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The Prince Charming List
Praise for
KATHRYN SPRINGER
and her novels
Picket Fence Promises
“Springer’s second book set in Pritchett, Wis., is as enchanting as the first. A sprinkling of comedy adds exactly the right touch.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Front Porch Princess
“Kathryn Springer’s refreshing writing style and sense of humor make this story sing!”
—Neta Jackson, bestselling author of The Yada Yada Prayer Group
“A delightful package of humor and gentle truths, Front Porch Princess is poignant and honest, a compelling, well-written story that will find the nooks and crannies of your heart and linger long after the book is done. Highly recommended!”
—Susan May Warren, bestselling author of Chill Out, Josey!
“Springer’s combination of humor, family values and longing will reach out from the pages and touch readers’ hearts.”
—Romantic Times BOOKReviews, Top Pick!
The Prince Charming List
Kathryn Springer
Each one should use whatever
gift he has received to serve others,
faithfully administering God’s grace
in its various forms.
—1 Peter 4:10
To Kayla,
Who proves that a girl can wear really
cute shoes while walking with God!
Your enthusiasm and encouragement during
the writing of this book were blessings—
and so are you!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
Chapter One
it feels like everyone is watchng me. Im so paranoid. (Text message from Heather Lowell to Bree Penny)
u r not paranoid. they r watchng u. welcome to prichett. (Text message from Bree Penny to Heather Lowell)
I caught the bridal bouquet.
This happened exactly thirty seconds after I told God that all I wanted to do was fade into the beautiful woodwork of Faith Community Church for the rest of the day.
I’m sure He was laughing when I walked out of the bathroom after a quick lipstick check and was swept into the center of a cluster of women whose eyes reflected deadly intent. Kind of like Mom’s koi when they saw the mysterious hand poised above them, ready to drop food pellets into the water.
I looked in the direction of whatever it was everyone was fixated on—just in time to see a floral missile hurtling our way. What happened next was something I’d only experienced in the mosh pit at a Christian rock concert the summer before. But this time everyone was wearing pastels.
Candy Lane, Prichett’s mayor, was short but agile, judging from the way she vaulted out of the pack toward the ceiling.
Someone stepped on my toe and I bounced to the left, putting myself between Bree, who could have unwound the ribbon from her hair and lassoed the thing, and Prichett’s very own resident artist, Marissa Maribeau, who looked as confused as I did that she’d been caught up in this weird ritual.
As luck would have it, the bouquet rocketed right to Marissa like it was on a programmed course, but she decided to change the rules. As soon as it touched her hands, she popped it back into the air like we were playing hot potato. If she’d been a Green Bay Packer quarterback, she wouldn’t have been signed on for the second season.
Gravity did its duty and when the bouquet returned to earth, it ricocheted off Bree and landed with a fragrant thump against my arm, then spiraled toward the floor. The competitive instinct—the one that drove me to set my sights on Boardwalk and Park Place when I played Monopoly—kicked in and I grabbed it. Now I was in the crosshairs. Panicked, I realized my only option was to imitate Marissa’s move, but just as I was about to launch it back into space, there was no one there to catch it. My former opponents suddenly muttered their congratulations and shape-shifted from future bride-zillas to supportive, can-you-feel-the-love sisters. And they headed toward the cake table together.
“I think this belongs to you.” I snagged Marissa’s elbow before she escaped.
“Not a chance.” Marissa backed away, staring in horror at the flowers I grandly offered.
Future psychology majors take note. This would be a fascinating study. Why intelligent women who’ve grown up in the modern world react in unpredictable ways when the bridal bouquet is headed in their direction like a ribbon-trailing asteroid. It’s not like anyone really believes that the girl who catches it is going to be the next one to walk down the aisle. I’m twenty-one years old and I’ve already figured out that in the age group twenty to thirty, there’s a ratio of one Christian guy to a bazillion Christian women. Okay, a slight exaggeration. Then again, maybe not.
