Eleven

by Karen Rodgers

  He smacked me fully on the backside and changed his tone, “What’d ya say we hit the Plaza today? I need you to help me pick out some things for the house. I bought this place a couple of months ago and it is in dire need of a woman’s touch. I think you just might be the woman for the job.”

  We climbed out of bed and this time, we showered together. We enjoyed playfully running the soap over each other’s bodies. The feel of his fingers entwined in my hair as he shampooed and massaged my scalp sent a tingling shiver down my body. It was Heaven!

  The downtown Plaza of Santa Fe was bustling with tourists that day. We enjoyed the local flavor by indulging in French pastries and coffee for breakfast, then hit Pasquale’s for lunch.

  We meandered in and out of the shops and galleries. It was refreshing to discover we shared similar tastes in art and décor. We picked out several colorful, abstract pieces to hang on the walls of his house. We found colorful Moroccan rugs and pillows at Seret & Sons. I assisted him in stocking up on utensils, pottery, stemware, and cookware for the kitchen.

  It was the most fun I had ever had shopping. He spared no expense. In between selecting items for the house, he lavished me with several purchases. He rather enjoyed picking out things for me to wear; beautifully woven tunics, leggings, hats, and jewelry. His most extravagant gift was a gorgeous, full length leather coat with a silver fox fur collar. He also treated me to a funky pair of vintage boots that were oh-so-Santa Fe.

  Our weekdays were filled with feasting, shopping, touring pueblos, and museum hopping.

  Our nights would end the same; indulging in the pleasure of each other’s bodies. We chased each other through the rooms and christened damn near every one of them. From pressing me against the panes of great room windows to tracing and teasing my body with the chocolate covered strawberries on the dining room table—we made special memories in every square inch of the house.

  Friday evening arrived all too quickly. It would be our last night in Santa Fe. We would drive home on Saturday so he could get ready for his flight to Dallas on Sunday. He was flying to the Metroplex to attend the final hearing and sign the divorce papers. I was ready for it to be behind us—so he could be all mine.

  We parked by the St. Francis Cathedral and walked through the Plaza one last time. We strolled through the streets and made our way on foot, hand-in-hand, to Tomasita’s in the Guadalupe district. While enjoying our meal, we noticed it had begun to snow outside.

  As he paid the ticket and we prepared to leave, he offered, “It’s quite a ways to the truck. Do you want me to go get it and come back for you?”

  I laughed and replied, “Don’t be silly. I don’t mind walking in the snow.”

  After all, I was wearing the vintage boots and long leather coat he had given me earlier in the week. And there was no place else more beautiful in December than Santa Fe. The Plaza and surrounding area were decorated for the season. Everywhere we turned, there were fragrant pine boughs, red chile ristras, and farolitas.

  We walked outside, and made our way through the winding streets and sidewalks. It was a beautiful snowfall. The ground was already covered from the previous day’s snow. The falling snow flakes were huge and soft; slowly floating down to renew the white cover on the ground. It created a quiet stillness in the air. It was surreal and I knew it was a moment I would never forget—being there with him.

  As we approached the Old Santa Fe Trail, he took my hand and draped it through the crook of his arm. He had seemed a bit nervous and preoccupied during dinner. I assumed he was feeling some anxiety regarding the events that were to take place in the upcoming week.

  He looked down at me as we were walking and said, “Come this way, there’s some place I want to take you.”

  We walked in front of the gothic structure known as The Loretto Chapel. He asked me if I knew the story of the miraculous staircase inside its walls. I told him I had heard of it. He began to tell me the story: how the sisters of the church were desperate to find someone to make a stairway up to the loft of the chapel. The building’s original designer had not taken the loft into consideration and a traditional staircase would not work due to the limited size of the room.

  He continued telling me about how the sisters prayed about the staircase and just when they thought it was a lost cause, a carpenter rode into town and offered to build the staircase. When he completed the staircase, he mysteriously left. The miraculous staircase became legendary due to the fact that many architects and carpenters have since studied the staircase and have been unable to figure out its miraculous, perfect design.

  He softly said, “You know, that chapel is a lot like my heart. I’ve tried to find the perfect fit. I’ve tried to make the things that didn’t fit work. I’ve prayed to God for an answer. I’ve prayed for a miracle. And, you know what? My prayers have been answered. I’ve found my miracle. I’ve found my perfect fit. On Christmas Day, I want to marry that woman in this chapel. That woman is you.”

  In front of the Loretto Chapel, the handsome man that had captured me fell to one knee. From the coat of his pocket, he offered a dark blue velvet box.

  He looked up at me with tears brimming his deep blue, gorgeous eyes while he said, “I know this is crazy. I know it’s happened fast. But I also know that what we have only happens once in a lifetime. It’s rare and it’s precious and I don’t ever want to be without you. Because I truly love you now—I will love you ‘til the day I die. Please say you’ll do me the honor of marrying me and be my perfect fit for the rest of our lives.”

