“Go back outside,” Owen whispered to the two women.
“I said get over here!”
“Why don’t you let the girls go?” Owen said to the man.
“Why don’t you shut up and do what I tell you!”
The store clerk started to inch his way out from behind the counter. He was eyeing the door behind the college students, judging its distance, probably. The man with the gun whipped his head around to face him. “I didn’t tell you to go anywhere!”
“Go!” Owen whispered again.
Chloe and L’Raine took a step backward and Chloe put her hand on the doorknob.
“Get over here!” the robber screamed.
“Take it easy,” Warren said and he and Owen pressed their backs against Chloe and L’Raine.
“You wanna be dead? Shut up and get over here. Girls first. On your knees. You!” he cocked his head toward the store clerk. “You empty those shelves like I told you. And the cash register. And the safe. Move!”
Chloe and L’Raine held hands and inched their way from behind the brothers and toward the man with the gun.
“Get away from that door or I’ll send you both to kingdom come, I swear it,” the man yelled to Owen and Warren.
As the women made their way to the empty space in front of the robber, and as the brothers edged away from the door, the store clerk chose that moment to spring free. He darted out from behind the counter and dashed toward the front door.
The robber yelled and aimed his gun for the fleeing man, who was now partially hidden by Chloe. She was technically more in the line of fire than the fleeing store clerk. Owen screamed “Get down!” and threw his body in front of Chloe. The gun went off and Warren dove for the robber’s legs, sending them both to the ground. The gun flew out of the robber’s hands.
“Get it!” Warren yelled to L’Raine as he fought to contain the robber.
Chloe, who had been knocked down by Owen, scrambled to her feet to see if he was okay. He lay on his side next to her.
“Are you hurt? Are you hurt?” she yelled, searching his body with her eyes. She was afraid to touch him. Something red glistened on his forearm.
“Warren… L’Raine…” Owen said as he struggled to rise but then fell back.
Chloe glanced over her shoulder. Warren had the gun trained on the robber, who was on his knees. L’Raine was on the telephone at the cash register, dialing with shaking fingers.
“They’re okay. They’re all right. Warren has the gun. L’Raine is calling for the police,” she said. “Are you hurt?”
Warren squinted and grimaced. “I can’t believe how much it hurts.”
“Oh!” Chloe said, as tears sprang to her eyes.
“How do you gals wear these things all day?”
For a second, Chloe sat speechless and dumbfounded. Then she realized Owen was not talking about a gunshot wound. He was talking about her earring.
Which he still had clipped to right ear.
As it turned out, the bullet had grazed Owen’s arm as he fell across Chloe and lodged itself in the wallboard behind them. The wound required fourteen stitches.
The four choir members never made it to the concert that night. After giving their statements and getting Owen’s arm attended to, they had missed the event entirely. Instead they went to a diner and sat up half the night drinking coffee and falling in love— Owen with Chloe and Warren with L’Raine.
Four years later, on the day after their college graduation, the four young people were married in a double ceremony.
L’Raine and Warren eventually had three boys and lived in a little town on Lake Superior where he led a high school choir. Chloe and Owen lived in Minneapolis where Owen taught elementary band. He and Chloe tried for many years to have a child. Eventually, they adopted a little boy from Korea named Joo-Chan. They gave him the name Kellen. Many years later and to their absolute surprise, God gave Owen and Chloe a baby after all, a little girl, and Owen named her Daisy because those were the flowers he would bring to Chloe while they were dating. At night, Owen would sing “A Bicycle Built for Two” to his daughter, and she loved it. The little girl loved the line, “I’m half crazy all for the love of you.”
And they were all very happy.
Ever-after seemed wildly possible.
I know it sounds a bit more like a police blotter entry than a love story, but it is a love story. It’s love like I picture it in its truest form: My father saving my mother from the bullet; my mother dashing to the ground to see if he was okay; Warren toppling the bad guy and yelling for L’Raine to grab the gun; and L’Raine trusting him and reaching down to take hold of it.
That is a picture of love to me. In its most basic form.
It’s keeping the one I care for from harm, looking to this beloved’s wounds, toppling evil in its tracks, bending down in trust.
I think I knew all along that Daniel didn’t love me the way my dad loved my mother, the way Uncle Warren loved L’Raine.
And I suppose I didn’t love Daniel the way my mother loved my father. If I did, I never would’ve wanted him to marry someone he didn’t love absolutely.
It floors me still that when Daniel told me he was certain he’d be unhappy if we went through with the wedding, I still begged him to marry me.
As if his happiness meant nothing at all to me.
Fifteen
Saturdays at Something Blue are usually the busiest days of the week no matter what time of year it is. It’s the only day I rely on additional help on the sales floor. Mom and L’Raine take Saturdays off—they’d be on their feet the whole day if they didn’t, and they usually spend it golfing, shopping and looking for eligible bachelors to fix me up with.
Three college students pretty much run the show on Saturdays. It works out great for them since they aren’t in classes on Saturdays and they can arrange the hours so that there are always at least two of them on the floor from nine a.m. to nine p.m. I give them a modest commission, too, which keeps them lively, on their toes and not buried in a textbook behind the cash register.
