Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul (8 page)

My goodness, he didn’t even take any tissue or a napkin with him.
I grimaced at the awkwardness of the situation and continued to wait.
Should I look for him? Or, maybe I should holler and ask if he . . . needed anything? Yes, that might be better.

Just as I started to call his name, Randy reappeared unapologetically wearing a self-satisfied expression.

“My goodness, honey, I was starting to get worried about you.” I patted the blanket. “Come on. Sit. I’m starving.”

Ignoring the spread of food, Randy knelt in front of me. “You mean everything to me.” He smiled into my eyes. “I love you so much and don’t want to live without you.” He held my hand in his. “Will you marry me, grow old with me, share your life with me?”

My heart leapt as I gasped at the suddenness and blurted out, “Yes! Oh Randy! I love you. Yes,
yes
. . . .”

Randy reached into his pocket. Tenderly, gingerly, he slid a dainty ring onto my finger. And it was then that I realized what “business” had taken so long in the woods.

My “engagement ring” was a delicate strand of dried grass tied into a circle.

The poor, patient man had tried over and over to form fragile native grass into this eternal symbol. Touched, I hugged him tightly as he whispered that we would get a “real” ring after our hike.

We had our lunch and toasted each other. I giggled and laughed, loving the world, the man who wanted to marry me and the romanticism of the moment. I wanted the day to last forever.

When it was time to head down the trail, I sang and danced. Randy shook his head and laughed at my antics, still hauling the backpack. But now he carried even more.

He carried my heart.

Leigh P. Rogers

Popping the Question

I
t was so much fun, we proposed to each other all day long.

Melissa Errico

It was a typical Tucson winter day, cool and sunny. I met my boyfriend for lunch at a sandwich shop near the college I was attending. We had limited time so we ate quickly. Jeff had to get back to work; his afternoon would be busy. Before parting, Jeff asked if I wanted to go to Happy Hour that evening. I agreed and we kissed goodbye.

That afternoon biology class was dismissed early. I jumped into my car to drive home, change clothes, and freshen up before our date. As I headed up the ramp to the freeway, my cell phone rang.

“I’m off early. Had to go to the post office and bank,” Jeff explained. He was in his car only minutes ahead of me.

“Isn’t this great? We have plans and we both got out early!”

“Where are you?” Jeff asked.

“Still a couple of miles behind you.” I gave him my cross streets.

Jeff suddenly interjected, “I’m sorry I haven’t been very romantic lately.”

“No, I guess you haven’t,” I agreed. “But we’ve been busy, it’s okay.”

“Valentine’s Day is coming up. I promise to do something romantic, at least get you a card.”

“That’s a start.”

“Where are you now?” he asked, more impatiently. I looked at the street signs and read them off to him. “Well, hurry up. I want to get to Happy Hour.”

We had plenty of time. Why the hurry? He was acting so strange.

“I can meet you at the restaurant if you prefer,” I suggested. “Or, if we meet at the house we can ride together and catch up on our day.” He agreed, and we hung up again.

My cell phone rang again.

“Beth, I just got home. What happened to the garage door? Did you break it this morning?” The garage door was our main entry to the house.

“It was fine when I left. Maybe your automatic opener isn’t working?” Minutes later I pulled beside Jeff’s car in our driveway. I repeatedly pressed the button on my garage opener. Nothing. With a shrug, I walked up to the front door and turned the knob.

As I stepped into the living room my jaw dropped and my eyes grew big. A camera flashed.

I was swimming in a sea of balloons. Balloons on the floor. Balloons on the ceiling. Dozens and dozens . . . hundreds of colorful balloons. Jazz music played in the background.

After my eyes adjusted, I saw Jeff sitting on the couch, camera in hand. He said, “You agreed I wasn’t very romantic, so I decided to whip something up.”

Still in shock, I trudged through the balloons to hug him. I felt like I was in slow motion.

Jeff nodded toward the coffee table. “You have something to open.” There sat a bucket with a champagne bottle on ice, two crystal champagne flutes, two candles and a blue ribbon . . . tied around a little blue box.

I picked up the box and slowly pulled the ribbon. Inside was a ring box. I lifted the lid and found . . . a gold stickpin? I looked at Jeff with raised eyebrows.

He folded his arms across his chest, settled back and grinned. “It looks like you have some popping to do.”

“What?” I looked around the room. “Oh!”

Not wasting a moment, I grabbed the pin and began sticking balloons. Laughing all the while, I searched for “the” balloon. But there were so many, I finally started shaking them and throwing them to the side.

“Don’t forget there are balloons on the ceiling,” Jeff reminded me. I looked up.

After an eternity, I shook a red balloon. Something rattled! When I poked it with my gold stickpin, shiny heart-shaped confetti cascaded around me. A blue ring bag fell to the carpet.

Trembling, I tipped it open until a ring fell into my hand. Jeff gently took it and urged me to sit on the couch.

“You know me. I have to do this the traditional way.” As he lowered himself to one knee, his brown eyes gazed into mine. He asked me to be his wife and slipped the princess-cut diamond on my finger.

After my eager “Yes!” and many kisses later, Jeff said, “Oh . . . and . . . by the way . . . we are
not
going to Happy Hour.”

Elizabeth L. Blair

A Friend, Indeed!

F
riendship often ends in love, but love in friendship— never.

Charles Caleb Colton

“Mom . . . it’s over!” I wailed into the telephone. After being wined and dined for two years, I’d been dropped like a hot potato. My first heartbreak.

In the following days, tears gave way to a blank sadness and the bitter taste of betrayal. By Wednesday evening, I was lying on the living room floor curled in a ball, trying to ease an inner pain that would not cease. Then I heard a voice in the distance.

