Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance)

by Bonnie Engstrom

  He stretches out one hand, palm up, as he approaches me. “Betsy.” This time he doesn’t form a question of my name. Maybe we’re getting somewhere, socially at least. I give him my most musical “Hi”, rise to meet him, trip on the toe of my sandal and land in his arms. Rotten eggs! Betsy, you are such a klutz.

  His strong arms save me from more mortification and hold me tight. “Your hero has arrived,” he announces in a confident voice.

  What? Oh, my flip comment to him last night in the hospital. Or, was it flip? I try to muddle through that in my mind, but his masculine smell and the muscles in his chest that my face is against confuse me. I think of extraditing myself from his grip when some primal emotion takes over. This feels good, so why would I want it to end? Maybe Mom is right, love at any age is a gift. The man at least deserves a thank you for rescuing me from farther embarrassment. Besides, I need his advice and support with the contractors. I touch his chin with my forefinger and stare straight into those Crayon blue, America’s favorite color, eyes. “My hero.”

  We have no time to explore this intimate moment because Skip Schilling, contractor number one, arrives. He parks his long-bed pick-up next to Old Sassy making her look pretty sleek. I swear the old girl preens and starts to flirt with it.

  “That there’s Sam.” He gestures toward the black vehicle whose flanks are caked with dust. “And I’m Skip, Mrs….Waz…” He pushes the peaked cap up a bit on his forehead and frowns.

  “Wysinotski,” I offer. “And it’s Miss.” I can see the confusion on his face. Should he call me miss or ms.? How politically correct should he be? Just as I think he’s about to crumble with uncertainty, he notices Noel and extends his hand in a manly gesture. I catch a slight glimmer crossing Noel’s face, but hero that he is, he reaches back to take the overly large calloused hand with dirt under the fingernails in his carefully manicured one. They exchange shakes and howdys, and the beat moves on.

  “You folks sure had a mess of a fire,” Skip says. Noel and I fail to correct him about the “us” part. “You know what started it?”

  “The fire department thinks it was a candle I was burning while cooking. And that maybe the gas flame hadn’t ignited,” I added. It is a little embarrassing to admit I’d been so dumb.

  “Happens all the time,” Skip says. “Makes a mess, but correctable.”

  “That’s what the fire captain said,” I feel compelled to add in my defense. “I got distracted by a phone call, and all the sudden—boom!”

  “No need to explain, little lady. The missus almost did the same thing one time. ‘Course she was twenty and a newlywed.” He guffaws slapping a big hand on his thigh.

  The three of us climb over the yellow tape and trek into the mess. Skip’s head bobbles and twirls like that poor child in The Exorcist movie. Then he sucks in a whistle.

  “Looks bad, but not a big project. Rip out the cabinets, replace them, paint them, clean up all the soot, maybe replace the kitchen vinyl floor. Replacing the appliances, if they need to be, and getting the carpet and upholstery cleaned is up to you. Oh, you might want to think about tearing out the false ceiling and installing recessed lighting. Lots better than that dated fluorescent fixture.”

  Skip made some notes on his clipboard, and Noel made some on his. We shook hands all around, and when Old Sassy’s new beau roared out of the parking place, Noel and I looked at each other and in unison said, “Well?”

  “Noel,” I complained, “You didn’t ask him a single question.”

  “Didn’t need to. The man knows what he’s doing. My only concern is the price, but I want to hear what the other guys say and compare.”

  Oh, right. I nod. Makes sense. He takes my hand and pulls me up from the porch step. “How about a coffee break? We have two hours until number two shows up.”

  ~

  Koffee Klatch is a little hole in the wall off Shea Boulevard near Albertson’s market on Frank Lloyd Wright Boulevard. It’s actually cuter, or is it more cutesy?, than the corporate versions of most Starbucks. Mitch, the owner, serves you himself, and always with a pearl of wisdom as he hands over the steaming cups. “Today is the first day of your life, so take advantage, capture your dreams and enjoy.”

  Okay, Mitch, got it. Could you try to be a little more original next time?

