Blue Heart Blessed (8 page)

S
aturdays at Something Blue are usually the busiest days of the week no matter what time of year it is. It’s the only day I rely on additional help on the sales floor. Mom and L’Raine take Saturdays off—they’d be on their feet the whole day if they didn’t, and they usually spend it golfing, shopping and looking for eligible bachelors to fix me up with.

Three college students pretty much run the show on Saturdays. It works out great for them since they aren’t in classes on Saturdays and they can arrange the hours so that there are always at least two of them on the floor from nine a.m. to nine p.m. I give them a modest commission, too, which keeps them lively, on their toes and not buried in a textbook behind the cash register.

This allows me a day off, too. I don’t take every Saturday off, but once or twice a month I like to pretend I’m not a slave to the retail taskmaster.

And I usually begin it with coffee on the roof. In the summer, that is.

This morning I am wearing a faded Twins T-shirt and cut-offs made from sweat pants. My brownish, blondish hair is half in and half out of a copper-colored scrunchy. No make-up yet. Maybe not at all today. The sun is warm on my legs as I sit on one of the Adirondack chairs. The two chairs are the only structures on the roof besides a couple of ventilation thingies. At least that’s what I think they are. I don’t know. Mario takes care of all that.

But no one else really appreciates the roof like I do.

I suppose it’s because there’s not much to appreciate about it. Ours is by far not the tallest of buildings in Uptown, so the view is only adequate.

But there’s something about being above what normally defines my day that appeals to me. It’s my way of rising above my circumstances. I like the feeling of being on top of it all— for a few moments, anyway. And only figuratively speaking, of course.

I won’t stay long this morning, just long enough to finish my mocha and order my thoughts. I’m still a little unsettled about what happened at Ping’s last night. And my confessions to Harriet afterward are also pinging around in my head. No pun intended.

Last night around midnight I took the advice Harriet didn’t give me and I slithered down to the chapel to lay bare my pathetic soul.

The truth is, I behaved badly at the restaurant. I behaved badly before we even left for the restaurant. I dismissed Marshall as if he were subhuman. Non-human. As if he were an hors d’oeuvre that I wasn’t even going to
try
to like. And then to get so uppity because Max and Mia were hitting it off so well.

I showed my true colors. Not a pretty picture.

Today would be a great day to sell that wedding dress. I’m feeling very unworthy of its ownership.

The hot coffee hits my tongue and stings a little.

It has just occurred to me that I have a new rule for my book,
Rules of Disengagement
. Beware of bitterness. It will creep up on you and inside you and pretty soon, before you even know it, it will seep out of you. Be on your guard. It wants you.

And you are in the very dangerous position of wanting to be wanted.

I probably won’t hear again from Marshall Mitchell—do I have that right?— but if I do, I will offer him an apology. I will tell him I was completely distracted by personal issues the night we met and didn’t realize how rudely I had behaved until it was too late and the evening was over. He will probably say, “Oh, don’t worry about it, really. Have you met my fiancée?”

Max surely has no idea the persnickety thoughts I had regarding his flirting with Mia, so I don’t owe him an outright apology, thank goodness.

I should probably apologize to my mother, though. She means well. And she wants for me what I want for me: a love that lasts a lifetime.

Now that I know the resentment monster resides just under my skin I’m going to try and kill it every chance I get. I hope I get some chances. I hope I recognize those chances when they come.

I think I’m going to have to pay a visit to Father Laurent today to make sure I know what to look for. Surely in his career as an Episcopal priest he pointed out opportunities to slay bitterness to people who couldn’t see past their injuries.

I take another sip of the mocha.

Not so hot this time.

A voice startles me and I turn toward the sound. My mother is poking her head out of the rooftop floor. She has not taken every step to the top. Just enough to allow her to see that I am here.

“Daisy, can I talk to you for a moment?”

I sit up in my chair. “Sure, Mom. I can come inside.”

“No, it’s all right. I can handle the roof for a few minutes.” She takes another tentative step and more of her body emerges from the building. Mom is not a big fan of heights.

“I don’t mind, Mom. Really. I can come inside.”

She is on the last step. “As long as I don’t think about where I am, I’m fine.” She steps onto the roof and propels her body forward across the pea gravel surface “See? I just pretend I’m at the playground.”

I smile and pat the chair next to me. “Okay, then. Have a seat.”

Mom closes the distance and then settles into the second Adirondack chair. “It’s a lovely morning.”

