by Mary Campisi
Lord, but the man meant sex. Of course, she was thinking about that. They’d kissed and done a little of this and a hint of that, but nothing that involved real nakedness and the act. It had been so long; did she even remember how to do it? Would he be after her every other night like her dead husband had been, not caring about her needs or anything but his own selfish wants? Lester had been patient and kind, and she doubted he believed her tale about not sharing a bed or intimacy until after marriage because of her “strong religious beliefs.” But he hadn’t questioned her and he'd never tried to change her mind.
“Phyllis? Are you gonna answer me? Is this about sex?”
She pursed her lips, shot him a look. “It’s about I’m not twenty-five anymore. I’m saggy and wrinkled with spider veins and extra blubber where it shouldn’t be. Some days I look in the mirror and don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Who is that gray-haired person with the skinny legs and pot belly? Did you know even the skinniest woman in the world has a belly when she goes through the change and unless she dedicates her life to getting rid of it through surgery and who knows what else, she’s done?” There, see what he thought about that. She clenched her hands on the table, anger simmering in her belly, inching its way to her mouth where it would spew out venomous thoughts in seconds.
“You think I want a twenty-five-year-old? Or Lord, want you to be twenty-five again? Take a good look, Phyllis. I’m not some young buck looking to mate every twelve hours. I want to be with you because I care about you.” His blue gaze landed on her belly. “All of you.” He leaned forward, placed a hand on that cursed belly of hers, and said, “You never have to be ashamed with me. We’ll go slow, build up to it if need be. There’s something to be said for the twilight years and I want to spend them with you.” He paused, his eyes bright. “You, Phyllis, not some young thing who doesn’t know about loss and heartache. I want somebody who’s had her share of those, so when joy comes along she grabs it.” Lester pressed his strong hand against her belly. “And I want that woman to be you. My wife.”
The anger inside stilled, faded. “Nobody’s ever been able to calm me down like you can.” She touched his forearm. “It’s gonna take a lot of talking and a heck of a lot of compromise.”
His eyes turned brighter. “I expect so.” His voice grew deeper. “You game?”
This time she didn’t hesitate when she gave him her answer. “Yes.” She smiled, let the fear settle. “I’m game.” The smile he gave her warmed her heart, made her bold. “I love you, Lester Conroy. From now until I draw my last breath.”
“I love you, too, Phyllis, and I promise, we’re gonna have a good life together.” He eased away, reached in his jacket pocket, and pulled out a small blue velvet box. “I know you’re not big on fancy things, but this reminded me of you.”
She took the box and flipped it open. Diamond studs winked back at her, big, bold, beautiful. “My goodness,” was all she could say as tears choked the words in her throat.
“You like them?”
Phyllis sniffed, swiped at a tear. “I do.”
“Good. I want you to think of me every time you wear them.”
She flung her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on the mouth, laughter bursting from her. “Every time I wear them?” More laughter, another kiss. “Sweetheart, I’m never taking them off.”
When people received their invitation to Phyllis and Lester’s wedding, they pretty much counted on a snowy day, packing boots, parkas, and snow shovels in their vehicles, just in case. No telling when the next blast would hit and you’d get stuck in a whiteout or a blizzard. Best to come prepared—that was the town’s motto, one Pop subscribed to and recommended.
But on the day Phyllis and Lester were set to exchange their until-death-do-us-part vows, nobody could have counted on the real storm that would rock the town, the one set to explode inside St. Gertrude’s and not even Pop could have guessed who’d be the cause of it. No siree, because if he’d had an inkling, he’d have done something about it before the storm broke.
But there hadn’t been a hint of it and that’s why he sat back and relaxed—as much as a body could when sitting in a wooden pew—and joined the rest of the congregation as they watched the woman who served up the best breakfasts in town and the man with the secret past who’d become his friend say the words that would tie them together. Nice and neat. Hope and promises. Pop smiled, let out a small sigh as he thought of the morning he and his Lucy said their vows. Love and second chances. Everybody deserved them.
