Love’s Challenges:
The Nina Chornicles Book Two
By
Zena Wynn
Dedication
To all my sisters who are still waiting for God to send them their Roberto.
Hang in there and keep trusting God.
Pray for discernment that you don’t fall
for the counterfeit the Enemy will surely send.
No matter how long the delay, in the end it will be worth it.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Love Challenges by Zena Wynn
Red Rose™ Publishing
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Copyright© 2009 Zena Wynn
ISBN: 978-1-60435-632-8
Cover Artist: Shirley Burnett
Editor: Bernadette Smith
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This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.
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Love’s Challenges
By
Zena Wynn
Chapter One
“Roberto, it’s me, Nina. Would you like to come over to my place for dinner tonight?”
When I issued the invitation, I hadn’t fully thought it through. I was still euphoric, coming down off of an emotional high at the realization that I had finally forgiven Jonathan Parker, former fiancé, of all the wrong he’d done to me and in the process forgiven myself. The future seemed bright, the possibility for new love endless and there was Roberto, conveniently waiting in the wings for me to give him a chance. Only now, a mere fifteen minutes later, reality was setting in, and with it, fear.
What was I thinking? Scratch that. Clearly I wasn’t thinking. Roberto Ortega would be to my house sharply at six, expecting to eat dinner with my children and me. It was four now. That gave me a little less than two hours to pick up the kids, find something to cook, clean the house and make myself presentable.
Cook…me. Something I rarely did. At least not for company.
It’s not that I can’t cook. I just don’t. My meals tended to run toward the simplistic. Throw some meat under the broiler, some veggies on the stove and dinner’s done. The kids didn’t like leftovers and I didn’t like wasting food, so no big meals for our house. Besides, they didn’t care if I made Hamburger Helper or heated up something out of a can as long as it was something they liked. As for me, I was content with a sandwich or a salad, long as it was quick and easy.
Cooking for a man was different, and I didn’t even know what Roberto liked to eat. With my kids I could and did frequently say, “This is not Burger King. You cannot have it your way. Eat what I fix or don’t eat at all.” I couldn’t do that with him, though the thought was tempting. Then the manners that my mother and grandmother drilled into me demanded I be a good hostess and create a tempting array of appetizing delights. And to be honest, the feminine side of me wanted to wow him with my stellar cooking ability.
I know, totally archaic in this day of female equality.
All these thoughts bombarded my head as I raced around town picking up the twins. Breanna and Brendon were in middle school now. Brendon played sports and Bree liked to stay after school and hang out with her friends. Thanks to the Magnet Program, our City’s way of ensuring the racial balance in schools, we lived on one side of town while the kids attended school on another. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to make it to the opposite side of town and back, in rush hour traffic, with a looming deadline.
“Can we stop to Popeye’s? I have the coupon they sent in the mail,” Bree asked, holding one of the weekly flyers in her hand.
Unfortunately, due to our busy schedules we ate out more than we ate in, and I had the hips and low bank account to show for it. “Not tonight. Brother Ortega is coming by the house at six.”
“Why?” Under professionally arched eyebrows, those large brown eyes of hers narrowed. The question was full of kind of suspicion only teenagers capable of.
“Because I invited him to dinner. You have a problem with that?”
“A problem with what?” My son, who was slouched in the back seat, unhooked from his iPod long enough to ask.
“Mom invited Brother Ortega to dinner tonight.” Her displeasure was evident.
“Oh, he’s nice.” That was the end of that, as far as Brendon was concerned. In went the earplugs. Head already bopping to the beat, he stared out the window.
My daughter was a different story. She turned her skinny little body sideways, as much as the seatbelt would allow. I could fill her gaze drilling me. “You two aren’t dating, are you?”
“And if we were?” I asked a bit challengingly, surprised at the attitude I was getting.
“I wouldn’t like it,” she flatly stated.
Taking my attention briefly away from the traffic, I glanced at her. “I don’t remember asking your opinion...or permission.”
She huffed, flounced back around to face the windshield, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine, but if you guys get married, wait until I’m gone or I’m going to go live with Dad.”
I doubted it, since her father couldn’t even take care of himself, let alone one of his kids, but let it go. “It’s just dinner, Bree. I didn’t ask the man to marry me,” I told her on a sigh.
It’s true I hadn’t proposed, but I had implied that I was willing to open up and see what happened, and that was the source of my nervousness. This was more than just the simple sharing of a meal I was making out to be.
“Whatever.”
I really didn’t understand my daughter’s reaction. She likes Roberto. Both of my children do. Roberto is one of the youth workers at our church. All the kids love him, especially the teenagers. He is fun, easy to talk to and knows how to relate to them on their level. Their words, not mine. So why the hostility?
