The Text God
An Accidentally in Love Story
Book 2
Whitney Dineen & Melanie Summers
Copyright © 2021 by Whitney Dineen and Gretz Corp.
All rights reserved.
Published by 33 Partners Publishing and Indigo Group
First edition
E-Book ASIN: B08WKRNHHP
Paperback ISBN: 9798726547640
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the authors’ overactive imaginations or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. And we don’t mean maybe.
No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, photographed, or distributed in print or electronic form without express permission of the authors. But let’s face it, if you love it, they’ll probably let you share small portions. You still have to contact them first.
Made in the United States.
March 2021
Cover by: Becky Monson
Also by Whitney Dineen
Romantic Comedies
Love is a Battlefield
Ain't She Sweet
It's My Party
You’re so Vain (coming soon)
The Event
The Move
The Plan
The Dream
Relatively Normal
Relatively Sane
Relatively Happy
The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan
Mimi Plus Two
Kindred Spirits
She Sins at Midnight
Going Up?
Love for Sale (coming soon)
Non-Fiction Humor
Motherhood, Martyrdom & Costco Runs
Conspiracy Thriller
See No More
Middle Reader Fiction
Wilhelmina and the Willamette Wig Factory
Who the Heck is Harvey Stingle?
Children’s Books
The Friendship Bench
Also by Melanie Summers
ROMANTIC COMEDIES
The Crown Jewels Series
The Royal Treatment
The Royal Wedding
The Royal Delivery
Paradise Bay Series
The Honeymooner
Whisked Away
The Suite Life
Resting Beach Face
Crazy Royal Love Series
Royally Crushed
Royally Wild
Royally Tied (Coming Soon)
WOMEN’S FICTION
The After Wife
The Deep End
STEAMY OFFERINGS by MJ Summers
The Full Hearts Series
Break in Two
Breaking Love
Breaking Clear
Breaking Hearts
The Break-up
DEDICATION
Dedicated to anyone out there looking for a miracle ... may it arrive on time and be all that you need. And to the very talented Gabriel Byrne. You can play Joe in the movie version of this story. For real. You don’t even need to audition.
Xoxo,
Whitney and Mel
Introduction
“I finally told my parents I want to be an artist when I grow up,” I tell my Grandpa. In all of my thirteen years on the planet, he’s not only been my best friend, but my biggest champion as well. He buys all my drawings for a dollar a piece, and every birthday and Christmas, he gives me art supplies, before offering, “Use it wisely, my girl. That stuff ain’t cheap.”
“Oh? How did that go over?” Pops asks as his eyebrows crawl halfway up his forehead.
Hunching my shoulders over so I can rest my chin on my knees, I watch as nasty old Mrs. Vetti’s sedan comes dangerously close to running over our toes as she swerves toward the curb in front of St. Monica’s Church, where, in a few minutes, my grandmother’s funeral will start. I watch as she executes a wide turn into the parking lot, then cuts off a woman crossing the sidewalk with a stroller. For a second, I get distracted wondering what Gram would think of Mrs. Vetti showing up to her funeral in her fancy red hat. I’m pretty sure she would have hated that ‘the old bag,’ as she used to call her, would be here at all. My heart squeezes in pain that Gram’s really gone.
“Earth to Jenny…Come in, Jenny,” Pops says, nudging me on the shoulder.
“What?”
“I was asking how it went when you told your parents what you want to do with your life…”
“Right. Sorry. About as well as you’d expect,” I tell him. “Dad said I should either be a lawyer like him or an accountant, and Mom said, ‘No, Bob, she should marry a lawyer or an accountant.’ Then she said I should really find myself a nice plastic surgeon who is willing to do work for his mother-in-law for free.”
Pops snorts. “Do either of those options sound like the life you want?”
I shake my head. “No way.”
“Good. As much as I love my daughter, she doesn’t have the first clue what the secret to happiness is,” Pops tells me. He’s right about that. My mom is a miserably unhappy woman with no apparent dreams of her own. “But you, Jenny, you’ve got a lot of wisdom for a young girl.”
I stare up at his wrinkly face, noticing how tired he looks today. “But I don’t think I know the secret to happiness, Pops,” I tell him, feeling embarrassed to admit it, especially after such a nice compliment.
“You’ve got to have faith, Jenny—in both yourself, and in God. If you have that, you can be anything you want. With faith and hard work, the world will be your oyster.”
“Jason Dixon in my class said God isn’t real and he’s just something people made up to control the masses.”
“Jason Dixon? Is he the one who got a bean stuck so far up his nose that he had to have surgery to get it out?”
I grin at the memory and nod.
“Enough said,” Pops tells me, then he sighs. “I know God is real. I don’t know what He looks like or if he’s really a She or an it, but I believe in a higher power that governs the laws of the Universe.” After a moment, he says, “It would be a lot harder saying goodbye to Gram if in my heart I didn’t know she was going to a better place.”
