Never the Bride (29 page)

I close my eyes and tip my head back against the seat. The alcohol, like the devil, made life fun for a little while. Now it’s betraying me with a headache made worse by strobe lights.

I feel the car slow and open my eyes. We’re turning into—

“Oh…my…G—”

Officer Garrety cuts me off. “Huh-uh. Not in my car, young lady. I’m a religious man, and I won’t take any of that, especially from a woman who keeps breaking into a church. At least have some respect for the Almighty.”

I smile. “Believe me, I do.” I figure now’s not the time to explain I was actually calling upon God. As we drive up the hill, I see the house with the porch swing. And there He is. Wait…there
he
is. “Jonathan.”

Officer Garrety pulls to a stop near the driveway. “This is the guy, huh?”

“I think so.”

“He looks nice enough.”

“He’s been very patient with me. I’m just hoping it’s not too late.”

“A guy, if he’s worth his weight in denim, will find patience, will dig deep.” Garrety gets out and opens the back door of the cruiser.

I step out, staring at Jonathan. He stands and walks to the edge of the porch. I turn to Garrety. “I feel like I should tip you or something.”

“Just donate to the Retired Officers’ Fund, ma’am.”

I laugh. “Okay. Thank you.” I hold out a hand for him to shake. He takes it firmly and we have a moment. He looks like a proud dad and my heart melts a little. Garrety returns to his cruiser and drives off I’m having a hard time turning back around, but I manage to. My feet still feel a little sloshy from the alcohol. Or maybe it’s just that I’m swooning just looking at this guy.

I make it to the bottom of the veranda. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

I stare up at him. I can’t help it. “Hi.”

“You said that. Come on up.”

I take the few steps up. “I said a lot of ‘byes’ when I saw you last. So, I owe you a few hi’s. So, hi. I’m Jessie.”

He blushes. “I know. More than I should. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“Had a feeling.” I hold out a nervous hand. “So, you’re Jonathan.”

He takes it, gently holds it for a moment longer than it takes to shake a hand. “Yeah. Jonathan Fine. Or…JF…JessieFan. Whatever you want to call me. Or not.”

I cover my mouth. Wasn’t expecting that.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I know I should’ve—”

“No, please. Please. Don’t apologize. I think it’s cool.”

He gestures toward the bench where he had been sitting. “Not stalker-like? Pumping you for information about you to use for my benefit?”

I walk over to the bench and sit down. “Love it.”

He sits beside me, on the edge, as if ready to jump up. “I figured you were, you know, a reliable source.”

“Often, yes.” I look at my feet. “Except tonight, you know, I’m so sorry about…at the bar. I never drink. Ever. So it’s kinda, yeah…but no worries. I left most of it back at the sidewalk outside the bar. It’s a great sobering technique, and I am talking way too much.”

He laughs. “I like that.”

My gaze follows the outside of the unfinished house. “So…this house. Is it…?”

“Mine? Yeah. I’ve been working with Malia’s son, Blake, to make some modifications.”

“The porch?”

“There’s that. Not done yet, but we’re making good time on it.”

I get up and walk to a window, peering in, trying to hide my grin. “So. You’re my number one blog reader.”

He joins me. “Guilty. You must think I’m kind of strange, huh?”

“Not at all. My standard of strange is very low in order to take into account myself.”

He laughs.

“Did you have a favorite?”

“A favorite what?”

“Post?”

“I liked the one you wrote about guys never seeing you because you’re not a blonde. Oh, and the one about the allergy risks you take just to eat chocolate.” He looks down. A self-aware smile emerges. “I kind of liked all of them. You were very…vulnerable. Especially when you wrote that poem “Love Unseen.” It was beautiful, raw, real. I, um, understood your pain of not being seen. I felt like that’s where I met the real Jessie.”

I step toward him. I can smell his cologne. Wow. Smells a little like the ocean. “Why didn’t you say something to me sooner? About who you were?”

“I tried. A few times. But you weren’t always very welcoming.”

“When?”

“At the wedding chapel. I work two blocks away. I stepped inside because I was walking nearby. I didn’t know you were going to be in there, but I felt this weird urge to go in. Didn’t know why but I—”

“Wait. That was you?”

