Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance) Read online

  BUTTERFLY

  DREAMS

  Bonnie Engstrom

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  Copyright ©Copyright © 2015 Bonnie Engstrom

  Forget Me Not Romances, a division of Winged Publications.

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of the publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the publisher.

  All verses from NIV version

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental, except for the instances where they were used in conjunction with a business on purpose.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  DEDICATION

  This book, as all future books by me, is dedicated first to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Also to my patient and supportive husband, Dave; to my Newport Beach, California Bible Study, my City of Grace Church Arizona Bible study and my online prayer warriors and old friends, women who have prayed for me faithfully. May God bless them all abundantly as He has blessed me with them..

  ENDORSEMENT

  Take one outspoken quirky heroine who’s chasing a dream and to whom everyone tells their secrets, add in a romance and a mystery and you’ve got the delightful debut novel from Bonnie Engstrom.-And Mulligan, author of Chapel Springs Revival

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I could never have had the courage, the discipline and the skill to write this and my other books without the support and guidance of the members of American Christian Fiction Writers ~ Deb Raney, A. K. (Alice) Arenz, Diana Dilcher, Christina Tarabochia, Barbara Warren, Gayle Roper (who read this manuscript first at an ACFW conference and told me to “make a list for Betsy”), Cynthia Hickey (publisher extraordinaire and friend), and Ann Allen (MS Word guru), as well as members of the Orange County (CA) Christian Fiction Writers Fellowship ~ Kathi Macias, Peggy Matthews Rose, Joseph Bentz who encouraged me to attend Mt. Hermon, and Beverly Bush Smith (posthumously, my original mentor who dragged me to my first writing conference and insisted I never give up). I am indebted to my first, and only, critique group from the Mount Hermon Writers Conference, especially Kathryn Cushman and Mike Berrier who advised me with sensitivity and never gave up on me.

  I never intended to deceive anyone, especially Betsy. She is the love of my life. But, it’s gone on too long. Deception is not right. The truth must set me free, as well as all those I love.

  Prologue

  “You make the most unique salads. Heavens, Betsy, you should go into the business.”

  And that’s how it all started.

  Unfortunately, or maybe not, that comment was made by my mother. That’s why my signature salad is dubbed “Heavenly Harriett.”

  Lists. My bane.

  Grocery, shopping, cleaning, gifts to buy, bills to pay…hopes, dreams, a butterfly life.

  I open my journal and write what to me seems obvious at my stage of life.

  What I want:

  1. A full-time live-in housekeeper. Nada on cooking. That’s my department.

  2. A come-to-the-house daily personal trainer to help me eliminate the love handles, protruding tum-tum and ballooning derriere.

  3. A new catering van. Old Sassy is becoming very cantankerous. But, if I get wish #4, this is a moot wish.

  4. A good, God-fearing, Bible-believing husband who is dripping in dough-the money kind.

  Closing the book with a sigh and a snuffle, I start chopping.

  One

  I used to be skilled at multi-tasking.

  It’s starting to be a weird day. If I weren’t a Christian woman I would use some expletives.

  For starters the tomato is mushy. Now the phone is ringing. I grab it with a slippery hand.

  I cut my finger trying to separate the plastic wrap from an English cucumber while holding the phone between my ear and shoulder.

  “Yes, Bett, I’ll try.” I guess I was a bit curt, but this particular client always has last minute requests, especially since we’ve become friends. This time she wants an earlier delivery. At least she doesn’t want to change the menu.

  Suffering catfish! I’m out of E.V.O.O., FoodNetworkTV star Rachel Ray’s acronym for olive oil, the extra virgin kind. This would never happen to Rache. Rolling my eyes way up I ask, “How many other hiccups am I going to have today?” No answer, just a crick in my neck and the realization that one of the fluorescent lights is blinking, almost out. Probably why I cut my finger. Seeing my hands in this business is important.