I nod, feeling stretched in two directions. After all, if there is a God, why did Gram die and nasty old Mrs. Vetti is still here? “I’m not sure what I believe.”
“Even though life isn’t always fair, there are miracles everywhere you look.” Putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close, Pops says, “Look at that tree,” he points to a magnolia in full bloom. “That stunning creation all came from one seed. Just one tiny seed.”
“I know what you’re saying, Pops, and I appreciate everyday miracles, I really do. But what about the really big ones? Does God even hear our prayers? If he does, I’m not sure he answers them.” The questions and worries pop out of me like corn kernels simmering in hot oil. “I prayed constantly when I found out Gram had a stroke, and she didn’t make it.”
Nodding, Pops says, “We all did. It’s impossible for us to understand why things happen the way they do, but when times are the hardest, it’s comforting to believe God is kicking into overdrive for us. He may not answer our prayers the way we want, and we may not realize our prayers have been answered for a very long time.” Holding me close, he adds, “Never question whether or not God is talking to you, Jenny. You may h
ear a voice in your head or have an inkling in your heart, but when you ask for help, you’re being heard, and you will get some kind of answer. You just have to believe.”
And with those words, Pops stands up and reaches his hand out to me. “Come on. Let’s go in and give your Gram the sendoff she always wanted.”
After my grandfather helps me up, I dust off the back of my skirt and try to prepare myself for what I know will be the toughest hour of my life so far. I see Mrs. Vetti hurrying up the sidewalk with her usual scowl in place and I have an urge to go stomp on her toe, just for being alive. In my head I say, Dear God, I don’t know what I think about you, but I could really use a sign that you’re real and that my Gram is okay.
As I finish my prayer, a pigeon flies overhead and poops right on top of Mrs. Vetti’s hat. I unsuccessfully try to stifle my laughter. I look up at Pops, whose shoulders are shaking. He starts making that wheezing sound he does when something is uncontrollably funny to him and, pretty soon, the two of us are collapsed in a heap of giggles, as Mrs. Vetti walks by, completely unaware of the poop on her hat. She gives us a glare, then strides past us without saying anything.
“We should stop laughing,” I tell Pops, feeling momentarily panicked that my parents might come out of the church and see us.
“No, we should not,” Pops says. “That was your Gram right there, giving us a good laugh and letting us know she’s happy up there.”
I grin up at Pops and nod. “It was, wasn’t it?”
“There’s no other explanation. That was a small miracle just for the two of us,” he says. “And if the Big Guy upstairs can facilitate Gram’s ultimate revenge on Mrs. Vetti, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing he can’t do.”
Chapter One
Jen
Bending over in Downward Dog, I release the whoosh of breath I’ve been holding for what feels like the last three days. Then I have a stern talk with myself. It goes like this:
Jennifer Flanders, you’re an artist. You are a highly evolved soul who is temporarily off track. While dog walking isn’t your dream job and picking up copious amounts of poop is not fulfilling in and of itself, you’re lucky to have a job. And with such cute furry love nuggets who worship you unconditionally. With the exception of Brutus, of course, who loves nobody.
Then, as I do, I answer myself.
You haven’t sold one painting since you moved to New York. Not. One. Therefore, you can claim to be as advanced a soul as you want, but you are no artist.
Back to Positive Me: Screw you. I went to art school for three years and apprenticed with Peony Parks. That’s Peony. Parks. Second only to Georgia O’Keeffe in matters of all things flowers and possibly girly bits. Those lilies do bring to mind something of a non-botanical nature. I am an artist no matter what you say.
Negative Me: Nope. Not. Lalalalalalala, I can’t hear you!
I’m as tense as the rubber bands that hold a tennis ball together. I gradually retreat out of my current yoga pose and move into a headstand. As the blood rushes to my frontal lobe, I pray to the Universe for peace, strength, creativity, and either more clients or a better-paying survival job. I can’t even afford new art supplies right now, and I’ve been told by every gallery that I’ve walked into that they don’t want me coming back until I have something new to show them.
For some reason my mind drifts off to the morning of Gram’s funeral. I remember Pops telling me that I need to ask for miracles and not to turn away from them when they happen. “Dear God, send me a sign,” I plead. “Just a little something to give me the strength to carry on.”
Not a minute later, maybe not even thirty seconds later, my phone pings. Gently tucking and rolling out of my headstand, I strike a quick warrior pose and namaste my goldfish Frank before checking to see who texted.
The yoga gods would probably prefer all electronics be banned during times of spiritual mind/body goings-on, but they aren’t worried about eviction like I am.
When I see who the text is from, I have to stop and rub my eyes before reading it again. Same result. I read:
GOD: Word on the street is you need a little career guidance. Just wanted to let you know I’m here for you.
