style="font-size:15px;"> “I’d like to see you try.” In no hurry to end the call, Ben shifted some pillows and settled against the headboard. “You won’t banish me if I arrive in my Mustang, I hope?”
Her tone became soft and flirty. “Not if you promise to take me for a spin after we’re done.”
“You’re on.”
They chatted a few more minutes about Saturday before Marley said a timer was going off in her darkroom and she needed to get back to work. Ben laid the phone on the nightstand and stretched out, hands folded behind his head. He should not be looking so forward to spending time with a girl who’d likely be out of his life in less than a month.
Unless you stay in Alpine.
His uncle’s offer, impractical though it was, had somehow burrowed its way into Ben’s brain. He’d have to be crazy to even consider it.
But then...getting laid off unexpectedly was enough to make any sane man go a little crazy.
* * *
Had she actually just flirted with Ben Fisher?
Marley checked the color balance on the landscape photo she’d just printed. Thanks to an advance from her dad a couple of years ago, she’d invested in a state-of-the-art film processor and could do her own developing. The creative control, not to mention the convenience, counterbalanced the discomfort of knowing her father had subsidized her photography business.
Too bad she didn’t have the same control over her emotions. Hinting for a ride in Ben’s cute red Mustang? What did she really expect to come of...whatever this was? Ben wasn’t likely to stick around Alpine once he got his career back on course—which he wouldn’t waste any time doing, if she read his signals correctly. There was a restlessness about him that no amount of casual banter could hide.
But there was something more. Beneath his polished persona, Marley sensed a man of depth, commitment and concern. She’d seen it in his eyes as he’d studied the photo of Isabella climbing onto the school bus, and later as Marley had described the Candelarians’ struggles. Ben truly cared.
Finishing up in the darkroom, she hung her apron on a hook and turned out the lights. Time to go home to her apartment and scrounge up something for supper. She smiled to herself, recalling the steak dinner she’d wheedled out of Ben. No steak tonight. Maybe some canned tuna, a boiled egg and a salad.
As she walked down the alley toward her car, her cell phone rang. A tremor of anticipation shot through her, and she wanted to kick herself for hoping it might be Ben. She took her time fishing the phone from her purse. If it was Ben, she certainly didn’t want to sound overanxious.
The caller ID didn’t give a name, but she recognized the St. Louis area code, and all traces of excitement fled. She answered with a tentative “Hello?”
“Marsha?”
“Mom.” Calling on another of Dad’s burner phones, obviously. Marley reached her car, glad as always to find it shaded by a building this time of day. She sank sideways into the driver’s seat with the door open and her feet on the pavement.
“How are you, honey?”
“I’m fine. Why’d you call? Is something wrong?”
Silence, then... “Does there have to be something wrong? Can’t I simply call to hear my daughter’s voice? Please, Marsha—”
“It’s Marley, remember? The daughter you don’t have.” She should be over this resentment by now. Hadn’t she willingly agreed to the name change? Once upon a time, it had actually felt good to be free of all the baggage, to reinvent herself and start over as Marley Sanders.
Her mother whimpered softly into the phone.
“Please, Mom, don’t cry. I’m sorry.” Marley leaned forward to catch the light breeze. “Tell me what’s going on there. Did Dad decide if he’s going to run for another term?”
“Of course he will.” Mom gave a disdainful sniff. “He’s giving a talk to the Kiwanis Club this evening. I’m sure it’ll turn into a political rally before he’s done.”
Here we go again. Marley’s mother might put up a convincing front for their constituents, but she never hid her bitterness from Marley. Or Dad, either, most likely. “Are you going with him?”
“I’m pleading a headache.” She sniffed. “Can we not talk about your father? I want to hear about you. How’s your little studio doing?”
“Business is plodding along.” She wouldn’t mention the rent issue. Mom would only worry, and probably pester Dad about sending money. Marley didn’t need another of his lectures about her incompetence as a business owner. Instead, she said, “My next kids’ class starts a week from Monday.”
“That’s nice. And this...mission thing you’re involved with? Are you going back to that dreary little town anytime soon?”
“Not until mid-December, but there’s still plenty to do to get ready.” Marley could tell her mother wasn’t really interested. These phone calls usually only came when Mom’s unremitting loneliness surfaced. She couldn’t talk to her husband, and Marley’s three older siblings learned long ago to separate themselves from their parents’ drama. The Sandersons had also cut ties with the church they used to belong to, which was especially sad, because Zion Community Church had been one of the few positive influences in their lives. Now, even a thousand miles away, Marley had become her mother’s primary support system.
More sniffling, then a choked sob. “Marsha, baby, I miss you so much! I wish you could come home.”
“You know why I can’t.” Marley slid her legs beneath the steering wheel and leaned against the headrest. “Mom, I really have to go. I—I’ve got somewhere I need to be.” Home. Eating my tuna and salad. Alone.
“Okay. But keep this number. I’ll have this phone for a while, so call me sometime.”
“Right. Sure.” Marley squeezed her eyes shut, knowing she would never make the call. “I love you, Mom.”
Choosing a parking space outside Spirit Fellowship Church, Ben huffed a sigh of relief to see only a couple of other vehicles in the lot, one of them Marley’s Honda. Unsure what to expect for a mission’s committee workday, he’d arrived early, hoping Marley could ease him into this whole outreach thing. He didn’t want to humiliate himself by doing or saying something stupid in front of her pastor and the other committee members.
As he stepped from the Mustang, a blue pickup pulled in a couple of spaces down on his left. A dark-haired guy in his late thirties wearing a beat-up Stetson climbed from the driver’s side and strode around to the tailgate.
“‘Mornin’,” the man called with an appraising grin. “Nice wheels. Looking for someone?”
“I’m a friend of Marley’s. She asked me to come help with whatever they’re doing today.” Holding his new gray ball cap behind him, Ben nonchalantly scraped it along the side of his car where road dust had collected. He
