by Erynn Mangum
It’s been rough since the pastor in charge of singles, Pastor Dan, left on his sabbatical three weeks ago. So far we’ve heard lessons on why we should all convert to being vegan from Dave Rightfield, who looked exceptionally slender that day, a look at the genealogy of Abraham from Cal Hanson, and then today’s lesson from Tim.
Pastor Dan can’t get home soon enough.
Layla elbows me. “Paige?”
I blink at her in the chair next to me. “Sorry. Guess I zoned out.”
“Dude, we all did.” Layla lowers her voice. “If Pastor Dan isn’t back next week, I swear I’m going to strangle someone. And these guys wonder why they are all still single.”
Peter walks over carrying a donut that someone brought. “I got you one with sprinkles, Layla.” He sits on the other side of her.
“Thanks, baby.” She takes the donut and looks back at me. “So, are we going to look at invitations for Mom and Dad today?”
“I thought we still needed to nail down a venue.”
Layla waves a hand. “We’re camping out at the park. I want to have it at the gazebo. Peter even said he’d sleep there so we don’t have to.” She sends a brilliant smile toward him. “Right, sweetie?”
“Hmm? Oh. Sure.”
Somehow, I know that isn’t going to stick come the night before the party. I might as well start looking into how much a warm sleeping bag will cost. And maybe take a few lessons in a self-defense class.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “So, invitations.”
“Right. You’ve got the best handwriting I’ve ever seen, so I want you to address them, if you don’t mind. And I am even thinking handwritten invitations will be really pretty. What do you think?”
I think it sounds painful. And I still like the e-vite option the best. But I don’t say that. Layla is doing a very sweet thing for her parents. I rub my right hand, wincing. “How many people are you inviting?”
“Oh, just a small, intimate crowd,” Layla says, offhand. “Only Mom and Dad’s best friends. And then we’ll have dinner and dancing and celebrate until dark. Mom and Dad are really into dancing. They won the county dance-off back when they were dating.” She sighs sweetly.
Layla is a romantic. Romantics don’t often think with all of their brains.
“What time do you want to have the party again?” I ask, because a few nights ago on our fruitless search for a venue that ended with us having coffee at Starbucks and me listening to Layla’s ideal party setup, it seemed that she wants the party to be at dusk.
If that is the case, the celebration will only last about twenty minutes. And knowing Layla, that’s not going to be the case.
“Oh, around seven or so.” Layla waves her donut casually.
I pull my phone out. Last year, the wireless service salesman talked me into getting a smartphone, though goodness knows I don’t use it to nearly its full capacity. I still like the feeling of a real Bic pen and a real piece of paper. I click over to Google and find the sunset time for February.
“So, your whole party is only going to be an hour?”
Layla shrugs. “I figure the toasting will be around forty minutes to an hour. I’m having an open mic. And some of Mom and Dad’s friends are a little long-winded, but I figure they will like hearing nice things about themselves. Most people do.”
I open my mouth and then stop. That is another argument for another day. “Okay,” I say slowly. “I meant, the whole party — toasts and all.”
“Oh goodness no. We need to have time to dance.”
“Then you might want to move the time up. Sunset is about six thirty.”
Layla purses her lips. “What if we brought in lighting?”
“How much are you willing to pay for this?” I ask, which is probably where I should have started the conversation last week.
“Oh,” Layla says, waving her hand. “Daddy just gave me a huge check for Christmas that I’m going to use to pay for this. And I have some saved up already.”
Figures. Layla’s father is not the wealthiest man I’ve ever met, but he is pretty darn close. And while he is stingy on things I thought mattered — like safe, noncreepy apartments for his daughter — he is nothing but extravagant on things I’m not sure matter that much. Like brand-new Jettas for graduation and a flat-screen TV always tuned to Fox News in her parents’ guest bathroom.
It is a little weird. I like Shepard Smith okay, but I don’t like him so much that I want to listen to him while I’m taking care of business.
I’ve only been to Layla’s parents’ house three times, and the second and third time, I just held it.
I pull my planner out of my purse and turn to the back where the notebook part of the planner is. It is January. I don’t have a lot of notes in there yet, other than Go to the grocery store today written in bold letters across the top.
I do need to do that.
“Okay.” I write Prestwicks’ Anniversary across the top of a page and draw a line under it. “What all do we need to do?”
Layla almost jumps up and down. “Oh thank you thank you, Paige! You know how awful I am at organizing stuff like this. You are the best friend I could ever ask for!”
I start making a list of everything I can think of from the two anniversary parties I’ve been to — my aunt and uncle’s and my grandparents’. By the time I finish just the preliminary stuff, Layla looks sick and Peter has gone to stand in the corner with his other barely talking friends.
“Wow, Paige. That’s a lot of stuff to think about.”
“Don’t freak out. We’ll take it one thing at a time. First things first, you need to come up with an exact starting time so we can send the e-vites. And quick. You probably should have already e-mailed those.”
“Invitations. I still think the handwritten way is classier. And Mom and Dad are classy people.”
Well. She doesn’t lie.
