WG2E All-For-Indies Anthologies: Viva La Valentine Edition (29 page)

He pulled his cell out of his jacket pocket
and wandered to the window where he spoke quietly into the
phone.

Her grandpa floated up and down, an aggrieved
expression tugging at his face. “Tell her, bumpkin. Morty isn’t
coming to the other side, not yet.”

Elvira pressed her face into her hands and
burst into tears.

Grandpa gave Amanda a shove and she stumbled
forward, nearly dropping the urn. “He’s going to live, bumpkin.
Tell your grandma I said the wily bastard is going to live many
more years to make her life — and mine — miserable.”

Over Grandma’s bowed head, Amanda’s mom and
dad were staring at each other, their gazes filled with a mixture
of love and regret. Without a single word uttered between them,
they’d forgiven each other for the little tiff in the
restaurant.

“Tell her, bumpkin, about how you can see me.
Tell her I still love her. I’m so sorry I took her love for
granted.” Grandpa gave her another shove. She gasped and staggered
forward another few inches, drawing her grandma’s attention.

“Amanda, what’s wrong with you, girl?”

“Nothing, Grandma.”

Grandpa glided to her side and poked her in
the back. “While you’re at it, you should tell Morty’s grandson how
you feel about him.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

“Don’t be afraid to use the L word. People
need to know when they’re loved.”

“Amanda?” Her grandma’s sharp voice filled
the room. “Who are you talking to, girl?”

Amanda handed her dad the urn, knelt down in
front of Grandma, and took her hands. “Grandpa’s here.”

Grandma wrenched her hands away. “Don’t talk
nonsense.”

“Remember how you’ve been smelling Grandpa’s
aftershave lately?” At her grandma’s nod, Amanda recaptured her
hands. Tears stung her eyes. “He’s here and he wants me to tell you
Morty is going to be fine.”

Grandma gave a sob and clung harder to
Amanda’s hands.

“He says he still loves you and he’s sorry
for taking your love for granted.”

“But how can you —” Elvira peered past
Amanda, searching the room with her gaze.

“I don’t know, Grandma. He’s here. And he
wishes you and Morty many years of happiness —”

Grandpa howled. “That’s not what I said
—”

Amanda ignored her grandpa, and as she felt
Dane come to stand beside her, one hand on her shoulder, she
focused on her grandma. “I don’t know how much longer he’ll be
here, but he can hear you, Grandma. Is there anything you want to
tell him?”

Grandma squinted into the space around
Amanda. “George, can you hear me? Give me a sign.”

“I’m here, baby,” Grandpa crooned.

Amanda choked. “You call her
baby
?”

“Oh George, it’s really you,” Grandma sobbed,
one hand covering her mouth so her words came out mumbled. “I love
you, my dearest darling. I was so lonely for so long. And then
Morty made me love him and he filled the empty spot in my heart.
Will you forgive me for betraying you, my love?”

When there was only silence, Amanda peered
over her shoulder and saw Grandpa wiping tears off his cheeks. She
squeezed her grandma’s hands and whispered, “He’s a little choked
up right now, Grandma, but he’ll love whoever you love, if it makes
you happy.”

Grandpa mumbled something under his breath
about fricking Morty. Amanda cupped a hand around one ear and said,
“What was that, Gramps? Oh, you want me to tell Grandma that if
Morty makes her happy, you’re happy for her?” She turned to her
grandma, laughter bubbling up her throat and tears in her eyes.
“Did you hear that, Grandma? He loves Morty, too.”

Within the hour, they received word that
Morty’s condition had stabilized. It had been a bad case of
indigestion brought on by stress from the wedding and the hospital
personnel promised to release him in plenty of time for the
wedding.

By mid-afternoon the next day, Amanda stood
at the back of the Cranberry Cove Community Hall with her grandma.
The elderly woman wore a beautiful taffeta beige gown that swirled
around her legs every time she moved. She looked like an elegant
ballroom dancer from the fifties.

