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Authors: Nia Ryan

Tags: #christian, #christian romance, #courtship, #first love, #love, #marriage

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BOOK: Final Arrangements
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"A dowry? Did you say a dowry? That's
ridiculous."

And it was. Beyond absurd. Yet, weird as it
was, the man seemed so genuine, so sincere. Highly believable,
except for the subject matter of which he spoke--the two of them
getting married by formal arrangement of the parents. An
arrangement as archaic as it was ridiculous. It was his fantasy of
an arranged marriage which was the crack in his armor, illustrating
to all the world that Stretch Murphy was not normal.

"Shannon, you must think I'm off my rocker. I
can see it in your eyes."

"Hush. I'm thinking."

She had heard of people who put on a great
facade, appeared perfectly normal, right up to the moment they made
some ridiculous observation. She wondered if Stretch Murphy was one
of these.

Out of curiosity, she decided to play along
for the moment.

"So we're getting married," Shannon said.
"Dad arranged it with your parents. I guess that settles it, then.
Just name the time and place, and I'll meet you at the church."

"I understand your surprise," he said. "But
there's no need to mock."

"Why do you think I'm mocking? Why don't you
think I'm serious?"

"I know you're mocking, because I'll admit
when I first heard about it, I was skeptical myself. Especially in
this day and age. But as time went by, the more your dad discussed
the idea, it grew on me. So, what do you say? Does the idea of
marrying me appeal to you? Gosh, this is awkward. The way your dad
had it planned, we weren't supposed to have to go through this
awkward part. We were simply going to see each other for the first
time at the ceremony itself. But now, I have to know. Are you even
the least bit open to marrying me?"

"Sure," Shannon replied. "If my father said
it was a good idea, why shouldn't we get married? By the way, if
you don't mind my asking, exactly how did my father bring the
subject of our getting married to your attention?"

She had to give him credit. He was sticking
to his story. She knew from her Psych 101 course in college that
some people who were otherwise perfectly normal constructed
elaborate yet logical fantasies, of the kind where once you
accepted the first statement, you were in the trap, and there was
no way out but to give in to the whole thing. And it didn't matter
if you reacted to the opening ruse affirmatively or negatively. The
fact that you reacted at all rendered you instantly captured.

"It was almost six months ago," he said. "We
were right in the middle of a chess game. I was thinking about
checking his King and Queen simultaneously with a knight fork when
he first mentioned it. He said he had a single daughter who needed
to get married."

"He did? What else did he say?"

"Your dad told me that in the days of old,
all marriages between royalty were arranged. He believed it was
still an idea with a lot of merit. As our game wore on, he
suggested arranged marriage between me and you."

"He did all that? Right in the middle of a
chess game?"

Stretch nodded.

"Been playing chess long, Stretch?"

"No. Only about a year. And not really
playing. More like taking lessons, really. Your dad was the only
person I played with. That's why I carry a portable game with me so
I can study the moves on my own."

"That's something we have in common,
Stretch," she said. "Chess. I'm was in the middle of a chess game
with my Dad. A game he won't be able to finish. He taught me the
moves when I was seven or eight. When I moved to Pacific Heights,
we started playing by mail. I think I had him beat, but I was
waiting for his next move to come. The move never arrived. And now,
I guess it never will."

On this last note, her voice had faltered
badly. From somewhere had come a choking sob, somewhere down deep,
where the little girl part of her resided.

Chapter 3

"Do you want to talk about it?" Stretch said.
"About your dad's passing?"

Something inside her said,
Yes, I want to
talk about it! Yes! I want to know why this terrible thing has
happened to me. Who should I talk to? The guy who cleans the pool?
What kind of a joke is God playing on me? Shouldn't I be making an
appointment with my pastor, or a therapist, or grief counselor?
Relying on a specialist to guide me through? Somebody who
understands these things and takes my insurance to pay for
it?

