The Wedding Caper

  “We want to help,” I added softly. “We care about you. Both of you. And we know this is a hard time for you.”

  “I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me,” he interjected through the tears. “Being there for Judy is a blessing, not a curse. It’s not that I have to care for her.” He looked at us with imploring eyes. “I get to care for her. It’s a privilege, and I don’t want to miss a minute of it.”

  His impassioned words rocked me to the core.

  “And when I’m not with her,” he continued, “I spend nearly every waking moment on the Internet, searching for solutions the doctors might have missed. I’ve found out a lot about the holistic approach to cancer. If all else fails—” His voice trailed off, then picked back up again. “I’d have to get her to another state, and I know insurance wouldn’t cover much of it. But I would do anything for her. Anything. Even if it meant depleting every account we’ve got. And I want her to know that.” Again, the tears flowed.

  We spent the next few minutes trying to assure him, and then Warren and I prayed with Richard before he left. The pain in my chest was unbearable, but I couldn’t let loose and cry with either of the men around.

  A short time after Richard left, I climbed into a bubble bath with tears streaming. The whole course of the weekend ran through my mind: the party foods, the silk flowers, and the dance with Warren—all of it. In one instance, I saw the devastating losses Richard Blevins had faced, starting with the death of his son. I thought again of the prodigal son’s father—how he’d welcomed that young son back home into his arms once again. Richard would never know the joy of sweeping his son into his arms. And, on top of that, he might soon have to release his wife into the arms of her heavenly Father.

  “Come home, come ho-o-ome. . .” Sheila’s words played over and over in my mind as I sat in the now-cold water. They became a multi-layered mantra, driving me away from the events of the past few weeks and into a deeper place with my Lord.

  I prayed for Richard Blevins as I’d never prayed before. Oh, Father, how can one man bear so much?

  From outside the bathroom door, I heard the sound of Devin’s laughter and realized he’d returned home, safe and sound. My heart twisted as I thought about all of those aggravating snack foods I’d grumbled over. I would gladly put together a hundred parties for my son, now that I saw it all in perspective.

  I fought to keep my emotions in check, then closed my eyes and leaned back against the edge of the tub. In my mind’s eye, I replayed my “rose in the teeth” dance with Warren. Tears tumbled once again. I wept for Richard, and for all of those who had no one to dance with. I cried myself completely dry. Then, just about the time I’d totally given myself over to emotion, the Lord reminded me once again of Judy’s comment about dancing across the living room as a little girl, and His promise that she would soon dance again—with Him.

  In an instant, God gave me His perspective. This time around, I got it. I truly got it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I remember, years ago, reading a sign that said Reality is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. I’ve thought about those words hundreds of times since, but never so much as in the week that followed Sheila’s infamous solo.

  The trouble really started on Friday morning—the morning of the homecoming game—when the man from the electric company came to shut off our power.

  For one thing, Sasha’s incessant barking set my nerves on edge right away. She carried on so loudly, in fact, that I could scarcely make out a word the poor guy was saying. I finally caught the gist of it.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he shouted for the umpteenth time, “but I have no choice. You didn’t pay your October bill.”

  I reached down to pick up my little guard dog as I responded. “What do you mean? Of course we paid it.” Warren never forgot to pay bills. Ever.

  He even went so far as to say they had mailed a disconnect notice. No way. Warren would’ve seen that, for sure.

  The trembling in my hands must’ve convinced Sasha we were dealing with a perpetrator, because she attempted to leap from my arms in the young man’s direction, growling all the way.

  “I’ll just find your meter.” He backed up and acted as if he might turn to leave, right there on the spot.

  “No, please don’t go yet. I can give you the confirmation number. Hang on.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  He stood at a safe distance, and Sasha and I scurried into the house to set things straight. Warren always got a confirmation number when he paid by phone with the credit card. I fished around the top of my desk but found nothing. Then I opened the drawer where he usually kept the bills and found the hard truth. Way down in the stack sat two unopened envelopes from the electric company. Horrified, I tore open the top one, the disconnect notice the man had mentioned. My husband had indeed forgotten to pay the Clark County Lighting and Power Company, just as he’d said.

