by Amanda Tru
“What drove you apart?”
With a face as green as if he’d eaten bad fish, Mitchell shuddered. “Don’t even mention it. I’m hoping we’ll skip that one.”
The good-natured ribbing that formed fizzled at a thought. “Wait… so what’s the problem again? You love her, but you haven’t had conflict, and you don’t want to have to have ‘the talk’ with Brenna’s sister?”
“Not having any conflict isn’t a problem. I don’t want that. And…” if possible the guy turned even greener. “Don’t even talk about ‘the talk.’ I can’t take it.”
It was time to take pity on the guy. “Look, here’s the thing. You’re worrying about being a dad to a teen.”
“Yeah… kind of. I mean—”
Ty waved him off. “No, listen. You need to quit thinking of it as becoming a parent and instead, remember that Brenna is just an older sister. Yeah, she has authority, but she’s not Lauren’s mom, and I think that’s the greatest thing about how she handles Lauren. She never seems to try to be a replacement mom.”
“And when we don’t agree on when or how to do that authority thing?”
Oookaaay. Now we’re at the real problem. How I’d handle things isn’t going to work for you. A stroke of genius—God must be painting again—swiped away Ty’s feeble attempts at a compromising solution and gave a more Biblical one. “Here’s the deal, Mitch. This is what premarital counseling is for—working out how the Bible says these things get resolved before the conflict occurs.”
“And boom! Everything’s ‘dunky hory,’ as Cline used to say?”
“That was one of Cline Chester’s least inspired spoonerisms.”
Mitchell dropped back to his seat to munch on vinegar-logged fish. “It’s the only one I ever picked up. It made my aunts gasp at the horror of saying something so shocking. I was fifteen before I figured out what they thought it meant and that Cline used it in the King James, ‘hoary head’ way.”
Now that sounded like the old guy Ty recalled. “And you kept using it after that?”
Mitchell nodded. “Yeah… I liked shocking the aunts even more after it.”
“I bet that’s why he left you this place in his will. My mentor would have said, ‘Ornery old coot.’”
After scarfing down what had to be cold, greasy, soggy fish, Mitchell munched absently on a fry before asking, “Do you really think that premarital counseling makes that big of a difference?”
“It doesn’t solve everything, but once the initial tension recedes, it gives couples a place to start—if they actually use what they learn.”
As if that solved everything, Mitchell shoved the Styrofoam box away from him and rubbed his fingers on old jeans. “That’s it then. We’ll do the counseling thing—whenever it’s time, I mean—and you’ll be around to knock sense into me, right?”
“If no one fires me before you need it, sure.”
“Good.” One hand curled around a coffee mug that Ty hadn’t even noticed. The other followed as if doing its part to rewarm what had to be lukewarm at best. Just as Ty would have changed the subject, Mitchell added one last remark. “Because I’m not in a rush to do the marriage thing, but six years is too long—even for me.”
Lara’s phone alarm went off—third one in an hour. It was also the last one she’d set. If she ignored this one, she’d have to skip the call or be late to work—neither of which were options. Rubbing her sweaty palms on her charcoal pencil skirt did little to calm the fluttering in her stomach. “Too bad the flutters aren’t nice like the ones Preston gives me.”
A glance in the mirror sent her skittering off to the bathroom for a different shade of lipstick. “Preston hates this one. Why didn’t I remember? He’ll be there tonight.”
So, between swipes of a tissue across her lips, Lara called home. Her mother answered mid-sentence. “—him it was about time you called, and here you are! How’s the Midwest?”
“Cold, rainy.”
“No snow?”
“Not this week, but New Cheltenham has a special dispensation from the Lord to mimic England’s weather as much as possible. Maybe next week.”
Though the minutes ticked past at the speed of a bomb timer, Lara waited until the last second to interrupt—fortunately, right in the middle of a rundown of her perfect sister’s latest achievements. “Oh, sorry, Mom! I just saw the time and have to get down to the restaurant.”
