Amused, she winced playfully. “Me and my big mouth. I need to learn to keep it shut.” She pulled the mail out of the box and shut the lid.
“Too late. I already know that little tidbit of information.” He patted her shoulder. “So I can count on you?”
“Why not? My exams are all ready. No papers to grade. The clock is ticking down, and a smile is rising.” She sent him a toothy grin.
“Now that you shared that piece of news, I have another idea.”
She did a quick two-step backward. “Sorry, I can’t hear you.” Her feet carried her farther away.
He beckoned her toward him, and she grudgingly acquiesced.
“What?” she asked, tilting her head with a pitiful frown.
“It’s this way.” He took his finger and lifted the corners of her mouth, forcing them into a grin. “I have to do something tonight I’m not crazy about. . .and I thought maybe you’d like to join me.”
Her forced grin grew into a real smile. “Now there’s an offer that’s hard to pass up.” She glanced at her mail, then tapped it against her cheek. “So what not-crazy-about activity are you asking me to participate in? Bungee jumping off a bridge? Sky diving from a jet?”
“Sounds like you aren’t crazy about heights.”
“That and snakes. Don’t ask me to do anything that involves either of those things.”
She looked squeamish just mentioning snakes, and her expression tickled him. “No snakes. No heights. You’re safe.”
“Safe? I doubt that. What did you have in mind?”
“Bowling.” He watched her face turn from fear of snakes to disgust. “Apparently you’re not fond of that activity either.”
“I hate it. What fun is it to roll a fat, heavy ball down a narrow lane and knock down a few wooden sticks?” She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Teenagers. They love it. It’s not bowling. It’s the camaraderie. . .and that’s what I need. A friend and, better yet, a friend who knows some of the kids. You’d be so helpful.”
“I can’t bowl.”
“Okay, you can keep score.” He gave her his most optimistic look.
He could see her mind conjuring up something important she had to do.
“Your hair looks fine,” he said. “You don’t need a shampoo.” He clasped her free hand, and its smallness sent a sensation skidding through his chest. He gazed at her fingernails. “Manicure looks good.” He worked to keep his voice steady. “No excuses.”
She covered her face with the handful of mail and laughed. “Wow! You’re hard to discourage.”
“Come along—please. You’ll give me adult conversation, and all you have to do is keep score. I’ll show you how.” He recreated the pleading look from his childhood that worked miracles on his mother and sent it Lana’s way.
She shook her head. “Scorekeeper, and that’s it.”
“It’s a deal,” he said.
Four
“Come on, Miss West,” Gary said. “You can’t just keep score. Everyone bowls.”
Lana looked at the lanes of bowlers and sent a pleading look to Mark. “You promised.”
He shrugged. “No, I only said it’s a deal.”
She gripped the black marker and clutched the chair with her free fingers. She wasn’t planning to budge. Bowling came right in there next to having her tooth filled without benefit of Novocain.
“Come on, Miss West.” Three other teens joined Gary, their pleading voices sailing across the surrounding lanes.
Embarrassed at the attention, Lana dropped the marker. “Fine. I have to rent shoes and find a ball.” She strode away, trying to keep a cooperative look on her face, but fearing that she had failed.
With red, white, and blue rented shoes announcing her size five on the back and a ball that seemed far too heavy to lift, she returned to the group and plopped onto the bench. The teens had already begun to bowl, and she watched the pins teetering, then dropping to the floor while cheers rose and shouts of spare or strike reverberated to the high ceiling.
She looked at the alley next to hers where Mark stood poised, the ball clasped in his gripping fingers and resting on his other hand. He crouched down and took four quick steps, swinging the ball back, then bringing it forward and releasing it smoothly onto the highly polished surface of the lane. The black ball sped toward the pins, hooking left just before it slammed into them and vanished into the darkness. Lana watched the white pins tumble to the ground except for one that wobbled and then remained upright.
