A Wife Worth Waiting For
Arlene James
EVERYDAY MIRACLESTHE WIFE WAITWidow Clarice Revere was grateful to the Reverend Bolton Charles. The handsome minister had been a father figure to her son, generously given her his friendship and elicited feelings she'd long forgotten. But Clarice–who'd always lived in the shadow of domineering men–couldn't trade her newfound freedom for love.Putting his trust in God's plan, Bolton set out to convince Clarice she was the wife he'd been waiting for. He only hoped his patience proved as limitless as his love….Everyday Miracles: Each day brings new tests for young Reverend Charles and his congregation. But with faith, they find miracles are everywhere–even the miracle of love.Welcome to Love Inspired™–stories that will lift your spirits and gladden your heart. Meet men and women facing the challenges of today's world and learning important lessons about life, faith and love.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u228bf78d-f446-55b8-930a-d7783e3a883a)
Excerpt (#ub0be8077-8dc4-5dbe-afb1-b40b13ca0ec0)
About the Author (#u5106a459-13ae-50df-ac7b-639eb7e3d4e5)
Title Page (#u9bb686d4-acff-5a20-9612-37a0b4bc3c74)
Epigraph (#udf6394db-3482-52fc-9347-90fa19e295ae)
Chapter One (#uaa35618c-5691-5c48-aef6-226dd7acd6d4)
Chapter Two (#u58b1c184-2c25-5a6f-ad7f-4ad3011de28d)
Chapter Three (#u40cbb4a2-fe62-53cd-bd69-3615858a28be)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I was wondering if you would like to go on a picnic with me?”
Bolton had asked the question of both mother and son, but his eyes were expectantly fixed on Clarice. He waited, one, two, three painful beats of his heart.
Clarice glanced at her son, who looked happily back at her, then turned to Bolton and smiled. “We’d love to.”
It took every ounce of his willpower not to jump for joy. He closed his eyes briefly in thanks, then got a hold of himself.
She had said yes to a picnic, nothing more. But it was a start, wasn’t it? It was progress in the right direction. Now what? Where to from here? How could he get Clarice to look at him as more than a mentor to her son and pastor to the church?
One step at a time.
ARLENE JAMES
“Camp meetings, mission work, and the church where my parents and grandparents were prominent members permeate my Oklahoma childhood memories. It was a golden time which sustains me yet. However, only as a young, widowed mother did I truly begin growing in my personal relationship with the Lord. Through adversity, He blessed me in countless ways, one of which is a second marriage so loving and romantic it still feels like courtship!”
The author of over forty novels, Arlene James now resides outside of Dallas, Texas, with her husband. As she sends her youngest child off to college, Arlene says, “The rewards of motherhood have indeed been extraordinary for me. Yet I’ve looked forward to this new stage of my life.” Her need to write is greater than ever, a fact that frankly amazes her as she’s been at it since the eighth grade!
A Wife Worth Waiting For
Arlene James
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.
—Matthew 10:29-31
Chapter One (#ulink_69b614c8-af9d-57a5-bcd1-bca9cd7798f7)
It was a summons, plain and simple. Bolton chuckled and looked again at the folded sheet of stationery, very white against the green blotter on his desk. The shaky slashes of black ink revealed a bold hand infirmed by age and illness, but the wording was that of a self-assured despot. The Reverend Bolton Charles would please present himself at Revere House the following morning at the hour of eleven to discuss a matter of grave importance. His promptness was appreciated—and taken for granted. He would go, of course. Those of his profession could not afford to look askance at the manner in which a need for aid was presented, however high-handed the presentation. The only question in his mind was what he could do for Wallis Revere. Revere had made it plain in the past that Bolton’s “interference” was not wanted. Bolton couldn’t help wondering what had happened to change that. As Bolton considered the possibilities, he sobered.
Wallis Revere was seventy-three years old, his birthday falling sometime in February. Bolton knew this because, as a minister, it was his practice to mark the birthdays of each and every one of his church members, whether they participated in the function of the church or not, and Wallis Revere did not. Actually, Carol, the reverend’s late wife, had started the practice, and it was one of her many projects that he had struggled to continue during the two years and four months since her death.
Two years, four months, one week and two days. He could quickly figure the hours and minutes, as well, if he would allow himself the luxury of maudlin reflection. But he would not. Carol was gone. His own life went on. God’s ways were often mysterious, and his own faith was such that he needed no other explanation for the single most devastating event of his life. His wife had died of cancer. He missed her horribly, and yet what he missed most these days was having someone beside him, someone sharing his life, not Carol herself precisely, but someone. Someone to love—he wanted someone to love. A woman. He was man enough, human enough, to admit that he wanted, needed a woman, his own woman. God had designed men and women to want and need and love one another. He never ceased to marvel at that fact. Mysterious ways, he reminded himself, and resolutely turned his thoughts back to work.
Revere was elderly, ailing from some sort of degenerative bone disease, and stubbornly reclusive. He had not welcomed the three previous calls that Bolton had dutifully paid him. In fact, Revere had been barely civil on those past occasions, dismissing the minister quite firmly in the end. Nevertheless, he had continued his generous monthly monetary contributions to the church’s treasury—and now it appeared that the old boy was ready to extract his money’s worth from the minister whose comfortable salary he helped to provide. It was, of course, the very sort of thing that Bolton Charles was paid to do. Visit the infirm and elderly, render aid to the needy, comfort, advise, counsel, exhort, pray…organize, oversee, encourage, teach, preach, intercede, introduce, support, defend…The list was endless, but they were all duties, each and every one, for which he was called much more than hired, and for that reason he would clear his schedule and appear at Revere House at precisely eleven the next morning. He would have gone even if Revere previously had tossed him out on his backside, revoked his church membership and demanded a refund of his tithes. Bolton’s reasons were simple. He was a man of God, a minister, sworn to aid the needy in body and soul in the name of his Lord. He considered that no greater calling existed, and he was thankful beyond words that it was his own. But that moved him no closer to divining Wallis Revere’s problem.
Might not the old boy have developed a concern for his soul? The dying often did, and it certainly was not beyond the realm of possibility that the man was dying. Bolton hoped it was not so. A minister’s job was inexorably coiled up with death, and while his personal belief in heaven was firm, dealing with death and dying and its aftermath for the living was a decidedly unpleasant business. But one he did well, especially after his own personal experience in that area. He had never truly understood the matter of comfort for the bereaved or how to give it until Carol had left him. He wondered who, if anyone, would grieve Wallis Revere.
By eleven the next morning, he had satisfied himself somewhat on that question. A discreet conversation with his secretary, Cora Beemis, had elicited the nearly forgotten intelligence that the Revere family consisted of Wallis, a young grandson and a daughter-in-law, the widow of Revere’s son and only child, who had died some years previously in a riding accident. Neither the daughter-in-law nor the grandson were members of the congregation, which, coupled with Revere’s stubborn reclusiveness, explained why Bolton knew little of them. He was relieved, however, just to know that they existed. It was the thought of them that occupied his mind as he turned his conservative four-door sedan through the brick columns flanking the broad drive of the Revere estate.
Estate was the only word for the Revere place. It was nestled, as much as a three-story Georgianstyle colonnaded house with various outbuildings could be nestled, in a gentle, shady hollow on the northern edge of the Duncan city limits. The site itself was atypical of this section of Oklahoma, which tended to consist of rolling fields spliced with low, eroded, red-orange cliffs sparsely scattered with spindly post oak, willow and mesquite. The only significant tree growth seemed to be restricted to the areas surrounding the creeks, lakes and ponds that dotted this south central portion of the state. But Wallis Revere had found—or created—a cool, leafy vale all his own, as cool, anyway, as an Oklahoma morning in a new June could get. The radio had reported only minutes earlier that the temperature was eighty-four degrees and climbing. It would break ninety before the day was done, and soon summer would be upon them with a vengeance.