  I’m a personal chef. I specialize in unique and exotic salads that feature dressings from family recipes passed down through four generations. I call them Heavenly Salade Presentations. They’re gorgeous, healthy, opulent bowls of greens elaborately decorated with snippets and handfuls of seeds and berries, and, of course, the expected faire—tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, black olives. The tomatoes are Heirloom Princess Toms; the cucumbers, well you already know they’re the variety from across The Pond; the onions—red, white and yellow are organic; and the noir olives are the Kalamata variety from the Never on Sunday land of Greece.

  My client, the senescent owner of several impressive boutiques, doesn’t give the simple hoot of a barn owl laying eggs. All she cares about is having her Salade Presentations delivered twenty minutes before her guests arrive so my van with Heavenly Catering emblazoned on the sides will have pulled out of her drive and be back on Shea Boulevard before her company comes. I also assume she will feign, in her ingenious ability to fabricate, to have concocted my creation.

  Oh, forgot. Sorry. My name is Elizabeth Whatzit. That’s the name most of my clients use when introducing me. Wysinotski is apparently too complicated for them to remember. I’ve gotten used to it. Really doesn’t matter as long as they order and pay me on time.

  The above mentioned “salade” is intended for Bettina Bethany, owner of the famed Bett’s Boutiques, founded here in Scottsdale, Arizona and spread far and wide from Corona del Mar, California to Sewickly, Squirrel Hills and Shadyside, Pennsylvania. Why there? Who knows? Bett, as she prefers to be addressed, was raised in one of the environs of Pittsburgh. Maybe it’s a roots thing. Maybe after she attended her fiftieth high school reunion in Penn Hills, a suburb just east of Pittsburgh, she found an old flame that agreed after several drinks of spiked punch to be an investor. Only Bett knows, and she isn’t telling. As for the California connection, Bett loves the ocean and opulence, especially together. “It’s only a one hour plane ride from Phoenix and gave me an excuse to buy a beach house.”

  I save the salad by substituting red bell pepper for the overly ripe tomatoes. Color is important.

  I put hydrogen peroxide on the tiny cut on my finger and watch it bubble. After applying one of the many Band-aids I keep in a kitchen drawer, I don my disposable surgical gloves—a sous chef’s backup for finger emergencies. Maybe next time I’ll try using an onionskin on the cut the way my neighborhood butcher suggested. Seems a bit off the wall to me, but Tony swears by it. He brings the tips of his fingers together, kisses them and flings the kiss heavenward. “Stopsa the bleeding right away. Trusta me.”

  Today Ms. Bett will have a new creation, a “Boutique Salade” in honor of her Bett’s Boutiques. As I sprinkle bits of
feta cheese and whisk a combination of lemon infused oil (since there is no more E.V.O.O.) and balsamic vinegar with Elizabeth’s Secret Spices (oo, la, la, Emeril, I have them, too), I am ready to roll. Bam!

  I cradle the enormous, acacia wood bowl resting it above my tummy paunch. Did I mention I’m not a twenty-something entrepreneurial chef, but an almost sixty-something, post-menopausal, fully blossomed woman looking for another good man? I march and chant in cadence to a favorite childhood song. Marching to Pretoria palpitates silently in my brain.

  We have food, the food is good, and

  So let us eat together…

  When we eat, it is a treat, and

  So we will sing together,

  As we march along.

  Old Sassy, my supposed-to-be-white catering van is in need of a bath. The sliding side door is stuck, again. Dear Lord, Would you be so kind to give me a clue what else is going to happen this afternoon. Should I just give it up? Or do you want me to persevere as Paul admonishes?

  When I’m really stressed to my personal limits I call on the Creator. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Yeh! I truly believe that because He’s gotten me through two marriages, three kids and a myriad of occupations. Still, when desperate, I cry, “Jesus, I need you NOW.” Then I beg forgiveness for yelling at God. Filled with guilt and remorse I will go home this evening and kneel down at the side of my queen bed with the expensive hotel mattress and pray. God still answers knee prayer, doesn’t He?