“You’ll get this one,” a voice urged. “A spare’s good, Mark.”
Surprised that the boy had called his youth director “Mark,” Lana watched the kids cheer when moments later the single pin went flying. She frowned in thought. Mark—and she was Miss West. But wasn’t that how it should be? Respect and authority?
“You’re up, Miss West,” Susan said.
Lana looked down at her clown shoes and rose, grasping the ball. She stuck her fingers into the three holes, hoping she’d done it correctly, and carried the object as if it were a ball and chain.
She remembered what Mark had done and paused in front of the black line, but before she could move, Mark stepped beside her.
“Back up a little, or you’ll step over the line,” he said, guiding her by the shoulders.
“I know,” she said, taking a couple of steps back. She should have told Mark. Not only couldn’t she bowl well, she’d never bowled in her life. Later she would tell him, but not in front of the kids.
“Haven’t you ever bowled?” Mark asked, eyeing her.
With his question, he’d saved her the trouble of a confession. She shook her head and whispered, “No. I told you I hate the game.”
“Do you want some pointers?” he whispered back.
“No.” She sent him a determined look. She didn’t want to stand there like a novice while all the teens watched her get a bowling lesson.
“Okay,” he said, “just step forward, swing your arm back, and as you swing forward release the ball.”
“I know.” Telling him she didn’t want instructions had been as effective as watering the lawn during a rainstorm.
She grasped her fortitude—along with the ball—took aim, stepped forward, swung back, and released the ball. A thud rang out along with the titters of surrounding bowlers as the ball shot behind her and settled beneath the bench.
“The lane’s in front of you, Miss West,” Jason called.
She swung around, catching the frown that surged to her face and replaced it with a look she hoped was good-natured.
Jason jumped up and returned the ball. She turned her back, aiming again, but this time clung to the ball with every muscle in her thumb and two fingers. She pranced toward the black line, cautiously swung her arm back, then brought it forward before she released the ball. This time her heart lifted as the blue-and-white beauty spiraled down the lane. But her up-lifted heart sank as the ball took a wide curve and dropped into the gutter.
“Gutter ball,” Susan yelled.
She refused to turn around as she waited for the oppressive orb to return. She grasped it again, this time more determined.
“Keep your arm straight and follow through,” Mark whispered from the adjacent alley.
She arched an eyebrow, got set, took her steps, swung, and released. The ball went forward. It curved toward the gutter, but this time, it curved back and clipped five pins. Relieved, she spun away and marched back to her seat. How had she gotten herself into this mess?
As her next turn neared, she eyed the score sheet and realized she faced eighteen more opportunities to make a fool of herself—assuming she didn’t get any strikes. When she rose again, she uttered a silent prayer. She knew God had more important things to do than worry about her hitting those pins, but she felt utterly mortified, and she hoped the Lord understood. Opening her eyes, she let the ball go, and to her surprise, it rolled down the center of the lane, sending pins flying.
A cheer w
ent up, and when the fallen pins had been cleared away, only two pins remained standing. The ball returned and she grasped it, feeling more confident. She realized it just took a little time to get the hang of bowling. She focused on the spots, and when she released the ball, her ring finger caught inside the grip holes. The ball flew through the air and thudded about halfway down the alley. While she nursed her throbbing digit, the ball knocked the pins into the air for a spare.
Applause and cheers rose behind her, but when she turned around, the sound died.
“What happened?” Mark asked, pulling away and gaping at her swelling finger.
“I don’t know. It seemed to stick in the hole.”
While a few teens gawked, Mark studied it a moment. “Looks like a sprain. I’ll get some ice from the bar.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Looks like you’ll be sitting out the rest of the frames.”
Gratitude tangled with her pain. “Seriously?”
He nodded.
“What a shame. I was just getting the hang of it.” She sank to the chair in front of the score sheet and clutched her throbbing finger while she hid her grateful grin.