“Sure is.” The urge to apologize to her for being a spoiled brat last night is suddenly overwhelming. I say “Mom,” just as she says, “Daisy,” and we both smile.

“Let me go first, Mom. I’m sorry about my attitude last night. Really. I know you meant well. I didn’t mean to come off so unfriendly. I’m sure I disappointed you.”

“You didn’t disappoint me, Daisy. And it’s me who should be apologizing. I knew perfectly well you didn’t want me trying to find any more dates for you. And I went and did it anyway. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” I can’t help but smile.

“It really wasn’t supposed to be a date. It was supposed to be a chance to meet a nice single man under relatively casual circumstances.”

“Did he know that’s what you were doing? Creating a causal meeting ground for him to meet your daughter?”

“I never actually said that to him. We had started talking about mutual funds while we were waiting for golf carts and I just told him I was going to be seeing my son Friday night and that he knew all about investments.”

“And you didn’t tell him you had an unmarried daughter?”

“Well, I did kind of mention that, yes, but it was more like a passing comment to help create interest. I knew if he could get some investment advice
and
meet a nice, single Christian girl, he’d come. And I was right.”

“Except he didn’t meet a nice, single Christian girl,” I turn my head from her and sip my mocha.

“Oh yes, he did,” Mom says quickly. “He thought you were a lovely girl. He said you seemed sad, though.”

I turn back to look at her. “When did he say that?”

“After dinner. When we were all in the parking lot near the restaurant saying goodbye. You were talking to Laura.”

“He said I seemed sad?”

“Yes. And no, I didn’t tell him the reason you might have seemed that way. I just told him family gatherings make you think of Dad and that you still miss him.”

For a few seconds I am silent. Dad seemed achingly far from me last night when I was having my pity party with Harriet. “I was just thinking of Dad last night, after we got home,” I say a moment later.

“So I wasn’t exactly lying.”

“No. But I don’t want to seem sad anymore, Mom.” I look away from her.

“I don’t want you to either.”

“This is taking longer than I thought it would.”

“You were hurt, Daisy. Everyone heals at a pace of their own.”

I turn my head back. “Do you suppose Reuben ever got over you?”

Mom breaks into an easy smile. “Of course he did. He married someone else.”

“Yes, but did he love her like he loved you?”

Mom’s answer is quick. “I should hope not. He surely loved her in a completely different way for at least one very good reason. She loved
him
.”

We are quiet for a few minutes.

“I promise I won’t try and fix you up again, Daisy. If that’s really what you want,” Mom says.

Oh, I so want to laugh. She has no idea how the thought of having my broken heart “fixed up” appeals to me.
Fix
is an amazingly complete word for having just three letters. Gotta love that “X” at the end. It sounds so final. Repaired forevermore.

“Daisy, did you hear what I said?”

I turn to her. “Maybe we should just let it happen on its own.”

“If you let it, I’m sure it will.”

I sigh. A breath of resignation. “I promise I will try to let it.”

“That’s my good girl.”

Seconds of silence.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Max and Mia seemed to really enjoy each other’s company.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think they
…?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

Mom stands up. “Max was just being Max, Daisy. And Mia will be in Paris this time next year. They were just having fun, sweetheart. Something I worry that you’ve forgotten how to do.”

Okay, so there’s really nothing I can respond back with. My first thought is I can’t decide if Mom’s right or not. If she is, I’m pitiful. If she’s not, it still stands to reason that I come across as someone who doesn’t remember how to have fun.

Not much better.

My mother leans over to kiss me on my forehead. Her touch feels like solace. “Solomon’s looking for you.”

Solomon Gruder. Third-floor tenant. Retired violinist. Seventy-one-year-old widower.

“He’s too old for me.” I squint up at her.

See? I’ve not forgotten how to have fun.

Mom laughs. “He wants you play the piano for him. He’s playing at a wedding tomorrow afternoon and he says he needs to practice.”

Ugh. I love Solomon. I love hearing him play the violin. But I’m a poor accompanist. Dad was light-years better than me on the piano.

“There has to be someone he knows who plays the piano better than I do.”

“Daisy, you play very nicely. Besides, it’s just practice. It’s not like you’re recording an LP.”

“CD, Mom.”

“Whatever.”

She starts to walk away. “L’Raine and I are going golfing. And I won’t even
glance
at any of the men.”

“Yeah, and have you thought about how that has looked, Mom?” I call after her. “You and L’Raine ogling all the young single men on the golf course the last twelve months?”