  I admit to loving the ambiance. The tables are tiny and round, like the ones in the Sugar Bowl, inviting intimacy. No huge tables for parties of eight. The thick paper cups all have sayings on them, and the chairs all have arms. I settle in to the plastic-covered seat of one and smile at Noel. “I love this place. Mitch has rescued me several times with carafes of coffee when a client has forgotten to both buy it and make it.”

  “Yeh, he’s a good guy. Actually, one of my patients. I know I shouldn’t be sharing that, but I don’t think he’d mind. Standing all day wrecks havoc with one’s back.”

  I give Noel an absent smile. I twist the cardboard sleeve around my cup and trace a squiggly line of spilled coffee on the resin-topped table with a finger. Something’s been worrying me and I think maybe now’s the time to bring it up. Should I boldly take his hand, maybe give it a little squeeze, or should I bat the mascara enhanced lashes of my baby blues, or just blurt it out? I opt for the latter. It takes less energy.

  “Noel, I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you. I’m pretty sure from some things I’ve said you know I’m a Christian and I really shouldn’t date men who don’t share my faith and I didn’t mean to lead you on, and as much as I like you, I can’t have a relationship, particularly a lasting one, with a man who doesn’t share my faith, and because we’ve never talked about it before I don’t know if you believe in God, or Christ, or even have faith of any kind.” Whew. Got that out in one long babble.

  I’m still looking down at my coffee artwork on the table, but I sense Noel reaching in his pocket. He pulls something out and slaps it on the table right in my wet artwork. It’s a business card. It says Noel Sheppard, D.O., D.C. with his office address, phone number and a small Christian symbol bottom left, the Ichtus in the shape of a fish. My gaze drifts up to his face. “Why haven’t you said? You know how important that is to me.”

  “It’s important to me, too, Betsy. I thought you knew, that Bett told you. Thought that’s why she introduced us. I didn’t mean to deceive you. I’m kind of a private person. Turn the card over, please.”

  I flip the now soggy card and read the slightly blurred words. But for you who revere my name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings. And you will go out and leap like calves released from the stall. Malachi 4:2

  “It’s not a promise of mine. I don’t promise my patients will leave my office leaping like calves, but I do promise I will try.” He stares intently at me with those Crayon blue eyes, now my favorite color. Finally, he says, “Well?”

  For once I don’t know what to say. I shake my head and notice tears dropping on Noel’s card and my tabletop coffee artwork. Using the absorbent back of my hand to wipe them away, I look up and give him a Cheshire cat grin. Be still my heart.

  “That’s quite a statement of faith. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugs and reaches for my hand. “I don’t announce my faith because I don’t want to alienate someone who should, need to, come to me. But, I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

  “‘S, okay. I’m really very glad. Thrilled in fact.” My turn for a sheepish grin. Baa.

  “We can talk some more later, but right now it’s almost time for contractor number two to show up. Ready?” Noel rises and tugs me by the hand. I hope my smile says it all. Yes, Noel, I am more than ready.

  FIFTEEN

  We pull up in the PT Cruiser next to a grimy white elongated pickup with Stan the Man emblazoned on its doors. It must make Old Sassy proud of her new bath. She sparkles next to Stan’s vehicle. Even the words Heavenly Catering embellished on her sides shine, the metallic lettering glittering in the noon sun. I feel a little shiver from her and may
be a quick song as I open the sliding door and pull out my purse where I left it behind the driver’s seat for safekeeping.

  I extend my hand to Stan the Man and introduce myself. “Gotcha.” His reply is less than professional, but I try to ignore that. He came highly recommended with five stars from an Internet site. I intend to keep an open mind. “So, Stan,” I say after I introduce Noel, “Here’s what we have to deal with.” Stan leads the way stepping over the yellow tape, and Noel and I follow.

  “Gotta do this, gotta do that, rip out here, replace that…big project.” He pauses for breath and looks at us as if we should accept his assessment without question.

  I thank him as he hands his estimate to Noel, passing the yellow-lined handwritten paper in front of me. What is it with these macho manual labor guys? Obviously, I am not intelligent enough to understand what he proposes for my kitchen, nor make a decision about how to fix it.

