“Shoot,” Kevin said, anxious to see whether the question he anticipated hearing would be the one that was actually troubling Jake. After so many years in the ministry, it was like a little game he played as he counseled his parishioners, hospital patients or the other folks who occasionally found their way into his church. When his prediction was wrong, he made a note, sometimes using the insight revealed during such exchanges to punctuate a point in his weekly sermons.

“After this cancer takes me . . . after I’m dead, will I finally stop hearing that sound?” Jake inquired matter-of-factly. “Because I’ve been hearing it every time I close my eyes for all these years. And frankly, Kevin, I need to know whether your God is going to give me some relief from that sound, given that he is taking me out ahead of schedule, so to speak.”

“Jake, I believe that you will find peace here, on earth, before you die, if you just ask for it,” Kevin said genuinely, making a mental note that he had accurately anticipated Jake’s question.

“Hhmmph,” Jake grunted. “Stock answer. I expected better from you, Kevin.”

“If you are truly remorseful and ask forgiveness, it is given, Jake,” Kevin explained, completely nonplussed by Jake’s cynicism. “But forgiveness is a tricky thing. Even though God forgave you long ago, you haven’t forgiven yourself. And until you do, you will never have any peace.”

“The best profit of future is the past.”

Jake stared at the pastor, one eyebrow raised in acknowledgment that Kevin’s response was precisely on target. Kevin waited, as he had on so many similar occasions, for Jake to continue telling his story and asking the questions that had been weighing him down for so many years, wondering if the conversation was going to proceed along the course he envisioned.

Jake reached for the top drawer of the bedside stand. “Let me help you,” Kevin offered, rising from his chair and walking over to the side of the hospital bed.

“Can you reach into the drawer and get my wallet?” Jake asked.

“Certainly.” Kevin opened the drawer, removed a plastic bag upon which the words “Patient’s Belongings” were stamped, and handed it to Jake.

His hands shook slightly as Jake opened the well-worn leather wallet from which he retrieved a small plastic bag and held it out to Kevin. At first, Kevin thought the bag was empty but, as he took it into his hands, he could see a single small piece of white paper was encased in it. Taking his reading glasses from their case, he perched them on the bridge of his nose as he held the bag up and considered the tiny slip of paper. From that vantage point, he could see that the type was faded, but it was a fortune — the type found in fortune cookies.

“The best profit of future is the past,” he read aloud, as Jake mouthed the words along with him. He looked at Jake quizzically, but waited for Jake to answer all of his unarticulated questions.

“About six months after she took Timmy and left, I went down to Chinatown for dinner with some of my employees. After dinner, everyone was reading their fortune out loud. That was mine. When no one was looking, I stuck it in my pocket, took it home, and have carried it in my wallet ever since. I was so stupid,” Jake said, shaking his head. “I thought it was some kind of sign . . . an indicator that I should keep the private detectives working, looking for them. I thought that stupid fortune was telling me that learning from my past mistakes would give me back the future. Boy, was I wrong.”

Kevin started to hand the plastic bag back to Jake, but he put up his hand in protest. “No, preacher,” he said sarcastically. “You keep it. Maybe it will bring you some good fortune. God knows it never did anything for me.” Then he added, “God knows. God. I guess he always knows where they are, but he sure never let me in on the secret, did he? Now I guess I’ll never know. I never had the chance to make things right,” his voice broke as he turned his face back toward the window.

“Jake,” Kevin said gently. “Tell me about the day they left. How did it happen? Did she tell you she was leaving? Was it a big fight that ended up with her storming out of the house, or . . . ? I’d like to know. If you want to tell me, that is.”

“Like I said, it was Christmastime. There hadn’t been much work because of the rain, so I’d had a lot of free time on my hands. Time to drink with the guys, play some cards, kill time. I wasn’t spending enough time with her — or Timmy — and she was very unhappy about it. So we fought a lot during those weeks leading up to . . . ” Jake shifted a bit in the bed, wincing as the needles from the i.v.’s dug further into his veins when he leaned on his arm in order to steady himself.

“Anyway, we were supposed to go to the company Christmas party that night, but we never made it. We ended up having a terrible fight. Thank God Timmy wasn’t there. She had taken him to her sister’s house to spend the weekend so that we could go to the party and get some sleep the next morning. So he didn’t hear us arguing when we were getting ready to go to the party,” he explained.

“Basically, that night it was just more of the same,” he continued. “She warned me not to drink too much and embarrass her, I got mad . . . the next thing you know, I shoved her across the living room. She fell backwards and, as she felt herself falling, she put her hand out to grab something. What she grabbed was a branch of the Christmas tree, so, of course, it fell down as she did. Thank God it didn’t land on her, but all of the ornaments broke and that made her cry, of course. Which made me even madder.”

Jake stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts, take a few deep breaths, and control the tears that were welling up in his eyes. Kevin continued to wait patiently for him to gather the strength to keep relating the events of that evening.

“Anyway, we never made it to the party. I ended up pushing her around more after the tree fell . . . we said some really ugly things to each other. I hit her pretty hard. Caught her on the left side of her face and gave her a large bruise on her cheek and under her eye. Bruised up her arms and one of her legs pretty good, too. Some of those marks were probably caused by her fall in the living room when the tree was knocked down,” he said. He let his head hang down on his chest, his eyes closed, as he recalled the events of that night. Without moving, he continued speaking. “I stormed out of the house, of course. Went down to the neighborhood bar to cool off. Stayed there a few hours.”

“But Kevin,” he said, “something happened to me that night. I knew that was it. I knew we couldn’t go on like that. When I walked out the door of the house, she was standing in the living room, crying. All bruised up. I couldn’t look at her, so I had to get away for a while. It was like something inside of me snapped. I knew I wasn’t a man. No man does that to the woman he loves. No, sir. Something was wrong with me. And I made up my mind while I was walking down the sidewalk to the bar that night that things were going to change.”

Jake was speaking with a resolve that mirrored the determination he felt on that night so many years earlier. “I went to the bar because I didn’t know where else to go. But I didn’t drink. Nope. I didn’t touch a drop of liquor that night. I drank coffee. Several cups of strong, black coffee. Told the bartender, Eddy, to keep the coffee coming. He just laughed . . . figured I needed to sober up in order to go home, and I just let him think that. But I wasn’t drunk that night . . . and I’ve never been drunk since.”

With that, he stopped speaking and looked deep into Kevin’s blue eyes, as Kevin sat mesmerized by the story that was unfolding. “No, sir. I never took another drop of liquor the rest of my life.”

“Never?” Kevin asked incredulously. “You’ve never had any alcohol since that night? None at all? Note even a beer or a glass of wine?”

“Nothing. Not a drop. Not even a taste of your fancy communion wine,” Jake declared. “For all the good it did me. I’ve been thinking about checking out of this hospital and getting good and drunk. So here’s my next question, pastor. What do you think of that plan?”

“I think that, considering all of the medication you are probably receiving, that would be very foolish. You would most likely just make yourself sicker than you already feel,” Kevin replied matter-of-factly.

“Yup, I suspect you are correct, preacher,” Jake sighed.

“So what happened that night after you left the bar? Did you go back home?” Kevin’s own curiosity fueled his effort to keep Jake talking.

