by Leah Atwood
“Thanks.” I pushed my arms through the sleeves of my coat. “I’ll bring the other toys in by the end of the week so we can get them wrapped. I’m glad we ordered extra Bibles this year since it looks like we’re going to need most of them. Ditto the pink and blue notecards.”
She nodded. “Based on the increase since we started three years ago, we’re going to need even more next year.”
I smiled as I buttoned my coat. “Thanks for all you do, Maura. Ryan and I couldn’t operate Perchance to Dream without you, Nick, and our volunteers.”
“Right back at you, my friend.” Maura leaned against her desk and crossed her arms. “You may not realize this, but I look forward to this project. In some ways, it’s my sanity.”
“How so?” I pulled my purple knit scarf from my tote bag and began to wrap it around my neck.
Maura gave me a weary smile that sent sparks of guilt shooting through me.
“Things have been tense at the law office lately. I feel like I’m spinning my wheels with some of our current cases. Coming here in the evenings has been a God-send for me. I know it’s been the same for Nick, too. So, in some ways, I’m sorry to see Perchance come to an end for this year.”
Her mention of Nick gave me pause. I’ve suspected for the last three months—since we’d begun our work in earnest with Perchance to Dream this year—that Maura harbored a secret affection for Ryan’s older brother. I’m certain Maura considers it inappropriate to have a crush on her boss much less to consider dating him. Granted, it could get complicated, but my two favorite people are meant for each other. Now to convince them.
A thought popped into my mind.
“Maura, can you come to dinner at the house on Friday night? Say seven o’clock?” After tugging my gloves out of my coat pocket, I slipped them on and wiggled my fingers. When she hesitated, I hastened to plead my case. “It’s the holiday season. Live a little.” I arched a brow. “Time to let your hair down for a change.”
Maura’s smile brightened. “I’d love to come. Let me guess. You’re still working through those recipes for Ryan and need a guinea pig?”
“Of course. It’s my other project besides what we’re doing here. I’ve made all the recipes from his mother except for three I’ve been avoiding due to suspect ingredients. I’m hoping Ryan will be amazed by my improved cooking skills.”
“I’m sure he’ll love you for it. Even more than he already does,” Maura said. “I’m happy to be your guinea pig. What can I bring?”
“Some sparkling cider might be nice. Pick a flavor. Anything’s fine.”
“I can do that.”
“Oh, and Maura?” I tucked the ends of my scarf into the front of my wool coat. “One more thing?”
Headed back to her chair, Maura paused. “Sure thing. What do you need?”
“Bring Nick with you to dinner.”
I caught Maura’s surprise but tugged on my purple knit hat and darted out the front door before she could respond. I might be sneaky in my methods, but I prayed Maura would take my less-than-subtle suggestion.
Chapter 2
~~♥~~
On the way home, I stopped by Mom’s for a quick visit to discuss wedding details. We’ve finally transitioned into the active preparation phase. Afterwards, I darted into Keeley’s Market to pick up a few ingredients I’d need for the dinner on Friday night. I’d already planned which recipe I’d try next and—call it providence—I’d written the items on an index card and slipped it inside my purse earlier in the week.
While I was in the whole foods section at the market, Ryan texted again.
Can’t wait to see you tonight, baby.
My heart jumped. Resting my arms on the shopping cart, I quickly punched in my response.
My fiancé is the jealous type. We must be careful.
☺ Love my girl. Talk to you tonight, Ellie. Not long now until I’m home to stay.
Can’t wait. Counting the days and hours. All my love.
♥ Ellie. Bye.
Bye Ryan. Until tonight. xoxoxo
xoxoxo
As I pocketed my phone, I wondered how Ryan expected me to function effectively when he kept texting me. Not that I’m complaining.
Ryan’s mom, Mary, had given me my husband-to-be’s favorite recipes over a year ago. A couple of days each week, I’d make one of the dishes and then I’d choose a new recipe from a cookbook I’d checked out from the library, found online, or spotted in a magazine. The chicken dishes and casseroles are relatively uncomplicated. They tasted fine, but under no circumstances will I ever make anything with beets (much to my dismay, I’d discovered one among Mary’s recipes). I teased Ryan that I was going to write a “No Beets” clause into our wedding vows.
