Manila Marriage App (6 page)

“How's Dr. Dreamy? Set a date yet?”

“Dreamy, he is. Wedding out of the question. He's as stiff as a cardboard cut-out.”

“LOL. Do you think it's possible you don't know the real man yet? I'm betting you're making your typical snap judgment and selling him short.”

“Possible, but I don't think so.”

“Hey, I need to get back to work soon.” Brianna continued typing. “Gotta git, but write and tell me more about your trip. And the Fabulous Flynn. While I'm slaving away, I'm picturing you promenading arm in arm beneath a canopy of coconut trees.”

“Cute. Get back to work. Bye.”

“Bye.”

 

~*~

 

Breakfast time came and went with no trace of Timothy. I didn't know where he was staying or how to get in touch with him. After I ate, I lounged on the couch with my book and then enjoyed a long hot shower. I was sure I could find his office again, so I changed into the lightest weight clothing I could find and stepped out into the steamy sauna that was Metro Manila. With careful steps, I made my way down all of those confounded apartment stairs and headed toward the Student Center.

Up ahead, Danilo disappeared into the building.

Not wanting to lose him, I sped off, tripped on a banana tree root, and landed in a heap.

Of course, at that exact second, morning classes let out. In no time, curious students surrounded me. Tittering students.

Pushing the hair back from my face, I adjusted my dignity and raised my head to see a large man's hand reaching down to help me. Timothy. Did he always have to see me at my worst?

“You all right?” I'd have to give him credit. Timothy didn't laugh outright, although I did notice twitchy lips.

“I'm just peachy.” I grabbed his hand, stood, and brushed the dirt off. “My pride might be battered and bruised, but the rest of me is undamaged.” I seized the opportunity to curtsy to the crowd.

“Hey, I was coming to get you soon. Dr. Kyun, our theology professor is ill. I subbed for his class this morning. Right now I have an errand to run, but then I wondered if you might want to go on that field trip with me?”

Another errand? Sure, he'd abandoned me all morning, but how could I be mad with an invitation like that? He had me at
field trip
. “I'm game. So, where are we going?”

“A cemetery. You up for it?”

Is that what they did for entertainment here in the islands? I'd been hoping for something a bit more exhilarating, or at least, a little less depressing. I'd never been much good at being subtle, and I'm afraid my fallen face mirrored my dismay. “Gee, that sounds exciting.”

Timothy made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and then something incredible happened. He actually laughed, right out loud. “I know it may not seem to be a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, but I think you should see it. Every red-blooded American should.”

“OK—if we must.” I wasn't much for “shoulds” but he appeared to be so earnest I let it slide. Besides, I'd have him trapped at a cemetery, and we could have that much-awaited talk. “As a history teacher, I'm sure that kind of thing gives you goose bumps.”

This time I received a hearty snort. “Goose bumps? Yeah, I guess it does.”

“Do I get to see some of the local color?”

“I suppose we could take the scenic route. In the meantime, I'll find Danny, and he can give you a tour of the campus while I attend to business. We'll meet in my office in half an hour, and then we're good to go. I'll drive.” Timothy squeezed my hand and turned to go.

I rolled my eyes. “There's no question you'll be the one driving.”

He glanced at me over his shoulder and cocked his head, all straight-up innocence.

I wasn't crazy enough to get behind the wheel in this country full of speed demons.

Danilo showed up out of nowhere and escorted me in grand style around the seminary. The grounds were magical with leafy, exotic fruit trees, a picturesque bridge spanning a bubbling creek, and several wooden benches placed in strategic shady glades. The extensive library was impressive and the computer lab more high-tech than I would have expected, both important to a geek like me.

As we strolled, it appeared I'd attained celebrity status. Students froze in mid-stride to gape, some waving, others giggling, a few pointing and whispering. The dormitory areas were set into a steep hill toward the back of the grounds with plenty of those insufferable steps going up and down.

On our return to Timothy's office, we paused to visit some of the other faculty. One of the other professors, Jemma Villanueva, impressed me with her delicate Asian beauty and quiet demeanor. She couldn't have been more than thirty-five, forty tops. She was far prettier than I was and showed that certain soft-spoken deference Timothy favored. Had he already judged and eliminated her as marriage material?