“But you just called! Why didn’t you call earlier?”
“I’ve been busy getting ready for work and dealing with some plans. Look, I have news that I want to tell you and Dad. Can you put it on speaker?”
Though she grumbled, Lara’s mother sounded excited. Her voice came through in a stage whisper as she found him in the basement. “It’s Lara. I think she’s coming home.”
As she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, Lara rolled her eyes. Not hardly.
“Okay, I’ve got him. Dad’s here! When—”
“I’m engaged.”
The squeals and laughter, calls of “Congratulations, honey,” confused her until she heard the explanatory question. “Who is he?”
Oh, right. You don’t know that you’ll hate him yet. My bad. Lara sucked in a steadying breath and said, “His name is Preston, and—” It failed. As if she didn’t know it would. Who names their kid “Preston” except people who can afford the therapy it’ll cause the kid.
“Preston? What kind of name is that?”
And it began. “It’s a fine name, Dad. Preston’s a great guy, too.”
“Is he union?”
Seriously? You haven’t lived in Chicago in twenty years, but you still act like without that union membership, a guy is a crook.
She tried for a combination diplomacy-slash-gentle-easing into the family. “I don’t think CFOs have a union, but I can ask…”
“He’s a suit.” Each word came louder than the last. “Our daughter is engaged to a suit!”
“Now, Dave, your heart…”
“She’s shredding it! My own flesh and blood is taking up with the blue bloods.” In an obvious turn to her, he added, “What is he, a Rockerfeller? Vanderguilt? No, wait. You’re by Rockland. Fillmore, isn’t it?”
A text message appeared with Carlo’s complaint of the night. Lara went into exit mode. “No, Dad, he’s not a Fillmore, either. He’s a St. James, and he’s wonderful. Why I thought you guys would be happy for me, I don’t know. I’ll talk to you later. I’ll be coming to Crossroads to order my dress.”
“Will he come with you?”
If leaving “Thank goodness” off a simple “no” could be an Olympic sport, Lara would have taken home the gold. “I have to come during the early part of the week, so I doubt he’ll be able to make it. Love you guys.”
She didn’t wait for a response before disconnecting the call. Half a dozen opinions would come first—opinions she didn’t want to hear. Opinions as deeply and unfairly held as any racist ones. “Preston could be anything—an illegal, an ex-con—even a Nigerian prince scam artist—and Dad wouldn’t care. But give him someone too wealthy to be a part of a union, and that’s it. He’s a jerk.”
Still, despite her grousing, six hours later she sent a selfie with her and Preston grinning like fools, her ring conspicuously absent from the photo. Baby steps.
Ty had been the minister of the New Cheltenham Chapel for just over four years, and in that time, he’d not once counseled any of the members on an ongoing basis. Sure, this husband would come in and complain about his wife or his kids. They’d pray. Ty would show what the Scriptures had to say about not exasperating your children or living with your wife in an understanding way. He’d even offered to talk with wayward youth or disgruntled wives.
The day had come, however. The pre-planned counseling sessions they’d developed in his final year of seminary would be put to good use. Finally.
Before calling to set up the first appointment, Ty decided to go over them just once to get a feel for how long each session might
reasonably take. Five sessions. That’s all. He opened the first.
Thirty minutes later, five sessions had been stretched into fifteen—each at least an hour long. Too long. Too many. He deleted the session on accountability partners and added a note to conflict resolution that some couples find it wise to have people they know will speak Biblical truth in their lives.
A heated debate in class had prompted a note on possible needs to discuss holidays, traditions, and other special things. Ty deleted that one, too, and added a line about it on family. Thirteen… a baker’s dozen. In his heart, he knew it was still too many.
Lord, something tells me this marriage isn’t wise. Is that why I want to dig so deep? Of course, it was. Asking was futile, and he knew it. What he didn’t know was why he thought Lara’s engagement was such a problem. Where… where is it in Your Word? Is it that I know so little of Seventh-day Adventism? That it feels rushed? That it’s my first church member and I’m overdoing it?