“I did,” Jake smiled softly. “While I was in the bar having my ‘come-to-Jesus’ — you should excuse the expression — moments, she cleaned up the mess, righted the Christmas tree, and rehung the few ornaments that hadn’t broken. She was in bed, but not asleep, when I got back. And Kevin, . . . ” Jake’s voice trailed off for a few seconds. “Well, let me just put it this way. That was the most beautiful night of our married life, if you get my meaning.”

Kevin smiled and nodded knowingly. “I’m a married man,” he said quietly. “I get it.”

“We didn’t do any sleeping that night,” Jake recalled gently. “I got into bed with her and she could see that I was stone-cold sober. I told her how sorry I was. She rolled over, looked at me with real sad eyes, and then came right into my arms like nothing was wrong. We didn’t do any more talking. Yessir, it was a beautiful night,” Jake said, softly clearing his throat.

“Sounds like it,” Kevin responded. “So now I’m confused. You told her about your ‘come-to-Jesus’ moment — your epiphany, as it were? What happened? Did you break your promises? Fail to follow through? Is that why she left you?”

“Nope. None of that,” Jake said, shaking his head as the bitter tone with which the conversation had begun crept back into his voice. “I never got a chance to tell her that everything was going to be different. Never got a chance.”

Kevin continued gazing at him with a puzzled expression on his face.

“The next morning — Sunday morning — we were going to have some breakfast and then pick Timmy up. I was going to tell her what I decided the night before. I had it all planned in my head. I was going to sit her down at the kitchen table, and promise her that I would never lay a hand on her again. I was going to ask her to help me find one of those groups . . . you know, where you go to meetings.”

“AA?” Kevin interjected.

“No, one of those other groups for men who hit their wives,” Jake clarified. “I was going to get real, serious help. I knew that if I didn’t, things would keep getting worse and worse . . . Kevin, I scared myself real good that night. I was afraid that eventually I would really hurt her. Or Timmy.”

Kevin waited, afraid now that his suspicions about how Jake’s story would end were about to be confirmed.

“That morning, she told me to get a little more sleep. She was going to take a shower, put the coffee on, make us some breakfast. She got up from the bed and walked toward the bathroom. The morning light coming from that room was very bright. It was one of those sunny December mornings when it’s so cold you can practically feel the air. No fog, no clouds. The kind of day when they take the postcard pictures and write the songs about San Francisco. Just a cold, sunny, beautiful morning . . . like the night before had ended up being.”

“So I mumbled, ‘O.K., wake me up when breakfast is ready.’ I looked up at her as she was walking into the bathroom to take a shower. She paused for a moment in the doorway and the light behind her was so bright . . . I remember thinking to myself how gorgeous she looked standing there. She turned back toward me for a moment and I thought to myself that her face was absolutely perfect. At least the side without the bruises was. And I told myself again what a lucky man I was and swore I would never, ever again lay a hand on her or hurt her. She said, ‘All right. I’ll wake you up. Now you get some sleep.’ And then she added, ‘Always remember that I loved you.’ I thought that was kind of an odd thing for her to say, but I was half-asleep and dozed right back off.”

Kevin sat perfectly still as Jake continued relaying the details, horrified as he conceptualized the inevitable conclusion of Jake’s story. “She was gone when you woke up, wasn’t she?” he asked softly.

“Yessir, she was,” Jake said resolutely. “Gone. She had it all planned. I never saw her or Timmy again.”

“Jake, I’m so sorry,” Kevin said with genuine compassion.

“I never got a chance to tell her all the things I’d planned to say that morning. Never had a chance to get help and put things right between us or for Timmy. I woke up a few hours later and the house was perfectly quiet. I had the feeling that I had slept a lot longer than I intended to . . . you know that feeling, Kevin?” Jake asked.

“I do,” Kevin replied. “Like the first time your baby sleeps through the night and you know the moment your eyes fly open that you have been asleep way too long. You panic for a moment, until you realize that everything is fine. It’s a terrible feeling.”

“That it is,” Jake agreed. “And every morning has been like that for the last thirty-five years. Every morning when I wake up, I see my beautiful wife standing in the doorway with the light behind her. Before I open my eyes, I think I’m going to realize that it was all just a bad dream, and she’ll be in the kitchen drinking coffee, waiting for me. But every morning, I have that same feeling of panic when I realize that it wasn’t a dream . . . it really happened and I’ve never been able to do anything to change it. Imagine living your life like that for thirty-five years, Kevin?” Jake asked cynically.

“No, Jake,” Kevin said with genuine compassion and sadness in his voice. “No. I can’t imagine.” The two men sat in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds before Jake asserted, “Well, I have another question for you. This is the big one. The granddaddy question. You ready for it?”

“I guess so. Lay it on me,” Kevin replied, completely rattled by the manner in which Jake’s tale had ended.

“Think hell is gonna be any worse?” Jake asked somewhat defiantly. “Cause I’m betting that’s where your God is planning to send me . . . since I stopped believing in him all those years ago. Think whatever he’s got in mind for me after this cancer takes me out could possibly be any worse than what the last thirty-five years have been like?”

“Jake.” Kevin could say only the man’s name. Despite his years of experience at the bedsides of terminally ill or critically injured people of all ages from a multitude of backgrounds, he found himself at a complete loss for words. “Jake . . .”

“Looks like I’ve succeeded,” Jake laughed cryptically. “I was wondering if I could stump the preacher.” He continued chuckling to himself.

Regaining his composure, Kevin looked him squarely in the eye as he collected his thoughts. “Jake, I don’t believe that God has any greater punishment in store for you than you have already endured here on earth. You have punished yourself over and over by not being able to forgive yourself for what you did all those years ago. I can’t judge you. Only God himself can do that, but I believe that you are a man who has suffered greatly for his sins. You have a repentant heart and contrite spirit. I am going to pray to God to show you his merciful kindness in the coming days. And I’m going to ask him to give you the peace that passes understanding.”

Kevin continued, “Someday in the not-too-distant-future, I believe that you will be given answers to all of the questions you are asking — all of the answers you’d like me to provide. But I can’t provide them because all of your questions really boil down to one question: Why? And that’s the one question I can’t answer. No one can answer it. So, in that respect, I’m afraid that I am failing you today. All I can tell you is that God loves you unconditionally and will never forsake you. All I can do is ask you to believe that — as a matter of faith.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured you would say,” Jake replied. Just then a nurse entered the room. “How are you doing, Jake? Is there anything I can get you?”

“No, I’m doing just fine,” Jake responded.

“All right,” the nurse said brightly as she checked the bags dangling from the i.v. pole next to his bed. “We’re going to be having dinner in about a half hour. This bag,” she gestured to the largest bag, “should be empty by then. You’ll be free of this one for the evening. You’ll get the next dose tomorrow.”

“No, I won’t,” Jake said calmly.

“Excuse me?” the nurse replied as she jotted some notes on a small pad of paper she had pulled from the pocket of the brightly colored smock she wore over a pair of green surgical scrubs.

