Shannon here: Romantic Suspense author, Linda Rondeau shares part 2 of how she met her husband. Her book, The Other Side of Darkness hasn’t released yet. All comments will go in the drawing for the choice of Dora Hiers’ Journey’s End or winner’s choice of my white books. Comment on any post dated Sept 19th – 24th to get your name in the drawing. Deadline: Sept 24th, 11;59 pm central time. Here’s Linda:
The Blonde and the Boy Scout (part 2)
The romance might have ended before it even started.
But, a few days later, I interviewed the director for a cast-members tidbits news release.
“Steve’s a great guy,” he said. “Probably one of the best guys I’ve ever known.”
If that were the case, then who was this masked man behind the veil of navy-blue work clothes?
Then I interviewed the producer, equally dolling out unsolicited opinions about Steve Rondeau.
“Doesn’t he live at the Franklin?”
“He doesn’t live there. He lives with his parents on Park Street. He probably meant that he likes to go to the lounge downstairs a lot. It’s a favorite hangout for teachers and the professional community.”
Finally convinced to give it a try, our first date was the cast party.
I still held the opinion this guy couldn’t be for real. Nice guys were myths—just like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. “It won’t last,” I said aloud while alone watching the wind blow against the curtain. Against all doubts, I agreed to a second date.
There was a third and a fourth. Who could say no to a boy-scout leader, a member of the prestigious Order of the Arrow? The night we went to see Silver Streak we laughed all the way to his infamous hangout, “The Franklin.” I watched in disbelief as he interacted with his friends. How did anyone command such respect from both sides of the track: the wealthy and not so wealthy…the cop and the criminal…the teacher and the student.
“Well have a nice night, dear,” my mother said, encouraging as always.
It was to be an important night for him, being chosen to receive the top award for a scoutmaster. He wanted me to be his date. He even asked me to sew a new patch on his scout uniform and never complained that I had stitched the pocket shut in the process, the first clue that domestic engineering was another one of my many deficiencies.
It should have been an uncomplicated evening. I’d hired a sitter who would arrive at six and feed the children their dinner so I could at least comb my hair in peace. Steve was punctual but the sitter wasn’t…horribly late. I called the teenager’s home. “Oh, I forgot to call you. I’m grounded for a week. My mother says I can’t baby-sit tonight.”
As I hung up the phone, feeling like I’d found the lucky lottery ticket after the prize had been claimed, Steve arrived in his highly decorated uniform, looking like a Norman Rockwell painting of the Last American Boy Scout. What would I tell him? I couldn’t bear for him to miss this important night.
I took out a box of spaghetti and placed a pot of water on the stove while I gave him the bad news. “Look, why don’t you go on ahead. I’ll feed the kids and then try to find another babysitter. I’ll join up with you later.” It was the best out I could provide—convinced the romance was doomed.
While three pre-school children clung to his neatly pressed khaki’s pretending he was a tree to be climbed, he gave me the only order he has ever spouted in our many years together, “You get on the phone and find a sitter. I’ll make the spaghetti.”
He didn’t leave. Any other man I’d dated would have high-tailed it like Peter Rabbit out of Mr. McGregor’s garden. Instead, he chose to stay through the worst of the crying, spilling, and saucy mess.
I fell in love that night. Not with a handsome prince or billionaire. It was not my fantasy; it was better, because I had found a man who loved me as I was—a crazy, insecure blonde who wanted only one thing out of life: acceptance for who she was. No pretensions—a relationship built on the adage, “What you see is what you get.”
His hair is gray, and he’s sporting a tad more flesh than he did thirty-four years ago. I’m still blonde as long as they make blonde-in-a-box. And, he reminds himself every now and again that he married a natural blonde—one who gives credence to a myriad of blonde jokes. Yet, every time we have spaghetti, I laugh and say, “Did I ever tell you about the night I fell in love with a Boy Scout.”
About the book: Manhattan prosecutor Samantha Knowlton is stranded in a quirky but intriguing Adirondack town. But she must return to NYC to repair the unraveling case against convicted child killer, Harlan Styles.
Teacher Zack Bordeaux fears he is doomed to a life of mediocrity if he remains in Haven but would be willing to stay if it means a life with Sam.
Landscape artist Jonathan Gladstone feels bound to an estate he both loathes and loves, haunted by the deaths of his wife and son until he falls in love with a spirited attorney and rediscovers his artistic passion.
These three, betrayed and betraying, must find their way from the darkness of broken hope to the light found only in Christ, our surest haven.
Come back Sept 26 for Staci Stallings.