A Mile in My Flip-Flops (25 page)

He laughs now. “About the spa?”

“She told you?”

He laughs even louder, and I want to dig a big hole and jump in. The only reason I can even carry on this conversation is because it’s not face to face. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but you have to admit it’s pretty funny.”

“What did she tell you anyway?”

“Just that it must’ve been your first time at a spa and that you were confused and thought the soaking tub was for women only and decided to go skinny-dipping.”

So I quickly explain how Betty set the whole thing up, how I was caught off guard and thought I was being brave, and that I’ve never been so embarrassed in my whole life. “Well, at least not since junior high,” I admit. “But don’t ask me about that.”

“Hey, I don’t blame you for going in,” he says. “I’d have done the same thing myself under similar circumstances.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. I go skinny-dipping in the ocean occasionally. Only at night. And only by myself.”

“Seriously?”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Well…”

“So I’m still on for tomorrow, Gretchen. Just tell me when and where, and, oh yeah, is this a formal wedding or maybe something more beachy?”

I roll my eyes as I remember Holly saying it is a very formal wedding. “I wish it were beachy, but unfortunately it’s formal.”

“No problem.”

“It’s at four with a dinner following. I guess you should pick me up at the apartment, probably around three fifteen…so we can get there in time?”

“It’s a date—I mean, it’s a deal.”

“I assume you’re not working tomorrow then.”

“No, I have Kirsten for the weekend, and I—”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take time from your weekend—”

“It’s okay. She’s going to spend the evening with my mom.”

So we agree on the details, and I hang up and realize this means I need to call Holly about my RSVP. I manage to catch her between the wedding rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner, and she’s pleased as punch that I’m bringing a date. “No problem,” she assures me. “I’ll take care of it. By the way, what are you wearing?” I admit that I don’t know, and she reminds me that it’s formal … like I didn’t know that.

I tell her not to worry and good-bye, then I close my phone and just stand in the partially torn-up “great” room of the flip house. I begin wondering how on earth I’m going to finish this stupid thing.

But then something hits me, and suddenly I know what I need to do. There’s a very insecure part of me that would rather stay by
myself in this house, put on my overalls, and hide out here, working my fingers to the bone. And I absolutely know that part of me would like to forget all about Tina’s wedding. But I know that’s not going to happen. And I know that kind of thinking is wrong.

It’s as if something inside me has reared it’s head and said, “Enough!” I’m going to handle this differently. I’m going to handle my life differently. I’m not even sure why or how. Only that I will. With God’s help, I will.

I look down at my freshly manicured nails and realize that working on my house, either tonight or tomorrow, will ruin both my manicure and pedicure And, okay, it’s not just about the nails. It’s something much, much deeper. I think about what Noah said—that being a workaholic means not trusting God. I also remember what Dad said today about Betty being worried that I was working myself to death. I have no doubt anymore that I am out of balance. I know I have let this house flip become an obsession. I haven’t been trusting God with any of it. The truth is, I’ve been carrying most of the load on my own two shoulders, thinking it’s entirely up to me to make this thing work. And it’s killing me. And I’m sick and tired of it. In fact, I am just plain tired.

“It’s time for a break,” I tell Riley. Of course, I doubt he’ll think a night spent in our cramped apartment is much of a break. But I’ll bring him back here tomorrow, and he can have the run of the place while I’m at the wedding.

As I drive to the apartment, I create a plan. I will spend a comfortable night in my own bed. Sleep in as late as I like. Shower as long as I like. And then I’ll take time to do my hair and makeup—carefully, the way Holly has shown me it’s supposed to be done.
Then I’ll go through my closet, and if I can’t find the perfect dress, which is what I expect, I’ll drop Riley at the house and head over to Nordstrom and do a little shopping. After that, I’ll return to the apartment for some more time of relaxing and primping. Maybe I’ll even clean the place up a little, sort some things out. And when Noah picks me up, I will be like Cinderella—magically transformed into a princess. Well, something like that. And, like Cinderella, I will return to my raggedy clothes and housework the next day. But I will go about it with a new attitude. Instead of taking full responsibility for the house flip, I will put it in God’s hands, and I will trust him for the outcome.

