relief. Church was certainly a nice, safe subject to discuss with a minister. She made herself smile. “No, we don’t attend elsewhere. It’s Wallis. He doesn’t like to go out now that he’s confined to the wheelchair, so we sort of hold our own service on Sunday mornings. Wallis chooses a passage from the Bible, and I read it aloud and answer any questions Trenton may have about it.”
“He has quite a few questions, does he?”
“More and more as he gets older.”
“Don’t you think he might benefit from an organized Bible study, then?”
“Yes, I’m sure he would.”
“Good. Now what about you?”
She blinked at him. “Me?”
He laid his hands flat against the tabletop. They were large hands with wide palms and long, gracefully tapered fingers with healthy, oval nails. “We have a Bible class at the church for women your age. It’s a friendly bunch. I’m sure you’d like them.”
“I—I’m sure I would.”
“You wouldn’t have to stop Wallis’s private services,” he pointed out. “You could always do both.”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to speak to Wallis.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I was under the impression that you were taking charge of your own life.”
“I am.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem, and I don’t want to cause any.”
He looked down, pressed his napkin to his mouth and wadded it up. “If you don’t want to come, just say so.”
“It’s not that!”
He pinned her with dark, intense eyes. “Then what is it?”
She couldn’t even breathe, let alone formulate a coherent answer. She just sat there with her mouth open, like a fish out of water. To her utter confusion, he smiled and changed the subject.
“I like your hair. You got a good cut. Mine always take two or three weeks to look like it’s supposed to.”
“Maybe you need to change barbers,” she managed to mumble, flattered but shaken that he’d even noticed.
He laughed. “And insult a faithful member of my congregation?”
She grimaced. “That is awkward.”
He shrugged. “Comes with the territory. There are worse things than a bad haircut.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she didn’t say anything at all. Instead, she watched Trenton out the window. He was crawling across a rope bridge strung between two barrels suspended no more than three feet off the ground. Two other boys were running around with toy guns pretending to shoot each other. Trenton stopped to watch them, and they shot right through him, ignoring him as if he wasn’t there. Even at a distance, she could not miss the longing look in her son’s eyes. She bit her lip. Oh, why had she let this happen? She wanted to cry. Bolton noticed and looked over his shoulder. He sized up the situation in a moment, and when he turned back to her, he reached for her hand.
“He’s going to be all right,” he said, turning her hand over in his. “He’s a great kid, Clarice. A super kid. Bright, sensitive, caring. He just needs a little practice with kids his own age. That’s another reason I want to see you get him involved in Little League, and it wouldn’t hurt if he attended Bible study on Sunday mornings, either. I’ll pave the way for him, if you’ll let me.”
The last was as much a question as a statement. She made an instant decision, telling herself that it had nothing to do with the way that heat was spreading up her arm. “Yes, please.”
He smiled and gripped her hand tighter. “I’ll call his Sunday school teacher and tell her to expect him. She’ll introduce him to the other kids and make sure he gets involved in a group activity. I’ll also see what I can find out about Little League sports in this area. It may be too late to get him on a baseball team for this season, and it’s definitely too early for football, but there is bound to be something gearing up. What about swimming lessons? Has Trent been taught to swim?”
She nodded. “I insisted. We have a pool.”
“Let me guess. Private lessons.”
She winced. “How did you know?”
“Would Wallis Revere send his only grandson down to the public pool?”
“No, but I should have insisted he do so.” She sighed and dropped her gaze, carefully extracting her hand from his. That was when she saw the bruise. “Bolton!” He attempted to close his hand, but she grabbed his wrist and pried his fingers down. The center of his palm—his left palm, not the right, which was the one he’d shown Trenton—was a purplish red.
“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed.
“I hardly think it’s worth bothering Him about,” he quipped, gently indicating his disapproval of her choice of words.
“I’m sorry, but you’re hurt!”
“It’s just a bruise.”
“Your hand could be broken! Of all the idiotic—”
“It’s not broken,” he said, suddenly gripping her fingers to make his point. “See? It doesn’t even hurt. And I don’t want Trent thinking it’s his fault. That wasn’t the first time I’ve pulled that particularly stupid stunt. I knew better, and I did it anyway, but if he sees or hears of this bruise he’ll blame himself, so not another word, you hear me?”
She nodded, so profoundly sorry and yet grateful at the same time that tears gathered in her eyes. Bolton laughed and gently smoothed his thumbs over her cheekbones.
“Well, now I know who he gets the guilts from,” he said teasingly, then he added in a soft voice, “as well as his good looks.”
Her mouth fell open again. He shook his head and chucked her under the chin. She snapped it shut just as Trenton ran up to the table. Bolton made the transition as smoothly as buttering bread. “Ready to go?” he asked the boy.
Trent nodded, and Bolton piled their refuse on the tray. Trent went to dump it in the trash can, and Bolton turned to follow, but Clarice grabbed his arm before he could get away.
“Thank you,” she said, “for lunch and…” She couldn’t think how to finish the sentence without embarrassing herself.
He smiled and waved her in front of him. “You’re welcome.” With that, he ushered her out after her son.
“What’s the matter, pal? Want to talk about it?”
Trent
