A SINGLE’S HONEYMOON
By Ginny Aiken
Chapter One
FOR SALE: Exotic ten-day honeymoon.Unused. Cheap.
In the kitchen of her small house in east York,
Pennsylvania, Shiloh Morris ping-ponged a glare between the brief ad in that
evening’s York Dispatch and her nonflashing answering machine. Why
hadn’t anybody called? Why wouldn’t anyone put her out of her misery?
She’d listed her honeymoon the day after Reginald Rodger
jilted her. Although he’d paid for the trip up front, during his breakup phone
call he’d “generously” offered her the proceeds of the sale to make up for the
trouble and expense his defection would cause. And there had been expenses—for
her parents. The hall, the florists, and the caterers had insisted on
nonrefundable partial payments. She’d thought she could unload the painful
reminder of their failed engagement easily. But here she was, three weeks
later, and she’d yet to receive a single call about the dumb thing.
The phone didn’t ring, but the doorbell did.
Shiloh sighed. She flirted with the thought of sneaking
out her back door, but that would only add to her nightly visitors’ worries.
“Hi, Aunt Tibby, Mrs. Appelt.”
A pair of white-haired ladies, one tall and heavy, the
other short and spry, stepped inside and made a beeline for the kitchen, triumphantly
bearing their offerings for the day. “How are you doing, honey?” asked
Shiloh’s great-aunt, the shorter of the two.
You don’t really want to know, Shiloh thought, so
she answered, “Fine. It’s been a lovely spring day, after all.”
Her guests exchanged knowing looks. “No calls on the
honeymoon, then.”
Aggravated, Shiloh forced a smile. “No . . . not
yet. But it hasn’t been that long. Someone will call soon.”
She remembered when she and Reg had agreed on the trip six
months earlier. They’d been so sure nothing would go wrong. Hah! How sure could
Reg have been if he’d called the whole thing off a couple of months later?
Once the startling news spread, everyone had tried to
comfort Shiloh. They were still at it.
“And it was such an interesting trip you children
booked,” lamented Aunt Tibby’s friend, removing her lime green hat, matching
chiffon scarf, and spring coat. “To such an . . . unusual place. So
earthy, so lush, so primitive.”
Shiloh nodded absently. Why had Reg called the
whole thing off anyway? She still didn’t know what had gone wrong. A tear
prickled her eyelid, and she blinked.
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Aunt Tibby. “Look what you did,
Cora. You made her cry again.”
“Did not. I just tried to comfort her,” Cora fired back.
Shiloh waved. “It’s OK. I’m OK.”
But she was not. She couldn’t forget the bubble of joy
that had buoyed her up when Reg had asked her to marry him and she’d said yes.
Knowing someone wanted you for the rest of your life was such a treasure, a
blessing.
Then Reg had taken the blessing away—without an
explanation.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” Aunt Tibby said, interrupting
Shiloh’s thoughts. A serving of meat loaf, scalloped potatoes, and green beans
with ham, plus a box of tissues, appeared before her.
Cora dropped silverware by the plate. “Food always
makes you feel better.”
Shiloh looked at the two dears, knowing they meant well,
but their efforts only made her more miserable. “Ah . . . doesn’t
your reading group meet tonight?”
Cora gasped. “You can’t expect us to abandon you.”
“I don’t want you to give up something that means so much
to you, not on my account. Besides, I signed up for that Potters for Charity
class.”
Her visitors glanced at each other, hope in their eyes.
“Terrific idea,” said Aunt Tibby. “Artists are so fascinating.”
“Mm-hmm,” added Cora. “And it’s a good place for a nice
twenty-six-year-old young lady to meet a new man.”
“I have no interest in meeting a new man,” Shiloh said
quickly. “I want to learn to throw pots and raise money for the women’s and
children’s shelter downtown.”
The two exchanged yet another look. “Fine, dear, you do
that,” Aunt Tibby said. “We’ll go to our group.” Suddenly they couldn’t put
their pastel coats on fast enough.
“And tell us all about your potter—,” Cora began.
