I put the phone back in the receiver as I trudge back to the bathroom. A tidal wave has apparently struck the room. Puddles of water are oozing through the cracks in the tile, while suds drip from the edge of the tub. I pull the drain on the chilly water, throw my towel on the ground, and shove it around with my foot in a lazy attempt to mop up the puddles. It sort of works. It’s satisfactory at least. Realizing that I’ll be alone until at least mid-morning, I toss the man-pants and shirt back on. Hank doesn’t care if I am a little smelly tonight. I don’t care, either.
I pause in the hallway, decisions hounding me. I feel like crawling into bed and going to sleep would be a good idea. A part of me just wants this horrible day to be over. The other part of me knows that sleep won’t come. There will be no reprieve under my down comforter. So I march back down the stairs. Hank has managed to flop himself onto the couch again, his chainsaw-cutting impression the only sound resonating in the whole house. I turn on the lamp on the end table and plop down beside him. As I reposition myself cumbersomely on the fluffy cushions, I catch a glimpse of my wedding picture propped up by the lamp. The silver frame accentuates my knee-length dress, shimmering in its white simplicity. A few lilies bloom out of my hands. John is in tan pants and a teal shirt. White sand caresses our toes as blue waves careen the shore behind us. In short, paradise paints a wondrous backdrop to the blissful occasion. Our smiles stem from genuine joy as evidenced by the deep laugh lines and shimmering eyes.
* * * *
Our wedding in Jamaica had been a shock to me. Not that I had ever pictured myself as the white church wedding type. It was the wedding idea period that was truly wondrous and unexpected. As months had turned into years, I hadn’t expected to find love again. Sure, I hadn’t been a nun after the incident. I had dated guys here and there, but usually the dates ended in polite goodbyes. A few had led to simple, unsatisfying relationships that ended in our mutual parting after a few months. If I’m being honest, I can’t blame those guys I dated over the years because, in actuality, I wasn’t really available to them. I found that no matter how wonderful a man was, he never lived up to the unrealistic expectations I had formed. Certainly Corbin wasn’t perfect by a long shot, but distance and circumstance can sometimes jade a picture. For me, Corbin became a saintly figure whose image resided somewhere with the stars. I don’t think a single man could have possibly touched Corbin in my mind, especially in those early years. I always managed to find an excuse, despite my mother’s encouragement. I didn’t like his career choice, he didn’t have enough drive, he didn’t want kids, he wasn’t funny enough, he was too funny.
My dating life simply became an endless rut of excuses and reasons why no one was good enough. So after agreeing to several dates, including blind dates, I decided that the single life was probably my reality. As my youth eventually faded and I stepped closer to middle-age, I knew that it was more like a certainty. I figured I would be the mousey office lady whose biggest excitement in life was going to the bookstore alone on Saturday nights to live vicariously through characters in romance novels while sipping on Chai tea. I would be the woman who was set up on twenty blind dates by her desperate mother who feared she would die without ever holding a grandchild. I was the girl who would climb into bed with a slobbering, snoring dog her only warmth and comfort. Nevertheless, the thought didn’t bother me.
Sure, it would be nice to share my life with someone, to find the excitement that I had owned in my teenage years. A piece of me, though, a piece I kept hidden in my depths, feared that a relationship would never work because I could never be happy without him. Part of me also feared that he would see it as a betrayal, that if things ever did work out, he wouldn’t keep his promise. I guess I felt that if I was single, I hadn’t completely given up on us, as ridiculous as that prospect seemed. So I continued into a life of solitude, surrounding myself with my family, a few pets over the years, and thousands of empty nights.
That was pretty much my life for over two decades.
And then, out of the blue, came John. He snuck into my life and my heart in such a way that I barely noticed it was happening. Suddenly, I found someone who might not be Corbin, but he could fulfill me in a way that Corbin hadn’t, in a different way. Not better, just different.
