Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance)

by Bonnie Engstrom

  I nod. “Taking a chance.” I notice she’s wearing one of those new cross necklaces where the cross lies sideways. I’ve been wanting one, but haven’t gotten around to searching for it. “You a Christian?” I boldly ask. One of my favorite authors says God wants us to be bold. Well, I’m certainly not timid, but I’m not sure He meant to be bold this way.

  “Yes, sure am. I sensed you were, too, from the advertisement on your van.” Her grin shows teeth white as dandelion fluff against blood red lips. Startling contrast, but nice. “I suppose,” she ruminates as I open the door, “anyone could call their salads heavenly. But, I decided to trust my instincts.”

  “Momma, who’re you talking to?” Brie waddles out of the bedroom, her face all screwed up with concern. “Who’s this? Who are you?” Good old diplomatic Brie.

  “I’m Muriel, your mother’s new friend.” The lady in green extends a manicured hand to Brie who looks at it suspiciously, then finally grasps it in a squeeze. Maybe a little too hard I decide as I notice Muriel’s eyebrows rise dramatically.

  “This is my daughter, Brie,” I offer. “Like the cheese.” I can’t resist a chuckle even though Brie hates it when I add that codicil to introductions. She glares at me, piercing my eyes with invisible daggers.

  “Sit down, Muriel.” I gesture to the sofa and plunk myself in an adjacent chair and tuck one foot under my ample derriere. “Brie, before you sit down, would you please get Muriel and me a glass of iced tea? There’s a pitcher in the fridge.” Now I feel the invisible daggers in the back of my head. I don’t care. It’s payback time for all the money I spent on maternity duds.

  Brie practically slams two filled glasses on the coffee table. Two napkins flutter next to each. Muriel and I each have to reach midair to catch them. Brie is being a snot. I’m embarrassed. Even though she’s twenty-five years old, I am tempted to treat her like a naughty toddler. Again, I think that maybe I didn’t punish her enough when she was one. If I did, it didn’t sink in and compute through the years.

  “Brie.” I turn full-face to her. “I know you aren’t feeling terrific. I know you’re uncomfortable, so maybe you should hang out with Derek while Muriel and I get to know each other.” I want to say, “You rude little snippet, get out!” Now, that would be bold.

  Turning back to my new friend I explain. “Derek is Brie’s husband who is resting in the guest bedroom. He had a tragic accident and is still recovering.” Muriel’s eyebrows shoot up again over super-sized eyes. I know it’s cliché to think pizza pie proportions, but Muriel’s eyes do get very large. Chocolate covered donuts might be a better description.

  “Wha…what happened? If you don’t mind my asking?”

  I just love it when people use proper grammar. Most of us would say “me asking.” Even me, I. Drat!

  “Muriel, before I answer, with Brie’s permission of course, would you mind telling me what you do, or did, for a living?” I smile my sweetest, hoping to put her at ease. It’s gotta be English teacher, author, even possibly etiquette guru. Gotta be.

  She smiles back, and I sense her warming up. I just don’t expect the surprise.

  “I am, was, still am, a licensed physical therapist. But not,” she adds, “in this state.” She goes on. “I’ve also done a lot of extra stuff part-time. Like hospice, caregiver, cleaning person and server. Guess I’m a Jill of all trades. But, my training is in PT.” Her mouth forms a narrow slit, and she makes an attempt to smile while folding her hands together on her lap. Are they trembling? I think so, slightly.

  “Why’d you stop, give it up?” Diplomatic Brie, again.

  “Life circumstances. I didn’t ‘give it up,’ but needed to make a change.” Do I see tears pooling in her eyes?

  “Muriel is not here to be interrogated. I invited her as a friend.” My turn to fling the invisible daggers at Brie. But, I’m not sure they are all that invisible.

  “Sorry. I guess I was a little nosy.” Brie brings her own glass of iced tea in and flops overdramatically in the other chair. She is still clutching the tall, slender glass, and the sweat from it is dripping down her forearm. She sets the glass down and wipes her arm on Derek’s over-sized tee shirt that spreads across her expanding belly. “Can you still do it? Physical therapy, I mean?”

  “Of course I can. I did it for thirty years. Haven’t forgotten a thing. I just don’t have a license to do it in Arizona, yet. Why do you ask?”