“Hush,” Aunt Tibby hissed, shoving her friend toward the
front door. “What Cora means is for you to call us if you need anything.
Anything at all. And we’ll have tomorrow’s chicken potpie for you at the usual
time.”
“Thanks, but I’m not an invalid. I can cook!”
Aunt Tibby shook her head mournfully. “You are an
invalid. You’re recovering from unwanted heart surgery. You have to concentrate
on mending that broken heart.” She offered her soft, powdered cheek for a kiss,
and Shiloh obliged.
“But you don’t have to cook,” Shiloh protested.
“We’ll be here with supper. You be here with an appetite.
For a change.”
They breezed out, leaving Shiloh winded and dizzy. Not
only did she have a supper she didn’t want—again—but she was late for her
pottery lesson. And to make things worse, she was haunted again by the thoughts
that had troubled her since that day. Thoughts that brought back the
crushing disappointment and confusion of the breakup. Thoughts that led to
questions with no answers, that roared to life with every person’s attempt to
comfort her.
It was that sympathy Shiloh wanted to avoid, so she’d
crammed more activities into her already packed schedule. Stuff like extra
shifts at the hospital and the pottery class she was late for. A pottery class
for women only.
A week later, when the phone rang after she’d tired of playing
with her lovingly catered dinner, Shiloh leaped for it. “Yes?”
“Where are you?” her best friend, Carrie Kenner, asked. “I
have lots of babies and only two arms. I thought you’d signed up to work the
nursery with me tonight.”
That’s when Shiloh knew she really was losing her
mind. “I did, and I will. I just got home and . . . forgot. Sorry. Be
right there.”
Wednesday nights, their church offered various programs
after the regular prayer service. Shiloh and Carrie had met in the nursery
three years ago and had become the closest of friends since then. She’d even
been in Carrie’s wedding last summer. Usually Shiloh loved the nursery, but
since the debacle with Reg, she’d avoided the babies. They brought to mind the
ones she might have had.
“Oh, honestly,” she muttered to herself as she grabbed her
umbrella. “Get a grip!”
With the strict order fresh in her mind, she drove to the
church, hoping that since she was so late, she’d avoid the pitying looks, the
cotton-ball treatment. She couldn’t handle much more of that.
Running into the room full of toys and kids, Shiloh said,
“Sorry, sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with my head these days. How could I
forget? I’m the one who offered to take over the nursery when the Mannings were
transferred to Oregon last September.”
Grinning, flame-haired Carrie offered, “You know what’s
wrong. Reg’s little announcement has made you nuts. Even more than usual.”
Picking up the whimpering Kern baby, Shiloh collapsed into
one of the cushioned rockers. “Yeah, well, I have to get over that. And soon. I
just wish I knew what went wrong.”
Carrie looked down at a Lego skyscraper on the floor. “I
tried to warn you months ago that something wasn’t right. I suggested you seek
the Father’s will for your marriage. You assured me that you had before you
guys bought the ring last July, and that you believed Reg was the man God meant
for you. But I had my doubts.”
“I guess your doubts were right,” Shiloh conceded. “I wish
I would have listened. Just what kind of doubts did you have?”
Carrie said slowly, “Let me answer with some questions.
How much time did you spend together? You know, to share feelings, thoughts,
beliefs, dreams?”
“When we first met two years ago, a lot. Then, the
Harrisburg Police Department promoted Reg to detective, and I was offered more
shifts at the hospital. We got busy, so we didn’t spend as much time together.
But we talked a lot on the phone!”
Carrie rolled her eyes. “Could that work insanity have
been the main attraction? Could that busyness be what eventually pulled you two
apart?”
Unsure of what to answer, Shiloh shrugged and put her
sleeping armful in one of the nursery cribs. Then she sat down next to
Stephanie Mimms, a dainty two-year-old who was working on a puzzle.
Without waiting for Shiloh to answer, Carrie continued, “I
think it’s time for you to rethink your career. You’ve been so consumed by your
work that you were probably too exhausted to notice that your engagement was
going nowhere. Maybe Reg’s breakup call was actually a wake-up call—from God.”
