The Everlasting Chapel

by Marilyn Cruise

  “Get to bed, young lady! I got this,” Vivian says, standing in the kitchen, her hands hitting her hips.

  “Yes, mom,” I tease. I plant a kiss on my father’s forehead and climb the stairs. Being taken care of feels foreign after I have had to be strong for so long. But it also feels good. Very good.

  2

  “Time to wake up, Scarlett,” I hear Vivian’s soft voice. I lift my head from the pillow, noticing with embarrassment that there’s a spot of drool on it. I discreetly wipe my mouth with my hand. Wow, I don’t remember the last time I slept this deeply.

  “What time is it?” I ask, rubbing the sleepiness out of my eyes. All of a sudden I notice I’m feeling a little queasy.

  “You’ve been out for three hours. I thought you might need some food.” She sets a tray with a bowl of chicken noodle soup and some crackers onto my bed. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You look a bit pale.”

  “I think with everything that’s happening, I’m just coming down from it all.”

  “You poor thing,” she says.

  “How’s my father?”

  “He’s napping. Snoring like an ogre,” she says with a smirk, her kind eyes twinkling.

  I chuckle. “Yeah, some things never change.”

  “Oh, and this came for you,” she says, lifting a small white envelope off the tray.

  I read the return address, and to my dismay, I see that it’s from Michael. I try not to let any emotion show on my face, but I can’t manage to remain completely unaffected.

  “I don’t want to pry, but I don’t want to pretend either. I read about you two on Facebook, and saw in the news how you married and divorced shortly after,” she says. “Now it’s none of my business, and if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I just didn’t want to act as if I didn’t know. I’m here if you ever feel the need to talk.”

  I squeeze my lips together and nod. This is not something I want to discuss with her, even though she is motherly and I do trust her.

  “I appreciate you being open with me about it. My father doesn’t know all the details. He thinks we were only engaged, but never married and divorced so I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell him before I have a chance to talk to him about it.” If I ever talk to him about it.

  “My lips are sealed,” she says with an easy smile.

  Vivian goes back downstairs again, and I eat the soup and toast. I still feel unusually exhausted, and figure it will feel good to get cleaned up.

  After I take a hot shower to warm my freezing body back up, I start to feel even more nauseous. Was it something I ate? Or maybe… My mouth drops open. That damn kid in the bank. I can’t believe it. I’m freaking getting sick. If I don’t get better today, I’ll have to call in a sick-day tomorrow. Rob, my boss at the Portland Museum of Art, doesn’t seem as ruthless a boss as Laila, but I really wanted to make a good impression and prove that I can be trusted.

  I open the medicine cabinet and pull out the vitamins. I’ll have to overdose on vitamin C and zinc if I want to kick this thing.

  Once I pop a few supplements, I head back to bed. I’ve done great so far ignoring the letter from Michael, but with nothing else to do, I find myself wondering what he sent me and finally decide to open the damn thing. Inside I find a typed-up letter and a check in the amount of fifty thousand dollars. I start read the letter.

  Dear Scarlett,

  Fuck this! I grab my phone and quickly dial his number. After three rings, he picks up.

  “Hello?” he says.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask, my blood rushing through me like a raging inferno.

  “I’m going to assume you received my letter and the check,” he says flatly.

  “Damn right. I already told you I didn’t want your money. I’m not your whore, Michael.”

  “I don’t consider you my whore, Scarlett. I already explained why I wanted to pay you: for your job loss and your time,” he says sternly.

  “And I told you I didn’t want it!” I yell.

  “But—”

  “Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth, you son of a bitch?” I ask.

  “Scarlett…”

  Suddenly I feel the nausea churning in my gut. Shit, I’m going to throw up. “Hold on.” I toss my phone onto the bed and run into the bathroom. Just as I open the toilet lid, I vomit out all the vitamins, the toast, and the chicken noodle soup into the porcelain bowl.

  I sit on the cold tile floor for a few moments to catch my breath, and to make sure I’m completely done throwing up. I hope this is one of those twenty-four hour bugs. After I rinse with Listerine and wash my hands, I head back to my room and pick up the phone.

  “Are you still there?” I ask.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just…never mind that. Just know I’m going to tear the check up and throw it in the trash, that’s all.”

  “Scarlett, will you please listen?” he says.

  “Not any more. We’re through, and I don’t want your money. I mean, did you really think…?”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “No!”

  “And you had better be there, Scar. Or God help me…”

  Stubborn jerk! “Don’t come. I’m throwing up. This kid vomited all over me at the bank yesterday and whatever he had, he gave it to me.”

  “I don’t care if I get sick. I have to see you,” he says.

  His comment nearly takes my breath away. Oh, no. Here he goes again, weaseling his way back into my life when he’s nothing but trouble and heartache. “Please don’t come. If you respect me at all…”

  “I do respect you with every particle of my being. But I’m still coming over.”

  “No,” I say again, although I can already hear that my voice isn’t nearly as certain as I want it to be. This is so unfair.

  “I’ll see you in twenty.” He hangs up the phone.

