INVITATION TO DESTINY

                                     

Chapter 1.  No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

[Chapter 2 will be available on August 1]

The invitation that could change Vanessa's life was stuffed, unnoticed, with the rest of her mail in the overloaded briefcase under her arm. She struggled to get the key into the lock of the wood paneled door to her condo. Her damp, honey colored hair fell across her face as she tried with her other hand to control the leash attached to a wet and shaken dog she'd just rescued. At last the key clicked into place. She dragged herself and the frightened dog into the warm, welcoming, yellow front hall. Her foot caught in his trailing leash and she flopped onto the hard parquet floor. Her violet eyes looked at the shivering mass of dirty, white fur. “No good deed goes unpunished, right, Mr. Dog.”

       He whimpered and sniffed her hand. She felt he was asking a bewildered 'who are you?'

       “I could ask you the same.” Great. Now she was talking to dogs.

       The scent of her Jergens hand lotion must have reassured him because he let her lift the ID tag attached to his red leather collar. Somehow the dog must have pulled his leash out of the hand of his owner or dog walker and ran away. The shiny brass disk was engraved Charles and gave a phone number. After reading it, she pushed herself off the floor.

       “Don't worry, Charlie. We'll get you home as soon as I make this phone call.” Since they were both wet from the icy November rain, she hung her Burberry raincoat on a door hook and took him into the small, bright kitchen. She set out a bowl of water. When Charlie started lapping it up, she punched in the number on his tag.

       “Lakeview Animal Clinic. This is Jackie,” answered a husky voice. Vanessa explained why she was calling. She had found the dog cowering at the stone steps to her brownstone building and wanted to locate its owner. When asked she gave her name and phone number. Jackie said she would check her records and either she or the dog's owner would get back to her.

       While talking, Vanessa had carried the phone into her white, subway tiled bathroom. She pulled off her dark grey suit jacket and skirt, replacing them on the hangers she had left out when she got dressed that morning. The white cotton blouse went into a straw Mexican basket hamper. Since she didn't know if she'd have to go out again with Charlie, she decided not to get into her usual Nick and Norah pajamas, splashed with red cherries. She sighed and got into an old purple sweat shirt and pants, left over from her student days at Northwestern. Sylvia, her best friend, said she looked like a bloated grape in them, but they were comfortable and reminded her of happy college days.

       She found an old blanket for the dog. She put it down in front of the refrigerator 'cause she thought he might like the warm air that always seemed to come out its bottom. It was a good thing Dan or 'Dumpling' Dan as Sylvia called him, was too busy to come over that night. It looked like her evening was going to be occupied with a dog. A frizzle of worry seeped through her mind. It seemed that Dan was always 'too busy' these days. Maybe their once hot romance was cooling off.

       Her phone's ring tone signaled a call from Sylvia. Too bad it wasn't a call about the dog, she thought, but was glad to tell Sylvia about her Good Samaritan deed. While they went over the details of their busy days, Vanessa slid a frozen Gino's pizza in the microwave and set the timer. Whenever she used the microwave, she felt like saying, 'It's eazy peazy,' just as she did as a little girl with her Easy Bake oven that cooked with the heat from a light bulb.

       A great multi-tasker she laughed at Sylvia's description of a new law client, waited for the pizza, and flicked through mail she had picked up, with some difficulty because of the dog, from the downstairs entry hall.

       Nothing but bills and fliers, except "ooh, that's odd." She must have blurted it cause Sylvia asked, "What's odd?"

       "Oh, sorry. I was thinking out loud. Flipping through the mail I finally got something interesting. It's a square, cream colored envelope and on the back it says "Chateau de Savigny". I think it's from France! Why would I be getting a letter from France?"

       "Open it, open it," urged Sylvia. 

       "Hang on, while I get a knife." Vanessa slipped a red handled paring knife under the flap and opened the envelope. She slid out a stiff, heavy weight folded note card.

