Читать книгу A New Life - Dana Corbit - Страница 10

A digital bedside clock and a distant street lamp offered the only illumination as Tricia collapsed, fully clothed, onto her bed an hour later, the bed-and-bath routine behind her. From the way her body ached, she would have guessed it was past midnight, but the red clock numbers confirmed it was only nine-thirty. As shadow and light slow-danced along the wall in the shape of maple tree branches, she wondered how long it had been since she’d slept. Truly slept. Days had become months and then metamorphosed into years when she wasn’t watching.

She couldn’t shake the image of Rusty, Jr., who had radiated tension as she’d helped him out of the shower and into his pajamas. His misplaced fury was transferred to everything around him, from the comb that wouldn’t go through his hair to the stuffed dog that landed on the floor next to his bed. He had every right to his anger, for all he’d lost. She understood it, felt it down to her soul.

Nervous tension had her scooting across the bed to flip on the lamp, letting the warm yellow light bathe what had become her favorite room. Here she could be alone with her memories of Rusty, warm thoughts of his arms around her and private thoughts of the sweet intimacies of their marriage.

Reaching for her wedding band on the table and slipping it on, she surveyed the room. In the far corner, she could still see Max’s cradle where it once had rested. A smile settled on her lips as she envisioned her family’s first day in the house, her belly still swollen with the promise of their youngest child. Rusty and she had tumbled together on the bed that night, too exhausted from moving furniture to even love each other in the bungalow they’d struggled to finally afford.

She’d felt so safe then—and always—in his arms. The way she never did now. The way she never would again.

Memories of her husband flashed in her thoughts, in brilliant color this time when they’d become more like a sepia photograph lately, in danger of crumbling. But why were the memories coming tonight, when she needed rest to prepare her for the ordeal of going to church?

The Sunday tradition of attending services as a family was once the highlight of her week, even if they were continually late, and someone was always whispering or making paper airplanes with the bulletins. They were together then, worshiping God. The way it should be. Now every time she sat listening to one of Reverend Bob Woods’s sermons, something seemed missing. Not her belief. She’d never lost that. Without her faith, she never would have survived the last two years. But hope—there just wasn’t enough of that in her heart anymore.

Though she’d regret it in the morning, she let her thoughts travel, through picnics, birthday parties and quiet moments. To Rusty’s contagious smile.

But then another smile stole into her thoughts, so surprising that she flipped over and sat up in bed. Brett Lancaster? The man was a stranger. A stranger who had no business being in her thoughts—or in this room where Rusty’s memory still thrived.

Agitation had her wrapping her arms around her knees. She didn’t want to remember the disaster their would-be date had been. But maybe God had chosen now to convict her heart over her deception in breaking the date.

Why hadn’t she just gone out with Brett and gotten the whole annoying business over with? As adroit as she’d become at avoiding second dates, she already would have said goodbye to Mr. Lancaster and would be free until her next friend insisted on setting her up. Instead, guilt had forced her to reschedule.

Shaking her head, Tricia couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Brett’s mini bowling clinic. At the way his eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed with Lani. But it was the memory of those same chocolate eyes focusing on her and widening with some indefinable emotion that made her as uncomfortable as it had at the bowling alley.

Suddenly, this rescheduled date felt like a huge mistake. What if Brett had the wrong idea about her, that she actually was open to a relationship? That couldn’t have been further from the truth. He needed to understand that her heart was still committed to her husband.

Who are you trying to convince? She shook away the question and her uncomfortable guilt as she rushed over to the his-and-hers closets and opened one of the doors. On the side that was still his, the closet rod was empty except for a royal-blue jacket bearing the words “R and J Construction” and a sport coat. A lonely Detroit Lions football cap rested on the shelf.

Tricia grabbed the sport coat, Rusty’s only dress jacket aside from the gray suit she’d buried him in, and pressed her face to the collar, inhaling his scent. Her nose burned. The room blurred. Drawing in the smell so deeply that her lungs ached, she held her breath until the survival instinct insisted she gasp. If only she could hold him there, deep inside of her. Her breath hitched as she realized his scent had already begun to fade. How long would it be until she couldn’t smell him anymore, and she had nothing left of him?

So exhausted. For the first time in months, the effort of coping crushed her with its weight. The brave smile and strong words—parts of a facade that said she and the children were fine—crumbled around her. She wasn’t fine. Rusty, Jr. certainly wasn’t fine. His surliness grew more apparent every day, and he was beginning to act out. Lani seemed to curl deeper into herself each week and into her Little House books, where Ma and Pa always came home to Mary, Laura and Carrie. Only Max seemed oblivious, for he would never remember what he’d lost.