“But—“
“Listen. You have to get away,” Carrie said earnestly. “To
think. And pray. Go where you won’t have any distractions. Just you, your
Bible, and God.”
“You’re right,” Shiloh said, as her friend’s words struck
a chord in her heart. “I do need to spend extra time in the Word. To
check out what God has to say about commitments . . . love
. . . marriage.”
“Sounds like a plan to me. But do yourself a favor. Take
time off from the hospital. I know what you do saves lives, but you’re running
on empty.”
A wail from Stephanie—and the subsequent tossing of a
puzzle piece across the room—momentarily ended their conversation. Gathering
the tired child into her lap, Shiloh rocked her, crooning a lullaby.
When the child quieted, Shiloh told Carrie, “You do have a
point. I feel I have to help whenever I can.” She shrugged. “So, yeah, I take
other nurses’ shifts when they can’t come in.”
Just then Maggie Mimms opened the nursery door. “How’d she
do?”
Stephanie leaped out of Shiloh’s arms and lunged for her
mom. Shiloh smiled. “Great. She’s a sweetie, and tired. She’ll be asleep before
you’re out of the parking lot.”
As she grabbed her daughter’s diaper bag, Maggie gave
Shiloh that pitying look Shiloh hated. “It’s too bad things didn’t work out.
You’re going to be a wonderful mother some day. You just have to find the right
guy.”
With the ease of routine, Maggie settled Stephanie onto
one hip, the bag on the opposite shoulder, then opened the door again. “You
know,” she said slowly, “my Artie has a second cousin who’d be just right for
you.”
Carrie flew out of her rocker and hurried the woman out.
“Thanks, Maggie. We’ll keep that in mind. See ya.”
Shiloh dropped her head into her hands. “It’s like my dog
died, and everyone wants to give me a brand-new puppy!”
“You’re nuts, you know?” Carrie said, with a sparkle in
her chocolate-colored eyes.
“I’m serious. This is ridiculous. How can I sort out my
feelings when everyone tells me I’m heartbroken and then pushes me to find
another man? I don’t want to think about another man, much less find
one.”
“Hey, you’re right. You have more important things to
think about right now than another guy. Things you need to pray about.”
Shiloh stood and began putting away the toys. “I hear you.
I just don’t know when I’m going to find the time.”
“You can’t put God on hold,” Carrie insisted. “And you
can’t expect to stay in York and have time to think. Not with your
family—“
“Tell me about it! Did I tell you Aunt Tibby’s latest?”
Knowing Shiloh’s great-aunt, Carrie shook her head warily.
“I told you I was going to wear a disguise when I returned
my wedding dress. And boy, am I glad Renaissance Bridals was willing to take it
back since I hadn’t needed it altered. Anyway, I didn’t want anyone to see me
hauling the dress back.”
Carrie nodded.
“Well, guess who was strolling down Market Street after
leaving the York Historical Society just as I got to Renaissance?”
Carrie chuckled.
“Yeah,” Shiloh muttered. “And she even saw through my
disguise!”
Now Carrie laughed. Hard. “Hey, I warned you that the dark
gray trench coat, the 1950s chiffon scarf, and the reclusive-film-star
sunglasses—in 88 degree weather—weren’t going to work.”
The door to the nursery opened, and Shiloh handed the
sleeping Kern baby to his dad. “So?” she asked when they were gone, “what am I
supposed to do? It’s easier to lose a fiancé than a family.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Carrie said, growing
serious. “You have to get out of town. Give yourself time with the Lord. Seek
his guidance. If for no other reason than to make sure you don’t make the same
mistake—whatever it was—in the future.”
“But where would I go?”
“You figure that out. All I’m saying is that even tough
ol’ Gary Cooper had the sense to leave town in High Noon when things got
hot. Things are hot for you, and you can’t think around here.”
Shiloh snorted. “Figures you’d drag up one of your old
movies sooner or later. But guess what? You’re wrong. Coop came back to face
the music. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“You want music? Try Professor Harold Hill, the Music Man
himself. He got in trouble, and his first thought was flight. Go for it. Why
not get out of town? Maybe like Leslie Caron in Father Goose,
you’ll find the perfect man in the most unlikely home-away-from-home.”
