Promise Me Page 5

  A week later, on October 10, he passed quietly in the night. Charlotte cried for her father the entire next day and every day after for the next two weeks. By then my heart already felt like it had died a hundred times over.

  Marc had a small life insurance policy, only $25,000, which wasn’t enough to do much more than cover his medical deductibles and funeral expenses and to catch up on the bills that had piled up since we had both stopped working.

  That is where Charlotte and I were as the year came to a close. Winter came again and the days shortened and seemed darker and colder than ever before.

  Then the holiday season crept upon us. I did not welcome it. I was feeling anything but festive, anything but believing. I was trustless of life and men. I would say that I was without faith, but no one is truly faithless; they just have faith in the wrong things: fear and defeat.

  Then, when I least expected anything new in my life, he came.

  I have found that the most significant experiences of our lives rarely come when we’re expecting them and oftentimes when we’re not even paying attention.

  Beth Cardall’s Diary

  The first time I saw him was on Christmas Day, 1989. As the Bing Crosby song had it, it was a white Christmas. Actually, more of a white-out Christmas. Nearly thirty inches of heavy snow had fallen during the night, and it was still falling, with brisk winds sculpting the snow along the roadsides into four-foot-high curled drifts that looked like frozen ocean waves. The radio said that more than five thousand homes in the city had lost electricity. Charlotte and I were among the fortunate who still had power and a cozy fire in our wood-burning stove.

  Our Christmas tree looked like I felt inside: small, sparse and dry, with too few lights. Truthfully, I felt ugly, inside and out. I had been pretty once, or at least that seemed to be the general consensus, but not so much lately. I felt worn-out and broken, like an old running shoe. Through the ringer, my mother used to say. It sounds silly to me now, but I was only twenty-eight and I already felt old. I was much too young to feel that old.

  Had I been alone I probably would have just ignored the season, but Charlotte really needed the holiday and Roxanne wouldn’t have let me off that easy. We celebrated Thanksgiving Day with Roxanne and her family. The next Saturday, in a quest to capture the spirit, Charlotte and I made Christmas tree ornaments. We dipped walnuts in Elmer’s glue and glitter and tied them with yarn. We also cut snowflakes from paper.

  Money was tight, but I stretched to get Charlotte what she wanted, a Skip-It, a set of Baby-sitters Club books and her big present, an American Girl doll. She squealed when she opened the package with the doll.

  “Look, Mom, what Santa brought!”

  “She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”

  “Molly.”

  “She wears glasses.”

  “Uh-huh. Like me. And a locket.” She opened the doll’s tiny locket around its neck. “Can we put a picture inside?”

  I smiled. “How did you know to put a picture in there?”

  “Everyone knows that.”

  “Sorry. Should we put a picture of you in there?”

  “No, Daddy’s.”

  She had been playing with her doll for a half-hour or so when she asked, “Mom, why didn’t Santa bring you anything?”

  “Well,” I said, “I really didn’t need anything so I asked Santa to give my presents to a good little girl who did.”

  “Doesn’t Santa have enough for everyone?”

  When did she get so smart? “Not this year. I guess there was a toy shortage at the North Pole.”

  I could see her puzzling over the dilemma. After a moment she said, “Then I’ll ask Jesus to bring you something.”

  I smiled. “What are you going to ask Him to bring me?”

  “Someone to take care of you.”

  Out of the mouths of babes, they say. I didn’t know how to respond to that so I just changed the subject. “Are you hungry?”

  She nodded. “Are we going to have muffins?”

  “Yes we are. Just like I promised.”

  A week earlier I had asked Charlotte what she wanted for Christmas breakfast. She didn’t hesitate: blueberry-buttermilk muffins. Blueberry-buttermilk muffins were our own creation. One Sunday morning I’d been in the middle of making muffins when I discovered we were out of milk. I didn’t have time to run to the store so I substituted buttermilk. The results were unexpectedly delicious and a new favorite.

