Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Page 4

  Greeted by the maitre d’, she expected him to escort her to Jeff’s table. Instead, the older gentleman smiled and handed her a dozen long-stemmed roses.

  “Mr. Stanton called and said he was running late. He said that the card would explain.”

  Blowing a wisp of hair from her eyes, Andrea reached into the baby’s breath and retrieved the card.

  Babe,

  I would say I’m sorry, but those would just be words that you have heard many times before. This time, I’ll say I love you, a truth that lives within my heart. Meet me at the Eagle for drinks at 7:00.

  Jeff

  Andrea looked at the maitre d’ who continued to grin. “Did he say anything else on the phone?”

  “Not exactly,” the kind man muttered. “Just that he can’t wait to see you.”

  “It certainly doesn’t seem that way,” she lamented.

  As she reached the parking lot, she was surprised to find that her car hadn’t been moved. The valet attendant opened the door, smiled sweetly and said, “Best of luck!”

  “Same to you,” she replied, confused by his curious comment.

  Within ten minutes she was at the Eagle waiting in the lounge. She would give him 10 minutes to show; otherwise she’d go home to contemplate their future.

  The bartender sauntered over. “What’ll you have, Miss?”

  “Margarita, no salt and a cup of ice on the side.”

  “Cup of ice on the side?” the man questioned with a silly grin dancing across his face.

  “Yeah,” she confirmed, her irritated tone approaching anger. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear she was the butt of some cruel joke. She checked her watch again. He had seven more minutes. Looking down at the beautiful white dress she wore, she shook her head. What a waste, she thought, fighting back the tears.

  Within seconds, the bartender returned with a bottle of champagne and the same smile he’d left with.

  “I ordered a margarita,” she roared, then realizing her rude outburst, quietly added, “I’m sorry; it’s just that my boyfriend was supposed to . . .”

  “Meet you here at 7:00? I know. He called and asked that I pour you a glass of champagne and give you this card.”

  With a wink, the bartender was gone. Andrea reluctantly opened it.

  Sweetie,

  Please bear with me! There are going to be times when other things might seem more important than you, but you have to trust that they’re not.

  The rest is up to faith. I’ll be at the Dockside at 7:30. I’m hoping more than anything that you meet me. Please be there with the champagne.

  Jeff

  Andrea stood and noticed that every patron in the bar was gawking. She was right; it was a conspiracy. Her first thought was to go home and put an end to Jeff’s foolish game.

  Then it hit her. There was no way Jeff would have had the time to drop off both cards. Realizing it was all a carefully planned scheme; she smiled back at the crowd. Her excitement grew and, within minutes, she was in her car speeding to the Dockside.

  As expected, Jeff was nowhere to be found. Instead, a white stretch limousine idled in front of a dilapidated shack. The chauffeur held a sign that read Andrea Evans.

  With her dozen red roses, bottle of champagne and tears in her eyes, she climbed into the car. The driver offered a familiar smile and handed her a tiny card.

  I knew you wouldn’t give up on me. Enjoy the ride. I’m waiting! I love you!

  Jeff

  Andrea enjoyed the ride and when the car stopped, she stole a peek out the window. She was at the beach and Jeff was waiting somewhere in the dunes.

  The driver parked the car, opened the door and assisted her out. “Have a beautiful time,” he said. “I’ll be here when you get done!”

  Andrea felt like hugging him for his smile—the same one she had seen on the faces of strangers all day. Something big was up and the quest was not yet complete. Not forgetting her roses and champagne, she kicked off her shoes, grabbed them and started for the ocean.

  A path of small seashells glimmered under a full moon. It was obvious each shell had been carefully placed, looping through the shifting dunes until they reached several large conch shells. Arranged in the shape of an arrow, they were the last clue on Jeff’s peculiar map. She took a deep breath before stepping over the last dune.

  The sight nearly brought her to her knees. Jeff was seated at a small round table in the middle of the beach. Dressed in a black tux, he stood when he saw her. She hurried toward him.

