Читать книгу A Wife Worth Waiting For - Arlene James, Arlene James - Страница 7

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.