Heavens to Betsy

by Beth Pattillo

  “On the contrary. You’ve chaired almost every committee in this church, run the women’s auxiliary, and served as treasurer. Anyone who can do what you’ve done at Church of the Shepherd all these years has more than enough brains for this. Trust me. I speak from experience.”

  “I’ll look like a fool.”

  I smile at this and pull a tissue from the box on the table next to her. “Well, you’ll be in good company. Everybody does there at one time or another.”

  She’s quiet for a long moment. Then, “There’s one more problem.”

  “What?”

  She inclines her head toward her injured shoulder. “I can’t write until I get my arm out of this sling.”

  “Not to worry.” I laugh and dig in my purse for a pen. “I can be your scribe.”

  And that’s how I came to be sitting in Edna Tompkins’s sunroom, filling out her application forms for Vanderbilt Divinity School.

  All around me candles blaze. This time it’s the scent of lilies, not roses, that overpowers the congregation. The men wear dark suits rather than tuxes, and I see far fewer hats. The vaulted ceiling of Church of the Shepherd still soars above me, though, as I stand at the foot of the chancel, David by my side. I drink in the scene, linger over every detail, and my knees quiver. A deep breath does little to calm my nerves.

  Next to me, David stands tall and handsome. The organ swells as the pipes ring out the last notes of “The Wedding March.” It’s the lifetime commitment I’ve always wanted. A deep connection through all the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” No more loneliness. No more isolation. I look up to keep the tears from flowing.

  David shoots me a lazy, thrilling smile, and it’s all I can do not to melt into a puddle at his feet. How unfair that a man can have this effect on me whenever he chooses. My only consolation is that I’m pretty sure I have the same effect on him.

  Who’d have ever thought I’d be standing here at the front of the church with David? Certainly not any of our parishioners. Because it’s the first “mixed” wedding Church of the Shepherd and St. Helga’s have ever done.

  I return David’s smile and then take a deep breath. With a calm demeanor that doesn’t reflect my inner turmoil, I open my officiant’s book and begin.

  “Dearly beloved…”

  No, I’m not performing my own wedding ceremony. David and I are sharing the honors for the couple standing before us. Lisa’s one of David’s parishioners, and Kevin is one of mine. David and I are currently locked in a struggle to the death over whose church gets the newlyweds. It only occurred to us a day or two ago that the couple in question might want to have some say in the matter.

  I’m amazed, when I think back over the past few weeks, how my life has changed in such a short time. The folks at the law school seemed relieved by my decision not to matriculate there. Evidently they had such a high acceptance rate this year, they don’t know where they’re going to put all the students.

  I’ve already taken Edna over to visit the divinity school and meet a few of the professors. It took me a week to get her past the fact that so many seminarians now sport multiple body piercings.

  I drove LaRonda to the airport and have already exchanged a couple of e-mails with her. And I’m doing well with maintaining my new look in my own way, although some of my church members still think I should be covered from head to toe like a kid wearing a bed sheet as a costume at Halloween.

  As for David, well, let’s just say we’re trying to figure out how you go from being best friends to boyfriend and girlfriend. For one thing, I’ve learned that he no longer takes my helpful criticisms in quite the same spirit.

  Will there be a wedding for us? you ask. I don’t know. I hope so. At thirty I don’t want to wait forever. But I’m just getting on my feet at Church of the Shepherd, and that’s my focus right now. Okay, it’s not my only focus, because David and I see each other every day. But I’m trying not to turn into the pathetic, clinging sort of girlfriend who text-messages her guy thirty times every hour.

  This wedding may turn out to be my best one yet. I finish with the Declaration of Intent and hand it off to David for the wedding homily. Since we’ve been working on it together, I pretty much know it by heart.

  “Marriage should be a challenge,” David says, barely looking at the text in the notebook as he delivers the words in his delicious baritone. “But it should also be a comfort.” Ironic that two unmarried people are standing up here preaching to a congregation full of people who have actual experience with the subject, but we do our best. That’s all any minister can do. I finally figured that out. You may never be enough for everybody, but from time to time, you’re enough for somebody.