Twenty minutes later, I walk out to my car with the start of a headache. More because I don’t have any coffee in the apartment, I think, than planning the anniversary party with Layla.
I think.
“Hey, Paige!”
I look over and see Tyler walking through the parking lot as well. He waves and I wave back.
“Hi, Tyler.”
“Coming or going?” He catches up to me, Bible under his arm.
“Going. You?” Our church has three morning services. Every other week I teach the two-year-old Sunday school class during the first service and then go to the singles’ class.
“Going as well,” he says, smiling easily.
“So do you go to second service?”
He nods.
“You should start coming to the singles’ Sunday school class then.”
He shrugs it off. “Nah, I’m not really a single-y type of guy.”
I frown and sneak a quick look at his left hand. Surely I haven’t missed something so huge in his life. His hand is bare, though. I look back up at him. “Oh, you’re engaged then? Congratulations!” I am always happy to see people get married, especially when I know I’m not going to be called on to help pull off the wedding.
He laughs. “No, I’m not engaged. I’m single, I’m just not really a ‘Sunday school’ type of guy,” he says, using his fingers to make air quotes.
I hate when people do that.
When I was a little kid, I had a teacher who used air quotes every time she said the word “friends.” For the longest time, I thought she was half deaf and couldn’t really hear the word friends and decided to make up her own sign language for it.
Once I figured out that meant air quotes, I wasn’t sure if my teacher was trying to say she had no true friends or she was just lonely.
“Why not?” I ask Tyler.
He grins at me, blue eyes sparkling. “I like you, Paige. You don’t beat around the bush.” Then he shrugs. “Too regimented. I like studying God’s Word when I don’t have to sit in a folding chair for an hour.”
“You go to church, though,”
I point out.
“I sit in a pew there. And we stand to sing.” Tyler shrugs again. “It’s just not for me. And trust me. I’ve tried a lot of Sunday school classes.”
He isn’t missing out on too much. Not while Pastor Dan is on sabbatical.
“What are you doing now?” he asks me, squinting in the sunlight.
“Going to the grocery store. Then I’m going home for a few minutes.” And working on the wreath before Layla calls to tell me she is done having lunch with her parents and Peter.
“I can show you all the invitations I’ve been collecting that I really like,” she said all bubbly when I left a few minutes ago.
I am excited for Layla’s parents. And it is really kind of her to throw this party for them. And I don’t even mind helping with the party. I just wish someone else was helping who knows more about what to do. It is sort of like handing a person who’s only watched monkeys swing through the trees a Tarzan rope and telling them to hang ten.
Or whatever you say to Tarzan before he leaps through the trees. I’m not really a Tarzan buff.
No pun intended.
I blink and rub my head. I need some sleep. Or some caffeine.
Tyler is still there and now he’s grinning at me. “Hey, I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go get lunch.”
“Let’s?”
“Yeah, let’s. You and me.”
I shake my head. “I’d like to, really, but I have to go to the grocery store. If I don’t go today, then I have to eat Sonic for the whole next week, and I’m already into March’s eating-out budget.” Not to mention the awful, greasy feeling my face had after I’d eaten Sonic three days in a row.
“Oh, okay. Some other time then.”
“Yes, I’d like that.” I don’t want to be mean. I just have to go to the store before Layla calls me, because there is no telling how long I will be at her apartment this afternoon. I look at Tyler, feeling bad. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” He shrugs. “You’ve got plans. It just means I’ll have to plan further ahead or find a better day next time.”
I nod. Planning ahead is always a good thing.
“Paige! Paige, wait up!” Rick comes running across the parking lot. He stops in front of us, breathing hard. “Whew! I haven’t run like that in …” He heaves his breath, locking his hands behind his head. “Dude, I can’t even remember.”
“You can’t remember why you ran over here like that?” I ask.
“No, I can’t remember how long it’s been since I ran like that. Look, Paige, I wanted to ask you. There’s a girl who came into youth group this morning who is really going through a rough patch. Her parents just got divorced and she just moved here with her mom. Usually I would give this over to Natalie, but …” He shrugs, looking at me.
I nod. “Dilated?”
“Still. I moved a cot into my office here.”
I grin.
“Anyway, I am hoping maybe you could find a time to meet her for coffee or something this week and just talk to her and make her feel welcome?”
I pull my planner out of my purse. “Sure, I can meet with her on Thursday.” I can skip my Pilates class this week for a girl in need.
“Perfect.” Rick smiles at the two of us, all cheekily. “Sorry if I interrupted anything.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Natalie has been trying to set me up with someone since I met her. The first guy was a wannabe youth pastor from Corpus Christi who made my name into a six-syllable word.
Needless to say, it did not work out. I have all these expectations of what my future husband will be like, and while most of them have been formed from watching Pride and Prejudice too many times, one of the bigger ones is that I like how he says my name.
I’ll be listening to him say it for the rest of my life. I figure I should enjoy it.
Besides, I’m pretty sure no one in history has ever said “Lizzy” as wonderfully as Mr. Darcy.
It’s important.
“No.” Tyler shrugs to Rick’s question. “Just chatting. Well, you have a great time at the grocery store, Paige, and I’ll see you both on Wednesday night.”
