so that the numbers just didn’t want to compute tonight. After a couple of hours, he gave up and went to check on Larissa.
She didn’t even look peaceful in her sleep. Her eyes twitched beneath her closed lids, and her mouth was constantly pursed. As if she were aware of his disappointment, she sighed and flopped from her side onto her back. Her little hands flexed and then she sighed again and seemed to relax. Kendal bowed his head.
God help her, he thought. Please help her.
He meant to say more, but the words wouldn’t come out. They felt too trite and repetitive to make it beyond the ceiling, let alone to God’s ear. That, too, was his fault. His mom used to say that if he felt far from God, he was the one who had moved.
He missed his mom.
Ironically, that was something that he and his daughter had in common, if only she could know it. His own mother died when he was twelve, having contracted a viral infection that had attacked her heart, and the sadness had never really left him. He understood Larissa’s pain more than she could possibly realize, but that seemed of little value at the moment.
Slipping out of her room, he wandered around the dark, silent house. In the few months that they’d been here, he’d come to like this place, situated as it was in a safe, gated community on the eastern edge of Fort Worth. The residents could bike or run around the common green or even ride horses and picnic beside the small lake or creek. There were tennis courts and a weight room, too, but no community pool, as most of the homes, including this one, had their own.
When he’d purchased the property, he’d envisioned Larissa having pool parties and class picnics in a few years. It made a nice contrast to imagining his daughter institutionalized, which was what he really feared would happen.
Too exhausted to keep those fears at bay, he shut himself into his bedroom, where he collapsed onto his pillow. The house felt cold and empty, even though he could hear the central heater running and knew that Larissa slept just across the hall. Or was it that the coldness and emptiness were inside him?
He didn’t know how this had happened. He’d never meant to move so far from the God of his youth, never expected to be so unhappy in his marriage, so inadequate a father. Only God knew how desperately he wanted to fix it, but he simply didn’t know how. He tried again to pray, but he’d said the words so often that they no longer seemed worthwhile.
Gradually, he began to slide toward sleep. As he felt his body relax, his rebellious thoughts turned to a subject he had hoped to avoid: Connie Wheeler.
The minister’s wife was a kind, considerate woman. She was also lovely—all soft, dainty femininity. He sensed a gentle, willing spirit in her. Larissa was certainly taken with her, and she seemed to have a way with the child. Was it possible that she could somehow help them? Maybe, he mused, as awareness drifted away, that was why God had led him here, to this place and to that church.
He slept on that hope, more comfortable than any pillow, and by morning it had become a notion with a life of its own, a growing part of his consciousness. He tried not to give the idea more credence than it deserved, but throughout the difficult morning, he found himself returning to it, clinging to it, comforting himself with it, even praying that it might be so.
Larissa didn’t want to eat and didn’t want to take her bath or have her hair brushed. She didn’t want to be changed, and she certainly didn’t want to be dressed. Forcing her into her clothes, he prepared her for the day as best he could. In his desperation, he wasn’t above bribing her.
“Don’t you want to go to nursery school? Don’t you want to see Miss Susan? How about Miss Connie?”
He had no idea whether the minister’s wife would be around today or not, but he’d have promised the child Santa Claus if it would have stopped her from fighting him. But it didn’t help. Larissa remained distraught.
She quieted as soon as they pulled into the parking lot of the day care center, though, and his relief fought with his resentment. His daughter would rather spend the whole day at nursery school, where she wasn’t even particularly happy, than two hours with him. The worst of it was, he’d rather be apart from her, too. As he dropped her off, he was aware of a shameful eagerness on his part. He couldn’t wait to get to the office, where people actually smiled at him and at least pretended to be glad to have him around. He knew what he was doing there, what was expected of him, and he didn’t have to feel that he was inflicting himself on anyone.
How pathetic was he to let a toddler hurt his feelings so much that he wanted to turn away? It was one thing to feel that way about one’s spouse, but one’s child?
Father, forgive me, he prayed, driving away. I know I disappoint You as much as I disappoint her. And forgive me for that, too.
The words seemed to bounce off the windshield and sink heavily into his chest, weighing down a heart already heavy with woe.
Chapter Three
Connie opened the door to the church’s administrative building and smiled at her brother’s secretary, Carlita.
“Hola, Miss Connie.”
“Hello, Carlita. How are you?”
“Muy bien. Do you wish to see the pastor?”
“Yes, I do, actually.”
“Go on back. He’s been in conference with Miss Dabney for some time now. Surely, they are just about finished.”
Connie slipped past Carlita’s desk and moved toward the hallway off of which several offices opened, saying “If they’re still talking, I’ll wait outside the door.”
“If you like, I’ll bring you a chair,” Carlita offered.
Connie shook her head. “Not necessary. Thanks.”
“De nada.”
Carlita went back to her typing, her long, black braid swinging between her plump shoulder blades as she turned her head toward the computer screen.
When Marcus had hired the single mother of four, she had spoken little English, but her need had been great and corresponded precisely with her efforts. Little more than a year later, Carlita was a model of cheerful, dependable efficiency and another of Marcus’s success stories.
Stepping into the hallway, Connie saw that the door to her brother’s office was only partially closed. She paused a moment, bending her head in an effort to discern whether or not the meeting was coming to an end. She hoped that it was. She had made a decision this morning, and she wanted to speak to Marcus about it before she lost her resolve. Just then, a familiar voice spoke with unexpected sharpness.
“But the child is simply unmanageable.”
“When she’s frustrated,” Marcus replied calmly. “That’s what you said a moment ago—that she’s unmanageable when she’s frustrated and that she dislikes men. I’m not sure that’s cause for dismissal.”
“It wouldn’t be if she wasn’t frustrated so much of the time!” Miss Dabney argued.
“All children get easily frustrated. You’ve told me so often.”
“But they don’t all throw thirty-minute