And then Father Reisanski said the part about objections and whatnot, his gray eyes sweeping the congregation with a two-second glance before he turned back to the couple. Ready for the best part of all. Only it didn’t happen because a squeaky voice interrupted.
“You’ve got to stop this wedding, Father. The man is a fraud.”
Pop swung around and stared at the woman three rows behind him. Edith Finnegan? What was she doing here? He doubted she’d been on the invitation list; nobody wanted to be around someone who carried her own raincloud with her everywhere she went. Besides, Edith didn’t like people, didn’t like to venture out among them, like they were a different species and not a welcome one. The closest she’d gotten to acting human was when Tess and Cash got back together a few years ago: cried buckets over that reunion. Of course, it was all hearsay, but Pop thought it could be true. But what the heck was she doing here? And what did she know about Lester?
“Edith.” Father Reisanski spoke her name in a curious voice with a touch of edge to it, like he was caught between comforting her and asking her to sit down and be quiet. “Do you know Mr. Conroy?”
The woman clutched her purse between her hands, squared her bony shoulders. “I don’t need to know the man to know all about him.” Her thin lips pinched, her long nose sniffed the air. “Any person who comes to this town and out and out tries to destroy it is evil.” She pointed a finger at Lester who’d gone all white beneath his tan. “You know what you did. Trying to break up Nate and Christine Desantro with sordid pictures of that whore! You call that being honorable?” Her voice turned shrill, her expression fierce. “Tell these good people who you really are, Lester Conroy. Tell them how you came to Magdalena and spied on all of us, how you aren’t a medical supply salesman at all. Tell them!”
“Stop!” Phyllis stood at the altar, gaze zeroed in on Edith, her expression a mix of disappointment and anger. “Just stop.” She hitched the cream gown in both hands, made her way down the altar steps, her sparkly shoes click-clacking as she moved. When she reached Edith’s pew, she thrust her fists on her hips and scowled. “How could you do this, Edith? Do you want everyone to suffer because you can’t find your own slice of happiness?”
Edith crossed her arms over her flat chest and gave Phyllis an equally fierce scowl. The woman was a good five inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter, but she was grit and determination, and it looked like she wasn’t backing down. Maybe that’s what years of orneriness and bad attitude got you. “I can’t let you marry the wrong man.” She paused, spat out, “Again.”
Phyllis stepped closer, one sparkly shoe touching the edge of the pew. “Not another word, Edith.”
“Nope.” Edith shook her salt-and-pepper head. “You may hate me and that’s your prerogative, but I said nothing when you married your first husband, even when I knew he’d taken up with Shelly Ponterian a week before your nuptials.”
Shelly Ponterian? The former tax collector? The congregation started to hum like a swarm of locusts heading straight for them. How had Pop not heard about that one? Good Lord, how did Edith Finnegan know when the woman barely spoke to a soul and then just to register a complaint.
“Lester is nothing like Nelson and I’ll thank you not to use their names in the same sentence.”
Edith let out what might be considered a whimper of sadness if it came from anyone else. “He’s not like that dead husband of yours.” Pause, followed by a comment that made Pop cringe.
“He’s worse.”
“How dare you come here and try to ruin my happiness.” Phyllis clenched her hands into fists, leaned toward Edith. “I trusted you. I never gave up on you, no matter what the rest of the town said. And this is how you treat me? By sharing something that was private? Spoken between friends?”
Friends? Now that was a shocker, and one he’d have to think on. Pop eyeballed Edith, waiting to see how she’d sidestep this one. Oh, but the woman had a harsh and unbending streak. Seems she didn’t possess the ability to see the other side of a predicament and would rather bulldoze the relationship than admit she might have gone in the wrong direction.
Edith Finnegan’s thin lips stretched into a straight line. “Don’t you see, Phyllis, it’s because we’re friends that I’ve come here? To protect you and spare you the pain of yet another bad choice and the heartache that’s bound to follow?”
“Edith?” Father Reisanski extended a hand from the altar. “The question I presented to the congregation was more of a formality. I didn’t actually expect anyone to stand and deliver testimony as to why they should not wed.”
“Humph.” The woman cocked a brow and gave the priest a once-over. “Then maybe you should have.”