It was hardly love at first sight. By the time John walked into that small café in the bookstore, I had banished such an idea from my entire core. In many ways, I had banished love altogether from my vocabulary and belief system. Scoping for men wasn’t even on the radar or in my mind, which is probably why he was able to smoothly sneak into my soul.
* * * *
Memories
I was sipping on my mocha frappuccino—I had decided to be “risky” that day and spice things up, choosing this treat over my usual tea—and reading Crime and Punishment for the third time. There was something about an ax and a prostitute that could deaden one’s sensitivity. Slurping on my straw, I realized with angst that my cup was empty. I sighed, reaching for my purse and standing from my seat to get in line. An empty cup with the tantalizing coffee aroma floating through the air wouldn’t do. I browsed the menu, and when it was my turn, I ordered “the usual” (yes, the café worker knew my order). I read the total on the cash register—$3.42—and reached into my purse. I pulled out my wallet, and then it hit me. What an idiot, I thought. Right between the pickax and the old lady’s scream, I had forgotten that I had spent my last few bucks on the mocha. Great. This was going to make me look like an idiot.
“Um, I’ll be right back,” I stammered at the clerk. I prepared to dash out of line and run to my car to scrounge up some change. I didn’t have my credit cards or an ATM card with me. Of course. As fate would have it, though, I wouldn’t need to do any of the above. As I prepared for my dash, I heard a smooth voice reverberate over my frantic words. “I’ve got it. It’s on me.” I turned to see the face of my rescuer and was shocked at my own sense of awe.
Before me stood a man who I approximated at six feet one. His blonde hair was sort of disheveled, but in a hot surfer-guy and not dirty, creepy man kind of way. His blue eyes were truly as clear as a June day or ocean water lapping at your feet—Caribbean ocean water, not the disgustingly gray Atlantic waters. As he smiled at me and handed the clerk his cash, I noticed two perfect dimples on his cheeks. A few lines wore on his face, demonstrating age in a way that was pleasant and notable. He was probably about my age. Something stirred deep within me, and it wasn’t my mocha frappuccino. This feeling, though, had been such a distant memory that I quickly discredited it, allowing my embarrassment at the situation to take center stage.
The “coffee angel” who had rescued me proceeded to order himself a coffee. I managed to mutter “thanks,” as I mentally surveyed my own outfit. I was wearing my old, trustworthy jeans. They made my ass look pretty okay, I thought with relief. Nothing spectacular, but nothing terrifying, either. I had on a simple, turquoise sweater and my hair was in a ponytail. I probably looked like the ultimate, English-major nerd. Which I obviously wasn’t. But still, he was here, too. He couldn’t judge me for spending my Saturday evening here. I glanced quickly to his hand and was relieved that I didn’t find a wedding ring.
And then panic struck me. Was I worrying about this guy’s relationship status? Was I devouring his looks like a hungry tiger? This was ridiculous. I, Emma Groves, hadn’t ogled a man since…
Thankfully, I didn’t have time to consider the rest, because the café worker called my name to pick up the order. His order was ready, too, and as he walked over to pick it up, he began to talk to me. In my flustered state, I stupidly forgot to listen for his name as the server called out his order. Genius.
“So, do you come here a lot?” he questioned as he poured cream and sugar into his drink and I reached for a napkin. I mentally tried to avoid brushing against him, afraid of what electricity I might find. He seemed a little nervous and self-conscious as well, like talking to women wasn’t something he was accustomed to. He grabbed h
is coffee after putting on the lid as I grabbed my tea, heading toward my claimed table. I shuddered at Crime and Punishment propped open on the table. He was going to think I was some kind of psycho.
“Every Saturday,” I said. Why did I say this? Now he knew I was a freak. “How about you?”
“Nope. First time here in months,” he said. Of course not. He probably had a real life, complete with numerous social gatherings, hobbies, and women. This wasn’t looking too promising.
We neared my table, and he noticed the empty seat. “Anyone joining you?” he asked.
“Nope. Just me and Raskolnikov,” I grinned. Hey, I might as well just dump all of it on the table.