“Face it, you’ll never be a chef, Ellie,” Ryan told me once (thankfully, he’s since revised his opinion). I was twelve at the time, and I’d made an awful, gag-inducing concoction with broccoli and carrots (his favorite vegetables, as it turns out, a fact I did not know beforehand) and mushroom soup for our church social. Mistake number one: not using a recipe and believing that because I’d successfully made a green bean casserole, I could improvise like a pro.
Kara had informed me that cooking vegetables “beyond recognition” negated their nutritional value. So, afraid of that, I undercooked them. Out of desperation, I tossed a butter-flavored cracker topping and grated cheddar cheese over the so-called casserole since that was Mom’s quick fix for any questionable dish. I’d hoped it would also detract from the ugly grayish/brown color of the soup. It seriously looked like mud. Still, I packed up my mud and quietly added it to the buffet line at church. And hoped for the best.
Unfortunately, the crunchy mess tasted as unappetizing as it looked.
As if things couldn’t get any worse, my dad’s business partner, Eldridge Gray, cracked a tooth at that church supper. I wanted to run and hide for fear he’d cracked his tooth by biting into an undercooked broccoli floret or baby carrot. No accusations were ever made, but I suffered a guilt complex over that cracked tooth for years.
Fully aware it was one of my first attempts at cooking (another lesson learned—never make an untested dish for a crowd), Ryan forced down every bite and proclaimed it was one of the best casseroles he’d ever tasted. In spite of his earlier offensive remark about my future cooking skills (as if he could possibly know such a thing), I considered him quite the sport for lying through his teeth on my behalf. What a guy. Then he marched back to the buffet line for seconds. Not to worry since there was plenty left over.
I’m fairly certain that’s when I began to fall in love with Ryan.
In the past few months, especially, I’ve bounced around town with a goofy, besotted smile. I’m sure I’ve been annoyingly upbeat and perky. “I’m getting married on Christmas,” I’d sing under my breath to a no-name tune like some deliriously happy animated character. Deranged might be more like it. Even the frigid temperatures and unrelenting snow cannot dampen my mood. Instead of wet and bone-chilling, the snow is light, fluffy, and romantic.
Love colors my world happy.
Billy Crandall darted behind a produce display at Keeley’s Market last week in a clear attempt to avoid me. I’d heard the poor kid got dumped by his girlfriend, so my blatant reminder of premarital bliss must have offended his sensibilities. Of course, I feel bad for him, but Billy’s only sixteen, a mere babe in terms of romantic relationships.
Not even crotchety Marvin Kinderson in the town library can deter my enthusiasm. That codger has been admonishing me to be quiet for years, but he isn’t about to stop me now. If I wasn’t mistaken, the corners of his lips curled the last time I was in the library browsing through the cookbook section.
You’d think for someone who’s known her fiancé her entire life, I wouldn’t be so giddy and obnoxious. If anything, knowing Ryan and I would be joined as man and wife soon made me more excited. Instead of the phone calls, texts, emails, and Skype sessions we’d shared for the past 14 months, we�
��d finally share the home we’d picked out, fought over (the little stuff), and prayed over before he left for Afghanistan. Ryan will be right beside me to try out new recipes, plant a garden, snuggle together and watch movies, do our devotions, and share everything. Maybe get a puppy. Start a family in a couple of years (we’d like at least two or three children).
Ryan plans to finish his senior year at Ohio State (the extension in Cleveland) after his return from the military, looking to a career in business management. I’m sure my future husband will also be active in the local military recruiting office while I plan on a career in marketing and public relations. I’d decided to wait to finish my education until Ryan returns, although he has not endorsed that decision. For now, I work part-time at The Beckett Agency, a small but prestigious advertising agency in Cade’s Corner. For one thing, temporarily postponing my education gives me more time to devote to Perchance to Dream.
