Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance)

by Bonnie Engstrom

  Since she left the menu up to me (“You have such good taste, dawling”), I opt for squab, braised, and then baked, in a black olive, Vidalia onion sauce with lots of garlic. And tarragon; and a sprinkling of cumin. I will stuff the little beasties with fresh tarragon and more garlic. Yum. The risotto must be made on site in Bett’s magnificent kitchen. Hopefully, I will be able to keep my eyes from straying to the zero gravity pool that drops off over the mountainside while I carefully stir spoonfuls of chicken broth and sautéed mushrooms into the concoction. Fresh asparagus, baby stalks, complete the entrée. Mango sorbet balls floating on raspberry sauce will be the grandé finale. Fortunately, I found a use for my old martini glasses.

  I scoop out the sorbet balls to freeze. They will survive well in my portable cooler with ice bags. I wash and dry each pigeon (yes, that’s really what squab are – pigeons – not the garden variety, but pigeons, nonetheless) and pat each individually in damp paper towels. I can brown them tonight in E.V.O.O., and then bake them tomorrow in Bett’s oven. I’m flipping the little devils in my red Le Creuset roaster when the phone rings.

  The caller ID tells me it’s Noel. I have a mini conversation with myself about whether to answer, or not. Myself wins. His deep voice thunders through the telecommunication airwaves. My name hasn’t sounded this pretty or so important in years. “Betsy, you there?” Another clever Noel come on. The man is amazing.

  We apologize in tandem for our “little misunderstanding” this morning. “I’m sorry; I’m sorry, too” becomes an echo. I pace through the dining room to the side patio door to unlock it while hugging the portable phone between my ear and shoulder. A sudden gusty wind is blowing the fronds of my neighbor’s palm tree. Bougainvillea petals make pink mini-whirlwinds across the pebblestone terrace. The outdoor thermometer reads 98 degrees; a hopeful sign that fall is close.

  I agree to “try a movie” when my stovetop explodes. Noel doesn’t know what’s happening, but he hears the boom and yells, “Call 911, call 911.”

  I race to the console in the entry to dig in my purse for my cell and dial 911 still clutching the kitchen phone in my other shaking hand. Noel sounds frantic, but not nearly as frantic as I feel. “Get out, Betsy. Now,” he screams.

  Did I mention I am stubborn?

  Seven minutes later, or so I’m told, a “to die for” thirty-something firefighter swoops me off my front porch into his arms. He smells faintly of smoke and pungent aftershave. Maybe a new designer scent. I wiggle frantically to be released, although I admit it was nice to be rescued like a damsel in despair. “You all right, ma’am?” He sets me down by a huge hook and ladder truck. “You have someplace to stay tonight, ‘cause you’re not going back in there?”

  If only I’d known. But, how could I have guessed fate intervening? Sorry, Lord. I know I’m not supposed to believe in fate, but I’m a new believer. These things take time. Maybe someone, hopefully You, gave me the opportunity to have Betsy in my house. Oh, God, I’m still learning.

  SEVEN

  My feet are tangled in satin. Strains of “My Girl” from The Temptations fifty’s recording drift into my room. Wait. My room? This isn’t my room. I don’t have surround sound, and my own comforter is encased in a beige striped Calvin Klein duvet – bought on sale. Not a burgundy and loden green velvet so heavy I can’t kick it off.

  I push hard with my toes and hear a snuffle. Comforters don’t make sounds, do they? I kick both feet, and a lump like a wet sand-filled pillow gets heavier, if possible. I’m not exactly afraid because I feel safe, but some things don’t compute in my muddled mind. I’m starting to remember. Noel. Boom! Noel yelling on the phone. The bougainvillea blossoms twirling on my patio, the aromatic smell of garlic, then the nauseating smell of melting paint and burnt wood. Aw, and the strong arms of Mr. Rescue, so young, so handsome, smelled so good. I use the edge of the satin sheet to wipe my eyes. Did you know satin isn’t absorbent? I try the back of my hand. How come skin wipes away the residue of sleep when satin just smears it? Must have forgotten to take my eye drops again. Oh, couldn’t. Didn’t have them.

