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This I Promise You

By Mary A. Felkins

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Say the name Bryan J. Carlyle and women swooned. Yes, a well-loved, celebrated chef, proprietor of one of New Orleans’ three-star Michelin restaurants, and charming cooking show host who sported broad shoulders, choppy blonde-brown hair, and endearing eyes.
But it wasn’t their hearts he’d ravaged at the altar.
“You want me to do what?” Adelyn Ormond might have collapsed into one of the lunchroom chairs of Leon Anthony Elementary School had Ruthie, one her fifth-grade students, not served up a sweet, Monday morning smile from her seat at the table. Adelyn managed to wiggle her fingers in wave at Ruthie before turning back to Principal Katherine McClellan who, clearly, had lost her marbles.
“That’s impossible.” She restrained her tone with effort, the smell of today’s menu—corn dogs, green peas, and milk—souring her stomach.
Despite years of ballet training, Adelyn struggled to assume proper posture in the wake of an assignment that all but turned her core to rubber.
“Keep your voice down,” Katherine said. “You’re
causing the children undue concern for something that
is merely one afternoon.”
“One afternoon with ... him.”
Katherine stooped to folding her arms, cocked a
head. “The School Board’s decision to ask you to secure
a high-profile individual to support this year’s event was
not taken lightly.”
“Yes, but this is not some random high-profile person.”
Twisting the screws now. “… The same group that
believed your philanthropic stance was worthy of their
unanimous nomination for the district’s Teacher of the
Year.”
An award she’d achieved last year due to her interaction
with education stakeholders which resulted in their
school being a recipient of the backpack program to feed
underserved students.
“You know the only decent meal some of these students
receive comes by way of Second Harvest food bank
donations.” Katherine broadened a smile at a teacher
behind her, keeping face.
“I’m more than happy to be spearheading the event
and have established a rock-solid planning committee.
I’m the proverbial poster child to support causes like this.
It’s about the Chef.”
It took a second, and then Katherine’s mouth opened.
Closed. “I’m sympathetic to your situation, Adelyn, but
that was six months ago.”
“Situation? It was a catastrophe. You don’t derail a
woman’s life—her dream wedding—in front of five hundred
people, and expect her to just—”
Katherine lifted her hand. “The reason for the board’s
decision was simply that you could extend a personal
invitation to Chef Carlyle to participate ... being that you
know him.”
She blinked at her. “Know him? I wore his ring, for
heaven’s sake. But it’s not like we’re best pals. Not anymore
anyway ...”
A cold chill swept over her skin. Her gaze drifted over
the sea of chattering students. “At least not in the truest
sense of the word where two people share mutual trust,
talk over a burger and fries.” Or Bryan’s wholly unique
grilled chicken sandwich with fennel-basil slaw on a toasted
brioche bun.
A tapestry of fragrances niggled into her memory. She
shirked them off—along with the delicious feel of his wink
when he’d slid the warm plate her direction.
“The man eviscerated me, Katherine. Made me the
laughingstock of the entire ... cuisine community.”
Katherine raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I imagine that was
awful. His reason for leaving you at the altar does beg
explanation.”
She glanced at the clock. Two minutes until playground
duty.
“But that, uh, photo of you was quite incriminating,
Adelyn. Perhaps when you contact him it would provide
an opportunity for you to—”
“Find someone else to ask for Chef Carlyle’s involvement.
And since he is loved the world over, this won’t
be difficult.” She lifted her hand to cute Tate Samson,
coaxed a smile.
“He will agree if you are involved.”
Adelyn froze. “What?”
“The assistant principal, Jeanette, has already called
his publicity agent. Bordered on begging. It was suggested
that he’d attend the event and consider a cooking demonstration
if ... well ...” Katherine took a breath. “If you were
his sous-chef, working side by side with him.”
The walls closed in and air thinned. Her jaw clenched,
and she looked away, head shaking slowly.
“What’s it going to be, Adelyn? Let the children
starve?”
# # #
Ruthie’s question out on the playground seared
pain across Adelyn’s heart. “When’s your birthday, Miss
Ormond?”
“March. Six months ago.”
“Whadya get?”
Jilted.
It didn’t help that Ruthie asked while surrounded by
several other curious students and wrapped as it were in
a gauze of end-stage summer heat.