The perfect bride, except for the black
marble urn in her arms.

Grandma shifted the urn into her other arm
and turned her back on the outer door. “Where is your dad? If he’s
not here soon, you’ll have to walk me down the aisle or Morty will
think I’ve become a runaway bride.”

Amanda checked the clock on the wall. “We
still have another five minutes.”

“I hate to keep him waiting. After last
night, he must be so tired. I wonder if he’ll want to delay the
honeymoon until he catches up on his sleep?”

“He’s a man, Grandma. I’m sure he’ll want to,
you know, make you his.” Amanda almost choked on the words, until
she thought of her parents, still in love, still finding new ways
to love each other. She held out her hands. “Why don’t you give me
the urn before the ceremony begins?”

Grandpa appeared beside her, a glower on his
face. “What are you doing, bumpkin?”

Grandma peered down at the dress, then handed
the urn to Amanda. “You’re right. Besides, I promised Morty. No
more ghosts in our marriage.”

Amanda took the urn from Grandma and set it
down on the bookcase in the corner.

Grandpa crossed his arms over his chest and
grunted. “Does this mean she’s kicking me out of the bedroom, too?
Good thing because I don’t want to see Morty’s wrinkled old butt
like you saw your dad’s.”

The Community Hall door swung open and
Amanda’s parents rushed in, breathless and mussed, still doing up
buttons and zippers. Amanda exchanged a look with her grandma and
they both burst out laughing.

Her mom walked by and raised her chin. “Don’t
laugh. This is what happens when you marry your best friend.”

Ohhhh, now there was a theory Amanda really
wanted to test.

The wedding went off without a hitch and
there wasn’t a dry eye in the Community Hall. Friends of the newly
married couple gathered around afterward to congratulate them,
while Amanda stood off to the side, a permanent smile on her face,
Grandpa’s urn back in her arms.

A movement beside her caught her attention.
She turned and there stood her grandpa, dressed in his Sunday best,
tall and handsome and strong. Grandma had loved him for over half a
century and she’d been happy. She’d raised a family, built a good
life in the community, and now she had a second chance to love
again.

“Well, what do you think, bumpkin? Will the
old bastard make her happy?”

She smiled up at her grandpa, the urge to hug
him before he moved on overwhelming. “You made her happy.”

“That I did.”

Her mom stopped beside her and put her arms
around her shoulders. “Are you talking to your grandpa again?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Well.” Dora leaned forward and looked past
her. Not seeing anything — of course — she tsked and returned her
attention back to her daughter. “Wasn’t it a beautiful
ceremony?”

“It really truly was. Even Gramps thought
so.”

“Did not,” he muttered beside her. “Morty
looked like a love struck fool. If Elvira wants to get any sleep
tonight, she’s going to have to lock herself in the bathroom.”

Her mom patted her on the shoulder. “I don’t
want you to think I’m interfering in your life, but your aversion
to Valentine’s Day doesn’t extend to Dane, does it?”

She kissed Amanda on the cheek, then leaned
back and rubbed at the lipstick she’d left behind. Her gaze went
past Amanda and when it lit up, Amanda followed her gaze to her
dad.

“I want what you and Dad have.”

“Then go find it, honey. He’s your best
friend. I understand he even loves your grinchly attitude toward
Valentine’s Day.”

Amanda watched her mom glide over to her dad,
and as he swept her into his arms and out on to the dance floor,
she felt the tight band around her heart ease. She turned in a
circle, searching the room, past faces she’d known since birth,
until she found the one face she wanted to wake up to for the rest
of her life.

Dane.

She headed across the room and when she
reached him, he looked down at the urn in her arms and grimaced.
“So now that we’re related, does this mean I get my turn with
Grandpa, too?”

“Just temporarily.” She handed the urn to
him. “You wouldn’t mind if he came and lived with us for a while,
would you?”

