by Tamara Leigh
But if she’s Reece’s—
Come on, you can’t base a relationship on deceit. You’d have to tell him that it’s only by the process of DNA elimination you’re able to claim he’s Devyn’s father. Then he’d be a fool not to demand his own test to confirm it. And what’s the chance he’d want anything to do with you after that?
With a click of the mouse, I return The Innocence of Beauty to cyberspace and push back from my desk. My Internet search will have to wait.
Shortly, pajama-clad and propped up by pillows, I strain to keep my attention on my parenting Bible study. This unit covers a parent’s role during different ages and stages, but it’s the teen years I’m concerned about—what the author calls the most challenging stage.
“Like I don’t know that.”
Of utmost importance is that the parent serve as the child’s guide, modeling more than lecturing, living out the life she wants her child to imitate.
“I think I’m doing a pretty good job of that.” Mostly. Fortunately, Devyn knows nothing about my sneaky DNA quest.
So, that makes it all right?
I read on. My husband and I—obviously not designed for single parents—are to show by example the following: prayer, praise, service, study of the Bible, and confession when we make mistakes.
Can you say DNA?
I flip ahead to the next unit, but the title is my cue it’s past my bedtime: “The Father’s Influence.”
I pop off the light, snuggle in, and close my eyes, but it soon becomes apparent I won’t be seeing the backside of my brain anytime soon.
“Okay, Lord…” I drop to the floor, clasp my hands, and knock my knuckles against my teeth. “All I want is to find out who fathered her. Why does it have to be so hard?”
You’re the one making it hard.
Was that me? “Uh, was that You, Lord?”
Talk to Reece.
No, not me. I would not advise that. “I can’t. This whole thing could blow up and send shrapnel straight at Devyn. And what if Reece is her father and tries to take her away?”
Talk to him.
“No. All I can do is find out who fathered her, and one day I’ll tell her. If she wants to contact him, she can.”
Talk to him.
“Amen.”
I shouldn’t be here, especially considering where I should be—at home putting together an overnight bag and firming up plans that will take me to Charlotte tomorrow morning. But here I am, standing outside Church on the Square at 6:45 at night, and all because Devyn wanted to help a friend research a paper at the library around the corner. I was tempted to discourage her, especially since we were already settled in at home when Bradley called, but the bookishly cute boy whom she’s known since kindergarten is probably the closest she has to a friend. Meaning I now have an hour to fill.
I glance over my shoulder at the auction house. Minutes earlier, the paperwork to which there’s never an end seemed the best use of my time, but as I started past the church that should have been closed at this hour, a well-dressed man and woman exited. And I felt the pull of the sanctuary that provided home-cooked solace when I was a teenage mother struggling toward adulthood with a baby under one arm and a full-time job under the other.
The man’s and woman’s figures retreat. They must have come from one of the community meetings held in the building. Rotary Club? Regardless, the church is open, though probably not for much longer. So maybe I’ll spend just a few minutes in the quiet, and then I’ll get to that paperwork.
“Here I come, Lord,” I murmur as I ascend the steps. “Go easy on me, will You?”
Inside, the sound of voices coming from the corridor on the right tug at my curiosity, and I veer away from the sanctuary to take a peek. At the sight of several adults spilling out of a Sunday school room—yes, must be a Rotary Club meeting or some such—I retreat and cross to the big double doors. I push through, then step into the dimly lit sanctuary. Almost instantly, calm washes over me. I have it all to myself, which is a first in ages.
“Okay, then.” I walk the aisle to the front pew that was no stranger to me when Devyn and I lived with Skippy.
“God don’t care where you sit,” she’d say. “I just like me the front row so’s I don’t get distracted from the message.”
Which sometimes happens to me, especially now that I’m sharing my church with Reece. Of course, this past Sunday, Yule and Skippy sat next to him on this front pew. Unfortunately, it distracted me even more seeing the back of his head between their two and remembering how much nearer I was to him when he gave me what he claimed wasn’t just a kiss.
