Asking for Trouble

by Mary Kay McComas

  “Why?” she cried, turning to look at him with a tearstained face, clearly lost to his thinking. “Why would you go to all that trouble for me? Why do you want me so badly, when you could have any number of normal women?”

  His brows rose as if he were surprised by the question. “You mean aside from the fact that you’re bright and intelligent and beautiful and kind and giving, why do I want you? I don’t know. I guess I must love you,” he said, looking more serious than he felt.

  “You’re as crazy as I am,” she said. Her chin quivered, and she turned her head to keep him from seeing.

  “I know. Isn’t it great?”

  “No! It isn’t,” she said, turning back to tell him why. His face was mere centimeters away, and his eyes were brimming with his emotions. Spring flowers bloomed in her heart under the steady scrutiny of his sky-blue eyes. If she were going to live forever—and she had every intention of doing so—she wanted to wake up every morning to blue skies and happiness, the kind she saw in his eyes.

  “It is great,” she murmured softly, touching his lower lip tentatively with a finger. “But it’s not going to be easy.”

  “Name one good thing that is easy,” he said before he kissed her.

  “I do love you,” she said.

  “I know,” he said before he kissed her again.

  They sat shoulder to shoulder, heads together, fingers entwined, on the steps of the funeral home with no place special to go, no one more important to see, and nothing urgently needing their attention but their closeness.

  “I’m proud of you,” Tom said, his tone of voice telling her how much. “It took a lot of guts to come here for me.”

  Self-consciously she looked down at his long, well-shaped fingers and watched as they traced the lines on the palm of her hand. Braving her fears wasn’t exactly the success she’d hoped for, but she conceded to the idea that it was a step in the right direction—Tom’s direction. With all they had going for them, compromise in this part of their life together didn’t seem like too much to ask. It beat the alternative.

  “Did you ... have you always worked in the office here, or have you done other things?” she asked, not sure if she really wanted to hear his answer.

  “My father was running the show when I graduated from college. I ... worked my way up the ladder. Why?”

  “Were you ever the funeral director here?”

  “Not here, but at the West Side home for a while.”

  “Did you ever hold someone when they were in pain? I mean, someone crying because of—” the flip of her hand finished her sentence.

  “We call it comforting in the trade,” he said, teasing her. Then more seriously he added, “And, yes, I’ve held someone in pain once or twice.” He paused. “People are strange creatures. Most of them come here acting stoic and in control, and then go home and cry alone. It’s sad really. Who besides a mortician or a doctor or maybe a minister would understand their grief better?” The long, hard look she gave him made him nervous. “Why do you ask?”

  “You do good work, Tom Ghorman,” she said, her voice quiet and inspired. “What you do is good.”

  “Well, thank you.” He was grinning, but overall his expression was a little bewildered.

  “I mean it. They—” she waved her hand in hesitation, “the dead people, don’t have a lot to do with what goes on here, do they?”

  As a rule, the deceased didn’t do much of anything anywhere, but he thought he’d save this information for another time.

  “No, they don’t. There’s a whole psychology that involves the death and dying process. If humans didn’t love and feel pain and grief, there’d be nothing to it. We’d simply go on with our lives. And there’d be no fear of death. No sense of loss.” He took an earnest grip on her fingers. “Fortunately, or unfortunately, we suffer a great deal with death. And recovery is a long, hard transition for most people. What we do is part of a ... a ritual, a starting point. Like the opening ceremony at the Olympics. We help people to bury their dead, one of the first steps in the grieving process, which leads to starting over and beginning a new life.”

  “For those left behind,” she said, more to herself than to him, yet he nodded. “The living.”

  If Tom knew half of the special feelings she’d experienced in the few moments she’d held the devastated young widow, it was no wonder that he had continued in the steps of his father, she pondered. Little boys didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming morticians, and it couldn’t have been high on the list of choices on career day in high school. That he had willfully picked dealing with grief-stricken individuals as a career spoke volumes to her about his innate goodness and sensitivity. She felt suddenly humbled in his presence.

  “You’re okay, Tom Ghorman ... for a boy,” she said, reminding him of the night they met.

  “I’m glad you think so, because I don’t intend to ask you again.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “I’ve asked you three times to marry me, and three times you laughed in my face. It’s your turn to ask me to marry you.”

  “Marry me?”

  “Okay.” He tightened his embrace and kissed her.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said, laughing, pushing him a nose distance away. “I thought the idea here was to give you more time to convince me that this can work and that you’re the right man for me. Aren’t we jumping the gun a little?”

  “That was before I knew how much you loved me and how convinced you already were. The rest will take a little work and some compromising, but comparatively speaking, it should be child’s play.”

  “You think so?” She wished she could be so sure.

  “I know so.”

  “I’m trusting you, you know.”

