I’m nervous about making dinner. It’s only for Bett and me. Consuela has gone home for the night. Still, it’s my debut cooking a full meal in this gargantuan kitchen. Bett insists I “get back on the horse” and make the same meal I planned for her soiree when I had the unfortunate fire. She’d called around and ordered a trio of the tiny poultry to be delivered from a local upscale market. “Make three squab, Honey, so we can eat the leftovers for lunch tomorrow.”
I’m plating two pigeons, tiny feet pointing to heaven, Italian parsley frilled under them, when the doorbell chimes. “Beth, can you get that, please?”
I answer the door reluctantly. There are so many interruptions at Bett’s. Deliveries, Fed-ex and UPS, old friends invited impromptu for tea, her accountant, and…
“Noel. What are you doing here?” That was clever and inviting, Betsy. What happened to your manners?
“Uh. Bett invited me for dinner?” His handsome face crinkles, and that rosy thing creeps across his nose. The Crayon blue eyes bore right into my soul. I’m a dweep. Or, is it a dweeb? I just know my teenage cousin uses some word like that to describe idiots like me.
My turn to take his hand. I apologize, explaining I’ve been cooking and I’m distracted. It’s not really a lie. Sorry, Lord, but that’s true. I am distracted by the sudden appearance of this man. I lead him into the kitchen, of all places, and seat him at the eighty inch round table with a glass of iced tea. He sips and stares.
Nothing bothers me more than someone staring at me while I’m cooking. Noel’s eyes, combined with my angst over why Bett pulled another caper on me, puts me in a dither. I vacillate between hating her and loving him. I pull out another plate and slap the third squab on it. Forget the leftovers for lunch tomorrow.
I hope my little suggestion about an excursion to Old Town Scottsdale won’t be too obvious. I really want them to have a good time and to get to know each other better. I’ve never been a matchmaker before, but this is special. I trust Noel to make Betsy happy. I really want this to work. Please, God, forgive me if I’m interfering with Your plan.
TEN
Noel scrapes a last strand of meat from a miniature drumstick between his teeth and licks his fingertips. Bett and I follow suit. We agreed to eat at the kitchen table. “More intimate,” Bett said.
As if a table the size of a small room can be intimate. I curl my tongue up against the roof of my mouth and keep the thought to myself. It turns out she was right. Formal dinner party manners are abandoned as we joke and laugh and pick at the little birds with our fingers.
The squabs are yummy, even though I had to use all dried herbs since Bett’s fridge wasn’t stocked with fresh tarragon and rosemary. Fortunately, she has a fondness for ethnic food, so her pantry is well stocked with black and green Greek olives (in cans!) and Basmati rice that I substituted for risotto. I’d found an unopened carton of free range chicken broth and some non-alcoholic white cooking wine waiting for me above two drawers of spices, including cumin. My debut meal in the palatial kitchen turned out okay.
Noel grins, and Bett smiles, rolling her eyes dreamily. I am pleased. We linger over coffee in the extravagant cups and Anna’s Swedish Ginger Cookies from Ikea. Bett’s pantry revealed an entire shelf of Scandinavian foods—lingonberries, packaged sauce mixtures for Swedish meatballs and salmon, Swedish pancake mix and syrup, flatbread and three different flavors of the Anna cookies. I bite into a crisp flower-shaped cookie and almost choke at Bett’s next comment.
“So, what are you two lovebirds going to do this evening?”
“I thought maybe we’d run over to Old Town Scottsdale and do the Art Walk.” Noel comments nonchalantly not missing a beat.
I try hard not to sputter, but I cough and a morsel of cookie flies into my coffee. How did we get from “Bett invited me” to “lovebirds” to him making a decision of how I’m going to spend my evening? In my most unassertive manner I smile and say, “That sounds like fun.” Did I mention I’m a dweeb? Or is it dweep?
After minimal plate scraping on my part, Bett urges me to leave the dishes for Consuela to stack in the dishwasher the next morning. Instead, Noel insists on helping, and together we rinse, stack and wipe. A sort of rhythm, a camaraderie, develops between us, and I admit to myself it’s nice.