Bolton parked the car in a shady spot on the circular drive and lowered the window several inches before getting out. The place was quiet except for the rustle of leaves and the gentle chirping of unseen birds. A fat blond cat with a single ear and a patchwork of scars on one flank ambled up the brick walk with dignified unconcern. Bolton followed it to the door, feeling absurdly as if he ought to speak.
“Nice day for a stroll, isn’t it?”
The cat twitched its single ear as if in dismissal and hopped up onto the doorstep, twisting itself sinuously around the base of a big clay pot containing a small tree and a lot of drooping ivy. Bolton stepped up behind the cat and pressed the doorbell button. Almost instantly the paneled door opened and a plump, smiling Mexican woman appeared. She was wearing a simple shirtwaist dress, a pristine white apron and clunky black shoes. Her hairline was streaked with gray, but the long ponytail draped over one shoulder was black as ink. Her slender black eyebrows went up.
“Preacher?” she asked in heavily accented English.
Bolton nodded. “Reverend Charles. And you are?”
“Teresa.”
“Nice to meet you, Teresa.”
She giggled and beckoned with a plump, chapped hand for him to follow. “Mister Wallis is in the study,” she informed him, leading him across the foyer and down a long, dark hall flanking the stairwell. She opened a door and stepped aside.
Bolton gave her a truncated bow and a smile. “Thank you, Teresa.”
Wallis Revere was seated in his wheelchair before a cold fireplace. “Close the door,” he ordered summarily.
Bolton complied. So much for the niceties of polite greetings and small talk. He walked farther into the room and let his gaze take in the old man glaring up at him with piercing eyes. Revere seemed not to have changed so much as a cell. His hair, though white, was lushly thick and meticulously groomed. His long, narrow face was scored and sunken, yet somehow vital, despite the pallor of his skin, the razor thinness of his nose and the weight of bushy white brows that seemed drawn together in a permanent scowl. Perhaps that face owed its vitality to his mouth, which was wide and full-lipped. Yes, the mouth—and the eyes, which were as bright and vibrant a green as any emerald.
Bolton took in the burgundy cardigan, the soft gray shirt and the carefully knotted tie, the starched creases of charcoal slacks, coordinated argyles and black wingtips and decided that death was not yet knocking at this particular door. Relieved, he allowed himself to relax and give rein to his curiosity. “How can I help you, Wallis?”
Revere leaned back in his chair. He was a tall, thin man with big feet and hands, now gnarled and weak but still commanding. He seemed to be trying to satisfy himself on some private point, then having done so, nodded. “Sit down, Reverend. I don’t like to ask favors of anyone I have to look up to.”
Bolton tried not to show his surprise as he crossed to a comfortable leather wing chair and folded himself into it. Favors? Since when did Wallis Revere ever ask favors of anyone? Bolton folded his hands and leaned forward, indicating his willingness to listen.
Wallis Revere grimaced. “What I wouldn’t give for arms and legs that work, as they’re supposed to,” he said, then lifted his chin. “I have a job for a man, a real man, not some nambypamby afraid of his own shadow. Mind you, I don’t want a bully, but I need a man of strong character and deep conviction. I think you’re that man.”
Bolton couldn’t have contained his surprise this time if he’d tried. “Well, thank you.”
Revere lifted a gnarled hand dismissively. “I’ve met a good many ministers in my day. Some are sensitive to the point of being effeminate and so other-worldly, they’re of no use in this one. I judge you the exception, and that’s why I’ve asked you here.”
Bolton waited, sure more was to come.
Wallis Revere smiled in a smug, self-satisfied manner and got down to it. “I have an eight-year-old grandson, soon to be nine. His father got himself killed over five years ago. Pulled a damn fool stunt on a horse and got his neck broke. In all the time since, there have been just his mother and I, for all the good I am to him. He needs the company and influence of a whole man, someone strong but respectful, someone who knows his duty and doesn’t shirk it.”
Why, the old crank was looking for a surrogate father for the boy! Bolton lifted both slender, coffee black brows, torn between amusement and offense. Clearly Revere thought him man enough for the job, but Bolton suspected Revere considered him “manageable” as well. Perhaps it was time to disabuse the old boy. “I think playing dad to a boy I’ve never even met is stretching the description of my ‘duties’ pretty thin. I’m a minister, not a foster parent.”
Revere screwed up his face in an expression of impatience. “Exactly so. You’re a minister, and I am one of your flock. You won’t refuse a call for help from one of your own. I know you better than that. Besides, the boy needs you. No one’s asking you to adopt him. Just spend time with him, let him see how you handle yourself. Now, is that too much to ask?”
Bolton frowned. It was a lot to ask, but too much? Well, he supposed that depended on what he was dealing with here. Any grandson of Wallis Revere’s was bound to be a snotty little prince—unless, of course, the good Lord had seen fit to tweak old Wallis’s pride. It was just possible the boy was somehow a disappointment to the old man. Perhaps he lacked the natural arrogance of a Revere. Maybe he was too “other-worldly” for his grandfather’s tastes. And maybe it was something else altogether. Maybe the kid just needed someone to toss a ball around with him. Bolton crossed his legs and pinched the crease of his navy slacks just above the knee, thinking. Finally he looked up. “I’ll have to meet the boy before I can make a decision,” he stated evenly.
Wallis nodded and rolled his chair backward. Reaching around the end of the fireplace, he pressed a buzzer bar fastened to the wall. Half a minute later, Teresa opened the door.
“Do you want me, Mister Wallis?”
“Bring Trent in right away.”
The woman nodded and hurriedly left them. During her absence, Wallis condescended to make small talk, commenting on the weather and the state of the economy before turning the conversation back to his grandson. The boy had just finished second grade, was an exceptional reader and a whiz at math. He was learning to play the piano and roller skate. He wrestled and held the title in his league’s weight class. Revere’s pride in the boy was evident in the careless manner in which he revealed all this. Bolton didn’t know what to expect. When the door opened a second time, he sat forward, blatantly curious.
A little boy with light brown hair and his grandfather’s vibrant green eyes walked into the room. He was your average kid, dressed in bluejean shorts with neatly rolled cuffs and an oversize T-shirt bearing the logo of a professional basketball team. He wore a wristwatch and expensive high-top athletic shoes with black socks. His thick, straight, light brown hair had been cut in a modishly conservative style: very, very short in back, considerably longer on the top and sides. It showed signs of having once been parted but now fell forward in a thatch of bangs that covered one eyebrow. He was taller and bigger than average, more physically mature in some ways than any other eight-year-olds Bolton had known. Otherwise, he was just an average kid. His face was yet too round to display any significant bone structure. His fingernails were too short, as if they’d been bitten back. He had a nasty scrape just below one knee. Wallis beckoned to him.
“Come here, Trent, and meet Reverend Charles.”
The boy walked forward without hesitation and offered the reverend a noticeably grimy hand. Bolton swamped it with his own, pleasantly surprised by the strength in the boy’s grip. “How do you do, sir?”
“Very well, thank you. And you, Trent? I have the feeling we took you away from something interesting.”
The boy nodded engagingly. He was a very self-possessed sort and rather solemn. “I was checking my traps,” he revealed.
Wallis chuckled. “We’ve a skunk somewhere hereabouts, and I’ve given orders that it’s to be shot at first opportunity. Trent disagrees with my solution to the problem. He thinks he can trap the critter and make a friend of it.”
Bolton disciplined a smile. “Aside from the obvious problem,” he said, addressing Trent, “have you considered the possibility that the skunk could carry rabies?”
The boy’s chin went up a fraction of an inch. “I wasn’t going to let it bite me,” he said, very matter-of-fact.
Bolton regrouped quickly. “Of course not. I was thinking more of the other animals a rabid skunk could infect, like that old battle-scarred cat I met outside.”
“General,” the boy murmured, obviously thinking.
“I beg your pardon?”
Trent looked mildly confused for a moment. “Oh. His name is General. General Tom.”
“I like that,” Bolton said. “It suits him.”