  I stood there with my hand over my mouth as sobs of pure joy rocked me. I couldn’t believe this was happening! How did I get so lucky? He was worth everything—everything I had gone through. I had finally found him: the man I deserved—the man who deserved me!

  He opened the box to reveal the most beautiful ring: a hefty pear-shaped diamond that was offset on a wide gold band encrusted with diamonds, sapphires, amethysts and opal panels. It was quite unique—and quite extravagant.

  As he slipped the ring onto my left hand, he rose up to meet me and I gave him my answer, “Yes! Yes! Yes! I love you, Mister! And, yes, I will love you ‘til the day I die!”

  He lifted my feet off the ground as we hugged, spinning me around in the air. We kissed each other in the heavy falling snowfall. The bells of Santa Fe began to ring out through the air signaling the eleventh hour. And once again, the rest of the world melted away and we were alone in our universe.

  We practically ran the rest of the short distance to the truck. We were so caught up in the moment we had forgotten how bitterly cold it was outside. I was shivering from the cold and the excitement as we got in the cab of the truck and he started it up. He turned on the interior lights so I could get a better look at the ring that was sparkling on my outstretched hand.

  “I hope you like it. It reminded me of you—when I saw it, I just knew it was the one. It’s different. It’s colorful. It’s beautiful. It’s one of a kind. They say it’s a pear-shape, but I liked it ‘cause it looks like a raindrop. And the first time I remember seeing you was in the rain,” he explained.

  I smiled and said, “It’s absolutely perfect. I love it. And I love you—so very much.”

  He leaned over the console, giving me the sweetest look and kiss before pulling out of the parking lot to head back to share our last night together in the mountains of Santa Fe.

  That night, we made love to one another tenderly. There was no impatience or rush. We must have declared our love to one another no less than a thousand times. We released the past to take hold of our future. All of the pain, the heartache, the loneliness we had suffered without each other. It was over. And that night, we were together and everything in our existence was made right.

  We drove back to Texas on Saturday. During the drive, we made plans. With his other situation becoming finalized within the next week, we would be able to share our good news with our families. He was anxious for me to meet his boys.

  �
��The boys are gonna love you. You’re gonna make a good mama someday, you know,” he assured me as he winked and squeezed my leg.

  There was security and relief in knowing I had found him. For the first time in a long time, my heart felt safe with someone worthy of that kind of trust.

  It wasn’t as hard to say goodbye to him this time. I knew I had a whole lifetime ahead to get used to him coming home to me.

  We unloaded my bags. It was a quick goodbye. He had a lot to take care of before flying out tomorrow. We were both ready for it to be over with so we could get on with the business of planning our wedding—and the rest of our lives.

  Chapter 16

  Rain

  He called me Wednesday afternoon to inform me that he was on his way home. He was scheduled to arrive at 7:30, as long as the weather didn’t interfere with his flight. Not unusual for our area of Texas, it had been unseasonably warm the past couple of days and thunderstorms were moving across the area.

  “I’ll come over as soon as my plane lands. We need to talk,” I heard him say on the other end of the line.

  He sounded different. There was an odd distance in his voice. I’m sure he was stressed out from the divorce hearing. But all that mattered was; he was on his way home to me—and he was all mine!

  I saw his pick-up pull up in front of my house. A cold rain was pouring outside. He pulled his jacket up over his hat as he ran to my front porch. I had already opened the door to welcome him home. I was smiling from ear to ear and couldn’t wait to take him in my arms.

  He stepped in and shook the rain off his hat and removed his jacket. Then he looked at me.

  Something wasn’t right. He wasn’t smiling. His eyes were red and blood-shot.

  His words trembled as he looked down at the floor, gestured to the couch, and said, “Come over here. Sit down with me. I have to tell you something.”

  I started to feel a sense of panic creeping over me. I had the sudden urge to cover my ears—or run. I knew this feeling. He was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.

  I nervously asked, “What is it, Mister? Is everything okay?”

  “No—no it’s not,” he began. “I don’t know how to tell you this. How can I tell you this? God, I love you so much. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  He was shaking his head and tears were streaming down his face.

  I began to cry, as well, and pleaded, “What? What is it? Tell me!”

  He tried to compose himself and continued, “I showed up for the hearing and she was there. I found out something I didn’t know—something she had kept from me. I hadn’t seen her in a couple of months. I had no idea.”

  He was grabbing and squeezing both of my hands as I urged him to go on, “What? What had she kept from you? What is it? Tell me.”

  A loud bang of thunder rumbled across the sky.

  I watched his mouth as the words spilled from them, “We didn’t go through with the divorce. We didn’t sign the papers. I can’t leave her. She’s pregnant. She couldn’t hide it anymore. The baby is due next month. It’s a girl—and the baby is mine.”