I quickened my steps as the small, one-story Cape Cod style cottage came into view when I turned the corner onto Dream Street. Yes, Dream Street. I was convinced the good Lord Himself had a hand in that one. Our future address wasn’t the reason we’d put the bid on the house, but it hadn’t hurt.
Reaching into my purse, I fumbled for the keys. I rushed into the house, pushed the door closed behind me, shed my coat, and plopped onto the sofa.
I’d taken my time decorating and furnishing this cozy home. Until recently, I divided my nights between the family homestead with Mom and the new house. I wanted everything to be perfect since we’d be getting married, honeymooning, and then settling in here right away.
I’d referred to our house as our “future love nest” when I’d Skyped with Ryan two months ago. I should have known he would not be amused.
“We’re not birds,” he said. “Nests are for birds.”
“But it will be filled with love,” I’d insisted like the eternal optimist I am. He hadn’t argued that point.
Ryan’s not perfect, by any means, and I’m definitely far from perfect. Yet he loves me in spite of my many faults. For one thing, Ryan gets grumpy when he’s tired and sometimes gets fired up about things over which he has no control (then again, so do I). We’ve both learned when to shut up and give in. Not that we can finish each other’s sentences (why would we want to?).
As I see it, here’s the most important thing: by the grace of God, we’ve settled into the grooves of life, and we know how to repair the fissures before they crack and become irreparable.
I understand marriage can be difficult—even in the best of circumstances—and that it’s not all sunshine and roses. My parents had some pretty fierce arguments, but they always took their words to another room of the house. Ditto Ryan’s parents (from what he’s told me although I’ve never witnessed a cross word between them). My older sisters and their husbands are always involved in some tiff or other. No one is immune from disagreements because of the basic differences in human nature. If we agreed all the time, life would be incredibly boring.
Tugging off one snow boot and then the other, I made small grunting sounds. Then I checked my watch and ran into the bathroom to brush my teeth and gargle. Silly to gargle for a Skype session, I know, but it was my routine. I ran a cleansing cloth over my face and then dusted light color over my pale winter cheeks. Much better.
Ryan likes it best when I’m fresh-faced without makeup. He claims to love the light smattering of freckles dotting my upper cheeks. When we’re alone, Ryan often traces his finger over the patterns of my freckles and then kisses them, one by one (as best he can). That’s the type of tender, romantic memory that carries me through my roughest moments, especially when he’s deployed, and I’m missing him the most. This second deployment has been much harder on both Ryan and me.
After releasing my hair from the ponytail, I ran a comb through it and then arranged it around my shoulders. Then I applied a light coat of mascara and pale pink gloss. Checking my smile in the mirror, I slicked my tongue over my teeth. “Thank you, Dr. Melton.” I’d worn braces from the age of nine until I was almost eleven.
Ryan told me once that he could tell I “might be cute” when my braces were removed. The day they came off, I marched down to Ryan’s house to show off my new smile. All he said was, “Good job, Doc Melton.” I ran straight home, buried my head under my pillow, and shed a few tears. Why should I care what Ryan Sullivan thought? Realistically, what had I expected him to do? I dried my tears and vowed never to shed another tear over that boy.
Ryan was one of those blessed kids who didn’t need braces, only a retainer. He kept flicking that gross thing in and out of his mouth to get a rise out of me (another one of Grandma Franklin’s sayings). Once he dropped his retainer in my cup in the school cafeteria without my knowledge. When I started to take a sip, Ryan grabbed the cup from my hand, spilling the contents all over me and the floor. Then he confessed his crime and vowed to get me into the middle school football games free for the entire season. Being a first-stringer was an advantage, so it’s not like it cost him anything. Still, his regret was obvious, and I considered his efforts to make things right an admirable gesture.
My gaze darted to the clock on the bathroom wall. “Ten minutes to showtime.”
I took one last glimpse of my appearance in the mirror. No, this wouldn’t work. The sweater had to go. This occasion definitely calls for my light blue silk blouse. I ran into the bedroom and scanned the contents of the closet. With Nick’s help, I’d already moved most of Ryan’s “civilian” clothes into the closet. They currently resided on the left side with mine on the right.