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten over-zealous in his job. Shame-filled memories of nearly scaring Sadie Wilkins into baptism, and definitely giving her aquaphobia, danced in his mind’s eye. Yep. He’d done that to a kid—a ten-year-old kid.
Ty deleted the personality compatibility assessment session from his line-up. Too much.
Thanks to the Sunday tourist business, the New Cheltenham chapel usually only boasted about half the seats full. Several of the married couples took turns attending each week, and many never got to attend together except on “blackout holidays.” Namely Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Lara sat in her usual place, three pews back on the right, somewhat satisfied with herself. Her weekly game of who would represent what families that week usually had one or two mess-ups due to illness or child issues, but this was a perfect week. Unless you count that half the people didn’t show up. Stupid rain.
Brother Jamison led them all in singing “The Doxology,” as he did every week. A praise song filled the giant TV screen that took up the left side of the back wall. Lara shifted to hymn-guessing after “Blessed Be the Name” popped up.
I’m going to go for “Take the Name of Jesus with You.” Alas, she lost out to “Fairest Lord Jesus,” if singing one of her favorite hymns could be considered a loss.
Brother Jamison gave her a warning smile before he informed the congregation that he had exciting news. “I asked permission to make this announcement, and Lara Priest graciously gave it. We’re going to have our first member wedding here in late June. Lara got engaged this week!”
Eleanor Hobbs, the owner of Thymeless Cottage, New Cheltenham’s stuffy tearoom, hopped up and bounced over to congratulate her. The rest of the congregation, aside from a few visitors who looked confused, followed suit. Ty beamed down at them as if he were fifty years older… and Santa Claus himself.
Just as everyone seated themselves again, the back doors opened. Lara held her breath as she turned to see if, just maybe, Preston had made it after all. If the black hat that looked like it had been designed by Kate Middleton herself meant anything, it was just Mrs. Jamison, coming to hear her baby boy preach again.
“Morning, Mama. We’re just about to sing one of your favorites.”
Lara’s guess of “Victory in Jesus” failed. Instead, with that dear lady’s pipes out-singing everyone by a factor of three, “Revive Us Again,” nearly blasted out the windows. As the last note faded, Mrs. Jamison’s, “Glory!” prompted a few smiles.
Uncertainty settled in Brother Jamison’s features before he gripped the sides of the pulpit and said, “I’ve got a confession to make. See, when Lara came to tell me her news this week, it derailed my sermon on Abraham’s covenant and got me thinking of the marriage covenant.”
“Mmm… hmmm. That’s right.”
If Ty Jamison could blush, Lara had no doubt he did after his mother’s not-so-subtle hint. He did roll his eyes heavenward and prayed, “Lord, help my mama remember Who is in charge of my love life. It’s not me… and it’s not her.”
“I’ll help, Lord!”
Lara would have melted through the floor had it been her, but Ty just jumped into his sermon with a few chuckles and the occasional pointed comment to his mother. From the Garden of Eden to the picture of the church as the Bride of Christ, he laid out a beautiful image of what Christian marriage should look like.
“Brothers and sisters, marriage isn’t just a lawful way for Christians to enjoy certain benefits. God said that man needed woman. She needs him. While Jesus does call some people to singleness, we do beautiful things when we live out a Biblical marriage.”
The mercy of God kept her from squirming—that, Lara didn’t doubt. Still, why she felt squirmy and uncomfortable, she didn’t know. Even worse, the perpetual sinking feeling hinted that perhaps she didn’t want to know.
A glance at the date in her phone sent the sinking feeling into a whirlpool of doubt and unease. If a simple sermon is like this, what’ll actual counseling do to me?
Sunshine broke through rainclouds just as she stepped from the chapel and Preston stood there, waiting… and shaking raindrops from an enormous umbrella. Why didn’t he just come in?
Mrs. St. James, who insisted that Lara call her “Miss Stella” like all her “dear friends,” waited until Preston handed off Lara’s coat before offering air kisses on each cheek.