I run to my velvet-clad room and grab a light jacket from the few items of clothing I managed to salvage from my condo before my eyes smarted shut from airborne soot. The weather’s getting cooler, down in the fifties now in the evenings. Distinctively chilly for Arizona. After slipping into my favorite Clarke sandals, I meet Noel in the dome-shaped foyer. He steers me out the door by my elbow toward a red convertible PT Cruiser. “This is my fun car,” he says. “And, yes, my other car really is a Mercedes.” His deep laugh drifts in the night air elevating my mood. I plan to have fun.
Droves of pedestrians stroll along downtown Scottsdale’s Main Street, lots of couples and some groups of friends, mostly women. By sheer luck we spot a parking spot in front of one of my favorite galleries and mosey into it. I try to make time to visit it whenever errands take me to Main Street. I love its eclectic offerings ranging from very traditional Monet-style oils to Picasso-like contemporary paintings. But it’s the sleek sculptures of cats and birds by Gene Guibord that intrigue me. Although most of his subjects are feline or aviary, there’s one of a racing hound dog called Joie de Vivre that captures my heart. The little bronze dog looks intent and focused, his ears pinned back, running with the wind. Perhaps he’s chasing a rabbit, or a stick his master threw. He really does express joy for life, the kind of joy we all wish to capture. I run my hand across his cool polished back and grin at Noel. “Isn’t he adorable?”
For the next hour we wander hand in hand from galleries displaying ultra-contemporary sculptures of steel and glass to others overflowing with American Indian pottery. Suddenly, we both stop and stare across the street. The outrageously pink and white façade of The Sugar Bowl Ice Cream Parlor calls to us. Well over forty years old, it’s retro décor beckons, as well as its promise of old-fashioned sodas with huge globs of ice cream and seltzer laced with foamy froth. Mom and I used to indulge in gooey sundaes after exploring Main Street when it’s trendy boutiques were the chic places to shop, years before huge Fashion Square was built.
Noel grins at me. “Ready for a sugar break?”
“You betcha.” I grin back mischievously and let go his hand. “Last one in buys!”
I race across the street and beat him to the door. As I dash inside I collide with a vintage pink bubble gum machine almost knocking it over. Noel brings up the rear panting.
“Heavens to betsy!” The scrawny, all bones seventy-ish waitress arches her penciled eyebrows at our flushed faces. “You kids okay?”
We nod in unison as she leads us to a little round table with two metal scroll back chairs. She plops pink menus in front of us as we settle on pink vinyl seats that whoosh like whoopee cushions under our weight. I laugh inwardly at Scrawny’s choice of words. Even though it was a colloquial expletive, she got my name right.
I order a double chocolate shake, extra thick, with two scoops of chocolate chip ice cream, whipped cream and a cherry. If you’re gonna go, I always say, go for broke. Thank heavens the only thing lacking in my borrowed Bett bathroom is a scale.
Noel looks a little flushed and hesitates with his order. “I’m feeling a bit squeamish. Guess that run did me in. Think I’ll just have a root beer float.” I study his face and worry a little. The Noel crimson blush is there, accentuating his aquiline nose. But, unlike the rosy one in the parking lot, the blush I mean, it’s sort of blotchy.
Scrawny, our server, plunks old-fashioned fluted soda fountain glasses in front of us with straws and long-handled spoons. Yum. I swirl a taste of the thick luxurious semi-liquid around in my mouth to savor its flavor. Can’t get much more chocolatey than this. I hope there’s chocolate, dark and extra rich, in heaven.
Noel hesitates again, bends forward over his float,
sucks through his straw and throws up.
Bubbles escape from his now redder nose spraying droplets all over the cute round table. He’s coughing hard and pounding his chest. When I scoot my chair back to pound on his back, it flips and lands with a thud. Scrawny rushes over, a cell phone in her hand. Noel gasps, “Can’t breathe.” When his right hand grips his left shoulder I yell to Scrawny. “Call 9-1-1, NOW!” Noel, who has now become “my Noel,” is having a heart attack. Sheesh, Betsy, you’re so perceptive.
I can’t believe it. The Hunk loads Noel onto a gurney and shoves it and him into the back of the EMT van that followed the fire truck to the restaurant. This is surreal. Am I in some kind of déjà vue time warp?
