Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul (5 page)

I fingered the worn leather key ring. “Are you sure?” I asked. I’d never driven the Porsche, although he’d been offering it ever since my ancient car died a month before the wedding.

“Sure,” he said, “but . . . be careful.”

I felt a twinge of irritation even though I knew he couldn’t keep himself from adding the warning. I said a prayer as I started the engine. After all, this was no ordinary car.

My father-in-law had driven it home for the first time almost fifteen years ago. Under his care, the car gleamed like a jewel and purred like a well-fed tiger. The boy who grew up to be my husband spent hours beside his dad, handing over a needed tool, studying the correct way to wax and learning the well-crafted intricacies of a Porsche engine. Sometimes he’d even sneak out to the garage in the middle of the night and climb carefully into the driver’s seat. Without actually touching anything, he’d pretend he was driving fast along the curves of an empty road.

One day, his dad took him aside. “Son, if you save the money by the time you turn sixteen, your mother and I will sell you this car.”

The amount he named was far less than what the Porsche was worth, but it was a big amount for a boy to earn and save. My husband found a job cleaning the garage in an apartment complex, emptying garbage cans, sweeping and mopping. He worked after school and on weekends and saved every penny he earned. On his sixteenth birthday, he proudly handed his dad a check and took the Porsche out for a drive.

There was a mystical male bond between my husband, his dad and that car. Even now, when we drove the shiny Porsche into the driveway of my in-laws’ house, his dad came out to check on it.

“Good job, son. The car looks great.”

With all that history in mind, I drove slowly at first, like I was handling a piece of heirloom china. I pulled to a stop at the first hint of a yellow light and clung to the right lane on the freeway. As the car picked up speed, my confidence grew. I rolled down the window, turned up the radio and nosed into the fast lane.

After doing some shopping, I couldn’t wait to drive home. I walked eagerly to where I’d parked the car in the crowded lot—and stopped. The Porsche had moved a good three feet forward in the parking space.

Somebody must have hit it from behind.

I stood for a moment, trying to gather my courage to inspect the damage. The back end wasn’t bad; the bumper seemed to have absorbed most of the shock. But when I saw the crumpled fender and the dent on the hood, my heart sank. A sign that read “ten-minute parking only” leaned over it like a warrior gloating over a fallen enemy.

Oh no!
I thought. I’d left the gearshift in “neutral” instead of “park,” and the car had lurched forward when it had been hit.

I drove home slowly, fighting my tears. For the first time since our wedding, I didn’t want to see my husband. He found me hiding under the covers.

“What’s wrong, honey? Are you sick?”

“The car,” I said, my voice muffled. “Something bad happened. I left it in neutral and somebody crashed into it while it was parked and they didn’t leave a note.”

I waited while he went down to the parking garage to inspect the damage. When he returned, the sadness in his eyes made me hide my face in the pillow.

“It’s okay, honey,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

But we both knew that this was no ordinary car. To make things worse, we were scheduled to drive that very night to his parents’ house.

“Do you want me to tell them you’re not feeling well?” he asked.

“No,” I answered grimly. For better or worse I’d promised just a couple of weeks earlier. And this was definitely the worst day so far.

As we drove to my in-laws’ house, I felt a rush of hatred for the Porsche. Why was this material object such a treasure, anyway? It was a pile of metal welded together with some wiring inside, destined for rust and decay.

When we pulled into the driveway, I shrank in my seat. My in-laws were coming out of the front door, both of them beaming as usual.

My father-in-law began walking around the Porsche with an appraising glance. When he reached the front of the car, I caught my breath.

“Oh no!” he shouted. “What happened?”

Feeling like a criminal about to be sentenced, I waited for my husband’s answer.

“We had a little accident,” he said.

As the two of them began to discuss repairs, I wondered if I’d heard wrong. Had he really said, “we”? I was responsible for the first damage ever done to this family treasure. Surely he’d explain to his dad that there was no we about it at all. Before I could speak up, my mother-in-law pulled me into the house.

“I’m going to tell them the truth,” I told him, when the two of us had a moment alone later. “It’s not right for you to take the blame.”

“Who cares who did it?” he answered. “It’s just a car.”

I felt like shouting for joy, but I hugged him instead. I was still determined to tell his parents the truth, but that didn’t matter now. The secret shadow of my last doubt was gone. Without the Porsche factor, our life together sparkled even more brilliantly than the diamond on my finger.

Mitali Perkins

2
PROPOSALS

My most brilliant achievement was my ability to be able to persuade my wife to marry me.

Winston Churchill

“To tell you the truth, Maureen, on our first date I was hoping things would progress a little less quickly.”

Reprinted by permission of Cartoonstock, LTD.
www.cartoonstock.com

Treasure Hunt

S
he whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

George Meredith

Andrea slammed the phone into its cradle and shrieked, “I can’t believe him!”

Her mom entered the room. “Jeff?”

“Yeah. He just did everything he could to pick a fight!” Shaking her head, she added, “I haven’t seen him in three days and it doesn’t even bother him. He says he’s busy at work and can’t break away. I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”

“Don’t get impatient,” Emma smiled slightly and patted her frustrated daughter’s shoulder. “The best things in life are worth waiting for. Trust me.”

