Violets for the Soul

Twenty-one years, six months and two weeks ago, a chance meeting at the water fountain changed my life forever.

It was my birthday, a Wednesday as I recall. It being a workday, the day had so far unfolded much like any other. I was working as an editor in the features section of a daily newspaper, and the deadline-heavy nature of the job made it difficult to plan a celebratory lunch. Plus, it was my night to stay late to oversee the press check for our next day’s pages. My birthday plans consisted of hopefully arriving home by 9:30 to destress for a couple of quiet hours before falling into bed and starting the process all over again the next morning.

Until.

At one point during the afternoon I took a break to fill my water mug in preparation for the long evening ahead. I left my desk and walked past the composing area where our pages would be prepared, then turned toward a water fountain at the end of the hall. As it happened, standing there was a news-side editor intent on the same purpose. We knew each other only through occasional random moments in the break room used by the features and news staffs. We had learned that we shared some pretty big things in common – both divorced, two sons each – but small talk was the extent of our previous interactions.

I’ll have to admit I thought he was really cute.

“Happy birthday!” he said.

“Why, thank you,” I said, thinking, “How does he know it’s my birthday?” (He later confessed he’d looked me up in the public database.)

 And then, he asked me if I’d like to go out for a drink after work. I had not dressed for the occasion.

“Gosh, thanks, I’d love to, but I have to do the press check tonight, and I’ll be here till at least 8 or 8:30,” I said.

“That’s about when I plan to leave,” he said, not letting me off the hook.

So, an after-work date with, in my opinion, the handsomest guy in the newsroom was now on my heretofore empty birthday agenda. I returned to my desk and tried to focus on the tasks at hand.

The phone rang. It was him.

“Hi, I wonder if you’d like to make it dinner instead of just drinks.”

Oh, my goodness. I accepted the invitation and promptly began to assess my appearance: khaki pencil pants and a turquoise, sleeveless Michael Stars cowl-neck top (yes, I remember exactly what I was wearing). Not too bad, I supposed. But the makeup hastily applied that morning simply would not do. I looked at the colleague to my right and said, “I’ll be right back.”

I grabbed my purse and headed for the tunnel system that connects an underground city of stores, restaurants, beauty salons and doctor’s offices. I ran into a pharmacy and made a beeline for the cosmetics. Emergency supplies purchased, I returned to my desk and carried on.

Luckily, the press check unfolded without mishap. We had dinner that night at a lovely Italian restaurant that has sadly since closed. Conversation came easily and it all felt so comfortable. But still, I wasn’t quite sure what this was about. Later, when he walked me to my car at the newspaper’s parking garage a few blocks away, he kissed me, and, oh, I knew.

That night, at home, I couldn’t sleep, going over the events of the day and evening and feeling this incredible happiness sweeping over me. What had just happened?

We were inseparable in the days and weeks since, enjoying a romance built on love, friendship, respect and trust. Eight months later, in March of 2003, we planned a trip to New Orleans to celebrate his birthday. We were to stay at our friends’ parents’ bed and breakfast and have dinner at a restaurant recommended by a mutual friend who served as wine editor of our paper. As I bade farewells to my team at work, my boss predicted I’d have a ring on my left hand when I returned. I denied the possibility as I assured her that would not be the case. We were happy as things were, so why rock the boat?

We arrived at our bed and breakfast to find champagne and roses in our room, complements of our B&B hosts. At the restaurant that night, champagne appeared at our table, complements of our friend the wine editor and a beloved mutual friend who has since passed. Clearly, the universe was telling us something.

He asked me to marry him that night, and of course I said yes. It had been violets for the soul at first sight.

We planned an October wedding. It was to be a small affair, but we soon realized that “small” is hard to do when planning a wedding. As plans mushroomed and the budget grew more and more out of hand, we decided to elope that August. My sister-in-law suggested she keep her bridesmaid’s dress and stand with me. Ultimately, we wed at a resort hotel in Galveston with a few family members and close friends present, on the 12^th anniversary of my mother’s funeral. Gerbera daisies served as the bride’s and maid of honor’s bouquets and the men’s boutonnieres. We chose as our scripture reading the passage the minister had read at Mother’s service, from Psalm 118: “This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.”

As we approach our 21^st anniversary, we realize how blessed we are to have found each other, and we rejoice in every day together. Was it a chance meeting at the water fountain? Somehow, I think not.