Of all the men to rally support for the upcoming
food drive, why did Katherine insist on her ex? Sure, he
was influential. And sure, her school supported Second
Harvest food bank every year. But the ruin of Adelyn’s
wedding on her thirtieth birthday was forever etched
in her brain. The hyped-up social event had amassed a
large gathering and promised a highly anticipated vow
exchange between the Chef Bryan J. Carlyle and his
sweetheart.
Only they’d witnessed her ... left alone in a custom
gown, her rose and gardenia bouquet wilted by tears.
“I got surprises, Ruthie,” Adelyn finally said, releasing
a breath she’d been holding.
For some, painful surprises were the stuff of birthdays.
“My daddy said he’d give me a bicycle for my birthday,”
Ruthie said, voice rife with confidence.
Dear God, make that dad keep his promise.
Tempering a fresh wave of irritation, Adelyn took the
box of vanilla cupcakes she’d ordered at The Pear Tree
Bakery and Coffee Shop in the French Quarter. Half were
swirled in pink frosting and the other half in bright green.
Celebratory colors, to her way of thinking.
She called her students to gather around a nearby
picnic table.
Her transition a year ago from the resort town of Wild
Rose Ridge in Washington State where she taught dance
and yoga to privileged youth and wealthy clientele to this
lower income district had opened her eyes to the struggle
behind the sweet faces.
Tate pinned a gaze on the box. “What’s the cupcakes
for, Miss Ormond?”
Adelyn moved a pointed finger across the increasingly
curious expressions. “To celebrate my amazing students
and the start of a new and successful year.”
Judging from the toothy—and not so toothy—nine
and ten-year-old smiles, Adelyn surmised her affirmation
achieved its purpose. But sometimes disappointment hid
behind the veneer of a smile.
She lit each of the twisted white candles cemented in
a dome of frosting, excitement swelling inside her. The
vacant stares suggested they were unaccustomed to being
celebrated, not a one of them itching to blow out the candles.
Since she’d certainly practiced often enough how
one might respond if they’d been made to feel special,
she extinguished the flickering flames with a hard puff,
plated cupcakes, and distributed them.
She peeled the casing of a cupcake and released the
sweet smell of vanilla frosting. Crystalline sugar chilled
her cheeks as she bit into the pastry. She deserved a little
indulgence. Besides, she no longer danced professionally.
No more strict rules enforced by Pacific Northwest
Ballet company. At least she’d left something she loved for
good reason—unlike her ex who’d just ... left, their verbal
altercation in the narthex heated enough to incinerate
the entire building.
“Listen up, Team Ormond.” Should have been Carlyle.
“We have ten more minutes before lunch and recess is
over. Finish your cupcakes, drink some water, and listen
for my call to line up.”
Most students remained seated. A few abandoned
their cupcake after a few bites and scattered to various
areas within the playground.
A breeze rippled over the table and carried a pink party
napkin to the chain-link fence encasing the playground.
Following it, Adelyn’s gaze landed on Jace Murray.
Sitting alone. Knees bent and his back to the fence.
A thin boy with a gaunt face, baggy shorts, and oversized
Caveliers T-shirt bearing the same grass stain she’d
noticed on the shirt he wore yesterday ... and the day
before that.
Last week, too?
For a millisecond, she reprimanded herself for this
morning’s fuss over her closet stuffed with year-old fashions
and the exhausting struggle it’d been to choose which
of her impressive collection of shoes coordinated best.
When their eyes met, Jace hugged his knees to his
chest and lagged a glance away. Emergent sunlight played
on his dark face. Shadows pooled in his sunken cheeks.
Seven cupcakes remained. Mom and Dad—formally
known as Henry James Russell, her stepdad—would enjoy
them. But then again, their pantry held plenty of food,
and Dad’s blood sugar readings had been elevated.
Adelyn walked over to Jace and sat beside him. With
her back to the fence, she stretched her legs long, crossed
her ankles, and balanced the box on her knees.
He didn’t flinch.
“Did you catch my technique? Darn near extinguished
every one of those candles in one breath.”
He shook his head with the enthusiasm of a kid offered
a make-up tutorial. But food? Now that brought people
together.
Raising the lid, she released the sweet redolence of
custom bakery and moved the box near his nose. “You’ve
got two choices here. My guess is you’re a lime green kind
of guy.”
Jace worked a mean mug into his profile, refusing eye
contact. A stomach growl betrayed his attempt to remain
disinterested. “Neither.”
“C’mon, help me out. It’s been an epic challenge to
recover my ballet body.”