  I take over and do the vows. All the other pieces speed by, and it flows so easily between the two of us. I’m having such a good time, the bride and groom are a mere afterthought. Until I accidentally say my name and David’s in place of Lisa and Kevin’s.

  Oops.

  Oh well. I always tell brides that every wedding has to have at least one significant gaffe, or the marriage won’t last.

  David and I follow the wedding party down the aisle as the organ sounds out the recessional. We reach the gathering area just outside the sanctuary, and David takes my hand in his. “Come with me,” he whispers, and I follow willingly.

  We’ll resurface in time for the reception. I promise. And this time I won’t be going alone.

  David pulls me toward the side corridor that leads to the baptismal dressing rooms. It’s perhaps the first time these walls have witnessed this kind of light ministerial misconduct.

  With any luck, it won’t be the last.

  You are cordially invited to enjoy

  Betsy’s Wedding

  Coming Summer 2006 from Water Brook Press!

  After years of lonely Saturday nights—interspersed with excruciating blind dates—I, Betsy Blessing, am about to be courted by the man of my dreams.

  It’s enough to make a grown woman giggle. Or purr. Or both.

  I can’t believe we’re here at LaPaz, David and I, being escorted to our table by a hostess barely old enough for a training bra. Fortunately, I know David well enough to know he won’t give the teens budding figure a second glance. The menu, now, that’s another story. Until he’s dithered sufficiently over his choice of entrée, he won’t pay any attention to me—which may be a good thing given that I’m sure I still have some tinges of toner around my hairline. Once he’s settled on his choice for dinner, though, he’ll focus all the charm and intelligence in those big brown eyes right where they belong. On me.

  Let the games begin.

  “Your server will be with you in a sec,” chirps the hostess as she cuts her eyes at David. She’s regarding his clerical collar with interest—not an unusual occurrence, I’m afraid. When David and I were just best friends, as we’ve been for the past eight years since divinity school, I laughed off the female fascination with his “uniform.” But now that we’ve found true love and are officially on our first date, I don’t find it quite as amusing as I used to.

  “Mmm,” David mumbles as he peruses the list of quesadilla options, oblivious to the hostess’s last, lingering look. Even if I wore a clerical collar—and in my denomination, we don’t—men would never find it as sexually appealing as women seem to find David’s.

  Figures.

  Rule No. 1 for Women Ministers: All of the work; none of the perks.

  “What are you having?” David asks, peering over the top of his menu. I scramble to open mine and give it a quick once-over. The truth is, my stomach is so tied up in knots, I’m not going to be able to eat a bite. A real date with David at a normal restaurant. Just like all the other couples I’ve been envying all these years. I know David is the one for me, but I’m not in any rush to the altar, despite what my mother likes to refer to as my “advancing age.” I’m barely thirty, and as old-fashioned as it may sound, I want to be courted. Heaven knows I’ve waited long enough for a littl
e romance.

  “I think I’ll have the shrimp enchiladas,” I say, and David nods sagely, as if I’ve just translated a tricky bit of the Dead Sea Scrolls from the original Aramaic.

  Then he frowns. What does that frown mean? My heart skips a beat. These days it seems to go into overdrive with every nuance of his facial expression.

  “Or maybe I’ll have the taco salad,” I say weakly. Yuck. I hate that note of uncertainty in my voice. Just because David and I are officially an item does not mean I have to turn into an echo chamber for his opinions and preferences. Not that David would want me to. It’s just something women seem to fall prey to in the early stages of a relationship, no matter how liberated they are.

  Our waiter appears, and I’m forced to interpret the subtext of my entrée choice on the spot. “The shrimp enchiladas,” I say, deciding its better to begin as I mean to go on. I may be in love, but I remain a complete, worthwhile, and independent person.

  Really.

  “I’ll have the steak fajitas,” David says without any existential qualms whatsoever and hands the waiter his menu. Then his attention finally, blessedly, turns to me.

