Читать книгу From Humbug To Holiday Bride - Zena Valentine - Страница 10

When B.J. saw his car, she knew there was going to be a lot of adjusting on her part. It reminded her of an old weathered hull, clean, big as sin, dull tan marred by rust corrosion along the bottom of the doors and fenders. Inside, it was spotless and worn, and when she’ looked around, thinking she deserved a medal for holding her tongue, he grinned at her and said, “It came with the rectory. You’ll like it. Smooth ride. Like sitting on a cloud.”

It was a smooth ride, and she could barely hear the engine running once he managed to get it started.

She hadn’t thought to ask where Kolstad was, hadn’t really cared. It was simply the place where Hamish lived and worked. In truth, he didn’t seem like a pastor at all. Not that she had had much contact with clergy in her years of living with a father who worshiped athletic prowess above all, and thought spirituality referred to poltergeists.

Hamish was a gorgeous man to look at, and she would never in all her life forget the magnificent charge she’d felt when he held her in his arms. Of course, she couldn’t tell him how his gentle ways affected her, because they touched something so deep in her she ached with it. No man in her life had ever made her feel so threatened, or so feminine. She had missed him between visits, and hated admitting that she did. Life in the hospital had taken on a chill when he wasn’t around. She’d felt adrift, missing his laughter and his confidence and the infuriating way he had of fielding her insults as if she were an amusing child punching at shadows.

Kolstad was only a half hour from downtown and the hospital, a straight shot down a country highway from the freeway. First she saw the cornfields, then the suburban housing developments and finally the small old town blooming within the ever-growing suburbia. On the east edge of the town, they pulled into the driveway of an old, squat, prairie-style farmhouse surrounded by a chain-link fence, precisely cut lawn and acres of hay field all around it.

Behind the house were two sheds, one large and apparently also serving as a garage, and the other smaller, converted into a children’s playhouse of some sort. Two little girls ran to meet Hamish, stopping only to struggle with the latch on the chain-link gate and then flying into him as he came around the back of the car.

He hunkered down to hug them both, then stood with one in each arm. He nodded toward her, and something caught in her chest at how tenderly he held his children and how much they adored him.

When he set them down, he pulled open the passenger door. “You’ll have to tell them your name,” he said. “I never did ask.”

She frowned at the lie, then looked at them. “B.J.,” she said.

“No, your real name,” he insisted with his beguiling soft laughter.

“It’s just B.J.,” she repeated.

“Belinda Jean? Begonia Jasmine? C’mon, let’s have it.”

“Brenda Jane,” she said reluctantly. “I hate it.”

“Brenda Jane is a beautiful name,” he countered. He spread a hand on the top of each little girl’s head, the taller one with the dark curly hair and the smaller one with the straight blond strands. “This is Emma, and this is Annie. Say hello to Brenda, girls.”

Emma moved forward, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity. “Hi,” she said. “My daddy said you have crutches.”

Annie hung back, fingers in her mouth, peeking around her father’s khaki trousers. He just stood there like a proud dad and grinned. It was plain to see which of the girls had his personality.

“Stand back,” Hamish said, pulling Emma away from her. “Brenda has to get out and stand up on her own. It’s very hard for her. Remember I told you she was hurt in a car accident?”

The girls stepped back in solemn obedience and clutched at his trousers, Emma at a pocket, Annie on a seam. B.J. didn’t particularly like having an audience to watch her awkward efforts, but nobody laughed. When she was perched on the edge of the seat with both feet on the ground, Emma stepped forward with her hand extended. “Can I help?”

B.J. looked at the innocent eagerness in the chocolate brown eyes, and smiled. “Sure.” She took the little girl’s hand. “Pull,” she said. Emma pulled and B.J. pushed until she was standing.

“Okay,” Hamish said, then lifted her and cradled her in his arms. “I’ll take you to see Mrs. Billings.”

The girls ran ahead, hopping and skipping and turning in circles. They opened the gate and then the back door. Hamish finally set her down on a wood chair at a wood table covered with oil cloth in an old-fashioned run-down kitchen. She hadn’t seen anything like it since she was a child visiting an ancient relative who still lived “in the country.” The only modern convenience she saw was a toaster.

Mrs. Billings was in her fifties now. Her hair was graying, and she wore polyester pants and a paisley overblouse that failed to hide her barrel waist. She smiled and jiggled as she spread her arms wide and gave B.J. a long, gentle hug. “Lemonade?” she offered. “Coffee?”

Not much had changed, B.J. thought. Here again was Deborah’s beloved aunt with her round, beaming face and warm, laughing eyes she remembered so well.

“We’re gonna get kittens,” Emma said. “Rainbow has ‘em in her tummy.”

B.J. smiled at Emma. “Are you going to have lemonade?”

“I don’t like lemonade. It’s too sour. Do you like kittens?”

“I don’t know. I never had one.”

The child’s brown eyes widened to saucers and her mouth dropped open. “You never had a kitten!” Her response connoted a ghastly deprivation—worse, it seemed, than her accident.

“What’s so bad about that?” B.J. challenged. “I never missed having one.”

But Emma’s astonishment knew no bounds. “Didn’t you ever hold one?”

“No, I don’t think so. Kittens weren’t my thing. Never cared for the little buggers,” she said.

“Never cared for a kitten!” Emma made a face to share her horror with Annie, whose blue eyes reflected concern as she, too, shook her head slowly. They were clearly in deep sympathy with her problem.

As B.J. rolled her eyes, she caught Mrs. Billings’s chuckle and felt for a moment as if she had been dropped into another world. Little girls liked juvenile hard rock and dressing Barbie dolls. Kittens were surely passé. Why weren’t they experimenting with makeup or watching television or stealing coins off the dresser like normal kids did? B.J. wondered. “I’ll have lemonade,” she said to Mrs. Billings.

“It’s really sour,” Emma warned, scrunching up her face.

“So am I. We’ll get along fine,” she said, watching Hamish come through the door with her suitcases.

“These are Brenda’s things,” he announced.

“Damn it, I’m B.J.”

“Don’t swear in front of the children,” he said softly, leaning toward her.

“Sorry. I’m not Brenda. I’ve never been Brenda. It’s the name of some soap opera person my mother liked before I was born,” she muttered.

“It’s a nice name, very feminine. Like you. Sometimes,” he said, and then added, “Brenda Jane.”

She rolled her eyes. “Dear Lord, help me, she sighed without reverence, then she heard his soft laugh.

“Catching on already?” he quipped.

Annie crawled up on a chair, folded her arms on the edge of the table, rested her chin in the middle of them and silently stared at her. Emma flitted around the room chattering about first grade, which she had just started, about riding the school bus like the big kids, about playing Chinese checkers and hating pineapple because it stung her mouth. She showed B.J. her loose tooth and said she didn’t have to change clothes after school today because B.J. was coming to stay and so it was okay to leave her good clothes on.

“My daddy’s going to sleep in his office,” she announced, skipping on one foot, holding the toes of the other one behind her.

“Is that all you do is talk?” B.J. asked. “You never stop talking.”

“Pretty much. Mrs. Billings calls me a chatterbox. Daddy said once I said my first word I never shut up.” Her high-pitched laughter sailed around the room. “That’s silly, ‘cause I don’t talk when I sleep, or in church. Or when I’m supposed to be quiet in school.”

“Why do you talk so much?” B.J. asked,’mesmerized by this miniature version of the reverend, with all his joy and open laughter bubbling out of her like soapsuds.

“There’s lots to say,” she said, hopping in a circle. “I bet you can’t do this.”