Blue Heart Blessed (4 page)

S
ome days, when I’m in the mood to torture myself, I’ll read the from the year that I met Daniel, the year we dated and the year we were engaged, while consuming a whole box of Wheat Thins, which I slather in peanut butter and stud with raisins.

I am continually amazed at how different I sound to myself as I describe what Daniel was like, how he asked me out for our first date, how taken I was by his impeccable taste and social prowess. I sound so naïve. That’s what still gets me, a year later. Not the ache of being rejected, that is mercifully beginning to wane, thank God. But I still feel so foolish. Ashamed. Like I should’ve seen it coming. Only a naïve girl could’ve been as bamboozled as I was. For example:

Dear Daisy,

Keep your head. Don’t go falling into a place where you can’t see the bottom. Keep your hand on the rail at all times…

And this one:

Dear Daisy,

What’s not to like? You are who you are. That’s who Daniel likes. Don’t try to be someone they’ll approve of. You don’t know them; you don’t know what they like. You are you. That’s who they must like…

And this one:

Dear Daisy,

It’s never about the movie…

And yet another:

Dear Daisy,

Who says I can’t see? Stop waving that thing in front of my face. You’re blinding me… Congratulations, my girl. Can I be a bridesmaid?

There are more entries
like these. Lots more. They are nauseating to me now. Seeing them truly makes me ill. I suppose the quantity of embellished Wheat Thins I usually consume in the reading of them might have something to do with that. Who knows?

On days when I’m in the mood to torture myself, I re-read the entries from those horrible first few days when I had to come to terms with being disengaged. Jilted.

Unwanted.

Thank goodness today is not one of those days.

Rosalina Gallardo, who lives with her husband Mario in one of the apartments above Something Blue, is singing in Spanish as she opens a seam on a dress that’s too tight. The girl who wants this dress is nowhere near a size six. She must think Rosalina is a worker of miracles. I’ll be amazed if the gal will ever be able to squeeze her body into it. Rosalina is unfazed, however, by the task at hand. I’m sure that’s why she sings as she alters. I’ve no idea what Rosalina is saying as she snips the tiny white threads but it sounds like she is calling out to someone to come away with her. Or to come back to her.

Mario and Rosalina are originally from Ecuador, though they’ve lived in Minnesota the last twenty-five years. I’ve known them all my life. They lived across the street from me when my parents and I lived in Apple Valley—a Twin Cities suburb. Rosalina does all the alterations for Something Blue and Mario is in charge of everything mechanical in the entire building. And I mean everything. Oh, and spiders, too.

Rosalina and I are in the alterations room at the moment, which is one of the apartments above the store that I don’t lease out. Rosalina’s twelve-year-old niece, Maria Andréa, who’s spending the summer with them, is sitting on the floor next to her aunt, taking seed pearls off a very old lace wedding dress. The dress has yellowed over the years to a lovely shade of champagne. But the pearls have gone battleship gray and must come off. Andréa sits with the gown in her lap, happily removing the blackened beads with a seam-ripper. Next to her and leaning against the wall is Liam Laurent, the eleven-year-old grandson of Father Laurent, the retired Episcopal priest who also lives in one of the apartments above Something Blue. Father Laurent is my angel of God who blesses the little blue hearts before Rosalina sews them in my dresses. Liam is visiting his grandfather today. The boy has a worried look on his face.

I’m sure it’s because his grandpa is holding in his care-worn hands a blue satin heart, slightly padded and about the size of a quarter, and he is whispering.

“Bless and keep the young woman who will wear this gown. Keep her from harm and heartache. Keep her safe from complacency and bitterness and indifference. Envelope her with the love you have for each one of us. May she always know that love. May she always seek to give that kind of love. May she receive it from the man she will marry. For every day of their married life, for as long as they both shall live. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Liam watches as Father Laurent hands the little heart back to me. I place it in a tiny Ziploc bag and pin it to a frothy white gown hanging on a metal rack. The dress had belonged to a woman who divorced her husband after twenty years of marriage. They had gotten bored with each other.

I turn back to Father Laurent. He has the kindest eyes of any man I’ve ever met, next to my dad. Father Laurent reminds me quite a bid of my dad, actually. He’s average in height and build, with cotton-white hair and wrinkles on his face from all the times in his life he has smiled.

“I think Liam thinks this is nuts,” I whisper to him.

Father Laurent grins. His voice is low as he leans in to me. “It only matters what you think. And what the lady who’ll wear that dress thinks.” This is why Father Laurent is practically my business partner though I would never say such a thing to him. He understands what that little blue heart means. It is a tiny emblem of hope. Wounded people need those or we’ll go mad. He winks and turns to his grandson. “Well, Liam. Shall we go to the zoo?”