Now, where is that blouse? I shuffled through a few hangers on the rack.
Bingo!
After pulling it out, I carefully tugged the sweater over my head and then slipped into the blouse. I loved the silky softness of the fabric against my skin. Ryan loves this color on me, and the blouse is much more feminine than my holiday sweater. I want to be alluring when he sees me, not remind the man of his grandmother.
I fluffed my hair again and checked my appearance in the full-length mirror. No cockeyed buttons. Good. As a last-minute impulse, I unfastened the top two buttons. The last few times I’d talked with Ryan, I’d worn a turtleneck. Not that I’m trying to show myself off—far from it—but what does it hurt to remind my fiancé that I actually have a neck and smooth skin buried beneath my multiple layers of clothing?
Cade’s Corner is home, so bundling up in heavy clothes is a given. We make our concessions in life.
Hawaii sounded better with each passing minute.
Marriage sounded better with each passing second.
Ducking into the closet one last time, I rummaged through my collection of shoes and pulled out a pair of black, high-heeled pumps. “It’s been too long, my friends.” I hopped on one foot and then the other as I peeled off my thick wool socks and slipped on the heels. Maybe I was silly, but Skype conversation or not, I wanted to dress the part. The shoes made me feel prettier and more like a flesh-and-blood woman.
Satisfied that I looked presentable, I darted into the kitchen and grabbed a cold water bottle from the fridge. Then I hurried down the hallway to the small second bedroom which doubled as the study (until the day when it would be transformed into a pretty, pastel-colored nursery).
My heart pounded—hard—and I moved my hand over my chest as though that action could somehow slow it down. Fat chance. T-minus 30 seconds to Skype time.
Dropping into the chair, I switched on the computer. I drummed my fingers on the desk as I waited for the computer to boot up and grinned at the sight of Ryan’s weights, baseball bats, and golf clubs in the corner. Then my gaze traveled to the bookshelf stuffed full of his various sports trophies and ribbons.
Ryan’s dedication to physical fitness made me ponder how many hours I could spend in the gym before the wedding. Starvation wasn’t an option to lose weight. I’d never make it past the third day. Besides, Ryan fell in love with me just the way I am. I hadn’t gained an
y weight since he deployed, and in fact, I’d lost ten pounds. If I thought I wouldn’t risk straining an important muscle, I might try lifting some of those weights. Nope. Bad idea.
The last few times we’ve Skyped, I’ve noticed how Ryan’s skin is bronzed a gorgeous golden color in stark contrast to my oh-so-pale winter white skin. When Mom showed her sister, Susan, a recent photo of Ryan, my aunt thought I was marrying a Mediterranean man, and that I’d ditched “that cute boy from down the street.”
Should I hit the tanning booth before the wedding? No, that idea had catastrophe written all over it. I tan fairly well, but I’m reminded of the misadventures of the best man in a wedding of good friends. The poor guy visited a tanning booth the day before the ceremony and was red-faced, literally, in all the photos. The bride told me he’d also singed an area of his body not visible in the photos. That explained why he’d preferred to stand, even during dinner.
When I heard the telltale beep, I turned my attention back to the computer. Unexpected things can happen at the base, and there have been a few times when Ryan hasn’t been able to talk at the appointed time. If I couldn’t talk to him tonight, I might just let out a small scream, but not loud enough to alert the neighbors.
I needed my “Ryan fix” tonight.
“Please God, let him be there.”
Chapter 3
~~♥~~
After several heart-palpitating, pulse-racing moments, we were connected.
I blinked hard as I drank in the sight of Ryan. My Ryan. Gorgeous as ever and wearing a bright smile and an olive green T-shirt that showed those well-developed upper arm muscles and chest to great advantage.
I touched the screen and spread out my fingers. As was our custom, Ryan mirrored my actions by placing his right hand against the screen, palm flat with fanned fingers that extended beyond mine. We drank in the sight of one another.
“Hey, Ellie. You look beautiful, baby.”