As we passed each other by, I detected a strange vibe. Did she know why I was here? Now there was an idea. It hadn't occurred to me I might have “competition.” Did her answers to his questionnaire reveal she was gluten-free—an unfathomable cause for disqualification? Or what if her favorite movie was not up to his standards, or heaven forbid, what if she'd also neglected to submit a picture of her mother? I had “placed ahead of the rest of the applicants.”

As if it mattered.

 

 

 

 

7

 

Timothy met up with me, and we tramped back up the long staircase from Hades. He fired up the car and reached to switch on the radio. I expected to hear some wholesome religious station—Angelo's maybe—but instead, the smooth groove of soft rock music floated around us. At least it wasn't rap. One of the questions on the deal breaker section of the application asked if rap or hip-hop music appealed to me. A giggle leaked out of me at the image of uptight Timmy rapping along with the radio.

Now it was his turn to say, “What?”

“Nothing. Really. Nothing.” I covered my yawn with a hand. It was nice to take a breather from walking in the heat. “By the way, why did you have to teach a class this morning? Aren't you on sabbatical?”

“I am, but we're short staffed, so I'm filling in. I might have to teach all week. That's one of the disadvantages of teaching at a small school. There are never enough people to do the work.” With practiced ease, he swerved to the right along with the traffic.

“Hmm. Sorry you'll be so busy.” I was trying to listen, but my cotton-stuffed head drifted away with the music. I awoke to a large, gentle hand shaking my shoulder.

“Shay? Wake up, Shay.” My name sounded super-fine in his rich baritone.

Blinking, I sat up straighter and ran a hand through my flat hair. With no mirror handy, I did the blind fluff, adorning myself with my sparkling personality and ready wit. “Hey, Timothy.” In my sleepy state, his name sounded divine on my own tongue. I peered through the windshield, confused. I sure didn't see a cemetery anywhere in sight. I might be a smidge punchy, but I knew a headstone when I saw one. “Where are we?”

Timothy pointed across the street at, of all things, a chain chicken eatery, famous in the States. I could go for some chicken. Who knew this slice of Americana had made it to the Philippines?

“Its past noon, and I thought you might be hungry.”

Now that was kind. The missionary man had potential. “Thanks. I ate a bite this morning, but that was a long time ago. Chicken sounds wonderful.”

“Good. You want to wait here or come with me?”

Since the fast food place was across yet another busy street, I opted for the latter. “I'll wait. Could you get me some chicken fingers, fries, coleslaw, and a soda?”

Question twenty-two sprang to mind. Timothy could rest assured I wasn't a vegan, although once again, why would it matter?

“Meal number seven coming up. Oh, and in case you're wondering, this place has real, bona fide Grade A chicken—emphasis on the word
chicken
. No mystery meat.” He chuckled and shut the car door behind him.

It was cozy eating in the car. After our greasy, delicious meal, we had trash that needed to be disposed of. Taking his life in his hands once again, Timothy dodged traffic to throw it away and trotted back to the car. Wow!

He caught my attention jogging across that road, taut muscles stretching under his white cotton shirt. Absolute eye candy, handsome hunk.

We zipped along through the streets headed for the Manila American Cemetery and Memorial Park.

I was getting used to the busy traffic when one of those funny bus things stopped beside us, mere inches from the side panel of our car. I directed his attention to the banged up vehicle painted with garish graffiti. “I've been meaning to ask. What are those?”

“Those are jeepneys.”

We jerked to a stop, and I was glad I'd tightened my seatbelt. I could have reached out and shaken the hand of a weathered old man in the vehicle. Men, women, children, and grandparents were crammed inside like corn kernels in a can. “Jeepney? What's a jeepney?”

“After WWII, the Americans left a great many Willys Jeeps behind. The Filipinos revamped and renovated, and arrived at this cheap form of transportation. Cars are expensive, taxis are expensive, but jeepneys are very economical.”