As for myself, I’d known Roberto for years. First as a fellow churchgoer, by sight and name only. Then later, as we worked on some of the same committees and served in some of the same church ministries, I got to know him personally. I know he is divorced, has two grown sons, and that he doesn’t play around. He is well liked and respected by the young and the old, self-supporting, and a worthy role model for young boys and men.
Roberto stands about five-eleven—neither too tall nor too short—has massive arms and a broad chest, and the lower body of a runner. He speaks with a slight Hispanic accent and as attractive as he is, has both the younger and older women making fools of themselves, maneuvering to be the second Ms. Ortega. Despite this, his name had never been connected romantically to any of the single (or married) women in the church—his choice. Definitely not from lack of effort on their parts.
If he is all of these things, why a
m I worried?
Because frankly, my judgment of men sucks. Something I’d learned the hard way.
I’d never had a good relationship with a man, beginning with my father who decided he couldn’t be bothered, to the ex-husband who still hadn’t grown up, and ending with Jon, the ex-fiancé who taught me that older doesn’t necessarily mean better when it came to men and relationships.
The Lord must have been looking out for me because suddenly I knew what to fix for dinner. I swung into the grocery store’s parking lot and ran inside. Fifteen minutes later, I climbed back in the car with two rotisserie chickens, a box of instant mashed potatoes, a large can of green beans, real bacon bits, and sour cream.
When I parked in the driveway, I started issuing commands. “Brendon, get all of your junk out of the living room and make sure it’s decent. Bree, check the bathroom and make sure it’s clean. I’ll handle the kitchen.”
They grumbled as kids do but came inside and got to work. It was five-thirty. I didn’t have long to prepare. I stuck the chickens in the oven to keep warm, put a pot of water on to boil and dumped the green beans and bacon bits in another. While those were heating, I washed the few dishes remaining in the sink and checked behind the kids.
We didn’t have company often. It’s not that I’m anti-social. More like the few people that I call friend lives were as busy as mine. To be honest, there are only one or two in my life that I am comfortable enough with that they can drop by at any given time, no invitation necessary. It remains to be seen whether Roberto would increase that number.
Roberto knows where I live, having brought Brendon home a few times after youth events, but he’s never been inside. While my home isn’t much to look at compared to a lot of others, it was mine, and I wanted to make a good impression. Not in the “oh she’d make a good wife” kind of way, but the “Nina’s clean and does the best with what she has” kind.
My daughter calls me a closet perfectionist. On the surface, I’m a laid back, go-with-the-flow type of person. But underneath it all is an anal-retentive, type-A personality screaming to be free. I don’t demand perfection from others, but I do demand it of myself. I’ve been known to stress myself out trying to get everything “just right.”
Tonight had to be perfect. It would set the tone for the rest of our relationship. First impressions do count and I promised Roberto I would give “us” a shot. That meant no half measures. No pushing him away before he could get close. Darn it.
“Mom, he’s here,” my son called out.
If I were a cursing woman, I’d be cussing. He’s early. The food wasn’t done. I was still walking around in the same black slacks and pink top I’d worn to work. There was a ketchup stain on my blouse. God only knew how my hair looked. The only thing I’d paused long enough to do was kick off my shoes. I didn’t even have time to run and get them. My son was already opening the door.
“Hey, Brother Ortega.”
“Hello, Brendon. How are you?”
The sound of Roberto’s deep voice reverberated down my spine, sending chills up and down my body. I wasn’t used to a man being in my home, my space. Other than my son, there were no male family members nearby—no brothers, uncles, cousins, etc. Jon had only been to my home twice, and I was with him for several years. My ex hadn’t been here at all.
“Where’s your mother?” I heard him ask.
“In the kitchen.”
I washed my hands and came out to greet my guest. “Roberto.” I gave him a tentative smile, a bit off balance by the changing dimensions of our relationship.
The smile Roberto gave me in return was warm, intimate. I could feel myself blushing and glanced quickly away, embarrassed. “Dinner’s not quite done. You’re a bit earlier than I expected,” I chastised gently.
He shrugged and his grin turned sheepish. “I was already in the area. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
I grinned to show him that I wasn’t angry. “Have a seat. Make yourself feel at home. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine. Whatever you’re cooking smells great.”
“That’s the chicken. Mom picked up two of them from Publix,” my son informed him. Then he tugged on Roberto’s arm, “Come see the cool wrestling game my dad bought me.”
“First let me see if your mom needs any help in the kitchen.” Roberto laid a gently restraining hand on my son’s shoulder.
“Do you, Mom?” The look on Brendon’s face begged me to say no.
