Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance)

by Bonnie Engstrom

  ~

  I have no clients today, unfortunately. My bank account is teetering on low, very low. I debate putting an ad in the paper, or on social media. That could be scary, though. I prefer word of mouth so I can trust where the referrals come from. Bett used to send me a lot of clients, but I guess she’s busy taking care of my fiancé, the man I haven’t had contact with for days.

  I remind myself it’s early fall in Arizona, the second hottest time of year here. Many Arizonans have split for cooler climes, mostly California. I don’t blame them. If I had the funds, I would, too. Soon Snowbirds will return to their second homes and want to entertain. Fall and early winter are the best times for me. I know that, so why do I stress?

  Brie is filing her nails when I get a phone call. The number looks familiar, but it’s not in my safe list. I decide to risk it and answer. “Who?” I can’t believe it. Nancy Faraday, reluctant, scared, new hostess Nancy from Memorial Day.

  The conversation from my end varies from “What?,” “Really?,” “I’m so glad.” to “I sure can. Give me the details and the menu.” I hesitate a second. “Okay if I bring my daughter? She’s about your age.”

  “Who was that?” Brie looks at me suspiciously. Shouldn’t she be visiting Derek? Well, I can’t run their marriage, but I’d like to. Then I remember he is temporarily in a physical rehab facility, an effort on his part to get intense physical therapy and up the ante so he can help take care of the baby when it’s born. Returning to work at his engineer job wouldn’t hurt either.

  “That was Nancy, a former client. A lovely young, newly married, woman.” I stopped explaining. How could I explain that Nancy has become close to my heart? Would Brie understand the affection I have for her?

  “What did she want? A salade?” Brie pronounces it sarcastically in her boggled French.

  I sigh and try to put aside her snideness. Take a deep breath, Betsy. “Yes, and no. She is throwing a surprise party for her husband and wants me to prepare all the food.” I stop to think about what Nancy said. “She is a little green in hospitality, though. She’s starting with me as food prepper, but she has no theme and no decorations in mind.”

  “So, you are the caterer? Aren’t most caterers hired by event coordinators?”

  “I guess so. Maybe I should try to do the whole thing. Maybe you could help me.”

  “Me?”

  “You used to throw great parties when you were just a teen. Great themes, great decorations.” I raise my new eyebrows and zero in on her.

  She ignores my flattery. “What’s the occasion? Birthday?”

  “Not sure. I will call back and ask. What do you say?”

  I can hardly hear Nancy’s voice, barely a whisper. I can tell she’s walking outside because of the crickets chirping in the background.

  “Can’t say much now, Betsy. Just a party to honor him on the day we met. Call it an ‘I love you’ party. Ideas?”

  I tell her I have an event coordinator in mind, and promise to get back to her after Brie and I brainstorm.

  ~

  We have so much fun reminiscing.

  “Remember the Girls Night Out party? And the Madonna party when you all sang Material Girl and I videotaped it? How about the…”

  Finally, we get serious.

  “Brie, we have to be very careful not to make this seem like a teen dream party. Nancy’s husband is a big time pillar of the community, a benefactor, an important guy. This can’t be a silly party. Maybe a serious, slightly silly, party. You understand?”

  She nods, and just as we start to brainstorm, my cell rings. Drat!

  I pick it up and before I can say a word, “Betsy!” the voice booms. “You ignoring me?”

  “Why would I do that, Noel? You don’t need me. You are getting pampered by Bett and Consuela.”

  “Who? Oh, the housekeeper. She quit.” Now, that’s a revelation.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Not sure. Maybe thought Bett asked too much of her, for me.” I hear his sigh on the other end of the phone. “I don’t demand or need much. Just want some special perks, and my Betsy girl.”

  The man is insufferable. Have I hooked up with another jerk?

  My hand holding the phone is shaking. If Noel had been here, I would have tossed the phone at his face. I forgot I had the cell on speaker.

  In a flash the phone is grabbed from my trembling hand. Brie is screaming into it.

  “Now listen here, Noel. You stop playing games with my mother. And, tell Bett too. Also” she adds for emphasis. She sucks in a breath, grabs the phone so tight her hand is shaking. Then she starts prancing around. I stand stunned, like Lot’s wife.

