Читать книгу An Honest Life - Dana Corbit - Страница 12

Rick stomped into his downtown Milford house, not even taking the time to wipe off his work boots as he usually did. A little dirt couldn’t harm the badly scarred hardwood floors he’d recently uncovered, but it seemed counterproductive to his restoration project to make things any worse. Today, though, he just didn’t care.

He didn’t even take time to admire his handiwork on the newly refinished crown moldings and six-panel doors, glancing beyond their glossy mahogany to the rest of the nearly gutted structure. Everything was dark and drab—just the way he felt.

Why couldn’t I just avoid her? Now that was the question of the day. He could probably spend another year trying to figure out the answer to it. But for whatever reason, the flower beds she tended—or the gardener herself—had diverted his interest from his own work until he finally had no choice but to talk to her.

It was bad enough that he’d started round two in their featherweight matchup by mentioning the Westin baby. But then he’d made it worse by throwing her an uppercut to the chin for that sanctimonious-sounding comment about the baby being a gift from God. Every child was, and she hadn’t specifically singled that one out. But he’d been unable to resist the temptation to put her in her place, anyway.

In his defense, a flimsy one at best, she had all but called him a “heathen” for working on the church project when he didn’t attend. He sure hadn’t done much to convince her otherwise, he thought, as he kicked aside a sealed can of wood stain.

A real Christian should have been able to take the high road—to turn the other cheek, even—from her uninformed judgments. The thought halted him in kitchen doorway before he could step on the cracked, yellow linoleum. Just past the entry, Rick opened the junk drawer beneath the wall telephone and rustled through the mess until he connected with one of his most special possessions, an old Gideon’s New Testament, its cover reattached with the handyman’s solution to all problems: duct tape. If only he could move beyond just learning the Scriptures and begin to follow the lessons inside it.

Conviction settled deep in his heart before he could tuck the Bible back in the drawer. Sure, Charity seemed to use Scripture as a weapon to protect her from whatever she was afraid of, but hadn’t he done the same thing? He was as guilty as she, playing her same judgmental game.

Father, I’m having some trouble with this one. I’m sorry I’ve behaved so badly, but this Charity just gets under my skin. Please forgive me and give me patience for dealing with all difficult people.

He paused long enough to open the refrigerator, pull out the fixings for a turkey with Swiss sandwich and set the armload on the tile countertop. “You know how sanctimonious she is,” he prayed aloud this time as he made the sandwich. “You know her….” He let his words trail off as a realization struck him again. “But I get the feeling she doesn’t know you.” His prayer ended without an “amen” as they would be talking more throughout the day.

After downing the sandwich, Rick grabbed a sander and started smoothing the rough spots on the stripped hardwood. Focusing on the scrape of the sandpaper and the earthy scent of the fine wood dust, he hoped to extricate thoughts of Charity from his mind. But she only burrowed through his consciousness in layers not unlike those he uncovered in the old wood.

Her face flashed before him again—the perfect, porcelain features and huge, almost golden eyes that showed every emotion from flattery to fury. He liked the former a lot better, especially combined with that girlish blush. And her small rosebud mouth…it sure contrasted with her penchant for speaking out of turn.

When he saw her again—and he no longer held any illusions that he could avoid her for the duration of the project—he vowed to be nice to her. No matter how hard she made it. He would be a loving Christian example to her if it killed him, and if he needed to spend more time with her—say dinner—to make that point, then—

“Knock it off.” His words bounced off the walls as he reached for his hammer and aimed for an errant nail, landing on his thumb instead. “Ow!”

Could he have been attracted to Charity Sims? No, it couldn’t be that. But she did pull at him somehow. Maybe it was an emptiness he sensed beneath her religious armor. Or maybe he’d just imagined that to excuse some of his earlier behavior.

Anyway, even if he was interested in her, it wouldn’t have made a difference. She looked down at him, at least for his beliefs. And if that didn’t matter to him, it just proved he’d spent way too many months—make that years—without as much as a coffee date.

Were he to choose someone for a romantic relationship, she would be someone kind and pure-hearted like Rusty’s Tricia. Although Rusty had been young when they’d wed and had only become a man during their marriage, Tricia had stood steady by his side. Envious? Not at all. He was more amazed, really. Rusty and Tricia were the only couple he knew who contradicted his theory that true love, at least the romantic kind, didn’t exist.

Why was he allowing himself to think those thoughts, anyway? About anyone, let alone someone like Charity Sims. He’d been on his own as long as he could remember. He liked being alone. Except for his relationship with God and, much later, Rusty, he had avoided the complications of friendships. It had been for the best.

Needing people could be disastrous for a loner like him. It would only make him vulnerable—something he couldn’t allow. He could never again let himself be that lost child of his memories. The only way to avoid that was to rely only on the person beneath his own skin. He’d never needed anyone, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Early Tuesday afternoon Rick perched two extra two-by-fours on his shoulder and headed back to the framed building. A noise to his right caught his attention, and he turned to see a familiar car coming up the drive. He didn’t have to look twice to recognize the driver, and he smiled against his will.