  After the third try (why is everything in thirds?), Old Sassy’s door slides open as if on E.V.O.O.-powered hydraulics.

  I rest the gargantuan wooden bowl on the side runner of the van. The van bed is divided into twelve spaces, each with stretchy netting surrounding them. I don’t know what that stuff is called, but a lot of people have it in the backs of their SUVs to keep groceries from sliding. Rolf, the guy I bought the van from, suggested it when I told him I’d be transporting lots of bowls and casseroles and didn’t want them to slip en route. I remember he was kind of cute for a senior citizen. Lots of curly black hair, some of which needed a trim at his neckline. And he had a great smile. A little toothy, but very friendly.

  The now accommodating side door of the van is opening wide, and I have this weird sensation that the squeal of its gears is really the sound of laughter. I wonder if a six thousand pound pile of twelve-year old metal can laugh? Anchoring the bowl with my knee to keep it from tipping, I pat the side of my dirty heap and whisper some kitschy words.

  Clyde, my first husband, used to talk to his vehicles. I must have picked up the annoying habit from him. He vowed his vintage VW healed itself after a cooing pep talk. I, on the other hand, attributed the fact it started again for having sat three days in the coolness of the garage. Poor thing was probably lonely, wanting to go for a run.

  I set down the mini-cooler holding perishable ingredients and deposit the heavy bowl of salad between two netting thingies. I check to be sure the bowl is tightly covered with plastic wrap, twice, and open the little cooler to drop about a dozen ice cubes on top of the plastic. Then I cover those with another layer of plastic from the giant industrial size roll I keep behind the driver’s seat. The cooler finds a temporary home in another netted condo. I place the carafe of dressing on the passenger seat and strap it in with the seat belt—forbidding it to even jiggle. We’re off. Onward and upward to Bett’s. This is my mission. This is my gift. I am Boutique Salade in person. Heavenly Catering is my game.

  Oh, my two marriages? They were wonderful—until Number One ended with death and Number Two ended with deception.

  Two

  People tell me things.

  I have one of those personalities that without trying attracts secrets, sort of like lights in the dark attract flitting moths. I guess that’s a good analogy because sometimes my wings feel very fragile and transparent. And I’m so stupid I keep fluttering around the light.

  I’ve tried to figure out why people share things that I don’t want to know and have no clue how to help them with. Maybe it’s the cross I wear at my throat, or the honesty of my prices, or my big baby blues.

  It’s not that I really want to know my clients’ secrets. Sometimes their burdens are more than I can bear because I always feel led to pray for them. Then, if I forget, I’m consumed with guilt. Guilt leads to more prayer, only this time seeking forgiveness for having such a lousy memory. Sometimes I ask God to intervene in retrospect. I figure He can do anything. He created time, so why not? In truth, it’s probably because I tuck my grizzled hair behind my overly large ears. I guess I’ve got the “big ear syndrome,” always willing to listen and nod in sympathy. I suppose it doesn’t hurt, either, that the first time a client confides in me I mumble, “I’ll pray.”

  Bett tells me more than I want to know. Pulling into her impressive circular drive in Fountain Hills I remember I should have been praying for a difficult decision she has to make. I bonk my forehead with a fist and pull my catering cap low. Did I forget again, Lord?”

  “No,” a soft voice seems to whisper, “You prayed diligently for a week. You can’t pray 24/7 for every need.” I did try, didn’t I, Lord? I know you heard me. Well, let’s see if it worked.

  It suddenly occurs to me I am sitting in my idling van having a conversation with Heaven when I should be standing at Bett’s four by six foot granite kitchen island adding finishing touches to her Boutique Salad. Grabbing my purse from behind my left ankle and unbuckling the carafe of dressing, I slide out of the van and bump the door shut with my well-endowed derriere. I deposit the items on the sprawling flagstone veranda before going back for the bowl and cooler.