But she found herself under the pressure of
the little girl inside, who needed to talk about the loss of her
father to somebody. In a way, perhaps it would be easier to talk to
this perfect stranger. He was, she was forced to admit, very
attractive. Aside from that, he was here right now, and she needed
to talk now. He was in the right place at the right time. She
really had no one else at the moment.

"Yes, Stretch. I'd like to talk about
it."

"Over coffee?"

Why not? A simple gesture of hospitality, a
ritual of being kind to strangers which had been a hallmark of
Dad's life.

"Yes. Coffee it is. How do you take it,
Stretch?"

"Black. With two sugars. Your dad always made
great coffee for our game. And he always had pound cake."

"I'll put on a pot. And there may even be
some pound cake. I'll check the fridge. Are you sure you have
time?"

"Are you kidding?" he said. "The world
doesn't exactly turn on my schedule, if you know what I mean. I'll
finish up my work while the coffee's brewing. If you like, we can
sit out here. If it's more comfortable for you. I know I make
people nervous sometimes when I come into their house. They're
always worried I'll bump my head or something."

"Do you? Bump your head?"

He smiled. The smile was a winner. It flat
out endeared him to her. The thought of being with him forever took
on possibilities.

"Sometimes," he said. "But not too often.
I've gotten very good at ducking. And I'm careful never to back up
without looking first."

"I know everyone asks you, but how tall are
you?"

"Seven feet even."

"Gracious. Okay. I'm going to call you
Stretch. Black with two sugars it is, Stretch."

It gave her something to do. She'd once read
a book about how to help people who were grieving, and one
suggestion was to have the grieving person do something for you. It
helped them to feel needed. As she scooped the coffee into the
filter and added water to the machine, she had to admit they were
right. She was glad to have something to do.

She poured the fresh dripped coffee into the
thermos Dad had kept on the counter. In the fridge was a half loaf
of yellow pound cake, still fresh inside a plastic bag. She sliced
it and arranged the slices on two plates, set up a tray with mugs,
spoons, napkins, sugar, a jar of orange marmalade and a couple of
packets of powdered creamer for herself and took it and the thermos
out back to the table under the arbor.

Might as well do it right. The way Dad
always did. After all, I'm his daughter.

They sat down and busied themselves preparing
their mugs. When it seemed the perfect moment for each to test the
brew, Stretch Murphy prayed. Not asking her permission first. Just
doing it. Another endearing trait. The man was a free spirit.
Unhampered by the usual conventions.

"Father in Heaven, we know you had a good
reason for taking Joe. And an equally good reason for leaving us
behind. We pray you make Joe at home, and help Shannon here, to
find the strength to make the final arrangements. Also, help
Shannon be open to the idea of our getting married. And for myself,
I pray you let Joe and me finish the chess game when I finally see
him again. And don't give him any pointers. In Jesus name,
amen."

Stretch caught her eye. "Sorry," he said.
"That was kinda stupid, about the chess game. But I really thought
I had a chance to win. I wanted the victory. Joe has beat me the
last five times. Okay. I made that up about the last five times. He
always beat me. The man was without a shred of mercy when it came
to his chess game."

"Dad liked to win," she agreed.

"Look." He pulled a worn paperback from a
cargo pocket, a yellow sticky note protruding from its innards. The
book,
Chess Without Mercy
, was by some author with an
unpronounceable Russian last name. "I was reading this to try and
find a sneaky way to win."

"It's funny," Shannon said. "In our mail
game, I was winning too. Likewise something he never allowed, even
though I was his own daughter. And now I know why I was winning.
Dad knew it was going to be our last game together. He was letting
me win."

"Oh. Yeh. I can see it now. About two moves
ago, last week, he made a really dumb mistake. I couldn't believe
my luck. But now I understand. He knew he was dying. Wanted to give
me a mercy win before he left. He was throwing the game."

"Do you always do that?" Shannon asked.

"Do what?"

"Pray like that."

"Like what?"

"You know. Just start in and talk to God like
he was somebody sitting right here, somebody ordinary. You didn't
bow your head or close your eyes."

