Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  “No,” I muttered with self-pity. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I felt myself elevated by strong, sturdy arms and gently placed on my feet. “Get dressed, Jules,” he repeated. “I’ll wait right here until you’re ready.”

  Thus began the healing process. Through Alex, I reunited with friends I had somehow drifted away from through the years. He appeared at my doorstep each evening with a new agenda for the night, gently prying me from my misery as our mutual respect and quiet love for each other grew in friendship.

  After a particularly difficult day, he took me to a lively café. Drowning my sorrows in a frothy latte, I blurted, “Alex, will I ever meet the right guy?”

  His deep brown eyes danced with laughter. “Jules, one thing I can promise you: Someday, I’ll be dancing at your wedding.”

  I gazed at my trusty, dependable friend. Taking in his broad stance, olive complexion and endearingly familiar smile, I tried to picture Alex waltzing with his date at my wedding. But I couldn’t. Something didn’t seem quite right. I resolved that this could only mean one thing: I might be destined to never get married. With a sigh, I turned my attention back to the latte.

  As the years passed, I decided to concentrate on my career as an artist rather than on my downfalls with men. Alex was there to share my disappointments and successes, no matter how large or small. He helped me recover from the likes of Brad, Lou and John—although failed relationships no longer shocked my system.

  I occasionally shot him an earful of advice on the ladies and suffered only mild pangs of jealousy toward the women in his life. But it wasn’t until Dan that I truly opened my eyes.

  Dan. He was thrilling, exciting, handsome—and famous, too. What more could a girl want? Our dates consisted of exclusive shows and private parties, a fantasy come to life. So why did I find myself comparing him to Alex?

  In fact, I realized most of the men I’d dated couldn’t hold a candle to Alex’s kindness. None had his sense of humor or rich, hearty laugh. None had his overwhelming compassion and genuine optimism. None had the qualities I had taken so for granted in Alex.

  So, when Dan left me behind to go on tour, I didn’t feel disposed of like the crumpled, used tissue I thought I’d be. I had Alex and that was what mattered.

  One summer night, to celebrate our “thirteen years of friendship,” Alex invited me to dinner at a quiet Italian restaurant in the city. Afterwards, we cruised around town with the car’s top down. I laughed happily at the sheer joy of the evening, loving the freedom of wind tumbling my hair and the comfort of Alex beside me.

  On a whim, he parked the car near the harbor.

  “I know it’s getting late,” he said. “But it’s too beautiful for the night to end.”

  “It is gorgeous out tonight,” I agreed, taking his hand as I climbed from the car. We strolled along serenely, oblivious to the world, until Alex stopped suddenly.

  “What is it?”

  “Look,” he pointed. “We’re right beneath the CN Tower.”

  The massive grand structure—landmarking Toronto’s skyline—was directly in front of us. I had lived with the majestic view of this building all my life, but I had never seen her towering frame silhouetted against a blazing moon. Judging by the look in Alex’s glowing face, he hadn’t either.

  Then, all at once, I realized it wasn’t the tower but me he was looking at.

  “Alex,” I began shyly, not knowing how to respond to this new feeling. “Do you find it . . . odd . . . that I didn’t notice the tallest freestanding structure in the world? Especially since we’re standing right beneath it?”

  “No, actually . . . not odd at all,” he drew me closer. “Because when I’m with you, the world seems to disappear.”

  The moment his lips touched mine, breathless yearning and passion laced the deepest love I could ever imagine and poured from his heart to mine. It only took one kiss to change my life. One kiss to see what had been right before my eyes, right beside me all along.

  “Julia,” he whispered. “I am so in love with you!”

  “I love you, too, Alex. So much. And I think maybe I always have.”

  “Well,” he smiled. “I need to clarify one thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Remember the promise I made a few years ago . . . to dance at your wedding?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I lied.” He broke into a big grin. “I should have told you I plan to dance at our wedding.”

  Sylvia Suriano

  Never Say Never

  Do not be too timid and squeamish about your reactions. All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make, the better.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  “How would you like to accompany me to England for a week of sightseeing?” I stared at the e-mail in disbelief. It was from Mel, the widower I had been dating for six months.

  I immediately replied, “Thank you for your generous offer, but I must respectfully decline. As much as I enjoy your company, I would not be comfortable traveling with a man I wasn’t married to. Besides, I don’t have a passport.”

  My dear husband of fifty-one years had died three years earlier. I learned to ease my grief by reading, writing, attending church functions and visiting my children and grandchildren. But as time passed, I missed belonging to a partnership.

  Then friends invited me to a party where I met Mel. He was attractive, intelligent and had an engaging personality. To my surprise, he called two weeks later and invited me to join him for dinner.

  I discovered being part of a couple again opened new vistas. Soon we were receiving invitations to parties and meeting each other’s friends. After being in a desert of loneliness, I enjoyed the social oasis of dinners, concerts and theater.

  We talked freely about our deceased spouses and how lucky we were to have found true love with them. Because we didn’t think it was possible to find that level of love more than once in a lifetime, we both admitted our decisions to never marry again and decided to enjoy the companionship we found in each other.

