Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance)

by Bonnie Engstrom

  “Me, too.”

  We meet a few minutes later at the petting zoo, not at all surprised to find that adults are in the majority. True, some have toddlers in tow, but many are here like us on the senior discount. One little boy is obviously bored with the baby animals and tugs relentlessly on his father’s hand. “Camel wide, camel. Pease.”

  “Did I tell you about the camel I saw one day in a backyard in Scottsdale?”

  Noel’s eyebrows arch, possibly questioning my sanity. “It’s true. I was driving around one Sunday afternoon through the equestrian communities south of Cactus Road, the Cactus Corridor where so many barns and riding stables are. Taking a peek at how the other half lives. I’m toodling along in Sassy ooing and awing at the estates when something brown with a long neck catches in my peripheral vision. I swear Old Sassy slowed down on her own.”

  Now he rolls his eyes, and a “yeh, right” expression wrinkles his forehead.

  “Well, maybe I took my foot off the pedal. Anyway, I spin Sassy around.” I demonstrate making steering wheel turning motions with my hands. “…and pull up to a high fence. A droopy eye with long lashes that make me green with envy winks at me. It’s a one-hump camel. He, it, whatever, slowly turns and ambles toward some kind of shelter. It was so cool.”

  Noel still looks skeptical, so I stick my tongue out and wave my fingers with thumbs stuck in my ears. “Oh, ye of little faith,” I admonish him and playfully punch his arm.

  I decide it’s serious time. “Okay, Noel. This day has been fun, but we still haven’t had our quote talk unquote. The only thing more I know about you is you don’t like corn dogs, prefer spicy sausage, and you can suck down a bag of kettle corn faster than I. Oh, raspberry lemonade instead of plain. Also, you don’t believe my camel story.”

  I admit I’m exasperated. Spending the day together really has been fun, but unproductive as far as the original intent. I’d hoped to find out about his deceased wife, his childhood and his dreams. I really wanted to know more about the anxiety attacks, too. Instead, I know never to make corn dogs for Noel. Or plain old lemonade.

  “Well.” He clears his throat and gives me a lopsided grin. Agh. I hate it when he does that. Makes me all mushy. “I found out you look especially cute when you’re mad. Like now. You’ve got spunk, Betsy. But, I knew that the night you raced me across the street to the Sugar Bowl. Or maybe you were just having a chocolate attack—that led up to my anxiety attack.”

  There it is, finally out in the open. Remember, he brought it up. “So, Noel my friend, tell me more about your anxiety attacks. How often, why, what do they feel like?”

  We’re walking hand in hand to the fairground’s parking lot. I feel his big mitt tightening around my fingers. He’s studying every step his Topsiders take. I make an effort to look straight ahead, no sneaking a peek for me.

  “You know what they’re like. My heart races, I get sweaty, sometimes shaky, I feel like I can’t breathe, and sometimes throw up.”

  “That’s it? You can’t just go to the men’s room and splash water on your face like women do when they have a hot flash?”

  “Never thought about that. Guess I could try. Does it work for you?”

  “It used to, but I haven’t had a flash in five years, praise the Lord. I don’t mean to sound flip, and I know the attacks have hospitalized you twice since I’ve known you. But, is it possible you are blowing them out of proportion? What does your shrink say?” I could cut the quiet with my boning knife. “You have seen a psychologist, haven’t you?”

  Slight shake of the head. Yes, I’m looking at him now. “You’re telling me you have this problem that interferes with your life, our relationship, and you haven’t consulted a professional?” I try to keep my voice even and calm, but calm is not in my vocabulary. I shake my own head in wonderment. I want to scream, “Men!” Or maybe just, “Man!”

  We’re almost at the car. Fortunately, the red Cruiser stands out in a sea of beige, black and silver vehicles. I’m sure neither of us would have remembered it was parked in aisle E23. We just honed in on it. Noel kicks his right Topsider toe in the dirt and takes both my hands. He’s facing me with a look of anguish on his face. My heart starts to melt, but I keep it in check. I sense something important, some revelation, is going to be revealed.

  “I’m a doctor. Doctors don’t need other doctors. It’s an unwritten code. Does that explain it?”