  This time I kick hard and raise my head over the smooth fabric cradling my chin to see what’s hampering me. The lump is white, fluffy, and furry, and has topaz eyes. It must weigh at least twenty pounds. “Meow.” Do cats really say that?

  “Where’d you come from, Beautiful?” The answer is a slow, distaining blink. Eyes filled with contempt for interrupting its beauty sleep, the creature stretches and extends its long heavy body across my ankles. It clearly only cares about the comfort of the comforter, not moi.

  Okay, Betsy, figure this out. You are lying in a luxurious bed in an opulent room with burgundy velvet walls (yes, velvet walls—I swear), and a giant feline is stretched across your legs. Hey, let’s not fight it. Go for the gusto. A verse from Second Samuel comes to mind. “He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.”

  In truth, I realize I’m in one of Bett’s guest rooms. How did I guess? The velvet walls. Bett is the only person I know who would have velvet-paneled walls. So seventies. After crawling out from between the satiny layers, I brush my teeth with the silver handled guest toothbrush in the marble clad bathroom. I glance at the bed and recognize Snoopy.

  “Hey, Snoop, have a good night?” Now I’m talking to an animal, and I’m still not sure how I got here. I think I know why—boom! But, how? Oh, strong arms, masculine scent—forgot. I just finished explaining to myself when Bett bursts into my room like a Nascar driver rounding the last lap.

  “Dawling, how are you feeling this morning? So much to deal with. You must be exhausted. Did you sleep well? Did Snoops bother you?” She pauses to catch a breath. “Oh, my, your face is a mess. So much soot. What an awful time you’ve had.”

  I want to scream, “Bett, shut up!” I want to tell her I’m fine, but I’m not. Instead, I say, “How did I get here?”

  “Honey, you forgot?” She raises her hands heavenward in mock amazement. “The hunk, don’t you remember the hunk?” Her overly made up face scans my apparently sooty one. “Such a nice young man. Oh, that I were you! No, I don’t mean that. So insensitive of me.” She squeezes her eyes closed and jiggles her golden tresses, as if to shake away her remarks. She’s close enough for me to see moisture on her eyelashes and hear her murmur.

  “You almost died.”

  What if she had died? I can hardly bear it, thinking about it. I know it was a silly accident, but she was on the phone with Noel, bonding. I feel responsible for their relationship. I hate myself.

  EIGHT

  “You could have died.”

  Noel’s matter of fact statement gives me little bumps up my arms, and I shiver. Perhaps I owe him a thank you. It was, after all, he who insisted, screaming, that I call nine-one-one. Not that I wouldn’t have figured that out, in time. “I wish I could have been the hunk.” Even though he couldn’t see it, the look of puzzlement I feel on my face probably led to his next remark. “Do you remember anything, Betsy? The explosion, the fire, my phone call?” He hesitates. “Not even the hunk?”

  I feel heat creeping up my face from jaw to forehead. Have I offended this man, this nice man with the salt and pepper hair and Crayon blue eyes, this man who is about my age and seems to like me, a lot? I shake my head and feel my unruly madwoman hair flouncing. I am so irreverent, but I ask God, in a brief silent prayer, to make it curly—and blonde. Zap me, Lord, please. I need some sign of relief, some tangible sign that I’m okay and changed.

  “I’m sorry, Noel. It’s still all a blur. Can you help me go over it again, bit by bit?”

  This man is patient. It’s late afternoon, and he sits by Bett’s play pool on a chaise that probably cost the same as my entire living room furniture. Actually, we sit on the same piece of furniture, him leaning against the back cushion, coaxing me closer to him with gently wrapped arms. His little nudges feel good, and I wiggle my bottom to scoot back, then his arms envelope me.

  “L
et’s start at the beginning,” clever man says. “What were you doing when I called you?”

  “I was doing the pre-prep for tomorrow’s, oops today’s, Bett dinner party.”

  “Tell me every step you went through.” Did I mention the man is patient? I get antsy trying to recapture and explain every moment.

  “I changed clothes after our meeting for coffee.” No way was I going to call it a date, nor would I mention our parking lot confrontation. Certainly not my episode in front of the mirror. “I came down to the kitchen and did a basic mis en place, setting out all the ingredients for the recipe. I always create better with soothing sounds and aromas, so I turned on the radio to KJZZ and lit a vanilla candle. Then I answered your phone call.” I pause for a breath and blow it out. Rather dramatically.