❧
Standing in Lana’s driveway the next morning, Mark studied her purposeful expression. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. You drive your car, and I’ll follow you with the boxes in mine.” She lifted the trunk lid and eyed it. “What doesn’t fit in the trunk will go into the back seat.”
“I can probably cram a couple more things into my trunk,” he said again, sure she couldn’t get everything into her small-sized vehicle.
“Remember, I’m Miss Organization. Trust me.” She clutched her chest, and her splinted finger jarred his memory. Her eyes shifted from him to her bandage and back. “And if you hadn’t manipulated me into going bowling, I wouldn’t have a sprained finger. Now I’m working with a handicap.”
He bit his tongue, wanting to tease her and say her biggest handicap was her lack of patience and stubborn resolve, but she’d hit upon the truth. Another of his flaws. He did try to direct people and situations. “I’m sorry about your finger. I didn’t realize the kids would goad you into bowling.”
“Neither did I, or I wouldn’t have gone.” She turned back to the trunk and shifted a couple more boxes.
He’d never known anyone so set on doing something her own way, but he knew pushing her wouldn’t work. He thanked the Lord that she hadn’t been the one chosen to lead the children of Israel into the Promised Land. They’d still be wandering, lost somewhere in the Himalayas. He could easily imagine Lana bypassing the Red Sea and trying to part the Indian Ocean instead.
“Okay,” he reluctantly agreed, “but let’s get going. Jim’s already on his way with the moving van, and I have the apartment key.” He stood back, watching her shuffle and reorganize until she had each item in a specific spot only a mind like Lana’s could arrange.
“What else?” she asked, challenging him.
“Clothes. Things from my closet and a bag of shoes. Things like that, but I’ll come back for those.” She seemed like an immovable mountain, and Mark could tell she wouldn’t budge on the issue.
“They’ll fit in here. Why come back?” Her petite frame seemed to grow in size.
Giving up, he shrugged and marched inside with Lana behind him. Avoiding her sprained finger, he loaded her arms with bags of shoes, his travel kit with his EpiPens, and a small box of personal items. Then he gathered up his shirts, suits, and trousers—all the things he hadn’t packed in his luggage.
They marched to her car, where she slid a couple items onto the roof while she packed the smaller boxes onto the backseat floor. After she’d arranged most of his clothes on the back seat, she took the final pieces from his arms.
“You go ahead, and I’ll be there in a minute. I know Jim’s waiting. I only have these last things to pack.”
He stood empty-armed, figuring he’d be safe leaving and certain he’d arrive at least a half hour before she would. “Okay. I’ll meet you there.”
She gave him a wave, and he headed down the driveway. Without looking back, he climbed into his car and pulled away from the curb. What a woman. Why did he feel so attracted to her? A stubborn, impatient woman didn’t seem to fit the description of the ideal partner for a youth director. But when he thought of Lana, instead of picturing that determined look, he remembered her casual grace and warm, teasing smile. She made him laugh. Maybe God had given him a challenge so he might learn humility and guidance. . .or maybe Lana would learn something from him. Patience and optimism, perhaps.
He grinned, wondering if God had the patience for either one of them.
When Mark pulled in front of his apartment, Jim was waiting, leaning against the back of the moving van.
“I thought you got lost,” Jim said, pulling open the double door of the truck. “Let’s unload the furniture first. If I can get this truck back early, it’ll save you a few bucks. Maybe enough for a six-pack of beer.”
Mark tried to smile. “No six-pack for me, Jim. I work with kids, remember? I need to be a good example.” He whacked Jim’s paunchy belly with the back of his fist. “Plus I don’t want to lose my youthful physique. Before you know it, you won’t be able to bend over and tie your shoes.”
Jim only grinned, but Mark hoped his words sent a cautious warning into his friend’s mind.
Mark joined Jim at the truck, and together they carried in the mattress and box spring, then the rest of the bedroom furniture and the sofa, one piece at a time. While they toted in the boxes, Lana pulled into the driveway.
