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That evening Brad lay on his bed, shirtless, wearing a rumpled pair of plaid pajama bottoms. It was almost 2 a.m., but he was wide awake – smoking and assessing his plans for the future.
He shook his head. A year ago, if anyone had told him that he’d long to get married, he would’ve laughed. He was probably the world’s unlikeliest candidate for matrimony.
He’d never felt the smallest temptation to follow his parents’ example. Their marriage had been a case study in dysfunction. His memories of his father were few and dim – a pair of unhappy blue eyes, looking down at him, hands that held him carelessly and echoes of shouted obscenities and slamming doors.
His father had been a loud, unpleasant haunting in their home. And then one day, just like that, he’d disappeared like a ghost, leaving Brad and his mother to live in an ever-widening pool of silence.
Brad blew a contemplative smoke ring toward the ceiling, thinking that it really was kind of a miracle that he didn’t have a complex toward women, after all his Mom had put him through. Her meth addiction had turned him into a seven-year-old adult who knew way too much about booze and drugs and whose biggest talent wasn’t baseball or soccer, like other kids, but a knack for hustling money from people who didn’t pay attention.
His mom had spent most of his childhood in a drugged stupor, and when the state had finally stepped in and taken him away from her, he’d felt nothing but sorry for her – and relieved for himself.
A few months later, she was dead.
He’d lived with his grandmother for awhile, and he’d been fond of her. She had been a stern, strong old woman with a booming voice and no patience for nonsense. But she’d provided him a stable home, and as much affection as it was in her nature to show.
She’d encouraged him to find a trade, to start work, to make something of himself and to stop trying to take advantage of other people. He smiled to himself. That teaching had only half taken. He’d been doing it for so long that he didn’t know how to stop.
But when he’d had a chance to get a scholarship from a local school, his grandmother had encouraged him to apply. And when he’d won, she had put up some of her own money to send him. Yeah, she’d kind of saved him.
She was dead now, too, and he missed her.
He inhaled deeply, and the embers of the cigarette glowed.
Now, he’d met the Duchess, and maybe had a chance to build something like a family with her. If he could convince her to marry him, and to live with him.
Jemima couldn’t possibly be the angel that she seemed to be. He wasn’t that far gone. But she was still the most unselfish, sweet-tempered person he’d ever met. Her beauty made those qualities even rarer, and more to be admired.
It was kind of like that verse he’d read out of the hotel room Bible, the one about the good woman who was worth more than rubies. The writer might’ve been talking about Jemima. She really was a rare jewel.
If only she wasn’t so religious. That, that was the only thing that still stood between them, and it was the one thing that might still ruin his chances.
Their last few months together had been nothing short of amazing, and he was tempted to call them a success. Jemima had told him that she loved him. She gave the impression that she was walking in a dream when they were together. She’d expressed nothing but delight when she was with him, and had been appreciative of even his smallest effort to please her.
When he took her out to experience a world she didn’t know, she didn’t seem to suffer culture shock. She’d never objected to any place he’d taken her. She had a childlike openness to new experiences, as long as they weren’t forbidden by her church.
He frowned, sputtered smoke, and tamped out his spent cigarette.
But in spite of all of that, he had the sense that his relationship with Jemima had reached an impasse. He reached over to the nightstand and pulled out a fresh cigarette.
After weeks of retail romance, he had to conclude that flowers and candy and gifts hadn’t been enough to move her.
Jemima was humoring him, he could feel it. She never expressed any curiosity about the Englisch world. She never asked questions about it, she never begged him to show her more of it, and she still wore her traditional dress, even when they went out together.
In spite of all his efforts to win her over to the world, Jemima hadn’t shown the slightest sign that she’d be willing to abandon her beliefs, or leave her home for him.
In short – he was in trouble.
He sighed. Every time he’d tried to gently suggest a different life for her, she’d looked at him with that blank, polite expression that promptly ended the discussion. He didn’t get the sense that she was trying to be coy – she was the most genuine person he’d ever met.
Maybe the trouble was that he’d been too general, too vague. Maybe she didn’t yet understand exactly what he’d been trying to say.
He chewed his lip. If he asked her to elope with him, to leave her home, there’d be no doubt in her mind what he was asking. Her choices would be clear.
It was a long shot, he knew that, but he told himself that it wasn’t impossible, that some people did leave the Amish church. There were whole TV shows built around them.
But on the other hand – it would be risky. If Jemima said no, there would be no alternative, nothing left for him to suggest. There was no way that he could be part of her world.
It would be over between them.
And that was why he was chain smoking in his bed at 2 a.m.
Brad sighed, crushed out his cigarette, and turned off the bedside light. Then he folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the dark ceiling for awhile.
On an impulse, he prayed: God, if you exist, I could use a little help here.
Then he laughed at himself, shook his head, and closed his eyes.