What the … God is texting me? Is this some new Verizon service? Because if it is, what in the heck am I paying for it? With my finger hovering over the message bubble, I finally type back:
JFlan: Thanks, God. One might think you’d be too busy to answer my call, but really, thanks.
GOD: No sweat. I’ve been meaning to, but I guess it’s true what they say about the road to Hell being paved with good intentions. Anyhow, I’m in between meetings and thought I’d reach out.
God says “No sweat?” He’s “in-between meetings?” What the …
JFlan: I’m wondering if maybe you have an idea of how I could make some extra money. My rent just got raised and it’s going to be a tight one.
GOD: Ask your family.
Listen, I’m not one to kick a gift horse in the mouth or anything. I mean, I am currently texting with God and all—and, according to Pops, I should not doubt this kind of communication—but wouldn’t you think the Big Guy would know that my parents aren’t planning to speak to me again until I give up my “pie in the sky dream of artistic glory?” That’s a direct quote.
JFlan: That’s not going to work in my case, but thanks for brainstorming with me.
GOD: Hmm, okay then. I have another idea.
GOD: …
GOD: Go down to The Asher Hotel and tell them I sent you. They’ll set you up with some extra work.
JFlan: I’m sorry, you want me to go to the fanciest hotel in all of Manhattan and tell them God sent me?
GOD: Nobody has called me God since high school. I go by Gabe now.
GOD goes by Gabe? And he went to high school? Um, okay.
JFlan: Who do I tell this to?
GOD: Ask for the general manager, Tony Collins. He’s a good guy. Tell him that the Christmas card he sent out this year was very thoughtful.
God gets Christmas cards? I’m so confused right now I’m starting to suspect that I may have had a major stroke or heart attack and died. How else could I be talking to God? Texting, actually.
JFlan: Okay, I’ll go down today. Would you mind if I texted you back afterward just to let you know how it all went?
GOD: Please! I’m free after six, so if you don’t hear from me until then, don’t worry.
God is free after six today. I wonder what would happen if I asked him to meet me for a drink? Ha ha, but seriously though …
After signing off with God, I scroll up to the beginning of the thread. How did God get my phone number? I mean, I’m sure he has access to all kinds of information—all the information, really—but still. Right above God’s first text to me, it shows that I sent God a text. It says:
Thank you so much for offering to help me. It means the world.
What the heck? I never texted anyone named God, or, you know, God himself. How could that be on my phone? I pour a cold glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and consider this while I scroll through my phone book to make sure God isn’t one of my contacts, but when I get to the G section, he’s right there. How? I never added him. Not that I could have if I’d wanted to.
I put my phone down and decide that when you ask the Universe for a sign, you need to welcome that sign and not question it. Negative Me: This is insane and it’s never going to work.
Positive Me holds up one finger and sticks it in Negative Me’s face like she’s going to poke her eyes out. She says, As insane as this whole thing is, I’m just going to go with it. I’ve got nothing to lose other than the subway fare. All I’m really doing is going to a hotel to apply for a job. If I get there and there’s not a guy named Tony who has a friend named Gabe, so be it.
Negative Me: You’ve officially lost it this time. For realsies.
Positive Me: Zip it and let me have this one thing. I need a win.<
br />
I fling open the door of my closet and search for the perfect outfit. I wonder what God sees me doing at The Asher Hotel. Clearly it won’t be a position in management. I hope it’s not a waitress gig. I wouldn’t turn it down, but my friends Teisha and Aimée have made serving food sound so depressing, I’m not sure my spirit could take it.
I decide to put on a cute red dress that I’ve never had the occasion to wear. I bought it at a fire sale and was planning on using it at my first art gallery opening.
Quickly brushing out my longish dark hair, I make the executive decision to keep it down. I don’t want an updo messing with my chi or anything. After swiping 24K Rose across my lips, I stand back and admire my gorgeous self.
Positive Me: Jen, not only do you look like the bomb diggity, but your good friend God is recommending you for a new job. Things are looking up!
I grab my purse off the back of the sofa and make sure I have my MetroCard—please let there be enough left on it to get me downtown and back—then I shove my phone into my handbag and head out to conquer the world.
I pick up the subway at 103rd Street. I still have a few weeks to ride the subway before mid-July hits and the temperature rises to the point where the subterranean train system reeks of simmering urine. That’s when I start walking. I walk my doggie clients so much anyway; I’ll just bring them along on my errands.
Of course, now that I’m about to accept a job at the swanky Asher, I might have to quit walking dogs. While that kind of makes me sad—I’ll miss them, even Brutus (sort of)—it doesn’t upset me to the point where I would give up an opportunity to improve my lot in life. You can only eat Top Ramen so many times a week and still be grateful.
The Text God: Text and You Shall Receive ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 2) Page 1