Noel is stabilized now with plastic tubes in his arm and a mask over his face. I jump in the ambulance, planning to ride with him, when he reaches in a pocket and hands me the keys to his Cruiser. Such trust. What a guy. I squeeze his hand and nod. “I’ll be right behind you, praying all the way. Praying,” I add, “is what I do best. Better than cooking.” His head moves slightly, indicating he understands.
Jumping out of the ambulance I search for the Hunk.
When I heard what happened, never mind how, I almost fainted. I felt so helpless. I had no idea where they’d taken Noel, nor how Betsy was handling this. My only option was to pray. This was a sure test of my new faith. Please, Lord, don’t let me down.
ELEVEN
I expect to see Hunk in a putrid gray Mr. Doughboy uniform of thick pants and cumbersome looking jacket. Then I realize that garb is only for fighting fires, not heart attacks. Instead, he’s sporting the new navy blue preppy uniform with button down collar I recently read about in the Scottsdale section of the paper. I must have been so discombobulated by Noel’s attack I didn’t notice his attire.
He’s bent over carefully placing vials into compartments of a suitcase type box. Probably restocking for the next emergency. His head is bare, no hat, except for random tufts of bleached blonde. I have an “only her hairdresser knows for sure” moment of envy before I come to my senses. I touch his shoulder, lightly, I think, but he jumps, spins around and says, “Yes?”
“Sorry.” Goodness, what reflexes. Glad he’s on my team. “I—was wondering if you knew what hospital they took my friend to. I couldn’t go with him in the ambulance ‘cause I have to drive his car. I didn’t think to ask before they took off.” I bat my eyes and combine a prayer for Noel with a short one hoping Hunk will know the answer. HonorHealth Osborne is fairly close, but then so is HonorHealth Shea. Then there’s Banner and several others. I could be driving around all night, and I promised Noel I’d be with him. Silly goose for giving me his keys.
“Say, you look familiar.” Hunk squints his eyes and scrutinizes my face. “You the lady who had a fire in her condo last week?”
I nod.
“On Raintree, off 94th?”
I nod again. I’m losing my edge. Why is this man so persistent?
“The cook lady, chef. Right?”
I finally muster my courage and practically yell at the man. “Look. I’m that lady. What does it matter? My friend is dying and I just want to know what hospital they took him to. I need to be there.”
Have you ever seen the face of a firefighter com-paramedic emotionally wounded? Let me tell you, it’s not a pretty sight. His eyes get huge and his face blanks, then turns to stone. I notice subliminally Hunk is older than I thought. Probably fifty-ish. The irritation in his face reveals the true age of his sun-tanned features.
“Sorry, lady.” He sounds contrite. “I didn’t realize it was your friend in the ambulance.” Remember the pregnant pause? “I’ve been worrying about you all week. He’s gonna be okay, though. I’m pretty sure it was just a TIA, a little pre-warning. I hope he lays off the rich foods and exercises.” His fingertips touch my sleeve. “You sure you’re okay? That was a pretty bad fire.”
I stifle the urge to ask if his soliloquy is over. I smile. “Thanks for your concern. I’m really okay. Where did you say my friend was taken?”
By the time I find the PT Cruiser and try to insert the key in the ignition my hand is shaking badly. It’s almost ten, late for me, and I don’t want to be stopped by the inveterate Scottsdale Police for speeding, even on a Thursday night. The pubs and clubs in Old Town, especially in tourist season, hop all week long. So, I drive slowly north on Scottsdale Road and turn on Indian School Road. I almost freak when an emaciated coyote runs lickety-split across the road in front of my car from a golf course. A sigh of relief whistles through my lips as I navigate onto the 101 Loop toward the hospital on Shea. So far the evening has been interesting, and it threatens to be a long one.
The hospital is just a block and a half off the freeway exit, and I have to cross over three lanes on Shea Boulevard to turn right onto 92nd Street where the emergency entrance is. It can be a bit tricky. Traffic is pretty light, being it’s so late, but night drivers in Arizona don’t pay attention, as they should. Not to mention the snowbirds, the Midwesterners and Easterners, many of them elderly, who live in Scottsdale only during Fall and Winter. People working a long day who are tired, and partygoers are more lax than usual in their driving habits. I creep slowly and weasel my way over lane by lane amid honking and horn blasts.