  Brie shifts as much as she can while holding her two hands underneath her belly for support. “I was thinking since you’re here, as Momma’s new friend,” I almost get up and slap her for the belittling tone of her voice, “maybe you could help my husband.” She focuses on Muriel’s face in a confrontational way I’m not comfortable with. “What’s your specialty? I understand PTs usually have one, like backs or legs or necks. You got one?” Lordy, is this the child of mine who got A pluses in English? I chalk up her lack of grammar to pregnancy.

  Muriel unclasps her hands and rests them on her legs. She nods and smiles one of those quiet smiles that come from confidence. “I work with multiple injuries, mostly from car accidents and major traumas. Sort of like teaching the affected people to be whole and fully functioning again.

  Without fear,” she adds.

  Brie literally leaps out of her chair. I don’t remember her doing that so fast even when she was two. I think she’s going to crush Muriel when she wraps her arms around the woman, and her big belly lands on Muriel’s lap.

  “Oh, my gosh. Oh! Can you help my husband?” Brie babbles on about what a wonderful man he is, how he is in this predicament because he tried to help someone else, how much he’s healed, but how much more he needs to heal.

  Muriel very gently pushes Brie off of her and places her hands on my daughter’s shoulders. “Maybe I can,” she says noncommittally. “Let’s see.”

  ~

  The next few days are a Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. Sorry, Walt, but it applies here. Muriel has numerous consultations, notebook in hand, with Derek. She sees him more than Brie does. Fortunately, I have a sofa-sleeper in my living room, and Muriel hunkers down there. She does have an apartment nearby, so she can go home to shower and change clothes. But, she is so dedicated to Derek she tries to stay at my house as much as possible so she will be on spot when he awakens and can be guiding him, actually hovering by him, throughout the day. She refuses to take any compensation. Apparently, as her story comes out in small dribs, she has plenty of financial security, only needs friendship security. She sure has that now.

  Brie calls her “hero,” and Derek calls her “my angel.” I call her “friend.” A good one, one God led me to.

  When Derek is resting or sleeping, Muriel gets into the planning of Nancy’s possible party, the one that might be ditched because of Lester. It seems Muriel in her former life hosted numerous parties, high-faluting ones for professional politicians and athletes and other important people. She also has a gift for empathy and asks if she could meet with Fancy Nancy. I am thrilled to pass on what has now become a burden to me. Nancy is so open to any counsel she can get, not just because of the party snafu, but because of her marriage. We set it up.

  ~

  It’s a gloomy Monday, overcast and muggy, a unique scenario for Arizona. I have trouble focusing on my devotions. I have nine, yes nine, devotional books I read every morning. Each one gives me hope and pumps me up for the day. Joyce Meyer is my favorite, but The Daily Bread and Julie Clinton and Oswald Chambers complete it. Sometimes, though, old Oswald is a bit too philosophical. For me, at least. I keep the shutters across the sliding door wide open so I can see the sky and the palm trees poking up above the houses across from mine. They look regal, reaching up to touch Heaven and catch God’s eyes, hoping for a blessing. I finish my coffee laced heavily with the new Italian creamer. Shoving the books on my special shelf for morning devotionals, I tromp to the shower. I will catch up on my prayers there.

  Nancy calls at seven. I guess even young people get up early in Arizona
because of the heat.

  “Who IS this person you want me to meet with? Why should I?” The poor woman is such a stress case since Lester left. I should have been more in touch. Guilt consumes me.

  “Nancy!” I almost yell, then lower my voice. “She has been through what you are going through. She is a certified counselor.” I didn’t add in another state, nor what kind. Whatever. Nancy just needs help and assurance from wherever and whomever she can get it. She calms down, we arrange a time.

  Muriel and I pull up to the imposing house. She doesn’t seem affected by it, but it still overwhelms me. Maybe she had a house like this one, in her other life. She leads the way and rings the brass bell. I have déjà vu when Noel did that at Bett’s, and I have a moment of panic. Did he really say, “You must be Bett’s best kept secret.”? Did I really swoon over Crayon blue eyes? Where is Noel now? The ingrate. The sometimes, only when convenient, only when not sick, lover. I shove the ‘what happened’ down my gut and try to concentrate on Nancy and Muriel. That is my mission for today. Fortunately, I seldom have salad orders on Mondays.