  “I know,” he murmured, his lips touching hers tenderly. He pulled her close and held her tight, vowing that she’d never regret loving him. He had a list as long as his arm of the things they could do to enable her to become comfortable with his profession. She might not ever embrace it or take an avid interest in it or show enthusiasm for it, but if the efforts she’d made already were any indication of her determination, she would eventually grow tolerant of it.

  And the rest of their lives? Well, he pondered, they’d spent twelve hours together without once mentioning their occupations. So who was to say that twelve years wouldn’t pass before they brought it up again? And twelve more after that? They had more to impart to each other than what they did to earn money. They had dreams to share and common interests to disclose and explore. They had a future to build. They had love and trust and support to give each other. They had laughter, understanding, and compassion to pass on to the other. As far as he was concerned, they had far more than they lacked in being unable to discuss his profession on a routine basis.

  Sydney’s thinking was much the same. If desire and determination had anything to do with one’s destiny, hers and Tom’s wasn’t going to be too shabby, she decided. She was secure and content in his arms, but she wasn’t fooling herself. Life with Tom wasn’t going to be a cupcake for either of them. But it also wasn’t going to be dull or boring or in any way a mere existence. It was going to be hard and real and full.

  “Will you look at this?” Sydney heard someone say.

  “Oh, dear,” came another voice. “Is this the girl you were telling me about?”

  She looked up over Tom’s shoulder to see the crazy woman and a friend coming arm in arm down the steps.

  “Really,” the second woman snorted, showing obvious disapproval. “Do you think the steps of a funeral home is an appropriate place for this sort of thing? I’m sure Edward wouldn’t approve.”

  “Now, now,” the woman intervened, smiling kindly at Sydney. “This young woman is still deeply in love with Edward. She and I had a long talk about it earlier, didn’t we, dear?” Sydney nodded once, not knowing why. Habit perhaps. Her body seemed accustomed to going along with the woman’s every whim. “She’ll always love Edward. There’s no den
ying that.”

  “Who’s Edward?” Tom asked, frowning.

  “You don’t understand,” Sydney said finally. “Tom and I are in love. We’re going to be married.”

  “For crying out loud,” the friend cried out in horror. She looked from Sydney to Tom and said, “What nerve. To bring him here and flaunt him right under Edward’s nose.”

  “Who’s Edward?” Tom asked again, scowling deeply.

  “Edward would approve of their falling in love, I’m sure,” the first woman said. “Remember his motto: Take it when you can get it, especially if it’s free.” She hesitated, giving Tom a good long stare. “This young man reminds me a little of Edward. Doesn’t he you, dear? Why, he has that same look in his eyes. You know, that look.” The two older women exchanged knowing glances.

  “Who is Edward?” Tom asked again from between clenched teeth.

  “You still don’t understand,” Sydney said, smiling patiently at the ladies. She would have gone on to explain the whole situation had the crazy woman not turned back to her and with great benevolence tweaked her cheek.

  “Don’t you worry, dear. Edward’s watching you, and he understands. He knows how much you love him,” she said before she and her friend walked away.

  “Who the hell is Edward?”

  Eleven

  “WELCOME TO ELECTRA-LOVE,” THE recorded announcement began. “The game show where the whimsies of love meet the logic of technology, and where all the personal details of a first date are aired on nationwide television. Now, here’s your host, Rex Swann!”

  The applause sign flashed wildly, and the audience responded. Dapper Rex Swann all but bounced to center stage with his hands out in greeting.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you and welcome. We have a special show planned for tonight in celebration of our tenth anniversary.”

  The crowd cheered, and he grinned his appreciation.

  “Over the past ten years,” he continued, “we’ve matched up over four thousand couples looking for an electra-love that would last a lifetime.” He paused to let the crowd respond with enthusiasm. Then he laughed and said, “We’ve witnessed everything on this stage from marriage proposals to fistfights with jealous boyfriends. Some of our contestants have fallen in love, some have formed close friendships after their dates, and others have walked away disappointed. Every contestant, every couple, every date was different and unique, but they all had one thing in common. They were all looking for that one special someone they could share an electra-love with.”

  “This whole week, as part of our celebration, we’re broadcasting our show live from the studio, and we’ve invited some of our success stories back, to see how those initial electrical sparks of love and romance have fared with time.” A pregnant pause. “Some of you may remember this couple. ...”

  The studio monitors ran a seven-minute clip of a young couple whose date was recounted more as a comedy of errors than a romantic interlude, and the viewers clapped and cheered on cue when the couple agreed to give their audience matchup a second chance.

  Rex Swann grinned in remembrance. “We’ll take a short break and be back in two minutes with that same couple, four years after that Electra-Love date.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Sydney muttered, closing her eyes as she sagged against a wall backstage. “I should have worn the pink dress. This one isn’t hanging right, and it’s white. I look like a huge fluffy cloud.”

  “Everything you wear hangs perfectly, and you know it,” Tom said. “Otherwise you’d worry it to shreds. And I, personally, think you’re the most beautiful fluffy cloud in the universe.”

  She gave him a nervous thanks-a-lot look, closed her eyes again, then said, “I can’t believe we agreed to do this. The first time was like a nightmare.”

