The Everlasting Chapel (2 page)

He stares at me intently as he leaves a
message on my voicemail. “I wanted to remind you, Scarlett, that we
have a lunch appointment on Monday. Please let me know if you are
allergic to anything before that time, or if you have any food
aversions. I look forward to it.” He hangs up.

“I’m not allergic to anything and I’m not
picky,” I say.

“Before I let you go, what’s your favorite
color?” he asks.

“Uh…I don’t really have one,” I say,
thinking that question is really weird and completely out of the
blue.

“Okay. Well, I don’t want to keep you from,
you know…” He gestures to all of me. “I’ll see you on Monday. Can I
pick you up at the Portland Museum of Art?”

“Sure. Noon is when I usually take
lunch.”

“Okay. See you then.” He opens the door to
the bank and vanishes into the building.

I should have said no. I really should have.
I am so not over Michael, and it wouldn’t be fair to Spencer if
he’s looking for someone who is emotionally available. I’m about as
emotionally available as a moldy piece of string cheese. And trying
to use him, like Anne suggested, just so I can get over Michael is
really quite evil.

So I have decided: I need to cancel my date
with him. Just let him know it’s too much right now with my two new
jobs and with my father moving back home again.

* * *

Early Sunday morning I head for the hospital
to pick up my father. Doctor Jamison has the day off, and I find
myself feeling a little relieved not having to deal with the whole
lunch date thing while I’m super concerned about an ill parent. I
really regret saying yes to Spencer, because I don’t want to go. At
all. I don’t think it’s him—he’s absolutely gorgeous and is a fine
catch—but I think it has more to do with where I am in my life
right now, and a relationship is the absolute last thing on my
mind.

It’s not a relationship, Scarlett. Just
lunch, I remind myself every time that annoying, whiny voice starts
to complain.

The stand-in doctor gives me the rundown on
all the things I need to remember to do when I get my father back
home. Fortunately, Vivian has spoke to Dr. Jamison several times
about what my father will need, so she knows exactly what to
do.

When I get home, Vivian is waiting for us on
the front steps. She’s wearing a red coat, black gloves, a black
hat, and is clutching her floral bag in a way that again reminds me
of Mary Poppins. When she sees us, she waves and smiles. I park in
the driveway, get out of the car, scoot around to the other side,
and open the door for my father.

“Welcome home,” I say, feeling the weight of
the world melting off my shoulders. I realize it will be a long
road yet, but after having found decent work, this is another huge
step toward where I want my life to be.

I offer him my hand, and he takes it. The
poor man probably only weighs a hundred and fifty pounds, which is
far too little for his six-foot frame.

Vivian comes over, and together we assist
him up the front porch stairs and all the way inside. Carefully, we
help him onto the couch, and I lay a blanket across his lap.

“I appreciate how you are doting on me,
Scarlett, but I’m not a complete invalid,” my father says.

“I know you’re not, but will you let me take
care of you just a little bit?” I say, sitting down next to him,
wrapping an arm around his bony shoulders. My heart squeezes.

“Today it’s fine, after that—”

“I’ll be at work so you don’t have to worry
about me after today.” I kiss him on the cheek, stand up, and walk
into the kitchen where Vivian is waiting.

“Thanks for being here on time,” I say. “I’m
sorry we ran a little late. It took us a while longer to get out of
the hospital than I thought it would.”

“Oh, no worries,” she says, her light blue
eyes softening. Today she’s wearing her long, dark, silver-streaked
hair back in a low ponytail, and she smells of gardenia perfume.
“I’ll go ahead and get the bags from the car and unpack his things.
Where is his room?”

“Upstairs, and straight ahead,” I say.
Suddenly, I feel slightly light-headed and have to support myself
on the counter so I don’t lose my balance.

“Are you alright?” Vivian asks, placing a
hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah, I just…it’s been really stressful
these last few weeks. I guess I haven’t had time to really
rest.”

“When was the last time you ate a proper
meal?” she asks.

I don’t remember. “Last night…?” I had a
protein bar on the go.

“Well, let me make you something to eat. Why
don’t you go lie down and I’ll take care of everything here,” she
suggests.

