EMILY

All I could say about this finding myself stuff was that it was really hard work. I was out running every morning and averaged three yoga classes a week. Not that I minded the exercise at all. I actually loved it now that the pain wasn’t so intense. But sometimes I just wanted to be a slug. I wanted to lie around with a great book and eat crap.

The healthy living stuff was the brainchild of my friend Andrea. Good food and exercise would help with the endorphin releases in my brain, giving me a better outlook and more energy, blah, blah, blah.

I didn’t want to admit it, but I did feel a lot better after only a few weeks of exercise and eating right. I wasn’t as depressed, but calmer, not overreacting to everything.

And I had learned a few things; such as, I hated aerobic classes of any sort. Trying to jump around and follow what some upbeat instructor was telling you to do while still trying to look perky and cute? No thanks, that was way too much work, plus it reminded me of the old Jane Fonda tapes my grandmother had on her VCR.

I’d really grown to like my morning runs. I got up and went every morning before it got too warm. Arizona in the winter was great, but come summer, I would have to get up really early or try something else.

I lived south of Phoenix in the growing city of Chandler. By growing, I meant it was exploding. When I first moved here, it seemed like a small town. A few developments here and there, open fields, and even a dairy farm down the street. Now houses, shopping centers, and restaurants were springing up all over the place.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved living here, especially in the winter months. In Minnesota, we walked around six months of the year looking like the Michelin Man swaddled in goose down. I laughed when people in Arizona dressed in parkas when the temp hit forty outside. To me, forty was a sweatshirt and maybe a jacket. Twenty below zero was a parka.

My ear buds were in and the music was jamming while I paced myself through the side streets of Chandler. I loved this time of the morning. It was six thirty and people were just starting to move about and begin their day. The sun was rising up in the east over the mountains, and the birds were going crazy zigzagging around the sky moving from one tree to the next, and chattering in chirps to one another.

It had been cloudy and raining off and on over the last week, a rarity in Arizona. A rainy day happened about as often as a blue moon down here. When the sun was shining or even when the temperature was cool, I didn’t usually need a jacket because the sun made it feel warmer than it actually was.

I kept the music low on my iPod so I could still hear what was happening around me as I ran. It cleared my mind and gave me a beat to keep pace with as I navigated through the side streets. It was forty-five minutes out of my day in which my body and my brain were completely consumed with myself—me time.

Turning the corner onto Pecos Way, I slowed down to take in the small bodies of water strategically scattered throughout the neighborhood. Ducks swam in packs, a beautiful white egret stood off to one side observing its surroundings, holding court like a queen. A few fish jumped here and there.

It seemed so strange to see these “lakes” as they were called down here. I was in the middle of a desert. Sand, dust, and cacti abounded, and there were neighborhoods boasting waterfront property with a man-made pond in the backyard.

I missed the lakes of Minnesota. I loved everything about summer and fall in Minnesota. It was the freezing cold winters I gave up on.

Having to run out and start my car to let it warm up, because otherwise the seats were frozen and the car made scary grinding noises when you turned the steering wheel. Or the fact that you were so cold, you were shivering while you tried to drive. Or when you breathed, it made the windows inside the car fog up, making it impossible to see out the windshield. Or how about scraping two inches of ice off the car early in the morning when the windchill was minus forty degrees. I didn’t have a garage back in Minnesota.

On the move to Phoenix, I donated my ankle length parka to a homeless woman I met while stopping for lunch at a small town diner with a sign out front boasting of real home style cooking and grits, midway through Oklahoma.

A shiver ran down my spine and goose bumps appeared on my arms as I remembered the freezing cold. Then as I pushed my body harder and increased my speed, the chill was replaced by heat as I began to sweat.

The first year here by myself was really lonely. My business allowed me to work from home, but it made meeting people harder because I didn’t get out and mingle as I should have. Add in the fact that I was somewhat introverted and it became a recipe for isolation. For me, it wasn’t a good thing.

I made the decision to move down here after my divorce. I married Scott, my college boyfriend, for all the wrong reasons: I didn’t want to be alone.

Nana was dying of cancer and the fear of being left alone again was overwhelming. As much as she raised me to be strong and independent, inside of me was a scared little girl who was losing her family all over again. I freaked and jumped at Scott’s suggestion of getting married.

My memory of my wedding day hadn’t dimmed over the years, not because of my husband, but because of the conversation I had with Nana. I always wished I had learned to listen. Nan was the smartest woman I’ve ever known, I was just too young and dumb to hear her.

“Emily? Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

Nana asked.

She sat in the overstuffed, love-worn chair in the corner of my room. My wedding dress was hanging from the top of the closet door, waiting…

I put my makeup on and watched Nana through the mirror. Cancer was shrinking her a little bit more each day now. The doctors said it was just a matter of time.

Nana looked tired and frail, a far cry from the energetic and robust woman who had raised me for the last eighteen years.