“Julia . . . come on . . . get up! Get dressed! We’re going out.”

I looked up with glazed eyes, dazedly recognizing my old friend Alex, whom (guiltily, I realized) I had not made much time for during the past couple of years.

“No,” I muttered with self-pity. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I felt myself elevated by strong, sturdy arms and gently placed on my feet. “Get dressed, Jules,” he repeated. “I’ll wait right here until you’re ready.”

Thus began the healing process. Through Alex, I reunited with friends I had somehow drifted away from through the years. He appeared at my doorstep each evening with a new agenda for the night, gently prying me from my misery as our mutual respect and quiet love for each other grew in friendship.

After a particularly difficult day, he took me to a lively café. Drowning my sorrows in a frothy latte, I blurted, “Alex, will I
ever
meet the right guy?”

His deep brown eyes danced with laughter. “Jules, one thing I can promise you: Someday, I’ll be dancing at your wedding.”

I gazed at my trusty, dependable friend. Taking in his broad stance, olive complexion and endearingly familiar smile, I tried to picture Alex waltzing with his date at my wedding. But I couldn’t. Something didn’t seem quite right. I resolved that this could only mean one thing: I might be destined to never get married. With a sigh, I turned my attention back to the latte.

As the years passed, I decided to concentrate on my career as an artist rather than on my downfalls with men. Alex was there to share my disappointments and successes, no matter how large or small. He helped me recover from the likes of Brad, Lou and John—although failed relationships no longer shocked my system.

I occasionally shot him an earful of advice on the ladies and suffered only mild pangs of jealousy toward the women in his life. But it wasn’t until Dan that I truly opened my eyes.

Dan. He was thrilling, exciting, handsome—and famous, too. What more could a girl want? Our dates consisted of exclusive shows and private parties, a fantasy come to life. So why did I find myself comparing him to Alex?

In fact, I realized most of the men I’d dated couldn’t hold a candle to Alex’s kindness. None had his sense of humor or rich, hearty laugh. None had his overwhelming compassion and genuine optimism. None had the qualities I had taken so for granted in Alex.

So, when Dan left me behind to go on tour, I didn’t feel disposed of like the crumpled, used tissue I thought I’d be. I had Alex and that was what mattered.

One summer night, to celebrate our “thirteen years of friendship,” Alex invited me to dinner at a quiet Italian restaurant in the city. Afterwards, we cruised around town with the car’s top down. I laughed happily at the sheer joy of the evening, loving the freedom of wind tumbling my hair and the comfort of Alex beside me.

On a whim, he parked the car near the harbor.

“I know it’s getting late,” he said. “But it’s too beautiful for the night to end.”

“It is gorgeous out tonight,” I agreed, taking his hand as I climbed from the car. We strolled along serenely, oblivious to the world, until Alex stopped suddenly.

“What is it?”

“Look,” he pointed. “We’re right beneath the CN Tower.”

The massive grand structure—landmarking Toronto’s skyline—was directly in front of us. I had lived with the majestic view of this building all my life, but I had never seen her towering frame silhouetted against a blazing moon. Judging by the look in Alex’s glowing face, he hadn’t either.

Then, all at once, I realized it wasn’t the tower but
me
he was looking at.

“Alex,” I began shyly, not knowing how to respond to this new feeling. “Do you find it . . . odd . . . that I didn’t notice the tallest freestanding structure in the world? Especially since we’re standing right beneath it?”

“No, actually . . . not odd at all,” he drew me closer. “Because when I’m with you, the world seems to disappear.”

The moment his lips touched mine, breathless yearning and passion laced the deepest love I could ever imagine and poured from his heart to mine. It only took one kiss to change my life. One kiss to see what had been right before my eyes, right beside me all along.

“Julia,” he whispered. “I am so in love with you!”

“I love you, too, Alex. So much. And I think maybe I always have.”

“Well,” he smiled. “I need to clarify one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Remember the promise I made a few years ago . . . to dance at your wedding?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I lied.” He broke into a big grin. “I should have told you I plan to dance at
our
wedding.”

Sylvia Suriano

Never Say Never

D
o not be too timid and squeamish about your reactions. All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make, the better.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

“How would you like to accompany me to England for a week of sightseeing?” I stared at the e-mail in disbelief. It was from Mel, the widower I had been dating for six months.

I immediately replied, “Thank you for your generous offer, but I must respectfully decline. As much as I enjoy your company, I would not be comfortable traveling with a man I wasn’t married to. Besides, I don’t have a passport.”

My dear husband of fifty-one years had died three years earlier. I learned to ease my grief by reading, writing, attending church functions and visiting my children and grandchildren. But as time passed, I missed belonging to a partnership.

Then friends invited me to a party where I met Mel. He was attractive, intelligent and had an engaging personality. To my surprise, he called two weeks later and invited me to join him for dinner.

I discovered being part of a couple again opened new vistas. Soon we were receiving invitations to parties and meeting each other’s friends. After being in a desert of loneliness, I enjoyed the social oasis of dinners, concerts and theater.

We talked freely about our deceased spouses and how lucky we were to have found true love with them. Because we didn’t think it was possible to find that level of love more than once in a lifetime, we both admitted our decisions to never marry again and decided to enjoy the companionship we found in each other.

Consequently, I was shocked at the invitation to travel together and questioned Mel’s motives. Certain my response would sever our relationship, I was surprised when he phoned.

“I got your reply. Let’s forget I asked about the trip.”

Relieved, I mumbled, “Thanks for understanding.”