“We’re taking in this load first,” he said. Knowing she’d be antsy waiting, he added, “But if you can dodge around us, you can hang the clothes in my closet if you want.”
She nodded and opened the back door of the car.
He moved ahead into the house and grinned, watching Lana stay out of their way without a squeak until the truck was emptied.
When Jim left with the trailer, Mark and Lana finished unpacking her car, and after everything was inside, he stood in the living room and surveyed the situation. “Here’s what we can do. A woman’s comfort zone is the kitchen.” Then, thinking of their near mishaps, he laughed. “Let me rephrase that. With your unique skills, I’ll let you set up the kitchen. . . and don’t worry. I even have a step stool.”
“All the modern conveniences,” Lana said. “And what will you do? Watch the ball game?” She tilted her head toward the television.
“I’ll unpack my clothes and handle the bedroom,” he said.
“Sounds like a deal.” She headed into the kitchen.
In the bedroom, Mark arranged his clothes in the dresser drawers and listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen. The ting and clang of dishes and pans assured him that Lana was at work. He’d been smart giving her the kitchen task. That’s where her skills could shine.
Mark looked around the room for the bag of dress shoes he remembered putting in Lana’s car. . .and his travel kit. Besides the EpiPens, he’d tossed his checkbook inside. He suspected they’d never made it to the bedroom and ambled down the hall to look for them. In the living room, boxes still sat unopened, but he saw no sign of the bags he wanted. Concerned, he headed for the kitchen.
“How are you doing?” Mark asked, scanning Lana’s progress from the kitchen doorway.
“Good,” she said. “You don’t have as much junk as I do.”
He laughed. “I avoid the kitchen as much as possible.” Maybe so should she. He chuckled at his thought.
“What’s funny?” She pulled open a cabinet door, and he regarded the inside—the contents were arranged in a much more organized and logical fashion than he would have managed. “Just thinking about you in a kitchen.”
“Quiet,” she said, hurling a dishtowel across the room.
He caught the towel and carried it back to her. “Have you seen the bag with my dress shoes and my travel kit?”
She turned, a thoughtful look on her face. “
Not that I remember.”
“Could they still be in the car?” He wandered around the room, nosing into the boxes and searching beneath the table and chairs—anywhere in hopes he’d find them.
“No, it’s empty. I’m positive,” she said, facing him and leaning against the counter. “The last time I saw the travel kit was when I. . .” Her face paled.
“When you what?” Her look sent his stomach on a spiraling journey. “What?” he repeated.
“When I set them on top of the car.” She jammed her hair behind her ear and looked as if she might cry.
Their eyes met, and he studied her anxious face.
“I’d planned to put them on the passenger seat after I finished in the back, but I don’t remember putting them there.”
Mark rubbed the back of his neck. His dress shoes, his allergy medication, razor, and all his other toiletries. “Are you sure?”
She bit her lip and nodded. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was an accident,” he said, but he couldn’t help but mentally tally the cost of replacing everything, and he could, but what about the checkbook? God will provide, he said to himself, not wanting to upset Lana.
“I know, but I seem to be a klutz lately,” she said. “What happened to those detail skills you razz me about?”
Though troubled, he aimed to appear lighthearted. “They took a vacation before you did.” While he spoke, a hopeful thought settled in his mind. “You know, the things may have fallen off in the driveway. I’ll take a ride over and see. You stay here and pray.”
“Let’s call Barb. Maybe she’s already found them. If she did, she wouldn’t call here. She doesn’t know your telephone number.”
“Good idea, but let’s pray anyway,” he said, seeing concern grow on her face. He tried to cover his own distress. He could replace everything. . .but his checkbook worried him.
She lifted the phone, punched in the numbers, and waited. In silence, she hung up and turned to him. “She’s not there. The answering machine kicked in.”
“I’d better go over to your place, then, and see.”
Over Her Head (Truly Yours Digital Editions Book 489) Page 5
