Bride Wanted. Renee Andrews
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who, you know, acts like he is interested in a girl and then drops her like a hot potato.” She settled her purse strap on her shoulder. “That’s you.”
He grabbed a shop rag from his back pocket, wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to determine the best way to explain to his sweet grandmother the difference between being a player and being selective. “I’m not a player. I just don’t continue dating someone if I can’t see myself marrying her.”
“That’s what I told RuthEllen, but she said that’s called leading them on, and I’m thinking she might be right. Troy, you’ve dated nearly every girl in Claremont once. Sometimes twice, but mostly once. They get their hopes up, and then you’re gone.”
Troy winced at the truth of her statement. He’d realized the same thing recently, when it seemed every time he ran into a female in town he received the awkward “what went wrong?” stare.
She grabbed her water bottle again and tilted it toward his face. “See, you know it’s true. But I don’t think it’s that you’re trying to be a player. You’ve set the bar too high, with all of that letter writing you do and envisioning the woman you want to marry and all. That was supposed to get you started thinking about the kind of woman you want. It wasn’t supposed to exclude every girl from fitting the bill.”
“I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t have even told you about those letters.” Troy had assumed his grandmother would instinctively understand the importance of those letters to his future bride. Now he wondered if every lady at the Cut and Curl knew about them. “You didn’t tell RuthEllen and the other ladies about them, did you?”
She blinked, twice. “No...why?”
“Because they’re private. I wrote them to one person, and she’s the only one I plan to share them with.” He paused. “Assuming I ever find her.” Troy’s first letter to his future bride had been written when he was twelve as an assignment at church camp. Most kids wrote the required letter and then let that be it, but he’d continued over the years. And as he wrote to her, he’d clearly defined the woman he wanted to spend his life with.
He just hadn’t found her yet.
“Well.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I didn’t tell the girls at the shop about your letters, dear.” She looked as though she wanted to say more, maybe ask if he’d reconsider letting her share the fact that he’d been writing for over a decade and a half to a wife he hadn’t met, but then she must have thought better of the idea and snapped her mouth shut.
“That’s good,” he said. “I appreciate you keeping that to yourself.”
“You’re probably right.” She fidgeted with the water bottle again. “I shouldn’t tell anyone about your love letters.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Right,” she whispered.
Troy had returned his attention to the engine but heard a hint of worry in her tone, so he looked back to his sweet grandmother, twisting the lid on and off the bottle. “Hey, it’s okay that y’all were talking about me at the shop. I understand that’s what ladies do, and I understand you do it because you care about me. I’d just rather the love-letter part stay out of any conversations, okay?”
She nodded and gave him a little smile. “Okay. Well, RuthEllen and the other ladies and I all decided what you need to do. You need to find someone who didn’t grow up in Claremont, someone who doesn’t know you’re a player.”
“I’m not a player.” Troy couldn’t hold back his grin now, finding a lot of humor in making the statement to his grandmother. And while he was supposed to be working, no less. Luckily Bo and Maura Taylor trusted him to get all of his work done at their filling station, and they also understood his grandmother’s need to visit him at his job place every now and again.
“Troy Alan Lee, this is not funny. You’re twenty-seven years old.”
His grin grew. He couldn’t help it. “You know, I’ve heard of guys who didn’t get married until they were in their forties.”
“Not in Claremont.” Her hands weren’t fidgeting now, and she uncapped her water bottle to take another swig.
He set his laugh free. “No, probably not in Claremont, but twenty-seven isn’t ancient. And just so you know, I have a date with a girl on Friday who I’m sure doesn’t see me as a player.”
She capped the bottle and tossed it back in her purse. “Really? Who is she?”
Troy could tell from the excitement in her tone that she’d probably make a beeline straight to RuthEllen’s shop when she left the filling station with the glorious news. “Don’t go getting too anxious. It’s a first date, but her name is Haley Calhoun. She moved here from Florida to take a veterinarian job with Doc Sheridan. He’s planning to retire in a few years and decided he needed an assistant, someone who could get familiar with all of the families and livestock and such in the area.”
A bright smile claimed his grandmother’s face. “That’s perfect! She isn’t from around here, so she won’t know about how you date and run. Maybe she’s the one meant to get your letters. You concentrate on making it to at least date number three, and I’ll make sure to tell all the girls at the beauty shop and in my quilting group not to say anything to her about you being a player.”
He knew better than to try to stop her, so he nodded. “You do that.” Then he opened the driver’s side door and climbed in. “I didn’t see anything under the hood that would cause that rattling you described. Let me drive it and see if I hear the noise, too.”
“Sounds good. I’ll go inside the store and visit with Maura. I’m so excited about your date with the Calhoun girl. I have a good feeling about this.” Grinning, she turned and headed toward the store connected to the garage.
He cranked the car and took it for a short drive away from the station. And while he drove, he thought about the fact that he was evidently now seen as a “player” around town. The absurdity of that was laughable. He wasn’t a player, but he had dated a lot of girls, most of them in town, he supposed. And he hadn’t gotten serious with any of them. He’d always thought God would make it clear when he met the right one, but maybe all of the letters he’d been writing had clouded his vision. He hadn’t given anyone a chance because he had his sights set on perfection. No one was perfect; Troy knew that. But he’d really thought he would know when he met the girl he’d been writing to all these years. He hadn’t considered the fact that it might take more than a date or two to determine whether he’d met “the one.”
God, help me out here. Part of me thinks my grandmother is right. I haven’t given anyone a chance. Help me to see clearly this time, Lord. And help me to know when I meet the right person, and to spend enough time with her to tell. I want to at least see what could happen with Haley. If You could somehow show me whether she’s the girl for me, I’d sure appreciate the help. In Jesus’s name, amen.
He pulled back into the station and heard the horrid rattle that his grandmother described. He’d heard it a few times throughout the short drive, and it hadn’t taken him long to pinpoint the source of the hideous noise. But he couldn’t miss the fun of showing her, so he waited for her to come outside to identify the problem. Maura Taylor walked alongside her as she neared the car.
“Well, did you hear it?” Jolaine asked.
“I did. And you’re right, it’s a horrible racket. I don’t know how you’ve put up with it.”
She nodded. “I know. It’s been driving me crazy for the past week. How bad is it? Do I need a new car, or is it something you can fix? Tell me it’s something you can fix.”
“Definitely something I can fix.” He climbed out, then squatted down by the driver’s seat. “And I can take care of it right now without a single tool.” Sliding his hand under the seat, he withdrew an empty water bottle, then another and another. He pulled six bottles out from under the