“He’s not a very nice old cat,” Trent said. “If you pet him, he’ll hang his claws in you. But I like him anyway.”
“He kind of makes you respect him, doesn’t he?” Bolton commented.
The boy looked at him consideringly. He was forming an opinion. Bolton believed it would be a favorable one. Apparently, so did Wallis, and that was what seemed to matter to the old man. “You can get back to your traps now, Trent,” Wallis said dismissively.
His high-handedness suddenly irritated Bolton immensely. Before he could stop himself, he caught hold of the boy’s hands. “Not just yet. I’d like to ask you a few questions, Trent.”
The boy tensed but did not object. “What?”
“What are your favorite things to do?”
Trent shrugged. “Video games. Reading. Movies. Cartoons. I like to draw sometimes.”
All solitary amusements. “Who’s your very best friend?” Bolton asked.
Again the boy seemed confused. He thought a long time, then slid a wary glance toward his grandfather. “Denny Carter, I guess.” The old man scowled. Trent rushed on. “He’s older than me but not bigger, and he’s the only one who can beat me wrestling.”
“You like him, do you?” Bolton pressed.
Trent held his gaze for a long moment. “Like General Tom,” he said finally.
“You respect him, then,” Bolton mused. “And does he like you?”
Trent’s gaze wavered. He fortified it. “He likes being able to beat me.”
Bolton wondered what the answer would be if he asked Trent if he let Denny Carter beat him at wrestling. He glimpsed something unsettling behind that calm gaze, as if the boy was terrified that he would ask that very question. Bolton took pity on him and clapped his hand over his shoulder, putting on a smile of satisfaction. “Anybody would like you, Trent,” he said. “I certainly do.”
The kid’s relief was palpable, though not evident. “Thank you. It was very nice meeting you, sir.”
“It was very nice meeting you, too, Trent.” Bolton put his hand on the boy’s back, turned him toward the door and gave him a little shove. He fled with all the enthusiasm of every kid escaping the confusing presence of adults. When he was gone, Bolton looked at Revere. The old man was frowning, but he quickly smiled. Bolton doubted Wallis Revere had the least concern over his grandson’s lamentable lack of friends his own age, not that it mattered. “He’s a fine boy,” Bolton said. “I’ll like spending time with him.”
Triumph infused the old man with an almost physical power. “Wonderful. I’ll have my daughter-in-law bring him around tomorrow for a getacquainted session.”
Daughter-in-law. Trent’s mother. Bolton cocked his head. “I trust she approves of this arrangement.”
The old man dismissed that concern with a wave of his hand. “Why shouldn’t she?”
Bolton bit his tongue. High-handed was an understatement where Wallis Revere was concerned. He got to his feet, aware that his temper had been stirred and unwilling to allow it free rein. “I’m afraid I won’t be available until about four o’clock,” he said firmly. “I’ll expect them then.”
Revere nodded. “Four o’clock it is.” He extended his hand, neck craned at what seemed an uncomfortable angle.
Bolton took it, careful to keep his grip light. He knew without a doubt that he wasn’t about to hear an expression of Revere’s gratitude. That old despot didn’t know the meaning of the word. But it didn’t matter. Whatever he did, and he wasn’t at all certain now what that would be, it would be for the boy’s sake, regardless of the grandfather’s intent. He would make his decision after speaking with the boy’s mother and not before. As he saw it, the boy’s mother was the authority on the boy’s welfare and his duty was to the boy rather than the old man. That thought gave Bolton immense satisfaction, and he didn’t bother to chastise himself for enjoying it while he shook the old man’s trembling hand.
Bolton let himself out after voicing the opinion that Teresa had been bothered enough for one morning. His stomach was telling him that it was almost lunch time, and as he got into his car he decided that he would pick up a bite to eat on his way back to the church. He usually ate carry-in with Cora, but Cora was lunching with her daughter and grandchildren that day, so it would be a solitary meal, as so many of his meals were.
He paused a moment at the gates of the Revere estate, pondering this new situation. He’d been called upon in many ways over the years, but he’d never been asked to play surrogate father. It was ironic in a way. He’d expected to be enjoying the real thing by now. Yet, for some reason, God had seen fit to deny him that privilege—not that it was too late by any means. He was only thirty-seven, and he had always intended to marry again; during those final weeks before the cancer had taken her, Carol had insisted that he must. The problem was that he just hadn’t found the right woman yet. He had thought for a short time last summer that he was on the right track, but the young lady in question had developed interests in another area. He smiled as he thought about the Gilleys. How he envied Wyatt his family, twin boys and a lovely wife already big with another of Wyatt’s children. It was a good thing he also liked Wyatt Gilley immensely or their relationship could be strained.
As it was, he counted the Gilleys among his closest friends. Wyatt was a bit rough around the edges, but that was one of the things Bolton liked best about him. Wyatt was honest. He didn’t put his “Sunday face” on just because the preacher was around. In fact, Bolton doubted Wyatt even had a “Sunday face.” That made it very easy to relax around the man. Wyatt was good for him.
Maybe, if it came about, this arrangement with Trent Revere would be a good thing for him, too. He was a busy man, but he was also a lonely man in many ways. Trent was likely to liven things up a bit. What that boy needed most was somebody to play with him, somebody who would let him be a kid just for the sheer joy of it, somebody who could make him feel safe and protected and carefree. Unless Bolton’s judgment was skewed, the boy needed him. Maybe they needed each other. The kid seemed as lonely as he was. It occurred to him for the first time to wonder what Trent’s mother was like. Wallis had hardly mentioned her, and neither had Trent, though he hadn’t really had any opportunity. Bolton wondered briefly how it was that he had never met the woman. It was odd that she had never attended the services at his church. Perhaps she was of a different religious persuasion. If so, would she object to his spending time with her son? He suddenly hoped that was not the case. He liked that little boy. He was rather surprised to find how much he was looking forward to their first outing.
A light tap sounded on his office door at precisely four o’clock. Bolton put away the sermon notes he had been jotting down and rose to walk around his desk and lounge upon its corner.
“Come in.”
The door opened and a small, pretty woman walked through. Bolton came instantly to his feet, taken off guard by the delicate creature before him. Her wispy blond bangs hung in her eyes. The remainder, cropped at chin length, swirled around her head in charming disarray. Then she lifted her hands and swept the whole of it back from her face; it fell forward again in soft wings that revealed the precise, sophisticated cut. She smiled politely, the softness of her full mouth belied by the sharpness of large, tilted, moss-green eyes set deeply beneath straight, delicate brows. Her nose, though small, was finely cut. Her chin, gently pointed, gave way to the roundness of high-boned cheeks, lending her face the piquant shape of a heart. She straightened the ribbed bottom of the sleeveless, periwinkle blue knit top she wore with a matching pleated skirt. A single pearl at each earlobe was the only jewelry she wore. Bolton noticed, with interest, that she was not wearing a wedding ring.
She held out a dainty hand with manicured nails painted a soft shell pink. “Reverend Charles, I am Clarice Revere.”
“I assumed as much.” He smiled, very conscious of the way his hand literally swallowed hers. Hers was cool, almost weightless, making him very aware of the heat and heaviness of his own. He cleared his throat. “Ah, where is Trent? I thought he would be with you.”
Her smile was thin, rueful. “Yes, Wallis did intend that, but my father-in-law sometimes forgets that Trenton has a mother who does not like to shirk her responsibilities. I felt we should talk, you and I, before I decide whether or not this notion of Wallis’s is a good idea.”
Well, this was a surprise. Here was a female, small and cool and delicate, whom Wallis Revere had not succeeded in cowing despite years of undoubted effort. The lady possessed hidden strength. Bolton liked that. His grip tightened on her hand. Only then did he realize that he still held it. He let it go, forcing himself not to snatch his own hand back as if hers was a hot potato, and offered her a chair. Then, in a deliberate effort to put distance between them, he went back to his place behind the desk.