  I felt as if someone had just sucker-punched me in the gut. The breath left my body as I fell into the floor on my knees, doubled over, jerking with sobs. He covered me with his body, wrapping his arms around me in an attempt to provide some sort of comfort.

  My face was buried in my hands, in disbelief while I screamed over and over again, “No! No! No! This can’t be happening! Tell me it’s a lie! Tell me this isn’t real!”

  He was crying, as well. He kept repeating how sorry he was and how he never meant to hurt me.

  He carried me to my bed that night and held me tightly as I cried myself to sleep. He stroked my hair and told me how much he loved me again and again.

  When I awoke the next morning, he was gone. We never said goodbye.

  I was broken and raw. The pain was visceral; as if someone had severed a part of me and left it to bleed.

  In anger I looked up and screamed out to God, “How could you let me lose him? How could you let me go through this? After all I had already been through! Why did you send him into my life just to rip him away from me? Why? Why?”

  Destroyed, I fell to the floor retching with sobs. Then it came to me. I realized my fatal mistake. I had asked God to help me find him—or for him to find me. My prayers had been answered. I had forgotten the most important part. I had forgotten to ask God to let me keep him for the rest of my life.

  Down on my knees, I looked up again in regret and wailed, “I forgot to ask you to let it last forever! Dear God, don’t let this be happening! Don’t let me lose him! Don’t let him be another lesson. I can’t bear this, God! I can’t live through this! Please give him back to me! I can’t live without him.”

  None of it mattered. It was over. Once again, I was all alone. I would have to pick myself up from the boot-straps and dust myself off. But this time, it would take time. Nothing about my life would ever be the same.

  My girlfriends surrounded me. They consoled me and cried with me. They understood the toll this loss would take on me. They knew this one was unbearable.

  One would call in to work for me. Another brought soup and stayed to make sure I ate it. My sweetest friend held my hands in hers, placing her head against mine, while she prayed to her sweet Jesus to comfort me.

  They took turns checking on me, sitting with me, making sure I didn’t do anything I would regret. As always, their presence was constant. This time, it ensured my survival.

  I did my best to numb the pain and get through the torment of each passing day without him. My routine life became my only solace. I was back where I had begun. But I was lesser. Part of me was gone—lost.

  Had it been any other woman, I would have fought for him to the death. But I lost him to the one woman I couldn’t compete with—his daughter.

  I hardened the shell around my heart. I vowed to never go through this again. He had set the bar too high. If I couldn’t have him, then I would have to find someone who loved me more than I loved them. I knew I would never love anyone the way I loved him.

  And my heart would never be broken again. It couldn’t be—it no longer existed.

  Chapter 17

  Consolation

  I married again nine years ago. My husband is an attractive man of character. He loves me deeply and has been very good to me. I am the mother of two beautiful children. Our son just turned eight. My daughter is eleven.

  My husband adopted her the week after we married. He is the only father she has ever known. I never told her biological father about her. I discovered I was pregnant a few weeks after he left. I loved him too much. I couldn’t put him in the position of having to make another excruciating choice. We had already been through enough pain to last a lifetime. I decided to bear the burden alone.

  With the beginning of her life, I moved away and began a new life of my own. He would never know.

  She is my consolation. Every time I look at my precious girl, I see him through her eyes—those same gorgeous, deep blue, beautiful eyes.

  Our little family has made a good life together. My husband runs a successful insurance business which allows me to stay home to raise our children. We go to church each Sunday and enjoy an active social life in our community. I transport my kids to dance and soccer in a Cadillac Escalade in which the posh interior always smells faintly of Chanel No. 5. The kids are entertained en route by Pixar & Dreamworks selections playing on the back seat DVD player. I drop the Pomeranians off to be groomed each Friday afternoon while I go to the salon for a manicure and pedicure. I’m often complimented on the stunning opal, bejeweled diamond ring I wear on my right hand. We meet our friends at 5:00 o’clock for cocktails each second Friday of the month.

  I finally have the impeccably decorated five bedroom-four bathroom house situated in a gated sub-division—complete with the dishwasher, central heat and air, a large laundry room utilized by the housekeeper on Tuesdays and Fridays, and a la
rge soaking tub. The wine cellar is always stocked with Indigo Hills Merlot. There is a large cedar swing underneath one of the oak trees in the perfectly manicured, landscaped back yard. The gardens are peppered with lavender, tulips, and Texas sage. I got the life I wished for, for so long.

  By all standards, my life is perfect. But I have learned—not everything is as it appears. There is a vast difference between the love we experience in this life and the ones we imagined could have been. One takes your heart. The other takes your soul.

  I hear he is happily married, as well—and by all standards, his life is perfect. I have been told they have a beautiful daughter.

  There are times I stand at my kitchen sink window; rinsing dishes at the end of another busy day of being a housewife and mother. All of a sudden, I feel the rush of time and distance separating me from him. I attempt to push his memory out of my mind. Logic reminds me why we are not together. I know things always happen for a reason. I was never meant to understand God’s plan.