  I went into the kitchen and began putting the ingredients together when I realized I’d forgotten the buttermilk. I could have just used regular milk or even just poured her some Cheerios—with the weather being the way it was, that would have been the prudent thing to do—but after what she’d been through that year, I didn’t want to deny her anything that was within my grasp to deliver.

  “We need to go to the store,” I said. I put on my overcoat, bundled up Charlotte, then drove to the only place open Christmas morning—a 7-Eleven about a mile from my home.

  Maybe it was chance, or perhaps it was in answer to Charlotte’s prayer, but that’s where I first saw him.

  When we arrived at the 7-Eleven, I said to Charlotte, “Honey, just wait in the car. I’m only going to be a minute.”

  “Can I have some gum?”

  I smiled. “Sure.”

  I was stomping the snow from my boots as I entered the store, so I didn’t see him at first. He was standing near the back sipping coffee from a foam cup, staring at me intently.

  We had brief eye contact. I tried not to stare, but he really was gorgeous. Soap opera gorgeous, Roxanne would say. Gorgeous and exotic looking. He had slightly curly, cappuccino-hued hair and bright blue eyes, which were radiant against his olive skin. I wondered what such a beautiful man was doing alone at a 7-Eleven on Christmas morning. Call it sour grapes, but the self-preservation part of my mind kicked in and I immediately concluded that there must be something wrong with him—like the time Charlotte made Kool-Aid and used salt instead of sugar. It looked good, but after one sip I poured the pitcher down the sink.

  I stopped to pick up a few things besides my buttermilk—an apple, a half-gallon of milk and a package of Doublemint gum—then I walked to the cash register, my purchases balanced precariously in my arms.

  He walked up to the counter at the same time, his eyes never leaving me. His gaze made me feel awkward, but, frankly, it was nice to be noticed.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said. His voice was warm and rich.

  I had pretended that I hadn’t noticed him staring at me and I turned and flashed a furtive smile. “Good morning,” I said, then turned back to the clerk, doing my best to look uninterested.

  As I was setting my things on the counter, the gum fell to the ground. I bent over to get it. Apparently soap opera guy had the same idea and we bumped heads hard. I stood up rubbing the top of my head. “Ow.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, grimacing with embarrassment. He handed me the package of Doublemint. “I’m Matthew.”

  I took the gum, still rubbing my head with the other hand. “Hi, Matthew.”

  “Have we met?”

  I shook my head, wondering if this was a pickup line. “I don’t think so.”

  The store clerk, who seemed oblivious to everything but his wish to be elsewhere, said, “Is this everything?”

  “And this,” I said. I handed him the gum, then fished a ten-dollar bill from my wallet.

  “Six seventy-three out of ten.” He handed me my change. “Would you like your things in a sack?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I glanced back at Matthew and he smiled at me. I nervously brushed the hair back from my face. The clerk stacked everything in the sack and handed it to me. “Merry Christmas,” he said dully.

  I took the sack. “Thank you. You too.”

  I had turned to go when Matthew asked, “Do you work at a dry cleaner?”

  I looked back at him. “Yes.”

  “Over on Highland Drive,” he said.
“I’ve seen you there.”

  I wondered how that was possible. I knew that I had never seen him. I definitely would have remembered, especially since Roxanne would have done something embarrassing like telling him I was single or taken his picture. “Then I’m sure I’ll see you around,” I said. “Merry Christmas.” I walked back outside, where the snow had already begun to cover my windshield, and climbed into my car.

  “Here’s your gum, Char.”

  “Thanks, Mommy.”

  I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror. No makeup, and my hair was a mess pulled back with a scarf. Why would someone that gorgeous be hitting on me?

  You might think that those who would most look forward to the new year are those eager to leave the past behind—but it’s not usually so. If you hated your last dentist appointment, you don’t look forward to the next.