“No, I’ll be fine. I probably just need to
eat something.”

“Shush, girl. Go upstairs and I’ll bring you
some food. You’ve been pushing yourself way too hard and for far
too long, if what Dr. Jamison said is true.”

“Did he set you up to this?” I ask,
narrowing my eyes.

“No, although he is concerned about you, and
so am I. Now go to bed and I’ll be up in a little while.”

I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told. Before I
head upstairs, I mosey into the living room again. My father is
already sleeping, and I watch him for a second. His face turns
blurry with my tears when I think about how thankful I am to
finally have him back home. And even though I don’t want to accept
the Mannings’ money, I am grateful that it does offer a future to
what’s left of my family.

“Get to bed, young lady! I got this,” Vivian
says, standing in the kitchen, her hands hitting her hips.

“Yes, mom,” I tease. I plant a kiss on my
father’s forehead and climb the stairs. Being taken care of feels
foreign after I have had to be strong for so long. But it also
feels good. Very good.

2

“Time to wake up, Scarlett,” I hear Vivian’s
soft voice. I lift my head from the pillow, noticing with
embarrassment that there’s a spot of drool on it. I discreetly wipe
my mouth with my hand. Wow, I don’t remember the last time I slept
this deeply.

“What time is it?” I ask, rubbing the
sleepiness out of my eyes. All of a sudden I notice I’m feeling a
little queasy.

“You’ve been out for three hours. I thought
you might need some food.” She sets a tray with a bowl of chicken
noodle soup and some crackers onto my bed. “Are you sure you’re
feeling alright? You look a bit pale.”

“I think with everything that’s happening,
I’m just coming down from it all.”

“You poor thing,” she says.

“How’s my father?”

“He’s napping. Snoring like an ogre,” she
says with a smirk, her kind eyes twinkling.

I chuckle. “Yeah, some things never
change.”

“Oh, and this came for you,” she says,
lifting a small white envelope off the tray.

I read the return address, and to my dismay,
I see that it’s from Michael. I try not to let any emotion show on
my face, but I can’t manage to remain completely unaffected.

“I don’t want to pry, but I don’t want to
pretend either. I read about you two on Facebook, and saw in the
news how you married and divorced shortly after,” she says. “Now
it’s none of my business, and if you don’t want to talk about it,
that’s fine. I just didn’t want to act as if I didn’t know. I’m
here if you ever feel the need to talk.”

I squeeze my lips together and nod. This is
not something I want to discuss with her, even though she is
motherly and I do trust her.

“I appreciate you being open with me about
it. My father doesn’t know all the details. He thinks we were only
engaged, but never married and divorced so I’d be grateful if you
didn’t tell him before I have a chance to talk to him about it.” If
I ever talk to him about it.

“My lips are sealed,” she says with an easy
smile.

Vivian goes back downstairs again, and I eat
the soup and toast. I still feel unusually exhausted, and figure it
will feel good to get cleaned up.

After I take a hot shower to warm my
freezing body back up, I start to feel even more nauseous. Was it
something I ate? Or maybe… My mouth drops open. That damn kid in
the bank. I can’t believe it. I’m freaking getting sick. If I don’t
get better today, I’ll have to call in a sick-day tomorrow. Rob, my
boss at the Portland Museum of Art, doesn’t seem as ruthless a boss
as Laila, but I really wanted to make a good impression and prove
that I can be trusted.

I open the medicine cabinet and pull out the
vitamins. I’ll have to overdose on vitamin C and zinc if I want to
kick this thing.

Once I pop a few supplements, I head back to
bed. I’ve done great so far ignoring the letter from Michael, but
with nothing else to do, I find myself wondering what he sent me
and finally decide to open the damn thing. Inside I find a typed-up
letter and a check in the amount of fifty thousand dollars. I start
read the letter.

Dear Scarlett,

Fuck this! I grab my phone and quickly dial
his number. After three rings, he picks up.

“Hello?” he says.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I
ask, my blood rushing through me like a raging inferno.

“I’m going to assume you received my letter
and the check,” he says flatly.

“Damn right. I already told you I didn’t
want your money. I’m not your whore, Michael.”

