A Wife Worth Waiting For. Arlene James

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СКАЧАТЬ sort of thing that Bolton Charles was paid to do. Visit the infirm and elderly, render aid to the needy, comfort, advise, counsel, exhort, pray…organize, oversee, encourage, teach, preach, intercede, introduce, support, defend…The list was endless, but they were all duties, each and every one, for which he was called much more than hired, and for that reason he would clear his schedule and appear at Revere House at precisely eleven the next morning. He would have gone even if Revere previously had tossed him out on his backside, revoked his church membership and demanded a refund of his tithes. Bolton’s reasons were simple. He was a man of God, a minister, sworn to aid the needy in body and soul in the name of his Lord. He considered that no greater calling existed, and he was thankful beyond words that it was his own. But that moved him no closer to divining Wallis Revere’s problem.

      Might not the old boy have developed a concern for his soul? The dying often did, and it certainly was not beyond the realm of possibility that the man was dying. Bolton hoped it was not so. A minister’s job was inexorably coiled up with death, and while his personal belief in heaven was firm, dealing with death and dying and its aftermath for the living was a decidedly unpleasant business. But one he did well, especially after his own personal experience in that area. He had never truly understood the matter of comfort for the bereaved or how to give it until Carol had left him. He wondered who, if anyone, would grieve Wallis Revere.

      By eleven the next morning, he had satisfied himself somewhat on that question. A discreet conversation with his secretary, Cora Beemis, had elicited the nearly forgotten intelligence that the Revere family consisted of Wallis, a young grandson and a daughter-in-law, the widow of Revere’s son and only child, who had died some years previously in a riding accident. Neither the daughter-in-law nor the grandson were members of the congregation, which, coupled with Revere’s stubborn reclusiveness, explained why Bolton knew little of them. He was relieved, however, just to know that they existed. It was the thought of them that occupied his mind as he turned his conservative four-door sedan through the brick columns flanking the broad drive of the Revere estate.

      Estate was the only word for the Revere place. It was nestled, as much as a three-story Georgianstyle colonnaded house with various outbuildings could be nestled, in a gentle, shady hollow on the northern edge of the Duncan city limits. The site itself was atypical of this section of Oklahoma, which tended to consist of rolling fields spliced with low, eroded, red-orange cliffs sparsely scattered with spindly post oak, willow and mesquite. The only significant tree growth seemed to be restricted to the areas surrounding the creeks, lakes and ponds that dotted this south central portion of the state. But Wallis Revere had found—or created—a cool, leafy vale all his own, as cool, anyway, as an Oklahoma morning in a new June could get. The radio had reported only minutes earlier that the temperature was eighty-four degrees and climbing. It would break ninety before the day was done, and soon summer would be upon them with a vengeance.

      Bolton parked the car in a shady spot on the circular drive and lowered the window several inches before getting out. The place was quiet except for the rustle of leaves and the gentle chirping of unseen birds. A fat blond cat with a single ear and a patchwork of scars on one flank ambled up the brick walk with dignified unconcern. Bolton followed it to the door, feeling absurdly as if he ought to speak.

      “Nice day for a stroll, isn’t it?”

      The cat twitched its single ear as if in dismissal and hopped up onto the doorstep, twisting itself sinuously around the base of a big clay pot containing a small tree and a lot of drooping ivy. Bolton stepped up behind the cat and pressed the doorbell button. Almost instantly the paneled door opened and a plump, smiling Mexican woman appeared. She was wearing a simple shirtwaist dress, a pristine white apron and clunky black shoes. Her hairline was streaked with gray, but the long ponytail draped over one shoulder was black as ink. Her slender black eyebrows went up.

      “Preacher?” she asked in heavily accented English.

      Bolton nodded. “Reverend Charles. And you are?”

      “Teresa.”

      “Nice to meet you, Teresa.”

      She giggled and beckoned with a plump, chapped hand for him to follow. “Mister Wallis is in the study,” she informed him, leading him across the foyer and down a long, dark hall flanking the stairwell. She opened a door and stepped aside.

      Bolton gave her a truncated bow and a smile. “Thank you, Teresa.”

      Wallis Revere was seated in his wheelchair before a cold fireplace. “Close the door,” he ordered summarily.

      Bolton complied. So much for the niceties of polite greetings and small talk. He walked farther into the room and let his gaze take in the old man glaring up at him with piercing eyes. Revere seemed not to have changed so much as a cell. His hair, though white, was lushly thick and meticulously groomed. His long, narrow face was scored and sunken, yet somehow vital, despite the pallor of his skin, the razor thinness of his nose and the weight of bushy white brows that seemed drawn together in a permanent scowl. Perhaps that face owed its vitality to his mouth, which was wide and full-lipped. Yes, the mouth—and the eyes, which were as bright and vibrant a green as any emerald.

      Bolton took in the burgundy cardigan, the soft gray shirt and the carefully knotted tie, the starched creases of charcoal slacks, coordinated argyles and black wingtips and decided that death was not yet knocking at this particular door. Relieved, he allowed himself to relax and give rein to his curiosity. “How can I help you, Wallis?”

      Revere leaned back in his chair. He was a tall, thin man with big feet and hands, now gnarled and weak but still commanding. He seemed to be trying to satisfy himself on some private point, then having done so, nodded. “Sit down, Reverend. I don’t like to ask favors of anyone I have to look up to.”

      Bolton tried not to show his surprise as he crossed to a comfortable leather wing chair and folded himself into it. Favors? Since when did Wallis Revere ever ask favors of anyone? Bolton folded his hands and leaned forward, indicating his willingness to listen.

      Wallis Revere grimaced. “What I wouldn’t give for arms and legs that work, as they’re supposed to,” he said, then lifted his chin. “I have a job for a man, a real man, not some nambypamby afraid of his own shadow. Mind you, I don’t want a bully, but I need a man of strong character and deep conviction. I think you’re that man.”

      Bolton couldn’t have contained his surprise this time if he’d tried. “Well, thank you.”

      Revere lifted a gnarled hand dismissively. “I’ve met a good many ministers in my day. Some are sensitive to the point of being effeminate and so other-worldly, they’re of no use in this one. I judge you the exception, and that’s why I’ve asked you here.”

      Bolton waited, sure more was to come.

      Wallis Revere smiled in a smug, self-satisfied manner and got down to it. “I have an eight-year-old grandson, soon to be nine. His father got himself killed over five years ago. Pulled a damn fool stunt on a horse and got his neck broke. In all the time since, there have been just his mother and I, for all the good I am to him. He needs the company and influence of a whole man, someone strong but respectful, someone who knows his duty and doesn’t shirk it.”

      Why, the old crank was looking for a surrogate father for the boy! Bolton lifted both slender, coffee black brows, torn between amusement and offense. Clearly Revere thought him man enough for the job, but Bolton suspected Revere considered him “manageable” as well. Perhaps it was time to disabuse the old boy. “I think playing dad to a boy I’ve never even met is stretching the description of my ‘duties’ pretty thin. I’m a minister, not a foster parent.”

      Revere СКАЧАТЬ