Authors: Fran Riedemann
She felt like crying.
“
Brittany! You came!” It was Rick-the-Painter
, beaming at her. “I was worried you might not come. Do you love your walls?”
Brittany felt like the Wicked Witch must have felt after she got water splashed on her.
I’m shrinking, I’m
shrinking
, she thought, reminded her how when she left home that morning she was pretending she was following the yellow brick road to the Metro.
Too funny…
she had transitioned from Dorothy to the Wicked Witch. There were too many coincidences for this to be dismissed as simply a funny coincidence
.
Carpe Diem
, she thought, deciding that she either had to seize her moment or sneak away.
You can do this, Brittany
.
After taking a few deep breaths, she rose to the occasion. “Rick, I would like to introduce you to my friend, Allan Chandler. Allen, Rick has been painting my walls at home, and I highly recommend him.”
Rick looked pleased, Allan looked confused, and she could feel some of her confidence returning. She saw a tray of Champagne moving past her and reached out for another glass.
Within the hour Brittany had met Allan Chandler’s friends, purchased a small painting ’s, and had them all laughing at her day. She concluded she might have potential as a public speaker, unless it was the champagne talking.
They hung around the gallery until it had emptied of people when Allan suggested they all go to dinner, inviting Rick to join them
. Allan turned to Brittany, “Would you like to join us?” She was sure the invitation was an act of mercy. There was no way for him not to have noticed her loudly grumbling stomach.
“
Sure,” she answered quickly, liking the way the day was ending, but determined to work on her vocabulary.
After dinner, Allan, who also lived in Alexandria, wouldn’t hear of her taking a taxi. When they arrived at her home, he walked her to her door to see her safely inside.
They stood beside each other on her front porch, having noticed the moon which was hanging so low in the sky it looked like it might fall from its own weight.
“
It’s like it was in that movie...” Brittany said, leaving the sentence unfinished.
”
What movie is that?” He asked.
“
Cher was in it…and Nicolas Cage. I can’t remember the name of it, but it was in New York.”
“
You mean
Moonstruck
?” He answered.
“
Yes! It was
Moonstruck,
” she answered; glad they had found something to talk about to fill the silence.
And, then it was over. Good-byes were exchanged and she opened the door and slipped inside. Then he was gone. Once in her bedroom she slipped out of her clothes without turning on any lights, falling across the bed after gulping down a handful of Advil for the headache that was sure to come.
She didn’t want the last part of what she remembered about the evening to be what she must look like.
***
By Monday morning her sunburn’s acute redness had dissipated, but she wasn’t in the mood to field questions about her weekend from her associates at the office. She called saying she would be working from home, which she knew would prompt a different kind of speculation as to why. Her department all knew too much about each other’s' business and she knew they would probe, given the chance. After putting some lotion on the back of her neck she wondered if it was especially tender because every spring up to now her long hair had covered it.
She looked down at Shadow, who was vigorously cleaning his paws.
He looked up briefly and returned to his grooming, clearly not interested.
Her phone rang shortly after lunchtime. The call was from her office. “What? She said when she answered, “Flowers? For me?” She was puzzled. Apparently a large bouquet of all white flowers had been delivered to her. Sure that they were from Rick-the-Painter who she worried might be infatuated with her, she asked the receptionist to read the card to her.
“
I enjoyed our chance meeting. I chose flowers that would go well with red. Hope you like them. Allan”. . .
“
Who is Allan?” the receptionist asked her.
Brittany felt herself blushing. Either the flowers were a nice gesture or he had put his money where his mocking mouth was, and was reminding her how she looked again
. Could I really have looked that red?
She wondered. Now she was especially glad she’d decided to work from home.
“
Are they pretty?” she asked, trying to avert a nosy question.
“
Yes ,very! The arrangement is actually quite extravagant.” She answered, with emphasis. “You still haven’t said who Allan is. And, what’s with the red?” Liz was the one person in the office who was always in the know, and Brittany was confident she’d already read the card. Annoyed, she cut her off, “I’ll give you the skinny tomorrow. Have fun speculating…” She was sure she heard laughter before the call cut off, picturing them all standing around the front counter, debating what Brittany must have done to be rewarded with flowers that were conspicuously sent to her workplace instead of her house.
But in spite of the temptation to be annoyed, she found herself smiling.
Chapter Nine
Five months after the divorce, Brittany had reason to feel reasonably good about how she was coping but, even so, suspected there was some lingering emotional baggage that might find its own way of attaching itself to her, potentially making itself known when she wasn’t expecting it. There was no putting it off; it was time to deal with the tender spots in her psyche that might potentially become rejection issues.
After the uncomfortable Easter Sunday dinner at her Mother’s, they only spoke two other times, with those conversations relating to her father’s estate. Since Brittany was used to complying with her mother’s terms, the lack of communication in itself wasn’t troubling or hurtful, but she had turned a corner in what she could tolerate, and suspected her mother had turned a corner of her own.
They were on a new course, and their routes were heading in opposite directions. In her own defense, she had tried to call her mother in the beginning, leaving messages because her mother didn’t pick up. Her calls weren’t returned.
Craig’s leaving had been painful, but not in ways she could have predicted. The marriage was over like it had never happened, leaving her numb and with no options.
She didn’t think of herself as stoic exactly, but her lack of emotion was still, on occasion, troubling to her.