  On the table, a hurricane lamp illuminated two place settings, an empty vase and empty ice bucket waited to be filled, and soft music drifted through the breeze.

  As she reached him, she expected Jeff to embrace her, but he didn’t. Instead, he dropped to his knees, grabbed her hand and blurted, “Be my wife, Andrea. Spend the rest of your life with me.”

  Instinctively, Andrea dropped to meet him in the sand. “Yes!” she answered through her sniffles. “I thought you’d never ask!”

  Jeff laughed and pulled her to him. “I love you,” he whispered.

  “And I love you,” she countered. Gesturing toward the table, she added, “I love all of this! But why?”

  “Because I needed to know that you wouldn’t give up on me when you thought I may have given up on you. I needed to know you love me as much as I love you.”

  “Do you know now?”

  “I do,” he whispered.

  “Good,” she giggled. “Because this is the last time I chase you!”

  Steve Manchester

  The Last Quarter

  Think not because you are wed That all your courtship’s at an end.

  Antonio Hurtado de Mendoza

  When I decided my girlfriend Maria was the woman I wanted to marry, I told her I wanted to date her exclusively. A good friend of ours suggested we start “courting.”

  Since neither Maria nor I knew the difference between courting and dating, our ever-helpful friend quickly pointed out they were similar, but with significant differences. “Appropriate physical boundaries” needed to be respected; and a dedicated commitment would enable us to grow individually and as a couple.

  Finally, according to my friend, courtship meant every time Maria and I saw each other, I was to give her a quarter. Yes, that’s right—a quarter. Is this some mysterious, ancient ritual, I wondered? “Never mind,” said my friend. “Just do it.”

  So I took the “quarter” challenge, and decided to make a game of it. It became second nature to check my pockets for the appropriate pieces of silver. A dime wouldn’t do. I hid quarters under her plate in a restaurant or left them with notes on her steering wheel, or gently slipped them into her hand as we walked to the movies.

  I loved to see the excitement and joy in her face every time I gave her a quarter. She saved each one and collected them in a green corduroy drawstring bag. When we were apart, Maria would hold the bag and think of all the fun we shared.

  Finally, the right time came for me to ask the Big Question. Almost finished with our premarital classes at the church, I’d never been more positive about a decision in my life. But doubt crept into my mind—did Maria feel the same way?

  More than anything, I wanted the proposal to be special and to incorporate our “quarter theme.” Carefully, I formulated my plan.

  First, I chose a nice restaurant across from the performing arts center and bought tickets to a jazz show I knew she wanted to see. Then, I put words onto paper about how much Maria meant to me:

  The Last Quarter

  In the first quarter a comfort level was formed,

  In the second quarter a friendship was spawned,

  In the third quarter silver tokens of affection did abound,

  And in this final quarter—my true love I have found.

  This is the last “quarter” I will give you to celebrate our “courting” stage. For today I ask you to be my wife, and in exchange for the silver tokens that daily show my love, I humbly ask you
to accept a silver ring, and thus daily share my life. I love you, Maria.

  Ward

  I framed the poem and letter and placed a quarter inside, too. I arranged with the manager of the restaurant to have the frame placed on a secluded table with the menus set directly over it. My plan? When Maria lifted the menus she would find the poem and, at that point, I would drop to my knees and propose.

  On the way to the restaurant, I felt confident. At least until Maria grabbed hold of my hand in the car.

  “Your hand is clammy. Are you nervous about something?”

  I made some lame joke in response while thinking, This woman knows me pretty well. I took that as another sign I’d made a good decision.

  About five minutes after we sat down, Maria lifted her menu and saw the framed poem beneath it. She picked it up and exclaimed, “Hey, they’ve got a quarter theme, too!”

  I didn’t say a word. Maria was still reading. A look of confusion crossed her face. I guessed she reached my name at the bottom. That was my cue.

