed me asking all kinds of questions, some personal about my character and background. I was so green, a real novice in entrepreneurship, so I revealed a lot about myself. But, to her credit, she never brought anything personal up again, just ordered. Bett became my best client.
I literally shake the one hundred degree heat cobwebs from my brain to concentrate on what Noel is saying. My thighs are starting to sweat, and I can feel my bare feet sticking to my shoes. So much for Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig and Body for Life. I’ve tried them all. Mr. Crayon Blue Eyes finally speaks. “It’s all my fault.” Wow, not a bad line, but much overused.
“Yeh? How’s that?” Another great Betsy comeback.
“I was scared. Should have been honest from the get go.”
No kidding.
Maybe I was wrong. Introducing them, I m
ean. I just want Betsy to be happy, finally. Noel is such a good, decent man. Someday, I will have to confess, to tell Betsy the part I played in their romance. That thought hangs heavy on my heart.
SIX
Back in my condo, I peel off my sticky clothes and stand naked in front of the full-length mirror, adorned only by the silver cross at my throat. I grab my love handles and squeeze. I can actually shake them up and down. Agh. I experiment pulling them toward my back to tighten my tummy. Maybe I should check out that full-page ad for liposuction in the Sunday paper. Naw. Too scary, too expensive.
I’m sure there must be some book written about loving the body God gave you. I think of the old adage “God doesn’t make mistakes.” Maybe He’s trying to tell me something. Like “Cut out the chocolate, Betsy.”
A passage from Proverbs 31 comes to mind about the “perfect woman.” Something about beauty is fleeting, but a woman who loves the Lord is adored. I haven’t read it since 1990, the dissolution year of my unfortunate second marriage. I haven’t really felt beautiful since, and I know I wasn’t adored then. I felt more like Jonah in the whale then, clambering to get out. Now, I just feel like the whale.
I hike up the sweats I’ve grabbed from the closet, sans undies. Tugging the ASU sweatshirt over my expanding shoulders, the one I bought when my daughter Brie was studying there, the one that says “L” for large and is snug, I run my fingers through my mousy gray-brown hair trying to tangle it in the latest yuppie style. Maybe a dye job? At least I feel free and unencumbered by constricting undergarments. I have work to do, work that won’t wait.
Tomorrow Bett’s giving a “small dinner soirée”—ahem, for twenty. At least her table will be full. She did ask me ahead of time to stay and plate the food and serve it. Tomorrow is Wednesday, not usually a busy day for caterers, so I agree. She also requested I wear “nice street clothes, not that silly uniform. And ditch the hat.” Wouldn’t want to spoil her fun, so I will bring my over-sized apron to catch any spills. Guess she is in her “no servants in my house” mood. Probably pandering to the Scottsdale nouveau riche. I’ve heard they disdain servants, prefer hired help instead. That’s me!
Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance) Page 3