“Well, hello, you two.
”

“You two? You can see Him?”

Jonathan gives me a wry smile. “Is my face that forgettable?”

“No! No, not at all. But I was so…not nice to you.”

“I noticed. When I tried to come meet you again at your shop, you were in there kissing this guy—and, like, kissing him so I would see you kissing him.”

I bite my lip. “Um…yeah. That was Clay. And that explains why Clay saw you.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Look, I am such an idiot.”

“A cute idiot.”

I walk over to the porch swing. “May I?”

“Sure.” He sits with me.

“All this time, He was trying to get us to meet, and I—”

“Who?”

I turn to Jonathan. “Why didn’t you give up on me?”

“I wanted to. Believe me. But then something would happen, like the night I felt like taking a walk on the beach and found your initials carved in the sand.”

I smile, shaking my head. “Wow.”

“I took it as a kind of signpost, to not give up. And I wanted to. I
mean, I’d get these feelings, you know? Like I went to the Laundromat one night, hoping you’d be there. Of course you weren’t, and I felt stupid for thinking you would be there.”

“Oh boy.”

“I know, totally ridiculous, right?”

“No, no. Trust me. It’s not.”

“And that blog of yours. Every time I read it, I felt like I wanted to know more of you.” Suddenly he stands. “Hey, can I give you a tour? I’d love to show you the rest of the house.”

“I would love that.”

I follow him in. The smell of cut wood lingers around a faint smell of new paint. I get that new-car feeling as I follow him. He points out the living room—big, round, a see-through fireplace. A bay window. Perfection.

But what I notice as he is showing me from one magnificent room to the next is that as beautiful and dreamy as this house is, it’s this guy who has me captivated. He’s gentle and humble. I suspect a deep heart guides him.

We get to the kitchen, and we both immediately notice a puddle on the floor. “Oh no. Not again. Sorry about this. I told Blake we might need a plumber. I just can’t seem to get this water to stop leaking.” He gets down on his knees and ducks under the sink. “Hey, can you hand me that wrench sitting up there?” I do and I hear him clanking around. “Ahhh!” He backs out from underneath the sink, drenched. Then we both hear a popping sound, and before we know it, water is erupting from the pipe and pouring into the kitchen. Jonathan freezes, wrench in hand.

I grab it and quickly crawl under the sink, reaching for the valve. It’s a hard turn, but I finally get the water to shut off I emerge like I’ve just gone swimming.

I start laughing and his mortified expression retreats. He helps me up. “Welcome to my home.”

“It’s lovely. Truly.” I smile.

“Wow. That was some kind of maneuver with that wrench.”

“I can change tires too.”

Time has drifted by like a lazy log on a river or superlong karaoke song. We’re eating the last of delivery pizza when a soft light begins glowing from the horizon. “It’s morning?”

Jonathan turns to look out the window. “Wow. I had no idea.”

“Nice view of the sunrise out there.”

“I know. It’s great, isn’t it?” He stands. “More Coke?”

“Yeah. I think I’m going to need some major caffeine.” Although the adrenaline is doing a fine job of keeping me alert.

He pours more into my cup. “The first time I heard about you was when your parents died.”

“No kidding. That was a long time ago.”

“My mom went to school with your mom. She read that article about you losing your parents and becoming a guardian to your twelve-year-old sister. Because there wasn’t anyone else.”

“I remember being so mad they printed that story. Like for them, it was news for all of a day. I didn’t want people’s pity.”

“You know, I was the same age as you. And I kept thinking what
that must have been like. I have this huge family. Too huge, sometimes. I wondered what it must be like to be you.”

“What it must be like to be me?” I laugh. “Oh, it’s quite a ride. So, you have a large family?”

“Oh, it’s horrendous. In a good way. I mean, at holidays it’s mass chaos. Kids running everywhere. People talking nonstop. I’m a little terrified to take you home to meet—”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I’m being so presumptuous.”

I grin. “Please. Presume away.”

“You know,” he says, sitting back down, “this whole thing, it kind of came about from these strange feelings I’d get. Malia called me one day and asked if I was seeing anyone, and from then on, I would feel an urge to go do laundry or an urge to step into a chapel. It was so confusing. I mean, I’d prayed for a long time to find the right woman, but sometimes I wished God would just come down here, appear to me, tell me exactly what to do, you know? The ‘feelings’ seemed so ambiguous.”