  When I’m with David, I should carry a voltage meter, because I’m sure the electricity that shoots through me would register at an impressive level. For years I kept it under wraps, since I didn’t think he felt the same way. But then recently, a miracle occurred, and David and I became an item. Let the congregation say “Amen!”

  I try to ignore the angel chorus singing hallelujahs in my ears and turn my attention to David.

  “How was your day?” I ask. It’s a question I’ve asked him a million times, but it has a different ring to it now. A proprietary tone. I have the vested interest of a significant other in his response.

  “Great. It was great.” He’s glancing around the restaurant like a fugitive on the FBI’s Most-Wanted list. David’s not normally a nervous type of person, so I have to tell you that little prickles of apprehension begin shooting up my spine. What if he’s already decided this was a dumb idea, risking our years of friendship against the uncertain promise of a romantic relationship? What if he wants out already? Is the courting over before it’s even begun?

  “Are you looking for somebody?”

  “What?”

  “You seem a little nervous, like you’re expecting to see somebody.”

  “Oh? Really?” He tries to look innocent, but that telltale flush creeps up his neck. David’s a terrible liar, and everyone knows it. Especially his congregation. His neck is like a giant truth thermometer that can be read at ten paces.

  “David? Is something going on?”

  The flush overshoots his neck and spreads across his cheeks. He laughs like a bad actor in summer stock.

  But he doesn’t deny it.

  So it’s true. He’s going to dump me on our first date.

  And I was so looking forward to the courting.

  The knots in my stomach would make Houdini blanch. “Listen, David, you know, I’ve been thinking—”

  But before I can summon up the words to cut and run before he does, the strangest thing happens. David gets up out of his chair, comes around the corner of the table, and drops to one knee beside me.

  “Did you lose a contact?” I try to ask, but the knot in my stomach vaults into my throat, and my words come out in a high-pitched squeak more suited to Alvin and the Chipmunks.

  “Betsy,” he says and takes my right hand in both of his. All around us, the other diners have swiveled their chairs to take a gander at the spectacle at Table 11.

  “David? What’s going on?”

  His hands are sweaty but warm, and I don’t think he would publicly humiliate me by announcing to the whole restaurant that he’s decided I’m too repulsive to date. Then one of his hands leaves mine, and he puts it in his pocket. When it re-emerges, it’s holding a black velvet box.

  Oh, Lord, have mercy on me. A Little. Black. Velvet. Box.

  I’m hyperventilating. I swear I’m hyperventilating. The knot in my throat drops to the floor, somewhere in the vicinity of David’s knee.

  “Betz, I know it’s our first date, but I don’t see any point in putting off the inevitable.” He smiles—that smile I feel right down to my toes every time he trains it on me—and for several enjoyable moments I’m mush.

  “The inevitable?” I repeat.

  Around us, the other restaurant patrons are murmuring excitedly among themselves. As if in slow motion, David brings the box up to my hand so he can use the fingers wrapped around mine to open the lid.

  “Ouch!” I protest when he accidentally catches the skin on the back of my ring finger in the hinge.

  “Sorry.” He raises my hand to his lips and kisses it, and it’s all I can do not to slide off my chair into a puddle on the floor.

  “Betsy, I know it’s our first date, but I don’t need any more time to know you’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.” He turns the box so I can see the contents, and nestled on the velvet is a small diamond engagement ring. A pear-shaped diamond on a wide gold band, surrounded with little pink things that look as if they came out of a gumball machine.

  It’s the most hideous ring I’ve ever seen.

  “Betz, why don’t we just go ahead and do it?”

  He looks at me with those big brown eyes, like a puppy that has just learned not to piddle on the carpet. And a hole the size of Cleveland opens up in my midsection.

  This can’t be happening.

  “Betz?”

  Does my horror show on my face? I need to smile. I must smile. So I do, but it feels as if my lips are being pried upward with a cattle prod. The ring just sits there in the middle of the velvet box in all of its Technicolor glory David’s hand shakes a little. He’s been on that knee a long time. The other diners start to murmur.