I wave. “Bye, Tyler.”
“Yeah, see ya,” Rick says.
Tyler walks across the parking lot to his truck and climbs in.
“So,” Rick says, drawing the word out. “Tyler.”
“So,” I mimic. “I’m leaving.”
“Clean laundry and a hot meal!” he yells as I climb into my car.
I shake my head for his benefit as I start my car, but I can’t help the grin.
* * * * *
The grocery store may be my least favorite place on the planet. Because not only do I have to face the fact of just how much of my paycheck I’m eating every week, but the things I’m craving most for dinners are inevitably not on sale. Ever. My appetite has never lined up with the sale ad.
All those budget experts who say you should scour the sales ad before you go to the store and stick to the perimeter of the store while you’re shopping obviously never had the sudden and very strong desire for chips, queso, and Oreos.
If I have these cravings now, I will be about the worst pregnant woman in all of history, someday, far down the road.
I push my cart down one of the freezer aisles and pause in front of the frozen pizza section. At least once a week I eat frozen pizza. It’s easy and relatively cheap when you consider it feeds me for about three days.
My phone buzzes as I decide on a Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza. And bonus! It even comes with half a dozen presliced cookie dough cookies.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer the phone.
“Hi, honey. How’s your Sunday going?”
I talk to my mom probably three or four times a week, but she always, without fail, calls me on Sunday afternoon to catch up.
“Good. Just trying to get some grocery shopping done before I meet Layla.”
“More party planning?” Mom knows all about the Prestwicks’ anniversary party. As far as I know, they are planning to come. They’ve hung out with Layla’s parents a few times over the years and get along pretty well.
“We’re picking out invitations.”
Mom pauses. “You know, seeing as how Layla and Peter just got engaged, you’d think he would have more of a hand in planning his future in-laws’ party.”
“Peter is Peter,” I tell my mom.
She laughs. “Well, your dad and I are just sitting here very lonely from you leaving after Christmas and — ”
That is when I hear my dad in the background. “We are not lonely, Paige!”
“Lyle, for the love of — ” Mom hisses at him. Then she turns on her sweet voice for me again. “And we were just wondering when you thought you would be back down here.”
“I don’t know, Mom. Sounds like Dad’s not too anxious for me to come back.” I grin at the frozen peas.
Dad, for all the love he has for me, has very much been enjoying these years of having my mom all to himself again. Mom is a different story.
“Of course he wants you to come home again, sweetheart,” Mom says, and I hear Dad chuckling.
I pull my planner out of my purse. I have a long weekend coming up in March. In a twist of fate that has brought me joy without fail for the year that I’ve worked there, Mark and Peggy had both gotten married on the same day.
To different people.
But it means they are easily swayed by Candace and me to just close the agency for the day. Last year, I’d gotten a wonderful Thursday off. And this year, I am very excited about my long weekend.
“March 14 then?” I ask Mom.
“Oh, that will be perfect!” Mom squeals. “I’ll make all of your favorite meals. You just e-mail me a list of anything you want to eat. Okay, honey?”
“Sounds good, Mom.” I am already imagining a huge spiral-sliced honey ham, sweet potatoes, and my mom’s famous spinach casserole. Then we can end the evening with peanut butter chocolate bars, plenty of hot coffee,
and card games until late at night.
“All right then. Happy shopping!” Mom says.
I hang up and grab a few bags of the microwave-steamable vegetables. Some days, they are my dinner.
I look in my cart. Suddenly I feel very homesick.
Monday and Tuesday pass in a blur of working and then spending the entire evening looking up anniversary decoration ideas on the Internet. I love making crafts, and the idea of decorating for a party that isn’t my own is starting to sound more fun.
Probably because it isn’t my own, I have less of a personal stake in it.
Wednesday morning, I walk into work carrying my lunch cooler. I bought a few packaged salads at the grocery store on Sunday. They probably cost more than making the salad from scratch myself, but they don’t take as much time, so packaged salad it is.
Mark is already there when I walk in.
“Morning, Paige. Hey, do you know what I did with the case file for the Wittles? I can’t find it in my office.”
I swallow my laugh, which then gets me coughing. “Uh, yes sir. You mean the Waughtels? I have it right here, sir.” Candace just completed their home study, and I just finished transcribing it. “The home study is all printed up.” I set my purse and cooler on the desk and pull the file from my Stuff I’m Working On stack.
Amazing how high that stack tends to get throughout the day.
Mark grins. “Wow, thanks, Paige. Waughtel. That’s right.” He chuckles. “You realize you can never leave this job, right? The agency wouldn’t survive. How’s the banquet coming?”
“Good. We’re looking at the bands this week, and then I need to talk to the florist next week,” I say, doing my best to ignore his first statement. Still, a part of me holds out hope that Mark will come to me one day and offer me a job as a partner.
“Florist?”
“For the table centerpieces.”
He nods. “Right. I trust you’ll make it beautiful.” He sends me another smile before heading back to his office, Waughtel file in hand.
Apparently, the Waughtels’ house is so clean that Candace was afraid to walk inside.