  I knelt down beside her and asked her those four little words: “Will you marry me?”

  Well, would she? There was a tantalizing moment before everything sank in. Finally, Maria said the one word I most wanted to hear.

  “Yes.”

  The waiter brought the champagne on cue. As we laughed and held each other, I handed Maria my cell phone, programmed with her mother’s number, so she could tell her mom the good news.

  Within a short while, Maria and I married. All the quarters I gave her remained in the same bag, sitting next to the framed poem.

  Our marriage was wonderfully happy, but I found I missed our quaint little custom. So I planned another surprise. Over a year later, we moved into our new home and had a special dinner on Valentine’s Day. When Maria opened a box of chocolates she found—wrapped in tissue in place of a chocolate—a quarter.

  She looked at me, mystified. “Why am I getting a quarter?”

  “I miss ‘quarting’ you.” I rolled the quarter up her arm. “I want to quart you and court you for the rest of my life!”

  Since then, I’ve been giving Maria a quarter every day. Sometimes I put them in the most unexpected places.

  Maria puts all the “new” quarters in a ceramic jar on her nightstand. She stores them in quart-size mason jars in her hope chest and promises to keep them forever. I’ve no idea how many are in her collection, but I do know that many quarters make infinite riches—of love.

  Ward Nickless

  The Changing Tide

  Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be.

  Robert Browning

  I could feel the cool sand rising between my toes as we neared the water, my hand in my boyfriend Mark’s. In the distance, fishing boats returned with the day’s catch while shrimp boats were headed out for the night. Living near the Louisiana coast, Mark and I looked forward to our occasional strolls along the shore after a candlelit dinner. It was always romantic and especially so this beautiful night.

  As we walked and talked quietly along the water’s edge, I noticed a line in the sand at our feet, curving in and out and looping here and there. At first I didn’t think anything of it, but then it dawned on me that the line was forming letters.

  “Hey! There’s a message in the sand!” I pointed it out to Mark. I looked forward and back, trying to make out the words. When I looked to Mark for help, I saw excitement on his face.

  Suddenly I knew. My mouth dropped open, and I felt like I was on a roller coaster ride. I looked up and down the beach and saw it clearly now. “Will you marry me?” was written in the sand, waiting to be washed away by the rising tide.

  Mark beamed and motioned me toward the question mark further down the beach. I ran to it and found a large spiral-shaped seashell lying where the dot would have been. I picked it up. Something rattled inside.

  When I rotated the shell, a diamond ring fell into my hand. I turned to Mark and found him on one knee at the edge of the surf, the question burning in his eyes. My acceptance was obvious as I ran to leap into his arms and embrace him with a kiss. Within minutes the tide swept away the words of Mark’s unique proposal.

  Nothing, I thought breathlessly, could ever be as romantic.

  But I was wrong. Over time, I’ve discovered romance in the most unique places.

  Watching Mark change diapers and rock the baby to sleep, catching him washing a sink full of dishes, even seeing him fold clothes can take my breath away. Or our time together when the baby sleeps and we put on pajamas and soft socks and head for the couch. During commercials, we toss popcorn into each other’s mouths and rub toes. He tells me he loves me, I tell him the same, and we Eskimo kiss.

  Sure, sometimes the only candles we see now are the ones on our daughter’s birthday cake. And our strolls along the beach are replaced with treks through the grocery store aisles. But I’ve learned that romance can always be found where love is—even between two socks. And that kind of romance no tide can ever wash away.

  Michelle Marullo

  Until Death . . .

  Brian and I were in a serious relationship. But as a divorced mom, dating, for me, was more often than not a family affair. There seemed to be many more grade-school basketball games, dance recitals and family movie nights than romantic dinners for two. When Brian and I finally planned a “real” date one weekend, we put a lot of thought into it.

  Knowing my love of everything Irish, Brian suggested we attend a play called Flanagan’s Wake. That sounded great to me, so Brian ordered tickets. Saturday arrived and, with kisses to my daughters and a thank-you to the sitter, we were off to the show.