  Beth Cardall’s Diary

  The holidays are a cyclical time for dry cleaners. Prompt was always crazy busy up until Thanksgiving, slow until Christmas then pedal to the metal the week before New Year’s as people cleaned out their closets and got ready for their New Year’s Eve festivities.

  Prompt Cleaners closed early on New Year’s Eve, at 2 P.M., so we were slammed all morning with people picking up their formal wear for New Year’s Eve parties. I was pressing pants when Roxanne came back. “What’s cookin’, Beth?”

  “Besides me?” I asked through a blast of steam. It was always ten degrees warmer in back next to the big machinery, the massive dry-cleaning machines that could swallow thirty-five pounds of dinner jackets in one sitting.

  “Here’s your check,” she said, handing me an envelope. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  “I’m afraid I already did,” I said.

  Roxanne leaned back against the shirt press. “Can you believe it’s the last day of the decade?”

  “Good riddance,” I replied.

  She grinned at my response. “My, aren’t you little Miss Sunshine. Does sourpuss have any hot New Year’s Eve plans?”

  “I’m making cheese enchiladas for Charlotte. That’s about as hot as it will get. What about you?”

  “Ray’s working, so it’s just Jan and me. I’m making my chocolate fondue. Why don’t you and Char come over with your enchiladas and watch Dick Clark with us?”

  “Thanks, but Charlotte wasn’t doing all that well this morning. We’ll probably just go to bed early.”

  “Oh, you’re a barrel of fun. You’re not at all excited for the new decade?”

  “I’m broke, alone, and working in a sweatshop. What do you think?”

  “I think you need someone.”

  I looked up at her. “I have Charlotte.”

  “A male companion.”

  “You sound like Charlotte. She prayed that Jesus would bring me someone. I don’t think Jesus runs a dating service.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to take care of you?”

  “Yes, that’s a lovely fiction. Unfortunately, not everyone can be Ray.”

  “You don’t think Ray has problems?”

  “Everyone has problems. But you don’t have to marry them.”

  “You don’t really want to just sit around alone on New Year’s Eve. That’s . . .”

  “Pathetic?” I said.

  “I was going for boring, but pathetic works.”

  I kept pressing. “I’ll think about it.”

  Roxanne folded her arms. “You’re not coming over, are you, party-pooper?”

  “Look, Rox, I’m not in the mood to celebrate. You know what I’ve been through.”

  “Then don’t think of it as a celebration. Think of it as a wake for a bad year.”

  “Thanks for the invite.”

  She sighed. “All right. I gotta get back up front. Enjoy your enchiladas, killjoy.”

  Roxanne and I locked the front doors at the two o’clock closing but still got the frantic last-minute crush of people who had forgotten their evening wear and pounded on the front and back doors begging for us to open. It was nearly three when Roxanne and I finally snuck out the back.

  “Offer’s still good,” Roxanne said, unlocking her car. “Chocolate fondue and strawberries and bananas for dipping.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “That’s what you tell your children when you don’t want to say no, but mean to.”

  “Love you, Rox,” I said. “Happy New Year.”

  “You too, baby. Let’s hope for a better one.”

  I drove across the street to the bank to deposit my check, then over to the grocery store to pick up a few things for our ‘celebration’—a six-pack of root beer, a package of cinnamon bears, a can of tomato sauce, some cheddar cheese and corn tortillas.

  As I waited in the checkout line, soap opera guy, the man I met Christmas Day at the 7-Eleven, stepped in line after me. He was just as beautiful as I remembered.

  “Déjà vu,” he said.

  I looked at him, trying to remember his name. “Mike,” I guessed.

  He grinned, a slight dimple appearing above his right cheek. “Matthew.”

  “Right, Matthew. The head-butter.”

  He chuckled. “I like that, Matthew, the head-butter. I’m still embarrassed about that.”

  Without acknowledging me, the woman cashier started scanning my items and dropping them in a plastic sack.