“And, God help me”—I look to the cross behind the pulpit as I sink onto the pew—“it wasn’t.” I clasp my hands in my lap to keep my fingers from tracing the place where Reece was. I really need to forget that kiss.
“Lord,” I whisper, lowering my lids, “I may not be in Your will, but I have to think about what’s best for Devyn. This thing…” Emotion rushes up my throat, into my mouth and nose, and heads for my eyes. “This thing with Reece…I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to want him, ’cause when he leaves again…” I pull a tingling breath through my nose. “Too hard.” I drop my chin and shake my head. “Why did he have to come back? Why did You let him? I was on the right track. Yes, sometimes it got a bit crooked and I was a bit too…autonomous, but I was heading in a good direction. And now You want me to—”
I am not alone. As the sensation prickles across my shoulders, I open my eyes and follow the feeling around and over my shoulder. But it’s not the Lord walking the aisle—silly me. “Reece!”
In the midst of his retreat, he halts with his back to me, then turns and looks past a dark lock of hair that skims his eyebrows. “Sorry, Maggie. I thought you were just sitting there. It wasn’t until I got close that I heard you praying.”
Praying what? Which of the words weighting my heart made it to my lips? “Wh-what are you doing here?”
He faces me. “Attending a recovery group.”
Recovery? As in—? Oh. That’s right. But surely his taste for alcohol isn’t serious enough to require a recovery group—Reece Thorpe, whose faults were so few that one really couldn’t count them against him?
He jerks his head toward the doors. “We just finished up. I was coming out of the classroom when I saw you.”
Then that wasn’t a Rotary Club gathering. And why is he so willing to expose his weakness? Shouldn’t he keep it under wraps?
Like you with your teenage promiscuity? Maybe you should follow his example and come clean. You couldn’t ask for better timing.
“Again, I apologize for interrupting you. I’ll let you get back to—”
“No,” I say, though I inwardly cringe at the thought of following my own advice. “I’m done. Would you like to join me?”
He hesitates, as if as surprised by the invitation as I am, then strides forward and lowers to the pew. With a respectable foot and a half between us, he stretches an arm across the seat back. “Are you all right, Maggie?”
Which of my words meant only for God’s ears did he hear? And is this really the time and place to follow his example? I want to, but… “Yeah, fine.” I peer into his shadowed face, grateful those same shadows fall over mine. “Just everyday problems.”
He raises his eyebrows in an invitation for me to elaborate, but I can’t. Not yet. “So…recovery, hmm?”
His gaze flickers, but he inclines his head. “Recovery.”
“Why?” My smile feels pressed into place. “I mean, if you don’t have the problem anymore.” I blink. “Er, you don’t, do you?” If so, it probably is better that I keep my DNA quest to myself.
“I’ve recovered, although it had to have been easier for me than it is for a lot of others.”
“How so?”
He eases back a bit, and I’m amazed at how unperturbed he seems talking about something so raw and personal. “I recognized it as a problem before it devastated my relationshi
ps and my art. Not that I didn’t struggle with denial and suffer the effects, but once I accepted my dependence on alcohol, I got help.”
What made him start drinking in the first place?
“And part of staying healthy is regularly attending meetings like the ones held here.” No blush, no show of shame whatsoever. “It’s a matter of maintenance, accountability, and helping others who are trying to get to the place I’m at.”
Just like the Reece I remember—responsible, self-assured, and giving. “That’s admirable.”
He studies my face, and while my words were sincere, I stiffen at the feeling he can see past the shadows. “I’m glad you think so,” he finally says. “Not everyone does. There are those who believe I should bury that piece of my past since it scares some people away.”
I can see that. And yet, my emotions aren’t running for cover. Rather, they’re leaning nearer to him. Yes, if he is Devyn’s father, he may have passed on a genetic weakness for alcohol, but that’s not something he can control. What he can control, he has taken control of.
“In fact, I was able to come to Pickwick because I lost a church commission after I asked one of the committee members if the church offered a recovery program I could attend during my stay in that city.”