It’s probably best. I’d be permanently tattooed with her lipstick if those lips touched me. Lara gave her coat one last, longing look as it disappeared, likely to be burned by an indignant butler or valet who would then be tasked with procuring something haute couture before she left.
“Preston has talked of almost nothing but you for months, and we finally meet. He says you were a…”
“She’s a restaurant manager, Mother. We discussed this.”
The formerly honeyed tones crystallized as she replied, “Of course. And what does a restaurant manager… do, exactly?”
Perched on the edge of a sofa, Lara glanced around the room and blinked—twice. When did we move in here? Unable to answer her own question, Lara clasped her hands together and forced a giggle. “Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but I um… manage the needs of the restaurant. Ordering, employees, menu—when the chef doesn’t interfere that is.”
“And you must work every night?”
“I tend to take Sunday afternoons and Mondays and Tuesdays off. That gives the assistant manager a couple of evenings to practice each week. And I live above the restaurant, so if there are issues, I can be right there.”
Miss Stella gave a nod that could have meant anything from, “That’s nice,” to “Why did my son choose you, again?” What she did say was even worse. “Well, you won’t have to deal with that unpleasantness for much longer, now, will you?”
“I—um. Wha—?”
But the woman kept going—never stopping. “Preston says you’ve set a date for June…”
“Twenty-eighth, but—”
“That’s lovely. Although, if you wanted April, we could have The Agency handle everything for you. Tressa would make it happen if I asked her. They are the best wedding planners in the city.”
Lara gaped first at Miss Stella and then at a silent Preston. “I have my heart set on getting married in my church, and the first Friday that will suit is June twenty-eighth.” The words hadn’t had a moment to sink in before Lara realized it was a lie. She’d only asked about June. Earlier dates might be possible.
But I don’t want an earlier date. I want this one. Is that so bad? I want June.
“Mother, I think a guest list might be a more productive conversation at this stage in planning.”
Translation, “Mother, you’re being rude.” Good one, Preston. Thanks. At the memory of something Miss Stella had said, Lara added, Note to discuss later: does she think I’m quitting my job?
The pre-dinner interview was reclassified from mildly annoying to miserable once the salad had been served. Mr. St. James, who had no scruples about her ad
dressing him as such, began the “vetting” process for his son’s new fiancée while grumbling about finding olives on the side of his plate and the inferior quality of the olive oil. “I understand your father works in…”
So, in this house, “I understand” means, “I haven’t a clue, but I’ll never say so”? A muffled cough from Preston’s side of the table reminded her that a reply was expected. “Oh, Dad works in the transportation industry.”
The next cough said, “That’s one way of putting it.”
“I see. And which industry would that be?”
“Interstate commerce.”
A small smile fought Preston’s attempts to repress it—fought and won. “You had an uncle that owned a fleet of shipping trucks, didn’t you, Dad?”
Mr. St. James’s lip curled. “Uncle Robert. He was a Waring, on Mother’s side—not exactly the sort of people Lara would like her father compared to, I’m sure.”
And I’m quite certain it’s the other way around. Since Preston seemed willing to endure his father’s displeasure, Lara gave up and prepared a bite of salad—a large one. “Daddy,”—she hadn’t called him that in decades—“is a truck driver and a proud member of the Teamsters Union. Number 9734.” Once spoken, she filled her mouth, set down her fork, and waited to be ejected from the St. James home.
It’s more like a historical landmark than a home, anyway.
“I see. And are you a member of the restaurateurs union?”
Preston set down his fork, wiped his lips with the sort of care and attention Lara had always equated with women trying not to smear lipstick all over their faces, and draped the napkin across his lap with equal care and attention. “Dad, if one didn’t know you better, one might assume you meant to make Lara feel unwelcome in our family.” Mr. St. James shot a look at her just a quarter second before Preston continued, saying, “Considering that she doesn’t know you, I wonder at her thoughts right now.”