  Brie marches through the living room, goes in the bathroom and slams the door. I saunter over to the door and press my ear against it. Nada. I can hear nothing. Drat!

  When she emerges she slams my phone on the counter. “I set everything straight.” She says with a smirk on her face.

  FORTY FOUR

  Ice on my head.

  Do I still have a fiancé, or have I been abandoned again?

  “Gotta go, Momma. Getting Derek from the PT rehab.” She slams the door. I guess that means she is taking my car. I hope Old Sassy doesn’t mind a lead foot.

  I am melting into the disgusting brown chair when I hear it.

  Door opens. Brie back already?

  Soft, steady footsteps approach. Should I be scared? Brie always forgets to look doors, so maybe this is an unlikely intruder, like in mystery novels. Naw, I’m not on anyone’s hit list. Yet.

  I decide to lay low, ignore the footsteps, pretend not to hear.

  I feel a soft kiss on my forehead. Feels nice. Oops. “Who’s here?”

  “Me, Betsy. Noel.”

  “My reluctant fiancé?” I fling the bag of ice off my head to the floor. I open my eyes wide under the new brows.

  Noel’s reaction is not what I expected. “What have you done with your face? Where is Betsy’s face?”

  A chuckle starts deep in my throat. Then I start to giggle, and it mushrooms into a guffaw. I am shaking in the brown chair, heaving with hilarity. He noticed!

  Then the old Betsy takes over.

  “Why didn’t you come sooner? What took you so long? Having too much fun and attention at Bett’s?”

  “I…I wasn’t sure you wanted me. Yes, I have been pampered at Bett’s. But, I miss our special relationship. And, I miss holding you in my arms. I am such a jerk.”

  “Don’t call yourself that. Don’t! Ever.” I struggle up out of the chair and my cast catches on the throw rug. I begin to fling forward, just as Noel grabs me. His strong arms are wrapped around me, and I look up into crayon blue eyes that focus on my face. I feel secure, loved. Until...

  “What did you do to your face, Betsy?”

  “You don’t like it?” If he doesn’t I will grow the shaggy eyebrows back, and the nose hairs. I will stain my teeth again.

  He holds me away from him with his hands on my shoulders. For a better look? “Wow. I love it. It’s a new you. But,” he looks directly into my eyes with his crayon blue ones, “I loved you just the way you were. Still,” he hesitates, “you look brilliant, younger. Will I be marrying a younger woman? A trophy wife?”

  ~

  “I dreamt about you.”

  “Me?” Nancy’s pretty face breaks into a wide smile.

  “Yes. You were folding napkins.”

  I chuckle, she giggles.

  “You taught me how.” She turns toward Brie who is shifting to get comfortable on what I guess is an expensive chaise lounge from Horchow, or maybe Ballard Designs. One of those mail order places that only sell outstandingly lavish outdoor furniture. “Your mom taught me a lot,” she states. “But, mostly, she gave me confidence.”

  Brie seems to be processing that. I know because her face wrinkles.

  “You are so lucky, Brie. No, you are blessed to have Betsy for a mom.”

  Okay, Nancy. I really appreciate the accolades, but stop
the mushy stuff. You will make Brie jealous. But, it would be nice to hear those comments from my Brie.

  Brie squirms, then lights up unexpectedly. “She is a wonderful mom, Nancy.”

  I have to steady myself to keep from tipping over the patio chair I’m sitting on across from Nancy at the glass table. TY, Lord!

  “Thanks, both of you. Now, let’s continue and plan this party.”

  I let Brie take the lead since she is now the official event coordinator, if Nancy hires her.

  We bat ideas around and Brie asks a lot of questions. “Tell us exactly where Lester and you met. What was the occasion? Party, blind date? Special place?”

  Nancy sighs and closes her beautiful almond eyes. “It was at a friend’s wedding. We were both bored and separately walked out to the hotel lake. Just wandering. Escaping I guess. We could hear the music a bit, playing old tunes. Some I didn’t recognize, but Lester did. He’s a few years older than I am. I remember he said, “Hi, I’m Lester, fifth wheel at this party.” His eyes captured mine, and he said, “You look sad. Beautiful, but sad.” I wanted to deny that, the sad part. But, it was true. I had just broken up from a long relationship that was going nowhere, and I felt lonely. Even sad. I made an effort to smile at him and held out my hand. ‘I’m Nancy. Another extra wheel.’ I said.

