Published in A Cup of Comfort for Weddings 2007
“He seems real nice,” I told my mother. “We’ve only been
going out a few weeks. I do know that I like him a lot. He’s
different than most of the guys I’ve dated.”
***
Truth was that in the seven years since my divorce, I’d dated
every poster boy for America’s most not wanted men. I finally
gave up trying. The Marines had taken whatever few good men
were left.
Demoralized and tired of raising three kids on my own, I moved
to the redneck community of farmers and shoe factory workers
to be near my parents.
“I’m glad to be close to you and Dad,” I told my mother, “but I
doubt I’ll find a husband in these here hills. It’s time I relied on
my own smarts to make a home and a life for my children.”
“Don’t be so quick to give up. You’ll find someone.”
When? When I’m so old, it won’t matter?
I joined a softball team. Mistake number one. I’d been athletic
as a younger person. I still played a mean game of kickball and
ping-pong. Why not a sport? One by one, the oily-haired,
muscular, spit-spewing females took their turn at bat. I lasted
three practices, quitting when one of the Amazon women swore
at my two-year old.
Had I failed even in the pursuit of diversion?
The ad leapt out at me—“Casting call for Annual Irish Play.”
I did a happy dance just to get the one-line part. “Even Helen
Hayes had to start somewhere.” My mother was always quick
with a word of encouragement. Since I learned my line within
five minutes, I signed up to do publicity.
My first interview was with Steve, the short, lanky lead—the
one who always wore his auto parts uniform. Imitating a
psychiatric patient, he stretched out on the carpet. “So what do
you want to know? I’m single, and I haven’t had a date in a
year and a half.”
“Not the sort of interview I had intended,” I said. “Just a few
personal bits of information, like where you live.”
“At the Franklin,” he answered, nonchalantly. In my limited
knowledge of my new community, the Franklin Hotel was a
home for alcoholics and other lost souls. Why would he even
think I’d be interested? Did I seem that desperate?
It would have ended there—totally—a complete not-interested
kind of thing until I interviewed the director for a news release
containing cast tidbits.
“Steve’s one of the best guys I’ve ever known,” he said. Who
was this masked man behind the veil of a broken down hotel?
I interviewed the producer. “I’ve known the Rondeau boys
since they were kids. Nice boys, both of them.”
“Doesn’t he live at the Franklin?” I asked as if, ”What’s a nice
boy like him doing in a place like that?”
“He doesn’t live there. He lives with his parents on Park
Street. He probably meant that he likes to go to the bar
downstairs a lot. It’s a Malone hot spot. Harmless, really.”
Our first date was the cast party. I wasn’t used to dating nice
guys—only pretend nice guys who used children and pets to
steal a girls heart. I didn’t trust nice guys. I married a nice guy,
and he deserted me. Nice guys were myths—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.
Nevertheless, 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?
***
And so I had unburdened my feelings unto my mother. She
probably felt like she had to say something. “Have a nice night,
Dear.”
Attending a Scouting Banquet seemed a silly thing to be excited
over. But, Steve was to be the recipient of a prestigious award,
and he had asked me to be his date. If nothing else, I guess I
should feel flattered that he wanted me to share in this honor.
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 I was indeed a natural blonde.
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. At six
forty-five, the sitter had not yet arrived. 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 took out a box of spaghetti noodles and placed a filled 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. I had ruined a very important moment for him.
While three pre-school children clung to his neatly pressed
khaki’s, he gave me the only order he has ever spouted in our
nearly three decades together. “You get on the phone and find
a sitter. I’ll make the spaghetti.”
Any other man would have run 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. I had found a
man who loved me as I was—a blonde who wanted only one
thing out of life: acceptance for who she was.
Copyright by Linda Rondeau
For reprint permission
email: lrondeau@westelcom.com
THE BLOND AND THE BOYSCOUT
 |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |
| A SPECIAL FEATURE BY LINDA RONDEAU |