  Just as a precaution, I gently pat the stubborn door and mumble a little prayer. I swear I’m not superstitious, but prayer never hurts in any situation. No amount of tugging or cooing makes that door open. I check my watch. Only fifteen minutes until Bett’s guests arrive. Balancing on one foot and raising the other in my best soccer kick stance, I wallop the thing. “Open Sesame,” I cry. It does, laughing again.

  Pushing the over-sized front door with my foot I schlep everything onto the kitchen island of Bett’s opulent home. The house is really a mini-mansion, and the kitchen has circular wraparound windows overlooking a negative edge lap pool perched on the precipice of a sliced- off hill. The effect is being on top of a mountain so high that angels might swoop down to check out what’s cooking. Being a little acrophobic I try not to glance at the toy-sized houses scattered on the Monopoly board valley below. I’m sprinkling organic sunflower kernels and dried cranberries in elaborate patterns over the greens when the doorbell chimes.

  “Honey, will you get that? Just pretend you’re here to help serve.” Bett often calls me Honey. She isn’t real good with names. She pokes her carefully made-up face out the powder room door, and not waiting for a reply, retreats.

  I scoop up all evidence of salad fixings, jam the bowl in the Sub-Zero fridge and straighten my starched white jacket. Grabbing a red tea towel I drape it over my forearm for effect, race to the foyer and tug open the heavy door.

  “You must be one of Bettina’s best kept secrets.”

  The deep, husky voice rumbles from a tan throat at my eye level. I tilt my head, find myself staring at an angular jaw, wide lips held captive between a cleft chin and a Romanesque nose sweeping down from between Crayola blue eyes. One of America’s favorite original Crayon colors. I’d read that somewhere. Between the depth of their blueness and what I hope is a twinkle of humor, the eyes do it and I pull the door open wide.

  “W – welcome. Please come in.” I feel like a fool and surely sound the part. I cling to the elegant brass device that serves as a door handle and just stand there. The tall man leans forward a bit and takes a hesitant step toward me. That’s when I notice the salt and pepper graying above his perfectly flat ears. “S-sorry,” I mumble. My, I’m witty.

  “Noel, dawling,” Bett drawls behind me. “For heavens sake, don’t just stand there. I see you’
ve met Eleanor.”

  At least she gets the first letter right. “Elizabeth,” I hiss.

  “Oh, didn’t I say that?” She also isn’t good at taking responsibility. Which is why I’d been praying for her.

  The Crayola eyes sparkle again, and the corners of the wide mouth twitch slightly. Is he smiling, or trying to control a laugh? At Bett, or at me?

  “Nice to meet you,” we say in unison. That gives us both license to laugh.

  I retreat to the kitchen. Noel, huh? Cool name. Of course it might be Joel the way Bett messes up names. Still, Blue Eyes hadn’t corrected her. The salad plates rattle and I almost drop one as I transfer them from the counter to the freezer to chill them. Why are my hands shaking? I can’t afford to have arthritis in my business, or I’ll be slicing off fingers instead of onion tops.

  The repetitious chiming bell tells me other guests arrive, but it’s only a guess as to who answered the door. Maybe Bett had her act together, or maybe she indentured Noel. At least it’s not my problem.

  Voices drift from a living room the size of a stadium. “Dawlings” and “Long times” bounce up to the twenty-two foot cantilevered ceiling. I hear the pop of corks and the distinctive clinking of glasses. “Cheers, salute, santé” echo around the huge room mingling with laughter. A celebratory toast? Maybe I don’t know all of Bett’s secrets. Yet.

  Alone and cloistered in a kitchen the size of my condo community’s clubhouse, I check my watch for possibly the twenty-third time. I start talking to myself, another bad habit. Heavens, Betsy, what on God’s green Earth is taking so long? I check the salad in the fridge and give the bowl a gentle shake trying not to disturb the pattern of sunflower seeds adorning it. I twirl the carafe of dressing. Should I have added more garlic? I hate being the server. I’m a caterer for crying out loud, not the hired help. But, for Bett, for some reason I’m not sure of, I make exceptions. I vow this will be the last time.