  Yep. You’re also a man. And the combination of man and doctor is telling, can be lethal. Just my womanly, girly opinion. “So, you’re scared.” The words shoot out of my mouth before my mind controls it. Noel looks ashamed, and scared.

  “Guess you hit the nail on the head.”

  He leads me around to the passenger side of the car and opens the door for me. Always the gentleman. We make our way out of the parking lot , but I can’t keep my errant mouth shut. It’s not just curiosity, but I think I’m falling in love with this man. Lord, help me say the right thing, please.

  “Noel, I know you’ve hinted at a future for us. I did, too. It’s not that I’m not sympathetic, or empathetic, but I wouldn’t want to spend my retirement years worrying about rescuing you from hospital emergency rooms because of anxiety attacks. Does that sound unfeeling, or cruel?”

  He stares straight ahead, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. I feel like a heel, then remember it was Noel who suggested “the talk.” Not that much talking is happening. Suddenly, his fingers turn normal flesh color and his shoulders relax. I feel vindicated until he makes “the announcement.”

  “I did it, Betsy. I just got over an attack. Mind over matter.” He lays a hand on my thigh and I shiver. This can’t be happening so fast, Lord. Or can it?

  I know my look is one of questioning. The “oh, ye, of little faith” scripture comes to mind again. This time slapping me in the face.

  “I released it to God, Betsy. It started to happen again, so I just prayed and gave it to Him.” He nods, affirming what took place. Another bobble head moment. “I know it can’t happen that way for everyone, especially not for those who aren’t God-centered. But, I vow it just happened to me.”

  “I’m so happy for you, Noel. And, I admit, selfishly for me. Are you sure?” What is it with me I can’t keep my mouth shut?

  “You don’t believe me.” It’s a statement, not a question. I wring my hands praying for the right answer. God provides.

  “I do believe you, Noel. Right now I’m praising God for this breakthrough for you.” Now, honesty kicks in. “I confess I looked anxiety attacks up on the Internet. On my laptop I rescued from the condo,” I add. “They don’t seem all that easy to get rid of. They’re also called panic attacks. And millions of Americans have them every year.” I slap him playfully on the thigh. “But…the good statistic is they lessen in people over fifty-four.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Seems when we mature, we become more immune to some psychological problems. Unless we’re really old and senile.” I slap his leg again feeling much better about Noel’s prognosis and our possible future.

  “Works for me,” he says, and I notice his body relaxing more.

  SEVENTEEN

  “This is complicated, Noel. Can you help me understand?” I remember we’ve kissed coming close to devouring each other. We’ve shared laughter and come close to sharing secrets. We are not kids. Hopefully at heart, but not in years. Perhaps a better assessment is we have a shared relationship with Bett. That could unnerve anyone.

  Noel parks in Bett’s circular drive and comes around to help me out of the car. I’m getting weary of this being my temporary home. It’s been over a month. Two or three more days and I can move back to my cozy condo. If Luke follows through.

  Instead of answering me, he smiles. Holy cucumbers! The man drives me crazy when he smiles. It’s one of those secret smiles that people who are close give to each other. I wonder, are we that close? I want to be.

  “What?” My big mouth did it again, spoke before my
brain kicked in.

  “We are complicated, Betsy. You, me, us.”

  Gosh, how complicated can a friendship be between a chiropractor and a personal chef? Well, maybe if you throw in a matchmaker friend who owns glamorous boutiques.

  I cock my head and get a crick in my neck. Luckily, I have an on-call chiropractor in attendance. “How so?” Another one of my witty, profound questions.

  “To begin with we met through Bett.” There goes that grin again. “Then after our initial attraction you had the fire, and I had an anxiety attack ruining our date. Then, I had another anxiety attack and called Bett instead of you. You got miffed about that and you found me in the hospital watching a game show. You forgave, and I helped you interview contractors. We made a decision—aw—together, about which one. That was a minor breakthrough.”

