His Ideal Match. Arlene James
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downtown to a meeting of the DBC Grief Support Group.
He followed the signs along a hallway and down a flight of stairs to the meeting room in the basement. Soft instrumental music and muted light greeted him as he passed through the open doorway. A pair of older women smiled at him from the counter laden with cookies, coffee and water. His gaze swept the softly lit room, taking in the other occupants. Most were older than him. A boy and girl in their late teens or early twenties appeared to be siblings. Hub, Phillip’s elderly uncle and a retired minister, swooped in with arms spread wide in welcome.
“Phillip! So good to see you.” Reaching up to slide an arm across Phillip’s shoulders, Hub turned to address the milling group. “My nephew Phillip Chatam is joining us tonight. He’s come home to Texas from Seattle.”
Most people nodded and offered taut smiles, but the two women at the refreshment table beamed as they carried over napkin-wrapped cookies and a disposable cup of coffee strong enough to anchor a grappling hook. Phillip accepted both with self-conscious nods before dropping down onto the nearest folding chair. About a dozen of them had been arranged in a horseshoe shape. The other attendees quietly took up seats, leaving several empty, including the one on the end to Phillip’s left.
“Let us begin with silent prayer,” said Hub.
Everyone hushed. Several moments ticked by while Phillip tried to think of a prayer, finally coming up with, God, be with the families of those who died.
It was the same prayer he’d prayed on the day of the accident. He didn’t figure it would do much good. It seemed to Phillip that God was too busy to pay attention to him, but it couldn’t hurt to send up a prayer now and again.
Someone slipped into the empty chair on Phillip’s left, derailing his train of thought and sharpening his senses. Before he could stop himself, he turned his head, just enough so that he could see a portion of a feminine form from the corner of his eye.
A pair of worn but clean white canvas sneakers came into view, followed by the frayed hems of slender faded jeans. A pair of delicate, feminine hands rested in casual but prayerful repose atop one jeaned knee, but that was as much as Phillip could see.
Several long minutes later, Hub said, “Amen.”
“We have another newcomer,” Hub announced, engaging the latest arrival with a welcoming nod. He reached out a gnarled hand for a gentle shake. “I’m Pastor Hub.” He went around the room, naming everyone in order. “This is Phillip, Mr. Edgar, the Lallys, Margaret, Sandra, Miss Clara and Bernice.”
Turning to the woman at his side, Phillip smiled and tried not to stare. She was beautiful, in a wide-eyed, elegant way that belied the casual twist of her golden-brown hair and slightly shabby clothing. Without a speck of cosmetics, she took his breath away.
Phillip suddenly wished he had shaved. His brown hair was so dark it was almost black, and the hair on his face gave him a constant five-o’clock shadow, always appearing between shaves. In fact, within three weeks’ time, he could have a beard heavy enough to obliterate the cleft chin that marked every adult Chatam and the dimples that his mother so adored.
He unconsciously fingered the deep cleft in his chin now as he took in the generous smattering of freckles across his new neighbor’s tiny nose and high cheekbones. Wide, naturally rosy lips revealed neat, white teeth without quite smiling, and tawny hair wisped about an oval face with a delicately pointed chin. She had unusual eyes of a deep velvet blue, thickly fringed in dark gold lashes. She looked young, early to mid-twenties, but wore a maturity that made her seem older. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She introduced herself to the group in a husky, whispery voice. “I’m Carissa Hopper.”
Phillip shifted in his chair. Feeling like a teen boy with an unexpected crush, he concentrated on his hands. Rough and hard, they were no longer the slender-fingered hands that his mother had once declared those of a pianist or surgeon. He concentrated on a tiny jagged scar on the side of one knuckle where a crampon had sliced his glove as the climber above him had struggled to find his footing.
Shaking himself, he sat up straighter and listened as Hub instructed everyone to tell why they were there. When Phillip’s turn came, he cleared his throat and muttered, “Two of my friends and a client were in a rock-climbing accident over eight months ago. They fell when a cliff face suddenly gave way.”
The woman beside him displayed no such hesitancy to speak, declaring forthrightly, “My husband was killed almost four years ago when a truck he was working beneath fell on him. I’m here now, frankly, just to please certain family members.” She went on to explain, “Times are tough right now. They’re worried about me.”
Phillip spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Same deal with me. Here to please family.”
If Carissa Hopper thought that this gave them more in common than the others present, she gave no sign of it.
Hub began to speak about how tough times could affect grief by exaggerating or covering over it. Those who were regulars to the group offered up personal stories illustrating the point in one way or another. Phillip barely heard them. He was too busy planning how to get to know Carissa Hopper better.
Hub closed the meeting with a few well-chosen words on overcoming grief. “Don’t wait for others to minister to you. Do something for someone else,” he said.
That made sense to Phillip, but it didn’t apply to him. He wasn’t sad, just uncertain what to do next. Surely he’d come up with something before his money ran out. A decent accountant, he knew how to make his bucks last, which was why he was currently enjoying the haven of Chatam House. And attending grief support meetings to appease his aunties.
As the session broke up, he rose to follow the lovely Carissa from the room, rehearsing conversational icebreakers in his head.
Before he could catch up to her, however, his uncle laid claim to him. “Phillip, can you help with these chairs?”
Glancing at the folding chairs being loaded onto a long, rolling rack, Phillip frowned inwardly. “In a minute, Uncle Hub. Be right back.”
He dashed from the room, only to find the hall empty. Racing up the stairs, he tore through the building, sure he would catch her before she reached the courtyard, but she must have gone another way, for when he pushed through the door, he found himself alone on the softly lit path.
Disappointed, he heaved a sigh. Well, maybe next week.
Lord, he thought, if You’re listening, if it matters, I’d like to see that woman again. Please.
In fact, he’d attend more grief support meetings on the chance that he’d see her again.
* * *
“But I don’t want to stay here,” nine-year-old Nathan grumbled, glaring at his mother through his wire-rimmed glasses. They were too small for his face, reminding Carissa that he needed to have his eyes reexamined. All the more reason for this visit. She just had to have some uninterrupted work time. Otherwise, she was going to lose her job.
Selling technical service over the phone from home wasn’t the perfect job. For one thing, it didn’t pay particularly well. For another, when home was a two-bedroom apartment shared by two adults and three children, chaos was the norm, and that made it difficult for her to meet her monthly quota. On the other hand, working from home meant that she didn’t have to pay for child care. Still, no quota, no job—which was why she had finally accepted her aunt’s offer to babysit. She just hoped that her mother didn’t get wind of it. The last thing she needed was for Alexandra to show up, offering her limited, strings-attached services.
Carissa looked at the stately building. Chatam House, where her uncle Chester and aunt Hilda lived and worked, was a mansion. Old and elegant, it was fronted by a deep, cool porch supported by majestic white columns, with redbrick walkways and steps. Well, she had no time to moon over tall windows, many rooms and dark, loamy beds bursting with flowers.
“I have to work today, Nathan, and Grandpa’s doctor