  “Oh, I remember. I walked to the patio door to open it. It was such a lovely night, breezy, almost tropical. The latch stuck. It’s an old door and that often happens. I was fussing with it when I heard the boom.”

  Noel’s Romanesque nose nuzzles the back of my ear. Mmm, nice feeling. Why am I trembling? “What happened then?” he asks.

  “You know. You screamed.”

  He chuckles and squeezes his arms around me tighter. I almost can’t breathe. “I told you to call 911, right?”

  I sigh loudly and take a mini-break here to, hopefully, compose myself. I’m no longer trembling, but my legs and arms are sprouting pin-prickling goose bumps. Now I’m shivering, in the oppressing Arizona heat. I feel fingers lightly drumming on my spine. Rubbing the drips of sweat off my forehead backhand, I half turn to Noel’s shoulder.

  “Yeh, but I would have done it anyway.” Did I mention I am stubborn?

  “Sure, when you were fried to a crisp.”

  My patronizing nature kicks in. “Noel, you saved my life.” That wasn’t so hard.

  Another nuzzle, followed this time by a major body squeeze. Is Noel a hero? I have to decide.

  Suddenly, he becomes analytical. “You do understand why your kitchen exploded, don’t you?”

  I roll my eyes and manage a mini-shake of my head.

  “The candle, Bitsy, the candle.” Now Noel’s getting my name wrong. What is wrong with this picture? “It had to be the flame from the candle that ignited the gas. Did you notice if your burner hadn’t ignited? How close was the candle to the stovetop? How long was it between lighting the candle and turning on the burner? Were you paying attention? Did you watch?”

  Cheesh, Noel. I’m not used to being interrogated. Suddenly, I feel like a criminal. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say this when he drums his fingertips down my leg. The sensation crawls up slowly to the base of my neck, and I slump back in his arms on the chaise. I’m foie gras, goose paste, mush.

  Noel’s strong arms twist me around so our noses touch. I smell wintergreen on his breath and feel the heat of his body. He rubs noses with me, like fairy tale Eskimos do, and chuckles softly. “Funny girl. You really don’t remember, do you?”

  I’m fighting the sensation to fight. Surely, if I’d remembered, I’d say so. Honesty is a biggie with me. Maybe Noel didn’t get that from our conversation in the parking lot. Not to slur the male species, but some men can be so dense sometimes. I give him the benefit of my doubt and shake my head hard this time. Can he hear it rattle? He lays an oversized palm on my jaw and turns my head further toward him. A kiss—he’s going to kiss me! Yikes! Do I want this, or should I resist? Before I can, he does. Firm and hard on the lips.

  Thank goodness I cleaned up when Bett told me Noel was coming to call, actually on his way. Bett gave me fifteen minutes notice, not much for a sooty-faced gal whose hair smelled of burnt wood. Fortunately, the guest bathroom attached to the velvet-clad bedroom was well stocked. I slathered with Jessica McKlintock shower gel and made do with the myriad of cosmetics in the sectioned off vanity drawer. Minty mouthwash provided the finale.

  His lips taste spicy against my minty ones. I haven’t been kissed this way in more years than I can remember. I feel like a teenage girl, spinning with glee and a little woozy. I don’t want this to stop, so I cling to the Hawaiian shirt on his brick-like chest and suction my lips to his. I am the vacuum cleaner, and he is the dust.

  “Ee-yow.” Twenty-plus pounds of white fur lands on my legs. Snoopy drapes himself across my ankles. I’m doubly captive.

  NINE

  “Did you and Noel have a nice talk, Becka?” (At least she got my name closer this time, and started it with a “B”.) Bett sets a cup of herb tea in front of me at the kitchen table. We have to sit close just to see each other because Bett’s kitchen table is eighty inches in circumference. If we sat across from each other, like I do at Mom’s kitchen table, we’d be in two different galaxies. Everything in Bett’s house is super-sized. I stir the brew in the tall Bernardaud cup with a vintage Wallace Grande Baroque silver spoon and wonder why a single woman would buy a cup for $145 to serve tea in.

  I debate how to answer. Is Bett being nosey or concerned? I decide on the middle ground. “Yes, very nice talk.”