W
ow,” says Noah when I open the door to my apartment. “You look fantastic.” I smile at him, feeling confident in the aquatic blue-green silk dress that the salesgirl assured me made my eyes look more blue than gray. “Thank you,” I tell him. “You look very nice too.” And he does look nice in what I know can’t be a rented tux, because it is perfectly tailored—it’s classic and very handsome. “Want to come in?”

“Sure, if we have time.”

“We do.”

“You’ve cleaned up your apartment,” he comments.

“Yes. I decided I might as well make the most of it. I mean, if the house gets done and put on the market, I’ll have to move back.”

“I like your music,” he says. “Is that Coltrane?”

“It is.” I go to the fridge, where I have a small cheese platter and a bottle of sparkling cider chilling. “I made us snacks,” I say as I pull it out, trying not to feel self-conscious.

“That looks delicious,” he says. I can feel him looking over my bare shoulder as I set the wooden tray on my recently cleared dining room table, which I even decorated with a vase of fresh flowers. Isn’t this how people were meant to live?

I fill a champagne goblet for each of us, then hold up my glass. “I want to make a toast,” I tell him.

He grins. “Go for it.”

“Here’s to your advice and to me finally getting it,” I say. “I’m letting go of my house-flipping obsession, and I’m trusting God to carry it for me.”

Noah looks genuinely surprised and hugely relieved. And I wonder if he thought I was going to propose marriage or something.

“Here’s to trust,” he says as he taps his glass against mine. Then we both sit down at the table, and I try to explain my revelation.

“It was weird,” I say. “It’s like it just hit me. I was standing in the flip house last night after I’d fixed dinner for Dad and everything. I was about to go to work on that ceiling again, and I just stopped. It’s like I suddenly realized that I was obsessed and that it was crazy. And I remembered what you said … and some things my dad said … and what the Bible says, and I just decided to offer it all back to God.” I sigh and lean back in the chair.

“Good for you.”

Then we talk a little more, and I realize we need to go. “It’s not that I wouldn’t like to be fashionably late,” I tell him as we walk to Noah’s truck. “But not to Tina’s wedding.”

“Hey, your dress goes with my pickup,” he says as he helps me inside.

I laugh as I smooth the iridescent folds of my tea-length skirt—a length the salesgirl, who I think may have been an angel, said was perfect for my legs and trim ankles. She actually called my ankles “trim.” And when I picked out the sandals to go with the dress, I
made sure to get strappy ones that showed off my “trim” ankles. But with heels that weren’t so high I’d be limping before the reception.

It’s about ten minutes before four when we get in line for the wedding. Naturally, as fate or God would have it, Collin and Selena are only one couple away from us. I nudge Noah, then nod at Collin and cross my two forefingers together to form an
X
. He nods like he gets it. And when Collin just happens to look back and spot us, Noah steps a little closer to me, like he’s being protective. Although I know he’s doing it for Collins sake, I like it. And I wish we weren’t playacting.

The wedding ceremony goes smoothly, and I can’t imagine that Tina has anything to complain about … well, except that her matron of honor, Holly, is entirely too beautiful.

I can feel Collin looking at me during the reception dinner, and although I’m over him, I don’t think I’m ready to speak to him just yet. “I’m so glad you came with me,” I tell Noah as the entrée is being served. “You have no idea how miserable I’d be right now if I was alone.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I think something in you has changed, Gretchen. I have a feeling you could handle this on your own.”

“Really?”

He nods, then smiles. “Still, I’m glad I came.”