A challenge brought on by recklessly eating herself
into a coma on occasion, an attempt to feel nothing of
the barbs from having lost her happily ever after. The
fulfillment of a promise.
One cheek hitched in assessment. “Dancing. Guess
that’s why you so slim, Miss Ormond.”
Jace grabbed a stick near his feet, tossed it. “You don’t
got nothing to worry about.”
She detected the hint of a grin hidden in his profile
before his expression morphed into a distant stare.
The afternoon sun emerged behind a curtain of parting
clouds and targeted the glistening, softened frosting.
Recess had nearly reached its end. She rallied to make
a heart connection. “Ballet isn’t for sissies, you know.”
She slid her tongue over her lips and smacked, remnants
of the buttery coating and sugar mirroring her satisfying,
impromptu exchange with Jace.
“Why’d you give up dancing?”
“I had an injury that forced my retirement, so I got
a degree in elementary education while teaching at a
friend’s dance studio in Washington. The only difference
now is my students aren’t required to wear leotards and
tights.”
His chest chugged in a minimal laugh, dimples more
apparent.
Teaching had given her an opportunity to be a voice of
truth in a child’s life. To tell these precious children like
Jace what they might not hear otherwise ... that people
we love are worth a promise kept.
Some girls being the exception.
“Why’d you come to Louisiana?”
“My mom and dad moved here several years ago to
be closer to my grandparents on my mother’s side. When
my grandparents died, my mom inherited their house in
Metairie. I moved to be closer to them.”
Information enough for a nine-year-old.
He gave a minimal nod and tossed another stick, this
one striking the tetherball post.
Yes, there was the necessary breakup with possessive
boyfriend, Davis Coleman, a running back for the Seattle
Seahawks. But the pivotal reason she chose to relocate
followed Dad’s teary confession that Mom’s dementia
had become more pronounced. Dad had acted far more a
father than Rex Ormond ever had and Mom’s safety was
at risk. On more frequent occasions as of late, she’d misplaced
things. Among them, Dad’s leather pouch that held
a prized military service medal. Days later, he’d found it
tucked away in his chest of drawers. Only it wasn’t the
pouch.
It was Dad’s wallet.
Put there for safe keeping, Mom had explained.
“Besides, if I hadn’t moved to Louisiana, I’d never have
met you.” Adelyn hadn’t achieved Teacher of the Year for
no reason. The title held the weighty responsibility to
affirm impressionable souls.
Because one affirmation spoken to one soul who’d
received it could change their life forever. Just as a broken
promise could part a girl’s head from her heart.
He fisted a stone and flung it, this projectile smacking
the metal swing set yards away.
“The Caveliers could use a QB with your skill.”
That drew a smile.
Three more minutes before time to call an end to
recess.
She raised the box of cupcakes again, hitched her
brows in exaggerated invitation. “Save the day, please?”
At that, Jace sank his teeth into a lime green cupcake,
taking wolfish bites and swallowing hard as if this were
his last meal.
“Hungry, are we?”
His dull expression held palpable seriousness. Hunger
no laughing matter it seemed. A daily struggle. A plight
her task-driven supervisor had drawn attention to and
pegged her as the ideal candidate to organize the community
wide event—adding the yoke of involving big name
Chef Carlyle to bolster support.
“What’d you bring for lunch today, Jace?”
Jace shook his head. Meaning, what, he ate nothing
or didn’t want to say?
“There’s not really enough to go around at home, ya
know?”
In fact, she did.
Hunger visited Adelyn and her older brother, Ken,
when Rex Ormond gambled away his meager earnings
and spent the winnings on the companionship of hard
drink.
Just you wait and see, Addie girl. I promise you this time
I’m gonna hit paydirt.
At the chime of a nearby church, Adelyn blinked and
shook her head free from heart’s memory. A skill she’d
mastered at an early age.
What would it mean to Jace and his family if they no
longer faced scarcity? What good was sharing Jesus’s love
if Adelyn didn’t demonstrate how it looked on a functional
level? Claiming to have faith without deeds did not
achieve faith’s highest purpose.
When time came for line up, Adelyn stood. “I’m sending
the rest of these cupcakes home with you.”
The resistant stare quickly faded to a pleading gaze.
He flitted a glance at the box, snatched it like she’d offered
him gold coins. A meager offering for a hungry boy with
siblings. She bet Jace wouldn’t take any of them until his
family ate first.