“A classics kind of girl,” he nodded in approval. “Dostoyevsky’s all right. I always liked Melville, though, personally.” Okay, so maybe he was a little nerdy, too. I smiled back at him as he asked, “May I?” He gestured to the chair.
“Of course,” I said, feeling a little looser now. This guy was easy to talk to. His warmth radiated around him like a lighthouse signal beaming across the Atlantic. “Thanks for saving me back there,” I grinned, holding up my cup in a mock toast. “Guess my addiction is wearing on my wallet more than I thought. I can go out to the car and scrounge up your money,” I offered, my cheeks undoubtedly glowing with humiliation.
He smiled, “It’s fine. I’ll just take an IOU,” he said. “I’m John, by the way.” He yanked out the flimsy chair and sat down.
“Emma. Emma Groves,” I said looking into those mesmerizing eyes. As nervous as I should have felt, I wasn’t. Besides asking the produce man where the kiwis were or taking my car to the town’s mechanic for new brakes, I barely ever had contact with men. John just put me right at ease. I realized that for the first time in a long, long time, I actually was interested in learning about him.
“Emma. Nice to meet you, officially,” he said, offering his hand across the table. It was warm and strong.
“So,” he continued, “did you major in English or do you just like books?” he asked.
“The second one,” I said. “My mom’s a writer, so I kind of got it from her.”
“Really? What does she write?”
“Romance.”
“Oh, that’s great,” he contrived with a little less enthusiasm.
“Not a romance fan?” I prodded.
“The genre of fiction? Nope,” he clarified as I sipped by tea. “Then again, I don’t have much time for books at all.” He seemed truly disheartened at this prospect.
“Why not?”
“Work,” he added simply. So he was a workaholic. I could handle a workaholic.
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I work in the ER,” he said, taking a break to sip his coffee.
“You’re a doctor?” I asked casually, glancing down at my hands grasping my cup of tea.
“Yeah. It’s great, and I love it. But sometimes it leaves little room for socializing or normal life. Hell, I haven’t been in here forever.”
“Wow, that’s great. I don’t think I could do it. The long hours, the stress. It’s admirable.”
“Yeah, it’s not quite as glamorous as they make it out to be on television. I wish I had time for my love life to be half as amazing as the doctors on TV,” he added grinning.
I laughed. Not a fake laugh, either. A true, soulful laugh, something my body wasn’t accustomed to these days. I felt a beam of life radiating from me, resurrecting from the depths of despair and darkness that had clouded most of my adult life.
“So what do you do?” he interrupted my thoughts.
“I’m a secretary. It’s boring. Not admirable either,” I said jokingly.
“Do you like it?”
“Nope,” I said. “But I’ve been there so long that it’s hard to leave, you know. I don’t know where I’d go,” I added. Why was I revealing all of this? This guy probably didn’t want to hear all my sob stories. He was just being polite.
“A beautiful, well-read woman like you? Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he said, looking at me with a hint of curiosity.
“Well, thanks,” I said, not believing him. “So do you have the day off or something?” I asked him.
“I’m on call,” he answered glumly.
“So no, then, I’m assuming? I bet you get called in all the time.”
“Try every time I’m on call,” he said. “Goes with the territory, I guess.”
As if the universe were answering his complaints, a beeper on his belt went off. Taking another sip of his coffee as if to give him strength to acknowledge the call, he groaned.
“And it beckons,” he said, grimacing over at me. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.” He seemed truly distraught over the prospect.
“It’s fine. I’ve got someone waiting for me,” I grinned as I motioned to the novel on the table.
“You need to find some better company to keep.”
“Any suggestions?” I asked jokingly.
“I’ve heard that Conrad has some pretty interesting friends, although I’m not sure if Kurtz fares much better than good old Raskolnikov. Or, you know, there’s always a romance,” he offered, eyeing the vast shelves behind us.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “It was nice talking to you. And thanks again,” I added, motioning toward my now half-empty cup.
