Читать книгу A Wife Worth Waiting For - Arlene James, Arlene James - Страница 8

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.