  After Mr. Macho, Stan the Man, revs noisily out of the parking lot, Noel grabs my hand and leads me to the stoop on my front porch. He locks his Crayon eyes with mine. “He means well. Just ignorant. But, probably competent.” I nod, frustrated about this whole interviewing contractors situation and my naiveté, but grateful Noel is here to help. “Let’s see what Luke Samson the next guy has to say. He has a biblical name. That’s encouraging. How’d you find him?”

  I roll my eyes and make a face, not a pretty one. “Bett.”

  “Bett? She knows a contractor?”

  “She insisted I contact Luke. Said he did a lot of stuff for her. Landscaping around her pool, replaced windows, that sort of stuff. He’s a general contractor, so she swears he can do anything.” Noel nods, but it’s not one of those positive nods. I sense reservation on his part. After all, Bett is not the best reference for services. Except for me and Heavenly Salades.

  I’m tired, and I need emotional support. I inch closer to Noel and rest my head on his shoulder. He puts a reassuring arm around me and rests his cheek on my hair. We both sigh.

  “Noel.”

  “Betsy.”

  I sense a romantic breakthrough when a soft purr interrupts our reverie. A bright yellow Volkswagen bug chugs up the drive to the parking lot. A short stalky man with cropped brown hair moves with deliberate grace out of the VW’s driver’s seat. “Good afternoon,” he says tucking a clipboard under his arm and extending a business card to me. “You must be Ms. Wysinotski.” He pronounces it perfectly. I like him already.

  I introduce Noel, and Luke follows us over the yellow tape. He stands in the kitchen looking at each cabinet individually. He sniffs the putrid air, opens cabinet doors and turns on the stove, having to light one burner with a match from his pocket. His “Mmm” comment isn’t earth shaking, but it’s somehow reassuring. No rash judgements here.

  “Ms. Wysinotski,” he begins. (Oh, I love this man already. He actually pronounced my name correctly twice.) “I know this looks horrible, and you probably feel devastated.” He turns to me for affirmation. I nod and feel like a parrot. “Unless I’m missing something, from the inside of your cabinets, since you still have dishes in them untouched by the fire, I think all you need is come refacing. And, a plumber to set your stove right.”

  “You mean I don’t need to rip out the cabinets and replace the stove?”

  “Nope. All the damage seems to be on the surface. You will have to air the place out and scrub everything with a disinfectant.” He pauses to look in my direction. I look at Noel. Noel nods affirmatively and asks, “How long and how much.” Cuts right to the chase that Noel. What a guy!

  “Probably two days, maybe three. If I can get the cabinet refinishing guys in here tomorrow, two. You need to call the gas company and the company who made the stove. Get them out here as soon as possible. The scrubbing part is up to you.” His grin threatens to stretch from ear to ear on his round face. He hands me, moi, a business card and a written estimate on an official invoice, not lined paper. I almost hug the man.

  Instead, as the little yellow car chugs away, I hug Noel. “I guess you liked him,” he says with an impish grin.

  “You bet. He seemed sincere, knew what needed to be done and his estimate is within reason. Insurance probably won’t pay for all of it, but I can eke the rest out of my savings. I’m so relieved.” I glance at Luke Samson’s card. “Noel, did you notice this? The name of his company is Dove Renovations, and there’s a Christian dove symbol in the corner.” I give Noel a wink and say, “Betcha Bett doesn’t even know he’s a Christian. She probably thinks the dove means he works swift as a bird flies, or something like that.” We both chuckle and hug some more.

  I pull back and take his hands in mine. Tilting my head back I whisper, “Thank you for being here.”

  “How about thanking me properly?” He wraps his strong chiropractor arms around me and lifts me to my toes. His breath is warm, I can feel it on my nose as he makes his way down my face to my lips. I close my eyes to better savor his masculine strength. Noel’s kisses touch each of my cheeks then envelope my mouth. This time his breath is minty and his lips cling to mine for a long time. My legs start to shake from being on my tiptoes, so Noel lifts me higher, tighter. I don’t want this to stop. It doesn’t. His left hand is spread across my back rubbing lightly up and down, and his right hand is now on my neck making gentle massage motions. He eases me down slowly until I’m standing flat on my feet. He gives me a tender hug then disengages my clinging arms and makes an about face spin. Was I too forward, too needy? My knees feel as if they’re about to collapse, but unable to move, I stand like a woman of salt. Oh, why do biblical references come to mind when I’m in the midst of a romance?