  This should be the happiest moment of my life, but the tears that start to fall have nothing to do with joy. It’s what I wanted, but it’s definitely not the way I dreamed it.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers?” I hear my mother’s voice whisper in my ear. She said it when Harold Grupnik was the only one who asked me to the prom, and I’d resent her for it still if it hadn’t had the death knell of truth behind it.

  For heaven’s sake, I’m getting David out of this deal. What does it matter if the details aren’t perfect?

  I blush and hope David will chalk it up to embarrassment, not shame. A fine distinction, but an important one at the moment. I’d much rather he think I’m shy about accepting his proposal in front of all these people than realize the depth of my disappointment.

  “Compromise, Betsy,” my mother’s voice adds in my ear. “You don’t have your sister’s natural beauty, but your intelligence is very attractive, in its own way.”

  David leans forward, and now he’s looking concerned. And there’s such love in his eyes that I feel like a complete idiot. What am I doing? This man loves me. That’s more important than the most fabulous courtship in the history of courtships. He doesn’t need to woo me; he’s already got me. As usual, I’m so busy getting in my own way that I can’t accept what’s being offered.

  “Of course, David. Of course I’ll marry you.”

  He smiles and relief washes across his features. At that moment I realize he was actually worried I might turn him down. A wave of warm affection washes over me, and I resolve to put my momentary doubts behind me.

  “Kiss her!” a man two tables over calls out, and David grins.

  “Why didn’t I think of that,” he murmurs to me as his lips move toward mine. I smother a giggle—or rather, David’s lips do—and everyone in the restaurant breaks into applause.

  A lot of applause. Really, more than there should be.

  When David lifts his head from mine, I look over his shoulder to see that the doors to the party room have been thrown open, and wave after wave of familiar faces flow forth. My parishioners. David’s parishioners. Friends from divinity school. And then I see my sister.
And my mother. And right behind her, my father. I’m stunned. My parents haven’t been in the same room since their divorce fifteen years ago. Even when my sister, Melissa, had her daughter, our parents took turns coming to the hospital.

  “Mom? Dad?”

  “It’s an engagement party, honey!” My mom, always a great one for stating the obvious, practically shoves David out of the way so she can pull me out of my chair and hug me. Her hair is even blonder than the last time I saw her. A cashmere sweater set and modest pearls give her the air of old money—an air she cultivates without any actual financial backing to support it. “Are you surprised?” she asks.

  Surprised? How about stunned? Appalled? My dad reaches me a split second after my mom. He’s so tan, he’s almost orange. Tracy, his new wife, must be dousing him with that spray-on stuff again.

  “Nobody’s ever going to be good enough for you, Sunshine, but I guess he’ll do,” my dad says and plants a peck on my cheek. My mom scowls.

  “Not now, Roger,” she snaps.

  “Don’t you mean ‘not ever,’ Linda?” he fires back. “You may not like it, but I plan to be a part of this wedding every step of the way.”

  And then, over the din, I hear the strident voice of David’s mother, Angela Swenson. “Over here, Jeremy. I want a shot of this.” She pushes past the well-wishers with her Lee Press-On Nails and a shake of her Farrah Fawcett hair.

  My folks recede into the crowd, and a flashbulb goes off in my face.

  “David, get down on one knee again,” Angela orders him. “We missed that shot.”

  A shadow passes over David’s face, but he does as he’s instructed. I’m too stunned to do anything but passively cooperate. The flash pops again.

  “Now, take her hand. You forgot to put the ring on her finger.”

  David slips the ring from the box and shoots me an apologetic glance.

  “David, what’s going on?” I hiss.

  “It’s a surprise,” he whispers. “My mother wants to—”

  His explanation is interrupted when Angela calls out another set of instructions, and the photographer continues to snap away. I feel like J.Lo at a movie premier—minus the fashionable clothes, hair, and makeup—when David’s mother finally spills the beans.