It was more than a little disconcerting to have such facts cataloged by an eleven-year-old. “No such thing.”
Liam pushed his cap back to stare at Mason. “Not according to her. Not when it comes to you. And she won’t let nobody tell her different, so if you ain’t figured out she’s sweet on you, you’re nowhere near as smart as I thought you were. I bet even Lizzie knows, and she’s all of five.”
The boy was right, but that didn’t make it okay for him to be spouting off like that. “You’re in way over your head there, mister.” Just because it needed saying, he added, “Miss Sanders is a fine lady who’s got better places to put her affections than the likes of me. And you’d best keep your opinions to yourself.”
“I got an eye for such things. Take Miss Sterling, for example. She’s had her heart broken bad. She never talks about it, sure, but I can see it just the same.” He tapped his temple with the air of an expert, smirking under the brim of his cap. “My ma was the neighborhood matchmaker, she was. It’s in the McLoughlin blood.”
Mason was tempted to make good on his threat to close the cell door. “It could be tanned on the McLoughlin hide if you keep up talk like that. You wouldn’t be the first boy I paddled for telling tales. I expect Miss Sanders has a few choice punishments for smart-mouthed lads, too.”
“Yep,” Liam sighed, not a bit rattled, “Ma always said it was the truth that got denied loudest. She likes you. But it’s more than that. You like her, too.”
“She’s a nice lady and a good teacher. We’re friends.”
Liam raised an eyebrow. “That ain’t what I said.”
“I know exactly what you said. And I’ve had about enough of that.” Mason rattled the cell keys at Liam. “Hush up.”
“’Course, she’s not as pretty as Miss Sterling, but she’s kind, and really smart. I sorta figured you for the kind to go for the lookers, though, seeing as—”
“Liam!” Mason slammed the keys on his desk and sat down, trying to decide if it was more dangerous to keep the boy here or send him back to the schoolhouse to have a similar conversation with Holly. Evidently, he was smart enough to know when to quit, for Liam silently held up his hands in surrender and kicked back for a nap.
By rights Mason ought to be angry at the boy for his bald-faced nerve. The youngster was beyond irksome. Still, one clear truth held Mason’s annoyance in check: Liam’s conversational dodge—clever as it was—had simply shown how frightened he was of never being placed. The lad would do anything to keep from hoping a family would actually want him. Like him, Liam had learned the hard truth that life hurts less when lived alone.
But, Mason thought as his chest pinched at the freckled chin jutting defiantly out from underneath that newsboy cap, did it really? Did it have to, especially at that age? Especially if there was something Mason could do about it? Was that the real reason he’d said “yes” to the Placement Committee?
Lord, deliver me from this boy.
Almost ten seconds went by before Mason realized he’d just said his first prayer in years.
* * *
Holly pulled the box from under her bed and foraged through the piles of books until she found the volume she sought: Illustrated Psalms. It was a small burgundy volume, and the gilded letters on the front and side had lost nearly all their shine. The red ribbon marker was thin and faded with age, though it hadn’t seen much use. The book had been a prize for perfect memorization of scriptures when she was younger. Lovely as it was, Holly always preferred her own Bible—the one with her name in Mama’s lovely handwriting and with all her favorite passages underlined—to the slim volume of psalms.
Bringing the lamp to the center of her table, Holly sat down with the book and looked through the texts. David was such a valiant, imperfect figure in scripture. Her fingers found the 25th Psalm almost immediately:
Remember, O Lord, Your tender mercies and Your loving kindnesses,
For they are from of old.
Do not remember the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions;
According to Your mercy remember me,
For Your goodness’ sake, O Lord.
She couldn’t imagine any better way to show God’s word to a man like Mason. He might chafe at the gift of a full, thick Bible, but somehow this little volume felt almost like a book of poems. They were poems, after all; deeply human, deeply emotional poems penned by a man whose life had taken as many turns and stumbles as Mason’s.