  He’s unbelievable! Insanely obstinate, and not sensitive to my needs at all! What do I do? Should I make a run for it? No, I won’t leave my father and Vivian to deal with my problems. Besides, the last thing I want to do is to be driving around Portland throwing up, projecting that disgusting stuff out the window.

  Extremely upset, I stagger downstairs and inform Vivian that Michael will be coming over for a short visit. I tell her to ignore any loud, angry voices she might hear or even the sound of glass as it shatters against the walls or other objects breaking. She doesn’t bat an eyelash. I like her even more now than I did as a child.

  I tuck myself back into bed and wait. Strangely enough, I feel much better now. Maybe this bug is only one of those that last for a short time.

  As I expected, exactly twenty minutes later the doorbell rings. Vivian opens up, and I hear Michael talking downstairs. God—I didn’t realize how much I missed him until I hear the sound of his voice in my house. It’s as if the vibrations coming from his vocal cords make me feel safe. How is that possible? Especially since I have decided it’s over between us. I must really be feeling sick, because now my eyes are starting to tear up. Great. Just what I want him to see: a heartbroken, sick ex-wife.

  Quick, what am I going to tell him? I’m going to ream him out, of course, give him something to cry about, give him what he deserves, which is not a piece, but every piece of my mind. Ask him how he has the audacity to come visit me after what he did to me. Tell him where to go.

  The steps creak as Michael climbs them, and suddenly he is standing in the doorway. The fitted, blue sweater he’s wearing really brings out his blue eyes, and the tight jeans hug every glorious part of his lower body. His cinnamon hair is just perfectly messy and it looks like he hasn’t shaved in days, giving him a ragged, wild look.

  Oh… my stomach flips big time.

  I open my mouth to yell at him, but for some reason, I am unable to produce a single word. And when I see how lost and sad his beautiful eyes are, the anger inside of me morphs into sadness.

  But, no! I
have to remain strong. He’s done so many crazy things to me! Mean things. Cruel things. He’s a heartless money monger.

  “I told you not to come,” I finally manage to say. Unfortunately for me, my voice doesn’t quite carry the same threatening, pissed-off tone I intended it to. In fact, if he’s listening as carefully, as I suspect he is, he can probably hear the longing in it.

  “It’s great to see you again too Scarlett.” He stares at me for a moment, his eyes searching my face, and that just makes me want to take him back this instant. Dammit! I’m not going to succumb this time. I’ll just have to ignore—no, murder every cell in my body screaming at me to forgive him and give him yet another chance.

  “You’ve lost weight,” he says, his tone concerned. Fake concerned, I’m sure.

  “Why so angry? We left on good terms,” he says.

  “I’ve had time to realize what a fucking prick you are.”

  His eyes slope downward. “I’m sorry.”

  I will not feel sorry for him. My mind is stronger. My will is stronger.

  With nothing else to say, I pick up the check and hold it out for him.

  “Here.” I look away, refusing to maintain eye contact any longer. History has already proven that interacting with the sleazebag in that manner leads to a severe loss of brain cells.

  “Can we at least be civil?” he asks.

  “No,” I snap. “Divorced couples aren’t required to be, and in fact, most aren’t.”

  “As I recall, the divorce was amicable and consensual.” He takes a step closer.

  The air has become so thick that I can hardly breathe. “What do you want from me, Michael? Haven’t you tortured me enough?” I drop my hands into my lap and sigh in frustration.

  The right side of his mouth rises, as does his eyebrow. “Tortured?”

  The damn prick! How dare he presume I meant anything sexual? “I wasn’t talking about that kind of torture.” I pick up a book lying on my side table and throw it at him with a scream.

  He lifts his arms to cover his face, but my aim is so bad that the book only hits the doorframe. Before I know it, he has managed to shut my door, lunge across the room, sit down on my bed, and grab my arms. His grip isn’t painful at all, but it definitely sends a message.

  “Let go of me!” I yell.

  “Not until you hear me out,” he says, his voice trembling. For a moment we just stare at each other in obstinate silence, and even though I want to, oh, I really want to, I cannot tear my eyes away from his. His dreamy blues have me completely captivated and my heart is racing at an unprecedented speed. The scent of his cologne is enough to melt my steel resolve, and his lips so close to mine, I can’t help but let my eyes drift to them.

  “Just listen and then I’ll leave you alone forever if you want,” he says softly.

  My chest squeezes at the words ‘alone forever.’ But I nod.

  “I take the blame for everything that went wrong between us. I set this up so there could never be a happily ever after, let alone, a happily for the time being. When I proposed the deal of marriage for money, I would never have imagined that I was sitting across from the most wonderful woman in the world, the one I would fall madly in love with. My soul mate.” He eases his hands off my arms.

  I close my eyes and an unwelcome tear tumbles down my cheek.

  He continues. “But when I figured it out, it was already too late. I had to divorce you if we were ever to have a fair shot.”

  I open my eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “We couldn’t keep going down the path we were on. Divorcing you tore me apart, but we needed that part of our association to die so we could start again. The right way.”