“Thanks a lot. You want me marooned on a desert island
during an upcoming World War III? World War II happened to Leslie, if you’ll
remember. Here I thought you were my friend.”
“Go home,” Carrie said, laughing. “Trust God; he’s always
faithful. He’ll show you what’s best and at the right time.”
From within the confusion and jumbled feelings, Shiloh
felt a spurt of thanksgiving for her friend. “Thanks for listening.”
“And telling it like it is,” Carrie added. “Now go to
bed.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Later, at home, Shiloh thought about their conversation as
she brushed her teeth. Was Carrie right? Had Shiloh—and Reg—been too busy with
and exhausted by their careers to see what was happening to their relationship?
There’s only one way to know, she concluded. God
will show me. In his time. As she snuggled under crisp linens, a tear
rolled down her cheek and dropped onto the pillow.
“Shiloh Morris to room 12. Stat!”
It had been a crazy day in York Hospital’s Emergency Room.
What else was new? Shiloh ran to answer her page.
As she dashed into the room, two orderlies wheeled in a
teenage girl on a stretcher. As Shiloh scrubbed, she listened to the doctor’s
evaluation of the X ray. A broken femur.
“Hi, Shiloh,” said Marcy, another nurse, as she took
Shiloh’s place at the sink.
“Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I went to my sister’s wedding in New Hampshire. Just got
back.”
Wincing inwardly even though it was now almost two months
since Reg had jilted her, Shiloh went to the patient’s right side, next to Dr.
Andrea Howard. Marcy took the left.
“How was your sister’s wedding?” Andrea asked Marcy as she
measured a length of fiberglass for the cast.
“Beautiful.”
Shiloh bit her bottom lip.
Then Marcy glanced at her. “How are you doing, Shiloh, now
that you and Reg have broken up?”
“I’m fine,” Shiloh answered through gritted teeth, then
tuned out the rest of their conversation about weddings and marriage. She’d go
crazy if she didn’t. And to make things worse, she still hadn’t received a
single call on that stupid honeymoon. The tickets were like an albatross
hanging around her neck—especially since her wedding would have been this
coming Saturday, and she and Reg would have flown to Venezuela Sunday morning.
What was she going to do?
“What about your honeymoon?” asked Marcy, breaking into
Shiloh’s thoughts. “It sounded perfect and romantic and peaceful. Boy, I’d be
mad if I had to give it up because a guy dumped me.”
“That’s it!” Shiloh exclaimed, drawing every eye in the
room with her unexpected outburst. “I’m taking my honeymoon. But it’s going to
be a single’s honeymoon. No men. Just me, the monkeys, and the macaws.”
She and Reg had chosen this place, a former explorer’s-base-campcum-hotel
near the base of Angel Fall in the Venezuelan rain forest, for its privacy,
exotic beauty, and lack of people. The place, according to the black-and-white
mimeographed brochure she’d received in response to her inquiry, boasted of
only ten small casitas, or thatched- roofed stucco cabins, and was
located some distance from the nearest village—through jungle.
The brochure also proclaimed the accommodations to be a
haven of rest, proudly announcing its lack of glitz and frantic activity found
at many honeymoon and vacation destinations. She and Reg hadn’t wanted a
resort. They’d decided to start their marriage in the simplicity offered by the
plain casitas and the slower pace of the tropical rain forest.
Shiloh was sure the hotel would provide exactly the
retreat she needed to ponder what had gone wrong in her personal life and her
relationship with Reg, to seek God, and to discern how he wanted her to pursue
her calling to the nursing profession.
She smiled. “What better place than a jungle for solitude,
nature’s bounty, and the absence of men?”
As Shiloh settled into her coach-class airline seat Sunday
morning, she questioned her sanity. Again.