She tosses her hand at me behind her back.

I do know how to have fun.

O
ne of the things I miss most about my dad is listening to him play the piano. My father had the rare ability to play anything by ear, even after hearing it only once. He had perfect pitch, too, and could transpose keys mid-song. He never seemed to be impressed with this ability. To him, being able to do such feats of musical magic was as natural as breathing. No one thinks much about their ability to breathe; they just do it. It’s when a person can’t breathe, that they suddenly realize they’d been doing something truly marvelous all along. And my dad never had a moment like that—a moment when he couldn’t make music. The morning of the day he died, Dad played all his Gershwin favorites. Then he had lunch. Then he had a heart attack.

He wanted to breathe, but his heart wouldn’t let him.

He was seventy years old.

Some people whispered at the funeral that Owen Murien had a good, long life and that it was a blessing to my mother that he went so quickly.

I wanted to yell back to them that my dad may have had a good life but it wasn’t a long one. He was only seventy—and I was only twenty-five.

Didn’t they know that my dad would never give me away at my wedding, that he would never hold a child of mine in his lap? That I was forever done with buying any greeting cards with the word “Dad” on them? That I would cease to address anyone with the word “Dad” forever after?

When I was dating Daniel, and especially during that memorable year when I was his fiancée, I was tremendously bothered that Daniel had never known my dad, that Daniel never had to decide if he was going to ask my dad for my hand in marriage because there was no dad to ask.

I wonder if he would’ve asked if he’d had the chance. I’ve on occasion tried to picture such a conversation.

Dad: “Daniel. Good to see you again. What’s on your mind, son?”

Daniel: “Well, Daisy wants us to get married.”

Dad (after a moment’s reflection): “And what do you want?”

Daniel: “Um, well, I guess it makes sense.”

Dad: “Does it?”

Daniel: “Doesn’t it?”

Dad: “Marriage isn’t about what makes sense, Daniel. It’s about what completes you. If you and Daisy complete each other, then marriage is not what makes sense. Marriage is that which seals what is already whole.”

Daniel: “You think?”

Solomon finds me on the stairs on my way back to my apartment. He is wearing his usual attire: twill pants, a Mr. Rogers sweater, loafers, plaid bow tie. He is holding sheet music in his hand. I see a lot of black squiggles on the paper. Lots of notes. Plenty of opportunities to really butcher a song.

“Daisy! There you are. I need you to practice this with me. I’m leaving in a little while to go watch my grandchildren play soccer so I haven’t much time.”

“Solomon, I’m not good enough to practice with you,” I begin, but he thrusts the music in front of me.

“Of course you are. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

I look down at the paper and moan.

Chopin
. “This looks hard.”

“Nonsense. I have all the hard notes. You’ll be fine.”

“Isn’t there someone else you can practice with? You must have friends who play better than me.”

“Yes, of course I do, but they don’t live in this building. You’re right here. It makes sense.”

Ah, yes. It makes sense.

“Your piano or mine?” I ask.

“Have you had yours tuned?”

Now there’s a reason my dad’s old upright hasn’t been tuned in four years. The last time he played it was the day he left Mom and me for glory. Figure it out for yourself. “No.”

“Mine, then.”

“Give me a minute or two, okay, Solomon? I need to run something by Father Laurent.” I start to move past Solomon to head up to Father Laurent’s apartment.

“He’s not there,” Solomon says. “He’s in the chapel.”

I stop, turn and start to go back down. “I won’t be long, Solomon, I promise. Ten minutes tops. Go rosin up your bow or whatever it is that you do.”

I am down the stairs and sneaking into Something Blue in mere seconds. I hope no one sees me. I don’t usually come onto the sales floor in cut-offs and a faded T-shirt. I open the door leading to the boutique and am relieved that Cassie, one of my student workers, hasn’t even unlocked the front door. It’s not quite nine o’clock yet.

“Hey!” Cassie is smiling, but an eyebrow is cocked. It’s one of my rules that my workers “dress up” when they’re on the sales floor.

“I won’t be here but a minute,” I call out to her as I head to the chapel door.

I open the door quickly but quietly and step inside, closing it behind me. Father Laurent is kneeling at the little altar with his hands folded in prayer. The morning sun is caressing the little red, blue and yellow stained glass window in front of him—a circle of skinny, crystal parallelograms all pointing toward the center—and the light that falls on Father Laurent hints of pink, candle flame and watery azure.

