An Odd Request
By LuAnn K. Edwards
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My best friend, Jill Drake, entered my home without knocking, laughed, and handed me most of my mail. “Your mail carrier gave me this instead of putting it in your box. Must have thought I was you. After all, we’re almost twins.”
Her long, dark hair and tanned skin looked nothing like my fair skin and strawberry blonde hair. Not to mention my freckles—lots of freckles.
“They think you live here because they see your car here all the time.” I chuckled and glanced at the standard-sized envelope she still held. “What’s that?”
“Someone was in a hurry or had lousy handwriting. Who do you know in Orlando? Bim Pibersan?”
I took the envelope from her, checked the return address, and squinted. “That’s just Ben Peterson, the Missions Pastor from Hart Fellowship. He’s raising money for his church’s next trip. He’s sent me letters before.”
“Isn’t he the pastor whose wife died in a fire a couple of years ago in Chattanooga?”
I nodded and frowned. “While she visited her mother there. Annie and her mom both died. Tragic.” I tossed the envelope into the mail pile on the end table, along with the utility bills and junk mail.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Why should I?” I rubbed my chin. “He’s only requesting money as usual.”
She smirked. “But what if he’s not asking for a donation?”
I shrugged. “No big deal. I’ll read it later.” I smiled and rubbed my palms together. “Ready for hot chocolate?”
Jill and I met most Saturdays at her house or mine to knit and crochet toboggan hats, mittens, and scarves for the kids at Creekside Children’s Home. On that early January afternoon, I’d prepared hot chocolate and snickerdoodles and started a fire in the fireplace in the front room of my tiny bungalow.
We didn’t need to walk far to enter my kitchen—a few steps to the left of my living room. To the right was the bathroom, bedroom, and my washer and dryer, which stood behind a set of bifold doors in the hallway. That was it. Not a tiny home, but almost.
We stepped into the kitchen and gathered our treats.
“You liked Ben and Annie, didn’t you?” Jill took a bite of her cookie.
“I loved them both.”
“And you have a lot in common with him?”
“I suppose.” I narrowed my eyes. “Why do you ask?”
She took a sip of her hot chocolate. “You should find out if he’s dating anyone.”
“You realize he lives 600 miles from here.” I crossed my arms and sneered. “I can’t call him and ask him for a date.”
“But you can take a trip to Florida, spend time in Orlando, and ask him to show you around. Discover if there are any sparks.”
I shook my head. “Sparks are my middle name according to Michael.”
She laughed. “Yep. Fiery and feisty. But you’ve mellowed out since then.”
“Losing the love of your life can do that.”
Jill agreed. “If Ben lived here and wanted to date you, would you be interested?”
I stared out the kitchen window. “The opportunity for full-time ministry again?” I grinned at Jill. “Yes.”
~
Folks might call Jill and me spinsters. But the term didn’t fit either of us. We were both too young to be considered old. Years ago, age thirty-five fit that description, but no longer. And although neither of us were married, we both were at one time. My husband, Michael, died five years before when he fell off a ladder while he cleaned the church’s gutters, one of his many jobs as the pastor of a small church. Jill’s husband died seven years ago while deployed overseas.
My job as a CAD Technician at an engineering firm in town kept me busy. Jill was a civil engineer at the same company. Our employer may have been small, but we won a good share of major projects—a benefit of being the only firm in the county. Our biggest competition came from the larger firms in Chattanooga located fifty miles southeast of Pleasant Springs.
On Thursday evening, Ben sent me a message through social media: Did you receive my letter?
He must have really needed the money.
I typed out a quick response. Yes. Will pray and get back to you.
He responded with a thumbs up.
After I completed chores around the house, I prayed over how much money I should give Ben toward his trip and grabbed my checkbook. I sent him a message: Check ready to mail. Verify your address. Return on envelope hard to read.
The following morning while at work, I received another message from Ben: What check? Did you read my letter?
I cringed. Weren’t you requesting money for a mission trip?
No. Read it and get back to me.
Sure thing. I’ll read it when I get home.
An hour later, Jill and I went to lunch.
After I told her about my strange messages from Ben, she invited herself to my house after work. She wanted to be there when I opened and read his letter.
~
Jill arrived at 6:00 p.m. “Have you peeked inside yet?”
I frowned and shrugged. “I can’t find the envelope.”
She scurried to my end table and picked up pieces of mail lying there. “Where did you put it?”
I stomped my foot. “I told you, I don’t remember.”
“Where have you looked?”
“Everywhere. The kitchen, my dresser drawer where I keep my bills, even the trash can.”
“Go check your room again, and I’ll check the kitchen.”
I darted to my bedroom and checked my drawers, closet, and under my bed. Nothing.
“Found it.” Jill hollered from the kitchen. “With some other mail. How did it end up in your junk drawer?”