  Bett’s forehead crinkles and her eyes narrow. Fine lines in her caked-on makeup form around her lips and on her cheeks. Maybe I should have said more. I couldn’t bear it if her face collapsed now. Suddenly she laughs. A real deep belly laugh laced with a tinkling sound. She slaps her hand on the table’s glass top. The metal and precious stones of her charm bracelet clatter. “You got ‘im, Honey. He’s yours. Congratulations.”

  Now what in blazes does that mean?

  I’m stuck here in Bett’s house. I can’t afford a motel, and even if I could, I’d be crazy to go to one. Motels don’t have velvet walls and a housekeeper named Consuela serving me breakfast in bed. Even though I declined, then decided with a burst of energy to visit Bett’s in-house gym, when I returned from my twenty minutes on the treadmill (hey, that’s a start), a tray of coffee and fruit waited for me in my room. No donuts. Phooey!

  Going back to my condo isn’t an option yet. I checked it out yesterday when I met with the insurance company adjuster. He held a handkerchief to his nose, and I cried. The paint on my formerly refinished fake maple cabinets hung in strands and globs. The smell, well I won’t go there. Because my living room, dining area and kitchen all blend into one space (the real estate agent called it a “great room”—yeh), my discount sofa that was once ivory is now charcoal gray, and the glass tops on the coffee and end tables are laden with layers of soot. The carpet looked like gremlins spread a layer of grime on it. As Glen, the insurance adjuster (who was young, but not really that cute) and I tiptoed gingerly on it, our footprint indentations cried, “Big Foot was here.” I wanted to plop down in the middle of this mess and emit a primal scream.

  Instead, I touched this nice young man’s arm and said, “Well?” One of my more profound questions.

  Glen shook his head vigorously. I couldn’t tell if his eyes watered with tears or from the dense haze hanging in the air. At the time, I didn’t care. Now I do.

  I have to get out of Bett’s. The woman is suffocating me with her fondling and concern. Snoopy is giving me arthritis of the ankles. Consuela, the housekeeper, is feeding me too much of all the wrong things. Comfort food to her is sweet rolls, pasta and anything else laden with carbs. Although she still hasn’t given me donuts, I miss my salads.

  Come to think of it, in the week I’ve been here, Bett hasn’t once asked me to cook. I don’t know whether to be grateful or offended.

  “Bett?” I twist my linen napkin into a curlicue and bury it on my lap. The remnants of a delivered pizza are scattered across my china luncheon plate. Bits of lettuce drenched in an oily dressing mix with soggy crust and stringy mozzarella cheese. I ate it only for sustenance. Bett delicately sips tea from her expensive cup.

  “Yeh?” No Bitsy, Bethany or even Betsy this time. She’s allowing herself to be more familiar. Just “yeh?”

  “I—I was wondering how you’d feel about me cooking a few meals. I feel so bad you had to cancel your dinner
soiree the night I had the fire. Consuela has been great, but I’d like to contribute somehow.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep.” I nod for emphasis. I hope my serious look convinces her.

  “You really sure?”

  “Yep, really sure.” This time I grin.

  She skitters across the built-in bench and flings her arms around me. I try to extract myself from her crush. “Honey, I thought you’d never ask. I didn’t want to put you on the spot with your trauma and all. I was afraid you’d want to give up cooking forever after what you’ve been through. It will be like getting on a horse after being thrown off.”

  No, Bett, it will be like playing human again. “Do you think Consuela will be offended?” I wiggle out of her arms as she explodes into mirth.

  Bett’s hearty laugh is infectious and I join her. We both cackle so hard we’re crying. I can personally attest that fine linen napkins do absorb tears.

  ~

  Other than tossing a salad, I’ve never worked in a kitchen like this from scratch to completion. I’m used to prepping on a narrow counter, small glass mis en place bowls fighting each other for space. The utensils in my tiny kitchen were contained in several crockery pots. Here, in Bett’s kitchen, I look up and choose what I need from the stainless steel rack hanging above the six-burner professional range. Instead of the two sizes of spoons and spatulas I’m used to, I have a choice of four or five. I feel like I’m on a network television cooking show. I feel intimidated. The huge island gives me plenty of space to prepare, but I need special running shoes to navigate it.