And then, as if something inside me has been unhinged, I begin to tell Noah my story. Not that there is much to tell, not really. I think the more you keep something inside, the bigger it seems. Even as I tell my story—filling in the dramatic details like how shocked and devastated I was when Collin broke off our engagement, how angry and
jealous I got when I discovered it was because he was in love with his old flame, and finally how totally humiliating it was to notify everyone (including vendors who didn’t return deposits) that the wedding was off—it all seems to feel kind of flat and anticlimactic.

“I know it seems like I should have fully recovered by now,” I finally admit. “But I think it changed who I was—like something in me got broken—and I still don’t know how to function completely normally.” I think that’s the truest thing I’ve ever said about my situation.

At that, he puts his hand over mine. “I think I know how you feel.”

At first I’m not sure what he means. Surely he was never abandoned at the altar. And then, of course, I realize how stupid I am. His pain was much worse than a canceled wedding; he has survived a canceled marriage.

Just then I see Holly making her way toward us, looking like a real princess in her pale pink gown. It’s a relief to have her interrupt my true confessions.

“Hi, Noah,” she says, shaking his hand.

Noah looks totally blank on her name, so I jump in to save him.

“This is Holly,” I tell him. “You met her last year at Dad’s annual Christmas party.”

He nods. “Yes, of course I recognize you.”

Holly looks at me now. “You look fantastic, Gretchen.” Then she hugs me and whispers in my ear. “And you are absolutely glowing. Is it love?”

“No,” I say with a cool smile but cheeks that are flushing, “I don’t think so.”

“Well, we need to talk.”

“What else is new?”

As the evening progresses and the real champagne, not sparkling cider, flows, I feel even more relaxed, and when Noah asks me to dance, I accept. For some reason I assume that he will be an expert dancer, and I must admit I’m relieved to discover that he, like me, isn’t totally graceful on his feet. Somehow we stumble through a few songs.

Finally I feel that we’ve put in enough time at the wedding. We’ve congratulated the happy couple, and I feel exhausted. I suggest to Noah that we could probably go.

“Are you sure?” he asks, almost as if he’s reluctant to leave.

“Yes,” I tell him. “I don’t think that even Tina can fault me with tonight’s performance.”

“Performance?” he says as we leave.

“I guess that’s not exactly right. But I was so reluctant to come… I guess I felt like I was simply doing it to make others happy.”

“So did you have
any
fun?” he asks as we walk through the hotel lobby.

“Sure,” I admit. “I had more fun today than I’ve had…” I pause to consider this. “In a long, long time.”

Noah nods and seems relieved. And then he does something totally unexpected: he takes my hand. And as we stand outside the hotel, waiting for the parking valet to bring his pickup, he continues to hold it. And despite all my previous judgments and misgivings and concerns about too-attractive men and their baggage, I wish he would hold my hand forever. And although that scares me, I know it’s just one more thing I will have to trust God with.

Noah tips the valet and then helps me into his pickup, carefully closing the door without trapping my skirt in it. But I feel a little nervous as he slowly walks around to the other side. I’m worried that I misread the little hand-holding gesture. But I decide not to obsess over it. And I don’t obsess over what I confessed to him about my broken engagement or over how quiet he is as he drives me back to the apartment complex. Then, like a perfect gentleman, Noah walks me to my door.

“Thanks for being my escort,” I tell him.

“Still just an escort?” he queries. “A gigolo?”

“Well, as I mentioned, a gigolo gets paid.”

“And as I mentioned, I might insist on a payment.”

Okay, I’m not sure how to respond to this, so I just smile and hold up my little beaded purse. “Okay, how much do I owe you?”

“One kiss.”

Well, I’m thankful my door is solidly behind me, or I might fall over just now. “A kiss?” I echo quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that.” And before I can stop him, he tips his head politely, says a quick goodnight, and takes off. And I just stand there and wonder why I am such an idiot.

Thirty minutes later, feeling very much like Cinderella—Cinderella after midnight, that is—I am wearing my old work clothes, and with Riley in the back of my dad’s red pickup, I am driving across town and listening to country-western music again. Most of all I am wondering what exactly happened tonight. My head is spinning. And while part of me is excited at the prospects, part of me is
screaming, “Watch out! Danger! Danger! Lock up your heart, you silly girl!”