“Emily … do you love Scott with all your heart? Is this really what you want?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer her. I was scared—scared of hurting her, scared of being alone, and scared that I was about to make the biggest mistake of my entire life.

Nana knew. She could see it in my face. My grandmother knew me and my thoughts better than even I did.

One single tear slipped down my cheek and I quickly brushed it aside, but she saw.

“Emily, don’t get married because you’re afraid. You can walk away right now. We can jump in my car and make a clean getaway. We can go someplace new and have an adventure, just you and me!”

I smiled at Nana through the mirror, my eyes starting to tear up again. The thought of running away with her was beautiful. If only leaving here could stop her from dying.

“I’m just having pre-wedding jitters, Nana. Everything is fine. Scott is a wonderful guy and I’m excited,” I lied trying to convince Nana … and myself. “Be happy! I’m getting married today!”

Nana gave me a sad smile as she stood up and moved closer. Placing a hand on each of my shoulders, she leaned in, her face next to mine. Our cheeks touched slightly, and she looked directly into my eyes through the mirror, as she spoke to me.

“When the love is right, no matter how hard life can be, or what is thrown at you, you have the strength to make it through because you have each other. It’s always the woman who is stronger, not in build or physically, but in matters of the heart. We feel everything inside of those we love, and when they hurt? So do we, but we hold it inside and carry on. True love gives us the strength to do that. At first everything is fun and perfect, then it will begin to fade a bit. Real love goes up and down. You’ll both keep falling in love over and over throughout the years. That’s how you’ll know it’s real; the love just keeps coming back over and over. If it doesn’t … move on. Sometimes what we think we want isn’t meant to be. Both of you deserve real love, and if you stay in a marriage for the wrong reasons? Neither one of you will get to experience the real thing.”

“Nana? Are you saying I shouldn’t do this?”

I asked her softly.

“No, because your mind is made up and you’ve always done exactly what you wanted. I’m only telling you to marry Scott because you love him with all your heart. I’m praying it works. I want everything to work out for the both of you … but if it doesn’t? You both deserve to have true love in your hearts.”

I watched as Nana slowly made her way from my room to finish getting ready. I looked around at my childhood, the rows of all of my books on the shelf, my rose chintz, love-worn chair, a bit tattered from years of being curled up in it, escaping reality with a book, wrapped in the creamy quilt Nana had stitched for me on my thirteenth birthday, still folded over the arm.

My dreams of what was to come in life, my fears, my demons of yesterday … everything organized, straightened, and dusted inside of this little room.

I knew I was lying about getting married. All morning I felt as though I was acting in a high school play and I was waiting for the curtain to come down so it would be over. Scott was a great guy. We’d dated since my sophomore year of college. He loved me, of this I had no doubt, but did I really love him? Did I love him the way I should?

Nana died in her sleep less than three weeks later. My marriage lasted another eight months. It never stood a chance.

Arizona was a new start and a lot warmer than Minnesota.

I joined some writing groups and a local hiking club. Slowly, I acclimated, went on a few dates here and there, fell in love, had my heart broken and tried to make a life for myself. If it didn’t work out, well, I would move to a new city.

When Maggie decided to take a job here in Scottsdale a few years later, I was ecstatic. Arizona had become my home and now my best friend was moving here too.

Rounding another corner onto Alma School Road, marking three miles on my route, I headed back to my home. Traffic was starting to pick up now as people headed off to work and school, delivery trucks stopping in front of businesses along the streets. Chandler was waking up and getting the day started.

My mind kept chanting one more block, one more block, as I rounded the bend to home. Hitting my driveway, I slowed down to walk in a circle, cooling my body down and catching my breath.

I looked up at my house, evaluating the curbside appeal. Some of the flowers were blooming in the bright stone pots I set here and there around the yard. It looked like my Prickly Pear in the front corner by the driveway might actually produce a flower this year. Bougainvillea grew wildly, bursting in hot pink all along the wall enclosing the backyard. It looked amazing, so full of color everywhere. Making Arizona my home was the right choice for me.

I noticed something on my front step by the door. Damn solicitations, leaving advertisement litter all over the place. I hated it.

Stepping up to the door, I realized it wasn’t litter at all. Someone had left me a red rose on my front step. One single flower. I picked it up and inhaled the heavenly scent. It was fresh. I could still see the water droplets glistening on the petals.

Glancing around me, I walked back out to the street, looking every direction. I was baffled. Who would have given me a flower, a rose to be more precise? This was so strange.

Actually, it was kind of exciting. I had to think for a minute. The last time a man gave me flowers was at least seven years ago and that would have been Elliot. There was no way Elliot left me a rose, no way in hell. So that could only mean one thing—I had a secret admirer.

The thought of it put a smile on my face and a little dance in my step. I, Emily Golden, had a secret admirer. God only knew who, but I didn’t really care. My day just got a whole lot better.

I headed inside to find a vase for my rose.