  I returned to the door and pleaded with the fellow to give me an hour or so, but he informed me that company policy must be strictly adhered to.

  These guys from the electric company must take special courses in how to deal with hysterical menopausal women. He handled me with grace, charm, and finesse. Almost an art form on his part. How he did it, I’ll never know, but this tough guy managed to see past my tears and the check I quickly presented.

  “Sorry, but you’ll have to take that to one of our payment centers,” he explained. “I’m not authorized to accept past-due payments at the door.” He handed me a notice with a list of local payment centers on it, our local grocery store making the top of the list. I looked over it as he disappeared around the side of the house.

  And with that, our house went black.

  Okay, a slight exaggeration, perhaps. Morning sunshine streamed in through the windows, but my world, as I knew it, ceased to exist the minute the hum of electricity faded.

  No computer, which being interpreted, meant I could not work. Mental note: Remember to keep laptop battery charged at all times, just in case.

  No lights. Only a problem in a couple of rooms, to be noted, but a serious challenge, should this situation last very long.

  Perhaps the worst of all: No power in the refrigerator. This could have devastating consequences if I didn’t get the electricity turned on right away.

  And so, off to the grocery store I went to pay my bill. I stood in a lengthy line at the customer service booth until I reached the counter. Bob Lemuel, our beloved praise and worship leader, greeted me from the other side. Yikes. It would have to be someone I knew.

  “Hi, Annie. Can I help you?”

  “Um, yes—” I went on to explain our predicament and he helped me through the process with a smile. “Happens all the time,” he explained.

  Not to me it doesn’t.

  “Yep, it could’ve happened to anyone.” He dove into a story about his wife Nita, and her inability to keep up with the family’s bills, and I felt my cheeks warm. I hoped he didn’t feel as free to share our story with others.

  Bob handed me my receipt and I glanced at my watch. Ten fifteen. “How long will it take before the lights come back on?” I asked.

  “You got this payment in before noon.” He gave a little shrug. “I’d say they’ll be on by mid-afternoon, early evening at the latest. But you’ll have to call and give the fine folks at Clark County Lighting and Power the receipt number first.”

  “Terrific.”

  I pulled my cell phone from my purse to call the electric company, but opted to call Warren first. No point in beating around the bush. He apologized profusely, blaming the oversight on his hectic work schedule. We somehow managed to make it through the conversation with good moods intact, though I secretly wondered at this mistake on his part. He’d never forgotten to pay a bill before. Why now? Distracted, perhaps?

  I punched in the number to the power company and was greeted by a recording. While waiting for an operator, I decided to pick up a few grocery items. I also pur
chased a few more last-minute items for Devin’s post-homecoming party tonight. Mental note: As soon as the power comes on, start working on those sausage and cheese puffs.

  As I hit the checkout line another call came through. I’d been on hold for over ten minutes at this point. The way things were going, I’d switch to the other line and the operator would choose that very moment to take my call. Regardless, the other phone line continued to beckon. I opted to take it. I couldn’t help but notice the emotion in Candy’s voice as she spoke. Candy, the unemotional one.

  “M–Mom.”

  “What, honey?”

  “Mom, you’ve got to stop Brandi. She’s driving me crazy.”

  Candy went on to explain her latest dilemma as I inched my way up through the line. Once I reached the conveyer belt, I unloaded the milk and eggs. In the process, the phone slipped from my ear, nearly falling. I caught it on the way down. The clerk gave me a “down the nose” stare and shook her head. Apparently she’d seen one-too-many customers with a cell phone incident in her line. I gave her my best “I’m so sorry” look.

  “Mom, are you there?”