Holly read the passage from Psalm 32 that Reverend Turner had preached the Sunday after the dam had broken:
For this cause everyone who is godly shall pray to You
In a time when You may be found; Surely in a flood of great waters
They shall not come near him.
You are my hiding place;
You shall preserve me from trouble;
You shall surround me with songs of deliverance.
She believed these words with all her heart—and she wanted to share them with Mason in the hopes of healing his. For Mason’s sake and for her own, too, since she knew his heart had to heal before she could ever hope he might give it to her. Rebecca had spoken such truth: though she longed for Mason’s love, she’d never been bold enough to clearly show her feelings. That had felt brazen. But speaking the truth, speaking mercy to a man who beat himself up while ignoring how others admired him—how could that be anything but good?
Holly held the volume in both hands and tilted it slowly forward, nearly laughing to herself at the “drawbridge” imitation. God’s word was the strongest bridge she knew.
Holly thought for a long moment before reaching for her pen and inscribing the book. When she blew the words dry and tied the book shut with the new ribbon Rebecca had bought her, she felt...beautiful. Lovely in the eyes of God.
She would give him the volume. As soon as you grant me the opportunity, Lord. But be quick, or my courage might fail.
Chapter Eleven
Mason walked down First Street, trying to decide if he was delighted or annoyed. Supper at Bucky and Cindy Wyler’s home had been a baffling mix of good home cooking—a treat for any bachelor—and aching affection. Cindy fairly glowed with the secret of her impending motherhood, and if Bucky didn’t stop grinning like a fool, folks would certainly begin to guess. They were like any and every newlywed he’d ever met—full of hope and dumbstruck with love. Not that he begrudged either of them such enormous happiness, but it stuck in his craw the way all such domestic bliss did. His mind cast back to the orphans passing the candy in Gavin’s store window—suddenly aware of how hungry they were. Being alone was tolerable when he could put companionship out of his mind, but hard to bear when it was displayed in front of him.
I’ve had that, he tried to remind himself. He’d been that way those first months with Phoebe, grinning as widely as Bucky did now. Folks were lucky to get a love like that once in their lifetimes, if at all. He’d let his one chance at love fall to ruin, and nothing could change those odds. The whole “’tis better to have loved and lost” opinion? Well, he never could quite agree with that, even if Holly would surely quote it to him if given the chance.
Holly. How many times had she come to mind tonight? She’d settled in his mind like a wisp of smoke, hiding in corners, unseen yet everywhere. How many times had he told himself that Holly Sanders was too delicate to share his life? Unless he kept away from her, he was bound to hurt her, fail her as surely as he’d failed Phoebe. Trouble was, Holly wasn’t weak. She might be delicate, but glory if that woman hadn’t shown herself to be strong.
And what had he done in response? He’d been downright mean on their return to the train tracks. He’d meant to drive off any tenderness on her part toward him...but all he’d done was prove to himself how fine she was, how courageous and determined—not to mention how quick she was to forgive and seek peace between them, no matter what he did. He should have gone down a block, should have gone out of his way so that he didn’t have to see the light on in Holly’s window.
Instead, he found himself at the corner, standing, staring. Like a kid in a candy store window, he chided himself, but still did not move. Her home was like her—tidy, orderly, filled with fine things that were smooth and soft. His rough edges and broken pieces would never fit into her world, so why did she persist in looking at him the way she did?
Mason’s heart slammed up against his chest when he saw Holly’s curtains move aside and he recognized her silhouette in the window. He ought to duck away, only he couldn’t make his feet move. He let out a breath when she left the window, only to nearly gulp it back in again when her door opened to cast a wedge of golden light out into the night.
“Mason?”
Did she have to use his name right now? Don’t, don’t, don’t. But his cautions fell useless at his boots as he found himself walking toward her. Even cast in shadow, he could see the surprise in her eyes.