After all, honeymoons were supposed to be for couples
seeking privacy and serenity, but she was still single. And this flight to
Caracas certainly wasn’t peaceful. Not only was it chock-full of infants, but
also, to her dismay, a band of teens was in the process of trooping in. They
laughed, they bickered, and the earphones uniformly attached to their heads
blared music loud enough for everyone on the plane to share—even if they didn’t
want to.
She held her breath, hoping none of them had been assigned
the empty seat beside her.
With a whoosh, she released her breath as a man about her
age, maybe in his late twenties, popped open the overhead luggage bin that
contained her own suitcase and a large case of medicines she was taking to missionaries.
He crammed in a jacket, an oversized camera bag, and a big plastic case that
looked like a first-aid kit. Placing a briefcase under his seat, he then sat
next to her.
Shiloh watched him fiddle with his seat belt, noting his
large, well-kept hands. They looked strong and capable—as did he.
With broad shoulders and a six-feet-plus height, her
traveling companion exuded a strength and competence that surprised her. Few
people she’d met came across with such . . . presence.
“Hi,” he said, green eyes crinkling with his smile.
Shiloh blushed. Good grief! He’d caught her staring. “Uh
. . . hi.”
“I’m Mark Walker.” He stuck a hand out.
Curious to see what kind of shake that sturdy hand would
give, Shiloh clasped Mark’s fingers . . . and felt a warm current run
up her arm. He even shook hands with confidence.
“I’m Shiloh Morris,” she squeaked out, her voice
ridiculously breathless.
“Is Caracas your destination? Or are you continuing to
Bolivia?” Mark asked.
She nodded, then shook her head. What was wrong with her?
Had Reg’s jilting stolen her ability to talk with an attractive man? “Yes. I’m
going to Caracas,” she finally got out.
“Business or pleasure?”
“Hmm,” she said, not sure whether her single’s honeymoon
qualified as a purely pleasurable vacation. She did have business with her
heavenly Father. “Both.”
“Well, make sure you take time to visit the interior. The Llano,
Venezuela’s prairie, is stunning. The Andes’s peaks are spectacular—and so is
Angel Fall.”
Not knowing how much she should share with a stranger,
Shiloh murmured a noncommittal “So I’ve heard.”
As she picked up the novel she’d brought along for the
flight, she could feel Mark’s gaze on her for a minute. Then he dove for the
briefcase under his seat and surfaced with a folder stuffed with varicolored
papers. “Hope we have a good flight,” he said. “Tons to catch up on.”
The plane glided off with unexpected smoothness, and
before long, the captain turned off the mandatory seat-belt lights. Then,
almost as if invited, the noisy teens swarmed to Mark’s side.
Shiloh groaned. With feeling.
She’d never had a problem with children, teens, or anyone
of any age. But right now she craved relaxation—a chance to release all the
tension that had built inside her since the breakup.
Today didn’t promise any hope of serenity.
“Hey, man!” a boy with bleached white hair and jet black
brows said to Mark. “Has anybody, like . . . done any work on the
building yet?”
“Who cares?” asked a petite brunette. “What matters is
that we get to go shopping.”
The statuesque Nordic blonde beside her frowned. “Do you
think a case of mosquito repellent will be enough?”
A handsome African-American male with intricate braids
shot back, “For the whole Marine Corps.”
That was just the beginning.
During the long hours that followed, a torrent of kids
flooded past Mark’s seat. Shiloh heard chatter ranging from the subject of life
at school to the joy of doing what’s truly right for those who need the
help—this from a plump partridge of a girl—to a red-corkscrew-tressed string
bean’s comments about Venezuela. “This is waaay cool, man,” he said,
fiery coils bouncing. “It’s a whole different world. And I’m gonna be
there.”
Shiloh heartily agreed with that statement. From what
she’d read, the Venezuelan rain forest was a different world. One where
the strident confusion of modern society hadn’t yet reached. At least that’s
what she hoped.
As the conflicting rock recordings and the wails of
infants escalated around her, Shiloh tried to shut out the commotion. The
jungle would be even more appealing after this flight. She really needed this
vacation. She had some serious praying to do, and she wanted no distractions.
Especially none like the intriguing, attractive
teen-shepherd, Mark Walker.
