Giving Thanks For Baby

by Terri Reed

  “Now look what you’ve gone and done, Elise,” a tall raven-haired man with a thick mustache said as he tucked a napkin into the collar of a boy who looked like a small replica of himself. “You made her cry. Scott’s going to think twice about bringing home girls.”

  “I’m not—” Trista stuttered and blinked rapidly. She caught the embarrassed look on Scott’s face as he took a seat across the table from her. She swallowed to regain her voice. “I’m very glad to be here, as well. You all are so welcoming, it’s a bit overwhelming.”

  Mrs. Crosby came in just then. “Here now, are you all torturing our guest?”

  “Auntie Elise made the lady cry,” explained the girl with dark red pigtails from the other end of the table.

  Mrs. Crosby tsked. “Leave her be. Joe, come get the turkey.” The two disappeared back into the kitchen.

  The teenage girl sitting beside Trista leaned close. Her big green eyes and wide smile showed her lineage. “I’m Beth. Don’t mind them. They’ll settle down soon. I always warn my friends when they come over to be prepared and not to take anything anyone says personally.” She sighed as her gaze strayed to Scott. She lowered her voice. “Uncle Scott’s not so keen on it.”

  Very perceptive girl, Trista thought as she watched Scott talking with a preteen boy on his right.

  Beth added, “Neither is Johnny.” She pointed her finger to a boy who sat in the end seat. His dark head bent forward, his gaze downcast.

  Trista’s heart went out to the boy. He seemed so out of place among the boisterous clan. “Is he okay?”

  Beth giggled. “He’s reading. Look under the table.”

  Making a show of dropping her napkin, Trista bent and gazed down the length of legs to Johnny’s. Sure enough an open book lay in his lap. She straightened. “That’s one way of escaping the chaos,” she murmured.

  John and Ana came back out of the kitchen with more dishes. Mrs. Crosby carried in a carving knife while Mr. Crosby placed a huge golden turkey on the table. Taking the carving knife from his wife, he laid it on the table, as well. Then he took his wife’s hand. She in turn, took the person’s hand next to her, and so it went around the table. Trista met Scott’s warm gaze. She wished he was sitting beside her so she could hold his hand.

  “Scott, why don’t you say the blessing, since that is your job,” Mr. Crosby said, his voice crisp.

  Scott blinked, breaking eye contact before bowing his head. He spoke in a gentle and reverent tone.

  After the blessing, the meal was a whirlwind of bowls and plates being passed and laughter and conversation blending into its own special music. Aidan dug his fingers into the mashed potatoes and smeared them all over his face, much to the younger children’s delight. Trista ate so much she thought she’d pop.

  As the feast wore down and the plates and the soiled table covers were cleared away, to Trista’s amazement, everyone resumed their seats. She’d expected the children to run off to play and the adults to return to the living room. Elise gave Trista a clean rag to wipe up Aidan and Ana provided some toys for him to play with.

  Mrs. Crosby brought out a medium-sized plant pot decorated in harvest colors. Something clinked inside the pot before she dumped the contents on the middle of the table. Pebble-sized pieces of silver and gold slid down the polished wood table.

  A flurry of hands reached for them. Beth placed several in front of Trista before pushing a large handful farther down.

  Trista picked up one and examined it. It looked to be a painted lima bean. Her heart sped up as she lifted her gaze to Scott. He pensively fingered a bean.

  “Trista, this is a family tradition that started with my grandparents and has continued on,” explained Mr. Crosby. “Everyone takes some beans and then we pass the pot around. As we drop a bean inside, we say what we’re thankful for.” He dropped a bean in the pot. “I’m thankful for my family.” He passed the pot to John who sat on his right.

  Realization hit Trista in a flash. Her gaze jumped to Scott as ribbons of excitement unwound through her. He glanced up and cocked his head in question at her. She was too far away to speak to him, but she was going to bust if she couldn’t say something soon. The pot landed in front of Scott. He dropped in his bean and said, “I’m thankful…for Trista.”

  There were giggles around the table. Trista could feel her cheeks heating and pleasure filled her heart. Finally, the pot came to her. She picked up a bean and placed it inside. “I’m thankful to be here.”

  She passed the pot on. It went around several more times. By the last pass, the sentiments had become hilarious. Johnny dropped his bean in and announced, “I’m thankful for Captain Underpants books!”