“Edith, what in the Lord’s name do you think you’re doing?”
Jack Finnegan stood just inside the church, ball cap in hand, winter jacket opened to reveal a red-checkered flannel shirt and faded jeans. He trudged down the aisle, gaze locked on his sister. The closer he got, the more Edith’s fancy bravado faded until she’d all but shriveled into her brown coat. “I had to help her, Jack,” she said in a hoarse voice. “She’s my friend. I couldn’t let him take advantage of her.” She shook her head. “I just couldn’t.”
He held out a hand to his sister, said in a voice that forced Pop to lean forward to hear. “All men aren’t cheaters; some do mean what they say.”
Her eyes misted, her lips trembled. “But how do you know the difference when the words come out so sweet and sincere? How can you tell, Jack?” She pointed to Lester Conroy who stood at the altar looking alone, confused, and as deflated as a tire with a spike driven through it. “How can you tell until it’s too late?” She bowed her head and sniffed. “I can’t let that happen to Phyllis. She’s my friend.” Jack Finnegan drew his sister against his chest, patted her frail back, and murmured something Pop couldn’t hear. What on earth was the woman talking about? Had a man done her wrong? Who? He’d never heard a word about Edith Finnegan taking up with a man, good or bad. Pop rubbed his jaw, tried to sift through the years of memories he had about the woman. No recollection of the stick-in-the-mud, do-it-by-the-book, sixth-grade math teacher. People tended to avoid her, including her own family. Pop thought on this last piece. Hadn’t there been some kind of upheaval when old man Finnegan was alive that landed him in the hospital with chest pains? Seems there was and didn’t Edith take a long leave of absence from teaching and disappear for three or four months? Or was it longer? If Lucy were here, she’d remember the details. She’d always said there was more to Edith Finnegan than her roses and her snide comments.
But what?
“Come on, Edith, let’s get you home.” Jack eased an arm around his sister’s narrow shoulders and pulled her against his side like he wasn’t sure she could make it on her own.
“But what about Phyllis?” She jerked her head toward her friend. “Please don’t let him hurt you.”
For all of Phyllis McGill’s bluster and gruffness, there was a part of the woman that was softer than cream cheese on a warm bagel. “I won’t, Edith. Don’t you worry.” A tear fell down her cheek, then another. “Now go home and get some rest. I’ll talk to you later.”
Edith nodded, leaned against her brother, and Pop could have sworn she said, “Don’t let him hurt you,” before Jack guided her from the church. When the double oak door closed after them, Father Reisanski cleared his throat and said, “If there are no other objections, we can resume the ceremony.”
Pop should have known a man like Lester Conroy was not going to remain quiet. It had been hard enough to honor his future wife’s wishes, but once his real identity and relationship to the town was blown open, there was no stopping Lester from fessing to the truth.
“Excuse me, Father. I’d like a minute or two if you don’t mind.”
Phyllis flew to the altar as fast as those sparkle shoes would carry her, leaned on tiptoe and whispered in Lester’s ear. The whispers were loud enough so Pop could catch words like foolishness, judgment, and please don’t do this. She might as well save her breath because while Lester Conroy had lied about his profession, he wanted to make things right. Pop bet the town would take the man’s confession as a sign that he wanted their acceptance for who he was, not who he’d pretended to be. That would boost him way above Phyllis’s dead husband and bets were, people would say she was one lucky woman who’d finally got it right.
Time would tell the story, one way or the other.
Lester glanced at Pop, held his gaze a full three seconds before he turned toward the congregation. “What Edith Finnegan said is true. I’m a private investigator and Gloria Blacksworth hired me to see what her husband was up to.” He sighed, eased his lanky body from the altar to stand in the center aisle. “I’m sure you all know Charlie’s story, and most of you knew Charlie. All I knew about the man was the information I collected from observation and outside sources. I did have the opportunity to sit down and share a beer with him once, several years after I’d been assigned to keep an eye on him, but I didn’t put that in my report. Mrs. Blacksworth would not have taken kindly to that.” His lips curved into a faint smile, “Charlie and I had a good talk, about life, family, regrets. I liked the man, wished I wasn’t snooping in his business. It didn’t feel right, but I’d signed on to do a job, and that’s what I did.”