  “What, do you think I’d want to date you again after what you put me through?” I seethe. “For your information, I’ve already met someone else.” That’s an amazingly far stretch, one I’m certain Dr. Jamison wouldn’t vouch for. Hell, I wouldn’t even vouch for that one, but I need something to throw at him.

  His dreamy eyes don’t even flinch. “I realize I have completely destroyed the trust between us, but will you at least let me ask you out?”

  “You can ask, but the answer is no,” I snap.

  He leans in and tilts his head to the side. “Then I’ll keep asking until you say yes.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus. Those lips. “You can’t bully your way close to me,” I say. “I don’t want your advances.” Wow, I almost still have my head on straight. Go me.

  He leans in even closer, so close his breath brushes against my lips. “I don’t think you mean that. No more lies, Scar. Just the truth. It’s just you and me now. No deals. No performances. Just us.”

  Well, goddammit, I can’t tell him the truth! He doesn’t deserve to know the truth! Shit. “Just leave me alone.” I whisper, turning my head to the side.

  “If you need time, that’s fine.”

  “I don’t need time,” I retort. “I have already moved on.”

  “And please pick up when I call,” he says.

  Stubborn sexy ass. “No.”

  He stands up and huffs once as he paces back and forth. “This would all be so much easier if you just agree to do it my way.”

  “You arrogant fuck! We already did it your way, remember? And see where that left us.”

  “Things are different now,” he says. “I’m different.”

  I glare at him for a moment. “I’m not going to give in.”

  “And neither am I. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

  “I work all day and I’m going on a date with a doctor.”

  He pauses and looks at me. “You know he’s not the one you want.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” I ask, curling my fingers into fists. “He’s accomplished, sexy as hell, and he’s friendly. You don’t have a friendly bone in your entire body.” Sexy body. No! Shut up brain.

  “The last time we were together…right before my mother died…it wasn’t like before. You didn’t just seek pleasure and seek to give me physical pleasure. You gave yourself to me completely, and I have never felt so loved in my entire life. That night I realized what a selfish idiot I had been. That’s when I understood what we had, what we have is real. And not even you denying it now will change what I know, and what I know you know.”

  Dammit, he felt it, and worse, he remembers. Oh, God, I remember, too. I gave him everything I had, and he still divorced me. He left. And it hurts more than words can say.

  He continues. “I know you still love and want me. I know you can’t just turn love off when it’s there, when it’s part of who you are. For the first time, I am living an authentic life, and fuck, I’m never letting it go. I’m never letting you go.”

  “I have already let you go.” Liar!

  “No, you haven’t.” He glares at me unapologetically, and it makes my heart beat so loudly, I’m afraid he’ll hear it.

  “I will do everything, everything in my power to win you back.” He walks over to the door.

  “You really should have thought of that before you divorced me,” I say.

  “I did. And that’s why I did.” He opens the door to the bedroom, but before he leaves he glances over his shoulder, and says, “Please stop avoiding me. See you tomorrow.”

  I pick up another book and chuck it at him, but by the time it hits the doorframe, he’s already halfway down the stairs.

  3

  After he leaves, I feel a hundred times better. Not that I think him leaving had anything to do with me recovering so quickly. But I must have had the quarter of a day flu or something. Thankfully I won’t have to call in sick tomorrow.

  I put in a load of laundry, help Vivian make dinner, and finish unpacking my father’s clothes and toiletries.

  When I’m snuggled up with my father on the couch watching the History Channel, I receive a text from Spencer.

  Just checking to make sure we’re still on for lunch tomorrow.

  I notice he didn’t call it a date, which makes me feel a litt
le better about the whole thing. I reply.

  Absolutely!

  The next morning, I don’t feel nauseated anymore, although I do still feel exhausted. I head to work, open the bookstore, help a few customers, and in no time, it’s lunch. Spencer arrives to pick me up at noon, as planned.

  Right when he walks in, he hands me a big colorful bouquet with several kinds of flowers.

  “Since you don’t have a favorite color, I made sure to include as many as possible,” he says.

  Okay. This may be going too fast for me here. I need to be very clear about where I am at the moment, which is in the not-interested-in-the-least-in-a-relationship zone. But I smile, and put the flowers in a vase in the back room.

  He’s wearing light blue scrubs, and his blond hair is slightly wavy. I don’t know what I had expected him to show up in, but definitely not wearing that. It suits him, though, and I can see his well-defined arms, and his ass looks absolutely amazing.

  We walk across the street to a small breakfast and lunch restaurant called Word of Mouth. I‘ve noticed the quaint place a couple of times on my way to work, but I’ve never been inside. There can’t be more than ten tables in the small diner, and the line of customers is out the door. Fortunately, Spencer was smart enough to call ahead and reserve us a table.

  The waitress leads us to a small table in the back corner, and we sit down. After she brings us water with a wedge of lemon, I order a diet soda and a chicken salad sandwich, and Spencer orders an iced tea and a Reuben sandwich.

  “So how did you end up working at the Portland Museum of Art?” Spencer asks, taking a sip of his water.