When they were both comfortably settled, he began. “What would you like to know, Mrs. Revere?”
She grimaced. “Clarice, please. In my mind, Mrs. Revere is still my late mother-in-law.”
He nodded, ridiculously pleased. “A fine woman, I understand.”
“A doormat,” she said bluntly, then grimaced again. “Forgive me. I’m afraid cynicism is a necessity in my present circumstance. Wallis is a terribly controlling man. I find I must remind myself at every turn not to knuckle under.”
“Which is what she did?” he asked gently.
Clarice Revere took a deep breath, as if immensely relieved to find that he understood. “Yes, and what I did for a long time, too.”
He templed his fingers. “I gather this visit has something to do with not ‘knuckling under’ again.”
Her smile was self-deprecating this time. “You’re a very perceptive man, Reverend.”
He bit back the temptation to offer her his given name, reminding himself that he was functioning here as a professional. “I don’t know Wallis well,” he said carefully, “but well enough.”
She laughed, the sound rich and clear and bright. “I think he was right in this instance.”
“About?”
“You,” she said. “About you being a good influence for my son.”
His pleasure at that was inordinate—and a little dangerous. Only with great effort did he manage to keep his manner one of relaxed professionalism. “Thank you. I look forward to spending time with Trent. Maybe you could give me some idea what he would like to do. His own list of favorite activities were rather solitary exercises.”
She frowned, nodding. “I am aware of that fact,” she said. Then she sighed and leaned for ward in the manner of one about to confide a personal secret. “I should explain something to you, Reverend Charles. This determination of mine not to let Wallis control our lives is fairly new. You see, when you’re lost and alone and responsible for a young child, it’s horribly easy to let someone else take care of you, and when that someone is a man like Wallis Revere, well, you find yourself being taken over completely. You start to lose yourself, and when that happens, you start to lose even the will to go on. I let that happen to myself a long time ago, but when I realized that it was happening to my son, too…” She lifted her chin. “I’m fighting him every way I know how, and I’m trying so hard to fight smart, to pick my battles and approach them from the position of greatest strength. But it isn’t easy. I have to weigh every situation carefully and be absolutely certain that if I take a position opposite Wallis that it is because it is the right thing to do. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
He stifled the very inappropriate impulse to applaud the woman! Instead, he sat forward, forearms aligned atop the blotter on his desk, and mentally tamped down the absurd elation he was feeling. “I not only understand,” he said carefully, “I also approve, for what that’s worth.”
The smile she presented him this time was brilliant. “It’s worth a great deal!” she told him. “It means I can trust you to consider my wishes over those of my father-in-law should the two conflict.”
He was a little shocked. “But that goes without saying. You are, after all, the boy’s mother.”
He thought he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes before she dropped her gaze to her lap, but when she lifted her head abruptly a moment later, she was very much in control of herself. She crossed her slender legs at the knee, tugging gently at the hem of her skirt.
“I’m a little surprised at how this has gone,” she said. “I wanted to be honest with you, and you’ve made that very easy. Now I must ask that you be honest with me.”
He sat back again, liking her more and more. “By all means.”
She sat forward, her whole posture suddenly intense. “Were you coerced into this arrangement with my son? Isn’t it an inconvenience to be saddled with someone else’s little boy? Wouldn’t you rather not go through with it?”
Bolton couldn’t help grinning. “No. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. Very much.”
She seemed pleased, very pleased. She relaxed. Her face softened, her eyes seeming to grow quite large and doelike. “Oh, how easy you make it for me. I can’t tell you how grateful I am! Trenton really does need a man’s guidance, Reverend Charles, and I couldn’t be more pleased with my father-in-law’s choice. But you mustn’t let us become a nuisance. Promise me that you won’t let us take unreasonable advantage of your time or generosity.”
Us. A happy glow spread through the reverend, at once oddly familiar and utterly foreign. He heard himself saying, “I promise, provided you’ll call me Bolton.”
She gave him that brilliant smile again. It forced him to gulp down a sudden lump in his throat.
“Of course,” she said, “and you must call me Clarice.” Then, getting to her feet, she held out her hand again. “Thank you, Bolton, for everything.”
He scrambled up and around the desk, grasping her fingertips. “Uh, about Trent…that is, your suggestions for activities of interest to…us, him…and me, that is.”
She laughed at him. It was a most companionable laugh, almost affectionate. “I’m sure you’ll do very well in that area all on your own. Why don’t we take a clue from Wallis in this instance? Why don’t I bring Trenton around for a short visit, and the two of you can decide how you want to begin. All right?”
He nodded, feeling patently ridiculous for having babbled so. “Fine. This evening perhaps? Or tomorrow morning. Whatever is most convenient.”
“We are completely at your disposal. Choose a time.”
He couldn’t think for the life of him. Finally he just snatched a time out of thin air. “Nine-thirty.”
She shook his hand. “Nine-thirty tomorrow morning it is.”
Tomorrow morning. Of course. Nine-thirty at night would hardly be the time to begin such a project. “Right,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound like the idiot he felt at the moment.
She smiled at him benignly. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Right. I mean, yes. Tomorrow, definitely.”
“At nine-thirty.”
“Ri—uh, uh-huh.” He was starting to sound like a broken record, for pity’s sake!
She gently extracted her hand from his and left, that smile upon her face.
Bolton sank down upon the corner of his desk, mind awhirl. Well. He felt as if he’d been hit between the eyes. She was not at all what he’d expected. This woman was no cipher, no colorless, defeated little wren. She was gentle, yes, and sensitive—even delicate—yet intelligence and determination had lit a bright spark of vivacity in her—and struck sparks off him. Oh, yes, sparks were flying everywhere. He laughed aloud, eager to see her again, to feel those sparks again, which he would do at nine-thirty the next morning. Suddenly he smacked himself in the forehead with the flat of his hand. Quickly he leaned across the desk and slapped the button on his intercom machine.
“Cora?”
“Yeah?”
“Do I have anything scheduled for nine-thirty tomorrow morning?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Nine-thirty tomorrow morning,” he repeated forcefully.
A lengthy silence followed, then, “Hey, Bolt, tomorrow’s Saturday.”
Saturday! He gaped, then he snapped off the machine and started to laugh. Saturday. Apparently his mind had gone out to lunch the moment Clarice Revere had walked through the door! Could it be, he wondered, that Wallis Revere, of all people, had actually introduced him, finally, to the woman his own beloved Carol had promised him existed. If so, that old saw about God working in mysterious ways had just proven a serious understatement. Why, the mind boggled. He shook his head. Wallis Revere. Miracles, apparently, did still happen.
Chapter Two (#ulink_512a059c-8af5-5b1b-82f7-f38b9830f493)
He was waiting in the outer office when they arrived, long legs crossed at the ankles as he leaned against the corner of his secretary’s desk. He looked uncommonly handsome and surprisingly at ease in loafers, crisp white jeans and a sky blue polo shirt. His short, dark hair was combed casually to one side from a straight part, and his mouth was curved upward in a welcoming smile that deserved a like response. She could not deny the urge to give it to him, and so moments later found herself standing in the middle of the floor grinning like an idiot while his dark winged brows slowly lifted. The realization brought on a fit of giggles, which she stifled with less than complete success. Trenton, solemn little man that he was, stared up at her with undisguised curiosity. The look on his face said it all: his mother never giggled. Clarice cleared her throat and schooled her expression.
“Reverend Charles,” she said decorously.
Those winged brows pulled down into a frown. “I thought we had agreed on given names.”
And so they had. Whatever was wrong with her? “Yes, of course. Well then, Bolton, I believe you’ve met my son, Trent.”
“Indeed I have.” He straightened and stepped forward, bending slightly to offer his hand to the boy. “How are you this morning, Trent?”
Obediently, Trent shook hands. “Fine, sir, thank you.”
The reverend folded his arms thoughtfully. “You have excellent manners, young man. Do you think we could dispose of them in favor of something as mundane as, say, friendship?”