He juggled the urn onto one arm, a frown
gathering between his brows. “What happened to the plot your
grandma bought for him?”

“I don’t think he’s ready for it.” She
captured his free hand with one of hers, gathered her long skirt up
into her other hand, and knelt down on one knee. “Will you, Dane
Weatherby, be my Valentine?”

He gave a tug on her hand and pulled her up
against his chest, his green eyes dancing with laughter and
something else. Something she hoped to spend the rest of her life
discovering. “What? Has the Valentine Grinch vacated the
building?”

“Just for today. I thought it was time to
find some love of my own.”

He bent his neck, until his mouth touched
hers. “Does this mean you’re coming home with me tonight and every
night after?”

“Kiss me, my love, and find out for
yourself.”

ABOUT SHEILA SEABROOK

What happens when a mild-mannered,
number-crunching, read-a-holic hears voices in her head? She
attempts to take control of the situation and ends up taking
dictation instead. My journey into happily-ever-after tales has
lead me to write emotional stories filled with smart, sassy
heroines, hot heroes who make them laugh, and a wild assortment of
family members guaranteed to try to steal the show.

Email:
[email protected]

Website:
http://www.sheilaseabrook.com

Twitter:
http://twitter.com/sheilaseabrook

Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/SheilaMSeabrook

By Diane Vallere

I had high hopes for this year’s Valentine’s
Day. I had a new lease on life after finally dumping The One Who
Shall Not Be Named last March. Post-breakup I lost five pounds,
gained self-confidence, pushed thoughts of a relationship to the
far recesses of my mind and moved on. Seven months later I met
Jay.

The stars aligned for me, at last.

The only problem was, Jay lived in Hollywood
and I lived in Dallas. Sure, cell phones made it easier. But there
was something about those weekends together, when the airfare was
cheap and the work schedule permitted, that were magic. And after
years of dismissing Valentine’s Day as a silly holiday born out of
a secret collaboration between the teddy bear, chocolate, and
greeting card industries, I wanted to be a part of it. Red
heart-shaped box of chocolates and all.

Jay met me at the airport with a dozen pink
roses and some bad news.

“Annie, remember the job I went for last
week? Painting murals in a house in the Hollywood Hills?”

“Sure. Did you hear anything yet?”

“I did.” He reached a hand around the back of
my neck and massaged me with his fingertips. The warmth felt good
after sitting in a chilly airplane for two hours. I tipped my head
back and closed my eyes. “I start tomorrow.”

My eyes popped open. “Tomorrow? Valentine’s
—?” I stopped. Jay was an artist and finding work hadn’t been as
easy as he hoped. Painting murals in a private residence in the
Hollywood Hills was a pretty good gig. I pushed selfish thoughts of
romance out of my mind and congratulated him.

“I’m sorry. I can’t pass this up.”

“Of course you can’t. I wouldn’t ask you to.
We’ll celebrate tomorrow night when you’re done.”

The next morning we headed out together. The
plan was for me to tool around Hollywood to kill time while Jay put
in his hours, then for us to reconnect and begin our day. Armed
with a book, a wallet, a cell phone, a lip gloss, and a notebook, I
assured Jay my ability to fritter away time was unparalleled. (That
has not always been viewed as a strength but considering the
circumstances, I said it with pride. Finally one of my quirks would
come in handy.)

We arrived in Hollywood early and went to
Jack-In-The-Box for breakfast. After we ate, he drove to the corner
of Argyle and Hollywood and pulled up in a vacant space by the
Frolic Room. He said things like, “I’m really sorry I have to start
work today,” “I have no idea how long this will last,” and “I get
no cell phone reception on the mountain.” I nodded each time,
taking it all in.

“You’re going to be okay?” he asked.

“I’m a modern, independent woman. Of course
I’m going to be okay. Besides, I have a book and a notebook,” I
said, holding the book in one hand and tapping my handbag with the
other. “I can read and I can write. What else do I need?”