How bold. More, how wonderful to not worry about what others think…to be that comfortable with who you are…to not allow your past to define you. “I’m sorry he reacted that way.”
He chuckles. “I’d like it better if you weren’t sorry.”
“What?” It wasn’t just a kiss. “Oh.” Right. He wouldn’t be here. With me. But were I as honest as he’s been, would he still want to be here? He was hoping that kiss was just a kiss, meaning he wants a reason not to be here. And, boy, do I have one that will send him running—that is, unless Devyn is his daughter. In which case, I’m certain he would stick around to some degree, but his relationship with me would surely be based on obligation. And that would hurt too much.
Selfish.
Yes, I know it’s not just about what’s best for Devyn. I know I’m weak, but I can’t tell him. Forgive me.
“What is it?” He slides a hand to my shoulder—another reason to remain silent. I like his touch too much to be so near it and never feel it again. Better that when he leaves Pickwick, he stays gone. Then I can get back to…Well, what Devyn and I had before he came was good. Yes, at times lonely, especially when the day is folded away and out comes the night, but I prefer that to lonely and achy.
Drawing a deep breath, I shrug. “I appreciate your honesty, Reece. You set a good example.”
The curve of his mouth eases, and he releases my shoulder, leans forward, and clasps his hands between his knees. “But not good enough that you’ll let me in.”
I stand. “I think it’s for the best.”
“All right.” He looks up at me, a glint in his eyes. “For now.”
I stare at him. “For now?”
“My stay in Pickwick has only just begun.”
Meaning he thinks he’s going to whittle down my resistance?
A smile returns to his face. “Who knows?”
I know. “Have a nice evening, Reece.” I step around him, hurry up the aisle, and blow out a breath when the door swings shut behind me.
I look up. “I thought You were going to go easy on me.”
No, you asked Him to go easy on you.
True. And He doesn’t always answer prayers the way we want Him to. On the upside, that could mean He has something better planned for me. On the downside, there’s no guarantee I’ll like it.
If I had to live in a big city, Charlotte could be the one. Like a true Southern belle, she sits pretty as you please near North Carolina’s southern border. With her great hoop skirts spread out around her—suburbs, gardens, historic plantations, wildlife sanctuaries—one can easily imagine her coyly smiling over her shoulder at her second-best beau, South Carolina. So close…
“Close doesn’t count,” my mother would say when I placed as runner-up in a beauty contest. “No tiara, no applause.”
Thinking of my mother, she surprised me by offering to stay with Devyn while I’m out of town. Bridget was willing and was Devyn’s first choice, but not only have I yet to take my mother to lunch, it’s better for my daughter to be in her own home during the school week. My only concern is that in my absence, the distance I’m trying to maintain between Reece and Devyn could be compromised. Maybe I should have let Devyn stay with Bridget—
No, my mother and Devyn aren’t likely to run into Reece. In fact, outside of school drop-off and pickup, the two will keep to our home so my mother can make my house look unlived-in with all of her organizing and de-piling.
Ugh. I like my piles. I know what’s in them, and with a bit of digging, I can prove it. Speaking of digging…
It took effort, but I dug up enough on Gary to place myself firmly in his orbit. The corporate offices of the bank he works for are located on North Tryon Street in uptown Charlotte, handily down the road from my hotel. As for how to get close to him, that could be easier than expected. Since his bank is the biggest sponsor of The Marriage of Figaro, now appearing at the Blumenthal Performing Arts Center, it’s reported that many of those in upper-level management will be in attendance this evening. I’m counting on Gary to be among them. If he isn’t or I’m unable to recognize him from the bank’s Web site photo, I’ll be out eighty-plus dollars for orchestra-level seating. Worse, I’ll have to go to Plan B, and I’m not clear what that is.
I arrived at the theater an hour early to be on the lookout. Now it’s only fifteen minutes until curtain time when I’ll sit down to an opera—me, Maggie Pickwick, who clicks past the earsplitting vocal displays that pop up on national public television. Hopefully the experience is better in person. If not, my hope is entirely dependent on getting what I need from Gary.