  Consequently, I was shocked at the invitation to travel together and questioned Mel’s motives. Certain my response would sever our relationship, I was surprised when he phoned.

  “I got your reply. Let’s forget I asked about the trip.”

  Relieved, I mumbled, “Thanks for understanding.”

  “We are still going out tomorrow night, aren’t we?”

  “Sure.” After all, he didn’t seem to feel awkward about the situation, so why should I?

  The following evening he held the car door open with one hand and handed me a legal looking paper with the other. “Just happened to be in the post office today and picked this up for you.”

  It was an application for a passport. What? Why, that sly man! Without comment, I tucked it into my purse and changed the subject. Nothing more was said, and we enjoyed the evening.

  Amused he had bothered to get me an application, I filled out the papers, had my photo taken and doled out the $75.00 fee without telling him.

  While attending a party with friends, we were invited to join their dance club. I was excited, but Mel resisted. “I played trumpet in a swing band during my youth so I never danced very much.”

  “If you’re a musician, you’ve got rhythm,” I reminded him. “If you’ve got rhythm, you can dance.”

  Although reluctant at first, Mel relented and agreed to take ballroom dance lessons—where he held me in his arms for the first time. With him holding me, I felt my heart melt . . . and immediately rued our platonic relationship. But I couldn’t tell him lest he remind me about our “never marry again” agreement.

  Then he began bringing candy and flowers, and I knew I was being courted. Although he was careful not to mention marriage, I sensed we were falling in love. Still, neither of us said a thing until the day he invited me to dinner at his house.

  Fine china, crystal and sterling silver on a white linen tablecloth greeted me. Red roses gra
ced the table. Before we sat down to eat, I confessed I had applied for and received my passport. When I showed it to him, his eyes sparkled and he flashed a mischievous grin.

  He served a delicious rack of lamb with all the trimmings and we had a lively conversation as we ate. During dessert he said, “Sally, if I asked you to marry me, what would you say?”

  “You haven’t asked me yet.” My startled response was quick. Awkward. Even a little coy.

  “I think I just did.”

  Unprepared, I stammered, “Oh. Oh. P-p-probably.”

  He looked dejected, but didn’t pursue the subject. I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say. We cleared away dinner and cleaned up his kitchen, then he took me home.

  Most of that night I lay awake pondering his proposal. I had been married to an extraordinary man once. But Mel was wonderful, too. Was it possible to marry two extraordinary men in one lifetime?

  The next morning, he called. “Last night I asked you to marry me and you said probably. How about a more definite answer,” he urged. “Like yes?”

  “But . . . what about our agreement?”

  “Let’s just forget it.”

  “Forget what?” I smiled into the phone, tingling with excitement.

  “Let’s fly to England for our honeymoon and never say never again.”

  Sally Kelly-Engeman

  3

  THE PERFECT

  DRESS

  What is a princess on this day without the garnish where beauty lay?

  Gina Romanello

  After having to wear hideous bridesmaid’s outfits at the weddings of her two closest friends, Donna welcomed the opportunity to carry out her revenge.

  CLOSE TO HOME ©John McPherson. Reprinted by permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.

  She Did It Her Way

  The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart.

  Helen Keller

  “Mom, we’re getting married . . . sometime in June.” This from my hippie daughter calling on a pay phone in Maine. (No phone or electricity at her house—or perhaps cabin is a better word.)

  “We don’t want a fancy wedding or dressy clothes or a lot of guests. We just want to be married in your backyard. I’ll let you know the date.”

  Long ago, her father and I made up our minds to listen to her and do things the way she wanted as much as we could. And of course, I was thrilled she was getting married. I was always secretly worried that marriage was too “old-fashioned” for her. She was a child of the ’60s, eager to right the wrongs of the world, to live life on the edge and to never be part of the “establishment.”

  Well, backyard weddings can be lovely, I thought. It’s not our beautiful church with a majestic organ, flowing white dress or bridesmaids. But, still. . . . I took an upbeat approach, which was really the only sensible thing to do under the circumstances.

  Later with dates arranged, a guest list of sorts (our family and best friends and “a bunch of friends . . . we’ll let you know how many”) and the food decided on (“only veggie stuff and some champagne”), she agreed I could ask the minister of our church to perform the ceremony “for legal purposes.”

  All negotiations were going well until I mentioned the wedding gown. “No special dress, Mom. Sorry. Your first daughter, your good daughter [said with a wry smile, a favorite family joke] did the white dress and veil thing. Not me. I have lots of clothes that would do for a wedding.”

  I thought of all her dresses (short, wild, braless) and realized that she mostly wore jeans or cut-offs. Nothing I had seen her wear in years even whispered “wedding” to me.

  So in the following days, ignoring my own good advice to let her do it her way, I wandered around different stores and looked at dresses that might do for my bride-to-be daughter. Then I saw it: simple, unbleached muslin with a shirred waist, scooped neckline with just a bit of Irish lace and little capped sleeves. It was long, but not floor-length. It was graceful, but not formal. It was lovely and simple, and it was my daughter.