“I don’t know, Ma. Maybe he’s the one that should be doing the waiting.” She stormed out of the room.

Emma’s smile widened.

Not an hour later, the doorbell rang. Andrea rushed to answer it.
It just has to be Jeff,
she thought.
He’d never hang up angry.

Emma stood back, wiped her hands on a flowered apron and reclaimed her mischievous smile.

Andrea tipped the young messenger and rushed the package into the house. Under the watchful eye of her curious mother, she tore through the brown wrapping. It was the most beautiful dress she’d ever laid eyes on. As she lifted the white lace into the air, a piece of stationery floated to the floor. It read:

Baby Cakes,

Sometimes I say things I don’t mean. Sometimes I’m stubborn and defensive. Sometimes I want to go to you, but fear rejection. Andrea, I love you, and because I love you I’ll try harder to be understanding and have more patience. Forgive me. I saw this dress and thought how beautiful you’d look in it. Please wear it tonight and meet me at Capriccio’s at 6:00. Can’t wait to see you!

Love,

Jeff

As she wiped her eyes, Andrea caught her mother’s grin. “I’ll be there, “she smirked. “But this time
he’s
gonna wait!”

Her mother just laughed.

It was almost 6:30 when Andrea screeched into Capriccio’s lot. She intended to be a few minutes late, allowing extra time to get ready. She wanted his wait to be worth it when he saw her. The valet attendant took one look and swallowed hard. She noticed and smiled. The extra time had paid off.

Greeted by the maitre d’, she expected him to escort her to Jeff’s table. Instead, the older gentleman smiled and handed her a dozen long-stemmed roses.

“Mr. Stanton called and said he was running late. He said that the card would explain.”

Blowing a wisp of hair from her eyes, Andrea reached into the baby’s breath and retrieved the card.

Babe,

I would say I’m sorry, but those would just be words that you have heard many times before. This time, I’ll say I love you, a truth that lives within my heart. Meet me at the Eagle for drinks at 7:00.

Jeff

Andrea looked at the maitre d’ who continued to grin. “Did he say anything else on the phone?”

“Not exactly,” the kind man muttered. “Just that he can’t wait to see you.”

“It certainly doesn’t seem that way,” she lamented.

As she reached the parking lot, she was surprised to find that her car hadn’t been moved. The valet attendant opened the door, smiled sweetly and said, “Best of luck!”

“Same to you,” she replied, confused by his curious comment.

Within ten minutes she was at the Eagle waiting in the lounge. She would give him 10 minutes to show; otherwise she’d go home to contemplate their future.

The bartender sauntered over. “What’ll you have, Miss?”

“Margarita, no salt and a cup of ice on the side.”

“Cup of ice on the side?” the man questioned with a silly grin dancing across his face.

“Yeah,” she confirmed, her irritated tone approaching anger. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear she was the butt of some cruel joke. She checked her watch again. He had seven more minutes. Looking down at the beautiful white dress she wore, she shook her head.
What a waste,
she thought, fighting back the tears.

Within seconds, the bartender returned with a bottle of champagne and the same smile he’d left with.

“I ordered a margarita,” she roared, then realizing her rude outburst, quietly added, “I’m sorry; it’s just that my boyfriend was supposed to . . .”

“Meet you here at 7:00? I know. He called and asked that I pour you a glass of champagne and give you this card.”

With a wink, the bartender was gone. Andrea reluctantly opened it.

Sweetie,

Please bear with me! There are going to be times when other things might seem more important than you, but you have to trust that they’re not.

The rest is up to faith. I’ll be at the Dockside at 7:30. I’m hoping more than anything that you meet me. Please be there with the champagne.

Jeff

Andrea stood and noticed that every patron in the bar was gawking. She was right; it was a conspiracy. Her first thought was to go home and put an end to Jeff’s foolish game.

Then it hit her. There was no way Jeff would have had the time to drop off both cards. Realizing it was all a carefully planned scheme; she smiled back at the crowd. Her excitement grew and, within minutes, she was in her car speeding to the Dockside.

As expected, Jeff was nowhere to be found. Instead, a white stretch limousine idled in front of a dilapidated shack. The chauffeur held a sign that read
Andrea Evans.

With her dozen red roses, bottle of champagne and tears in her eyes, she climbed into the car. The driver offered a familiar smile and handed her a tiny card.

I knew you wouldn’t give up on me. Enjoy the ride. I’m waiting! I love you!

Jeff

Andrea enjoyed the ride and when the car stopped, she stole a peek out the window. She was at the beach and Jeff was waiting somewhere in the dunes.

The driver parked the car, opened the door and assisted her out. “Have a beautiful time,” he said. “I’ll be here when you get done!”

Andrea felt like hugging him for his smile—the same one she had seen on the faces of strangers all day. Something big was up and the quest was not yet complete. Not forgetting her roses and champagne, she kicked off her shoes, grabbed them and started for the ocean.

A path of small seashells glimmered under a full moon. It was obvious each shell had been carefully placed, looping through the shifting dunes until they reached several large conch shells. Arranged in the shape of an arrow, they were the last clue on Jeff’s peculiar map. She took a deep breath before stepping over the last dune.