“Here we go again,” he said, unloading his cargo onto the stack before glancing back at the parking lot.

If the idea of another verbal sparring round with Charity bothered him so much, then he shouldn’t have been sauntering right to her, his heart tapping out Morse code in his chest. He reminded himself of a clown punching bag, the kind with sand in the bottom to keep it popping back up for more punishment.

But his comparison didn’t stop him from stepping next to her car when she parked it and bending to speak into her open window. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this. People will talk.”

Her hair wasn’t tied back this time but flowed to her shoulder blades in a wavy mass. A crazy temptation to see if her tresses felt like silk had him tucking his thumbs safely through his tool belt.

Instead of saying something clever, she blushed. “I came to pick up some materials for my Sunday school class.”

“Did you forget them when you were here yesterday?” He extinguished the thought that she’d made an excuse to see him, but not before feeling the tiniest bit pleased.

“Yeah, I forgot.” But the way she chewed her lip and refused to meet his gaze as she got out of the car decreased her credibility. She fussed with her hair, shoving it over her shoulders as if it was a bother.

She seemed so uncomfortable, the woman of far too many words suddenly struck silent, and he scrambled for a way to relieve her discomfiture. “Did you come to monitor our progress? I can show you the roof trusses we’ve set. We’ve worked really hard. I promise.”

“No, that isn’t necessary.” She shook her head emphatically. “I just need to get my things from the church so I can get over to Andrew and Serena’s house.”

“The Westins?”

Nodding, Charity took a few steps toward the door. “I talked to them this morning and promised to come over and play with Tessa for a while before I go to work. It’s a big transition for her, suddenly having a brother.”

So she hadn’t come by to see him after all. He hated the disappointment that reared inside him, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to delay her departure a few minutes longer. “It’s nice of you to think of that little girl.” Her blush deepened at the compliment.

“Tessa’s really special. I teach her in Sunday school. Although she lives with a painful illness, juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, she’s always smiling.”

Charity gazed at the parsonage, her eyes shining a bit too much, but she rolled her lips inward and looked away a few seconds. When she faced him again, the shimmer of threatened tears was gone. Rick wondered if it had been there at all. It was the most honest expression she’d displayed since they’d met.

“Yeah, I’ve seen her playing on her swing set. She’s always laughing,” he said when she didn’t speak.

He glimpsed the shine again before she turned to pull open one of the glass double doors. “You’re sure you don’t want a tour?” he said, relieved when she stopped again and turned back to him. “Or better yet, you could come back tomorrow, and I could put you to work on the crew. How are you with a pneumatic nailer?”

She laughed at that, the sound sweetly feminine. Melodic even. “I don’t think you want to let me loose on society with one of those.”

“That’s too bad. I sure could have used a bigger crew, especially for framing. I only have eight, and a dozen would have been better. Faster.”

Something akin to relief filled him when she allowed the glass door to fall shut and turned back to him. “Adding me to the crew would be like subtracting one of your regular guys. Maybe even two. They would have to work full-time to fix my mistakes.”

“You’d be fine as long as you remember one rule. Measure twice, cut once.” He demonstrated the concept with his hands.

“I’ll try to remember that.”

Levity glimmered in her eyes, tempting him to tell his best knock-knock joke just to see her laugh again. But he waited too long, and she reopened the door. “Sorry, I’ve really got to go.” She waved and disappeared inside.

A few minutes later, after Rick had returned to the power saw, Charity crossed the parking lot and hurried to the parsonage. She emerged again with the petite curly-haired brunette, who danced rings around Charity as they approached the wooden play structure behind the house.

As much as Rick tried to focus on his own directions about measuring and cutting, he found himself watching them. First, Tessa slid down the yellow slide into Charity’s open arms. Then, Charity stood and twirled around and around with the child’s legs tucked around her waist. When both appeared sufficiently dizzy, Charity carefully lowered to the ground, and both rested on their backs kicking their feet up in the air.

The scene was so sweet and private that Rick felt it was an invasion to watch, but he couldn’t make himself look away. Charity’s laughter drifted across the lot on the few occasions when he turned off the saw and his crew took a break with the nailer. His chest tightened, the sound of their laughter threatening to wrap itself around his heart, but still he observed them.

Though she wrestled and laughed with Tessa, Charity moved cautiously, as if to protect the child. A nurse’s instinct. Hospitals—Charity, working there, and Tessa, a frequent guest—probably were the common denominator connecting the two.

Before Charity had mentioned anything about Tessa, Rick had already known about the Westins’ fragile child, the information courtesy of Rusty. If only his friend would stop telling him stories about the people at Hickory Ridge. It felt too personal.

He especially wished Rusty would stop talking about Charity. Without that information, Rick could have been just a casual observer now, one who might have guessed he was witnessing a tender moment between mother and child. But Rick knew better. And the knowing ruffled his thoughts even more. This was not her child but Serena’s daughter. Serena, the woman who had taken what Charity had believed to be her place in Andrew’s heart and by his side in church hierarchy. The youth minister’s wife.

But the loving picture the woman and young girl painted together, still giggling as Tessa straddled Charity’s belly and tickled her under the chin, revealed none of that uncomfortable history. The sides of Rick’s mouth turned up in a smile he couldn’t restrain.

