style="font-size:15px;"> “Yeah, Mom, put the top down,” Trent echoed.
He liked to ride with the top down, but she usually felt, well, silly. She opened her mouth to say that she’d just come from the beauty shop and didn’t want her hair blown around, when Bolton leaned over and crooned plaintively into her ear, “Come on, Mom, a little wind and sun never hurt anybody.” She closed her mouth and reached up to release the catches that anchored the top to the windshield, then depressed the button that automatically lowered the top. Trenton cheered, Bolton grinned and she felt her own mouth curving into a smile.
“Okay, guys, where do you want to go for those burgers?”
Trenton made a suggestion, but Bolton immediately countered it, reminding the boy that another place had a playground. “Oh, yeah,” Trenton said, as if he’d never considered that particular benefit before. Clarice felt a pang of guilt. She had never considered it before, either. What was wrong with her? No wonder her son didn’t know how to be a child! She put the car in gear and headed toward the fast-food place with the playground.
They couldn’t go very fast in town, of course, especially with all the stop signs and lights between the church and the Bypass. Nevertheless, the wind felt wonderful on her face and in her hair. Her passengers seemed to enjoy it, too, judging by their laughter and smiles. She made a right hand turn onto the highway 81 bypass, and the pace slowed further. The whole county seemed to have come into town that day.
Bolton shook his head. “Traffic’s as bad here as in a big city, don’t you think?”
Clarice shrugged and glanced into her rearview mirror. “I wouldn’t know, frankly. The last time I was in a big city was, oh, six or seven years ago. It was the first time we’d left Trenton overnight. His father had business in Tulsa, and I went with him. My mother-in-law was alive then, and she looked after Trent. He was still in diapers.” She saw from the corner of her eye that Bolton gave her a speculative look, but he said nothing, and she couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. She dismissed the matter and concentrated on her driving.
Eventually they reached the fast-food place Bolton had suggested. Clarice parked the car and turned the mirror down to see what damage the wind had done to her hair. “You two go on in,” she said. “I’ll be along in a minute.” But nobody moved. She stopped combing her fingers through her hair and looked around. Bolton was looking at her, and Trenton was looking at Bolton. She couldn’t read either expression. “What?” she asked, her gaze working back and forth between them.
Bolton lifted a shoulder. “Nothing. We just prefer to wait. It can’t take long. You already look great.”
Her mouth fell open. He thought she looked great? The very idea did odd things to her stomach, and she shifted a nervous look over her shoulder at her son. Trenton was looking at his lap, a knowing little smile twisting his lips. She didn’t even want to think about the implications of that. What she wanted to do, in fact, was run. She slapped the mirror back into place and fumbled for the door handle. “Uh, I—I’m ready!”
She hopped out of the car and practically ran for the restaurant, the heels of her oh-so-sensible pumps clacking on the pavement. Bolton and Trenton caught up with and passed her. When she got there, Bolton was holding the door open for her and Trenton’s face was solemn to the point of silliness. She marched past them and breezed into the restaurant, her cheeks burning red. What was wrong with her?
She got in line at the registers and composed herself, pulling deep, silent breaths to still the wild thumping of her heart. His was not the first compliment she’d ever received for pity’s sake. Besides, he hadn’t really meant anything by it. He’d just wanted to hurry her because he was a gentleman and didn’t want to leave her alone in the car. And Trenton? He was confused. Yes, that was it. Trenton was confused and…She was the one confused. That was the whole problem, and what a pathetic statement it was about the condition of her mind, not to mention her nonexistent love life. Good grief, she was feeling attracted to a minister!
When the minister eased into line behind her and laid a companionable hand on her shoulder, she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Hey, hold on there,” he said quietly. “Nobody’s going to bite you.”
“I—I know that! You just startled me.”
“I wanted to tell you that lunch is on me.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“I insist.”
“No, really—”
His hands clamped down on her shoulders. “Clarice,” he said silkily into her ear, “shut up and go find us a table.”
He left no doubt that he meant business, and she was only too glad to get away. She started off swiftly, but he reached out and grabbed her hand, turning her back.
“I forgot to ask what you want to eat.”
She pulled her hand free, flipping it through the air. “A, oh…” She looked helplessly at the menu, without really seeing anything, and said, “Salad! Salad will do nicely. And, ah, tea, ice tea.” She exhaled with relief, turned and got the heck out of there. She didn’t see the troubled look that followed her or the speculative one her son directed up at Bolton Charles.
By the time they came with the food trays, Clarice had once more talked herself into a calm state of mind. And once more it vanished the moment Bolton smiled at her. Seemingly oblivious to the panic he incited in her, he placed her tea and salad in front of her, laid down a napkin and a fork and slid into the seat next to Trent. They divided up the remainder of food and drinks on the tray. Clarice watched, feeling ridiculous and neglectful as Bolton tucked a napkin into her son’s lap. Trenton dug in with obvious relish, and to her consternation Bolton leaned forward.
“Something wrong with your salad?”
“What? Oh. No, nothing.” She picked up her fork and poked at the shredded lettuce.
“Trent said you didn’t care for salad dressing, but maybe you’d like some extra lemon or something.”
“Lemon?”
He captured her gaze with his and held it. “Some people prefer to eat their salads with lemon juice as opposed to eating it dry,” he said as if speaking to a child. “Would you like me to get you some lemon?”
She shook her head, dropped her eyes to her lunch, and managed to say, “No, thank you.”
After that, she concentrated on eating, forking the lettuce and occasional sliver of carrot into her mouth, chewing, and swallowing. The single wedge of tomato required special concentration as she ground it into pulpy pieces with the side of her fork and intently chewed each one. Just as she’d worked her way through her own small lunch, Trenton announced that he was ready to go out to the playground. Bolton got up and let him out of the booth, then sat back down again. Clarice lurched to her feet, intent on escaping with her son, but Bolton’s hand shot out and prevented her.
“He’ll be all right,” he said gently. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
She looked longingly after her son. “The sign says they’re supposed to have adult supervision.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “There are plenty of adults out there. Sit down.”
Deprived of her excuse,