I nearly spew Coke out my nostrils.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, looking slightly wounded.

“Nothing, I promise, nothing,” I say, trying to swallow. I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “It’s just—well, I don’t know that God appearing by our sides would help much.”

“No?”

“We’re stubborn creatures, certain we’re able to direct our own lives, certain we know better. Maybe God speaks quietly because we don’t always respond to the direct approach.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“But we’re here, aren’t we?” I smile.

“Yeah. I think it took a minor miracle to get us here, though.”

I take a big bite of pizza. “‘Minor’ is an understatement.”

I’m not sure what time I finally arrived home. I didn’t want to leave, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. He drove me home, taking the long route, I noticed.

“So,” he said, taking my hand. “I want to see you again, if you haven’t already figured that out.”

I grin. “Me too.”

“I want to see you tonight.”

“You want to wait that long?” I tease.

“Let me walk you up.” He gets out, hurrying around to my side, and opens the door.

“Guys don’t do that much anymore,” I say, taking his hand as he helps me out.

“What can I say? I’m a throwback.”

We walk toward my condo. The stairs are hard to climb—I’m so tired—but I finally reach the top. I turn, but to my surprise he isn’t there, and for a split second I sort of panic and wonder if he’s walked through a wall or something.

But, no. There he is, standing at the bottom, being all chivalrous. I’m not kidding, I nearly burst into tears.

“I’ll see you later, then?”

“Definitely.”

I don’t walk through a wall, but I definitely float into my condo. If I weren’t so tired, I’d do some crazy dance or something. But I figure all I’ve got left is enough energy to climb the stairs and crawl into bed.

I reach my room and immediately spot a gift sitting on the edge of my bed. It’s wrapped in gold with a sparkling, expensive ribbon around it and tied into a larger-than-life bow.

“Brooklyn?” I call, but she’s not home.

I take the gift into my hands and dare myself to wonder who might be responsible. I untie the bow and it falls gracefully to the ground. After I lift the top off the box, a surprised gasp escapes.

There it is. A purple pen, feather and all.

Underneath is a brand-new journal, and not one of those cheap kinds, either. It’s leather, with heavy paper. I crack it open. On the first line, where it says
To
, fancy calligraphy takes up nearly the entire first line. It is my name,
Jessica
, and next to it:
God Sees.
Underneath is written
Jonathan
, with the meaning of his name:
Gift of God.

I laugh and hug the journal to my chest. This is one journal I can’t wait to fill. In fact, maybe I should start writing now, before I take my nap. I flip the top off the pen and smooth my hand over the first page.

Then I hesitate.

I slowly close the journal, put the lid back on the pen, and put them both into the box. I take the bow and wrap it around, tying it simply. I set it on my chest of drawers, then crawl under my covers. It feels good to rest.

“I think I’ll give that back to You,” I whisper. “I want You to write the rest of my story.”

He wasn’t joking when he said he came from a large family. I am standing in the middle of a nicely decorated living room. It’s modern and warm all at once. I see where Jonathan gets his love for architecture and home design.

Swarming around me are people and children and pets. A parrot actually flies by. I feel like I’m the eye of the tornado as I watch it all. Coming toward me, like she is in complete command of this storm, is Jonathan’s mother. She is the picture of elegance, with perfectly bobbed hair, oversized earrings that offset her tiny frame, and a smile that is all tooth and gleam.

“You must be Jessie,” she says, reaching toward me with a hand. I take it. It is smooth and soft, like she is much younger than she is, and it smells like cherries and almonds. That’s the same lotion my mother used to wear. “I am so delighted to finally meet you! Oh, you’re just a dream!”

A more excitable and younger version of Jonathan’s mother is bouncing toward me, her shoulders lifting up and down. “I’m so excited to meet you! Jonathan’s told us a lot about you! We were all beginning to wonder if you really existed!” She pulls me into a hug. “I’m Laura, one of his sisters.”

“And I’m Ruth, his mother. And this is our family. I hope we don’t scare you off!”

“I love big families.” I smile, choking a little on my own emotion.