       "The cover has an embossed picture of a chateau. Oh my gosh, I can't believe this."

       "Well, don't get too excited.  It's probably an invite to come down to the local wine shop for a sale on French wines."

       "Don't be such a cynic. I think it's an exciting invitation to a romantic and adventurous weekend on the French Riviera. In fact, I need to believe that so I'm not going to open and read it. I don't want to have my dreams destroyed.

       "Hey, you can't leave me hanging." protested Sylvia.

       "You're going to hang, because my call waiting is clicking. It's probably the dog owner so I have to take it. Talk to you later."

       It was Jackie from the animal clinic. "I'm sorry but we haven't been able to reach Charles' owner. We're closing the office now, in fact I stayed over so I could call you."

       "But, but, what should I do with him?" He was a cute, quiet little guy, Vanessa thought, but she had no dog food or other doggy stuff.

       "You could always call animal control and they'd take him to the pound." Jackie suggested.

       Charlie looked up at Vanessa as if he knew an important life decision was being made for him.

       "I...I couldn't do that." she stuttered.

       "Could you possibly keep him until tomorrow when we'll do a further search for his owner?"

       "I guess I could do that." Vanessa agreed. It was a good thing she'd put on the sweat suit. She'd have to take the dog out for a bathroom break.

       The microwave beeped. The pizza was done and smelled delicious, of melted cheese, basil and sausage. She took some of the meat off the top, broke it up, and put it in Charlie's bowl. He looked at her in surprise.

       "What's the matter? You're too good for pizza sausage?" She knew her near north side neighbors included plenty of wealthy pet owners, people who probably hired uncaring dog walkers, but still fed their pampered dogs steak. In her business she met lots of the very rich, who hired someone to do everything for them. Charlie may have been used to top sirloin, but he was a hungry animal. He gave a little arf and set to.

       Vanessa sat on a tall kitchen stool while she ate her share of the pizza, drinking water instead of Coke, beer or wine. She was trying to cut down on calories, not that it seemed to do her waist line any good.  Maybe she didn't really look like a bloated grape but she was beginning to feel like one.

       The pile of mail called to her and she idly went through the rest of it. Set to the side, the card from France seemed to shine, its creamy surface reflecting the overhead light. She ignored it, wanting to continue her fantasy of a trip to France. Perhaps she was the long lost heir to a fortune. Or she'd won an all expense trip for a stay in Provence.

       But even if the invitation was for something wonderful, she couldn't leave her job, or Dan, could she? And now, what about Charlie?

                                            [To be continued on August 1.]

41. A Big Purple Bouquet

This story is in honor of the courage and loving heart of a good friend named Stacey.

Stacey was a cute little red-headed girl with freckles sprinkled across her happy face. She loved animals but was especially crazy about cats. She could not sleep unless one of her two cats was on her bed tucked up close and comforting.