As the first tears in weeks came hot and furious, Tricia laid the sport coat aside, clasping the blue jacket and wrapping it around herself. She dropped back on the bed and drew her knees up to her chest, pulling the jacket tight beneath her chin. Again, she breathed Rusty’s scent and fell into a troubled sleep, claiming the only warmth the love of her life could still bring her.

The organist at Hickory Ridge Community Church was still playing the postlude Sunday morning when Charity McKinley hurried up the side aisle, trying to catch Tricia before she could get out the door. Even sitting right near the back hadn’t helped Tricia escape this time. She wondered if anyone would notice if she made a fast break for her station wagon.

“So tell me,” Charity said as soon as she’d given her friend a quick hug.

Tricia glanced down quickly at the children, worried that Rusty, Jr. might repeat some of the last evening’s antics if they mentioned Brett Lancaster.

“Mom, can we go talk to Reverend Bob and Mr. Westin?” Lani indicated with her head toward the minister and youth minister shaking hands with members in the vestibule.

Tricia didn’t have any illusions her daughter wanted to have a heart-to-heart with grown-ups, but she nodded anyway. As expected, her children ran out to join Reverend Bob’s granddaughter and Andrew Westin’s children, who were giggling and banging hangers in the coatrack together. Discordant clanging and chatting voices filled the void as the organist stopped playing.

“How’d it go?” Charity pressed again. “What did you think of Brett? We’re expecting a full report.”

Charity’s husband, Rick, stepped up and caught the tail end of her comment. “No, we’re not. Only one of us is being too nosy for her own good.” He dropped a kiss on Tricia’s cheek. “I hope you had a good time, but don’t let her bully you into telling us about it.”

“Well, I never,” Charity said with an impatient toe tap and a petulant expression that crumbled into a chuckle.

Her husband shook his head and rolled his eyes but gathered his spirited wife into his arms and kissed the top of her golden head. Tricia was still amazed by the transformation Charity had undergone when, first, she’d met Rick and, more importantly, she’d met the Lord close up. Even now the couple were still acting like newlyweds after more than two years. Charity gazed up lovingly at her husband before turning back to Tricia.

“Don’t listen to him. He hates it when I set people up. He thinks I’m bad at it.”

“Especially when you set up a friend with some guy somebody tried to set you up with a few years back.”

“Jealous?” Charity gave him a sidelong glance. “Ignore him. I never went out with Brett. It’s just that Jenny is dying for her brother to meet someone nice.”

At the look of constrained curiosity, Tricia took pity on her matchmaker. “Sorry, there’s not much to say. I met him, but we didn’t go out yet. We had to reschedule.”

Brett probably wouldn’t have told the same story, but Tricia had given the gist of it. And no matter how uncomfortable it would be to go out after their embarrassing meeting, she’d resigned herself to going through with it. She owed him that much.

“Oh, that’s too bad. When are you going? Have you decided what the two of you are going to do? Do you need us to watch the kids?”

Peppered by Charity’s questions, Tricia felt a direct hit from the last one, which probably would have required her to tell the rest of the story about the date that didn’t happen. “No,” she answered too quickly. “I mean…I already asked Hannah.”

Charity’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to say something else, but Rick put his arm around her again. “Remember, sweetheart, matchmaking doesn’t give you rights to all the details.” He pressed his wife against his shoulder and turned to Tricia, his expression serious. “You’re probably not into this stuff, anyway.”

Once again, Rick had come to her rescue, the same way he’d been doing since Rusty died—both emotionally and financially. As much as she hated continuing to rely on him when she should have stood firmly on her own two size seven-and-a-half narrows, she appreciated the support. Losing Rusty had devastated them both. And Rick was probably no more prepared to watch her date other men than she was to begin a social life. His loyalty to his best friend’s memory was still too strong.

“It’s okay,” she said when Rick seemed to expect Tricia to agree with his assumption about her reluctance to begin dating. “We haven’t made firm plans yet.”

Charity nodded. Tricia waved as the couple moved past her toward the exit. Finally, she let go of the breath she’d been holding. Didn’t anyone understand that she was happy? Maybe not ecstatic, but she was content. How many people could say that? She had a nice home, a good church family, three beautiful children and a good start on a self-supportive future. It was enough for her. She just wished it was enough for all of her friends.