“No more doses for me. No more medication. I’m going to go home tomorrow,” Jake explained. “This stuff isn’t going to help me. It’s only going to prolong the inevitable and I don’t want to spend my last days in this room. I’m going home to my boat and I’m going to spend my last days on it.”

“Have you helped him make this decision?” the nurse asked Kevin. Gazing at Jake, he saw the determination in Jake’s eyes, and replied, “Yes. Yes, I have.”

“Please get whatever paperwork I need to sign in order, because I am going to leave first thing in the morning,” Jake requested politely, but firmly. “I assume the doctors are going to want me to sign my life away — no pun intended — so they can be sure that I won’t sue them later. So please let them know what my plans are.”

“All right,” the nurse replied. “I’ll call your doctor right now.” She fluffed his pillows and let her hand linger on his shoulder for a few moments, as she asked, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“You’ve seen my chart,” Jake said. “Can you blame me?”

Moving her hand to his, she gave him a little squeeze as she smiled in silent understanding and affirmation of his decision before leaving the two men alone again.

“Would you like me to come back in the morning to be here when you check out? Can I give you a lift to your boat or help you in some way?” Kevin asked.

“No, Kevin, you’ve done enough.You just listened to me tell you things that I have never verbalized to anyone. You’ve helped me make my decision about how to spend what time is left to me. You’ve done more than I could ever have asked of anyone. There’s nothing more you or anyone else can do for me now,” Jake said. “You haven’t failed. You said it best, preacher. From here on out, I’m completely in the hands of your God, right?”

“The one you don’t believe in,” Kevin teased gently.

“Yup. That one.” Jake smiled at Kevin, as he stood and approached the bed. He reached into his pocket and removed a small vial of oil. Placing a small amount on his right forefinger, Kevin took Jake’s hand in his as he gently rested his other hand on Jake’s head. “Jake, child of God,” he said, as he made the sign of the cross on Jake’s forehead with the oil, “know that you are loved unconditionally and that all of your sins are forgiven. The one who gave his life for you has gone before you to prepare a place for you. Soon you will be there with him — in paradise. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Both men were overcome with emotion and unable to speak. Kevin simply squeezed Jake’s shoulder as he eased away from the bed toward the doorway and exited the room, knowing that he would never see Jake again.

It was a beautiful, sunny morning in the San Francisco bay. The night before, Jake had cut the motor and simply let his beloved boat drift with the current as he sat on the deck sipping a cup of hot cocoa, studying the lights illuminating the city he had called home his entire life.

The vessel was floating with the current past Alcatraz toward the Golden Gate bridge when he drifted off to sleep, confident that his remaining time was growing short because he was getting weaker and breathing with increasing difficulty. He could no longer navigate the stairs to the cabin below, so he wrapped himself in a couple of warm blankets and got comfortable on deck, dozing off as he considered the lights along the shoreline.

In the morning, he awoke just as the sun was rising brightly over the East Bay. He realized immediately that he did not have sufficient strength to stand, so shifted slightly and resolve to sleep awhile longer as the cool morning seabreeze caressed his face. He opened his eyes just for a moment and squinted into the sun. It was then that he saw her — as he had every morning since the day his life changed irrevocably. She was rising from the deck and moving away from him in the direction of the light. He smiled groggily as he considered how beautiful she looked with the morning light behind her as she turned her head slightly and looked back at him, revealing only the right side of her perfect face — the one without the bruises. He again heard her say, “I’ll wake you up. Now you get some sleep. And always remember that I loved you” just before he fell into a deep sleep from which he would not again awaken.

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He sighed deeply as he shifted his gaze back to the I.V. pole from which hung several plastic bags containing clear liquids. Three separate tubes carried the substances from the bags to his veins. He winced as he moved his left arm. Looking down, he noticed that a new bruise had developed where the nurse had unsuccessfully tried to reinsert the needle earlier in the day.

Just as he was struggling in vain to shift his weight and find a few moments of comfort in the narrow hospital bed, the door opened and a lanky middle-aged man entered the room. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kelley!” he said cheerily as he strode toward the bed. “The folks at the front desk said you requested a visit from a chaplain. I’m Pastor O’Grady,” he announced, as he extended his right hand.

“Pastor O’Grady?” he responded warily. “You guys don’t call yourselves ‘Father’ any more?” he asked, noting that his visitor was wearing jeans and a pale yellow polo shirt with what appeared to be a logo of some sort embroidered on the left pocket.

“With a name like O’Grady, I get that question a lot,” the pastor chuckled. “But I’m not a Catholic priest. I’m a Methodist minister. Did you wish to meet with a priest? If so, I can let the hospital folks know and they will ask Father Rivera to stop in and see you.”

“No, no,” he replied. “I’m not a Catholic. I’m not a member of any church. I just wanted to speak with one of you guys when you made your rounds.”

“All right then,” the pastor said as he slid a straight chair from the corner of the room over to the side of the bed and made himself comfortable. “Looks like your getting chemotherapy in that I.V. What kind of cancer is it?”

“The kind that’s going to kill me in a few months. If not sooner,” he said matter-of-factly. “I think I’m just going to tell them to disconnect me so that I can go home and die quietly. What do you think about that idea, Pastor O’Grady?”

“I think that whether or not to continue treatment is your choice entirely,” the pastor responded with equal candor. “If the treatment is not going to provide a cure, but merely extend the amount of time you have left, you need to evaluate whether the extra time is worth it. Do you have a family, Mr. Kelley?”

“No, Pastor, I don’t,” he said softly.

“No wife or children?” Pastor O’Grady pushed gently.

“Not a soul,” he said, looking down at the plain gold wedding band on the pastor’s left hand. “I used to have a ring just like that one. I wore it for many years after my wife left me.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh, let’s see . . . ” his voice trailed off and he looked back toward the window as he considered his response. “It was in 1973. So it’s been thirty-five years.” He nodded silently as he turned to again face the pastor. “Thirty-five years, Pastor.”

“A long time indeed,” the other man said thoughtfully. “By the way, why don’t you call me ‘Kevin’? We don’t need formalities. Is it all right if I call you ‘Jacob’?”

“Just Jake will do,” he replied. “‘Kevin,’ huh? With a name like Kevin O’Grady, how come you’re not a Catholic?”

“Because I converted from Catholicism when I decided to enter seminary,” Kevin explained. “I was raised in the Catholic church and most of my family members are still practicing Roman Catholics. I wanted very much to enter the ministry, but I had some theological disagreements with the Church, the primary one being celibacy. When I began dating my wife in college, she was a Methodist. I visited her congregation, met with her pastor, and things just fell into place. I realized that I was called to serve, but as a Protestant pastor.”

“I bet that was a big hit with your folks,” Jake teased.

“Not,” Kevin recalled, smiling wistfully. “But they got over it and even visit my parish from time to time.”

“A happy ending then,” Jake noted. “Good for you.”

“So, Jake, how can I help you? What would you like to talk about . . . your treatment options? Or your faith . . . ? Nothing is off-limits.” Jake was warming up to the minister.

“You seem like a straight-up guy, Kevin, so I’m going to tell you straight-up that I don’t have any faith. I haven’t been a believer in your God for a long time now,” Jake explained. “And I don’t think I’m about to start believing in him now, especially considering that he hasn’t given me much more time.”