  Noel is pacing the short length of my front porch, obviously a man disturbed. I keep standing there like an idiot, like the first time I saw him at Bett’s front door. Except this time I cling to a wrought iron railing instead of a brass door handle. My hand is aching and my knuckles are turning white when he speaks.

  “I—I’m sorry, Betsy. I just wanted you so much.” His voice is shaky, and the rosy butterfly blush creeps across his face. He’s studying his Topsiders again. Fists at his sides, he finally looks me full on in the face. “My feelings got out of control. You are so special, and I don’t want to take advantage of you. Well, in truth, I’d love to, but it goes against our Christian beliefs. Even though we are over-the-hill Christians,” he adds with a grin.

  I loosen my grip on the railing and automatically flex my fingers. “Noel, you silly. I felt the same way, so don’t apologize. If you hadn’t stopped I’d probably be attacking you on the porch. You’re a strong man, Noel, and I’m a weak woman who adores you.” There, I said it.

  “You do, really?” There goes that blush, or flush, or whatever it is, again. I bite the inside of my cheek and nod like a bobble head doll. Noel takes my hand and kisses the back of it gallant-like. What a guy! Did I mention that?

  “We need to talk, Bitsy.” My eyes widen and I put my fingertips on his lips to hush them.

  “Noel.” My voice is schoolmarm firm. Automatically, I stomp my foot. “Where did you get the idea to call me Bitsy?” I stare into the Crayon blue eyes with a heated glare. I hope I’ve made my point. “Where? From whom?”

  Confusion clouds his face, and he shrugs his shoulders. “I guess it just seemed right. Isn’t Bitsy a nickname for Betsy that’s a nickname for Elizabeth?” He wrinkles his nose and cocks his head sideways. “Is something wrong? Does the name have a bad connotation for you? I think it’s cute.”

  My turn to stare at my shoes. I wipe my hands on my denim skirt and shake my head. “Sorry. I over-reacted. It’s just nobody ever called me Bitsy except my parents. Not even my friends growing up.” The quizzical look is still on his face—like, “So?”

  “This is going to sound silly and juvenile…but, I thought maybe you and Mom were in cahoots, romance cahoots.”

  Noel bursts into belly laughter and slaps his thighs. Then, seeing the devastation on my face, he turns serious. “Aw, Betsy,
Bitsy, whatever you like to be called, or not, I’m sorry if I hurt you. I don’t know your mom, but I’d love to meet her.” He grins the Noel grin. “Can we arrange that sometime. Soon?”

  Now I don’t mind having Mom and Noel meet, but Mom would surely make more of our relationship than I’m ready for her to make. Especially since I’m not sure what our relationship is at this point. I know Noel was kidding, sort of, with his suggestion, but there was a glint of seriousness in his Crayon eyes. If possible, they got bluer.

  I lace my fingers in front of me. Deep in thought, that’s me. “You’re right, Noel. We do need to talk—about a lot of things. How do you suggest we go about it?”

  Why does his grin make me suspicious? “I find it’s easier to talk freely when one is having fun. We both need to be at ease, with each other and our own emotions. I have an idea.”

  SIXTEEN

  Thanks to Noel’s idea I find myself sitting on a bench at the Phoenix Fairground eating kettle corn on Friday, October thirteenth. I haven’t been superstitious since I was fifteen and accepted the Lord, so the date doesn’t bother me. I was superstitious as a kid, even thought thirteen was my personal lucky number. Go figure.

  It’s the first day of The Arizona State Fair and the fairground is teaming with humanity in all sizes, shapes and colors. My chef-ness is appalled at the weird variety of foods for sale. Deep fried just about everything from brownies-on-a-stick and cookie dough and asparagus. I stick to the traditional popcorn ball. I read in the paper recently that last year over one hundred fifty gallons of the sticky concoction was consumed.

  “Ith’s fun.” Between licking sticky goo from my fingers and picking bits of popcorn hulls from my teeth, my mouth isn’t working right. Noel nods and smiles, revealing a brown chunk of the gooey corn stuck next to an eyetooth. We point to each other’s mouths in sync. He laughs, I giggle. “Gotta wash up. Napkin’s not doing it for me.”