knew something she didn't know. That with time, the scrape would heal, the scab would disappear, and the Band-Aid would eventually come off. And sooner or later... she might actually want to go for another ride.
Anne finally pulled away and wiped her eyes again, looking embarrassed and grateful at the same time.
"I'm sorry," she said timidly, laughing at herself.
"Don't be."
As easy as it would be, I never blame myself. There's no reason to. I'm just a messenger. And we all know it doesn't do any good to shoot the messenger.
"You know . . ." I began gently.
She looked into my eyes with anticipation and waited for my next words as if they might be gospel. Something she could take to bed with her at night and wake up with the next morning.
"The human spirit wasn't meant to live in denial. It will always seek the truth."
And just before I turned back to leave, I saw something in her eyes. Something I could take to bed with me at night and wake up with the next morning.
It was a tiny speck of hope, struggling to break free and perform its one mission in life. To heal.
For Anne Jacobs it was the hope that maybe I was right. Maybe she did do the right thing.
And there was nothing more in the world I could ask to leave with.
3
Father of the Bride
TWO DAYS earlier my business line had rung while I was in the middle of watching an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition on TiVo. It's my favorite show on the air because it always manages to put me in a good mood. Zoë says that's why they call it "feel-good programming." But for me, the reasons are much more deeply rooted than just wanting to feel good.
Because I secretly believed that every client I visited, every house I stepped into and stepped out of, every family I changed was like my own little extreme makeover project. Just with a much less orthodox approach.
"Hello?" I said into the phone.
When answering my business line, I always opted for a standard, informal greeting rather than a typical, "This is Ashlyn," or anything personalized. This approach kept the whole thing more discreet. The caller knows who they're calling. And if it's a call I want to take, I can proceed from there. Otherwise, I can simply tell the caller that they have the wrong number and hang up.
Every so often an angry now- ex -husband or ex -boyfriend will stumble upon this number and dial it, hoping to get more information about the test they've just failed miserably. And, of course, looking for a scapegoat upon which to release their pent-up anger. Anything to distract themselves from turning inward and facing the real issue.
"May I please speak to Ashlyn?" It was a male voice. Although I have had a few male clients in the past for various reasons, I'm still always wary when a man calls this number.
"What is this regarding?"
"My name is Roger Ireland. I received your number from a close friend, Audrey Robbins. She said you might be able to help me."
I considered, sizing up his voice in an effort to decide whether this would simply be a "wrong number" or a longer conversation. The man on the phone sounded genuine and almost endearingly uncomfortable. This type of phone call was clearly not part of his normal daily routine.
"What kind of help are you looking for?" I asked.
He cleared his throat. "Well, my daughter is getting married in a few months, and I'm not sure I really trust the guy." He paused and then quickly added, "I could be completely wrong, but I just have a bad feeling about the whole thing. I'm worried about her."
"I see."
"I'd rather know now if he's going to break her heart so we don't have to go through with the wedding."
"Well, that's understandable," I said. "Have you mentioned your concern to your daughter?"
"I tried . It didn't seem to work. She got really upset and didn't speak to me for a week."
"Right," I responded. It made sense. Young brides-to-be rarely want to hear anything except, "White is a good color on you."
"I love my daughter. I only want her
Anne finally pulled away and wiped her eyes again, looking embarrassed and grateful at the same time.
"I'm sorry," she said timidly, laughing at herself.
"Don't be."
As easy as it would be, I never blame myself. There's no reason to. I'm just a messenger. And we all know it doesn't do any good to shoot the messenger.
"You know . . ." I began gently.
She looked into my eyes with anticipation and waited for my next words as if they might be gospel. Something she could take to bed with her at night and wake up with the next morning.
"The human spirit wasn't meant to live in denial. It will always seek the truth."
And just before I turned back to leave, I saw something in her eyes. Something I could take to bed with me at night and wake up with the next morning.
It was a tiny speck of hope, struggling to break free and perform its one mission in life. To heal.
For Anne Jacobs it was the hope that maybe I was right. Maybe she did do the right thing.
And there was nothing more in the world I could ask to leave with.
3
Father of the Bride
TWO DAYS earlier my business line had rung while I was in the middle of watching an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition on TiVo. It's my favorite show on the air because it always manages to put me in a good mood. Zoë says that's why they call it "feel-good programming." But for me, the reasons are much more deeply rooted than just wanting to feel good.
Because I secretly believed that every client I visited, every house I stepped into and stepped out of, every family I changed was like my own little extreme makeover project. Just with a much less orthodox approach.
"Hello?" I said into the phone.
When answering my business line, I always opted for a standard, informal greeting rather than a typical, "This is Ashlyn," or anything personalized. This approach kept the whole thing more discreet. The caller knows who they're calling. And if it's a call I want to take, I can proceed from there. Otherwise, I can simply tell the caller that they have the wrong number and hang up.
Every so often an angry now- ex -husband or ex -boyfriend will stumble upon this number and dial it, hoping to get more information about the test they've just failed miserably. And, of course, looking for a scapegoat upon which to release their pent-up anger. Anything to distract themselves from turning inward and facing the real issue.
"May I please speak to Ashlyn?" It was a male voice. Although I have had a few male clients in the past for various reasons, I'm still always wary when a man calls this number.
"What is this regarding?"
"My name is Roger Ireland. I received your number from a close friend, Audrey Robbins. She said you might be able to help me."
I considered, sizing up his voice in an effort to decide whether this would simply be a "wrong number" or a longer conversation. The man on the phone sounded genuine and almost endearingly uncomfortable. This type of phone call was clearly not part of his normal daily routine.
"What kind of help are you looking for?" I asked.
He cleared his throat. "Well, my daughter is getting married in a few months, and I'm not sure I really trust the guy." He paused and then quickly added, "I could be completely wrong, but I just have a bad feeling about the whole thing. I'm worried about her."
"I see."
"I'd rather know now if he's going to break her heart so we don't have to go through with the wedding."
"Well, that's understandable," I said. "Have you mentioned your concern to your daughter?"
"I tried . It didn't seem to work. She got really upset and didn't speak to me for a week."
"Right," I responded. It made sense. Young brides-to-be rarely want to hear anything except, "White is a good color on you."
"I love my daughter. I only want her
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