       And she loved the color purple. She had begged and begged until her baby pink bedroom was painted a 'good' shade of purple. She had purple pajamas with different types of cats scattered over them. She would have worn purple all the time but her Mom coaxed her into trying different colored clothes with just a touch of purple—a purple pin or purple socks. Yes, Stacey was a character but charming and everyone liked her.
       At this particular time she was very excited because her 5^th birthday was coming up. She knew she was a big girl now and would be going to school soon. Her Mom and Dad were having a special birthday celebration for her with all her relatives and neighborhood friends as guests.
       Her Dad asked her, “Well, I hear you've got a special birthday coming soon.”
       Stacey's eyes sparkled and she nodded, “Yes.”
       Dad said, “A special birthday deserves a special present. What do you think you'd like to get?”
       Stacey screwed up her little face and thought and thought. “Purple.”
       Dad laughed. “I can't get you just purple. It has to be something that's colored purple. And what might that be?”
       Again Stacey thought and thought and then carefully said, “Bouquet.”
       “Hmmm, that's a big word. You must have heard it on TV. I'll see what Mom and I can do about getting you a purple bouquet.” He thought, Well that should be easy enough to get.
       And since Stacey's birthday was on June 22, you'd think it would be a great time for blooming flowers but it wasn't. The day before her birthday--Dad being a man had waited until the last minute to fulfill Stacey's wish—not a single purple flower was blooming at any florist shop, garden store, or neighbor's yard. Well, the garden store did have some spindly purple orchids, but he didn't think that's what she meant by a bouquet. She wanted a lot of whatever flower he got.
       He was appalled. He and Stacey's Mom tried to think of what they could do. Perhaps cut pictures of purple flowers out of seed catalogs.
      Mom said, “I don't think that would be much fun for a little girl.”
      Dad asked, “What else does Stacey like that's fun,”
      Mom's face lit up. “I've got the perfect answer. I know she likes these and I think I can get them in purple. We'll just have to touch them up with a magic marker. While you're making her cake, I'll run out and get them.” Dad was the baker in their family
       She told Dad her plan and he said, “It just might work. Worth a try.”
       Stacey was so excited waiting for the guests to come to her party. She had on a frilly, purple party dress and purple ribbons in her hair, never mind that her hair was red and the two colors usually didn't go together. They looked perfect on Stacey.
       Mom said, “Try not to get dirty before the party starts. You look so pretty right now.”
       Dad said, “We thought we'd give you your special birthday gift before the party starts so everyone can enjoy it.”
       Stacey laughed and said, “OK.”
       Mom went in the master bedroom to get the gift they had hidden. Dad set up the camera to take pictures of, hopefully, Stacey's delight when she saw her purple “bouquet”.
      And she was delighted. She smiled, clapped her hands and then went to grab her 'bouquet' of big purple balloons, each with a flower face drawn on it.
                                                                 The End

