My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) (37 page)
“Bob!” Dad shouted at the television. “Stop scowling! You're trying to sell this thing, and you can't even manage to look pleasant.” Dad laughed. “And to think this guy was going to be a VP candidâ” He turned in his chair and saw me. “I thought you were . . . no matter. What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to you.”
He put his battle face on, and with little expression pointed to the chair across his desk. He locked his fingers together and rocked slightly in his chair, saying nothing.
“It's about Cinco.”
“What about him? Have you dumped the spawn ofâ”
“Dad,” I said. “That's not necessary.”
Dad didn't look pleased that I'd called him down. “Then why are you here?”
“To tell you that Cinco has asked me to marry him and that I've accepted his proposal.”
I expected rage. And shouting. And lots of insults using the word
spawn
. But instead, he seemed to freeze to his seat, and his eyes became like ice. “So you've come to tell me you've made your choice. You would rather be in his family than mine.”
“I'd rather be in my family and have you act like the decent man I know you are.”
Dad looked at me like I'd lost my mind. So I looked at him like he'd lost his. We stared at each other for a long time, and something flashed through my father's eyes that I'd never seen before, at least when he was looking at me. I'd about convinced myself I hadn't seen it when it flickered again.
Respect. That's what I saw. Respect.
He held a good poker face, though. And then he sneered and said, “Old Dublin know his son's a Democrat? That's probably really got his goat.” Dad chuckled, like that might be the only good thing that could come out of the situation.
“Cinco's not a Democrat. He's a Republican. And so am I. I have been for years.”
I bit my lower lip, nearly chewed through it. I couldn't believe I'd finally spilled the long and closely guarded secret. I'd set up my own guillotine and willingly placed my head in it. At least death would come quickly.
But Dad stood, walked around the desk, and folded his arms like a math teacher about to spout off a pop quiz. “So this is what you want.”
I nodded.
Dad groaned and mumbled something about God having a sense of humor. Then he said, “Fine, Leah. Fine. If this is what you want. Don't expect me to attend the wedding. I could never pretend to be cordial to Rupert Dublin, but his son, well . . . he's welcome in my house.”
I stood and gave Dad a gigantic hug. “That's good! Because he's out in the living room with Mom right now, waiting to meet you.”
“Oh, good heavens,” Dad said. “This is a lot for a guy who just had a heart attack.”
“Don't pull that heart-attack card with me. And you know, I think your heart could stand a break from some of the resentment and bitterness you're holding against Cinco's father.”
“Leah, you've brought enough change here today to last a lifetime. I don't need you to start lecturing me too.”
I smiled. “Fair enough.”
He nodded and straightened his shirt. “This isn't going to be easy.”
“Dad,” I said, wrapping my arm around his back, “you've been in politics for years. I'm sure you can manage an insincere smile at the very least.”
He glanced at me. “Well, let's give it a shot. Come on. Let's go see what evil incarnate's only son looks like.” Then he mumbled some things about my being a Republican.
I laughed.
[She dances.]
I
opened my apartment door. Cinco stood with a small bouquet of flowers, his eyes peeking over the top. “Hi.” I loved how he said it. After four months of knowing him, it still made my skin tingle with delight.
“Hi.”
He kissed me and came in, putting the flowers on the counter. “So, I'm not used to being away from you this long.”
“You're not used to me working.”
“True. Since I've known you, you've pretty much been an out-of-work playwright.”
“I still am. But this new play, I think it's going to be good. Really good. I haven't been this excited about a project since my first play.”
“That's good. I haven't been this excited about a woman since . . . well, never.”
I pecked him on the cheek. “Two more months and we'll be Mr. and Mrs. Rupert Dublin V. I can't wait to wear the dress I found. It's so beautiful.”
“I can't wait to see you in it.”
I went to the kitchen to put the flowers in water and to take a moment to marvel at how much my life had changed in just a matter of months. For once in my life, I felt like I was who I was supposed to be. I was a kind, sensitive person, but a woman who knew how to stand up not only for herself but for truth, even if it meant things would get ugly. I was by no means at Cinco's level, but I had certainly come into my own.
“Have you asked Elisabeth to be your matron of honor?”
“Yeah. She said she would love to. She just asked that I pick a dress with her âsituation' in mind.” Elisabeth continued to be a constant reminder of what tragedy can result when you don't stand up for the truth. Two days after Cinco and I were engaged, Elisabeth told me she was pregnant with the mechanic's baby.
She and her husband had decided to try to work things out, although they still weren't sure what to do about the child she was carrying. Elisabeth wanted to keep her, but Henry was insisting they give her up for adoption.
I would never know for sure if standing up for what was right would've made any difference in Elisabeth's life, but I vowed never again to let another person's influence decide what I would do. If I had it to do over again, I would grab Elisabeth by the arm and tell it to her straight.
There are few chances in life to do things over again. But I felt like I got a second chance to be the person God first created me to be. I finally felt worthy. I finally felt free.
“So,” Cinco said, coming to stand behind me in the kitchen and entwining his fingers with mine, “are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“What your play is about. I'm dying to know, and you're keeping it so top secret that I'm about to decide you're not really a playwright; you're a spy!”
I smiled and turned around in his arms. “Okay. But you can tell no one.”
He put his hand to his mouth and said, “I pwomise.”
I laughed. “Okay, it's an ensemble cast, about a group of people in an anger management class.”
“What kind of people?”
“Oh, there are all sorts involved. A literary agent with a nasty personality. Two former politicians who used to hate each other. A popular television personality with some heavy political views. To name a few.” I winked at him.
“No! That's pretty bold.”
“Well, you know what they say. Never tick off a writer. You may find yourself immortalized in ways you never expected.”
He laughed. “Is there a love story?”
“I can't give you any more details. If I did, I'd have to kill you.”
“That would be inconvenient for the wedding.”
“True.”
The phone rang, and the caller ID announced it was J. R. I hadn't spoken to her in ages. She'd left a message recently, wondering aloud on my machine whether I'd checked myself in somewhere. She didn't know about the new play I was working on. So this morning I'd called and left a message at her office for her to call me back.
“Excuse me, Cinco,” I said. “I've got a bit of unfinished business.” I answered the phone. “Hello?”
“You live and breathe,” J. R. said. “What do they have you on, Prozac?”
“I'm not on Prozac, J. R. I'm perfectly fine.”
“Well, that's the excuse I gave Peter. However, I told him that some of the best playwrights around are mental cases, that it's just a sign of genius. So if you wouldn't mind keeping up that facade, it might just sell this next play of yours. And by the way, what is it about and when will it be finished?”
“J. R., I want to thank you for everything you've been for me. Because of you, I've realized some very important things about myself. I just wanted you to know that.”
“Leah, this is no time to be sentimental. I hated sentiment even when I was a smoker, so you can only imagine how it rubs me now. Let's just get down to business.”
“Fine,” I said, smiling. “J. R., you're fired.”
Welcome to my new life. Don't bother wiping your feet.
I want to thank Ami McConnell, Allen Arnold, and Amanda Bostic for believing in me as a writer and believing in this project. I'm thankful to have worked with such exceptionally talented people with great vision and love for what they do. I'd also like to give special thanks to Erin Healy and Laura Wright, whose editorial contributions to this book have made it better than I ever dreamed it could be. I count it a privilege to have your fingerprints within the pages of this manuscript. Thanks to Janet Kobobel Grant, my agent, for always supporting me and guiding me to the books I should be writing. Thanks to my family, Sean, John Caleb, and Cate, for loving me so much, and to my Lord, for allowing me this extraordinary journey.