I buried my nose deep in the lilacs and white roses and when I emerged a few seconds later, at least a dozen disposable cameras were aimed in my direction.
“Say cheese.” Bree grinned.
For all I knew, the good old dairy state of Wisconsin had been the birthplace of the expression.
I silently pounded my head against my inner wailing wall.
“I wanted to fade into the woodwork,” I muttered.
Bree’s blue eyes flashed in amused sympathy. “If you want to fade into the woodwork, go back to the Twin Cities. In Prichett you’ve got a starring role.”
A starring role.
Not quite what I had in mind, God.
Why was He so determined to shake up my life? There’s no doubt that what’s happened to me since last summer can only be the result of God’s intervention. Divine fingerprints. My life is full of them. Okay, confession. Maybe I had a hand in getting the whole thing started. Initially.
Dad insists that I can’t leave things alone. Supposedly this endearing characteristic can be traced to a package of Oreos and the VCR when I was four years old. Unfortunately, Mom has the pictures to prove it. Which leads me to ask a question—why are parents wired with a twisted sense of humor that drives them to take photos of their children’s most embarrassing moments when they are too young and helpless to prevent it? Those photos have an annoying habit of surfacing years down the road like the risqué, before-they-were-famous poses of models that the tabloids gleefully print. Case in point, the infamous Oreo-VCR photos have come back to haunt me at my sixteenth birthday party, high school graduation open house and my first (and only) date with Chad Benson. Although I don’t think there was a direct correlation. Really.
As if the Oreo photos and the accompanying script my mom loves to recite when she displays them aren’t enough, she’s put them in a special album, which I like to refer to as Heather Lowell’s Childhood Bloopers. Also included in my repertoire is the photo where I’m perched in Dad’s leather recliner, wearing nothing but a diaper and draped from head to toe in yards of shiny tape—which in a former life had been the movie E.T. Mom is convinced I thought he was trapped in there somewhere and it was up to me to save him.
As far as I’m concerned, all diaper and birthday-suit bathtub photos should be burned on a kid’s tenth birthday. Middle and high school are right around the corner. Think about it.
So maybe I can be forgiven for being a bit camera shy. For years I thought everyone’s parents came automatically equipped with a 35-millimeter and telephoto lens. I learned the sad truth at my kindergarten graduation, when my mother, armed with enough film to take a head shot of everyone in the Twin Cities, was besieged by mothers who’d (gasp) forgotten their cameras. My mother, being the good Christian woman that she is, cheerfully took pictures of my entire class. And the faculty.
I heard one of the moms whisper that after her fourth child, she was lucky she remembered to check to be sure both her shoes matched before she left the house, let alone remember to bring a camera. Mom had leaned over and whispered back that I was an only child and every precious moment needed to be recorded.
I may have been five years old, but that’s when I figured it out. The camera fixation and the bulging photo albums had something to do with my being adopted.
Mom and Dad were never secretive about it. I grew up being told that I was a special gift to them from God. That I was the child of their heart. I was so cocooned in love and attention that I never felt like I was lacking anything. Some of my closest friends were adopted, too, so I didn’t think there was anything strange about it at all. In fact—minus the never-ending photo sessions—it was kind of cool.
Until my freshman year of high school. On Career Day. A day that will go down in history as the day I started to wonder—for the first time—about my birth parents. Particularly my mother. I blame the guidance counselor and Rhianne Wilson: the guidance counselor for handing out the questionnaire that was designed to point kids who still watched Saturday morning cartoons in the direction of their future career; Rhianne Wilson for getting caught in a downpour on the way to school, which caused her to slink into the gymnasium through the side door and huddle between the rows of lockers, where I practically tripped over her.