  “I’m here.” I pressed the cell phone between my shoulder and my ear as I continued to unload the basket.

  Candy forged ahead. “She’s using silk flowers at her wedding. Silk flowers.”

  “Yes, I know. I—”

  “The problem is,” she interrupted, “she’s absolutely insistent I do the same thing. But I don’t want silk flowers. I want real flowers. I think silk flowers are tacky.”

  “Well then, use real flowers.” I reached for my purse to pull out my debit card so the clerk could see I was paying attention to the task at hand.

  “I wish it was that easy.” On and on she went, telling me all of the details of why this silk versus real dilemma had grown to such proportions. I tried to take it all in, but the glare from the clerk made it difficult.

  I swiped my debit card through the little machine and punched in my password. For whatever reason, distraction, probably, my card was rejected. Panic set in immediately. No money in our account? Has Warren been wrestling with insufficient funds, on top of everything else?

  Thankfully, the clerk, whose name I not duly noted as Jeanene, pinpointed the problem. “Wrong password.”

  “Ah.” I tried again, taking great care to enter the right number.

  This time everything went through properly, and Jeanene handed me the receipt with a brusque “thank you.” I nodded in her direction and kept talking on the phone as I pushed the basket from the store.

  “I need to know what you think,” Candy implored. “It means so much to me. Tell me.”

  “Honey, it’s your wedding.” I stated my opinion on the matter. “You’re the bride. You should do what you want.”

  Here, my normally unemotional daughter erupted in tears. “I d–didn’t know it was going to be this c–complicated. Sometimes I wish we could j–just elope.”

  Tell me about it.

  Just as I reached the car, a beep on the phone let me know I had another call. “Honey, I have to go. I’m getting another call. Stay strong—and get your fresh flowers. Any kind and any color you like. This is your wedding.”

  “I love you, Mom.” And with a sigh, the call ended.

  I clicked to the other line, and couldn’t help but groan as I heard Brandi’s voice. “Mom, we’ve got a problem.”

  We? What’s up with this we business?

  “Candy is driving me absolutely crazy. I don’t think I can go on living with her.”

  “Oh?” I opened the backseat door to unload the groceries. “Tell Mama all about it.”

  She dove in, in typical Brandi fashion. “She’s such a snob. She doesn’t like any of my ideas, thinks everything I’m doing is tacky. Tacky, Mom. She actually said tacky.”

  Lord, if we live through these next few months, it’s going to be a miracle.

  “I need your opinion, Mom,” Brandi spoke with great passion. “It means so much to me. Tell me what you think.”

  I encouraged her with the same words I’d just used with her sister. “It’s your wedding, honey. You should do what you want.”

  She eventually calmed down and we had a few non-emotional words before ending the conversation. I climbed into the driver’s seat and leaned my head back against the headrest. Lord, I know You said You wouldn’t give me more than I could bear. All I can say is, You must trust me a lot.

  I started the car and reached to put it into reverse. At that very moment, reality hit. The electric company. I still had to call them with the receipt number.

  I punched in their number with great speed, and breathed a sigh of relief when I actually reached a human. The woman on the other end of the phone assured me my lights would be back on by 3:00. Just enough time to put together the foods for tonight’s party. Thank You, Lord.

  At this point, it took everything in me just to get the car from Point A to Point B—Point A being the grocery store, Point B being the house. All along the way, my mind flooded with a hundred things.

  Janetta Mullins, seated in the pew behind me last Sunday morning. Judy Blevins, lying alone in a hospital room. Nikki Rogers, caring for her daughter alone. The tears in Warren’s eyes as he talked with me on the way home from church.

  Lord, help me. In spite of my heart-felt compassion, I couldn’t get past the fact that someone had stolen the money from the bank. But, who?

  All of my ponderings now melded together with today’s daughter encounters. For a minute or two, I could scarcely separate out one thing from another. How could I, with so much going on at once?