This allows me a day off, too. I don’t take every Saturday off, but once or twice a month I like to pretend I’m not a slave to the retail taskmaster.
And I usually begin it with coffee on the roof. In the summer, that is.
This morning I am wearing a faded Twins T-shirt and cut-offs made from sweat pants. My brownish, blondish hair is half in and half out of a copper-colored scrunchy. No make-up yet. Maybe not at all today. The sun is warm on my legs as I sit on one of the Adirondack chairs. The two chairs are the only structures on the roof besides a couple of ventilation thingies. At least that’s what I think they are. I don’t know. Mario takes care of all that.
But no one else really appreciates the roof like I do.
I suppose it’s because there’s not much to appreciate about it. Ours is by far not the tallest of buildings in Uptown, so the view is only adequate.
But there’s something about being above what normally defines my day that appeals to me. It’s my way of rising above my circumstances. I like the feeling of being on top of it all— for a few moments, anyway. And only figuratively speaking, of course.
I won’t stay long this morning, just long enough to finish my mocha and order my thoughts. I’m still a little unsettled about what happened at Ping’s last night. And my confessions to Harriet afterward are also pinging around in my head. No pun intended.
Last night around midnight I took the advice Harriet didn’t give me and I slithered down to the chapel to lay bare my pathetic soul.
The truth is, I behaved badly at the restaurant. I behaved badly before we even left for the restaurant. I dismissed Marshall as if he were subhuman. Non-human. As if he were an hors d’oeuvre that I wasn’t even going to try to like. And then to get so uppity because Max and Mia were hitting it off so well.
I showed my true colors. Not a pretty picture.
Today would be a great day to sell that wedding dress. I’m feelin
g very unworthy of its ownership.
The hot coffee hits my tongue and stings a little.
It has just occurred to me that I have a new rule for my book, Rules of Disengagement. Beware of bitterness. It will creep up on you and inside you and pretty soon, before you even know it, it will seep out of you. Be on your guard. It wants you.
And you are in the very dangerous position of wanting to be wanted.
I probably won’t hear again from Marshall Mitchell—do I have that right?— but if I do, I will offer him an apology. I will tell him I was completely distracted by personal issues the night we met and didn’t realize how rudely I had behaved until it was too late and the evening was over. He will probably say, “Oh, don’t worry about it, really. Have you met my fiancée?”
Max surely has no idea the persnickety thoughts I had regarding his flirting with Mia, so I don’t owe him an outright apology, thank goodness.
I should probably apologize to my mother, though. She means well. And she wants for me what I want for me: a love that lasts a lifetime.
Now that I know the resentment monster resides just under my skin I’m going to try and kill it every chance I get. I hope I get some chances. I hope I recognize those chances when they come.
I think I’m going to have to pay a visit to Father Laurent today to make sure I know what to look for. Surely in his career as an Episcopal priest he pointed out opportunities to slay bitterness to people who couldn’t see past their injuries.
I take another sip of the mocha.
Not so hot this time.
A voice startles me and I turn toward the sound. My mother is poking her head out of the rooftop floor. She has not taken every step to the top. Just enough to allow her to see that I am here.
“Daisy, can I talk to you for a moment?”
I sit up in my chair. “Sure, Mom. I can come inside.”
“No, it’s all right. I can handle the roof for a few minutes.” She takes another tentative step and more of her body emerges from the building. Mom is not a big fan of heights.
“I don’t mind, Mom. Really. I can come inside.”
She is on the last step. “As long as I don’t think about where I am, I’m fine.” She steps onto the roof and propels her body forward across the pea gravel surface “See? I just pretend I’m at the playground.”
I smile and pat the chair next to me. “Okay, then. Have a seat.”
Mom closes the distance and then settles into the second Adirondack chair. “It’s a lovely morning.”
“Sure is.” The urge to apologize to her for being a spoiled brat last night is suddenly overwhelming. I say “Mom,” just as she says, “Daisy,” and we both smile.
“Let me go first, Mom. I’m sorry about my attitude last night. Really. I know you meant well. I didn’t mean to come off so unfriendly. I’m sure I disappointed you.”
“You didn’t disappoint me, Daisy. And it’s me who should be apologizing. I knew perfectly well you didn’t want me trying to find any more dates for you. And I went and did it anyway. Sort of.”
“Sort of?” I can’t help but smile.
“It really wasn’t supposed to be a date. It was supposed to be a chance to meet a nice single man under relatively casual circumstances.”
“Did he know that’s what you were doing? Creating a causal meeting ground for him to meet your daughter?”
“I never actually said that to him. We had started talking about mutual funds while we were waiting for golf carts and I just told him I was going to be seeing my son Friday night and that he knew all about investments.”
“And you didn’t tell him you had an unmarried daughter?”
“Well, I did kind of mention that, yes, but it was more like a passing comment to help create interest. I knew if he could get some investment advice and meet a nice, single Christian girl, he’d come. And I was right.”