“Mason, that is you, isn’t it?” She looked around, recognizing what he already knew: no one else was out and about. Her voice was hushed and startled, as if they’d not seen each other in a dozen years. As if he were some sort of delightful surprise. The helpless pull he felt around her, the sensation that was like thirst or hunger only different, surged up worse than ever. She was so small and tender, hang her, it wasn’t fair. The deep night and the sapphire sky seemed too eager to coax him on.
“It’s me.” His voice was gruff, words choppy to match his near-stumbling steps. It felt like sliding down a mountainside, tumbling momentum pulling his balance out from underneath him.
“I’m so glad.” The way her face changed when he stepped into the wedge of light was just about the most tempting thing he’d ever seen. “I was just thinking about you.”
Now that was downright cruel. How on earth was he supposed to resist a notion like that?
“Oh, look at all those stars.” She tilted her head up to the sky, stunning as it was tonight, then reached behind her to shut the door. It was a practical thing—one could always see the stars better from the dark—but it felt far too intimate to be standing here in the dark near her. “I love the April sky.” She pointed up, naming some constellation he didn’t hear. He was too busy staring at the perfect curve of her cheek.
It took him a moment to realize she was holding a book tied up in a ribbon and she was visibly nervous. He made her nervous—how did that somehow make it all the more unbearable to feel his own heart thumping like it was? He’d meant to make her scared of him, hadn’t he? So why did that hint of anxiety make him want to comfort her? “What’s that?” He blurted it out just to force more conversation between them.
She blushed, her thick brown lashes flicking down as she ran one hand over the too-pink ribbon. “It’s a book,” she whispered with a tiny breath of delight he felt in every corner of his chest. “It’s a gift, actually.” Mason was certain the world tilted around the moon when she added, “And, well, it’s for you.”
She held it out to him. She was trying to be bold and confident about it, but he could see through that in a heartbeat. Her eyes held an uncertain, wobbly daring he’d never associate with her in a million years. Mason took the book from her hands, and the one place where his finger touched the back of her palm sent such a jolt through him that he wasn’t sure he didn’t audibly gasp. The way she sucked in her breath, he knew a similar sensation had gone through her at the contact, too. He was losing control of the situation—he knew that—and couldn’t bring himself to care.
Illustrated Psalms of David, the title said. The silver of the embossing glinted in the moonlight, giving the book a starlit quality. Psalms? Bible verses? He couldn’t help but ask, “Whatever made you want to give me these?”
It seemed to be just the wrong question, for her face flushed even more. It was a curious thing; time seemed to slow down, stretching itself out to let him discover every detail. Mason could read the progression of emotions on Holly’s face. She was startled by his question, as if he’d spied a secret she was trying to hide. Then she took a deep breath and decided to answer, chose to go ahead even though he could see clear as day that she was almost shaking. It near terrified him to see so much of her feelings, to know things he was sure he ought not to know.
“You.” Her voice was high-pitched and unsteady, but she pulled in another breath and started again, stronger. “You need these. You think you don’t, but you do. Read what I’ve written inside. That’ll tell you best of all.” She reached out and moved his hand to the tail of the pink ribbon.
The power of the flood’s tide itself couldn’t have stopped him from pulling on that ribbon. She’d inscribed a book to him. She, who loved books more than anything, was gifting him with one of hers. No one had ever done such a thing. Mason wasn’t even sure he still owned a book, anywhere. Some part of him came loose with the bow; he could feel it.
“To Mason,
Who believes himself lost, but isn’t.
God’s eye never wavers,
A forgiven future always waits,
And the true heart knows a true hero.
Holly”
* * *
Holly truly thought she might faint. This was far too bold; this was a foolish girl’s theatrics rather than any prompting of the Spirit. Holly shut her eyes, mortified, wishing she could even muster the strength to duck back into her house rather than stand here and face his rejection.