The boy merely stared at the tall, dark man before him, then, ever so slowly, he turned a questioning gaze up at his mother. Clarice smiled. Why not? Heaven knew her little boy seldomly had opportunity to be just that, a little boy. Why did she think this man could teach her son how to be a child? Trent turned his attention back to the reverend, his expression as inscrutable as usual, and slowly nodded.
Bolton Charles ruffled the boy’s hair. “Okay, now, buddy, here’s the deal. When it’s just you and me or maybe you and me and your mom, I’d like you to call me Bolton. That all right with you?”
Trent screwed up one eye and chewed one corner of his mouth in his typical expression of engrossing thought. Clarice smoothed a hand through his hair, repairing the damage done earlier and fixing this moment in her mind. He was such an endearing little boy. So bright, so beautiful, so determined to be all that he was expected to be—and with such conflicting expectations! Wallis wanted a carbon copy of the son he had lost, who in turn had been meant to be a carbon copy of himself, while she wanted only for her son to discover who and what he was. She was under no illusions about Wallis’s motives in setting up this arrangement between Bolton Charles and her son. His goal, ultimately, was to remove Trenton as much as possible from her influence. What Wallis failed to consider was that by bringing in Bolton to monopolize the boy’s time, he also removed his grandson from his own influence. She dropped her hands to her son’s narrow shoulders, prompting him to answer the reverend’s question. Obediently, Trenton complied.
“I think I’ll call you Bolt,” he announced firmly.
The reverend blinked, clearly taken aback, but then a hand came out to stroke his chin and a grin slowly stretched his mouth into a broad curve. “All right, if you like.”
Trenton shrugged, unconcerned. “I do,” he said ingenuously. “It fits you.”
“Does it now?”
“Mmm-hmm. ‘Sides, I like having my own names for people,” Trent admitted.
Bolton laughed. “All right. Bolt it is. Now suppose you tell me what you prefer to be called.”
The reply was immediate. “Trent.”
“Not Trenton?” the reverend asked, glancing at Clarice.
The boy tilted his head back and sent a look of his own up at his mother. Clarice’s heart seemed to expand to fill her entire chest as she recognized the love and trust shining in her son’s eyes. But there was more. In that look was also the desire to protect, and it made her wince inwardly. How had she let this happen? What other eight-year-old bore the burden of protecting his mother? Mothers were supposed to protect their children, not vice versa. Silently she promised her son that things were going to change, and her hands tightened commensurately upon his shoulders. That seemed to satisfy something in her son, for he then swung his gaze around to the reverend.
“Trenton is the name my mother calls me,” he said. He might as well have added that she was the only one allowed to do so.
Bolton lifted his gaze to Clarice’s, but she couldn’t interpret the expression there. “Good enough,” he said quietly, and his eyes held hers a moment longer before he dropped them once more to the boy. “Well, Trent, I had in mind to toss around a baseball this morning. Want to join me?”
Clarice knew that in this instance the inscrutable look upon her son’s face meant he had misgivings that he was trying to hide.
“I don’t know if I’d like it,” he said bluntly. What he meant was that he hadn’t ever done it before.
The message, thankfully, did not escape Bolton Charles. He shrugged. “Why don’t we give it a try? If it’s not any fun, we’ll do something else.”
Trenton screwed up that eye again, then briskly nodded.
Bolton clapped him on the shoulder. “Great!” He pointed toward the door in the far wall. “There are two gloves and a ball waiting on a black chair inside my office. If you’ll get them, I’ll just have a word with your mom.”
Trent flipped his mother a look and departed. Clarice watched him go through the door then turned her attention to Bolton Charles. “You handled that well,” she said lightly.
He smiled. “I had a long talk with my secretary yesterday. She has two grandchildren. They’re younger than Trent, I’m afraid, but since she raised three children of her own, two of them sons, she was able to give me a few insights. Her best advice, I think, was to share things I enjoy with Trent.”
“And you enjoy baseball,” Clarice surmised.
“When I have the chance,” he confirmed, “which isn’t often.”
She couldn’t resist the urge to tease him. “Did you play baseball in high school, Bolt?”
He grinned at her. “And college.”
That surprised her. “Really? Then you must be pretty good.”
“Actually, I was good, past tense. I even considered, briefly, playing pro ball.”
“What happened?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
His gaze locked with hers. “Just what was supposed to happen,” he told her evenly. “I graduated college and went on to seminary.”
“Oh.” Of course. What a foolish question. She felt heat rising in her cheeks.
He laughed easily. “Why is it that people seem to think the ministry is foisted on hapless fellows with no particular talent for anything else?”
“I don’t know,” she said, not quite able to meet his gaze again. “Maybe because it seems such a difficult, thankless job.”
“But it isn’t,” he protested. “You don’t see the bank president being asked to toss a ball around with a kid, do you?”
She smiled. “No, I guess not.”
Trent reappeared then with the gloves and ball, which he carried over to Bolton. Bolton picked one much the worse for wear and wiggled his hand into it. He then beamed a bright, happy smile at Clarice. “I rest my case.”
She laughed outright. “You’ve really taken your secretary’s advice to heart, haven’t you?”
“Absolutely. Now, if you’ll excuse us, this glove is begging to be used.”
He held it up to Trent’s ear as if the boy could really hear it beg. Trent giggled, something so completely out of character for him that Clarice felt a shock of guilt, followed swiftly by a welling of gratitude for this good-looking minister. She wondered if he knew how grateful she was. His smile seemed to say that he understood completely, but suddenly it was she who understood. This was what he meant. This was why the ministry for him could never be just a thankless job. This was what it was all about for him. Such goodness and generosity were awesome and therefore a little frightening—and even a little defeating somehow. She felt suddenly diminished, as if she could not measure up to such a standard of goodness.
“I—I have some errands to do,” she mumbled, turning away.
“Fine,” he said. “Why don’t you meet us back here in a couple of hours? Then, if you have no other plans, maybe we could all go to lunch together?”
That unexpected invitation sent her gaze zipping back around to his, but his expression was bland, almost impersonal. Obviously he was just being nice. He was a nice man, after all. He was a minister, for pity’s sake. She felt a stab of disappointment. “We’ll see,” she said softly.
He didn’t reply to that, and she hurried away, scolding herself for such perverse emotions. Bolton Charles was a fine man, the sort to help anyone he could. Why should she resent his kindness toward her, especially as she was so willing to accept his kindness toward her son? She pushed the disturbing thoughts away, and knew herself for a coward. She simply could not go on refusing to think about the complications that popped up. Somehow she had to take back control of her own life and her son’s, and she couldn’t do it by continually sticking her head in the sand. She’d had enough of that.
So then, what was she to do? Admit you’re attracted to that man, for starters, she told herself. But realize that his attentions to you are part and parcel of his ministry as he sees it—and nothing more. But she had to do more than realize that fact; she had also to accept it, weigh her own choices, and decide how to respond to the reverend. Resolutely, she turned the matter over and over in her mind while she went about picking up the clothes from the cleaner, dropping off the vacuum to be repaired and having her hair trimmed.
By the time she returned to meet her son, she had had plenty of good, sober reflection, all done at a distance, and she welcomed the chance to relate to Bolton Charles strictly as a minister. The problem was that the windblown, panting fellow who jogged up to her car and greeted her was very much a man.
His knit polo shirt clung to his body damply, revealing a flat middle, well-developed chest and broad, muscular shoulders. His dark hair had fallen forward in thick, gleaming waves, and he tucked his baseball mitt beneath one arm as he freed his hand and pushed his hair back off his forehead. His smile was immediate, welcoming and infectious. Trenton was right behind him and panting just as hard. Apparently they’d had a real workout with the ball gripped in Bolton’s right hand.