  “So what do you do for an encore,” I asked, “a body slam?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, well, if they hung me for being graceful, I’d die innocent.”

  The cashier said, “That will be eight dollars and seventy-four cents.”

  “I should have that,” I said. I dug into my purse, hoping that I had enough cash to not write a check. All I could find was six dollars.

  “Here,” Matthew said, handing the cashier a ten-dollar bill.

  I looked up at him. “I got it,” I said. I rooted back through my purse in vain. Finally, I brought out my checkbook and started writing. “Eight dollars and . . . seventy-two cents?”

  “Seventy-four,” the woman said curtly, doing her best to look annoyed that I was writing a check for such a small amount. I finished scribbling the amount and handed her the check.

  “I need I.D.,” the clerk said.

  “Really? For eight dollars?” Matthew asked.

  “I don’t make the rules,” she said.

  “I’ll get it,” I said. I got back in my purse, brought out my wallet and showed her my driver’s license.

  She stamped the back of the check, wrote down my driver’s license number and put the check in the till.

  I looked back at Matthew a little embarrassed. “Bye.”

  “Hey, would you hold on a second?”

  I looked at him quizzically. “Why?”

  “I just want to talk to you. I’ll just be a second. I promise. Please.”

  I’m not sure why I said yes—maybe something as simple and powerful as social pressure—but I relented. “Okay. Just for a few minutes. I really need to get home.”

  “That’s all I need,” he said.

  I walked over near the automatic doors to wait for him. He handed the clerk a couple bills and said, “Keep the change.” He walked up to me smiling. “Thanks for waiting. Got a big party tonight?”

  “Oh, yeah. We’ll be swinging from the chandeliers.”

  “Sounds fun,” he said, as if he believed me.

  “So, are you stalking me?”

  His smile broadened. “You’re a direct woman, so I’ll just cut to the chase and ask you out.”

  “You want to ask me out?”

  “I do.”

  “What if I told you that I’m not interested?”

  “I’d expect that.”

  “But would it deter you?”

  “Probably not. It’s a new year. I’m betting you could use a friend.”

  “I have enough friends. Besides, men never just want to be friends.”

  “Maybe I’m the exception.”
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  “That would worry me.” I looked at him, feeling a little sympathetic for his situation. “Look, you seem like a nice guy and I’m sure you know you’re very handsome, but I’m not looking for a new relationship in my life right now. I’m flattered, really. But I’m not interested. Sorry.”

  He stood there looking at me, completely unfazed by what I thought was a pretty clear dismissal. “You’re honest. I like that.”

  “Which only shows that you haven’t been around me long enough. No one wants that much honesty.”

  “You’re right, it would probably drive me crazy. When can I take you out?”

  I looked at him in astonishment. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

  “I’m a poor listener.”

  “Listen . . .”

  “Matthew,” he said.

  “Right. Matthew, you know nothing about me. You don’t even know my name. So let’s leave it at that. Trust me, that would be best.” I turned to leave.

  “It’s Bethany,” he said.

  I turned back. “What?”

  “Your name is Bethany.”

  “How did you know that?”

  He shrugged. “I must have heard someone call you that.”

  “No one calls me Bethany except my mother. And she passed away ten years ago.”

  He just looked at me. “Then it’s a mystery.”

  I said, “I really need to go.”

  “Wait, please. I just want to ask you out. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Take it or not, that’s still the answer.” I walked away. He followed me out to the parking lot.

  When I was unlocking my car, he said, “Why won’t you give me a chance?”

  I opened my car door. “I told you why. Besides, now you’ve set off all my internal warning bells. Bye.”

  “I’m not giving up,” he said.

  “Bye.” I climbed inside my car.

  I started my car and backed out. He stood there, his hands in his pockets, watching me. What did he want? Roxanne would have smacked me over the top of the head for turning him down.

  “Alas, another year.”