Liam’s worried look dissolves and is replaced by one of relief.

Father Laurent waves goodbye to Rosalina and Maria Andréa and starts to walk away.

“Goodbye, Father!” Rosalina’s accent decorates her words like ribbons on a gift.

Liam follows his grandfather out of the alterations room. “What were you doing?” The boy made a polite effort to ask quietly. But I heard him, of course. Rosalina did, too. She laughs without making a sound.

“Blessing a dress.” Father Laurent’s voice is genial.

“Why?”

“Because the dress will be worn by someone. And everyone needs God’s blessing.”

Their footsteps take them to the staircase that leads to the first floor and their voices fade away.

I turn back to my next project. Assessing a collection of bridesmaids’ dresses that were sent from Dallas on approval.

Max, another tenant, bursts into the room with a deck of cards in his hands. “I want to try this new trick out on you!”

He is breathless and looks like he just got up.

Max always looks like he just got up.

Max.

There is really only one reason why my old friend Max is renting one of the apartments above Something Blue.

Because my mother and L’Raine talked him into it.

Think Yenta from
Fiddler on the Roof.
Times two.

I’ve known Max Dacey since high school. He was in the theater group with me and we had a lot of the same friends, including my best friend Shelby Kovatch. He has never been a love interest of mine, nor have I been one of his. I like Max. But I don’t have romantic feelings for him. I never have. And whenever I think of Reuben I’m glad Max has never had any for me. Max is tall, very thin, likes to keep his curly hair wild and feral-like and he loves sleight of hand. He’s been doing magic shows for five-year-olds’ birthday parties since he was twelve. Max wants to be a career magician—has forever wanted to be a career magician—but his parents have always been able to talk him into staying in the family photography business. I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Dacey have ever been able to picture Max making a living changing the ace of spades into the queen of hearts. And actually Max is a very good photographer. But it’s not what he loves. He loves illusion.

When I began to look for tenants for the apartments back in November, I was very selective. I wanted to have the tenants lined up before the units were even ready so that I wouldn’t have to advertise. There are only ten apartments, and I filled them the first week I agreed to manage the building. One apartment for me, one for alterations, one each for Mom and L’Raine, one for Rosalina and Mario—I knew with Rosalina’s skill as a seamstress and Mario’s as a handyman, managing the building and selling the dresses would be a breeze—and one for Reuben who wanted to have an apartment available for when he comes to the Twin Cities. My wonderful Father Laurent, who was retiring and looking for a new home, was recommended by a couple at my church, as were Wendy and Philip, who live across from Father Laurent on the third floor. About that same time, a retired violinist named Solomon Gruder, who was my dad’s friend from his days with the Minneapolis Symphony, was looking to sell his house and move into an apartment. After those arrangements, then there was just the one unit left. Mom called the Daceys without asking me first and asked if Max was still looking to move out on his own. Yes, he was twenty-nine and still living at home. The Daceys were pretty pleased to have Max out of the house but not out of the business and to have an “in” with future brides with future photography needs. Max arrived two days before Christmas with a strange collection of furniture, a thousand decks of cards—or so it seemed—and beautifully-framed portraits of Dacey Photography Studio brides which he hung on the walls of the soon-to-be-opened Something Blue.

I don’t mind having Max here. But Mom and L’Raine need to look for someone else to fix Max up with. We’re just friends. We’re only friends.

Max now holds a fanned deck of cards in front of me. “Pick a card.”

“Max.”

“C’mon. You’re not doing anything important.”

I reach out and choose a card. It’s the two of hearts.

“Don’t let me see it but show it to Maria Andréa and Rosalina.”

I obey.

“Okay. Now put it back.”

Again, I obey.

Max folds the cards into his hand and shuffles the deck. “Now I want to concentrate on your card. Think only about your card. Picture it in your head in this deck. I’m going to read your mind.”

I can’t help but smile.

“You’re not concentrating, are you?” He says this slyly, still shuffling the deck.

“Yes, I am.” The two of hearts is now dancing inside my head.

“Is this your card?” He holds up the eight of clubs.

“No. Sorry, Max.”

“Okay, okay. Wait a minute.” He rifles through the deck. “Is this your card?”

The ace of diamonds.

“No. Sorry.”

Max frowns. He hands the deck to me. “Guess I’m not having much luck reading your mind. You’re just going to have to show the card to me.”