We bumped over a slight rise to see a cluster of low buildings on the left.

Timothy gestured toward the complex. “Over there is one of our famous marketplaces. Vendors sell pearls, jewelry, perfume, gold, wood carvings, shoes, anything you can think of. Good prices. Good bargains. I'd be glad to take you around the place whenever you want to go.”

I could always shop. This odd country might not be for me, but it would be nice to take home a pearl necklace or a pretty blouse for Brianna—and a new one for me. My nieces and nephews always adored gifts, and I should pick up something for Lily. My head buzzed as I thought of all of the presents I could purchase for a song.

A prominent plateau emerged up ahead, imposing sentinels guarding the gate.

Timothy showed his driver's license, explained we were Americans, and they let us through without any hassle. We drove at a sedate pace through well-manicured grounds, past a plaza with a fountain, and rolled to a stop at the visitor's center.

As we walked toward a vast stone memorial building, Timothy slowed, moving with reverence. In front of the memorial was a grassy mall surrounded by gray headstones arranged in a circular pattern. All of the tombstones were fashioned in the shape of a cross, every stone in perfect alignment. Planted throughout the grounds, a variety of trees and shrubs created a peaceful atmosphere. I wasn't the type who fancied historical parks, but this one was different. A person couldn't help but feel a deep appreciation and respect for the fallen.

“Over 17,000 soldiers from World War II are buried here. Every state's represented, as well as some of our allies.”

We climbed a short flight of stone stairs, and Timothy pointed out the Great Seal of the Commonwealth of the Philippines etched into the pavement. To the right and left of the seal an inscription read:
In proud remembrance of the achievements of her sons and in humble tribute to their sacrifices, this memorial has been erected by the United States of America 1941-1945
. My throat constricted as I took a moment to absorb the meaning of the words.

Swallowing hard, I shielded my eyes from the merciless sun as I searched for a patch of shade. My skin was beginning to scorch under the hot, tropical rays that hammered down with a vengeance.

Timothy glanced at my reddening arms. Cupping my elbow, he guided us toward a covered open-air building. “I apologize. I should have reminded you to bring a hat and some sunscreen.”

“And how is it you're not burned to a crisp with a name like Flynn?”

Timothy slowed his pace so I wouldn't have to hurry to keep up. Those long strides could eat up the ground. “My dad's side originated in Ireland, but my mother was Italian.”

That would explain the thick, dark hair covering his head and bronzed forearms. Irish-Italian was a striking combination. I'd have to take a better look at the portraits of Timothy's parents.

We ducked under the roofed shelter to find large mosaic maps recounting the battles of the United States Armed Forces in the Pacific, China, India, and Burma. Carved in the floor were the seals of American states and territories. I should have been paying more attention in world history class. There was so much I didn't know. We continued our journey into the past. Surrounding us were high limestone walls inscribed with the names of soldiers who'd died. The four branches of the service each had their own section.

“Would you care to hunt for Callahan?” Timothy asked. “Most people want to see if their ancestors are on the wall. The first time I visited, I checked for Flynn.” He was so cute when his smile widened into a boyish grin. “I'll help.”

We ambled on in companionable silence, each of us combing the aisles for my possible relatives. On the third wall in the United States Navy region, we hit pay dirt. Petty Officer John T. Callahan had been born on Christmas day in 1923 and died January 10, 1945. He could have been my long lost cousin.

As I wandered, lost in thought, the enormity of what the carvings on those walls meant stirred my soul. Each name was a real person, with a mother and father; and perhaps a spouse or sweetheart left behind. Each death had necessitated a telegram that had shattered someone's heart. “We regret to inform you …” These brave soldiers had given their lives for the freedom I enjoyed. I walked a little more softly on what now seemed sacred ground.

After our tour, we ventured back out into the punishing sunshine. I was assaulted by a blast of heat. Slick sweat trickled down my neck and soaked my sleeveless blouse. Feeling faint, I closed my eyes to find the earth tipping off-kilter. Taking a deep breath of the sticky air, I plopped down hard on a nearby bench and hung my head.