A Wife Worth Waiting For. Arlene James

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ even a little defeating somehow. She felt suddenly diminished, as if she could not measure up to such a standard of goodness.

      “I—I have some errands to do,” she mumbled, turning away.

      “Fine,” he said. “Why don’t you meet us back here in a couple of hours? Then, if you have no other plans, maybe we could all go to lunch together?”

      That unexpected invitation sent her gaze zipping back around to his, but his expression was bland, almost impersonal. Obviously he was just being nice. He was a nice man, after all. He was a minister, for pity’s sake. She felt a stab of disappointment. “We’ll see,” she said softly.

      He didn’t reply to that, and she hurried away, scolding herself for such perverse emotions. Bolton Charles was a fine man, the sort to help anyone he could. Why should she resent his kindness toward her, especially as she was so willing to accept his kindness toward her son? She pushed the disturbing thoughts away, and knew herself for a coward. She simply could not go on refusing to think about the complications that popped up. Somehow she had to take back control of her own life and her son’s, and she couldn’t do it by continually sticking her head in the sand. She’d had enough of that.

      So then, what was she to do? Admit you’re attracted to that man, for starters, she told herself. But realize that his attentions to you are part and parcel of his ministry as he sees it—and nothing more. But she had to do more than realize that fact; she had also to accept it, weigh her own choices, and decide how to respond to the reverend. Resolutely, she turned the matter over and over in her mind while she went about picking up the clothes from the cleaner, dropping off the vacuum to be repaired and having her hair trimmed.

      By the time she returned to meet her son, she had had plenty of good, sober reflection, all done at a distance, and she welcomed the chance to relate to Bolton Charles strictly as a minister. The problem was that the windblown, panting fellow who jogged up to her car and greeted her was very much a man.

      His knit polo shirt clung to his body damply, revealing a flat middle, well-developed chest and broad, muscular shoulders. His dark hair had fallen forward in thick, gleaming waves, and he tucked his baseball mitt beneath one arm as he freed his hand and pushed his hair back off his forehead. His smile was immediate, welcoming and infectious. Trenton was right behind him and panting just as hard. Apparently they’d had a real workout with the ball gripped in Bolton’s right hand.

      Bolton laughed as the boy skidded to a halt and collapsed at the edge of the grass. “I think we may have gotten a little carried away,” he said to Clarice. “He’s got such a strong arm, I forget he’s a boy.” He looked back at Trenton as he said that last, and the boy beamed. Suddenly Bolton flicked his wrist, and the ball popped up out of his hand. With a grunt, Trenton threw himself backward, his arm flying out, and the ball plopped down into his glove as smoothly as if he’d been ready and waiting. “All right!” Bolton laughed and gave him a thumbs-up before turning back to Clarice. “Kid’s got great reflexes, too, and he throws really well on the move. I think you’ve got a fine, all-around athlete here and you ought to be getting him into Little League sports.”

      “Well, he does wrestle,” she said a bit defensively, and instantly regretted her tone.

      He seemed not to notice. “Yes, I know, and he’s been very successful at it. I think he can be just as successful at almost any other sport—baseball certainly, football, probably soccer. Basketball, I don’t know. Not my game. Anyway, I’ll look into it and find out what’s available, if you want.”

      For some reason the very idea sent her into a kind of panic. “Ah, no. I mean, we don’t want to be a bother, that is, more of a bother.”

      He flashed her a totally disarming smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m having a ball.”

      At that, Trenton quipped, “A baseball!” and let fly a high, wide zinger.

      Bolton lurched into action, sprinting across the parking lot to snatch the ball out of the air—barehanded. His glove lay on the asphalt at Clarice’s feet, where it had fallen when he’d darted after the ball. Clarice didn’t know which was more unbelievable, the satisfied look on Bolton’s face when that ball smacked into his bare hands or the force with which her own small son had hurled it heavenward. She was so caught up in those two interconnected mysteries that she at first did not register Trenton’s howl of remorse when that ball connected loudly with Bolton’s hands. Only when the boy hurtled past her, catapulting himself at Bolton, did she realize anything was wrong.

      “I’m sorry!” he cried. “I’m sorry! Your hands!”

      Bolton’s expression instantly sobered. He went down on his knees, pulling the boy into his arms. “Hey, pal, what’s this? You didn’t hurt me.”

      But even Clarice could see that her son’s eyes were big and filled with horror. She threw off her shock and started forward, instinctively squelching the desire to run.

      Bolton rolled the ball up onto his fingertips and showed it to Trent. “I’m fine,” he was saying. “Besides, it wasn’t your fault. Nobody made me go after that ball. I knew what I was doing, and I wouldn’t have gone after it if I hadn’t thought I could catch it safely. Here, I’ll show you.” He pushed the ball into Trenton’s trembling hand and turned his own palm up, his other arm wrapped snugly around the boy’s waist. He wiggled his fingers. “See. Right as rain.”

      In his relief, Trenton slumped against Bolton’s shoulder, and Clarice’s heart turned over as Bolton gave him a comforting hug. Her steps slowed, and she came to a halt. Bolton obviously had the situation under control, but it was more than that. Suddenly she felt like an interloper. Oddly, Bolton seemed to sense her feelings for he looked up then and smiled at her. His smile had the same comforting aura about it as that hug. She swallowed down a lump that had risen unexpectedly in her throat. Bolton shifted his arm to support the boy, then got to his feet and pushed up to a standing position, lifting the boy with him as easily as if he weighed no more than the ball. He walked toward her, carrying the boy against his shoulder. Trenton’s arms were around his neck, and Bolton spoke softly to him as they drew nearer. Trenton nodded and lifted his head, bestowing a smile upon his mother.

      “We’re ready for lunch, Mom,” Bolton announced, “and we want hamburgers.”

      “And fries!” Trenton added happily.

      Clarice gulped. “A-all right.”

      Bolton pushed on toward the car. It was a sleek, two-door white convertible with a candy-applered interior, her one attempt at recapturing a carefree youth she’d never actually had. After the impulsive purchase of it, the car had served merely to embarrass her on occasion. She bit her lip, wondering what the good reverend would think of it, and fell in beside him as he strode toward it.

      “Uh, you might want to take your own car,” she said, but he shook his head.

      “Nope. You can drive. I’m tired.”

      “Oh. Fine.” She couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t look tired. He looked like he could carry Trenton downtown and back without breaking into a sweat.

      He went around to the passenger side, opened the door, pulled the seat forward and gave Trenton a little shove into the back, claiming the front seat for himself. He slid down into place and buckled himself in. Clarice got in and did likewise, then adjusted the steering wheel to her liking and started the engine.

      “I imagine you’d like the air conditioner СКАЧАТЬ