  “’Recognize that tune?’” he asked.

  “I had no clue.”

  “It’s Love Comes Around. An old melody.” He whispered. He held out his hands and we danced, there in the moonlight shimmering on the lake. We danced on grass, my high heels sticking into the ground. Finally, we just swayed. Close. It was magical.

  “We went for coffee, abandoning the speeches and cake-cutting. And,” she paused, “the rest is history, as they say.”

  All three of us had tears in our eyes. I picked up my pen to make notes, but Nancy interrupted.

  “It was the best, most wonderful night of my life. I want to memorialize it. I want to honor him, us.”

  FORTY FIVE

  Derek is in the guest room bed recovering from intense physical therapy that left him drained. Brie and I are lounging in my small living room.

  “Shouldn’t you be with him?”

  “Nope. He’s sound asleep, snoring like a baby. He needs his rest.”

  “So, how are we going to plan this party?”

  Brie holds her nose and says, “It stinks.”

  “B…but…”

  “I know. We have to do it. But, what? It’s so nebulous, vague, unclear what she wants.” She presses her fingers to her forehead and wrinkles her nose. “I don’t get it. Why doesn’t she do a birthday or anniversary party? Something more concrete that has a specific meaning.”

  “Nancy’s sort of scattered. She means well, but she isn’t very organized, even in her thoughts.”

  “You think?”

  I raise my new eyebrows and nod my head. I’ve never had this problem before. Most clients are specific, know exactly what they want, give me a detailed menu. Nancy’s wishes are a mystery, obviously even to her. I guess we will have to make up her mind for her.

  We mull over all she shared with us, the meeting of two lonelies, the lake, the dance on the grass during someone else’s wedding reception. The coffee date after.

  “That’s it!”

  “What? Coffee?”

  “Yes. We have a coffee bar with unique unusual coffees.”

  “Sounds boring.”

  “Not if we make it special.”

  “Like how?”

  “It will have various flavored coffees, plus a strong imported one, maybe from Costa Rica, one of the coffee capitals of the world. We’ll also have a really good French Decaf for people like me.” I see a slight nod, but I’m sure I still see a quizzical expression.

  “What about people who like to drink?” Brie squeezes her eyes, maybe remembering events she and Derek attended. “Lots of big wigs in the corporate world want a martini or rum and coke, or scotch. Won’t those people think it’s a boring party? Maybe even leave early.”

  “Mmm. I remember at the barbeque she had big metal buckets filled with ice that held beer and wine. I didn’t pay much attention because I was flipping burgers.” (I am refraining from telling Brie about the ones that landed on Noel’s shoes. Another time.) I don’t recall Nancy or Lester drinking, but I wasn’t paying much attention to what was in their hands.

  “How about a self-serve mini-bar of the kinds of alcohol that can be added to coffee? Like Irish Whiskey. Isn’t there another?”

  “I dunno.” Brie shrugs. “I haven’t drunk since our wedding, and I certainly can’t now that I’m expecting.”

  Suddenly, she pops up, well forward, not up, from her position on the sofa. “Isn’t there some kind of fake champagne? For non-alcoholic celebrations.”

  The next day I go to Total Wine. The wine connoisseur guides me to some impressive looking bottles, pretty fancy. He assures me no one will know because the labels look so authentic, like the alcohol-based stuff.

  I realize I never asked Nancy. Maybe she’d prefer the real stuff. I call her, semi-reluctantly.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she says. “We don’t drink. I’ve never liked the stuff, doesn’t agree with me. Tummy aches, headaches. Lester is AA, Alcoholics Anonymous. But,” she assures me, “it doesn’t bother either of us if others imbibe.

  “Maybe if we put a definite end time of the party on the invitation? Would that help, give people a clue? So we don’t have lingerers who’ve drunk too much?”

  She’s getting there to being the perfect hostess. “Great idea, Nancy. We can even say on the invite that a toast to the two of you will be at a certain time. Most people leave right after a toast. Sound okay?”

  “Great. Those who want to stay a bit longer can sit and sip coffee.”