"You mean I didn't pray with my head down and
my face all scrunched up and my eyes shut, as though I was somehow
trying to beam a thought wave to Heaven? Or as if I had a sudden
onset of migraine?"

In spite of herself, Shannon smiled. It was
true, the way most Christians, including herself, prayed.

"I mean, after all," Stretch continued,
"Isn't God sitting right here? I always thought He was."

Shannon carefully tasted a small dab of
marmalade, found it good, and slathered a slice of pound cake with
it.

"I've never seen anybody do that," Stretch
said. "Put it on your pound cake. Why did you taste it first?"

"The stuff is probably over two years old.
From when my mother was still alive. Dad has kept this jar in the
fridge all this time. I learned about it from my mother. She put it
on practically everything, even in her scrambled eggs. Used it like
most people use margarine. It wasn't until I was in high school I
learned other people rarely ate it."

Stretch tried some on his slice. "Your mother
was ... wrong. Bless her soul. It tastes horrible with pound cake."
He took his table knife and began scraping it off.

"It's an acquired taste."

"Most definitely. But I can tell you,
Shannon, that the marmalade isn't two years old. Your dad ate the
stuff on a regular basis. Mainly on English muffins."

She frowned at the revelation. It seemed the
man knew her father better than she did. Where had she been the
last two years, not to notice even basic facts about her father's
existence? He was religious. Apparently a Christian. She decided to
test his spiritual acumen.

"Stretch, you said you believe God is here
with us. Do you think it's true? I know everyone thinks and says
that, but what does it mean, really? Practically speaking, what
good does it do for God to be sitting right here? Or is it just
some stupid idea people have?"

"It's a mystery," Stretch said. "I mean, He's
on His throne, but He's also here, because the Holy Spirit is here.
Jesus is also here whenever two or more are gathered. So, they're
at the same time someplace specific, but they're also
everywhere."

"But what good does it do us to have Him
sitting right here, spying on us?"

"I know why you're baiting me," he said.
"You're mad at God. As to what good it does to have God sitting
right here, who knows?"

"But
Who's on first
?" Shannon said,
attempting to lighten the mood, and sorry she'd been caught
baiting.

"No,
Who's on second
."

Their laughter was brief, turning quickly
into tears for Shannon, who hadn't planned on doing any weeping in
front of Stretch, but found herself suddenly releasing a whole lot
of something inside she hadn't really known was there, or at least
hadn't known how much of it needed to come out.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I had no intention of
dumping out all my grief right in front of you. But I just couldn't
control it. That old Abbot and Costello pun. It was the sort of
thing Dad would have said. He was a constant punster."

"I'm the same way about my feelings," Stretch
said. "I don't think I'm feeling anything, and suddenly, there it
is. And always at the wrong time and place. By the way, the coffee
is good. You haven't touched yours. Maybe it will help."

She took a sip. It was good. And additional
nibbles of the marmalade adulterated pound cake weren't so bad
either, so much a comfort in fact, she quickly down a couple of the
slices before saying another word, washing down the bites with
strong swallows of coffee.

"Oh," she said. "I just made a pig out of
myself right in front of you. Well, get over it. I'm grieving. I'm
not going to sit here and nibble just to be ladylike."

"No need," Stretch said. "In fact, I was
impressed by your little display. It was very real. Very earthy.
You eat like your Dad."

"Oh please don't tell me that. Dad always
took his glasses off and practically put his face in his food … oh,
my gosh, I just did the same thing! I hated to watch him eat.
Especially when we were in public."

Stretch didn't reply, simply sipped his
coffee and watched her.

"So do you think God is here right now?" She
said. "Watching us pig out?"

Stretch smiled. "I like to think God doesn't
have any part of the universe running wildly out of control."

He took a ball-point from his shirt pocket
and fished out a card from the back pocket of his shorts. "By the
way, here's my card. I'm writing my personal number on the back."
He handed her a shiny blue business card with all the pertinent
information and the name of the business in bright gold
lettering:

THE POOL GUY

BECAUSE YOU NEVER KNOW

BOOK: Final Arrangements
7.48Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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