Phyllis slung an arm through his, stared at the crowd and said, “That’s when I met Lester. Oh, he said he was a medical supply salesman who came through every now and again, but I think he could have been with the traveling circus and I’d have given him a second look. There was something in his eyes that said he knew how to respect a woman and when he spoke, he was a real gentleman. None of that vulgarity that peppers so much of today’s language.” Her eyes grew bright, her words firm. “Did he do wrong by not telling us who he really was and why he was in our town? Absolutely. Did he hurt others, especially Nate and Christine Desantro when he went along with Gloria Blacksworth’s scheme to break them apart? No doubt about it. But this town is built on forgiveness and second chances, and if Nate and Christine can forgive him, then can’t all of you do the same?”
A low murmur filled the congregation, slow and steady until it escalated, spread to the stained-glass windows and the vaulted ceiling. Pop was the first to stand and clap, his gaze on Lester and Phyllis. What an unlikely couple to draw the town together! Who would have figured it? Nate and Christine Desantro stood next, then Lily and Miriam, until every person was standing and the organist stroked a few chords to match the hand-clapping.
Now if that wasn’t love and forgiveness in action then Pop didn’t know what was.
Father Reisanski let the music and clapping go on for another few minutes, his tanned face glowing like he’d witnessed a miracle. Maybe he had. This town wasn’t big on connivers or swindlers but maybe they’d found it in their hearts to give the homegrown Texan another chance. Now if they could just keep quiet about comparing Phyllis’s first husband with her second, well, they all might have an opportunity to live in peace and a good dose of harmony. How about that? Pop sank onto the wooden pew, folded his hands in his lap and waited for the celebration to fade out. It took another minute, but the crowd finally hushed and died down.
“Grandma, are we almost done? My feet hurt.”
Phyllis smiled at the young girl standing on the right side of the altar wearing matching sparkly shoes. “Yes, dear. Mr. Lester and I have a few more words to say and then we’ll be done.”
/> “And we get to eat at the fancy restaurant and I can have a drink with a fancy straw.” She grinned at Lester. “And a cherry, right?”
He grinned back. “That’s right.”
The girl nodded, glanced at the congregation, and clamped a hand over her mouth.
“It’s okay, Meredith,” Lester said in a gentle voice. “How about your grandma and I finish up here and we’ll see about that straw?” She nodded, eased her hand from her mouth. “Okay,” she whispered.
Pop’s heart swelled as he watched Lester with the child. The man had a lot of good in him and he’d found a way to soften up Phyllis, not an easy task when the woman was used to acting like a crusty roll instead of a warm baguette. They were meant to be together, even if they were closer to the end of their life than the beginning. What did that matter? What did any of it matter if the joy was real and pure? Pop swiped at a cheek as he witnessed Lester and Phyllis become husband and wife—together forever. Amen.
3
Harry Blacksworth was a class act and his wife was a real lady. They’d offered a reception at Harry’s Folly as a wedding gift and as Lester learned soon enough, there was no refusing the man.
“You ever tried calamari, Lester?” Harry slapped him on the back, shoved a drink in his hand and laughed. “That look on your face says the closest you’ve ever come to it is typed on a menu.” Another laugh as Harry scooped up a spoonful of fried curlicued something or other and piled them on his plate. “Now you top it with a side of marinara and you’re good to go.” He forked a few calamari, plopped them in his mouth and chewed. “Damn good.” He shoved the plate at Lester. “Try it.”
Lester preferred food without tentacles. He was more of a basic food group kind of man: meat, fish, potatoes, some grains. No tentacles. Nothing too fancy, not too sweet, too sour, too disgusting-looking. Harry didn’t see it that way. The man had a whole other perception and tolerance for the word disgusting. Still, Harry Blacksworth was the host of this reception and if he wanted Lester to try calamari, he guessed he’d give it a whirl. Lester slathered marinara sauce on a circle of calamari and bit into it. Chewy. Bubble-gum chewy.