The guidance counselor had decided that Career Day would be more fun if the students came to school dressed for their future career. If we had a clue what that was. Which I didn’t. I attended a private school called His Light Christian Academy, so even though I could’ve borrowed my dad’s scrubs and pretended I was thinking about following in his respected footsteps, it wouldn’t have been completely honest. And honesty is a big thing at a Christian school. Not to mention that everyone knew from an unfortunate incident in third grade that I faint at the sight of blood—whether it’s mine, a fellow classmate’s, the classroom hamster’s…
But that’s a different subject.
“I’m supposed to be a model,” Rhianne had wailed. “Look at me. Everyone is going to think I want to be a drowned rat when I grow up.”
“It’s not that bad.” I was an optimist, but I still felt the need to ask God to forgive me for stretching the truth.
I skipped algebra to put Rhianne back together. By the time she got to study hall, three boys had asked her out. By lunchtime, half the girls in the school were begging me to give them tips on makeup and hairstyles.
“I guess we know what you’ll be doing with your life,” Rhianne said, linking her arm through mine and forcing me to match her catwalk sashay—hip roll to hip roll—to history class.
“What?”
She gave me a well, duh look. “Hair. Makeup.”
“No way.”
My parents weren’t snobs but I’m sure there was an unspoken agreement between them and God that He wouldn’t choose a path for me that involved anything less than four years at a Christian college and included at least two semesters of Bible study.
“You have talent. A gift.” Rhianne could be pretty dramatic when she was wearing the right shade of eye shadow. I hadn’t known that. “It’s in your genetic makeup. Wow. That was one of those…you know…”
“Puns?” Okay. I don’t mean to be uncharitable, but sometimes it’s a good thing a girl can go far on her looks.
“Right.” Rhianne had tossed her long blond hair with one of those graceful head rotations that only girls with long blond hair have perfected.
When we parted company, I sat through an hour of American history in a daze, remembering the Christmas I’d begged for one of those plastic mannequin heads topped with the glossy artificial hair you could style any way you wanted. I got a piano instead. Disjointed memories returned, of the times I coordinated Mom’s outfits when she had a women’s ministry luncheon, making sure she chose the right pair of shoes or insisting she surgically remove the shoulder pads from a blazer she’d bought on the same day there was a two-for-one special on leg warmers.
It wasn’t a talent, I told myself. And it certainly wasn’t infused into the strands of my DNA. That was impossible. I just had a…knack…that’s all.
But Rhianne had started me wondering. How much of who I was were pieces of two people I’d never met?
Suddenly I was noticing things I’d never paid much attention to before, like my green eyes (Mom and Dad’s were brown) and my perfectly straight nose (which I have to admit I was a trifle conceited about). And it wasn’t just the differences in my looks, either. Mom and Dad were quiet while I had a hard time not voicing my thoughts out loud. Every one of them. And I had that impulsive thing going.
Even as the questions about my background rushed into my mind, guilt rushed into my heart. Mom and Dad wouldn’t understand. I didn’t quite understand it, either, so I ignored it. But sometimes over the next few years the wondering would return and take me by surprise. When I laughed, was it the echo of someone else’s laughter? As a senior in high school, when the mailbox was crammed with college catalogs, why did I dump them all in the trash one day and take a year to travel around Europe? And when I got home, why did I walk away from a full scholarship at the University of Minnesota and sign up for cosmetology school?
Who was responsible for my quirks? I needed someone to blame!
That’s how I ended up in Prichett, Wisconsin.
“Wait! I want a picture, too.” Bernice Strum-Scott hurried over. She owns the Cut and Curl Beauty Shop on Main Street and even a photophobe like myself couldn’t refuse to pose for her. She was the bride, after all. Obediently, Bree and I put our faces together—cheek to cheek—and I could smell Bree’s cinnamon gum. I’m pretty sure she chewed it in her sleep.
“Here, let me. It’s nice to be on this end of a camera for a change.” Alex Scott took the camera from Bernice and winked at me.