I slip into the back pew as quiet as I can. But he has heard me. He crosses himself and I hear him whisper “Amen.” Father Laurent takes his time getting to his feet. I wonder if I should assist him. By the time I decide I will, he is up. He turns to me.

“Good morning, Daisy.” He starts to walk toward me.

“Father, I didn’t mean to cut your prayer time short.”

“You didn’t. Liam is coming early today. We’re going to pick Ramsey up from the airport at ten-thirty.”

He is at my pew now.

“Do you need a ride?” I can’t imagine the Horn Blower taking them to the airport. And Father Laurent sold his car when he moved into the apartment.

“Max is taking us.”

Good ol’ Max.

Father Laurent starts to walk toward the door and then stops. “Did you come in here to talk to God? ‘Cause he’s in a good mood today.” He winks.

“Actually, Father, I came here to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“I… It’s… the thing is…” I have no idea what I’m trying to say.

“What is it, Daisy?”

I slump in the pew. “I don’t know.”

He motions for me to scoot over and he sits down beside me.

“Something’s bothering you.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“You afraid I won’t understand?”

My eyes fall shut. “Oh, no. I’m sure you will. It’s just . . . I’ve discovered something very not nice about myself.”

Father Laurent laughs. “I’m pretty sure whatever it is you have to say I’ve heard it before. And Daisy, I’ve good news for you. God has heard it, too. And loves you nonetheless.”

You can’t help but smile when you’re around Father Laurent. Even when you’re confessing to harboring a monster.

“I’m bitter, Father. I’m a bitter person. I resent other people’s happiness. I want men to want me so I can brush them off.” I can’t believe I just said that. It’s true but I can’t believe I’ve said it.

I peek at Father Laurent. He doesn’t appear to be shocked. I’d say affection shines in his eyes rather than alarm.

Father Laurent takes my hand. “Daisy, when we are hurt, it’s instinct to cover the wound and hold back anyone from brushing up against it. And I don’t need to tell you wounds don’t heal if they never see light, if they’re never exposed to fresh air. If you want your wound to heal, and it sounds to me like you do, you need to stand up straight, pull your arms away, and let the light and breath of God work its cure on you.”

“How do I do that?” My voice is little more than a whisper. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“You need to let go.”

“Of Daniel.”

“Of your unmet dream. You were not meant to have Daniel for your husband. You must trust that God was looking out for you, Daisy.”

I lean my head back on the pew. Father Laurent squeezes my hand and lets go.

“If I could just sell that dress . . .”

“Oh, I disagree with you there. I think you should keep that dress until it no longer matters to you. The day it doesn’t matter is the day you realize your wound is nothing but a scar. And the day you find that you are no longer bitter.”

I pull my head up to look at him. “You don’t think I should sell it?”

“No. Not yet.”

“You don’t think having it keeps me tied to the past?”

“I think it’s how you feel about that dress that keeps you tied to the past. You get rid of the dress but not the feelings and you’ll be no better off.”

I let out a monstrous sigh. “What if I can never be free of it?”

Father Laurent leans back, reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out one of the little blue hearts we sew into Something Blue wedding dresses. He holds it out to me and I silently reach for it. When our hands meet, he drops his head in prayer.

“Father God, Lord and Master, fill your daughter Daisy with the light of your presence, the peace of your spirit and the joy of your all-sufficient love. Help her trust you for what you have allowed to take place in her life. Silence the enemy who seeks to keep her bound to her sadness. Show her the path you wish her to take. Bless that path. Make it beautiful. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

He opens his eyes and transfers the little blue heart to me. My fingers close around it like it is a priceless diamond.

“Keep that close to your heart. Let it remind you that today was a turning point for you.”

“Thanks.” Two tears escape my eyes, one on either side. I finger the tiny heart, blessed so beautifully by Father Laurent. It is so soft. And little. No bigger than a quarter. Insignificant, size-wise. “I still feel like it’s going to take a miracle for me to get over this,” I mumble.

Father Laurent stands up. “Well. All the more reason not to rush it, then.”

The minute he says this, I begin to giggle. He stares at me. I must look insane, giggling as tears glisten on my cheeks. But I simply can’t help it. I laugh louder.

“And you know what happens when you rush miracles.” I wipe away the tears. “You get lousy miracles.”

New tears spring forth but they are tears from laughing too hard. Father Laurent continues to stare at me, half-amused and half-confused.

It’s obvious he’s never seen
The Princess Bride.