I take the deck and look through the cards. The two of hearts isn’t there. I look up at Max. “It’s not in here.”

Max’s wild eyes are twinkling. He whips his head around to the twelve-year-old at his feet. “Andréa, did you take Daisy’s card?”

The girl laughs. “No!”

“I think maybe you did.”

“I did not!”

“Then what’s this doing behind your ear, young lady?” And Max reaches down and seemingly pulls a card from behind Maria Andréa’s ear. He shows it to us.

The two of hearts.

“Oh!” Rosalina exclaims.

“How’d you do that?” Andréa’s mouth falls open with amazement.

“Magic,” Max whispers. He looks almost handsome when he says this. He turns to me and reaches out his hand. I hand his deck back to him.

“Pretty good, Max.”

He looks triumphant. “I made it up myself.”

“How’d he do it, ?” Andréa’s eyes are dancing with curiosity.

“Magic!” Rosalina says and Max grins.

I watch him leave. Skinny. Unkempt. Untamed Max. The man Mom dragged here hoping I would fall in love with him. As he walks out of the room I search my mind and heart to see if there is indeed the slightest thread of magic between him and me.

The slightest thread.

The mere semblance of what I felt when I was in love with Daniel.

But there is nothing.

No magic at all.

Dear Harriet,

Max showed Maria Andréa, Rosalina and me a new card trick today. I have to admit it was a pretty good trick. The look in Andréa’s eyes when he was done was priceless. She was over-the-top impressed. It was like her opinion of him went up several significant notches between the moment he walked in (looking like a victim of electrocution, of course) and the moment he left.

It made me stop and wonder, as I’ve confessed to you before, if I am missing something. Is it just Mom’s meddling that has Max here, living just one floor away from me? Or is providence at work? Am I suppressing deeper feelings for Max? Feelings that if let loose, would lead me straight to his skinny arms? It sure doesn’t seem like it. There’s just nothing there. Nothing beyond fondness. I like Max like I like Kellen. No, that’s not true. I love Kellen. Brotherly love is not what I feel for Max. It is just simple affection. Definitely not attraction. Besides. It can’t possibly be the will of God that I marry Max. I would forever be known as Daisy Dacey. That would be unthinkable. Even for God.

Father Laurent had his grandson here for the day. Liam seems like a nice kid, but his mother is something else. I learned today that she divorced Father Laurent’s son last summer, and that she’s the one who did the leaving. I also found out today why I’ve never seen Liam’s father. Ramsey Laurent has been in Tokyo the last four months working on some kind of contract. I feel for Liam. Really, I do. His mother never comes in when Liam visits here. Never. She just drops the kid off at the front of the building. Like she can’t stand the sight of Father Laurent. I asked Father about it today. I know it’s none of my business. But it annoys me that Father Laurent is treated that way. “Does she think you hate her? She must not know you very well if she does,” is what I said. And Father Laurent said, “No. She knows how much I still care for her. As a child of God. That’s what bugs her.”

Go figure.

Tonight I watched the first half of Fiddler on the Roof. Had it on my mind today. I fast-forwarded to the wedding scene. You know, the dress is just okay, and Tzietel’s no beauty queen, but I love that part of the movie—up until the Russians invade and spoil everything. I love how Motel and Tzietel love each other completely. Their love seems so simple. And yet deep. It’s both. Simple and deep. I can’t picture Motel telling Tzietel ten days before they’re to marry, “Tzietel, I’ve been doing some serious thinking and I just don’t think I want to be married to you. I’m sorry. I really am. I wish I felt differently. But I don’t.”

Not in a million years.

p.s. I sent Darlene Talcott a check for an additional $200 for her sister’s dress.

Dear Daisy,

The only thing that is unthinkable for God to do is to be untrue. He most certainly could ordain that you live out the rest of your days as Daisy Dacey. If you loved Max—and it is obvious to all, including God, I think, that you do not— it would not matter to you what his last name was. If you are wondering if someday you will love Max, then I suggest you keep a meter on your dislike for the name Daisy Dacey. When and if it ceases to irritate you, then you will know that you were meant to love Max.

And may I remind you that you respect Father Laurent too much to poke your nose into his private affairs. His relationship with his former daughter-in-law is indeed none of your business, just as you said. Plus, you judge a woman you have never met.

Yes, Motel and Tzietel have the same kind of love that made fairy tales famous. Don’t forget, though, my whimsical friend, that this love did not come easy. It tested them.

I was going to congratulate you on sending the check to that woman but that would be like rewarding a liar for telling the truth.

But I will say it is always a good idea to do the right thing.

Harriet