Bolton laughed as the boy skidded to a halt and collapsed at the edge of the grass. “I think we may have gotten a little carried away,” he said to Clarice. “He’s got such a strong arm, I forget he’s a boy.” He looked back at Trenton as he said that last, and the boy beamed. Suddenly Bolton flicked his wrist, and the ball popped up out of his hand. With a grunt, Trenton threw himself backward, his arm flying out, and the ball plopped down into his glove as smoothly as if he’d been ready and waiting. “All right!” Bolton laughed and gave him a thumbs-up before turning back to Clarice. “Kid’s got great reflexes, too, and he throws really well on the move. I think you’ve got a fine, all-around athlete here and you ought to be getting him into Little League sports.”
“Well, he does wrestle,” she said a bit defensively, and instantly regretted her tone.
He seemed not to notice. “Yes, I know, and he’s been very successful at it. I think he can be just as successful at almost any other sport—baseball certainly, football, probably soccer. Basketball, I don’t know. Not my game. Anyway, I’ll look into it and find out what’s available, if you want.”
For some reason the very idea sent her into a kind of panic. “Ah, no. I mean, we don’t want to be a bother, that is, more of a bother.”
He flashed her a totally disarming smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m having a ball.”
At that, Trenton quipped, “A baseball!” and let fly a high, wide zinger.
Bolton lurched into action, sprinting across the parking lot to snatch the ball out of the air—barehanded. His glove lay on the asphalt at Clarice’s feet, where it had fallen when he’d darted after the ball. Clarice didn’t know which was more unbelievable, the satisfied look on Bolton’s face when that ball smacked into his bare hands or the force with which her own small son had hurled it heavenward. She was so caught up in those two interconnected mysteries that she at first did not register Trenton’s howl of remorse when that ball connected loudly with Bolton’s hands. Only when the boy hurtled past her, catapulting himself at Bolton, did she realize anything was wrong.
“I’m sorry!” he cried. “I’m sorry! Your hands!”
Bolton’s expression instantly sobered. He went down on his knees, pulling the boy into his arms. “Hey, pal, what’s this? You didn’t hurt me.”
But even Clarice could see that her son’s eyes were big and filled with horror. She threw off her shock and started forward, instinctively squelching the desire to run.
Bolton rolled the ball up onto his fingertips and showed it to Trent. “I’m fine,” he was saying. “Besides, it wasn’t your fault. Nobody made me go after that ball. I knew what I was doing, and I wouldn’t have gone after it if I hadn’t thought I could catch it safely. Here, I’ll show you.” He pushed the ball into Trenton’s trembling hand and turned his own palm up, his other arm wrapped snugly around the boy’s waist. He wiggled his fingers. “See. Right as rain.”
In his relief, Trenton slumped against Bolton’s shoulder, and Clarice’s heart turned over as Bolton gave him a comforting hug. Her steps slowed, and she came to a halt. Bolton obviously had the situation under control, but it was more than that. Suddenly she felt like an interloper. Oddly, Bolton seemed to sense her feelings for he looked up then and smiled at her. His smile had the same comforting aura about it as that hug. She swallowed down a lump that had risen unexpectedly in her throat. Bolton shifted his arm to support the boy, then got to his feet and pushed up to a standing position, lifting the boy with him as easily as if he weighed no more than the ball. He walked toward her, carrying the boy against his shoulder. Trenton’s arms were around his neck, and Bolton spoke softly to him as they drew nearer. Trenton nodded and lifted his head, bestowing a smile upon his mother.
“We’re ready for lunch, Mom,” Bolton announced, “and we want hamburgers.”
“And fries!” Trenton added happily.
Clarice gulped. “A-all right.”
Bolton pushed on toward the car. It was a sleek, two-door white convertible with a candy-applered interior, her one attempt at recapturing a carefree youth she’d never actually had. After the impulsive purchase of it, the car had served merely to embarrass her on occasion. She bit her lip, wondering what the good reverend would think of it, and fell in beside him as he strode toward it.
“Uh, you might want to take your own car,” she said, but he shook his head.
“Nope. You can drive. I’m tired.”
“Oh. Fine.” She couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t look tired. He looked like he could carry Trenton downtown and back without breaking into a sweat.
He went around to the passenger side, opened the door, pulled the seat forward and gave Trenton a little shove into the back, claiming the front seat for himself. He slid down into place and buckled himself in. Clarice got in and did likewise, then adjusted the steering wheel to her liking and started the engine.
“I imagine you’d like the air conditioner turned on,” she said.
He lifted his arm around the back of her seat and grinned. “Actually, I’d rather put the top down.”
“Yeah, Mom, put the top down,” Trent echoed.
He liked to ride with the top down, but she usually felt, well, silly. She opened her mouth to say that she’d just come from the beauty shop and didn’t want her hair blown around, when Bolton leaned over and crooned plaintively into her ear, “Come on, Mom, a little wind and sun never hurt anybody.” She closed her mouth and reached up to release the catches that anchored the top to the windshield, then depressed the button that automatically lowered the top. Trenton cheered, Bolton grinned and she felt her own mouth curving into a smile.
“Okay, guys, where do you want to go for those burgers?”
Trenton made a suggestion, but Bolton immediately countered it, reminding the boy that another place had a playground. “Oh, yeah,” Trenton said, as if he’d never considered that particular benefit before. Clarice felt a pang of guilt. She had never considered it before, either. What was wrong with her? No wonder her son didn’t know how to be a child! She put the car in gear and headed toward the fast-food place with the playground.
They couldn’t go very fast in town, of course, especially with all the stop signs and lights between the church and the Bypass. Nevertheless, the wind felt wonderful on her face and in her hair. Her passengers seemed to enjoy it, too, judging by their laughter and smiles. She made a right hand turn onto the highway 81 bypass, and the pace slowed further. The whole county seemed to have come into town that day.
Bolton shook his head. “Traffic’s as bad here as in a big city, don’t you think?”
Clarice shrugged and glanced into her rearview mirror. “I wouldn’t know, frankly. The last time I was in a big city was, oh, six or seven years ago. It was the first time we’d left Trenton overnight. His father had business in Tulsa, and I went with him. My mother-in-law was alive then, and she looked after Trent. He was still in diapers.” She saw from the corner of her eye that Bolton gave her a speculative look, but he said nothing, and she couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. She dismissed the matter and concentrated on her driving.
Eventually they reached the fast-food place Bolton had suggested. Clarice parked the car and turned the mirror down to see what damage the wind had done to her hair. “You two go on in,” she said. “I’ll be along in a minute.” But nobody moved. She stopped combing her fingers through her hair and looked around. Bolton was looking at her, and Trenton was looking at Bolton. She couldn’t read either expression. “What?” she asked, her gaze working back and forth between them.
Bolton lifted a shoulder. “Nothing. We just prefer to wait. It can’t take long. You already look great.”
Her mouth fell open. He thought she looked great? The very idea did odd things to her stomach, and she shifted a nervous look over her shoulder at her son. Trenton was looking at his lap, a knowing little smile twisting his lips. She didn’t even want to think about the implications of that. What she wanted to do, in fact, was run. She slapped the mirror back into place and fumbled for the door handle. “Uh, I—I’m ready!”
She hopped out of the car and practically ran for the restaurant, the heels of her oh-so-sensible pumps clacking on the pavement. Bolton and Trenton caught up with and passed her. When she got there, Bolton was holding the door open for her and Trenton’s face was solemn to the point of silliness. She marched past them and breezed into the restaurant, her cheeks burning red. What was wrong with her?
She got in line at the registers and composed herself, pulling deep, silent breaths to still the wild thumping of her heart. His was not the first compliment she’d ever received for pity’s sake. Besides, he hadn’t really meant anything by it. He’d just wanted to hurry her because he was a gentleman and didn’t want to leave her alone in the car. And Trenton? He was confused. Yes, that was it. Trenton was confused and…She was the one confused. That was the whole problem, and what a pathetic statement it was about the condition of her mind, not to mention her nonexistent love life. Good grief, she was feeling attracted to a minister!