“Except he didn’t meet a nice, single Christian girl,” I turn my head from her and sip my mocha.
“Oh yes, he did,” Mom says quickly. “He thought you were a lovely girl. He said you seemed sad, though.”
I turn back to look at her. “When did he say that?”
“After dinner. When we were all in the parking lot near the restaurant saying goodbye. You were talking to Laura.”
“He said I seemed sad?”
“Yes. And no, I didn’t tell him the reason you might have seemed that way. I just told him family gatherings make you think of Dad and that you still miss him.”
For a few seconds I am silent. Dad seemed achingly far from me last night when I was having my pity party with Harriet. “I was just thinking of Dad last night, after we got home,” I say a moment later.
“So I wasn’t exactly lying.”
“No. But I don’t want to seem sad anymore, Mom.” I look away from her.
“I don’t want you to either.”
“This is taking longer than I thought it would.”
“You were hurt, Daisy. Everyone heals at a pace of their own.”
I turn my head back. “Do you suppose Reuben ever got over you?”
Mom breaks into an easy smile. “Of course he did. He married someone else.”
“Yes, but did he love her like he loved you?”
Mom’s answer is quick. “I should hope not. He surely loved her in a completely different way for at least one very good reason. She loved him.”
We are quiet for a few minutes.
“I promise I won’t try and fix you up again, Daisy. If that’s really what you want,” Mom says.
Oh, I so want to laugh. She has no idea how the thought of having my broken heart “fixed up” appeals to me. Fix is an amazingly complete word for having just three letters. Gotta love that “X” at the end. It sounds so final. Repaired forevermore.
“Daisy, did you hear what I said?”
I turn to her. “Maybe we should just let it happen on its own.”
“If you let it, I’m sure it will.”
I sigh. A breath of resignation. “I promise I will try to let it.”
“That’s my good girl.”
Seconds of silence.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Max and Mia seemed to really enjoy each other’s company.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think they…?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
Mom stands up. “Max was just being Max, Daisy. And Mia will be in Paris this time next year. They were just having fun, sweetheart. Something I worry that you’ve forgotten how to do.”
Okay, so there’s really nothing I can respond back with. My first thought is I can’t decide if Mom’s right or not. If she is, I’m pitiful. If she’s not, it still stands to reason that I come across as someone who doesn’t remember how to have fun.
Not much better.
My mother leans over to kiss me on my forehead. Her touch feels like solace. “Solomon’s looking for you.”
Solomon Gruder. Third-floor tenant. Retired violinist. Seventy-one-year-old widower.
“He’s too old for me.” I squint up at her.
See? I’ve not forgotten how to have fun.
Mom laughs. “He wants you play the piano for him. He’s playing at a wedding tomorrow afternoon and he says he needs to practice.”
Ugh. I love Solomon. I love hearing him play the violin. But I’m a poor accompanist. Dad was light-years better than me on the piano.
“There has to be someone he knows who plays the piano better than I do.”
“Daisy, you play very nicely. Besides, it’s just practice. It’s not like you’re recording an LP.”
“CD, Mom.”
“Whatever.”
She starts to walk away. “L’Raine and I are going golfing. And I won’t even glance at any of the men.”
“Yeah, and have you thought about how that has looked, Mom?” I call after her. “You and L’Raine ogling all the young single men on the golf course the
last twelve months?”
She tosses her hand at me behind her back.
I do know how to have fun.
Sixteen
One of the things I miss most about my dad is listening to him play the piano. My father had the rare ability to play anything by ear, even after hearing it only once. He had perfect pitch, too, and could transpose keys mid-song. He never seemed to be impressed with this ability. To him, being able to do such feats of musical magic was as natural as breathing. No one thinks much about their ability to breathe; they just do it. It’s when a person can’t breathe, that they suddenly realize they’d been doing something truly marvelous all along. And my dad never had a moment like that—a moment when he couldn’t make music. The morning of the day he died, Dad played all his Gershwin favorites. Then he had lunch. Then he had a heart attack.
He wanted to breathe, but his heart wouldn’t let him.
He was seventy years old.
Some people whispered at the funeral that Owen Murien had a good, long life and that it was a blessing to my mother that he went so quickly.
I wanted to yell back to them that my dad may have had a good life but it wasn’t a long one. He was only seventy—and I was only twenty-five.
Didn’t they know that my dad would never give me away at my wedding, that he would never hold a child of mine in his lap? That I was forever done with buying any greeting cards with the word “Dad” on them? That I would cease to address anyone with the word “Dad” forever after?
When I was dating Daniel, and especially during that memorable year when I was his fiancée, I was tremendously bothered that Daniel had never known my dad, that Daniel never had to decide if he was going to ask my dad for my hand in marriage because there was no dad to ask.
I wonder if he would’ve asked if he’d had the chance. I’ve on occasion tried to picture such a conversation.
Dad: “Daniel. Good to see you again. What’s on your mind, son?”
Daniel: “Well, Daisy wants us to get married.”
Dad (after a moment’s reflection): “And what do you want?”
Daniel: “Um, well, I guess it makes sense.”
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