Heavens to Betsy (34 page)

“What are you having?” David asks, peering over the top of his menu. I scramble to open mine and give it a quick once-over. The truth is, my stomach is so tied up in knots, I’m not going to be able to eat a bite. A real date with David at a normal restaurant. Just like all the other couples I’ve been envying all these years. I know David is the one for me, but I’m not in any rush to the altar, despite what my mother likes to refer to as my “advancing age.” I’m barely thirty, and as old-fashioned as it may sound, I want to be courted. Heaven knows I’ve waited long enough for a little romance.

“I think I’ll have the shrimp enchiladas,” I say, and David nods sagely, as if I’ve just translated a tricky bit of the Dead Sea Scrolls from the original Aramaic.

Then he frowns. What does that frown mean? My heart skips a beat. These days it seems to go into overdrive with every nuance of his facial expression.

“Or maybe I’ll have the taco salad,” I say weakly. Yuck. I hate that note of uncertainty in my voice. Just because David and I are officially an item does not mean I have to turn into an echo chamber for his opinions and preferences. Not that David would want me to. It’s just
something women seem to fall prey to in the early stages of a relationship, no matter how liberated they are.

Our waiter appears, and I’m forced to interpret the subtext of my entrée choice on the spot. “The shrimp enchiladas,” I say, deciding its better to begin as I mean to go on. I may be in love, but I remain a complete, worthwhile, and independent person.

Really.

“I’ll have the steak fajitas,” David says without any existential qualms whatsoever and hands the waiter his menu. Then his attention finally, blessedly, turns to me.

When I’m with David, I should carry a voltage meter, because I’m sure the electricity that shoots through me would register at an impressive level. For years I kept it under wraps, since I didn’t think he felt the same way. But then recently, a miracle occurred, and David and I became an item. Let the congregation say “Amen!”

I try to ignore the angel chorus singing hallelujahs in my ears and turn my attention to David.

“How was your day?” I ask. It’s a question I’ve asked him a million times, but it has a different ring to it now. A proprietary tone. I have the vested interest of a significant other in his response.

“Great. It was great.” He’s glancing around the restaurant like a fugitive on the FBI’s Most-Wanted list. David’s not normally a nervous type of person, so I have to tell you that little prickles of apprehension begin shooting up my spine. What if he’s already decided this was a dumb idea, risking our years of friendship against the uncertain promise of a romantic relationship? What if he wants out already? Is the courting over before it’s even begun?

“Are you looking for somebody?”

“You seem a little nervous, like you’re expecting to see somebody.”

“Oh? Really?” He tries to look innocent, but that telltale flush creeps up his neck. David’s a terrible liar, and everyone knows it. Especially his congregation. His neck is like a giant truth thermometer that can be read at ten paces.

“David? Is something going on?”

The flush overshoots his neck and spreads across his cheeks. He laughs like a bad actor in summer stock.

But he doesn’t deny it.

So it’s true. He’s going to dump me on our first date.

And I was so looking forward to the courting.

The knots in my stomach would make Houdini blanch. “Listen, David, you know, I’ve been thinking—”

But before I can summon up the words to cut and run before he does, the strangest thing happens. David gets up out of his chair, comes around the corner of the table, and drops to one knee beside me.

“Did you lose a contact?” I try to ask, but the knot in my stomach vaults into my throat, and my words come out in a high-pitched squeak more suited to Alvin and the Chipmunks.

“Betsy,” he says and takes my right hand in both of his. All around us, the other diners have swiveled their chairs to take a gander at the spectacle at Table 11.

“David? What’s going on?”

His hands are sweaty but warm, and I don’t think he would publicly humiliate me by announcing to the whole restaurant that he’s decided I’m too repulsive to date. Then one of his hands leaves mine, and he puts it in his pocket. When it re-emerges, it’s holding a black velvet box.

I’m hyperventilating. I swear I’m hyperventilating. The knot in my throat drops to the floor, somewhere in the vicinity of David’s knee.

“Betz, I know it’s our first date, but I don’t see any point in putting off the inevitable.” He smiles—that smile I feel right down to my toes every time he trains it on me—and for several enjoyable moments I’m mush.

“The inevitable?” I repeat.

Around us, the other restaurant patrons are murmuring excitedly among themselves. As if in slow motion, David brings the box up to my hand so he can use the fingers wrapped around mine to open the lid.

“Ouch!” I protest when he accidentally catches the skin on the back of my ring finger in the hinge.

“Sorry.” He raises my hand to his lips and kisses it, and it’s all I can do not to slide off my chair into a puddle on the floor.

“Betsy, I know it’s our first date, but I don’t need any more time to know you’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.” He turns the box so I can see the contents, and nestled on the velvet is a small diamond engagement ring. A pear-shaped diamond on a wide gold band, surrounded with little pink things that look as if they came out of a gumball machine.

It’s the most hideous ring I’ve ever seen.

“Betz, why don’t we just go ahead and do it?”

He looks at me with those big brown eyes, like a puppy that has just learned not to piddle on the carpet. And a hole the size of Cleveland opens up in my midsection.

This can’t be happening.