“Where are you?” I whisper from behind the cup of coffee I hold near my mouth. “Come on, I’m not asking much. And I’m sure your wife would enjoy a night out.” Yes, he’s married—with one child—which blows Devyn’s hope that he and I could be a couple. Not that there was a chance of that on my end, but it’s the proof my daughter will need to reset her quest for a live-in father. Providing Gary is the one.
I adjust my shawl and once more scan the immense lobby, searching for a pale and somewhat-pudgy version of the jock I knew. Hundreds of people mill about with wine, coffee, and bottled water. Unfortunately, with each passing minute, the possibility increases that the one I’m looking for has already entered the theater or isn’t coming at all.
“Where are you?” I bounce on my two-inch heels, causing my drink to slop near the cup’s lip and threaten my cream-colored evening gown.
“Maggie? Is that you?”
“Ah!” Fortunately, my reflexive backward thrust causes the coffee to slop to the floor. Hardly able to believe my luck, I look up into a not-so-pale or pudgy face. So much for luck. “Er…?”
“Gary Winsome.”
I wasn’t pretending not to recognize him. It was simply a lag between brain and tongue, but who am I to correct him? “Gary! It is you.”
A grin breaking across his tanned face, he slides a hand down the lapel of his tuxedo jacket, as if to draw attention to his firm chest and abdomen. “It’s me.”
“Nice to see you again.” And it is. Just ask my little baggie.
Gary raises his wine glass as if in toast. “When I saw red hair from across the lobby, my first thought was of you.”
And yet he came all the way over here when I would have expected him to walk wide around me. Has he matured enough to acknowledge Devyn could be his? Does he regret turning his back on us?
Stop it! This only complicates matters, since you’re not going to do anything with the DNA results. The testing is to prove Reece isn’t Devyn’s father so when she’s old enough to know who fathered her, you won’t be empty handed.
Which is why I should have confined my hair to a bun, and I woul
d have if the mirror in my hotel room hadn’t been so persuasive. In the end, I struck a compromise, pulling my hair back from my face but allowing it to fall in attractive curls and waves down my back. Unfortunately, though there may be two thousand people in attendance tonight, this much red stands out.
“But then I thought,” Gary continues, “it must be someone else, because what would Maggie Pickwick be doing in Charlotte?”
Indeed. His brown hair is nearly the color of Devyn’s. I slip a finger inside the springy watchband, tug, and release. Ouch! But a good ouch.
“Yet here you are.” He lingeringly surveys me. “More beautiful than ever.”
I suppress the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. No married man should look at any woman other than his wife like that. I lift my chin. “So, you live here in—?”
“Gary?” a woman’s voice approaches, and we both look around at a cute twenty-something in a strapless green gown. The woman moves fast for someone with such a short stride and, a moment later, loops her arm through Gary’s. “Are you going to introduce me, sweetheart?” Her voice is decidedly un-Southern; her smile, big and “don’t touch my man” bright.
“Darlin’, this is Maggie Pickwick. We went to high school together.”
“Is that right?” That last word ends high.
“Maggie, this is Sirena, my date for the evening.”
But he’s married. I check out his left hand but no wedding band. And his date isn’t wearing one either. So, Gary is cheating on his wife? The lowlife! Lord, please don’t let him be Devyn’s father.
The woman extends a hand. “Sirena Payton.”
I shake her hand, a limp thing that isn’t much bigger than Devyn’s. “Nice to meet you.”
“Um-hmm.” She looks up at Gary. “Sweetheart, we ought to—”
“I can’t get over this.” Gary shakes his head at me. “It’s been…what? Thirteen years? Why, the last time I saw you…” His boyish smile sticks, then slides away.
I know what that is. It’s realization in the wake of a memory reel that replayed the last time he saw me—a very pregnant Maggie whom he quickly looked away from as she stepped from the stage with diploma in hand. This hurts. Were I given a choice, he would remain the louse I’ve imagined him to be all these years—successfully battling his conscience. However, there may not have been a conscience to start with, since he appears to have put my daughter from his mind as if she never existed.