Kevin smiled slightly, but let Jake continue.

“The reason I wanted to see you today was this. I’ve got some questions. Do you have any answers?” Jake challenged him, squinting his eyes to study the pastor’s face carefully.

“Well, I’ll give it my best shot. Hit me with the first question and we’ll go from there,” Kevin said without flinching, as he met Jake’s gaze head-on. In his twenty-two year career as a minister, he had encountered many people whose circumstances were akin to Jake’s. But he never grew tired of hearing their stories, each unique but always leading up to similar inquiries to which he was well-equipped and prepared to respond.

“I tried to find her, Kevin. I tried for years. I spent every cent I earned on private detectives and none of them could ever find a trace of either one of them. I wanted to make things right . . . I planned to, but she didn’t give me a chance. Finally, I had to give up searching for them because every investigator told me the same thing — that it was hopeless. So now . . . ” he turned his face back toward the window as his voice broke, determined not to let Kevin see the tears forming.

“I take it you’re taking about your wife . . . and there was also a child?” Kevin queried.

“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “We had a son. She took him and left me when the boy was five years old.” The two men sat in silence for a few moments as Kevin allowed him to regain his composure.

“We were living in San Francisco. Doing real well for ourselves. I have a construction company and I was making some real good money,” Jake explained. “Got a house, had a lot of projects going, the boy was going to start kindergarten that fall. But I got too full of myself. You know?”

Kevin nodded sympathetically as he continued listening to Jake’s story.

“I started drinking too much,” Jake added. “I had a little money, beautiful wife, handsome boy. I thought I had the world by the tail . . . I was invincible. So I started stopping in at the neighborhood bar after work a little too often. I told myself it was for business. Making contacts. And that was true to some degree, but that wasn’t all of it, of course.”

“Were there other women?” Kevin asked without emotion.

“A couple, but that wasn’t really the problem,” Jake admitted. “I loved her. God knows I loved that woman. So much that there has never been a woman since. Thirty-five years . . . never remarried. Never even lived with another one. I couldn’t. She was the only one I loved. But . . . ”

“Why did she leave, Jake? Did she find out about those other women?” Kevin adeptly urged Jake to continue.

“No, that wasn’t it,” Jake replied quietly. “It was something else. Something I’m not proud of.” He sat up straighter in the hospital bed and let his head fall forward onto his chest, closing his eyes.

Kevin again waited patiently, allowing Jake to tell his story in his own time and manner.

Without looking up or opening his eyes, Jake said, “I hit her.”

“I see. How many times?”

“I don’t know. It went on for awhile. Until one day, she left . . . and never came back.” Jake looked up and allowed Kevin to see that tears were streaming down his cheeks. “That next morning I was going to tell her how sorry I was and that I was going to get help. I knew I had a problem and I was ready to face up to it. We had a wonderful night and I made up my mind that in the morning, I was going to tell her everything . . . how much she and Timmy meant to me. I was going to ask her to help me find a place to get help. But I never got the chance.”

“That was the day she left?” Kevin pushed.

“It was Christmastime. We hadn’t been working much because it was a real rainy year. I’d been spending way too much time in the bar with my employees. A couple of weeks earlier, we had a big fight about it. She was upset that I wasn’t spending much time at home — and she was right about everything. Anyway, the first time it happened was when she was pregnant. I pushed her. I didn’t hurt her that time, but it seemed like after that, every time we had an argument, I put my hands on her.”

“So things escalated over the years?” the pastor encouraged him to tell the whole story.

“Yeah. I shoved her a few times. She would push my buttons and, especially after a few drinks, I would shove her out of the way and storm out of the house. I’d stay gone for awhile, sober up, come home. I’d apologize and we’d make up. You know?” he looked at Kevin, who nodded knowingly.

“Then one day, when Timmy was a baby, she made me so mad that I slapped her across the face. I put a welt on her cheek with my big ol’ rough hand . . . oh, God, I felt terrible,” his voice broke again. After a few seconds, he said, “You know, Kevin, I’m telling you things today that I have never told another living soul. Ever. I’ve never talked about any of this to anyone before.”

“How does it feel to finally tell someone?” Kevin inquired gently.

“I’m not sure yet. I’ve carried this stuff around in my own head for so many years that it almost sounds like someone else is talking, you know?”

“Yeah. Actually, people have told me that before. I think it’s a pretty common reaction after having carried a secret around with you for so long,” Kevin explained. “Would you like to keep talking or prefer that I come back tomorrow?”

“We haven’t even gotten to my questions yet,” Jake reminded him. “Do you have to be somewhere else?”

“No, I don’t, Jake,” Kevin responded. “Tell me how you ended up spending the last thirty-five years alone.”

Click here to read the conclusion.

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“What? Who?” Karen shrieked through a loud yawn. “Oh, man, I really wanted to get through the summer without going to a another freakin’ funeral!”

“Huh? No, no . . . nobody died.”

“Then what are you talking about?” Karen mumbled, still half-asleep.

“You obviously haven’t read today’s newspaper yet,” she replied. “Go get it. Look at the ‘Birth Announcements’ on page eight. I’ll get another cup of coffee while you do.”

“Oh, all right,” Karen responded, stretching and yawning again. “Be right back.” She placed the telephone receiver on the kitchen table and stumbled toward the front door to retrieve the morning edition of the local newspaper from the step.

In the meantime, her best friend of more than forty years cradled her cordless telephone on her shoulder as she moved toward the counter of her spacious, sunny kitchen and poured herself a second cup of coffee. Every morning, she arose early — sometimes before dawn — and read the local newspaper as she enjoyed freshly brewed coffee and her only dietary indulgence, a single cake donut. Sleep never came easy or lasted more than a couple of hours, so she consoled herself by enjoying the stillness of those fleeting morning hours, frequently lingering in her kitchen. She was determined to complete the crossword puzzle published in the local newspaper each day as she talked on the telephone with friends living throughout the United States and in several European countries, many of whom she accumulated during her successful corporate career. Two years ago, she retired — on the eve of her fiftieth birthday — and returned to her home town where she purchased and renovated the largest home in the small city and settled into a daily routine interrupted only by the several trips she took throughout the year. She enjoyed telling friends about her upcoming “vacations from my retirement!”

She heard Karen open the back door, call “Good morning, ladies!” to her two elderly neighbors who went for a walk every morning promptly at six o’clock, and then shuffle back toward the receiver. As she listened to the familiar sound of her friend’s slippers scraping the tiled kitchen floor, she smiled and mumbled to herself, “I’ve got to buy that woman a decent pair of slippers for Christmas this year.” Karen’s well-worn, but beloved, fuzzy Garfield the cat slippers had long been a source of good-natured derision.

“O.K., let me see here . . .” Karen mumbled as she flipped to page eight of the Village Enterprise. “Hmmm . . . oh, my god. I don’t believe it.”

“That’s number five,” she deadpanned.

“Wait a minute,” Karen said quietly. “The name . . . ”

“Yeah,” she said. “How ’bout that?”

“That’s the same last name she had last time, but what the . . .” Karen’s voice trailed off as she reread the announcement. “It’s a different father.”