Does my horror show on my face? I need to smile. I must smile. So I do, but it feels as if my lips are being pried upward with a cattle prod. The ring just sits there in the middle of the velvet box in all of its Technicolor glory David’s hand shakes a little. He’s been on that knee a long time. The other diners start to murmur.

This should be the happiest moment of my life, but the tears that start to fall have nothing to do with joy. It’s what I wanted, but it’s definitely not the way I dreamed it.

For heaven’s sake, I’m getting
David out
of this deal. What does it matter if the details aren’t perfect?

I blush and hope David will chalk it up to embarrassment, not shame. A fine distinction, but an important one at the moment. I’d much rather he think I’m shy about accepting his proposal in front of all these people than realize the depth of my disappointment.

David leans forward, and now he’s looking concerned. And there’s such love in his eyes that I feel like a complete idiot. What am I doing? This man loves me. That’s more important than the most fabulous courtship in the history of courtships. He doesn’t need to woo me; he’s already got me. As usual, I’m so busy getting in my own way that I can’t accept what’s being offered.

He smiles and relief washes across his features. At that moment I realize he was actually worried I might turn him down. A wave of warm affection washes over me, and I resolve to put my momentary doubts behind me.

“Kiss her!” a man two tables over calls out, and David grins.

“Why didn’t I think of that,” he murmurs to me as his lips move toward mine. I smother a giggle—or rather, David’s lips do—and everyone in the restaurant breaks into applause.

A lot of applause. Really, more than there should be.

When David lifts his head from mine, I look over his shoulder to see that the doors to the party room have been thrown open, and wave after wave of familiar faces flow forth. My parishioners. David’s parishioners. Friends from divinity school. And then I see my sister. And my mother. And right behind her, my father. I’m stunned. My parents haven’t been in the same room since their divorce fifteen years ago. Even when my sister, Melissa, had her daughter, our parents took turns coming to the hospital.

“Mom? Dad?”

“It’s an engagement party, honey!” My mom, always a great one for stating the obvious, practically shoves David out of the way so she can pull me out of my chair and hug me. Her hair is even blonder than the last time I saw her. A cashmere sweater set and modest pearls give her the air of old money—an air she cultivates without any actual financial backing to support it. “Are you surprised?” she asks.

Surprised? How about stunned? Appalled? My dad reaches me a split second after my mom. He’s so tan, he’s almost orange. Tracy, his new wife, must be dousing him with that spray-on stuff again.

“Not now, Roger,” she snaps.

“Don’t you mean ‘not ever,’ Linda?” he fires back. “You may not like it, but I plan to be a part of this wedding every step of the way.”

And then, over the din, I hear the strident voice of David’s mother, Angela Swenson. “Over here, Jeremy. I want a shot of this.” She pushes past the well-wishers with her Lee Press-On Nails and a shake of her Farrah Fawcett hair.

My folks recede into the crowd, and a flashbulb goes off in my face.

“David, get down on one knee again,” Angela orders him. “We missed that shot.”

A shadow passes over David’s face, but he does as he’s instructed. I’m too stunned to do anything but passively cooperate. The flash pops again.

“Now, take her hand. You forgot to put the ring on her finger.”

David slips the ring from the box and shoots me an apologetic glance.

“David, what’s going on?” I hiss.

“It’s a surprise,” he whispers. “My mother wants to—”

His explanation is interrupted when Angela calls out another set of instructions, and the photographer continues to snap away. I feel like J.Lo at a movie premier—minus the fashionable clothes, hair, and makeup—when David’s mother finally spills the beans.

“Isn’t it great, Betsy? How many girls would give their right arm to be featured in
Budget Bride
magazine?” David’s mother beams. “Lucky for you your future mother-in-law is the managing editor.”

David’s fingers tighten around mine. “Please, Betz?” he says under
his breath. “It means so much to her. And the magazine will pay for everything.”

My eyes meet his, and with a sinking feeling, I know I’m going to agree. Not because I care that much about making his mother happy, but because I want David to be happy. That’s how it is when you love someone. I have David now. I can afford to be noble and gracious.

Also, I’m afraid of what will happen if I say no. You see, I knew David back when he was engaged before. To Jennifer, the Cindy Crawford look-alike. I know he can do better than me.

“It’s fine,” I whisper. “Really. It’ll be great.”

The lines on David’s forehead dissolve into relief. “Thanks,” he says, and then zooms in for another kiss. The flashbulb is popping again, but at the moment, I don’t care. The whole world can be as imperfect as it wants as long as David keeps kissing me.

“It came from eBay,” Angela informs me amid the bustle of my impromptu engagement party. The photographer snaps a few close-ups of my garish engagement ring. “Such a steal,” Angela purrs.

Her words douse the faint flicker of hope that I might find a gentle way to suggest to David that we exchange the ring for something more, well, tasteful. I can’t believe I’m going to spend the next forty-plus years of my life wearing an engagement ring that looks like an Easter basket. I bet the person who sold it to him is still laughing.

“It means a lot to me that he picked it out himself,” I say demurely, because it’s never too early to build a good bridge of communication with your future mother-in-law. No matter what cheap tabloid she edits.