40. What's in a Name?

When I first saw the tiny, gold locket in the musty resale shop I thought it might be the perfect gift for my niece whose 13^th birthday was coming up. Most young girls liked sentimental objects. A second hand present might sound cheap, but I was squeaking by paying college tuition and rent. It wasn't that I had little 'discretionary' money, I had none. Every penny was accounted for before I even earned it at my night waitressing job. The locket was priced at $10, which was within my gift budget.
      As I held the delicate heart-shaped pendant and chain in my hand, it grew warmer as if sending out waves of love. I wondered about its past. Who had originally owned it and why had it ended up here? Its latch resisted my prying fingers so I couldn't see what was inside but decided to buy it anyway. At home, I could use a pointed nail file to pry it open.
      In my drafty studio apartment I placed the locket on a thread bare kitchen towel laid on the cracked Formica counter top. I gently worked at it until it popped open. Smiling at me was a handsome, young man wearing a naval uniform. It looked like a picture from a photo booth. Opposite it was a scrap of paper, folded to fit inside.
      Oh my goodness, I thought. Maybe this will be like those romance novels with messages in a bottle. With trembling fingers I smoothed out the note. It was handwritten and faded. I could barely make out the words. But I read:
      “Margie, Remember me always, for I will never forget you. All my love, all my life. Ralph. 5/30/44.”
       A sailor named Ralph. I plopped down on a kitchen chair. My grandpa's name was Ralph and he was a sailor who served in World War II. I shook my head, no, it couldn't be. It would be too much of a coincidence. And as a science major I didn't believe in coincidences. And besides, my grandma's name was Helen, not Margie. But still....
      I put the picture and note in my small jewelry box, which held the few gifts I received when my parents were alive. I polished the little necklace as best I could with my white toothpaste, all I had for such cleaning and tried not to think about a possible connection between what I was working on and my grandfather.
       The party for my niece, Emma, was in two weeks, so I had plenty of time to let the mystery of the locket fester in my brain. One of the reasons I wanted to be a scientist was because my bump of curiosity was 'too big for my own good'. My mother always told me that when I asked too many questions. It annoyed me then, but now I wished I could hear her say it again.
      Grandpa Ralph and Grandma Helen lived in a small condo at Shady Acres, an assisted living facility. They were both 86 years old and insisted they 'didn't need any help' but agreed to move there when they 'lost' their driving licenses as the facility provided free transport around town. I tried to bus over to visit them once a week.
      When he opened the door, Grandpa grunted his usual refrain, “Welcome to Shady Acres. Don't it sound like a cemetery. Come on in and sit a spell, but don't stay too long or they might try to bury you.”
      “Where's Gran?” I asked as I followed him into the cheery yellow living room. It smelled faintly of cinnamon. Grandma must have been baking.
      “Oh, she's at her bridge club. Actually, it's more her gossip club, if you ask me. Those women never stop talking long enough to make a bid.”
      “Good.” I murmured as I sat on the faded floral couch.
      “What's good about it?” His light blue eyes stared at me.
      “No, no,” I stammered. “It's just that I wanted to ask you something when she wasn't around.”
      “Now that sounds exciting. Secrets, huh.” He perked up. It almost looked as if his long ears were stretching forward to catch my every word.
      I didn't know how to ask him what might be a very sensitive question. But I thought I best be direct about it.
      “Grandpa, I found a picture in an old locket and I wondered if it could be you?”
      “Me? What the heck would a picture of me be doing in a locket?” He sputtered.
      “Could you just look at it and let me know?” I handed the small picture to him. I had put it a clear plastic envelope, the type that some greeting cards come in. I suppose it was silly, but I thought I should protect it.
      He shoved his glasses on his nose and peered down at it. He squinted his eyes and moved the picture back and forth.
      “Jumpin' Jehoshaphat! That's me! Where'd you get this? I must've been 18 years old. I sat in one of them photo booths before I sailed for the Pacific.”
      “I found it in an old locket in a resale shop. But there's more. It also had a note from the sailor.”
      “You mean from me?” He grinned and ran his gnarled hand over his balding head. “I just can't believe it turnin' up after all these years. What'd it say?”
      “Well,” I hesitated. This might be embarrassing. I worried about what might have happened to Margie, the love of his life. But I carried on, as they say. “It was to someone named Margie and you said you would love her all your life.” I paused and then asked the fatal question. “Who's Margie?”
      Grandpa laughed so hard I was afraid he'd choke. When he could talk, he said, “So that's why you were glad your Grandma Helen wasn't here. Don't worry, she knows all about it.”
     “Oh, that's good, but I don't see why it's so funny.” I was peeved after all the worrying I had gone through.
      “It's sort of like that Shakespeare fellow said, 'what's in a name'. Your grandma's full name is Margaret Helen, so of course everyone called her Margie. When I came back from the war, hale and hearty, God be praised, I married a woman I thought was named Margie. But in 1952 when the show 'My Little Margie' came on TV, my dearly beloved wife announced she was dropping the ditzy Margie name. She wanted to be known as the more sophisticated name of Helen forevermore. And so she has. But how did you get that locket?”
      “That's another story, for another time.”

                                                                      The End

34. Ice Cream Saves The Day

The scale hovered and settled. Henry groaned. He had gained another pound. Martha would never nag him, but he knew she would be disappointed. She was the perfect little wife. Little and perfect being the operative words. They were going to her 35^th high school reunion and she wanted both of them to look their best. That was no problem for her. To him she looked as good as she did the first time she skated into him, knocking him over at the Stardust Roller Rink back in LaSalle, Illinois. Her blond pony tail swinging back and forth over his felled body was the first thing he noticed when he stopped seeing stars.

      “Oh, my goodness, I am so, so sorry.” She crooned as he struggled to get up. She insisted on taking special care of him the rest of their time at the rink because she felt guilty. And she continued taking care of him right up until now, 30 years after they first met. Once, a little tipsy on champagne they drank to celebrate their first wedding anniversary, she confessed.

      “I ran into you deliberately. You were so cute, I thought you'd never notice me so I had to do something drastic.” He was flattered and flabbergasted.