“Sure is,” she replied, her voice still devoid of emotion. “Check out the list of the other children. Four others and a combined total of three different last names between the five of them.”

“Holy schmoly,” Karen whispered. “Father’s Day must be fun. How old is this girl, anyway?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly, but according to my calculations, she can’t be more than twenty-three,” she responded. “Let’s say she’s twenty-five. Five kids by the time you’re twenty-five years old — with three different fathers — makes for an extremely difficult life unless your last name is Trump or Hilton . . . or one of the fathers is Brad Pitt.”

“I’m stunned. It seems like the last birth announcement was just a few months ago,” Karen said quietly.

“I know. I don’t think it was even a year ago,” she sighed. “And there’s his name. He’s listed again as one of the ‘proud grandparents.’”

“The joys of small-town life . . . your personal business published for the whole village to gossip about,” Karen observed.

“How does the newspaper get this information?” she asked, sipping her coffee.

“Well, as I remember it, there was a hospital volunteer who came to my room and went over all of the relevant information with me. I remember that she asked my parents’ names, and the names of Samuel’s parents. I thought it was for the birth certificate, but the Enterprise published one of these announcements when Alex was born. So I think the hospital forwards the details to the newspaper,” Karen explained.

“But there are a couple photos of other babies included in this article,” she pointed out. “Those pictures had to have been submitted by the family.”

“True,” Karen acknowledged.

After a few moments of silence on the telephone line, Karen said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, how do you feel about this?” she probed.

“Lucky,” she declared, a distinct hint of sadness in her voice. “I just can’t imagine trying to take care of all those kids. When I was that age, I couldn’t even walk and chew gum yet.”

“Baloney,” Karen chided. “When you were that age, you were in graduate school, working two — or was it three? — part-time jobs and juggling at least as many men, as I remember it. Including one professor.”

“Do you realize that by the time he and I were that age, it was already over? I was wearing bell bottoms the night we broke up. I had been disco dancing with Dave the night before. It’s beyond ancient history, girlfriend. According to this blurb, he’s still married to the Mrs. and they are the ‘proud grandparents’ of the five little rugrats. I’ll bet the little Mrs. is helping raise them and he’s providing financial support. Their house,” she added cynically, “is undoubtedly child-proofed.”

“Remember the question I asked you a few weeks ago?” Karen asked gently.

“Yeah, I remember,” she said evasively. “Well, I’d better let you get ready for work. And I have a ton of errands to run today. I’m leaving on Sunday, remember?”

“I have it on my calendar. Shall we have brunch before we head to the airport?” Karen queried.

“Sounds great. Bring Sam and Alex. My treat,” she responded, her tone brightening.

“They’re going fishing with a couple of Sam’s buddies from work, so it will have to be just us girls,” Karen explained.

“Excellent! You pick the place. My plane leaves at 3:00 p.m., so we’ll have plenty of time to linger over our mimosas,” she responded.

“All right,” Karen replied. “It is getting late, so I’d better run.” She paused for a moment. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything,” she answered. “You know that.”

“Answer the question,” Karen urged.

She swallowed the last lukewarm drop of coffee from her cup and took a deep breath. “You’re not going to be happy until I do, are you?”

“Nope. I really want to know what you believe, deep down inside in that dark, vulnerable little corner of your heart that you have convinced everyone else has no address,” Karen prodded.

“Fine. But you have to do me a favor,” she bartered.

“Name it.”

“You have to promise me that we will not speak of this again. I will answer the question — once — but then that’s the end of it. Talking about it incessantly is pointless. The past is . . . well, the past. We can’t change history. No matter how much we might wish we could.” She instantly regretted saying that, but it slipped out before she could stop herself.

“I promise. I will never ask again,” Karen swore solemnly.

“All right then.” She sat up straight and drew a long, focused breath through her nostrils as she pursed her lips and chose her words carefully. “The answer is ‘yes.’ I believe in my — what did you call it?”

“The dark, vulnerable little corner of your heart that everyone else thinks has no address,” Karen reminded her playfully.

“Yeah. Whatever,” she rolled her eyes. “I believe that he would have had a better life if he had chosen me. There. I said it. Out loud. I believe that all the way to the dark, vulnerable little corner of my soul, not just my heart. If he had loved me even half as much as I loved him, it would have been enough for me. I would have married him, given birth to all the little crumb-crunchers he wanted, and I’d be chasing all those grandkids around with him right now.”

“But, Karen,” she continued pointedly, “he didn’t love me, did he? So this is an entirely academic exercise. I haven’t seen him in nearly thirty years, so I have no way of knowing whether he’s happy or not. He might be flippin’ ecstatic every minute of every day, for all I know. I can’t judge the quality of someone else’s life, even though I am completely convinced that, under my value system, we would have had a fabulous life together. And I, naturally, enjoy imagining that he’s completely miserable.”

Karen snorted, but did not interrupt.

“But . . . ” she let her voice trail off and paused for a moment as she considered her words carefully. His house is undoubtedly child-proofed and he’s probably lost more than a few nights’ sleep about his daughter’s circumstances. I, in contrast, am enjoying my hard-earned retirement, my investment accounts are doing quite nicely in spite of the current economic climate, there is no spit-up or drool on my new living room furniture — which, by the way, you still haven’t come over to see — and I have to get to the travel agency and pick up my tickets and itinerary this morning. I don’t think about him . . . except when I pick up the newspaper and see another one of these silly announcements. O.K.? Satisfied?”

“O.K., girlfriend,” Karen replied softly. She glanced up at the clock. “Oh, geez, I really do have to get Alex ready for school now. I’ll see you Sunday.”

“You’ve got it,” she said cheerily.

She hung up the phone, walked back to the counter and poured herself a third cup of coffee. Then she paused in the doorway, perusing the elegant dining room adjacent to the kitchen and, beyond it, professionally redecorated living room where she frequently entertained guests. She turned, walked out the back door and sat down on the pristine patio. The sun was shining brightly now as she waved to the young man who had just come through the gate to perform his twice-weekly maintenance ritual. “It’s going to be a hot one today, so I got an early start. Figured you might want to spend some time in the pool this afternoon,” he called to her.

“You bet I do,” she agreed, pulling her feet up onto the chaise lounge. She leaned back, stretched out comfortably, and closed her eyes.

As always, it was his face she saw in her mind’s eye as she drifted into an early morning poolside nap. In the dark, hidden-away, vulnerable corner of her heart where her feelings for and memories of him remained hidden away, he was still the handsome, twenty-something young man who walked out of her life that night so many years earlier, rather than a fifty-something grandfather of five. And he always would be.

Inspired by A Thousand Words: Prompt Number Eight

Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them: Top 5 Picks as chosen by the August 15, 2008 WOOF Contest contestants.