A warm breeze kicked up dust. Her students continued
to swing, run around, and release happy squeals.
She checked the time then cupped a hand to her mouth.
“Let’s go, children. Recess is over.”
At the side entrance door, they scrambled to form a
line in front of her on the walkway. Jace marked the tail
end, the sacred pastry box tucked under his arm like a
running back, daring anyone to pop the ball loose.
Angst tugged at her heart and balled in her middle.
The Second Harvest Food Bank fundraiser at New
Orleans’s renown City Park resurfaced in her mind, shivered
down her arms. Because if Chef Extraordinaire could
not be convinced to contribute to a good cause on some
level—with or without collaboration—Jace and numerous
others like him might remain food insecure.
To involve Bryan required supreme sacrifice on her
part. And it would not come by way of adding one more
feather to his already heavily feathered cap. She’d only
consent to the idiocy because, providentially, she’d been
made aware of Jace’s need.
Tiny fissures developed in relationships marked by
broken promises. Over time, they became unnavigable
chasms. But a promise kept nourished the soul and conveyed
something about the promise maker.
Would a collaboration with Carlyle the Creep stir a
desire to hear his side of the story? Was there a sinister
secret behind his struggle to discuss his family? What
would be the outcome if they made the giant leap to lay
everything out in the open? And would it offer any hope
of rekindling their relationship?
Pffft. Hopeless.
If only public humiliation was just cause for torching
a guy’s three-star Michelin-rated restaurant.
# # #
At some point Bryan J. Carlyle would find the gumption
to delete the hazy image of Adelyn—his once-upona-
time fiancée—lip-locked with some unfamiliar jerk. But
for now, upholding the status of his cooking show ratings
required his undivided attention.
Or so said Trent Barks, his publicity manager who—
aptly named—doubled as Bryan’s conscience.
The floor-to-ceiling windows in Trent’s fourth-floor
office framed the Monday afternoon sun as it climbed
above the west end of the French Quarter and made an
oven of an otherwise amply air-conditioned space.
Hands clasped at his desk, Trent sat stiffly in his swivel
chair.
Bryan squirmed beneath a white-hot stare. “My ratings
can’t possibly be down. They’ve done nothing but climb
since I agreed to this cooking show gig a year ago. Fans
are wild about Carlyle’s Cookin’ Something Up.”
Spared from what had the feel of Trent’s impending
derision, Bryan’s cell buzzed within the patch pocket of
his double-breasted, white chef’s coat.
Caller unknown.
He silenced his cell and slipped it back inside the
pocket.
“You don’t pay me to spread sunshine, Bryan. I’m
merely giving you the facts. And the fact is, Don Juan,
following your hasty exit at the altar last March, you’ve
got to redirect the course of your reputation, or it’s gonna
sink to a watery grave of first-season flops.”
“I’m ranked number six—sixth among top executive
chefs in New Orleans—and am among the celebrity chefs
people most wish to have cook for them.” He jabbed a
finger on the desktop. “Locals and celebrities rate Ben’s
Seafood and Grille as their prime choice for eating out.
I’ve got the cooking school.”
Taking generous investment capital from stock market
earnings, he’d opened Carlyle’s Cajun Cooking School five
years ago. Patrons worldwide had enjoyed the expansive,
front-end retail shop and backroom cooking demos that
hosted a wide variety of groups.
“One bold move isn’t going to take me down, Trent.”
Save the family tragedy.
“True. But like all good things ...”
With an upturned palm, Bryan intercepted the onset
of negativity before it slammed into the shore of Bryan’s
soul like a Gulf Coast Cat 5 hurricane. “I owe the success
of my enterprises to God. I can’t see why He’d allow the
wedding fiasco with Adelyn to destroy it.”
Any venture that brought people around the family
table would have his full support and ingenuity. Especially
if it gave them what he’d lost.
“Trent, you’ve always said I’m the guy who can make
mud pies that have people eating out of my hands.”
“Which has worked in your favor until now. So when
you head to the studio for production this afternoon, layer
on the charm. Keep yourself lovable.”
Bolstering a reputation wasn’t like a recipe a guy could
follow and have the result coming out to perfection. But
garnering artificial adoration was better than nothing.
Wasn’t it?
The media had touted Bryan J. Carlyle as the people’s
chef—a winning smile, cropped sun-kissed hair, and
cocoa bean eyes. He typically wore a double-breasted
chef’s coat with black buttons and collar folded down
like a linen napkin. His stage presence and cooking savvy
drew people like flies to honey.