  “We had to, it was in the fine print. And the first time was a nightmare,” Tom said with a smirk. “You were being a royal pain in the ass, as I recall.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “Me?”

  “You.”

  “Oh, sure. I tried to think things out logically and make a sane, rational decision, and I was the pain in the rear. But you ran around like a lovesick puppy, and you were ... you were ...” She frowned. “What were you?”

  “I was the logical, sane, rational one pointing out the only possible decision you could make,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling in that certain way that always made her knees a little weak.

  She nodded, trying not to laugh. With her tongue in her cheek she said, “That’s right. Silly me. I’d forgotten.”

  Sydney hadn’t forgotten. She could call back nearly every second of the past four years. They were the best she’d ever known.

  “It was later that you started acting really stupid,” she said casually, as if she were recollecting the years in slow stages.

  “Stupid? Me? When?” He couldn’t believe his ears.

  “You were late for our wedding.”

  “I had a flat on the freeway.” He looked at her suspiciously. “You’re never going to forgive me for that, are you?”

  “Nope,” she said, grinning. “I spent my wedding night with sand in my panties.”

  Tom groaned. “The hotel screwed up the reservations, not me.” He smiled lasciviously. “And you didn’t wear those panties for very long anyway.”

  She giggled, remembering that night on the beach fondly.

  “What about the time you dropped me and then fell on me and broke my arm?” she reminded him.

  “That shower we took was your idea, and the soap made you slippery. A man only has so much control in a situation like that.”

  “Right. What about the time we went to sea?”

  “Dropping anchor was your job.”

  “Yes, but you distracted me.”

  His face lit up. He reached out and tenderly caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Yeah. It was great, huh?”

  Their gazes met and held. They shared a single thought that shone in their eyes. Their love was great. She bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Until we went aground.”

  “You folks ready?” a young man in a large set of headphones asked, watching the stopwatch in his hand.

  It was a different young man from the one Sydney remembered from her first ordeal on television, but she couldn’t help wondering if they’d gone to the same school to learn how to be so blasé about everything.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” she muttered again, realizing that nothing short of a nationwide power outage was going to stop her from being on television again—live this time, with no taped safety net if she made a fool of herself.

  Tom gave her a quick kiss.

  “You’re beautiful. Relax.”

  “I’m fat and my—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” they turned to the sound of Rex Swann’s voice. “Let’s welcome back Tom and Sydney Ghorman.”

  A wave of approval and good cheer rose up from the crowd as Tom pushed Sydney by the small of her back onto the stage. Dressed in a white maternity smock, she was eight and a half months pregnant, as big as a barn and hoping that no one would notice.

  Tom had worn white slacks with his double-breasted captain’s jacket to humor her. Their son, Trevor, was dressed in a white sailor suit. If she had to look like a ship, she couldn’t have asked for a more handsome crew.

  Pushing Shy Sydney and dragging the two-year-old, Trevor the Terrible, Tom managed a grin and to shake hands with their host as the three of them settled down on the loveseat across from Rex Swann.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Rex said, his cordial appearance turning to a mask of utter surprise when Sydney suddenly stood up again and appeared to be leaving.

  Tom glanced up at his wife and recognized the pained expression on her face. He sympathized with her. The loveseat was indeed an uncomfortable piece of furniture—and he wasn’t pregnant. Calmly and without drawing too much attention, he gathered Trevor onto his lap and slid across the seat toward Rex Swann and the microphone, giving her plenty
of space on which to set her wide girth before he gave her hand a gentle tug.

  Sydney couldn’t believe what was happening, didn’t want to believe it. She sat down, refusing to think about it. They were picture perfect on the monitor, she thought, trying to divert her thoughts—good-looking, healthy, all dressed in white. They were the American dream family.

  “Are you all comfy now?” Rex asked good-naturedly, eyeing Sydney as she sat bolt upright in the loveseat next to her husband and son.

  Tom nodded and muttered something as he pried Trevor’s fat little fingers from around the microphone.

  “You two have been busy since your last visit,” Rex commented with another glance at Sydney and a humorous smirk for the audience. “This is obviously your son.”

  Now holding both of Trevor’s hands in his own, Tom smiled proudly at the dark-haired, blue-eyed boy and announced his son’s name. He naturally glanced at his wife and was dismayed to see the uneasy frown on her face. He wished there was something he could do to make her more comfortable, but his smile of reassurance that their segment of the show wouldn’t last long had to suffice.

  “You know,” Rex went on, “after your appearance here four years ago, the staff and I wouldn’t have bet a plug nickel that the two of you would end up married.” He paused. “Not to each other, anyway. How did that happen to come about?”

  Tom looked to see if Sydney wanted to answer the question, but by the unmoving, glazed expression on her face, he assumed she didn’t.

  He shrugged. “Sydney finally saw the light and married me about six weeks after that show, Rex. We’ve been happy together ever since.”