About Writing:

• Writing Nag - 5 Ways to Face Down Rejection

Poetry:

• Robert Bourne - Hope
• Jennifer M. Scott - Waiting for September

Fiction:

• Jenn - The Birth Announcement

Prose/Non-Fiction

• Mike Fried - There’s No Business Like Law Business

Brought to You by Plotdog Press with Shattered Heart (Richard’s Backstory) First Draft Novel Intervention

Other August 15, 2008 Contestants:

Poetry

• Kayla - Purification Party
• Charles Sapp II - Why I Write
• exquisite corpse - Midnight Shadows
• Jennifer M. Scott - Crude Canvas
• Jennifer M. Scott - Déjà Vu
• Jennifer M Scott - Haiku Series #13

Fiction

• Shiva Nagri - Prime – Chapter 14
• Jennifer M. Scott - Kaylena

Prose/Non-Fiction

• Mike Fried - I’m Drawing A Blank

About Writing

• Joelle Anthony - Writing and Music - Part Two

Want to participate in the next WOOF? The next contest ends August 22, 2008. Submit a link to your best writing of the past two weeks using the form at the bottom of this page.

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• What Friends Do (7)
• The Pseudonym (7)
• The Drawing (7)
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Welcome to the Just Write Blog Carnival, featuring a diverse and information-packed collection of articles about the various aspects of writing. Be sure to convey your appreciation to the participants by joining in the discussion at their respective sites and submitting their work to your favorite social networking groups. Enjoy!

Book Reviews

Christina M. Rau presents Chris Martin The Thief posted at Livin’ The Dream (One Loser at a Time), which she describes as a “good book with a kitschy cover.”

Alessandra presents Book Review: Lock and Key posted at Out of the Blue, exploring the themes of family and change.

Encouragement for Writers

JHS, Esq. presents If a writer writes . . . posted at Colloquium.

Toni presents These hands were made for writing posted at Wifely Steps. She believes that “typing your thoughts out is great, but writing your thoughts out by hand is best.”

Mark David Gerson presents The Voice of Your Muse: Birthing a Book I posted at The Voice of Your Muse.

Freelance

Amy Munnell presents Website Wants You . . . to Write How-To posted at 3 Questions and Answers, a look at eHowcom and its call for writers of how-to articles.

Allison Nazarian presents Copywriting: What Is It and Why Should You Care? (Part 1 of 2) posted at CopywritingForVAs. “As a Virtual Assistant,” Allison writes, “understanding copywriting is important for two key reasons: You need to promote your Virtual Assistant business, and, ideally, be able to write effective copy for your own website, brochure, and other marketing materials.”

Laurie Pawlik-Kienlen presents Pitching Your Freelance Article to Magazines: How to Sell What You Write posted at Quips and Tips for Freelance Writers, offering seven tips on pitching articles to editors, plus a very short example of a professional query letter.

Sharon Hurley Hall presents Are You Invisible? posted at Get Paid to Write Online. According to Sharon, “finding success as a freelance writer is about many things: writing skills, communication skills, punctuality and much more. But none of that will do you a bit of good if clients can’t find you.”

Love Affair With Words

Jim Murdoch presents The Joy of Libraries posted at The Truth About Lies, a humorous look at the changing place of libraries in our lives.

Brian Jay Stanley presents The Melodrama of Young Writers posted at Aphorisms and Paradoxes.

Poetry

Patricia Twitchell presents The Adventures of Penny Pincher: Penny Pincher Helps Patricia with Her Gardening posted at Just Bears and Stuff. Patricia loves to spend time in her garden. She spends a lot of time planting colorful and fragrant flowers, and people passing by admire the beautiful garden. Read about how Penny Pincher helps Patricia.

Ella Moss presents Of God and Her posted at Zodiac Times that she describes as “a little gem — enjoyable and inspiring.”

Publishing

Riley presents Interview With an Editor posted at All Rileyed Up, a discussion with a literary journal editor.

GrrlScientist presents Harry Potter’s The Tales of Beedle the Bard to be Published posted at Living the Scientific Life. The Tales of Beedle the Bard was first mentioned in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Now it is being published December 4, 2008 — just in time for the holiday gift-giving.

The Writing Life

Stephen presents MMA - The Ultimate Reality TV posted at MMA Bulletin.

Heather Johnson presents Guest Post: Improve Your Reading Habits posted at Dallas Woodburn’s Writing Life.

Janice Campbell presents Writing Evaluator Member of the Month- Troy Howell posted at NAIWE NewsWire. In this interview with freelance writer Troy Howell, readers get a glimpse into the life of a freelance writer from the perspective of a more than twenty-five year veteran writing, illustrator, and manuscript evaluator. Even with all he has accomplished, Howell is still, according to Janice, “growing, changing, and adapting.

Tracy Cooper-Posey presents Is It Worth Getting An Agent? - Foundation Series posted at Anchored Authors.

Amy Munnell presents Interview . . . with journalist/novelist Janice Harayda posted at 3 Questions and Answers. Harayda reveals how she juggles her job as a book critic and her life as a novelist.

Writing Mechanics

Jim Murdoch presents Poetry and art (part one) posted at The Truth About Lies, the first of a three-part series of articles.

Amy Munnell presents Virtual Book Tour . . . author Bill Frederick posted at 3 Questions and Answers. The author answers questions from readers about his new book, virtual book tours, and e-book publishing.

Writing Resources

Fiona King presents 50 Must-Have Firefox Extensions for Writers posted at Best Colleges Online.

Kathleen Gage presents Attention Authors! Sell Lots of Books with Teleseminars! posted at Street Smarts Marketing & Promotions. Authors dream of selling lots of books, becoming well known — achieving celebrity status — and earning a fortune. But most will never succeed because they do not know how to develop and implement an effective publicity plan. This article describes an effective marketing strategy.

Writing Tips

mediamonkey presents How to write a bibliography: Bibliography tips posted at How to: Tips and Tricks, a step by step guide.

KD Choi presents Say It Ain’t So: Grammar Rules You Can Break posted at Miss Write.

debergerac78 presents Editing for Money III - oDesk Insider posted at oDesk Insider, noting that “successful editing means bridging the gap between what your employer wants and what you feel the target audience needs.”

Steve Osborne presents Walk Your Way to Better Writing posted at The Writers Bag com.

Erin Straza presents writers bloc: Getting My Welcome Mats in a Row (i.e., How to Create a Writer’s Reference System) posted at Filling My Patch of Sky.

Amy Munnell presents Want to Write Full Time? 3 Questions You Need to Answer posted at 3 Questions and Answers, offering “tips for a successful transition from a part-time to full-time writing career.”

A big “thank you” goes to all the writers who participated in this wonderful edition!

If you would like to submit an article for next week’s edition or peruse the carnival archive, click here.

Interested in hosting a future edition? Send a message to Missy!

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Chloe could not remember a time in her life when she had not known Susan. They met when Susan’s family moved into the house down the street from her family home in the summer of 1974. They were both three years old and immediately became fast friends. They attended the same local public schools until they selected different colleges and found themselves separated for the first time in their lives. They remained close, though, visiting each others’ campuses on weekends and spending breaks together back in their home town. When Susan married, she served as the maid of honor and was thrilled when Susan asked her to be the godmother to both of her children. And when she divorced, Susan moved back to their home town to raise her daughters in close proximity to her large family.

Chloe dropped out of college during their junior year and, although she attempted several times to resume her studies as a night student at the local university, she had yet to remain enrolled for a full semester. A series of jobs, most of which paid little more than minimum wage, had culminated with her current employment as a clerk in the mall’s music store. Unfortunately, her fellow employees were all much younger and more knowledgeable about the customers’ tastes so she had yet to reach her quarterly sales quota. In fact, during her first three quarters of employment, she had not even come close to meeting the store’s goal and was sure that this quarter would be her last in the music business which only intensified her stress and anxiety.