Although other women had vied for his attention,
Adelyn had captured the entirety of his heart, mind,
and soul when they met at last fall’s Deutsches Haus
Oktoberfest.
“Your social media has become a feeding frenzy,
fodder for gossip columnists who aren’t jazzed you led
a girl—a darn good-looking one at that—to the altar and
left her there.”
“It was justified.”
If only said columnists and the viewing world knew
the reason. The desire for vindication still simmered
beneath his skin. Truth was, he still cared for Adelyn,
though, by all appearances, she’d been unfaithful. A show
of self-defense might destroy what little hope he held for
restoring the love they’d shared ... an unquenchable love
that’d drawn him to his knees for the first time to offer her
his heart in marriage.
Because marriage was forever.
Adelyn’s beautiful image appeared in his mind, rising
like a delicate vapor over a cup of gumbo, and tantalized
his senses. But when he grasped at it, the image vanished
just as quickly. As did his trust.
“I can’t marry someone I don’t trust, Adelyn!” he’d
raged.
Her deer in headlights, ashen face, and wringing
hands clipped his ‘until death parts us’ promise like
sharpened kitchen shears.
Snap, snap. “Bryan?”
Trent’s voice jerked Bryan’s thoughts to the present.
The artificial light of Trent’s computer screen highlighted
furrows across his stormy brow. “Believe what you will
on the personal end, Bryan. As for business, you—the
magnificent curator of fresh produce and herbs—should
know that all good growth dies unless properly tended.”
Bryan’s phone rang a second time. Unknown caller
again.
“If that’s opportunity calling, you’d better pick up,”
Trent chided.
With that, Bryan jingled the keys to his Jag and turned
at the door. “You just do what you’re paid to do, and trust
me to work magic.”
Please, trust me.
The next morning, sunlight lazily hovered over the
skyline, sluggish in its rise. Hot espresso in tow, his engine
roared over a fresh throb of anxiety as he motored toward
the studio. Inhaling the leather interior of his fire-engine
red companion, his nerves settled.
On the set, fresh energy soared at the buzz of camera
crew, lighting, and sound techs. This season, the set
designer had fabricated a backdrop to offer viewers an
in-home, cozy, and welcoming experience. Fresh, tasteful,
and modern to match his personality.
Today, he’d have to breathe life into his ratings.
Show host Carl Donaldson emerged from the shadows
of production. “Confirm, please. Today’s demo will
be your award-winning Curried Crab with Coconut and
Chili.”
A recipe Bryan had perfected after a stellar date with
Adelyn, inspired anew by her suggestions, tweaked to
her preferences. Uniquely hers. The dazzle in her eyes
that night and thumbs-up when she sampled it assured
him he’d created a winner. A culinary success enjoyed
in private company with the answer to his dreams: an
unpretentious schoolteacher who gave him ample room
to twine people with food and generate opportunities for
laughter and shared experiences.
That which God created him to do.
A sharp cough from Carl. “Confirmed?”
“Uh, right. The crab and coconut.”
Director Miles Bevan gave a nod of readiness and
jutted a chin at Bryan who’d taken his place behind the
mobile cooking station.
Despite the sour taste in Bryan’s mouth at the gaping
holes in the auditorium—filled to two-thirds usual capacity—
he maintained a broad smile.
Chop, chop, chop.
Teeth bigger now.
He procured pre-portioned ingredients and ground
coriander seeds, flashing a wink at the camera. He transitioned
seamlessly to blend vinegar, coconut, ginger,
garlic, chili pepper, and onions to form a paste.
Concentrating attention away from the stilted audience
and the beam of Miles’s scrupulous stare, he brought
heaven to earth beneath bright lights.
“Next, you’ll want to heat the oil in a large, wide pot
over low heat and add the paste, sauté until fragrant and
the juice begins to evaporate… like a trusted relationship…
with someone you really loved.”
Adelyn.
Her image intruded again. Hand stilled on the spoon,
his mind went adrift, tugged by the tide, his gaze pulled
like a vortex into the darkened studio.
Beside him, his assistant Vance Marino gave a nervous
laugh, jabbed Bryan in the ribs.
As Bryan drew in a sharp inhale, the coated spoon
flung from his hand and landed on the far side of the set.
His lungs hollowed of air.
The auditorium sizzled in silence.