  ~

  Nancy opens the door in wrinkled sweats and dirty fuzzy slippers. Her formerly luxurious hair is in tangles and loops and straggly strands. Not just around her beautiful face, but sticking out from her head like an egg beater had invaded her.

  “Oh, dear,” is all I can mumble. I glance at Muriel, whose face is set in stone like one of the famous presidents on Mt. Rushmore. I can never remember all their names, but the most stern one comes to mind. Muriel is a trooper. She pushes past Nancy into the expansive living room and plops down on the nine foot sofa. “Nancy, sweets, come here.” And, to my amazement, Nancy does and collapses into Muriel’s arms nestling her head against the older woman’s bosom.

  FORTY NINE

  “Where are we, Betsy? Is this Paradise Valley?” Muriel tugs on the car shoulder belt so she can turn sideways to see out the window better.

  “No. We’re still in Scottsdale, just North Scottsdale.”

  She makes a comment about the huge homes. “I agree they’re colossal. At least some of them. I wouldn’t want to live up here, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Obviously, I can’t afford to. But, I like living close to the hospital and grocery stores and the library. Also, the fire department.”

  “I see.” She grins and I clap her hands for the second I take them off the steering wheel.

  “How do you think it went with Nancy?” she asks.

  “I haven’t decided whether to dub you miracle worker or angel. Both fit. You sure have the touch with that lady.”

  “I’m neither. Just an empathetic old lady. Maybe she was just ripe to let loose and trust.”

  We’re toodling south on a long stretch of Scottsdale Road. We had been at Fancy Nancy’s for over two hours. Muriel had taken the situation in hand. After sobbing Nancy told her pathetic story, and Muriel firmly told her to jump in the shower and put on her prettiest and sexiest dress. Maybe an ankle length and strapless sundress. Bare feet, no sandals.

  “And, put some jewelry on. Do you have any toe rings? Ankle bracelets? Big dangly earrings? Especially something ‘he’ gave you.”

  Nancy nodded, wiped her eyes with her absorbent hand and disappeared.

  I had said, “You are one tough cookie. What’s next?”

  “Lester is.” She grinned like a naughty ten-year-old with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

  A half hour later, Nancy shyly came back. Her hair was damp from the shower, but she had on a flowing, flowered strapless sundress in bright colors that swirled around her ankles. Three toe rings, a chunky turquoise necklace and big earrings that swung when she walked, as well as stacks of bright bracelets that clanked and completed the ensemble.

  Muriel took one look and, like a kindly drill sergeant, issued more orders. I thought she was a bit bossy. “Go back, put some concealer under your eyes on those bags, some light blush on your cheeks, mascara and tinted lip gloss. And, dry your hair to a gleam.

  Before you go, tell me Lester’s cell number.”

  Nancy’s eyes widened in terror. “Oh, please don’t call him, please. This is so embarrassing.”

  “Don’t worry, dear. I am not going to call him. Someone else is.” That impish grin appeared on Muriel’s face again. “A dear friend of his is.”

  ~

  I was still a little miffed, but Muriel’s ploy worked. After my phone call to Noel, he called Lester. I wish I had been privy to the conversation because I imagined Bett bubbling in the background with choice comments. I still don’t know what Noel said to Lester, and I’m pretty sure I don’t ever want to.

  Muriel and I had hunkered down in Sassy around the corner. Hopefully, out of sight, but still being able to see activity going into Nancy’s house. Around the corner is a misnomer. Nancy and Lester live on over an acre, so there is no real corner. But, I found a copse just before the entrance to their long, circular driveway. I backed Sassy into it in case we needed a quick getaway. I think with the covering of pines, we were not very visible. We saw Noel’s Mercedes zooming up the drive, then ten minutes later Lester’s Porsche. We hear car doors slam, then noticed a slit of light when the big double front doors of the estate opened. I decided to refer to it as an estate because that’s what it is. Not a house, and unfortunately then, not really a home.

  Twenty minutes after Lester pulled up, Noel pranced out. I wanted to smack the foolish grin on his face, but I was glad he was smiling. Whatever Muriel suggested had apparently worked. At least for that moment. Maybe she could work some magic for Noel and me.