      But now he felt he was looking older and he knew the extra weight wasn't helping his appearance. Martha was concerned about the effect on his health but he wanted to lose weight so her friends wouldn't think she had married a loser. Ha, he thought, that's funny. If only I could be a loser, of weight, that is.

      He left the weekly meeting determined to do better. But he was depressed. All his calorie and point counting had added up to another pound. He noticed the empty store next to the Weight Watchers office had a new tenant. Oh no, he whined, Satan, get behind me. It was a gourmet ice cream shop.

      After a short internal fight with himself and a longer time in the shop choosing his 'cheer up' consolation prize, he walked out of the store. It took two hands to carry a huge banana split, overflowing with scoops of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry ice cream, bits of banana, pineapple and walnuts. And then, sin of all sins, everything covered with mounds of white, fluffy whipped cream. His mouth watered just looking at it. He would eat it in the car, tossing the plastic bowl and spoon in the nearby trash so Martha would never know.

      Henry struggled to get his car keys out of his pants pocket while balancing the ice cream temptation. A woman shrieked and he jerked his head up. A scroungy kid was tugging at the black leather purse hooked over her arm. She fell and the robber jerked the purse away, swiveled and started to run, right into Henry.

      Splat! The banana split was crushed between the two of them and dropped to the asphalt surface of the parking lot. The boy slipped on the concoction falling on his back with Henry falling on top of him. The strip mall's security guard had heard the woman, called 911, and was running over to handcuff the thug.

      It must have been a slow news day because as a police officer was questioning Henry and the victim, a KWTV news van pulled up and started filming. A reporter waited until the officer left and then slid in with more questions. Henry was flustered, embarrassed to be seen with 'contraband' ice cream, and jumped into his car to escape, leaving the woman to deal with the interview on her own. The reporter called out to him. “You're a hero.”

      Home at last, he sighed, and snuck into their bathroom. Luck was with him. Martha was pulling weeds in the back yard. He stripped off his sticky, icky clothes and took a 5 minute shower. He hoped Martha wouldn't notice the smears on his dirty clothes now stashed in the hamper. After a 500 calorie dinner, they settled down on the family room love seat to watch the news. Too late, Henry remembered the TV news van. Sure enough, the lead story was, “Ice cream one, purse snatcher, zero”. Henry cringed as he saw his tubby body covered in ice cream. What was Martha going to say?

      Martha's mouth dropped open as she stared at the images flashing before their eyes. When the news switched to international events, she hugged him and said, “Why, Henry, I never realized a man wearing an ice cream suit could be a hero.”

                                         The End

27. Can Nested Hens Mend a Broken Heart?

My heart was breaking.  I sobbed more tears than I knew I had in my body.  Earlier, when Joe and I decided to end our marriage, I was calm and stoic.  But sitting on my parents’ faded brown couch I had broken down.  My mother’s worried frown and her eyes glistening with unshed tears for me seeped through my fences of denial.   I felt like a child again.  She held me and patted my back, saying, “There, there, it’ll all work out.  Don’t worry.  Your boys’ll be fine.”

                I felt like such a failure.  Joe and I had been happy once.  How did it turn out so bad?  Was I depriving our sons of a father they needed? 

                Mom sorrowed with me as I cried.  She wanted to help, but I didn’t know how anyone could help me.  She reached over to hand me a tissue from the box on the coffee table.  Her fingers accidentally brushed one of her prized possessions, an amber colored glass nesting hen.  In two pieces, the hen sat on a bowl shaped like a nest.  During my childhood it was always filled with special candies.  Mom looked at it and looked at me. 

                “Darlin’ I know you’ve always loved this.  Please take it.”  And she pushed the carnival glass hen into my clenched hands.  I almost laughed.  My mother was trying to comfort me in the only way she knew how.    I carefully held the hen to my heart and thought, ‘At least this hen will be more faithful to me than my husband was.’