Alex Scott was a real live movie star and he looked every inch of it today in his black tux. There were no helicopters flying over the church, though, because Alex confided to me that he’d spent years cultivating a life apart from Hollywood and it was finally paying off. Just in time. He could get married without ending up on the cover of People magazine. I did see Sally Repinski from the café take some discreet snapshots that would probably be on the Prichett Pride and Joy Wall by morning. I’d heard all about the Pride and Joy Wall from Bree’s mom, Elise. She’d won the Proverbs 31 pageant and only Annie Carpenter’s twins had finally displaced her from the wall—but that had taken almost a year. Bree told me her mom has been trying to keep a low profile since then.
Just as the flash went off, Bree and I stuck out our tongues. Bernice laughed and Alex shook his head.
“That’s one for the mantel,” he said. “Now let’s get one for this year’s Christmas card. No tongues, please.”
“Killjoy,” I mumbled. The flash went off and I reached for the camera. “My turn.”
Bernice and Alex leaned against each other. Her veil drifted toward his face and he batted it away. Just as I pressed the button, they both stuck their tongues out at me.
I scowled but I guess I wasn’t very convincing, because they started to laugh. And in Bernice’s laughter, I heard a deeper, a richer, echo of my own. Because even though I initially came to Prichett to find the source of my quirks, the bride and groom—my birth parents—were the reason I came back.
Chapter Two
Supper 2 nite? 2 celebrate frst day on the job? (Bree)
If no 1 runs me out of town. B there at six. (Me)
Whoever described small towns as sleepy had never been to Prichett. Tiny as it was, Prichett packed the energy of a double shot of espresso. I’d finally fallen asleep about four in the morning and that was only because Snap, Bernice’s cat, suddenly decided to live up to her name and hissed at me when I rolled onto her tail. Apparently my restlessness was the only thing keeping her from her beauty sleep. I settled down out of embarrassment and the next thing I knew it was six o’clock and the sound of voices was tapping against my dreams.
Wrapping an afghan around my shoulders, I scuttled over to the window to check out the early birds. The recycling truck was idling on the street right below and one of the guys started to whistle an upbeat version of “Going to the Chapel.” I recognized him from the reception. The ceremony had been small, but the guest list for the reception afterward must have included most of the town.
Bernice and Alex had left for their European honeymoon just a few hours after the gift opening the day before, leaving me to take up Bernice’s exalted scissors and run the Cut and Curl for the next eight weeks. Being a Minnesota girl myself, I knew that eight weeks was all the summer a person could hope to squeeze out of this part of Wisconsin.
One glance at the clock on the wall and I should have been sprinting toward the shower. Instead, I leaped back into bed and dove under the covers. What had I been thinking? All I had was a certificate from cosmetology school in my suitcase and four—count them—encouraging parents who didn’t seem to have a doubt that I could manage the salon. Manage.
Bernice had planned to close the salon for the summer until I’d blithely told her that I didn’t have any plans yet (translation: no job) and if she wanted to keep the salon open, I could run it for her. It had seemed so doable. Then. Now, I was in a panic. Curse my impulsive tendencies. No wonder Mom and Dad had to put me on one of those wrist tethers when we went to Disney World (yet another unforgettable photo in my Blooper album) when I was two.
I did a quick search above the comforter and my fingers brushed against Snap’s silky ear. Aha. Animals were therapeutic. A warm, seven-pound stress reliever. The next best thing to chocolate chip cookie dough. I wrapped my hand around her belly and pulled her under the covers, into the tunnel of denial. She must have sensed my distress because instead of signing her name on my face with her claws, she burrowed closer and hiccupped. Which jump-started a soothing, uneven purr.
Lord, I am absolutely crazy. Mama B has a ton of loyal customers and please, just please, let them hang in there until she gets back….
Bernice hadn’t even given me a list of things to do at the salon. Since she wasn’t just the owner of the Cut and Curl but also the only employee, she said it really wasn’t that complicated. There were no internal struggles, either, unless a person counted the battle between her and her self-control over the candy drawer in the back room. Which she’d stocked before she left. I’d checked. She’d given me a turbo-lesson in how to do the banking and assured me the “regulars” would fill me in if I had any questions. And I could call her anytime—day or night—if I needed anything.