  I go back to planning the food. All appetizers and hors d’ourves. Keep it light and keep it simple – my motto. At least for this party. I start to list ideas to share with Brie, but seeing them makes me so hungry I fix a salad for us both. Derek got Wildflower Café Wild Mushroom Soup, his favorite, that Brie ran to get in Old Sassy. Things are looking up.

  Derek is healing, working hard to become fully active. Brie is being a good wife, somewhat solicitous, but kind and attentive. I have a major client. The only hitch in the gitalong is Noel.

  FORTY SIX

  I am so tempted to call him Jerk Number Two.

  It’s true, he didn’t leave me pregnant, like his predecessor over two decades ago. But, he has sloughed me off for Bett’s administrations. When I stayed at Bett’s after the fire in my condo, I loved being there…for a few days. Then I got bored and lonely and raring to go back to my life.

  Seems not so with Noel. The man loves to be pampered, succumbs to it, wallows in it. I can’t do this for him. I am not the solicitous doormat type. He knows that. I don’t scrape or bow.

  At least not to any man, only God. Well, maybe a little bit to my mother. And, once in a while, a tiny bit to Bett because she always seems so flustered and troubled. I did to Brie, but let’s call that acquiescing. She is, after all, going to give me another grandchild.

  My event planning partner interrupts my wandering thoughts.

  “Momma, I got it!” A Cheshire grin splits her face with obvious pride, and she doesn’t even know Snoopy. “You,” she points at me with a wiggling finger, “you are the salad lady. So, let’s do a salad bar. But, not just any salad bar, a unique one.”

  I close my eyes and raise my chin. It helps me to concentrate. “You mean with lots of unusual ingredients? Sort of like that Fresh Tomatoes restaurant?” She nods, and the grin actually gets wider.

  “Yep. Pastas and protein and lots of fun toppings. And,” she continues, as she tilts her head for emphasis, “people who are holding a salad plate find it difficult to hold a glass at the same time. I realize we will have to have tables, some, with chairs, but if there aren’t enough to seat everyone, some will have to stand. Those that are seated,�
� she goes on, “will be busy chatting, and those standing will have to put down their glasses in order to eat.”

  “Are you sure you were never involved in PTA?” That’s where I learned to have meetings in small rooms so when all the seats were taken others had to stand. Made the meetings look filled to the brim; better than loads of empty seats. Also, it crammed people together so they had to introduce themselves. “Never mind. In five years you will be.”

  We make food lists. Potato salad (although not pasta, it’s filling and absorbent—of alcohol), pasta shell salad, no long stringy pasta—too hard to incorporate in a salad.

  “We should have Aunt Lottie’s chicken salad, too. It’s yummy on greens.”

  “Absolutely. And Sprout’s cranberry bread, and those wild rice crackers from Sam’s Club. I think they’re called RiceWorks? Any Wildflower bread is a winner, too. Some guests might want to make a sandwich.” She puts down her pen and chews on the end of it like she gnawed on a pencil when she was a kid. “Do you think my crab appetizer in the round bread is right? Or, not?”

  My mouth salivates at the mention of it. “I think it’s a nice addition, but it would need to be on a warming tray. The Party People rental company can provide one, plus a deep container filled with ice for the chicken salad. A little fish, a little chicken will be a nice touch.”

  We agree on unusual veggies and fruits that usually aren’t part of a salad bar. “Let’s do kalamata olives, kiwi slices, apple wedges, artichokes, berries—lots, all different kinds. And lots of different cheeses for toppings, not just croutons, so old school.” Brie keeps making a list, and her head is bobbing.

  “No croutons. But, tomorrow,” she says, “we go to Fresh Tomatoes, even Fry’s Signature Market, and check out the salad bars for ideas. Okay?”

  I agree and feel more comfortable with our plan. I feel obligated to call Fancy Nancy, as I’ve taken to calling her in my head. We do need her blessing before we put too much into this menu plan.

  “Oh, Betsy!” I can almost see the grin on her lovely face. I can definitely hear it. “Brie is so clever. Wish I’d thought of that. But, that’s why I have you two.” I now hear the wheels spinning in her scattered brain. “What about dressings? Have you gotten that far?”