For once, Charity was being benevolent and living up to her name. She was such a paradox. Just when he thought he had her figured out and could justify his resentment toward her, she allowed him to glimpse this other, endearing side. He wasn’t sure how to process this observation, fearing he liked this side a little too much.

In what felt like a short time later, Charity and Tessa walked hand in hand through the back door into the house. Rick surprised himself by wishing she wouldn’t leave so soon. The way she blurred the clear lines around his personal boundaries, he should have been wishing she would disappear until the building dedication instead of hanging around and distracting him.

From his perch on the ladder, Rick glanced at Charity as she climbed in the car. She looked over and waved shyly before closing the door. Despite his embarrassment over getting caught watching, Rick couldn’t help wondering when he’d see her next. Or hoping it wasn’t too long.

At work a few hours later, Charity tried to contain the smile that pulled at her lips as she yanked the shirt of her fresh scrubs over her head. Finally, she just gave in. It was amazing what a play date with Tessa and a civil conversation with Rick—especially that—could do for her mood. She’d sensed his gaze upon her several times as she’d played with Tessa, but she’d probably imagined that.

But she hadn’t imagined during their earlier conversation that Rick had been pleasant. Nice even. It couldn’t have stunned her more that he’d taken the time to discuss the child with her, and her cheeks warmed at the thought of his compliment.

As tempting as it had been to mention his comment about praying and to spring into a litany of questions, she’d resisted. She would have avoided anything to keep him grinning like that, with sunlight dancing over his eyes and dimples softening the hard lines of his face.

“The slow night doesn’t seem to be bothering you,” Dr. Walker said as they passed in the hall.

“What’s making you so happy?”

She raised an eyebrow at the young obstetrician she’d always enjoyed working with, but tempered her smile anyway. “Can’t a person enjoy her job without having to withstand the third degree?”

“Guess not.” The doctor chuckled as she headed down the hall in the opposite direction.

Farther down the birthing center hallway, Charity reached the nurse’s station and the room-status board. Set up in a grid, that dry-erase board was nearly blank except for a few last names listed with MBV—for a mother-baby vaginal delivery—and MBC—for mother-baby cesarean section. She seconded Dr. Walker’s prediction that it would be a light night.

Charity traced her hand along the wooden handrail that mirrored wood flooring. At the doorway to an empty LDRP room, she stood for several seconds before stepping inside. There she took in the dark wood, the rich colors of the wallpaper and the muted lighting that she usually didn’t have the luxury of time to observe. Instead of the medical equipment she usually focused on, hidden behind wood cabinetry, she examined the sleeper chair that waited in the room’s corner for another exhausted father.

The crib against the wall caught her attention. Inside its Plexiglas part referred to as a “bucket,” she imagined a tiny baby squirming under the warm lights. She could see a nurse leaning over the crib, starting to “eye and thigh” him, inserting erythromycin in his eyes to prevent infection and injecting vitamin K in his thigh for blood clotting. Though those two jobs would have been automatic for her, she was strangely certain she wasn’t the RN on duty.

Stranger still, she suspected she was the other woman in her daydream—the one resting on the bed with a man by her side. It was so close, this dream of hers, that she could almost grasp it. Could cradle the sweet baby against her heart. Could lace her fingers with those of the man who touched her hair so gently.

“Hey, Charity, quit daydreaming,” Jenny Lancaster-Porter called from the doorway, grinning at her fellow labor and delivery nurse. “The clerk just put a walk-in in Room 224, and another mom’s taking the chair ride from ER.”

Charity jumped guiltily at being caught imagining things that were becoming closer and closer to impossible. But at that moment they hadn’t seemed unattainable, not when for the first time, she’d imagined herself on the other side of the bed. The one with a family, with joy, with hope for the future.

Jenny snapped her fingers in front of Charity’s face. “Girlfriend, are you coming? These babies can’t wait.”

On command, Charity’s thoughts clicked into focus the way they always did, and she followed at Jenny’s heels. “I’ll take the walk-in. You take the chair.”

Jenny winked. “Already wrote that on the board.”

Both chuckled at Charity’s attempt to hand the precipitous case to her friend and Jenny’s hearty receipt of the gift. Jenny liked her deliveries fast and furious, and Charity didn’t mind the occasional slow and steady, so they had developed a great working rhythm from several years of working shifts together.

“You’ll be on dinner break, your patient and baby settled in for the night, and I’ll still be walking the halls with mine,” Charity said as she turned into Room 224.

Just the opposite proved true, with Charity’s patient crowning within half an hour, and Jenny’s walking the halls for two hours and eventually being sent home after a bout of false labor. Charity had barely had time to get a fetal heart rate and start an IV before the delivery, let alone to record advance directives in case something went wrong or to inquire about nursing or bottle-feeding.

The rest of the shift was equally unpredictable. It was as if every full-term mother who had avoided ruining her Labor Day barbecue had gone into labor just before dawn broke. Staying busy had prevented her from analyzing that earlier daydream. Or how familiar the man in her dream had seemed.