“Not a problem. It was great talking to you,” he beamed. I watched him throw out his cup and start heading to the exit. A tiny piece of me sunk as I realized that the one man who had managed to interest me, even enthrall me, was walking away. I’d probably never see him again. Before I could ponder this any longer, though, he stopped and turned back at me.
“Oh, and about that IOU,” he mentioned. “How’s next Saturday? I’m on call, but I should be able to make it here to feed my caffeine addiction before this damn thing goes off,” he said.
I couldn’t detain the huge grin that filled my face. “You’ve got it,” I mustered. “And hopefully you won’t have to help me scavenge under the seat for change,” I laughed.
He smiled back. “It’s a date then,” he announced.
A date, I thought, a real date with a gorgeous man whom I couldn’t help but like. Okay, so it wasn’t the “I’ll pick you up at seven” kind of date, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, right? I knew I was in trouble.
And from there on out, my Saturday nights were devoid of mysteries, romances, and thrillers, replaced by a real-life romance instead. After a few weeks, my weeknights were filled, too. John worked crazy hours, and it was often hard to find time for a date. Even if we weren’t physically together, we were mentally.
Before I knew it, I was trading in my plain sweaters and jeans for flirty, feminine dresses. I visited the cosmetics counter at the mall for the first time in ages and asked for all the works. I got my hair cut and highlighted. Finally having a reason to care about the way my ass looked, I joined a Tuesday and Thursday night exercise class. Where once I had sat log-like on the couch in my tiny apartment and ate TV dinners, I now couldn’t seem to sit still. Energy and exuberance radiated from every pore. I danced around the apartment, repainted the bathroom, and even cooked myself exotic dinners. I even found myself singing in the shower, but I was cursed with my mother’s horrible lack of pitch, sad to say.
I don’t know why, but suddenly I felt like I had the energy to let a man into my life. Maybe it was just that enough time had passed, enough distance had been linearly placed between Corbin and I, that someone else stood a chance. Maybe it was simply because John was such an easy man to be around that you couldn’t help but light up around him, to feel a sense of simple joy at the idea of letting him into your life. Regardless, I found that things were different with John. Unlike my other sad dating attempts, I found that although Corbin was often buried somewhere in my consciousness at all times, he wasn’t the forerunner. I wasn’t always comparing John to Corbin’s standards. John inhabited a completely different portion of my awareness altogether, standing on h
is own two feet instead of standing in the shadow of a man who had become a ghost in my life. Finally, against all odds, I had the strength, the ability, and even the desire to let someone else in, to see where my life could go. I had the desire to let love take over my destiny instead of the darkness of solitude.
I wasn’t the only one to notice the change in myself. My mom couldn’t help but be thrilled at the sudden shock of energy in me. She noticed my new and, unarguably, better appearance. She made underhanded but quite obvious remarks about how my hair suddenly didn’t look so mousey and that something must have opened my eyes to the wonders of the beauty world. When I turned her down for dinner one Wednesday night since I had a date with John, she finally snapped.
“Okay, who is he?” she demanded on the phone.
“Who?”
“Emma Groves, don’t lie to your mother. It’s bad enough you’ve been keeping secrets from me,” she complained.
“What makes you think there’s a he in my life?” I asked smiling. I knew I was going to have to tell her soon. I was just putting it off, choosing to savor my newfound happiness alone for a few weeks. It was actually fun having a good secret.
“Well, you don’t look like crap anymore. You take the time to put on some real clothes and do your makeup. And you actually have life in your eyes,” she said seriously. “So who is it?”
I sighed, abandoning any prospect of keeping my secret hidden any longer. “You don’t know him,” I said. “His name is John Ranstein. Dr. John Ranstein, actually.”
“A doctor! Sweet Jesus, my plain-Jane, dull daughter snags a doctor? Guess my prayers at church have gone straight to God’s ears,” she exclaimed with glee. “I bet he’s gorgeous,” she added.
“You could say that,” I grinned, ignoring the insults.
Voice of Innocence: A Coming-Of-Age Sweet Romance Page 15