Wishing for Wonderful (Serendipity #3)(7)
Lindsay reread the last line. Dad’s spoken to Walker? Had Phillip? She buzzed the lobby desk on the intercom.
“Front desk,” Walker answered.
“Hi, Walker, this is Lindsay again. Did Phillip ever stop and talk to you?”
“No. Never.”
“But my dad did, right?”
“Indeed he did. Every time he came to visit, Mister Gray would stop and ask how I’m doing. He’s a fine gentleman, the type who does right by people.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Thanks, Walker.”
I knew precisely what she was thinking. I couldn’t stop the thought, but I knew it was coming. Lindsay is one of those humans who sees true love the way others see a heat mirage—always in the distance, flickering, wavering and changing shape. After her conversation with Walker, it was inevitable.
Lindsay closed her eyes and pictured the men she’d been dating. They were handsome, broad-shouldered, muscular, skin tight shirts, leather jackets, slouched stance, most of them a height close to her own and every single one of them with a sexy glint in his eyes. How, she wondered, could she have been so blind as to not notice this?
She lifted a picture from the desk. It was taken ten years ago, when her mother was alive. In the picture Bethany was looking at the camera, but her father was turned sideways, his eyes fixed on Bethany and his expression one of pure adoration. Lindsay had never seen that look on the faces of the men she’d dated.
She gave a deep sigh and settled back into the chair. Again she closed her eyes and pictured the men she’d dated, but this time their faces seemed distorted and strangely unattractive. As she thought about the words of her father and Walker, the one-time lovers melded into a single figure that shifted and changed shape. Dark hair became a lighter brown; a suit replaced the muscle shirt and jeans. When the suit appeared a bit too stiff, the image flickered and transformed itself into a sport jacket and slacks. Little by little, the picture came together until at last Lindsay could see exactly who she was looking for: a younger version of her father.
As Lindsay slid into bed that night, she knew she had designed a man with principles. She closed her eyes and brought the image to mind again. “Perfect,” she murmured. She held on to the picture until sleep came and carried her away.
~
I suppose you know without my saying this is sure to lead to trouble. Only the most foolish humans believe true love is based on hair color or the garments that adorn a body. For centuries I’ve listened to humans expound on how they fell in love with a person’s eyes or their voice. If I had a raindrop for every time a male claimed to have fallen in love because of a female’s breasts, I could easily flood all of Manhattan. The truth is love has nothing to do with any of those things. Love happens when one heart touches another. It’s the deep down beauty of someone’s soul that draws another to their side, but that’s something humans haven’t yet figured out.
For decades scientists have tried to come up with the explanation for such an attraction. The brightest minds of all time have tackled the challenge and not one has come up with the right answer. Instead they create profiles and rationales, then set up a website promising these gullible love-starved humans the perfect mate. Hah. Granted, the humans are getting better at this game, but perfect matches come from one place and one place only—me.
John Gray
It’s been ages since Lindsay’s been home. I’m glad she’ll be here for Labor Day. It’s time I introduced her to Eleanor. With her mother gone all these years, I know she misses having a woman in her life. Women talk about things a man is no good at, and Eleanor, well, she’s a person you can’t help but love. I’ve had a fondness for Eleanor since the day we first met, and that seems like a lifetime ago. We were just kids, but even then I knew she was somebody special. Finding her again as I did has been good for me. I think she’s gonna be good for Lindsay too.
After Bethany died in the crash, I hated myself for being alive. I kept asking God why He couldn’t have taken me instead of her. Living in this house was like living in hell. Everywhere I looked there were reminders of Bethany: her sewing basket, slippers by the side of the bed, a robe hanging on the back of the door. She was in every room, and I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of even one thing. I can’t count the number of times I answered no when the Mustard Seed lady called and asked if I had any used clothing to donate. I was sleeping on a bed of nails and didn’t have the courage to move elsewhere.
Lindsay was living at Rutgers then. I think she stayed there partly because it wasn’t a place filled with reminders of her mother. I can’t say I blame her, but there were plenty of times I thought of calling and asking her to move home. The only thing that stopped me was Bethany’s voice whispering in my ear about how unfair such a thing would be.
Sometimes the loneliness got so bad I’d climb out of bed in the middle of the night and walk from room to room checking to see if anything had changed. Now I can see I was wallowing in my own misery, but back then I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t even bring myself to sleep in the middle of the bed. At night when I’d get into bed, I’d stay on my own side and leave Bethany’s pillow lying there like a turned-over tombstone.