“I don’t consider you my whore, Scarlett. I
already explained why I wanted to pay you: for your job loss and
your time,” he says sternly.

“And I told you I didn’t want it!” I
yell.

“But—”

“Do you understand the words coming out of
my mouth, you son of a bitch?” I ask.

“Scarlett…”

Suddenly I feel the nausea churning in my
gut. Shit, I’m going to throw up. “Hold on.” I toss my phone onto
the bed and run into the bathroom. Just as I open the toilet lid, I
vomit out all the vitamins, the toast, and the chicken noodle soup
into the porcelain bowl.

I sit on the cold tile floor for a few
moments to catch my breath, and to make sure I’m completely done
throwing up. I hope this is one of those twenty-four hour bugs.
After I rinse with Listerine and wash my hands, I head back to my
room and pick up the phone.

“Are you still there?” I ask.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just…never mind that. Just know I’m
going to tear the check up and throw it in the trash, that’s
all.”

“Scarlett, will you please listen?” he
says.

“Not any more. We’re through, and I don’t
want your money. I mean, did you really think…?”

“I’m coming over.”

“No!”

“And you had better be there, Scar. Or God
help me…”

Stubborn jerk! “Don’t come. I’m throwing up.
This kid vomited all over me at the bank yesterday and whatever he
had, he gave it to me.”

“I don’t care if I get sick. I have to see
you,” he says.

His comment nearly takes my breath away. Oh,
no. Here he goes again, weaseling his way back into my life when
he’s nothing but trouble and heartache. “Please don’t come. If you
respect me at all…”

“I do respect you with every particle of my
being. But I’m still coming over.”

“No,” I say again, although I can already
hear that my voice isn’t nearly as certain as I want it to be. This
is so unfair.

“I’ll see you in twenty.” He hangs up the
phone.

He’s unbelievable! Insanely obstinate, and
not sensitive to my needs at all! What do I do? Should I make a run
for it? No, I won’t leave my father and Vivian to deal with my
problems. Besides, the last thing I want to do is to be driving
around Portland throwing up, projecting that disgusting stuff out
the window.

Extremely upset, I stagger downstairs and
inform Vivian that Michael will be coming over for a short visit. I
tell her to ignore any loud, angry voices she might hear or even
the sound of glass as it shatters against the walls or other
objects breaking. She doesn’t bat an eyelash. I like her even more
now than I did as a child.

I tuck myself back into bed and wait.
Strangely enough, I feel much better now. Maybe this bug is only
one of those that last for a short time.

As I expected, exactly twenty minutes later
the doorbell rings. Vivian opens up, and I hear Michael talking
downstairs. God—I didn’t realize how much I missed him until I hear
the sound of his voice in my house. It’s as if the vibrations
coming from his vocal cords make me feel safe. How is that
possible? Especially since I have decided it’s over between us. I
must really be feeling sick, because now my eyes are starting to
tear up. Great. Just what I want him to see: a heartbroken, sick
ex-wife.

Quick, what am I going to tell him? I’m
going to ream him out, of course, give
him
something to cry
about, give him what he deserves, which is not
a
piece, but
every
piece of my mind. Ask him how he has the audacity to
come visit me after what he did to me. Tell him where to go.

The steps creak as Michael climbs them, and
suddenly he is standing in the doorway. The fitted, blue sweater
he’s wearing really brings out his blue eyes, and the tight jeans
hug every glorious part of his lower body. His cinnamon hair is
just perfectly messy and it looks like he hasn’t shaved in days,
giving him a ragged, wild look.

Oh… my stomach flips big time.

I open my mouth to yell at him, but for some
reason, I am unable to produce a single word. And when I see how
lost and sad his beautiful eyes are, the anger inside of me morphs
into sadness.

But, no! I have to remain strong. He’s done
so many crazy things to me! Mean things. Cruel things. He’s a
heartless money monger.

“I told you not to come,” I finally manage
to say. Unfortunately for me, my voice doesn’t quite carry the same
threatening, pissed-off tone I intended it to. In fact, if he’s
listening as carefully, as I suspect he is, he can probably hear
the longing in it.