  Trista laughed so hard her sides hurt. Eventually, the kids left and most of the adults drifted away to turn on a football game in the living room or help in the kitchen.

  Trista rose, thinking to offer her help in the kitchen, as well.

  Scott sat in the chair vacated by Beth. “Don’t go.”

  Trista sat back down and grinned. “I joined MOPs.”

  “Excellent! Elise and Lydia both belong to the local one here,” he said.

  “Well, a friend advised me to.”

  “Smart friend.” His bright blue eyes glowed with interest, but not an inkling of connection.

  “A friend I met online,” she singsonged.

  That got his attention. “Online?”

  “And this friend told me about this great family tradition of the pot with the beans.”

  She grinned with delight as realization lit his eyes. She wondered what he’d say if she told him she was falling in love with him. The knowledge of that thought took her breath away.

  “You’re Momof1?”

  “Yes,” she said a little breathlessly. “And you’re Called2serve.”

  He laughed. “That’s too funny. Wait until I tell Naomi.”

  “Tell Naomi what?” Kyle pulled up a chair.

  Trista and Scott exchanged glances. “Nothing. Private joke,” Scott said.

  “Oooh. You have private jokes? That’s how it starts,” Kyle said with a cunning grin.

  “Go away,” groused Scott.

  Lydia came up and sat on her husband’s knee. “Is he bothering you two?”

  “Yes,” said Scott.

  “No,” said Trista at the same time.

  Lydia laughed. “Well, I need to borrow him a moment.” To Kyle she said, “The kids want to play air hockey but can’t get the thing to work.”

  Kyle stood, picking up his wife in the process. “Okay, you two. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Lydia giggled as he carried her away.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Scott said, his expression exasperated.

  “No need to apologize.” Trista took his hand. “You have a great family who loves you very much.”

  “Yeah,” he scoffed.

  She squeezed his hand. “I see it even if you can’t. All their teasing and little gibes are not out of disrespect.”

  “It sure feels like it,” he said, his gaze downcast.

  “I think that’s because you take it that way. Trust me. They all love you.”

  Scott wanted to believe her. “Well, I’m still a disappointment.”

  “How can you say such a thing?”

  “You heard my dad,” he said. “Because it is your job,” he intoned in a deep voice, mimicking his father.

  “Well, it is your job. And he didn’t say it with any type of disrespect or disapproval in his tone.” She stared him in the eye, direct and stern. “You’re being too sensitive.”

  Leave it Trista not to pull any punches. Was he being too sensitive? He’d never been comfortable with rough play or practical jokes. He’d always found his brothers’ sense of humor slightly offensive and could never understand how Elise put up with them. “Son?”

  Scott looked at his father who stood near the staircase. “Yes, Dad?”

  “Can I talk with you for a moment?”

  A stab
of worry pierced his gut. “Uh, sure.” Scott said to Trista, “I’ll be right back.”

  Scott followed his father upstairs to his study. The room hadn’t changed much since Scott was a child. Degrees and diplomas hung on the walls as well as family photos taken over the years. His dad’s desk was covered in medical journals and papers. His dad sat at his desk, pushed some papers aside and then fired up his desktop computer.

  “Have a seat,” Dad said.

  Unsure what was going on, Scott sank back into the leather recliner in the corner. The scent of his father’s aftershave clung to the worn leather bringing back memories of days when Scott had hid in the study to avoid his brothers. He’d loved to curl up in the recliner and read.

  Now he braced himself as Dad swung around to look at him.

  “I want to talk about the anniversary party,” Dad explained. “The others are planning stuff, all that frou-frou kind of thing your mother loves. I was thinking we could renew our vows and you could officiate.”

  Scott’s mouth opened. “You want me to?”

  Dad cocked his eyebrow. “Well, who else would I ask? You’re the pastor in the family.”

  Stunned pleasure left him speechless for a moment. He found his voice. “I’d be honored, Dad.”

  “Good.” Dad sighed. “Could you look at this and tell me what you think? I wrote this for your mother for our anniversary.”

  This unexpected turn of events made Scott’s knees wobble as he got up and came over to the computer to view an open document. As Scott read the words his father had written tears burned the back of his eyes. His father had written a letter that told how much he loved his wife and his children, naming each child and telling a bit about what he loved about them. A tear slipped unchecked down Scott’s cheek as he read what his father had said about him.