  Envisioning her wearing it, I bought the dress and took it home.

  Later that day I placed the box on her bed with a little note stating: “I just happened upon this while shopping (okay, a small white lie). This looks like you. Would you try it on for me?”

  When she came in that evening, she went to her room and all was quiet. A bit worried I had hurt her feelings with my purchase, I went upstairs to her room where she sat on the bed holding the dress on her lap while tears rained down her cheeks—and she was smiling.

  “I never knew you thought of me like this, Mom. The dress is so lovely and soft and simple. I love it. And I’ll love wearing it for the wedding. Thanks for knowing me so well.”

  Two weeks later, on a sun-filled afternoon, friends gathered in our backyard. Our daughter walked down the steps—to the strum of a guitar—smiling proudly in her surprise dress. She looked wonderful, like I knew she would.

  It was a perfect wedding . . . almost.

  Had I known her fiancé would be wearing yellow paisley bell-bottoms, I might have shopped for him as well!

  Julie Firman

  Priceless

  How beautiful a day can be when kindness touches it.

  George Elliston

  We had shopped for hours, my mom and I, and we were having a ball. We knew in our hearts that we would find just the right dress. Five months remained until the wedding; we had plenty of time and we had lots of patience. And then we found it—at J.C. Penney’s Bridal Shop.

  I stood on a dark-blue carpeted platform, surrounded by mirrors. The clerk brought gown after gown for me to try. I felt like a queen, admired by my mom perched in a cozy, overstuffed chair. As soon as she zipped the back of the third dress, we both knew we had found the one.

  I never felt closer to my mom than when she fluffed out the train and said, “This is it. It’s you.”

  The moment burrowed its way into my heart and my memory.

  Which is why I was so touched by the lovely young lady now trying on my wedding gown.

  I was having a yard sale to pick up a little extra cash. I had many things to sell when the young woman and her mom pulled up in their rusty maroon Oldsmobile. But my wedding dress wasn’t one of them; I planned on saving it for my daughter.

  They walked hesitantly up the driveway. The daughter stayed near her mom as they walked around the deck and lawn looking over the piles on the tables. They picked up an item or two but didn’t appear interested in buying anything.

  Just when I thought they would leave, the mom turned to me. “You wouldn’t happen to have an old prom dress, about size 16, would you? We have been looking everywhere.” She paused. “My daughter is getting married in a few weeks and we want something nice for her to wear.”

  I didn’t answer right away, so they started back down the driveway.

  “Wait! Wait just a minute.” Without stopping to think, I hurried inside to the extra closet, pulled out the large gray bag and rushed to catch them before they drove away.

  “I don’t have a prom dress. But, would you like to try on my wedding gown?”

  The young lady smiled at her mom and then at me.

  “Yes, please,” she answered timidly and got out of the car.

  Although I invited them inside the house, they insisted the garage would be fine. I was embarrassed at its condition, but they didn’t seem to mind at all. Giving them some privacy, I steeled myself. It felt . . . right. Still, I wondered if I would have regrets.

  My worry evaporated when I peeked at the bride-to-be in my garage. She stood on a battered red milk crate, staring down at the dress, beaming as her misty-eyed mom smoothed the lace sleeves of the antique-white dress. Both seemed oblivious to the lawn tractor, auto parts and oil cans surrounding them.

  Any lingering regrets faded when I heard her mom say, “This is it. It’s you, honey.”

  I stepped back, afraid to intrude on thei
r personal moment—a moment as special as mine so many years before.

  It was a few minutes before they came out of the garage.

  “How much do you want for the dress?” asked the daughter.

  I hadn’t even thought of that. I had no idea what to charge. “How much do you have?”

  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a wad of crumpled, damp dollar bills and counted it out. “I have seventeen dollars, that’s it, and I bet it’s not enough.” Regretfully, she started to put the bulky gray bag on a table.

  “Sold!” I blurted, surprising us both.

  I cried as they drove away.

  Oh, not tears of mourning for my wedding gown. I cried at an important revelation. I realized that—although my pocketbook didn’t hold much—my heart was full of priceless memories. My shopping experience with my mom and my wedding day will be in my heart forever. The dress hadn’t made those days special; love had.

  Nora E. Kessel

  Given the Green Light

  Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.

  H. Jackson Brown Jr.

  It was June 14, 1951, my last official day of nursing school at St. John’s Hospital in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I hurried to finish my late shift on Three North—my wedding was only two hours away.

  Everything was necessarily jammed together in my life because the Korean War had started and Uncle Sam called my fiancé to serve. Our plans—in fact, our entire lives— were suddenly turned upside down. Besides worrying whether my darling would return from war, I was faced with immediate and chaotic superficial changes.

  Our wedding plans were moved up six months and slashed to the bone. With both of us fresh out of school, there was no time to accrue money. So the big ceremony shrank down to the minister, my fiancé’s mother, my housemother and us.

  Even the $120 white satin wedding dress at Mrs. Ramsey’s wedding shop was out. Instead, I would buy a white street dress for $30. I called Mrs. Ramsey.