When the minister eased into line behind her and laid a companionable hand on her shoulder, she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Hey, hold on there,” he said quietly. “Nobody’s going to bite you.”
“I—I know that! You just startled me.”
“I wanted to tell you that lunch is on me.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“I insist.”
“No, really—”
His hands clamped down on her shoulders. “Clarice,” he said silkily into her ear, “shut up and go find us a table.”
He left no doubt that he meant business, and she was only too glad to get away. She started off swiftly, but he reached out and grabbed her hand, turning her back.
“I forgot to ask what you want to eat.”
She pulled her hand free, flipping it through the air. “A, oh…” She looked helplessly at the menu, without really seeing anything, and said, “Salad! Salad will do nicely. And, ah, tea, ice tea.” She exhaled with relief, turned and got the heck out of there. She didn’t see the troubled look that followed her or the speculative one her son directed up at Bolton Charles.
By the time they came with the food trays, Clarice had once more talked herself into a calm state of mind. And once more it vanished the moment Bolton smiled at her. Seemingly oblivious to the panic he incited in her, he placed her tea and salad in front of her, laid down a napkin and a fork and slid into the seat next to Trent. They divided up the remainder of food and drinks on the tray. Clarice watched, feeling ridiculous and neglectful as Bolton tucked a napkin into her son’s lap. Trenton dug in with obvious relish, and to her consternation Bolton leaned forward.
“Something wrong with your salad?”
“What? Oh. No, nothing.” She picked up her fork and poked at the shredded lettuce.
“Trent said you didn’t care for salad dressing, but maybe you’d like some extra lemon or something.”
“Lemon?”
He captured her gaze with his and held it. “Some people prefer to eat their salads with lemon juice as opposed to eating it dry,” he said as if speaking to a child. “Would you like me to get you some lemon?”
She shook her head, dropped her eyes to her lunch, and managed to say, “No, thank you.”
After that, she concentrated on eating, forking the lettuce and occasional sliver of carrot into her mouth, chewing, and swallowing. The single wedge of tomato required special concentration as she ground it into pulpy pieces with the side of her fork and intently chewed each one. Just as she’d worked her way through her own small lunch, Trenton announced that he was ready to go out to the playground. Bolton got up and let him out of the booth, then sat back down again. Clarice lurched to her feet, intent on escaping with her son, but Bolton’s hand shot out and prevented her.
“He’ll be all right,” he said gently. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
She looked longingly after her son. “The sign says they’re supposed to have adult supervision.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “There are plenty of adults out there. Sit down.”
Deprived of her excuse, she slowly sank back onto the bench seat. Bolton popped a few fries into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I’ve been wanting to ask why I haven’t ever seen you at church. Do you attend elsewhere?”
Church. She almost slumped with relief. Church was certainly a nice, safe subject to discuss with a minister. She made herself smile. “No, we don’t attend elsewhere. It’s Wallis. He doesn’t like to go out now that he’s confined to the wheelchair, so we sort of hold our own service on Sunday mornings. Wallis chooses a passage from the Bible, and I read it aloud and answer any questions Trenton may have about it.”
“He has quite a few questions, does he?”
“More and more as he gets older.”
“Don’t you think he might benefit from an organized Bible study, then?”
“Yes, I’m sure he would.”
“Good. Now what about you?”
She blinked at him. “Me?”
He laid his hands flat against the tabletop. They were large hands with wide palms and long, gracefully tapered fingers with healthy, oval nails. “We have a Bible class at the church for women your age. It’s a friendly bunch. I’m sure you’d like them.”
“I—I’m sure I would.”
“You wouldn’t have to stop Wallis’s private services,” he pointed out. “You could always do both.”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to speak to Wallis.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I was under the impression that you were taking charge of your own life.”
“I am.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem, and I don’t want to cause any.”
He looked down, pressed his napkin to his mouth and wadded it up. “If you don’t want to come, just say so.”
“It’s not that!”
He pinned her with dark, intense eyes. “Then what is it?”
She couldn’t even breathe, let alone formulate a coherent answer. She just sat there with her mouth open, like a fish out of water. To her utter confusion, he smiled and changed the subject.
“I like your hair. You got a good cut. Mine always take two or three weeks to look like it’s supposed to.”
“Maybe you need to change barbers,” she managed to mumble, flattered but shaken that he’d even noticed.
He laughed. “And insult a faithful member of my congregation?”
She grimaced. “That is awkward.”
He shrugged. “Comes with the territory. There are worse things than a bad haircut.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she didn’t say anything at all. Instead, she watched Trenton out the window. He was crawling across a rope bridge strung between two barrels suspended no more than three feet off the ground. Two other boys were running around with toy guns pretending to shoot each other. Trenton stopped to watch them, and they shot right through him, ignoring him as if he wasn’t there. Even at a distance, she could not miss the longing look in her son’s eyes. She bit her lip. Oh, why had she let this happen? She wanted to cry. Bolton noticed and looked over his shoulder. He sized up the situation in a moment, and when he turned back to her, he reached for her hand.
“He’s going to be all right,” he said, turning her hand over in his. “He’s a great kid, Clarice. A super kid. Bright, sensitive, caring. He just needs a little practice with kids his own age. That’s another reason I want to see you get him involved in Little League, and it wouldn’t hurt if he attended Bible study on Sunday mornings, either. I’ll pave the way for him, if you’ll let me.”
The last was as much a question as a statement. She made an instant decision, telling herself that it had nothing to do with the way that heat was spreading up her arm. “Yes, please.”
He smiled and gripped her hand tighter. “I’ll call his Sunday school teacher and tell her to expect him. She’ll introduce him to the other kids and make sure he gets involved in a group activity. I’ll also see what I can find out about Little League sports in this area. It may be too late to get him on a baseball team for this season, and it’s definitely too early for football, but there is bound to be something gearing up. What about swimming lessons? Has Trent been taught to swim?”
She nodded. “I insisted. We have a pool.”
“Let me guess. Private lessons.”
She winced. “How did you know?”
“Would Wallis Revere send his only grandson down to the public pool?”
“No, but I should have insisted he do so.” She sighed and dropped her gaze, carefully extracting her hand from his. That was when she saw the bruise. “Bolton!” He attempted to close his hand, but she grabbed his wrist and pried his fingers down. The center of his palm—his left palm, not the right, which was the one he’d shown Trenton—was a purplish red.
“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed.
“I hardly think it’s worth bothering Him about,” he quipped, gently indicating his disapproval of her choice of words.
“I’m sorry, but you’re hurt!”
“It’s just a bruise.”
“Your hand could be broken! Of all the idiotic—”
“It’s not broken,” he said, suddenly gripping her fingers to make his point. “See? It doesn’t even hurt. And I don’t want Trent thinking it’s his fault. That wasn’t the first time I’ve pulled that particularly stupid stunt. I knew better, and I did it anyway, but if he sees or hears of this bruise he’ll blame himself, so not another word, you hear me?”
She nodded, so profoundly sorry and yet grateful at the same time that tears gathered in her eyes. Bolton laughed and gently smoothed his thumbs over her cheekbones.
“Well, now I know who he gets the guilts from,” he said teasingly, then he added in a soft voice, “as well as his good looks.”
Her mouth fell open again. He shook his head and chucked her under the chin. She snapped it shut just as Trenton ran up to the table. Bolton made the transition as smoothly as buttering bread. “Ready to go?” he asked the boy.
Trent nodded, and Bolton piled their refuse on the tray. Trent went to dump it in the trash can, and Bolton turned to follow, but Clarice grabbed his arm before he could get away.
“Thank you,” she said, “for lunch and…” She couldn’t think how to finish the sentence without embarrassing herself.
He smiled and waved her in front of him. “You’re welcome.” With that, he ushered her out after her son.
Chapter Three (#ulink_fe99e6ae-a72d-53c6-97b9-44e95b56a87f)
“What’s the matter, pal? Want to talk about it?”
Trent hunched one shoulder in reply, then shook his head. “Nothing.”