  My son Scott, who brightens the world with his compassion and empathy, has been a source of joy for his mother and I. We thought we were done having children when Scott came along. But he brought this family closer together and continues to be a source of light in our lives.

  “Is it too mushy?” Dad asked, his voice holding a note of uncertainty.

  Choked up, Scott could only shake his head.

  “Okay, then.” Dad closed out the program.

  Scott cleared his throat. “Dad, why did you want me to look at it?”

  His dad scoffed. “You think one of those bozos downstairs would give me an honest answer? As it is, they’ll be ribbing me until I’m in the grave for writing something so mushy. I’d rather wait until after I read this to your mother before I take the hits.”

  So Dad didn’t fully enjoy the teasing, either.

  “Mom’s going to love it,” Scott said, feeling closer to his dad than he’d ever felt and needing to ask, “I hope that this means I’m no longer a disappointment to you.”

  His father’s eyebrows rose clear to his hairline. “Excuse me? Disappointment? Where’d you get a lamebrain idea like that?”

  Stunned, Scott couldn’t come up with an answer right away. Was Trista right that he’d been too sensitive? “You always pushed me to be like the others.”

  His dad rubbed his chin. “I did push you. Not to be like your brothers but because your mother and I worried about you. You were always such a sensitive kid, getting your feelings hurt over things that the rest of us didn’t understand. Your mom and I spent many sleepless nights afraid of how the world would treat you. I wanted to make sure you were strong. I never meant to make you think you were a disappointment.”

  Years of resentment and anger melted in Scott’s veins as if his father’s words were a powerful lamp of light. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s nothing to say,” Dad stated and rose to wrap Scott in his big, strong arms.

  Scott hugged his father back fiercely. “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you, son. And I’m proud of you.” He eased Scott out of his embrace and then gently socked him in the arm. “Now, that we’ve gotten the mushy business over with, we better get back or they’ll think we’re up to something,” Dad said as he headed out the door.

  On the landing to the stairs, Dad stopped and faced Scott. “Just so you know, I like your friend.”

  Scott smiled wide. “Me, too.”

  Dad clapped him on the back nearly knocking him down the stairs. “She’s a keeper, son. Don’t let this one get away.”

  Alone on the landing, Scott leaned against the wall. His spirit felt light and his head was spinning. His father was proud of him. He wasn’t a disappointment.

  And Dad approved of Trista.

  Now all Scott had to do was sweep Trista off her feet.

  Scott came down the stairs to see John and Aaron, his oldest teenager, wrestling on the living room floor. Trista sat on the couch with Aidan sound asleep on her shoulder.

  Near the fireplace Johnny stretched out on the floor reading a book. Scott’s dad bent to ruffle the boy’s hair before disappearing into the kitchen. Johnny combed down his hair with an impatient hand.

  Scott blinked as memories came flooding in. How many times as a child had Scott sat in that same place and had his father walk by to ruffle his hair?

  Too many to count.

  And Scott had been impatient and irritated, thinking his dad had only wanted to bug him, but Scott realized it was his father’s way of showing his love in a simple, unmushy gesture. Scott decided he’d take Johnny for a walk later and make sure the boy understood their crazy family idiosyncrasies.

  But first, there were matters of the heart to be taken care of.

  Scott took the seat on the couch next to Trista. She immediately touched his hand. “I received a text message from Lynda. She and Logan are okay.”

  He turned his hand to capture her fingers. “That’s a relief.”

  Her gaze dropped to their clasped hands. “Yes, it is.”

  Leaning closer, he asked softly, “Hey, I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  She stared into his eyes. “Dinner?”

  He nodded, holding his breath.

  An excited light entered her gaze. “Like, as in a date?”

  He grinned. “Yeah. Like, as in a date.”

  She grinned back. “I’d love that.”

  “Woohoo. The squirt has himself a date!” John exclaimed as he pinned his son to the floor.

  Instead of getting irritated at his brother’s invasion of his personal space and privacy, Scott grinned and said, “Yes, I do.”

  And he’d found the woman of his dreams.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-0883-8

  GIVING THANKS FOR BABY

  Copyright © 2007 by Harlequin Books S.A

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Steeple Hill Books.

  ® and TM are trademarks of Steeple Hill Books, used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  www.SteepleHill.com

 

 

 
ayscale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share