                I hiccupped, wiped my face with the tissue and shook my hair back.  “Thank you, momma.  I’ve always loved this cute little hen.   And I’m going to use it as a symbol for my new life.   Just as a hen doesn’t need a rooster hanging around to take care of her and her young’uns, neither do I.”

                That was the start of a new life for me.  I still had lonely nights when I cried myself to sleep, but I would look at my little nested hen and remind myself that I didn’t need any rooster, either.  I had an interesting job at our local college which kept me busy during the day, and running my two sons to after school activities kept me busy almost every evening. 

                I also discovered a weekend activity that kept me happy.  Flea markets.   I had told Diane, a close friend the pathetic story of my treasured sitting hen.   She encouraged me to go with her on one of these fun outings.  “You might even find another nesting hen.  They were popular in the 1920s.  And flea markets have a lot of old stuff.”

“No.  One hen is enough.  The whole point of the hen is that she doesn’t need anyone else to be happy.”

“Maybe she doesn’t NEED someone else, but don’t you enjoy our friendship?”  She gave me a mock glare.  “Everyone needs friends.”

 “Yeah, you’re right,” I agreed sheepishly.  “It’s nice to have friends, especially like you that I can talk to and have fun with.”

We started going to flea markets about once a month.  And that’s where I did find a second nested hen one sunny weekend.  It was made of white milk glass with tiny raised knobs all over it.  When we first saw it on the cluttered table filled with glass collectibles, Diane nudged me, “Hey, there’s a nested hen.”

“It is sort of cute and maybe my amber hen would like a friend.”  I consented.

 “You’re darn right.  Now buy this hen because I know you really like it, don’t you?”

Once my sisters, cousins and other friends heard I liked nesting hens they multiplied rapidly.  Everyone felt she should give me another nested hen to represent her relationship with me.

I can look around my house and see 100s of nested hens, in all sizes and colors and made of all kinds of material, from cloisonné enamel to braided straw.   I have to admit I became addicted to the cute little things.

And then the impossible happened.  At a flea market I almost got into a fight with a man over a special hen with a bright yellow beak, flamboyant colored feathers and a saucy tilt to its little head.    We both reached for it at the same time.  I looked up to see who was trying to grab ‘my’ hen.  A long, white sleeved arm was attached to a nice looking man with the deepest dimples. 

At first he tried to argue me out of it.  “My grandparents had a chicken ranch and this hen looks just like the one I had as a pet.” 

I rolled my eyes and said, “I’ve heard that story before.  I need this hen to give to my poor sick son.”  

He frowned.  “Are you messing with me?” 

I laughed and admitted, “Yes I am.  But I want that hen.”

He looked hard at me and said, “I’ll do you a trade.  If I let you buy that hen, then you have to buy me a beer.”  He looked clean and decent and had those devastating dimples.  I thought, ‘What the heck, it’s a public place.’

Ten years later, we still argue over who owns the yellow beaked hen sitting on the mantel overlooking our living room.

                                                 The End

26. There’s More to Love than Chocolate

This love story is a little early for Valentine's Day. Read on to find out why.
 

A big red heart decorated the calendar for February 14, Valentine’s Day.  The heart was to catch Mike’s eye and remind him that a special, gift giving day was approaching.  Remind him if he ever bothered to look at the calendar, Marcie thought.  She didn’t care if he gave her only a single flower, she just wanted to feel that Mike still cared for her romantically.  She didn’t want to be just his housekeeper.  She longed for the days when he couldn’t wait to see her after work, when he called her his little sweetheart.  With a mortgage and fatherhood, he seemed to hardly notice her at all. 

            The phone rang jerking her away from fond memories of their early days together.  “Hi, it’s me. Do you want anything from the store before I get home?”  Mike’s husky voice could still shiver her timbers and he was considerate to call.

“No, I think we’ve got everything we need.  But thanks for calling, I appreciate it.”

“OK, see you soon, then.”  And he hung up without any special words or endearments.  Oh well, Marcie thought, this is what happens after 10 years of marriage and two kids.

