Cupid's Christmas (3 page)

Lindsay listened as he told her about his daughter, “My Emily got mixed up with the wrong man,” Walker said, “and she’s had a real hard life. That no-good walked off and left her with two little girls to raise and no money to pay the rent or buy a bag of groceries.”

“How awful,” Lindsay gasped.

“It was awful alright, but by then the deed was done. She couldn’t do a thing about it.”

The tale of a girl far worse off than herself caught Lindsay by the throat, “What happened to Emily and her daughters?” she asked fearfully.

“Three years later Emily met a fine church-going man and married him,” Walker said. “That man took care of those girls like they was his own.”

“Thank goodness,” Lindsay sighed.

“Amen to that,” Walker said. “Most important thing about any man is his
principles
. A man with no principles ain’t worth the shoes he wears on his own feet.”

Lindsay nodded, although she was clueless as to how one could identify principles.

“Phillip was a no-good,” Walker continued, “I knew it right off. I would’ve said something, but it ain’t my place to be sticking my nose into other people’s business.” 

“Oh Walker,” Lindsay sighed, “I wish you had.”

“Yeah,” he said, “…and I wish somebody would’ve told Emily too.”

Knowing Lindsay’s state of mind, you might think she’d be pulled into a deeper depression by this news of Phillip’s behavior, but for the first time in many months she began to think a bit more like her mother. She could suddenly see that maybe, just maybe, Phillip had been one of a kind. A single bad apple. One bad apple didn’t make the whole barrel bad, she reasoned. Maybe there was a chance that someone… somewhere…

She and Walker continued talking for nearly an hour and when she got to her apartment, she set the books aside and turned on her computer.

Lindsay had thirty-seven unanswered e-mails, nine of them from her father. She opened the most recent one and read it. He expressed concern that he hadn’t heard from her, he’d been hoping she’d come home for a visit, they needed to talk.

She reread the e-mail and added thoughts that were nowhere on the page. The words
miss
you
made her picture her father a lonely old man, someone reaching out for love and companionship.
Come home
was a plea of desperation.
Needed to talk
most likely meant he was ready to give up on life. The image of her father’s sorrow outweighed her own, so Lindsay clicked reply.

____________________________________

Hi Dad,

Sorry I’ve been so bad about writing, I’ve been kind of down because of what happened with Phillip, but I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you’re going through. Tonight I had a long talk with Walker, our doorman, and I’m beginning to think I did the right thing after all.

I understand how lonely you are and how much you miss Mom. I miss her too, more than you can imagine. But at least we’ve still got each other and I promise to spend more time with you so try to cheer up. I’m going to take the first week of September off and come home for a visit. It will be such fun, just you and me, like the good old days. How about having a Labor Day Cookout? Do you have a recipe for those baked beans Mom used to make?

_____________________________________

Lindsay clicked send then opened the notice of a Lord and Taylor sale that ended a week ago, responded to an Amazon survey and half-heartedly replied to Amanda’s note that went on at length about her new boyfriend. Before she finished going through the remainder of unanswered mail, the answer from her dad popped up.

_____________________________________

Great. Love to have you home for a while. Sorry, I don’t have the recipe for your mom’s beans, but I have a friend who can help us figure it out.

Lindsay, your mom is someone neither of us will ever forget, but time has a way of healing the hurt of such a loss. I’ve learned to move on and make the most of life. I hope you have also. We’ll talk when I see you. Looking forward to your visit.

Glad to hear you’ve become friends with Walker. Trust what he says, he’s a good man. I’ve spoken with him many times.

Love, Dad

_____________________________________

Lindsay reread the last line.
Dad’s spoken to Walker? Had Phillip?
She buzzed the lobby desk on the intercom.

“Front desk,” he answered.

“Hi Walker, this is Lindsay again. Did Phillip ever stop and talk to you?”

“No. Never.”

“But my Dad did, right?”

“Indeed he did. Every time he came to visit, Mister Gray would stop and ask how I’m doing. He’s a fine gentleman, the type who does right by people.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Thanks, Walker.”

I knew precisely what she was thinking, I couldn’t stop the thought, but I knew it was coming. Lindsay is one of those humans who see true love the way others see a heat mirage—always in the distance, flickering, wavering and changing shape. After her conversation with Walker, this was inevitable.

Lindsay pictured the men she’d been dating. They were handsome, broad-shouldered, muscular, skin tight shirts, leather jackets, slouched stance, most of them a height close to her own and every single one of them with a sexy glint in his eyes. How, she wondered, could she have been so blind as to not notice this? 

She lifted a picture from the desk. It was taken nine years ago, when Bethany was alive. In the picture her father was looking down at the woman by his side with a look of adoration, one Lindsay had never seen on the faces of men she’d dated.

Lindsay closed her eyes and again pictured the men she’d dated but, little by little, their faces disappeared into the heat mirage that shifted and changed shapes. Pictures flickered and danced until all of the men had coalesced into a singular image. Dark hair was changed to a lighter brown, the muscle shirt and jeans replaced by a suit. And when the suit seemed a bit too stiff, it wavered and became a sport jacket and slacks. Little by little, the image came together until Lindsay could see exactly who she was looking for—it was a younger version of her father.  

As Lindsay slid into bed that night, she knew she had designed a man with
principles
. She closed her eyes and brought the image to mind again. “Perfect,” she sighed. She held onto the picture until sleep came and carried her away.