When I’d looked over her shoulder at the appointment book, I noticed the month of June was already booked solid. That would make it easy. Then Bernice had mentioned she’d deliberately penciled in the low-maintenance customers after one o’clock so I’d end the day on a good note. I was pretty sure that low maintenance had nothing to do with their hairstyle.
The memory opened up a hole that my stomach dropped through.
“We can do this, can’t we, Snap?”
Her eyes narrowed in kitty amusement.
“Everyone else believes in me.” I felt the need to remind her. “And if this isn’t going to be a relationship based on mutual encouragement, I’m going to bring Colonel Mustard to live with us for the next two months.”
Colonel Mustard was a basset hound everyone thought Alex had taken in out of the goodness of his heart, but he’d told me, when Bernice wasn’t around, it had really been a pathetic need to win friends and influence people in Prichett. When I persuaded them to let me move into Bernice’s apartment above the Cut and Curl instead of her and Alex’s house just outside of town, Bree had told me the Colonel could bunk with Clancy, their golden retriever, for the summer. So far, the dogs were doing fine, but if Snap needed empathy lessons, I was sure I could get him back.
Alex and Bernice had planned to fix up the apartment and rent it out when they got back from their honeymoon. Bernice’s snow globe collection had been carefully transported to the new house, but she’d left most of her furniture behind. It was perfect.
There were three reasons I wanted to live in the apartment but only two I was willing to share if anyone asked me why I preferred a cramped apartment with no shower to an adorable remodeled house in the country. The first two were easy—the apartment was convenient and it was so unique I’d fallen in love with it. The plaster ceilings were high, and the walls in the living room were the original brick. The polish on the hardwood floor had been scuffed to the bare wood in places. The wall-to-wall row of windows that overlooked Main Street welcomed the sunlight all day and I’d already decided to fill the space with plants.
The third reason—the one only my journal knew about—was harder to put into words. Even for me. Bernice and I had only met the summer before and had slowly been getting to know each other through long-distance telephone calls and e-mails. I thought that by living in her apartment, I might get to soak in a bit more of who she was. She’d welcomed me with open arms when I’d shown up unexpectedly at the Cut and Curl one day. She was a new believer—God’s timing is always amazing—and she told me she was happy to have a chance to know me, but she’d let me set the boundaries of our relationship. Which was easy because I couldn’t think of any.
The alarm went off, rudely reminding me that I was a working girl now. Not that I hadn’t held a job before, but this couldn’t compare to making smoothies at the Fun Fruit Factory.
On my way to the kitchen, I passed the black-and-white movie posters that Bernice had left on the wall. Giant. Camelot. To Catch A Thief. You’ve Got Mail. Even though I loved movies, I’d only seen the last one. Bree didn’t know it yet, but I planned to lure her to the apartment with M&M’s for a movie marathon some weekend.
I popped a bagel into the toaster. Now it was time to face the big question. What to wear on my first day of work? Dressy or casual? If I went too dressy, I could be labeled a snob. Too casual and it would look like I didn’t care. Again being labeled a snob.
There was a knock on the door and I squeaked in surprise. It was only seven o’clock in the morning. I had an hour before the Cut and Curl opened. Maybe it was Bree bearing cinnamon rolls. Yum.
“Hey!” I swung the door open. “You’re a—”
A strange guy.
I slammed the door and put my shoulder against it, my fingers fumbling against the frame for a row of locks that didn’t exist. My mother had taught me well.
There was a few seconds of silence and then another hesitant tap on the door.
“Who is it?” I winced. What a dumb question. He could make up any name he wanted and, being the new kid on the block, I wouldn’t recognize it.
Bernice’s door was oak and I could barely make out the muffled mutterings of Strange Guy. I opened it a crack, glad that Dad had insisted I take self-defense classes in high school.