As Susan reached her and they silently hugged each other, she was, as always, thankful for her ever-supportive friend.

“I’m glad you could meet me,” Chloe said.

“Me, too,” Susan smiled. “Fortunately, I had time this morning since I hadn’t planned to volunteer in Jacob’s classroom today. They’re working on art projects today, so Sarah’s mom is assisting.”

“The usual?” Susan asked.

“Please,” Chloe responded, handing a five dollar bill to her friend. “I see one empty table. Why don’t I grab it while you order?”

“Sure,” Susan agreed, taking her place in the short line leading up to the counter. As she waited to order two cappuccinos, she thought about how many times over the years, she had agreed to similar meetings with her good friend. The news delivered over cappuccino was never good: Another job lost, a relationship breaking up, a relapse . . . She had a good idea what Chloe would tell her this morning. The moment she’d seen her, she recognized the familiar signs.

As she arrived at the table, the bags under Chloe’s eyes were readily evident. Setting the cups on the table, she sat down and removed her coat. The pattern was well-established. They would make small talk for a few minutes, during which the details of Chloe’s latest crisis would become evident.

“How’s the music business?” Susan asked cheerily.

“Still not going so well. I just don’t know enough about what’s popular now. I try to keep up with it, but there are so many different kinds of groups,” Chloe explained. “It seems like just when I figure out what’s hip, it’s not. Those young kids I work with are totally clued in, so they swoop down on customers when they come in and I don’t have a chance. They send me the customers who come in to shop for ‘oldies’ from the ’80’s and ’90’s. Of course, most of those people don’t shop in the mall. I’ll never make my quota this quarter, either, so I’m pretty sure they’re going to fire me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Susan said genuinely. “And Craig?”

Her query was met with silence as Chloe studied the now half-empty cup.

“I take it things are going so well with Craig, either,” Susan said softly.

Chloe took a long, slow breath and looked up into her eyes. “As of this morning — about two hours ago, to be exact — there is no more Craig.”

“What happened?”

“When I got up this morning, he was packing. He said he just can’t handle it any longer and he’s moving out. He took most of his clothes and personal items. He plans to come by this weekend and pick up his furniture.”

“I thought the lease was in his name,” Susan asked.

“It is. He’s going to talk to the landlord about transferring it into my name. Of course, they’re not going to agree to that when they see my credit history. Even if they do, if I get fired, I won’t be able to afford the rent.”

“So what are you going to do?” Susan inquired gently.

“I don’t know.”

“Hhhmmm,” Susan nodded. “What is it that Craig ‘can’t handle any longer’?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer. When Chloe did not respond immediately, she added, “You’ve relapsed,” matter-of-factly.

“Yup,” her friend confirmed without emotion.

“I see,” Susan replied. “How long ago?”

“It’s been about . . . oh, four or five months, I guess.”

“How bad?” Susan probed.

“Pretty bad,” Chloe said evasively.

“Where?” Susan pushed. “Arms? Legs?”

“Yeah,” Chloe acknowledged. “A couple of new places, too.”

“Where?” Susan continued the familiar pattern of questioning.

“Upper thighs, on the inside. Abdomen.”

“Does your mother know?”

“No. I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks. I didn’t feel up to it,” Chloe explained.

“Any infection?” Susan knew that she would have to take Chloe to be examined. Over time, her relapses had been increasingly serious, as evidenced by more numerous and progressively deeper cuts on wider areas of her body, some of which became infected because, rather than letting them heal, she compulsively re-opened the wounds.

“I’m pretty sure that a couple on my upper right thigh are infected because the seams of my pants rub on them,” Chloe declared with shockingly little inflection.

“O.K., then we need to formulate a plan,” Susan resolved, pushing her empty cup toward the middle of the table.

Chloe friend rested her chin on the palm of her left hand and stared vacantly at the table. “I thought I could do it this time. I really did. Things were going so well with Craig. I agreed to move in with him because I thought he was the one.”

“I’m going to call Suzanne and arrange for her to pick the kids up from school today. Then we’re going to the doctor. You have your group health insurance coverage through the store, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then we’ll get those cuts taken care of and talk to the doctor about getting you into the inpatient program,” Susan said in her usual take-charge manner. “You have to go back into treatment.”

“Do I have to?” Chloe asked.

“You already know the answer,” Susan said calmly. “That’s why you called me. We’ll also ask the doctor to send the necessary paperwork to the store so that you can begin a medical leave of absence. Now what about your mother? Do you want me to call her?”

“No, not yet. She’ll come rushing over and want to go with us to see the doctor. I can’t deal with that,” Chloe said without meeting her eyes, as she continued leaning on her elbow. “Not yet anyway.”

“All right. We’ll deal with Mom later. Let’s get going then,” Susan said, standing and putting her coat back on.

“Susan,” Chloe inquired, still seated and continuing to stare at the table, “you knew what I was going to say before you got here today, didn’t you? You always do.”

“Yes, hon, I did,” Susan confirmed gently. “I hoped things would work out with Craig. I’m really sorry that they didn’t. But he’s obviously not the one. If he were, he would have called me before things got so out of control again and he’d be here with us now instead of wherever he is. So screw him. You don’t need him. Good riddance. Come on now. We’ve got things to do.”

“One more question.”

“Shoot.”

“How many more times? I’m so tired of doing this. How many more times are we going to do this?” Chloe asked, her voice breaking.

Susan walked over to the other side of the table, knelt down, and put her hand on Chloe’s right arm. “This is the last time. I believe that. If you believe that — really reach down into your soul and believe that — it can be. Now come on. You’ve got some serious work ahead of you.”

“Sus, I’m sorry,” Chloe whispered tearfully. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, hon,” Susan assured her. “I’m your friend. This is just what friends do. I’m glad you called me. Let’s get going.”

Her friend rose, put on her coat, and walked arm in arm with her one true friend out of the mall.

Inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt: “Do I have to?” and A Thousand Words: Prompt Number Six.
Included in the Best of Me Symphony at Dodgeblogium

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Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them: Top 5 Picks as chosen by the August 8, 2008 WOOF Contest contestants.

Fiction:

• Penelope Anne Bartotto - I’ll Always Hold Your Hand
• Jennifer M. Scott - Her Breasts
• Jenn - What Friends Do

About Writing:

• JHS, Esq. - If a writer writes . . .

Poetry:

• Jennifer M Scott - 100 Years from Now

Brought to You by Plotdog Press with More than your normal excitement about writing.

You Might Also Enjoy:

• The Wicker Chair (8)
• The Pseudonym (7)
• The Drawing (7)
• Still Holding Her Hand (8)
• An Unexpected Independence Day Celebration (8)

He took a deep breath and considered his response. He resisted the urge to be flippant, recognizing that sarcasm, at this particular moment in time, would only further upset her. Without turning to look at her, he took her hand firmly in his and squeezed it reassuringly.