Then something rough and warm brushed her cheek. Holly’s eyes flew open to find Mason’s tentative finger following the curve of her jaw. His face was filled with strain, with a shocked sort of pain. At the same time, she could see easily behind the strain to something far more powerful. She couldn’t be sure what it was; only that it was dangerous. When she raised her hand, she honestly didn’t know whether it was to draw Mason’s hand closer or to shield herself from the storm behind his eyes.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She’d never been so close to him, and the pull between them was so powerful she couldn’t tell if it was seconds or hours before...
...before he kissed her.
Lightly, as careful as if she were glass, the roughness of his jaw brushed against her skin and she felt his lips whisper-light against her cheek. The whole world stopped; Holly’s fingers shot straight out as if stunned. It was as if the rush of his breath against her cheek was the only thing keeping her from falling over. Her eyes fell shut and the startled world began to tip and spin in all directions. This was what all the fuss was about. This was why women waited decades for men to come home and why men went to war and why love truly did conquer all.
Holly felt Mason hesitate, and she panicked. There was no thought, no decision, just a powerful need to hang on to him for dear life. She could not bear to feel him shrink back, not now. She’d been given a chance to reach the other side of his somber wall, to peer over to see the man she’d always somehow known was inside. Holly grabbed his hand, determination roaring up from a new place in her ribs that burned so close to him.
He did pull back, but not far, and looked at her with eyes as startled as she felt. Truly, Holly felt as if the flood’s wave had broken through a whole different kind of dam and swept them off their foundations. There was a moment, a terribly empty and yet incredibly full moment, when Holly had a clear look at the man inside Mason’s battleworn shell. Yes, the man she’d dreamed of was there. Affirmation soared through her. “Mason...” But what was there to say? What words would fit into the huge deluge of this moment?
He opened his mouth to say something, and Holly thought at last she would hear the exquisite sound of him using her name. She knew that would be the only thing more powerful than the fire in his eyes right now. Instead of speaking, Mason lowered his head and kissed her full on the lips.
This was a man kissing a woman. Not the schoolboy joke meant to taunt a mousy girl, but a potent, powerful kiss. If someone can die of bliss...she thought as her whole body felt the touch of his lips. As if all of her had been waiting for all of this...and wasn’t that true? One hand cu
pped her cheek where his finger had traced, careful yet insistent. He cared for her. She’d known it all along, no matter what he said. She wasn’t a foolish girl seeing affection where it was not. She was a woman who’d been given the gift of understanding a complicated man’s huge pain. Mason felt for her what she felt for him.
Just as she thought she might topple over, his hand slid around her waist. He was still holding the book, for she felt its corners press against her back. The thought of him embracing her with her gift in his hands was her undoing, and she slid her hand from his arm to wrap around his neck and pull him close.
It was exhilarating, terrifying...it was everything, everything all at once. Holly felt as if the sensation would swallow her whole and she would happily be consumed without a thought for the consequences.
There were consequences, weren’t there? She couldn’t possibly hold that thought as she felt them lean back together against her doorjamb. His arms were so strong, and she fit so wonderfully inside them. His kisses were fierce and tender at the same time; Holly startled herself by returning the kisses in kind.
He kissed her forever. At least, that’s what it felt like. Without opening her eyes, Holly was certain the stars were careening around them, time stilled and speeding at the same time.
But then he stopped, practically growled and pulled—no yanked, for it was a nearly violent move—himself away from her. Holly whimpered from the shock of the withdrawal, bracing herself against the doorjamb. His eyes were wide and confused, darting from side to side as if in danger. There was no need for him to speak, for every inch of him shouted “What have I done?” as if he’d yelled it to her face.
“Mason...” The lack of him, after being so consumed by him, pummeled her.
He nearly flinched at the sound of her voice, taking another step back, running one hand down his face. She felt his next two steps away from her as if they were physical blows, her own hands going to her chest. With horror she realized Mason had the same wounded shock on his face Mr. Arlington had displayed just before he fell to the ground. All-consuming regret. Regret.
Family Lessons Page 12