“I’ve got it. You two go into the living room.” I shooed them away.
As soon as they were seated on the couch, I headed for the room to change. If Roberto truly wants to know me, then today he’d be seeing the real me, the way I am at home in my environment.
I’d slipped on a pair of faded blue jeans with lycra in material that allowed me to comfortably bend and stretch. With it I paired an over-sized blue t-shirt that skimmed my large breasts and fell to mid-thigh, hiding my pudgy stomach and folded waistline. A quick dash into the bathroom to wash the shine off of my face was called for since I have what the experts call a T-Zone. My nose and forehead get really oily which is why I rarely wore makeup. With pink fluffy bedroom shoes on my feet and my long, below my shoulder-length, straightened brown hair in a ponytail, I was ready to finish dinner preparations.
On my way back to the kitchen I stopped by my daughter’s room. “Roberto’s here and no, you cannot spend the evening in your room,” I told her before she could voice the sentiment I could see on her face. “Dinner’s almost done. Come set the table.”
“But we never eat at the table,” she complained.
“We are tonight.”
I left her muttering about “only here one night and already things are changing” and went back to the kitchen to finish, shaking my head. Apparently it was okay for Dad to have women running in and out of his life but Mom had to remain unattached.
Kids!
I turned the oven off so the chickens wouldn’t dry out, stirred the green beans and turned off the burner. Then I used a whisk to mix in the potato flakes until the mashed potatoes had the consistency I was aiming for. I took a step back and turned to reach into the refrigerator for the milk, butter and sour cream, and ran right into a hard, male body. “Omph.”
Strong hands caught me by the waist. “I didn’t mean to get in the way. Are you sure you don’t want any assistance? You wouldn’t let me bring anything and I’m quite handy in the kitchen.”
I glanced up to find Roberto’s handsome face within kissing distance of mine. My hands, which had clutched his large, firmly muscled biceps in an automatic attempt to keep from falling, now fluttered helplessly. There was too much muscle, too much testosterone in too close a proximity to my body that hadn’t been this close to a man in years. I took a hasty step back.
“No, I’m fine.” I tucked a non-existent piece of hair behind my ear. “I’m doing the last of it now.”
“Excuse me, I need to get to the plates,” Bree not so politely interrupted.
Roberto released me and backed away. “I’ll get out of you two ladies’ way. Nice to see you, Breanna. I missed you in class Wednesday night.”
“We had a meeting at school.”
“The trip you told me about?”
“Yeah.” Her manner visibly warmed at Roberto’s interest in her life.
As she stretched to reach for the plates he asked, “Well, did you get the information you were looking for? Is this trip something you’re interested in?”
Breanna had received an invitation to go to Europe over the summer as an exchange student. She was seriously considering it, so we went to the meeting to get more information.
Bree’s forehead scrunched as her eyes lost focus. “I don’t know. It’s a long way from home. It sounds like fun but I’m not sure I’d like being away by myself for so long. Besides, it’s a lot of money and I can’t expect Mom to pay out something like that, even if she had it.”
Roberto leaned against entr
yway wall and crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “Don’t worry about the money. If you really want to go, the church can help. We can host fundraisers to help with the expenses. Get all the youth involved.”
That was one good thing about my church, House of Prayer. They really had a heart for the youth. If my daughter announced that she wanted to do something as prestigious as being a Foreign Exchange Student, they’d go out of their way to help her accomplish her goal.
I mixed the mashed potatoes and put them in a serving bowl as I listened to Bree and Roberto discuss the pros and cons of foreign travel, and which countries she might enjoy most. Brendon wandered into the kitchen and the three of them set the table.
The minute the food was ready to be placed on the table, Roberto appeared by my side and took the dishes from me. “Here, let me get that for you.”
I relinquished them and glanced at the table to see if anything was missing. All appeared to be in order. We all seated ourselves and then I asked Roberto to say the blessing.
“Gracious Father, we thank you for this day, this meal, this hour. Thank you for the hands that prepared it and Divine fellowship. Now we humbly ask you to bless this food for the nourishment of our bodies, in Jesus Name we pray, Amen.”
We all echoed Amen.
Chapter Two
Despite my fears, dinner went well. Roberto engaged both of the kids in a biblical debate that got both of them talking animatedly. His question: If God in the ten commandments said “Thou shalt not kill,” why then did He frequently command them to kill all of their enemies—right down to the last woman, child and even the animals—in battle?
Their lively conversation washed over me as both kids got involved. It gave me a glimpse of what their Wednesday evening bible study classes must be like with Roberto as their teacher. He never agreed nor disagreed with their rebuttals, instead played devil’s advocate and challenged them to prove each statement.
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