then there was that kiss….
He caught himself grinning from ear to ear, like some girl-crazy schoolboy. Wade blocked the TV’s flickering light with the crook of his arm, and shook his head. If he wasn’t careful, this thing could take a nasty turn; if he didn’t watch his step, he’d end up asking her out a second time, a third, even—and he couldn’t let that happen. Anyone with eyes could see that she was an innocent, and he didn’t have a clue how to behave with a woman like that!
Again he thought of their kiss. She’d felt so small, so vulnerable in his arms, that Wade had found himself wanting to shield her from all life’s woes. He’d kissed quite a few women in his time, but he’d never felt that, not once, not even for an instant.
Weird, because he got the sense Patrice had earned the right to say, “I can take care of myself.”
If he believed that, why did he want to protect her, anyway?
Because she was one of those people, he told himself, who shouldn’t have to struggle, that’s why. She deserved to have someone there, right beside her, to lean on at the end of a hard day, to fend off any trials and tribulations that dared force their way into her world.
Wade didn’t know if he had what it took to be that someone, and the admission saddened him more than he cared to admit.
After tossing and turning for more than an hour, Patrice gave up trying to sleep and headed downstairs for some herbal tea. With her mug on the end table and a plate of chocolate chip cookies beside her on the sofa cushion, she cuddled under an afghan, scanning the morning paper. Unable to concentrate, she folded it neatly and laid it on the coffee table.
Maybe the plot of a good novel would take her mind off the evening with Wade…and that incredible, indescribable kiss….
Standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that flanked the fireplace, Patrice ran a fingertip along the spines of ancient volumes and settled on the family Bible. Maybe, printed on one of its crisp, gold-trimmed pages, she’d find the answer to the question that had kept her awake: Do You want Wade to be a part of my life, Lord?
As she slid the Good Book from its shelf, a photograph fluttered to the hearth. Even as she bent to pick it up, Patrice recognized her mother’s familiar blue script, identifying the event and the date: Timmy, first day of school.
Nothing could have prepared her for the sudden, over-whelming sadness that brought her to her knees. Sitting back on her heels, Patrice clutched the Bible in one hand, Timmy’s picture in the other. And holding her breath, she slowly turned it over, gasping softly at first sight of her little brother’s pale yet cherubic cheeks, at his gap-toothed smile, at eyes too big…too filled with pain for a face so young.
She hadn’t seen this snapshot in more than a decade, but she remembered the day well. It had begun like every other, with her fervent prayer for Timmy: “Make him well, Lord!” Even before breakfast, he had been sent to his room with a paternal admonishment never to put sugar in the saltshaker again.
Patrice couldn’t help but smile at the bittersweet memory of the feisty child who, despite his diminutive size and infirmity, never once complained. Even as a girl, she’d suspected that Timmy knew, somehow, that his life would be short. Why else would he have worked so hard to squeeze so much living into every moment?
Back then, she hadn’t understood why the Almighty didn’t answer her plea. In truth, she didn’t understand it any better now. Timmy had as much right as any boy to climb to the treetops, to chase fly balls in left field, to race two-wheelers with a mob of his pals, right?
The why of Timmy’s death would remain a mystery, at least until she joined him in Heaven. She believed without question that the Lord had taken Timmy to Paradise for reasons of His own, believed just as strongly that she had no right to question those reasons.
Wasn’t that the basis of faith?
Her mother’s death, however, was another matter entirely…. Anger swirled in her heart, in her mind. Dangerous territory, Patrice reminded herself.
Standing, she tucked the photo back into the Bible and returned to her corner of the couch. Resting her head against the back cushions, she closed her eyes.
“So, how’d it go?”
Patrice lurched and let out a tiny squeal. “Dad,” she said, one hand pressed to her chest, “honestly!”
“Sorry,” Gus said. “But you’ll thank me later.”
Grinning, she sat up. “Thank you? For scaring me out of the last ten years of my life?”
“Sure,” he said emphatically. “Those are the years you’d spend in an overpriced nursing home, anyway.”
Rolling her eyes, Patrice groaned. “Maybe this weekend I’ll drive you down to Water Street, so you can audition at the Comedy Club.”
He chuckled. “There’s something else you have to thank me for—”
She waited for his punch line.
“—that rip-roarin’ sense of humor of yours.”
“Wow,” came her dry reply. “And here I thought being thankful that I got your eyes was enough.” She regarded him carefully. “You feeling okay?”
“Never better.”
“Then, what’re you doing up so late?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“And we could go back and forth like this till dawn….”
“Good point,” Gus said. And winking, he added, “Couldn’t sleep, that’s all. Happens to the best of us, sometimes.”
Patrice sipped her tea. “How ’bout I fix you a cup of—”
“No, thanks. I mostly just came in ’cause I thought I’d forgotten to turn out the lights.” It was his turn to look suspicious. “You okay?”
The question surprised her. She could only hope it didn’t show on her face. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well,” he said, pointing with his chin, “there you sit, family Bible in hand, Timmy’s picture poking out….”
Another sigh. “Well,” she answered, forefinger following the contours of the Bible’s gilded letters, “maybe I am feeling a bit wistful.”
He rolled closer to the couch. “You’re a good kid, Treecie. Have I told you that lately?”
Gus said it a dozen times a day. Oh, he substituted a number of words for good—terrific, fantastic, super, wonderful—but the meaning was always the same.
“So, how’d it go?” he repeated.
She flopped back against the couch cushions. “My date with Wade, you mean?”
Gus nodded, grabbed her mug and took a sip of the tea.
“I’d be happy to make you a cup, Dad.”
“Nah.