Some of her acquaintances could make their own tears seem like a cleansing ritual. Jeanne had a saying she used to put negative things in perspective, “Sometimes you need a bull in the china closet so you have an excuse to replace things.” But, Brittany knew she couldn’t replace a mother and she’d never once considered replacing her husband.
How can I not have baggage?
She wondered.
“And how can I be sure someone new won’t have baggage before it’s too late?”
She was talking to her cat, in yet another of their unfulfilling conversations, aware that she had skillfully avoided pursuing her resolution to investigate faith.
Late one afternoon, while on a walk with Jeanne, Brittany hesitantly confided some of her concerns to her. Jeanne responded thoughtfully, “Well, Brittany, on the surface you do seem to be doing well. But, since you’re the one who brought this up, I will take the opportunity to mention that there have been times you’ve seemed so matter of fact about it all that Randy and I have been concerned that you might be internalizing some of what should be coming out. I haven’t mentioned it because neither of us has gone through what you have, so what do we know?”
Brittany appreciated the candor. “I know exactly what you’re saying. For the most part, I’m not sad anymore and I truly can’t tell you that I feel lonely, either. I think, for the time being, I’m liking being alone. But, still, it is like having a volcano inside, not knowing when the pressure will find its way out of me.
“
Craig’s walking out the door has been easier to work through than the loss of my mother, even though his leaving was a blindside move. I knew with my Dad out of the picture there would be no easy way to keep my relationship with my mom going without something coming to a head. When I think about my father, and the suddenness of him not being here, I resent how my divorce took over and Dad’s dying got lost in it. That is when it all hits me, and it usually happens between three and four in the morning.”
Jeanne shook her head. “Brittany, I don’t get your mom. My mother calls me, or I call her, at least five times every week and there are days we will talk two or three times. She is more like a sister than a mother at this point, yet I can go to her for advice when I need it.
“
The hardest thing about Randy being transferred here was leaving my mother, but I think because of the move, our communicating is more focused now than it was before. I know I took her for granted before. Truly, I wish she lived nearby, and more so now, because she adores you and I know she would want to be here for you. She does a lot of mentoring through her church, and it has really stretched her empathy. She would do whatever she could to help you fill the vacuum of not having a mom to advise you.”
“
Can I go to church with you on Sunday?” Brittany asked her, quite unexpectedly. “I wish church meant something to me. My family did go when I was a kid, but I don’t remember anything except the arguments we had in the car on the way, probably because Brent and I didn’t want to go, and then being told to put on my Sunday-School face after we got there. Our church was stiff and formal, and I always felt guilty because I believed God was someone else I could never please.”
Jeanne responded cautiously, realizing Brittany’s request was significant, “We would love for you to come with us, but I warn you, our services are anything but traditional, if that’s what you prefer. Our pastor is a true-blue, hold your feet to the fire preacher, but he does it in a way that keeps people coming back for more. His philosophy is 'One doesn’t learn under the whip. 'He doesn’t waste words.” She added, “I think you will like him. And, Brittany, our church also has a divorce recovery group I have heard good things about. Perhaps that could be helpful to you? I’m sure you don’t have to be a member of our church to attend.”
Brittany nodded her agreement. This was change she might be able to believe in. Reaching over, she squeezed her friends hand, “So your pastor won’t agree with the adage ‘It’s not whether you win or lose; it’s how you place the blame?’”*
Jeanne laughed. “That is so true! I’m going to remember that. Our pastor might be able to make a sermon series out of that one!”
***
Randy asked Brittany if she would mind going to the early service, suggesting that afterward they go out for brunch. For years the Stones had attempted to entice her and Craig to go to church with them, and finally gave up mentioning it. Having given up was regret for them, because, in hindsight, they couldn’t help but wonder if that accountability might have made a difference in Craig’s choices, but they trusted God would use the recent events for good for Brittany—and also for Craig, in time.
The church was in the historic part of Alexandria, near the Potomac River. When Randy pulled up in front of it Brittany realized she had driven by it hundreds of times, admiring its architecture and the beautiful stained glass windows, but not aware it was where the Stone’s went to church. The building was large, but landlocked, and because of it, what it lacked was expansion room and parking.
When they entered the church Jeannie seemed to know everyone who was gathered there and it appeared as though each of them aimed to hug her. Brittany, who was also in the firing line for hugs, had to force herself to keep her arms down at her sides, her initial instinct was to cross them in front of her. She was not a hugger.
Jeanne led her down the side aisle toward the front of the sanctuary, along the south wall. “Do you and Randy always sit way up here?” Brittany asked her, incredulous and looking behind them, longing for a seat in the back row.
“
Oh, yes.” Jeanne answered. Randy says it feels more personal when the pastor looks right at him.” She had to smile, realizing how funny that must sound to Brittany. “No, I mean it. He likes it, he really does.” Brittany tried to refrain from laughing, and failed.
When they sat down the scent of pine oil accosted her. Brittany immediately pictured her grandmother, whose house had always retained that same lingering aroma. She looked around, taking in the arches, pillars, the ornately carved pulpit, and the intricate stained glass windows, trying to picture all of the baptisms, weddings, and funerals they had witnessed. The wood gleamed from years of polishing. There was no doubt the church had participated in some significant history filling her sense. Again, she felt the pangs of wanting to write down some of her impressions.