Brett took a deep, calming breath as he shuffled up the walk to the tiny white house, more nervous than he’d ever been for a date. A dozen times in the last six days, he’d considered canceling, worried that he was way out of his league dating a widowed mom. He’d even phoned Tuesday to call it off, but at the first sound of her voice, and the corresponding shiver in his spine, he’d heard himself firming up plans for their Friday date instead. Later, he’d scrambled to make sure his dad hadn’t offered the tickets to someone else.

As he reached the front door, it flew open and a barefoot Max zipped out onto the porch. Then the boy stopped himself and extended his hand, as if he’d been carefully coached. “Hi, Mr. Brett.”

“How ya doing, Max?” Brett gripped his hand. “Isn’t the cement cold?”

“It’s April now. That’s almost summer. When it’s sunny, we’ll go swimming.”

He returned the boy’s grin but doubted his logic. Around chilly southeast Michigan, he didn’t see any point in putting on a swimsuit until at least mid-June. Even now, his lined jacket felt no warmer than a wind-breaker. He hauled the boy into his arms and opened the storm door.

A trim blonde with a long ponytail hurried across the living room and jerked to a stop in front of Brett. “Maxwell Thomas Williams, I told you not to go out that door in bare feet. What will your mother say?”

The smile on the young woman’s lips took some of the steam from her firm tone. “You be good, or we won’t watch movies and eat popcorn when your mom leaves.”

Too busy to listen, Max tore to the kitchen table, where his brother and sister were playing a board game. A chorus of moans filtered back to the living room.

The young woman glanced over her shoulder before turning back and extending her hand. “You must be Brett. Hi, I’m Hannah Woods, the baby-sitter.”

“Good to meet you.” As Brett shook her tiny hand, he wondered if she would be strong enough to handle the three Williams kids. But then he remembered that their mother was far smaller than this woman.

“Tricia will be out in a minute.”

“Great.”

He scanned the living room where a sofa, a television and an easy chair shared space with a smattering of framed family photos and snapshots on side tables and walls. All but the most recent shots featured a rusty-haired man with a friendly smile. Brett tried to keep a cool, mental distance from the pictures, only observing that he’d found the origin of the boys’ hair color. But he couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.

“That was my daddy. He died,” Lani said, pointing out the obvious, as she showed up beside him wearing fuzzy pink pajamas and smelling of baby shampoo.

“They’re nice pictures.” He hoped it was enough because he could find nothing better to say.

It must have been because the child then skipped around the partial wall that separated the living room from the eat-in kitchen, and rolled the die for her turn, adding a leg to her bug’s body in the game. Next to her, Rusty, Jr. pointedly refused to glance at the guest in the living room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brett saw movement from the hall, and when he would have expected a petite brunette, he saw only an even tinier Cindy Lou Who look-alike with blond ponytails and huge, dramatic green eyes.

Something in his gut clenched. Four? He was having a hard enough time reconciling the idea of going out with a woman who had three kids. But four?

“She’s mine,” Hannah said quickly. “That’s Rebecca.” The child looked up at her name being spoken but scrambled off to play under the kitchen table.

“Oh.”

He wondered how he could have missed the resemblance now that she’d clarified it. Relief must have registered in his expression because Hannah smiled. He would have taken time to study the young woman, who couldn’t have been old enough to be that child’s mother, if not for the second person who appeared in the hallway.

Tricia wasn’t dressed particularly fancy, just a pair of fitted jeans and a prim, turquoise sweater set. It pleased him that she had taken extra effort with her makeup—which she didn’t need—and had clipped her hair back at her nape. Her hairstyle revealed a long expanse of perfect, fair skin on her neck.

Brett’s mouth went dry. Until she shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, he wasn’t even aware he’d been staring. What was he doing, acting like an infatuated teenager? He was neither, so he’d better get a grip before people started making mistaken assumptions.

She cleared her throat and glanced at the children playing in the kitchen before turning back to him. “Am I dressed okay? I’ve never been to a hockey game.”

Okay enough to turn every male head at Joe Louis Arena, he figured. But he only said, “Sure, that’s fine, unless you have a Steve Yzerman or Gordie Howe jersey.”

He glanced down at his jeans and navy cardigan over a white turtleneck, trying not to grin at how long it had taken him to pick his outfit. “I left my jersey at home.”

“You two had better get going,” Hannah said as she rushed them toward the door. “Traffic’s going to be terrible on the Lodge.” The young woman didn’t look at either of them, but a small smile appeared on her lips when she handed Tricia her coat.