That night, Mike checked on Ethan’s and Marta’s baths and tucked them into bed.  He sighed as he plopped down on the family room couch next to Marcie who had loaded the dishwasher and left the pots to soak. 

Mike said, “Hey I see a special day is coming up soon.”

“Oh really, I hadn’t noticed.  What day do you mean?”  Marcie played dumb.

“I thought you’d be interested since you like chocolate so much.”

“Maybe I am, but what day do you mean?” Was he really going to talk about Valentine's Day?  Was he planning something just for her?

“February 9^th.” He smiled, but Marcie’s heart plummeted.  “I just discovered that Hershey’s chocolate company was founded on that day in 1894.  And that’s not all,” his eyes twinkled as he continued.  “That day is also National Toothache day.  Do you think there’s any connection?

“Oh, you!” She hit him with one of the blue and orange Chicago Bears’ pillows on the couch.  “I’ll just leave you to watch your old football tapes.”  Now that Super Bowl was over there wasn’t any new games, but Mike still liked to watch old ones.

The next few days went by as they normally did.  Kids going to school, Mike going to work, and Marcie keeping the household running while she also did her volunteer work.  She tried to stop thinking about Valentine’s Day and romantic dreams.  She forced herself to realize those days were behind them.  She actually lost track of what days were going by.

Early one February morning Mike woke her up with a big cup of hot chocolate.  “Hey sleepy head.  Did you forget what today is?”

“Whaa..what do you mean?  It’s just Saturday.  It’s a day when we can sleep a little later.”  She looked at the clock.  She had not slept a little later.  Why did he wake her up so early on a Saturday?

 “It’s “Hershey Chocolate Day”!  February 9^th!  Remember I told you about it last week?”  He grinned like a mischievous little boy.

“Yeah, I remember.”  Marcie said cautiously.

“Well, I know you think I’m not romantic or thoughtful or anything women want men to be.”

“Oh, no, honey.  You’re a great husband.  You always take care of the kids when you can, and help me out….”

“I know, I know, but you want and deserve something special.”

“Well, this hot chocolate is really special.  It was very, very nice of you to make this for me.”  Marcie reached up to give him a hug but he sat down on the bed and put his arm around her.

“I’m glad you like it, but it’s just the beginning.  I decided that instead of celebrating Valentine’s Day which everybody does and restaurants are so crowded, we’d have our own special day.  And since you like chocolate so much, what better day than Hershey day.” 

She just stared at him realizing he was not only a great husband but a great lover, too.

Mike continued with his plans, “I made lunch reservations at the little French restaurant you like on the pond.  I thought lunch would be better than dinner so you could see the ducks in the water.  And then for dinner, we’ll order your favorite pizza—it doesn’t have to be chocolate does it?”  He looked worried.

“No, no, of course not.  I love pizza.”  Marcie was dazed.

“I got a great DVD for us to watch tonight.  It sounded like something you’d like.  It’s called “Chocolate.”  And it takes place in France.  It must be romantic, right?”

All she could say was, “Oh, Mike, I love you so much.”  But then she thought of a problem.  “What about the kids, are they going with us on our special lunch?”

“No, no.  That was my master stroke.  I arranged with your parents to pick up the kids this morning and keep them until after church tomorrow.”

“You are incredible.”  She gave him a big kiss.

“Yes, I am,” he agreed.  “And I also have a special gift for you.”  He reached under the bed and pulled out a small, crookedly wrapped box.

“What on earth could this be?” she asked him.  She wondered if it could be more chocolate?  Certainly not lingerie or jewelry.  She ripped off the gift paper until there it lay, in all its sparkly pink and chocolate, two toned wonder.  A new toothbrush.  She stared at Mike.

“Remember I told you, today’s also National Toothache Day.  With all the sugar floating around you today, I wanted to protect your teeth.”  That was Mike, husband, lover, and protector. 

                                                The End