  The man is rambling. Does he keep a journal or is he a history buff? I recall every instance of which he speaks, but saints preserve me if I could keep it all in order. Maybe an obsessive compulsive? Naw—he doesn’t pick his nails or run to the restroom every five minutes to wash his hands. He’s thorough. That’s it. I hate to break his bubble, but I must correct him.

  “Noel. We made the decision about Luke being the contractor to hire based on his presentation and knowledge. It wasn’t a breakthrough in our relationship. Our first kiss was.” Oops. Did I really say that?

  “And what in candied carrots does Bett have to do with this—our relationship? You scared again?” Dear Lord, I will give you all power and glory if you keep my big foot out of my mouth. Please.

  The shuffling of Noel’s Topsiders is getting a little old. So is passing the buck to Bett, although I do credit her with our initial introduction. Truth be told, though, it’s entirely possible we wouldn’t have given each other a turn of the head if we’d met in the supermarket.

  “Yep, guess so.” He shuffles some more. I try to remember what I asked. Oh, scared again? I pick up the beat.

  “Why?” I know I’m not a raging beauty, but I don’t think it’s circumspect to remind him of that, coward that I am.

  “Something is holding you back. Is it me? Or something buried in the past?” I decide to continue my soliloquy hoping to draw him out. I take a plunge.

  “I know I’m not a gorgeous twenty-something trophy girl, but I am a sincere, loving, pushing sixty mature woman. I’m also a Christian who doesn’t lie or cheat. Is that not enough?” He gives me a funny, quizzical look. “Did I forget steal?”

  He mumbles something about not having this discussion standing in Bett’s drive. We climb in the car and buckle up, click, click.

  ~

  “We are so rude.” I glance at him and he nods his head, a quirk playing around his mouth. My announcement wasn’t intended to be humorous, yet I start to laugh. Noel joins me until together we are a cacophony of glee. We even drown out the Cruiser’s purring.

  “No choice,” he sputters, then coughs trying to contain his mirth. Oh, dear, is he going to throw up? “Slap me on the back, Betsy, please. Hard.” I oblige and the coughing abates.

  “Poor Bett. Do you think we gave her a migraine?” He shrugs at my fake innocent question and steers the little red car down Shea Boulevard—a man on a mission.

  “Did you catch the hat? She was wearing a hat at night. Ha, ha, ha.”

  “Noel, that’s cruel.” I punch his arm lightly and hold my tummy. I’m having trouble composing myself thinking of Bett waving from her doorway. A fuchsia caftan draped her voluptuous frame; its folds billowing below the air conditioning vent above her gave her a surreal look. Snoopy was draped over her shoulder like a hunter’s dead trophy. His two-foot long tail hung limply from his rump and dangled alongside her arm. But, what initiated our mirth was the hat. We only had a glance, but in retrospect we both agreed.

  “It must have been three feet wide.”

  “And floppy.”

  “Did you get a load of the flowers?”

  “Yep, and the lace and ruffles.”

  “Oh, Noel. We are so cruel. We are not behaving like good friends. She was waving to us and we ignored her.”

  “No, I waved back.”

  “You did? That’s almost more cruel. You waved back, then zoomed away? I actually pretended not to see her.”

  “She looked right at me. What choice did I have?” I pray the frown on his forehead is telling me he feels bad. Hopefully worse than I do.

  We pull into a parking spot in front of Mitch’s Koffee Klatch and sit there in silence. If that old expression of twiddling one’s thumbs applies, I guess that’s what I’m doing. At least I’m not staring into space through the windshield like Noel is. My frustration’s mounting, but I’ll be boonswaggled if I’m going to make the first move. Just as my twiddling almost gets to Lady Mac Beth proportions, Noel blurts out, “We gotta talk.”

  Sheesh, call me dense, but I thought that was the idea. “Really?” I try hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but the angry glare on Noel’s face tells me I didn’t succeed.

  “Very funny, Betsy. Here I am ready to bare my soul to you and you make a sarcastic remark.” He jumps out of the car, slams the door dramatically and yanks mine open. Good show, Noel. Now we know what kind of a mood you’re in. I want to say it, but this time God helped me with the foot in mouth disease thing. I smile instead.