  Flanagan’s Wake was an interactive play with audience participation as part of the action. Everyone was given nametags. The men used their real names, followed by the name “Patrick.” The women were all called “Mary,” followed by our first names. We, or should I say “Brian Patrick” and “Mary Barbara,” sat chatting as the actors entered the intimate venue from the back of the theater.

  “Boo-hoo,” sobbed the grieving widow of the poor, deceased Flanagan as she walked toward us. Stopping next to my aisle seat, she took my arm and sniffled through her thick brogue, “No one can coomfort like a girlfriend, Mary Barbara. Coom and sit wit me, will ya?”

  Wouldn’t you know, I thought, I’m the first one they pick on.

  Nevertheless, I cooperated and followed the widow Fiona, the Irish priest and several other cast members to the small stage. As the play progressed, I tried to look consoling at the appropriate moments, but I felt so self-conscious I could barely think how to act appropriately. Sitting at Fiona’s side as the “wake” proceeded, I wished I were back in the audience with Brian. Here we were, finally on a real date, sitting thirty feet from each other.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the widow.

  “Mary Barbara, haf ya ever looved someone like I looved Flanagan?”

  Somehow I thought I should play along with the cast but, surely, no one had ever loved anyone the way Fiona had loved Flanagan.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Well,” she continued, “doo ya haf a special soomeone to loove?”

  Nervous beyond belief, I again shook my head. “No.”

  I could tell by her expression that I was not following her cues the way she wanted, but I felt too uncomfortable to reveal my feelings for Brian in front of the whole audience.

  “Tell me, Mary Barbara, did ya coome here to mourn Flanagan ahl by yerself?”

  “Yes,” I answered, the lie slipping from my lips. A combination of shyness and stage fright kept me from telling the truth.

  “Well, then,” the priest jumped in. “Who’s that over there? I saw ya wit him earlier. Is that your broother, then? Bring her broother oop here!”

  They’re picking on Brian, too, I laughed to myself. Now he would have to talk in front of the audience along with me.

  An embarrassed-looking Brian walked forward and stood in front of the small stage
on which I sat. Looking at him with a skeptical expression, the priest spoke again.

  “Yer not her broother, are ya?”

  “No.” Brian shook his head.

  “Well, then,” said the priest. “Do ya have anything to say fer yerself?”

  Brian turned to me with an ornery grin. Suddenly, I knew what was going to happen. I jumped to my feet just as he knelt on one knee. He gently tugged me back to my seat while I laughed and cried simultaneously.

  “Barb,” he held both my hands and my gaze. “I truly believe God has written your name on my heart. I love you with everything that’s in me. So, I’m here to . . . ask you if you’ll marry me.”

  “Of course I will,” I whispered, tears in my eyes. “I love you, Brian.”

  We joyfully embraced and—amid the clapping, cheers and congratulations of the smiling audience—floated back to our seats. I can barely remember the rest of the play. I sat with my head and heart in the clouds, touched that my bashful Brian had orchestrated such a public proposal.

  You know, I’ve always liked the Irish tradition of honoring a life well-lived with a joyous celebration. But, I don’t believe anyone’s ever felt more joy at a wake than I did!

  Barbara Loftus Boswell

  Storybook Proposal

  I like not only to be loved, but to be told I am loved.

  George Eliot

  Emily and I met in our first semester of college and dated for almost six years. Regardless of how crafty and intuitive my ideas, I was never able to surprise her with anything. Emily was investigative and I was naive—not a good combination for a surprise. Leave it to me to accidentally leave behind a receipt or just happen to be checking voicemail on a speakerphone when the restaurant or florist would call to confirm.

  Time after time, I tried to surprise her. Time after time, I failed.

  When I began to think about a long-overdue proposal, I wanted nothing more than to surprise her. So I embarked upon a personal journey to find a unique and special way to pop the question.