“We’re doing this because we love each other,” he whispered calmly and resolutely. “I’m right here beside you, you look beautiful, all of our family and friends are here . . . ” he let his voice trail off, afraid that reminding her of all the people gathered on the lawn just a few yards outside the vestibule in which they were standing might set her off. After a brief pause, during which he could hear her breathing remain somewhat shallow, but steady, he continued. “Look at the sky. And the water. It’s a perfect day. Just for us.”

“I love you. You know that. We don’t need to do this, though,” she said quietly, her teeth slightly quenched. “We could go upstairs and change. And then come back down and just have a big party.”

“We could,” he said slowly and deliberately, continuing to hold her hand tightly. “But that’s not what we really want.”

Silence.

“Sweetie?” he began softly. “Are you o.k.?”

“No,” she replied tersely.

“Tell me what you need,” he urged.

“I need you to tell me why we’re doing this,” she said, the pitch of her voice rising slightly. “I swore I would never do this! And now here I am in this ridiculous dress, holding these silly flowers, and all those people out there are going to watch me make a complete fool of myself. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. What was I thinking?”

He heard her breathing slightly faster, the panic manifested in her voice.

“Deep breaths, baby,” he comforted. “Deep breaths. A couple of them. Come on now . . . ” They breathed in tandom for a few seconds, drawing the fresh but salty sea air deep into their lungs and holding it momentarily before exhaling. “See?”

“O.K., I feel a little bit better,” she said, squeezing his hand as she locked her fingers a little more tightly around it.

Just then, their best friend, Gary, came striding across the lawn toward them. “We’ll be ready to start in just a couple of minutes,” he announced. “How are you guys doing?” he asked gently. “Ready?”

“No,” she blurted. “No, I’m not ready. I don’t want to do this. Gary, can you go tell everyone that there’s going to be a delay. We’re going to go back up to our room and change.”

With that, she turned and started back toward the hotel lobby, but he refused to relinquish his grip on her hand, forcing her to remain.

“Let go of me!” she demanded in a hushed tone.

“Gary, give us a few minutes, please,” he implored his friend. Gary smiled knowingly, nodded in agreement, and gave his lifelong friend a confident pat on the shoulder before turning back toward the lush green lawn where the guests were gathered. “No problem, bro. I’ll check back in five or so.”

“I changed my mind,” she said, near tears. “I just can’t do this. I can’t believe I let things get this far . . . I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mumbled as a single tear escaped her right eye.

He turned to face her, still holding her hand. “Listen to me, baby,” he said as he reached out with his left hand and wiped the tear from her cheek. “It’s just nerves. We’ve been over this a thousand times. You’re just reacting to seeing everyone gathered out on the lawn . . . that makes me nervous, too. But you’re going to be just fine as soon as we get out there and start the ceremony.”

She looked intently into his deep-set brown eyes.

“It’s just nerves,” he whispered again as he kissed her softly and then pressed his forehead to hers. “You’ll see. I’m right here and I’m going to stay right beside you. I’m not letting you go,” he reassured her, again squeezing her hand. “I swear to you, I won’t let go even for a second. Not even when I put the ring on your finger. I will be holding your hand the whole time.”

“We’re happy,” she said quietly, her eyes closed. She put her right arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer to her, resting her bouquet on the back of his jacket as she continued clutching it with her right hand. “What if this ruins everything? We’re so good together, just as we are.”

“We’re still going to be great together, honey,” he said. “That’s never going to change. Things are only going to get better . . . you trust me, right?”

She pulled away slightly, opened her eyes and studied his face as he gazed lovingly at her. “I will never understand why you want this so badly,” she pondered softly. “Or why you even put up with me.”

“I want you,” he replied.

“You already have me.”

He smiled and shook his head in amazement as he reached into the pocket of his jacket with his left hand, retrieved his handkerchief, and softly dabbed a lingering tear from her cheek.

“Most men get dragged down the aisle kicking and screaming making ball and chain jokes. Not me! I had to fall in love with the one woman in America who makes me drag her down the aisle. What were the odds?”

“I told you on our first date that I was never getting married. It’s an archaic, ridiculous ritual, and I can’t believe I ever let you talk me into this,” she continued to protest. “You reminded Gary that he is not to say that nonsense at the end of the ceremony, right? If he calls us ‘Mr. and Mrs.,’ I swear I’ll slug him.”

He chuckled. “Gary knows exactly what to say. ‘Mrs.’ will not cross his lips.”

“You gave him your statement, right?”

“I sure did. I printed it out and handed it to him just a little while ago. He put it in his pocket, just in case I need a cheat sheet. But I won’t. I know exactly what I’m going to say to you,” he kissed her lightly again. “I’m going to tell you how much I love you and how happy you make me. Right there in front of everyone. And I might just kiss you before Gary gives us the go-ahead because you look so beautiful today that I might not be able to control myself. Have I told you how beautiful you look?”

Looking into his eyes, she felt herself relaxing, the panic subsiding. He had succeeded in disarming her fears, yet again. He was the only man she had ever trusted completely and with near-abandon. When she met him, she knew instinctively that she would spend the rest of her life with him and, in the five ensuing years, surprised herself more times than she could recount with her willingness to compromise or accede entirely to his desires. Never one to compromise or surrender, she was continuously amazed anew at her concern for his happiness and the pleasure she derived from seeing him contented.

“You’ve told me, but you can keep telling me,” she teased. “I’m sure I’m going to need to hear that a lot in the coming months as I expand.” She puffed out her cheeks and rolled her eyes.

He placed his left hand on her stomach lovingly. “We’re going to be a family, baby. A real family. Just like we’ve wanted to be.”

“Looks a bit calmer over this way,” Gary chided as he rejoined them.

“So what do you think?” he asked her. “Are you ready now?” He waited patiently for her answer, never letting go of her left hand, his left resting easily on her still-flat belly.

“Hormones,” she declared, as she pulled away from him and turned to face Gary. “It was a hormonal moment. It passed.”

“Is that the story you’re sticking with?” Gary teased.

“You bet it is,” she replied, as he turned toward Gary, as well, their hands still intertwined.

“You two look like a million bucks,” Gary gushed. “Like two people meant for each other.”

“Three people,” he corrected. “Three people about to officially become a family.”

“If you’re ready, follow me. The sooner we start the ceremony, the sooner we can start the reception. And I’m planning on drinking her share of the champagne, since she can’t drink it.” Gary kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I love you guys. Let’s do this.”

He looked at her lovingly and winked as they took the first step toward the grassy lawn where all of their family and friends were waiting for them, still holding her hand just as he’d promised.

Inspired by A Thousand Words: Prompt Number Seven.

Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them: Top 5 Picks as chosen by the August 1, 2008 WOOF Contest contestants.

Poetry:

• Penelope Anne Bartotto - 100 Words ~ Pillar
• Robert Bourne - Rain on the window
• Jennifer M. Scott - Proximity

Fiction:

• Jenn - Still Holding Her Hand

About Writing:

• Kimota - What Kind of Writer Are You?

Brought to You by Plotdog Press Featuring: A Novel Approach Series - Draft Novel - Intervention Chapter 2

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Welcome to the July Bookworms Carnival, the monthly event that strives to build and unit