I
suppose you know without my saying, this can only lead to trouble. Only the most foolish humans believe true love is based on hair color, or the garments that adorn a body. For centuries I’ve listen to humans expound on how they fell in love with a person’s eyes or their voice—if I had a raindrop for every time a male has claimed to have fallen in love because of a female’s breasts, I could easily flood all of Manhattan. The truth is love comes from that tiny spot in a human’s heart, the miracle spot, but no human has ever figured it out. They’ve tried. In fact the brightest minds of all time have tackled the challenge and not one has come up with the right answer. Instead they create profiles and rationale to set up a website promising these gullible love-starved humans the perfect mate. Hah. Granted the humans are getting better at this game, but perfect matches come from one place and one place only—me.

John Gray

I
t’s been ages since Lindsay’s been home, I’m glad she’ll be here for Labor Day. It’s time I introduced her to Eleanor. With her mother gone all these years, I know she misses having a woman in her life. Women talk about things a man is no good at and Eleanor, well, she’s a person you can’t help but love. I’ve had a fondness for Eleanor since the day we first met and that was over thirty years ago. She’s been good for me, and I think she’s gonna be good for Lindsay too.

After Bethany died in the crash, I hated myself for being alive. I kept asking God why He couldn’t have taken me instead of her. Living in this house was like living in Hell. Everywhere I looked there were reminders of Bethany—her sewing basket, slippers by the side of the bed, a robe hanging on the back of the door—she was in every room, and I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of even one thing. I can’t count the number of times I answered no when the Mustard Seed lady called and asked if I had any used clothing to donate. I was sleeping on a bed of nails and didn’t have the courage to move elsewhere.

Lindsay was living at Rutgers then. I think she stayed there partly because it wasn’t a place filled with reminders of her mother. I can’t say I blame her, but there were plenty of times I thought of calling and asking her to move home. The only thing that stopped me was Bethany’s voice whispering in my ear about how unfair such a thing would be.

 Sometimes the loneliness got so bad I’d climb out of bed in the middle of the night and walk from room to room checking to see if anything had changed. Now I can see I was wallowing in my own misery, but back then I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t even bring myself to sleep in the middle of the bed. At night when I’d get into bed, I’d stay on my own side and leave Bethany’s pillow laying there like a turned-over tombstone.

About a year after the accident, the doorbell rang, and when I answered it I was face to face with George Grumman.  Even though it was icy cold and sleeting he stood there with his hat in his hand and his eyes focused on his shoes. My first impulse was to grab him by the throat and choke the life out of him, but then he began talking and I could see he was living with the same kind of misery I was. I opened the door and asked him in.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he said. When George spoke I could hear the quiver in his voice. He went on to tell me how his little girl had been taken to the hospital the morning of the accident. “I had to work,” he said, “but Maggie promised she’d call and let me know how our baby was doing…” He stopped, blew his nose then continued, “…the phone was right there on the seat but it had slid across to the other side. I looked to find it and in that few seconds…” he stopped talking and began sobbing. The sound of his grief was so muffled I could barely hear it, but I saw the way his shoulders shook and his head fell forward. We talked for a short while longer and with his remorse so evident I found it harder to hate the man. As he got up to leave I asked how his daughter was doing. “She died two days after the accident,” he said. Then he walked out the door, and I never saw him again.

I thought about that visit for well over a week and I was still thinking about it the night we had a thunderstorm that knocked out the power. I sat there in the dark for what might have been two hours then I finally gave up and went to bed. I’m not prone to dreaming, but that night I did, and the dream was so vivid I can remember it to this day. Bethany was dressed in a summertime dress and she was as young and pretty as the day I married her. I couldn’t see myself but I knew I was the one walking along beside her. She turned to me and said,
Don’t forget,
then she laughed that same great laugh I fell in love with. I tried to tell her that if I live to be a thousand I couldn’t forget her, but she covered my mouth with her fingers.
Silly, I’m not talking about me! Don’t forget how to forgive or you’ll forget how to love
. She opened up the suitcase she’d been carrying and motioned for me to look inside. As I gazed down at the case I could feel her alongside my shoulder. She leaned close and whispered in my ear—
Do you see me inside there?
I shook my head. It wasn’t Bethany, but it was all the things she’d left behind. She laughed again then picked up the suitcase and flung it into the sky. I could see myself trying to catch her sewing basket and the blue robe, but it was like trying to catch the wind. When I turned back she was gone, but I could still hear the sound of her laughter.

The next morning, I found her bathrobe lying on the floor. After hanging in the same spot for over a year, it had fallen from the hook. I took that as a sign and finally called the woman from Mustard Seed.

Last year I ran into Eleanor and couldn’t help remembering what good times we’d had some thirty years ago. One thing led to another and now, for the first time in almost nine years, I am truly happy. At one time I thought I’d never find anyone as special as Bethany, but Eleanor has her own kind of special. It’s the kind of special that has made me very happy, and I think it’s gonna make Lindsay happy too.

Cupid…Trouble Starts

W
omen like Lindsay make me appreciate the Eleanors of this world even more. Based on something that’s akin to a child’s imagination, Lindsay has created a set-in-stone image of what her ideal man will look like. Humans—they’re an impossible race! Some of them search for love the way they’d search for a suit, by size, color and cut…Lindsay is precisely that type!