Because Hannah was probably right about traffic on the John C. Lodge freeway, he hurried Tricia toward his SUV. He was relieved when she didn’t comment on his luxury transportation, a concession to his former life.

He closed her door and crossed to the driver’s seat. “Do you feel like we’ve just been dismissed?”

Tricia shot a glance at the closed curtains of the picture window and then turned to stare out the windshield. “Hannah just didn’t want us to be late.” As they pulled away from the curb, she sneaked another peek back, using the side-view mirror. “She’s a great sitter. The kids will be fine. They’ll have a great time, especially since she and Rebecca are spending the night.”

Was she trying to convince him or her? He was tempted to reach over and squeeze her hand to reassure her, but he hesitated, worried she’d climb out of her skin if he touched her. Instead, he concentrated on merging onto Interstate 96 and tried changing the subject.

“I was surprised the little girl was hers. Hannah doesn’t look old enough to be a mom.”

“She isn’t—or wasn’t—really old enough, but she’s a wonderful mom.” Tricia settled back into the seat, finally relaxing. “Hannah was just seventeen when she got pregnant, but she’s worked so hard to make the best of her difficult situation.”

“I take it the dad isn’t in the picture?”

Tricia shook her head but turned to face him. “She refused to name the father, even under pressure from some church members. I think it was especially hard on her, being the P.K.”

“P.K.?”

“Preacher’s Kid. She’s the daughter of our minister, Reverend Bob Woods.”

“I’d bet that was a huge church scandal.” He hated it when Christians were the first to judge others. The poor girl had probably first been betrayed by a boy and then by the people in her church, the people she trusted. He knew what it was like to have the foundations of one’s life—and even faith—ripped away. It tended to jade a person. He was proof of that.

“It was scandalous at first, but the church has been so supportive of Hannah, even of her decision to keep the baby instead of giving her up for adoption.” Tricia was smiling when he glanced her way. “And you couldn’t find a more devoted grandfather than Reverend Bob.”

“Sounds like Hannah was pretty fortunate.”

“She does her part, too, working hard to get her college degree and still being a great mom to Rebecca. She’s pretty amazing.”

“Yes, she is.”

But he was no longer talking about the other young woman’s situation, and he wondered if Tricia realized it. His date might have been amazed by Hannah’s determination, but he was equally impressed with Tricia’s. How had the woman beside him faced everything that had been thrown at her? Without trying to sound too interested, he’d plied Jenny for details about Tricia this week. How she’d survived her horrible loss two years before astounded him. His own injuries seemed trivial when compared to hers.

As if she, too, wondered where his thoughts had traveled, Tricia changed the subject again. “So you’re Brett Lancaster. Are you any relation to the old movie star Burt Lancaster?”

Brett looked at the dash clock. “That’s seventeen minutes. I wondered how long it would take you to ask.”

“Was my time good or bad?”

“Pretty good. For the record, I’m not related to Burt Lancaster, and I’ve never seen From Here to Eternity beginning to end.”

Tricia’s laugh was so sweet and musical that he wanted to come up with a comic monologue to make her do it again.

“I’m glad you made that clear.” She paused. “Hmm, next subject. How’d you manage to get these tickets, anyway? I’d always heard it was impossible to get Detroit Red Wings tickets.”

“Ever heard of Lancaster Cadillac-Pontiac-GMC in Bloomfield Hills? I am related to that Lancaster. He’s my dad.”

“I think I’ve heard of it.”

Her answer sounded noncommittal, as if she were neither impressed nor put off by the fact that his family had money. Well, she couldn’t be that driven by money if she’d agreed to go out with a police officer.

“Dad has season tickets through his work that he mostly uses to take out clients.”

She turned to face him. “Do you go to games often?”

“Rarely. And don’t get too excited about these tickets. This is one of the last regular-season games and attendance is sometimes low. If this were the end of next week during the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs, we’d be out of luck in getting tickets.”

When he glanced at her again in his peripheral vision, she nodded. “I get it. I’m not supposed to be impressed, but can’t I be, just a little? This is my first hockey game, ever, and it happens to be the Detroit Red Wings.”

“Okay, just a little.” He peeked at the tickets he’d stuck in the visor, glad he’d gone against his recent habit of declining his father’s gifts for the strings that went with them. As he pulled behind the long line of cars taking the exit for Joe Louis Arena, he resigned himself to dealing with those strings later.

“Okay, be impressed now. Here’s the Joe. Welcome to ‘Hockeytown.’”