  In that same moment, I remembered my heart-felt prayer in the bathtub last Sunday night. I could hardly justify complaining about being overwhelmed with a houseful of healthy family members. And besides, most of these messes were of my own making.

  I arrived home with groceries in hand and entered my still-near-dark house. I could hear Sasha barking in the back yard, where I’d left her nearly an hour ago. I set the grocery bags down on the kitchen table and then started the task of putting them away. Afterwards, I swung wide the back door to greet my adorable pup.

  For a second, I thought perhaps I’d landed in the wrong house, was looking at the wrong yard. Then, after a second glance, realized. . . Nope. It’s my yard, all right. At least it was.

  Off to my right, where the flowerbeds used to be, I found a chaotic scene. All of my marigolds had been ripped up and gathered into messy clumps. To my left, my evergreen bushes had been pulled up as well. And in the middle of the yard—holes. Probably five or six. Not itsy-bitsy tiny holes, but great big, halfway-to-China holes.

  I stared in disbelief at Sasha, wondering how in the world one tiny dachshund could have accomplished such a feat. Had she cloned herself while I was away?

  Nope. There she sat, tail wagging, completely alone.

  Well, not really sat, exactly. She sprang up and down in an attempt to get my full attention, the mud and twigs flying everywhere. Oh, you want to be held, do you?

  “No way,” I said with a shudder. “I’m not holding you. And when Daddy sees this—”

  A very real shiver went down my spine as I thought about what Warren would do when he saw on the back yard. What if he asks me to get rid of my beloved puppy? What will I do?

  Hmm.

  I couldn’t really accomplish much inside the house, so I opted for the yard work. Over the next hour I replanted what was salvageable of the flowers, set the bushes back in place, and filled in the holes. Sasha stuck by my side all the way. Indeed, she almost looked repentant at one point. And, by the time all was said and done, the whole yard looked very nearly perfect. Well, unless you counted the missing sod part. But it would grow back.

  Around one o’clock I entered the house, tidied up, and fixed myself a sandwich. I settled down at the kitchen table, thankful for the peace and quiet. The gentle ticking of the battery-operated clock on the wall distracted me for a moment, but only just. After
that, I lost myself in my thoughts.

  As I sat in the silent stillness of that near-darkened house, I reflected on the missing deposit once again. The electricity had gone out at the bank on the night of the incident. I still didn’t have an answer to the “why” question. A power surge, presumably, but what did that mean? Had someone deliberately shut it off, or was it simply a coincidence someone had taken advantage of? I needed to check into that, to be sure. I reached for my now-worn notebook and scribbled in a reminder to myself.

  Then, as I looked around the room, I thought about all of the changes brought on by my lack of electricity. Whoever had stolen the money that infamous night had faced those same challenges. No power. No lights. No. . .

  No cameras. No cameras in operation whatsoever. And cameras were, I knew, an integral part of the counting of the night deposit money. I remembered Warren telling me all about the process—how he stood at the counter with the camera angled down at his hands as he counted, counted, counted the money from the night deposit bags. With no cameras in operation, anything could have happened.

  Clearly, my next challenge would be to find out who had counted the remaining money on the morning after the power returned. After all, no other deposits had turned up missing. According to the Gazette, three other merchants had made successful deposits in the night: Neva McMullen from the grocery store, Corey Stephens from the local dairy, and Ginny Tompkins from the courier service. No cash in the mix.

  Once again, I thought of Mrs. Lapp’s words, how Janetta had insisted upon being paid in cash. I couldn’t make any sense of it, but surely, somewhere between the darkness and the light, that $25,000 had found a new home. And the lack of power had clearly played a major role.

  I let my imagination run away with me for a while, racing down a variety of rabbit trails. Each one led me to exactly the same place: frustration.

  I’m not sure when the electricity in my house came back on, exactly, but I remember hearing the hum of the refrigerator at some point and realized the light above the sink had returned.