  FIFTY

  “Hunk.”

  Did I hear her right? “Who?”

  “Your guy.” Muriel runs her tongue over her bottom lip. I can’t say she is licking her lips, but close. “He looks delicious. For an older guy.” She fixes me with a confused stare.

  “I guess he’s yours?” Was that a question or a statement?

  “He’s supposed to be. That enough information for you?” I admit I am undone, floored, and a lot of words I bite my tongue with to stop spewing from my mouth. I am angry, to the core. I step on Sassy’s gas pedal and zoom out of the copse. No longer hidden. I don’t care. I almost slam into Noel’s fancy black Mercedes positioned sideways across the end of the drive.

  “What the…?”

  “He’s obviously trying to stop you,” Muriel says coolly. Her hands lay calmly on her lap. Do I hate her, or hate him? Right now I just plain hate.

  As I slam, yes slam, on the brakes, my hands are shaking like I am holding a vibrator. Not that I’ve ever held one, but I can imagine. I grip Sassy’s steering wheel with all my might. I am calm now, until…Noel taps on my car window.

  I try to manually roll down the window. Can’t, so open the door a slit, then grit my teeth and hold my breath and bite my tongue like Miss Alice my kids’ preschool teacher taught me to do in stressful situations.

  “Betsy,” he says in his condescending voice, “you okay? What’s going on?”

  I stare and stick out my tongue. It’s all I can do not to spew venom. So, I use the old tried and true. “Nothing.”

  ~

  Noel tugs open the door and spreads his arms, ready to hug me I think, until he sees Muriel. He takes a step back and smiles, his cutesy, flirty smile. The one he graced me with that day at Bett’s when I opened the door.

  “Well, now, who is this? Who is your l—lady—friend?”

  If Muriel, who I now hate, wasn’t there, I would slap him. Hard. I’m sure the stuttering “L–L” was the start of the word lovely, or lady, or both. Had to be, because it’s so Noel. I am almost expecting him to say, “You must be Betsy’s best kept secret.” Fortunately, for his safety, he doesn’t.

  Muriel graciously reaches across me and offers her hand. “Hi. Name’s Muriel. I’m the one who had the idea to call you to talk to Lester.” She readjusts herself in her seat and asks the pregnant question. “What did you say to hi
m?”

  I can’t figure this woman out. She seems so genuine, so caring. Still, she called Noel a hunk. Guess he is for his age. Maybe she is so upfront she calls it like it is. Is she flirting with him? Is he with her? My headache is starting again when I hear her laugh. Boisterously. I look at Muriel, then at Noel. Both are holding their bellies. Must be some joke.

  “Can I get in on this?” I know my new face is all wrinkled up, and my new brows are almost kissing each other above my nose. I don’t care. Brie would have a fit for my contorting my face this way. Still, I need to know before my heart starts leaking blood down the front of my blouse.

  They laugh some more, and Muriel lays her hand on my arm giving it a slight squeeze. Noel turns away from the car door and sneezes. Three times. He does that when he’s nervous. I just pray he isn’t going to throw up. Surely, history won’t repeat itself.

  I am flummoxed. I don’t know what to say, or do. So, I wait for the cacophony to abate. I close my eyes and silently count to ten. Just when I’m about to start over, Noel touches my arm.

  “Betsy,” he says with tears of laughter still dripping out of his Crayon blue eyes, “Muriel and I go way back.” I hand him a tissue from the glove compartment. He pauses to wipe and collect himself, and I am about to kick him in the shin.

  “As in how?” I’m not sure I want to know, but I feel compelled to ask. Is Muriel an ex? Girlfriend, patient, lover?

  “She is Roland’s wife, er, ex-wife. Should I say former?” Now he looks contrite, apologetically at Muriel. What in Sam’s hill of beans is going on?

  “Excuse me.” I hear my piercing voice, but don’t care. “Who is Roland? How do you know each other?”

  ~

  We decide to convene to my humble living room. I call ahead and ask Brie to please make a big pot of coffee and get out mugs and flavored creamers. “You’ll understand why when we get there,” I said in answer to her persistent questions.