  Noel glares again and plods ahead of me. Not his usual gentlemanly style. “Whatta you want? We’re going to sit outside.” Outside? How nice to be consulted. “More private,” he adds as an explanation. I give him my order for an iced latté and pick a table in the corner of the tiny, empty outdoor patio. He pushes the glass door open with his shoulder while carrying our drinks and a wad of napkins. I help him wipe the Arizona dust off the table and park myself on a rickety chair. We settle and I wait. Gracious, I’m getting patient lately. I think of that song the famous female psychologist plays a lot on her radio show about having a new attitude. Actually, that was the subject of Pastor Kerry’s message last Sunday. Telling me something, are you, Lord?

  We sip drinks. I clear my throat, he clears his. This is getting downright boring. I hope God keeps the patient attitude thing going in me, because I’m having a problem with it. Just as I’m about to doze off or flip a gasket, Noel mumbles something like, “Have a performance problem.”

  What! I didn’t know he performed. Is he an actor on the side? He’s certainly handsome enough, sort of Michael Rennie style. Boy, does that show my age. Actually, one of my former mothers-in-law adored the man. Even made me get his autograph once when he was in town. After having embarrassed myself and her son at great emotional expense, when I gave her his photo with the autograph she merely said, “Thanks.” I wanted to scream, “Do you realize what we had to go through to get this for you?” Even though I didn’t do it then, I want to scream now.

  Just as I’m about to let loose with a howl, Noel raises his head. “You understand, Betsy?”

  “Not exactly.” I wait, patiently. With a straight face.

  Something stirs in me and I sense I should take his hand. I reach across the small table and lay my palm against the back of one of his cold hands gripping his drink. More than the chill of the iced coffee gives me shivers. He looks at me with sad blue eyes the color of a stormy sky. “I have trouble with intimate relationships.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s why I worry, why I have anxiety attacks. I have very strong feelings for you, but if we were to get married, I’d be a big disappointment as a husband.”

  Okay, now my head is spinning. I’m not sure if it’s because of the “M” word or his confusing confession. I mentally and quickly explore my options. My mouth takes over again from my brain. But, I’m beginning to understand his performance euphemism.

  “First, how do you know this? You’ve been widowed for what, five years? Second, how did marriage come into this conversation?” I can’t help it, I giggle. Just saying the word marriage makes me do it. I guess that’s good because Noel chuckles.
>
  “Let’s start with question number two,” he says. For a fleeting moment I feel like I’m on that old game show where contestants choose between door number one and door number two. Is there a door number three for Noel and me? Maybe, if I can name the right price. Oops, that’s a different show. I return to the moment, and I think I’ve missed what Noel said during my reverie.

  “Betsy.” His voice raises an octave. “Did you even hear what I said? You looked as if you were drifting off into La La Land.” Got me there, Noel. I try to look contrite, but probably fail.

  “Sorry. Can you please repeat your…comment?” I’m trying to make my remark as innocuous as possible, but I think I almost heard a proposal while my mind was wandering.

  He tries to conceal a sigh, but it escapes his lips. His shaking head and wan smile tell me I’d better start paying attention. After all, this is the man I love. Oops, did that thought really come from moi?

  Now he grasps my hand firmly in his. “Back to question two. As I pointed out, apparently to the air, I have developed very strong feelings for you.” He stops to make sure I’m focusing on him. “If these feelings continue to develop like I think they will, like I hope they will…” Long pause. “Aw, shucks, I love you, Betsy.” My feeble heart does a pitter-patter thing, and I feel my face turning rasberry red. No male has professed love to me in such a sweet way since Bobby McNair did in the front seat of his Corvair in high school. No, if you’re wondering, we never made it to the back seat.

  “Oh, Noel.” For once my mouth isn’t working. My lips feel big and floppy, even though I’ve never had injections to make them puffy. My tongue isn’t working too well, but I hope my misty eyes say how I feel. I squeeze his hand and nod.

  “Is that a yes?” he asks. Polly Parrot takes over again and I nod, hoping I know what I’ve agreed to. Noel’s fingers tickle the back of my hand and he kisses it. A real smooch, not some flitting touch of the lips. I’m amazed at how passionate a kiss on a hand can feel.