love in an unlikely season

Posted by Yuka as Hot Cities

On a bright February morning my telephone rang, “Marjorie Holmes?” a rich male voice announced. “You saved my life. I love you!”
Some nut, I thought – but I didn’t hang up. As a writer you learn to listen. His name, he said, was George Schmieler, and he was a doctor from Pittsburg. He’d lost his wife eight months before. On New Year’s Eve, wild with grief and on the verge of suicide, he’d found my book I’ve Got to Talk to Somebody, God.
“It was among her things,” he said. “I read it that night, and it made me realize how precious life is.”
“If you are still free,” George said, “may I see you?” I was pleased and touched. But unfortunately, I told him, I was about to leave on a two-week speaking trip.
“I’ll wait!” he said. “Just promise you’ll call as soon as you get back. We haven’t got that much time.”
I called him, as promised, and suggested meeting somewhere for dinner. But he insisted on coming to get me.
It was my first date in a very long time. I felt expectant, curious.
George arrived an hour early that evening. While Melanie and her husband, Haris, entertained him, I rushed to do my makeup, trying not to panic. Finally, I took a deep breath and joined them.
A tall, handsome man leaped to his feet, clutching an armful of roses. He had curly gray hair, a mustache, and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Beaming like a schoolboy, he handed me the flowers.
“You’re so little!” George exclaimed, but he sounded delighted, “I could put you in my pocket.”
“And you are so tall!”
“Never mind, we’ll match.” He held out his arms, and suddenly we were hugging.
We ate at a restaurant near my home. He was gallant, poised and charming – and also very funny. Never had I felt more comfortable with anyone.
Later, while I made coffee, he opened his worn doctor’s bag to show me his family pictures. His wife, Carolyn – slim, fair and serene. Two attractive sons and a lovely daughter.
“We always put our marriage first,” George explained,  “But we also spent plenty of time with the children at our Lake Erie cottage every summer.”
“My goodness, when did you practice medicine?” I asked.
“between vacations,” he said with a laugh, “And I worked hard. Work and play, love and pray. These are words I’ve always tried to live by. Love is the most important – to love your wife and children.”
George paused, his voice unsteady. “If I didn’t love Carolyn, I couldn’t love you now.” To my surprise, he kissed me.
I was thrilled but bewildered. Unsure of myself, I couldn’t think what to say except, “That’s beautiful. And your wife must have shared the same philosophy.” “Oh, she was wonderful.” He went on to describe their marriage.
Carolyn had been not only his sweetheart and companion, he told me, but also his secretary and nurse. When she died suddenly at their summer cottage, he went into shock for months.
Then he found my book. “It told me you, too, had suffered,” he said, “that a lot of people suffer, but we can and must go on.”
Gone was his former aplomb. “Would you consider marrying me?” he asked, with pleading eyes.
I shook my head. “No, George. You’re still in love with your wife. And I could never be the kind of wife she was to you.”
“But the past is gone,” he said with emotion. “Something happened the minute I heard your voice. It was like waking from a long nightmare. And when I actually saw you tonight! It’s not your book, it’s you, the wonderful time we’ve had just in these past few hours. We need each other. Please, al least make an effort to know me.”
I explained how difficult that would be. He was practicing in Pittsburgh. I was busy with a new book.
“When will I see you again?”
“Not for a while. I’m leaving tomorrow for a booksellers’ convention. Not long after that, I’ll be flying to Israel for two weeks.”
“Let me go with you!”
“Oh, no,” I protested. I steered him firmly but kindly toward the door and kissed him good-night.
Watching his car disappear, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What a remarkable man. What had I thrown away? “Well, so be it”, I thought. “I’ll probably never see him again.”
Although George could tell from my book that I hand suffered, few suspected the secret agonies of my marriage, and I was too proud to show it. My husband, Lynn, and I lived “lives of quiet desperation” behind the fa?ade of supposed success. The truth was he could not show me the affection I craved. In 1979, he died.
It was APRIL. George and I had been in constant touch by phone. I was thoroughly infatuated with him, but whenever he proposed I put him off.
I had agreed to go to the shore with him on my return. And did. We spent glorious, carefree days swimming, dining and dancing. I had already fallen in love with George’s personality. Before our time at the shore was over, I was in love with something even more important – his mind.
On Easter Sunday, our holiday was ending as we sat in church, waiting for the service to begin, George reached for my left hand, and slid his own wedding ring onto my finger. He whispered, “I, George, take thee, Marjorie…”
Startled, I tried to quiet him. George proceeded, mouthing the words: “Will… you…marry me?”
While a few heads turned, I whispered, “Yes, oh yes!”
Thrilled, he called his family after church. “When?” they asked, “June,” I heard him reply.” “No!” I cried when he hung up. I had too many commitments that summer, I explained. “We can’t possibly be married before Christmas.”
“Christmas?” George gasped. “How could we endure being separated so long?” we had to, I insisted. We weren’t a couple of kids.
Three weeks later, George drove me to the airport, I’d promised my son and his family a visit. We were in tears at parting, but also cheerful and mature. We had so much to look forward to.
Worse, there was no call from George for the next three days. I was hurt, bewildered and even afraid. For the first time I realized how much I needed him.
Finally, on the third night, he called.
“Darling, I’m so sorry!” George said. “I didn’t want to bother you I wanted you to enjoy your family.”
“Let’s not wait,” I said, “You were right.”
“Thank God!” he said
we were married on the Fourth of July
AS A YOUNG WOMAN, I dreamed of marrying a man who would always be crazy about me. When things didn’t turn out that way, I was bitterly disillusioned. Romance, we are warned, is fleeting so we must settle down and be content. For years, I lived that way.
And then, George found me. In the ten years, six months and eight days we had together – before he died of lung cancer in 1992 – I and both romance and devotion, and I learned what happiness really was. As the groom was told at the wedding in Cana: truly, the best wine was saved for the last.