I distract myself with all that must be done to the house—and the list is truly overwhelming. My plan is to spend the night here and get an early start tomorrow. Travel time is valuable time. And the deadline on the loan looms like a death sentence before me. Every minute is precious.

As I work Sunday, I have all day to process the events of the previous evening and to convince myself it was nothing. By Monday, I feel almost certain that Noah and I were both under the influence of the wedding, the champagne, and the moonlight. Maybe whatever it was that happened at the door of my apartment is best forgotten.

And it’s just as well because the next few days are hectic-crazy. It’s like everyone my dad’s been calling this past week has suddenly kicked it into high gear. Both Noah and I are running as fast as we can to keep up with plumbers, electricians, and window installers. Even the sod for the yard arrives on Friday. I cannot help but be incredibly glad Noah’s here with me. His calmness in the midst of chaos feels like a safe port in the storm. And yet he’s not just sitting around. I’m amazed at what he’s able to accomplish—and how much the other workers seem to respect and rely on him. I’m becoming more and more aware that there is no way I could pull this off on my own. And it’s humbling.

Later on Friday afternoon Kirsten joins me on a shopping run to purchase bedding plants at a nursery that’s having a half-price sale. I can’t wait to perk up the flower beds alongside the new green lawn.

“I thought you said you weren’t my dad’s girlfriend,” Kirsten
abruptly says after we’ve loaded the pickup bed so full of plants that it looks like a garden on wheels.

“What?” I turn and stare at her. She has a smudge of dirt on the tip of her nose, and I use my bandanna to wipe it off.

“You said you
weren’t
Dad’s girlfriend,” she says.

“I’m not.” Okay, I’m blushing now, and I hope she’s too young to know what that means.

“But he got all dressed up and took you to that wedding. And my grandma says she wants to meet you now.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re Dad’s girlfriend.” She states this as if she’s questioning my ability to understand English just now.

“I think that’s an overstatement,” I say.

“What’s that mean? Don’t you want to be his girlfriend? Don’t you like him?”

“Of course, I like him.”

“Don’t you like me?”

“Yes, of course I like you!”

Now she looks disappointed. “Then what’s wrong?”

I have to laugh. “You’re so sweet to want me to be your dad’s girlfriend, Kirsten. But what if your dad doesn’t like me as a girlfriend?”

“But he does,” she insists. “I know he does.”

I decide to change the subject now. No way am I going to allow a seven-year-old to be the middleman between Noah and me. This is getting too crazy. “So, do you think you and Cory can plant some of those petunias for me?” I ask as I point at a big flat of red blooms.

“Yeah!” she says. “Where?”

“In front,” I say, “out by the walk.”

As we continue to talk about flowers, all I can think about is Noah. Well, Noah and the fact that there is only one week before my so-called open house, and the cabinets still haven’t shown up. Dad had practically promised they’d be here this week, but Miguel, the cabinet guy, has not been answering his phone lately. Not a good sign. Still, I’m not going to freak out. Instead of worrying I’m trying to rely on God. And somehow that relieves much of my anxiety.

“There you are,” says Noah as I help Kirsten down from the pickup. Her sore foot makes it hard for her to climb in and out.

“What’s up?” I ask, trying to act nonchalant.

“Not much … except that the floor is down.”

“I can’t wait to see it!” I exclaim. I don’t know why I feel so excited, because it was nearly finished when we left. But something about seeing completed projects is very fulfilling these days. And the idea of the new wood floor meeting the old one—making it into one complete space—is encouraging.

“I’d join you,” he glances at his watch, “but Kirsten and I need to get going.”

“Already?” complains Kirsten. “I wanted to plant flowers.”

“Sorry, princess,” he says. “But we’ve got places to go and people to see.” He turns to me. “I wish I could be more help this weekend, but I’ve got to—”