Carl skittered toward the stage. He spun to face the
audience and effectively created a diversion from Bryan.
The falling star.
“And that’ll wrap it up for today.” Carl dusted his
palms together. “No doubt the viewers here in our packed
house and at home are curious to know what Chef Carlyle
is creating.” He shot Bryan a look and spoke under his
breath. “Which is anybody’s guess ...”
Cueing the jazzy soundtrack theme, Carl gave his
signature head tilt and finger point. “Tune in next week
for…” A drumroll preceded his signature pronouncement
of the show, syllables drawn out with a punctuated crescendo.
“Car-lyle’s Cook-in’ Some-thing Up!”
At an agonizingly slow pace, guests filed out of their
seats and exited the auditorium.
Miles turned on his heels to face Bryan. He wore a look
to melt metal, eyes like stones. “I was not made aware
you’d turned this into the dating game.”
“Temporary lapse in judgment, Miles. I promise, it
won’t happen again.” He tugged off his apron and thrust
it over the untouched crab meat. Escorted by security, he
wound his way down the back corridor, through a private
exit to his car, and returned to his west side penthouse.
Encased in the trappings of what his God-given
abilities had afforded him.
Wrapped in quiet evenings.
Too quiet—aside from his furry black pal, Webster, a
loyal Newfoundland with dignified bearing. Basically, a
four-legged carpet.
Trotting in stride, Webster followed Bryan as he wandered
out to the terrace overlooking the city and nursed
thoughts of Adelyn. It was as if she’d managed to channel
her memory, determined to destroy him for abruptly
walking out on her.
Webster sounded a sympathetic whine and pawed at
Bryan’s leg.
He bent to take the paw and patted his beloved pet.
“Congrats. You’re the only soul who believes in me.”
There’d been no communication with Adelyn since
his blistering condemnation—the day he just couldn’t go
through with it. But for Bryan, trust was paramount in
any relationship.
Boss and employee.
Proprietor and patron.
Producer and actor.
Among siblings.
Devoted husband and beloved wife.
Lack of trust soured Dad’s marriage to Joni, and
resulted in, well, him—the unexpected product of Dad’s
affair with Eileen Hamilton, Bryan’s biological mother.
Unlike Joni, Eileen had captured Dad’s heart. He’d surreptitiously
longed for her. Thus, Bryan was unwittingly
deemed the favored son of Jacob Palmer Wainwright.
A status that cost Bryan the respect of his five older
brothers and resulted in Joni’s cold regard for what she’d
deemed a manifestation of Dad’s wandering.
Double-edged sword.
At what price was a guy restored to his family? But few
things were more intolerable than mischaracterization.
Deceit was a poison he refused to drink.
As for Adelyn, he’d never wanted to let her go. For the
first time, he’d found a good girl. One who wasn’t swayed
by his ratings, charisma, or cooking prowess. She’d not
lured his interest by way of a coquettish smile and the
offer of immoral favors as he’d come to expect in women.
Like a good friend, she’d endeavored to know him.
The stuff behind the public persona.
His dreams. His goals. His faith—a sacred treasure
they’d shared.
Her culinary preference rested in the simplicity of
breaded chicken sandwiches, waffle fries, and endless
strings of black licorice.
She’d nibbled on the end of a string and professed,
“These are my absolute favorite.”
He’d winced, shook his head. “I will eat anything in
the world but that.”
He’d kissed her wrinkled nose.
She’d giggled.
A decadent slice of pure joy.
A creative and optimistic spirit who embodied intelligence,
kindness, and sophistication. A woman who’d
endured intensive ballet training, performed on stage,
and maintained humility despite an impressive resume.
One who left a posh profession to be nearer her parents
and teach little kids.
Sweet, loyal, devoted. Necessary ingredients for a
marriage made to last.
Soon after they met, strong feelings brewed like a
warm wind rippling over the Gulf. Since she’d agreed not
to press about the sordid details of his family, it afforded
him time to sprinkle in tidbits as he felt able. Casual interest
churned into affection. But as winds are known to do,
the romance kicked up quickly.
Clearly, he didn’t know her well, or he would have
detected dishonesty before it shipwrecked his heart and
cast him as the bad guy.
He spent the remaining hours detailing reasons it’d
be miserable and reckless and stupid to marry to a girl
who loved licorice. However pitifully short his list, he
prayed those reasons could convince him to forget how
desperately he still loved her.

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