Like mother, like son, Bolton thought, gazing up through the dark green tree leaves overhead. He wondered if she knew just how much like her Trenton was. He smoothed his hand over the boy’s nape and waited. Finally Trent looked up.
“Did you know my dad?”
Bolton leaned forward on the hard bench, elbows on knees. “No. Why do you ask?” He got that shrug again.
“I just wondered. I thought maybe if you knew him, then that’s how you’d know what I like and…maybe that’s why I like you so much. I mean, maybe I remembered you from before, only I don’t know it. Kinda stupid, huh?”
“It’s not stupid at all,” Bolton told him. “Good friends, even if they’re new friends, often feel as if they’ve known each other all their lives.”
“But what makes it that way?”
Bolton clasped his hands together. “I’m not sure I know. Maybe it’s what they have in common.”
Trenton screwed up his face. “What’s that mean?”
Bolton sighed inwardly. He wasn’t doing a very good job at this. He spread his hands and tried again. “Well, let’s take us for instance. We both like sports, so that’s something we have in common.”
Trent’s face lit up. “Oh! And hamburgers and fries.”
“What?”
“We both like burgers and fries!” he said excitedly.
Bolton grinned. “Right. That’s something else we have in common.”
“And chocolate milk shakes!” Trent went on excitedly. “And driving with the top down, and blue! Our favorite color is blue! Oh, and General! Don’t forget General.”
Bolton laughed from sheer pleasure. “Now how could I forget that scraggly old tomcat? You know what else? There’s that red wagon you’ve got, too.”
“Yeah! You had one when you were a boy!”
“I sure did. But it’s even more than all that, Trent. You and I, we think alike, even feel alike in lots of ways.”
Now the boy seemed genuinely intrigued. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve noticed a few things about you that remind me of myself when I was your age. For example, you’re a little shy around new people. You don’t always know what to say or do to make them like you. You haven’t learned yet that the thing to do is just to be yourself. I was exactly the same way when I was eight.”
“You were?” Trent’s eyes were big and round, and his voice was imbued with awe.
Bolton chuckled. “Yes, I was, and the next time you feel like swallowing your tongue, I want you to remember it.”
Trent’s mouth was hanging open. “That’s just how it is! You’re so afraid you’re gonna say something dumb, you practically choke!”
“It gets better,” Bolton promised him, “and the more you just try to be yourself, the quicker it happens. Remember that, okay?”
The boy nodded solemnly. “I’ll remember.”
Bolton clapped his shoulder affectionately, then glanced at his watch. “Mmm, time we headed back, I guess.”
They got up and ambled across the grass toward the car. Bolton noticed wryly that when he hooked his thumbs in his hip pockets, Trent did the same. He wondered if the other people in the park would assume they were father and son. Trent craned his head back to look up at him.
“Hey, Bolt?”
“Hmm?” That nickname still made him want to snicker, but he did his best not to let Trent know that.
“Do you think you would’ve liked my dad?”
What a question. Would he have liked Wallis Revere’s only son, the son Wallis had been determined to mold into a likeness of himself? He cleared his throat. “I would have if he was anything like you.”
“That’s what I thought,” Trent said. “Grandpa says I am like him.”
“Oh?” Somehow Bolton had his doubts, but he kept them to himself.
“Yeah,” Trent went on, “and you’d have other things in collman.”
“Common,” Bolton corrected lightly.
“Common,” Trent repeated. “Like my mom.”
Bolton stopped and looked down at the boy. “I’m not sure I follow that.”
Trent narrowed his eyes. “Well, you like her, don’t you?”
Bolton considered an evasion, then thought better of it. “Yes,” he finally said, “very much.”
“Well, he liked her, too, didn’t he? I mean, they got married and all.”
“I see your point,” Bolton muttered, starting the trek toward the car again. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next, and he wasn’t wrong.
“Do you like her that much?”
He took it in stride. “Enough to marry her, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know, Trent. I haven’t had much opportunity to find out. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s avoiding me.”
“Yeah. Why is she?”
“I don’t know, pal. Maybe she just doesn’t like me as much as I like her.”
“Aw, that’s not it,” Trent insisted. “You know what it is? I think you just make her shy.”
Bolton smiled. “You could be right about that. What do you think I ought to do about it?”
“I don’t know. Whatever my father did, I guess.”
Bolton let his hand fall upon the boy’s shoulder. “Now that, my friend, is good advice.”
They walked on in silence for a few moments, then Trent asked, “Do you say good advice, Bolt?”
“Sometimes I do.”
“Well, that’s something else we got in common, huh?”
Bolton laughed and put his hand in his pocket for his keys. “And that’s not the end of it, I’m sure.”
Trent nodded, serious as a judge. “That’s what I figure, too.”
Bolton wanted to hug him, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he unlocked the car door and opened it for him. Trent scrambled in and went to work on the seat belt. He liked to do it for himself even though it was a particularly difficult restraint system, so Bolton resisted the urge to help him. He had the car started before the belt was secured, but at last the buckle clicked into place, and Bolton put the car in gear.
Trent was quiet on the ride across town, and he’d given Bolton plenty to think about, so conversation was kept to a minimum. Bolton could feel the boy worrying something around in his head, though, so he wasn’t surprised when, just as they turned into the Revere estate drive, he piped up again.
“Bolt,” he said gravely, “I don’t remember my dad.”
Apparently it was some kind of momentous confession, so Bolton considered carefully before he replied. He brought the car around in front of the house and parked, then turned to face the boy. “I know what you mean, Trent. Forgetting is a pretty normal reaction to death. My wife died a couple of years ago, and sometimes I get sort of sad because I can’t remember some little thing about her, like what size shoe she wore or if she liked a certain movie.”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember my dad at all,” Trent said, “and Grandpa keeps saying how I shouldn’t ever forget him. It makes me feel bad.”
“Well, you shouldn’t feel bad, Trent. You were only—what?—three when he died? No one could reasonably expect you to remember him. What your grandfather really wants is for you to remember who your father was and that he loved you and that he would love you today, too, if he could.”
“You really think so?”
“I do.”
The boy seemed to digest that, but those eyes were just slits and his bottom lip was well chewed when he looked up again. “You think my dad would mind that I like you so much?” he asked softly.
They had arrived, at last, at the very heart of the problem. Bolton put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Maybe, if he was here. Dads like to be their sons’ best friends, you know. On the other hand, I think that if he’d have known he wasn’t going to be here with you, he’d have wanted you to have a friend like me. I know this for certain, Trent. You shouldn’t feel disloyal to your father’s memory just because you like me.” And neither should your mother, he added mentally.
Trenton nodded his understanding, and those green, green eyes were wide open now. A movement at the edge of his vision caught Bolton’s attention, and he turned his head in that direction. The door was open, and Clarice stood framed in it.
“Time to go in,” he said.
They got out of the car and walked side by side to the door.
“I thought I heard someone out here,” Clarice said brightly. She bent to drop a kiss on the top of her son’s head. “Have a good time?”
“Sure.”
“Great. Well, thank you, Bolton. We don’t want to keep you.”
He ignored that obvious invitation to leave and rubbed a circle on Trent’s back. “Why don’t you go on in now, pal? I want to talk to your mom.”
“Okay. See ya’, Bolt.”
“Friday, three-thirty,” Bolton confirmed.
With a nod, Trent went inside and closed the door. That was one smart kid. Bolton put a foot up on the doorstep and looked down at Clarice. She was drawn up tight as a bow string. He smiled.
“Your son and I had an interesting conversation today.”
“Oh?”
“Mmm-hmm. Among other things, we talked about his father.”
That had her slack-jawed. “You’re kidding! Trenton never talks about his father.”
“He did today.”
“But why with you? Why not with me?”
Bolton pursed his lips. “Maybe he sensed I wouldn’t be upset by his choice of topic.”
“And I would,” she said bitterly, taking the thought to its logical conclusion. “I have made so many mistakes with that child.”
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