The next nerve wracking part will be finding a parking spot near the Emergency Entrance. Oh, that you would bless me, indeed. Ah, God is in my corner. I maneuver the Cruiser into a spot opposite the entrance and fiddle with how the remote locking system works. Old Sassy doesn’t have any locking system that works, much less a remote one. Hands quivering and feet rushing toward the automatic doors, I almost pass a shadowy figure huddled on a stone bench. The Emergency Room doors have just glided open making their wheee noise when recognition hits my brain. “Noel? That you?”
His head lifts up from bent shoulders and sad eyes search my face. I plop my ample derriere next to him and take his hand. “Wha—why are you here? What happened, why aren’t they treating you?” Shut up, Betsy. Give the man a chance to talk.
“Betsy, I’m so embarrassed” He looks down at his Docksider loafers, a habit I’m getting used to. “My heart is fine, I wasn’t choking. I had an anxiety attack.”
“A what?” I scream so loudly in his ear that I’m probably giving him another one. “What were you anxious about?” Noel is the epitome, or is it epitomy, of in control. Anyway, he’s the example.
He turns his handsome salt and pepper head toward mine, and I notice moist eyes. “You, Betsy.”
An anxiety attack because of moi? That sounds very romantic. Me, Elizabeth (a.k.a. Betsy) Wysinotski, caused a grown man to be anxious. I must write this in my diary, a.k.a. journal. When I get back to wherever it is I live now. Oops, back to Noel.
“Do these…attacks…happen often?”
“Nope. Haven’t had one for forty years when I met Maizie at our high school prom. I had to go outside and barf. The principal thought I’d been drinking, so he sent me home. I hadn’t been, just really nervous about courting Maizie.” The Crayon blue eyes search my face, then dip to focus on his knees. “She was my wife.”
Noel, friend, you just dropped a bomb here. I don’t know how to respond to this confession. So, I let it go and reply, “Noel, I’m so glad you got a clean bill of health. Can you drive me home now?”
Okay, I’m insensitive. I didn’t respond with a hug and teary-eyed kiss. I was flabbergasted. After thirty years of widowhood and twenty-five of loneliness from being dumped, I’m not used to being the focus of a man’s affections. And especially not the reason for an anxiety attack.
Truman, my latest former husband, wasn’t exactly Mr. Romantic. Even though his name meant a faithful, loyal man. Right! I’d gotten used to the obligatory peck on the cheek before bedtime. Truman was an honest, dear and loving person. Just not to me.
But, that’s another story for another time.
I drive the Cruiser, still worried about Noel’s state of health. He seems fine to me blabbering the en
tire twenty-minute trip. If he apologizes one more time I may slap him. I sense there’s some issue with his masculinity about anxiety attacks. So, I open my big mouth and spew.
“Noel, I’m just grateful you are healthy and fine. I know I’m dense, but I don’t understand the problem. I’m flattered that if you did have an anxiety attack it was because of me. I’m sorry you had one because of Maizie. I’m not an anxiety attack kind of person, so this whole idea is foreign to me. What exactly is an anxiety attack, and why does it happen? Especially to you.”
“Betsy, I know this isn’t the best time or the right place…I think I’m falling in love with you.” Noel touches my right arm from the passenger seat, and I almost miss the turn to Bett’s street. Wow, heavy stuff.
I screech into the long curved drive as the photosensitive lights come on. Bett flings open the door, if one can fling a three hundred pound door, and rushes to the Cruiser in a purple nightgown. She resembles a butterfly in flight.
“Dawlings!” ‘Nuff said, Bett. Now, shut up. “What a stressful evening.” How’d she know? She wasn’t there. I bite my lip, my tongue and the inside of my cheek. Tonight I will need to rinse out my mouth with hydrogen peroxide.
She gives a half wave to me through the driver’s window and makes a beeline for Noel’s door on the passenger side. So much for being the rescue hero.
“Noel, precious man, what happened? How are you? Are you in pain? Should I call Consuela to come sit by you during the night? We must take care of you.”
Noel looks embarrassed, but I also detect a tiny bit of self-importance in his demeanor. He allows himself to be assisted out of the car by Bett who fondles his arm by rubbing her palm up and down its lightly tanned skin. I know she has no romantic feelings toward him. She’s almost twenty years his senior. Maybe it’s a motherly thing. So, why do I feel envious of her and protective of Noel?
Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance) Page 5