by Dora Hiers
“That night. It was the only night…” His voice faded. His head wobbled back and forth, his eyes glazed as if he’d gone back in time.
“That you and Trip’s mother were…together?”
“Yeah.” He raked fingers through his hair. “When she told me that she was pregnant, I wanted to get married. This was my kid, too, and I wanted to be a family. I wanted to watch our baby grow up, to be there for him. But she refused.” His voice came out hoarse, as if he still couldn’t believe it. “Said she didn’t want to be tied down with a kid and a husband. She basically ripped my son out from under me. Didn’t give me, us, a chance to be a family.”
This man. He might not have been able to commit to her, but he was clearly devoted to his family.
Her fingers circled his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“As much as I knew you wanted more back then, sweetheart, I couldn’t give it to you. I still wasn’t in the right place.”
“And you can now?” Fear duked it out with hope.
He turned to her, smiling as he took her hands in his. “After years of carrying around that burden, now the chains are gone. Do you know what it’s like to feel free, honey? Really free?”
“Yes. I do.” She might’ve been scared about where she’d live and how to provide for herself while still going to school, but after Frank kicked her out, relief overrode any other emotions. She was finally free of his cutting remarks, the unbridled resentment. She wouldn’t be forced to see him cheating on her mother, waking up to another woman in their house while her mother lay dying in a hospital bed.
“I have my son now, and all is right with my world. He’s given me his blessing. He adores you, you know.”
Warmth filled her insides and hope cast out roots, deep and strong. Lord, are You really giving us another chance?
****
“You sidetracked me.” Trace drew in a deep breath after their kiss, holding her out so that his lungs could function again. A river of sweat tracked down the middle of his back, her kisses sparking heat inside him, the afternoon sun torching the outside. “I came to invite you to lunch.” He curled an arm around her shoulders and took a step toward her house.
“Wait.” She twisted out of his hold to snatch her bag off the table then tucked herself against his side, stretching her arm around his back. “Is Trip going?”
“No. He’s with Kiwi.” Contentment curled in his gut like a new flower bud unfolding. The only thing that would make him happier is if Trip joined them. But he couldn’t expect his son to spend every waking moment with him. “They were going to grab lunch and then take it home to eat while they study. Can you believe they have an exam on Monday?”
“One of their teachers is giving an exam on Monday?” Bristol squirmed to peer up at him, her eyebrows puckered, lips pinched.
At the doubt in her voice, a twinge of unease riffled through him. “Tough, huh? I never took summer school, but I guess the teachers have to fit a lot of work into a shorter time frame.”
They walked the rest of the way without speaking. Finally, they reached her driveway.
Her silence bothered him. Not that Bristol was ever overly talkative like some women. Something just didn’t feel right. Something about the way she’d stiffened after he’d mentioned the exam and then the thoughtful look on her face.
When he opened the passenger door of his truck, she pressed a hand against his forearm. “Do you mind if we stop by your place first?”
That twinge intensified into full blown worry. “You think something’s wrong.”
She hesitated for a few beats too many, her brow furrowed as if considering her words carefully.
“If you know something, Bristol—”
She lifted her chin and speared him with a brave look. “It was my understanding that teachers were to hold off giving any exams until Wednesday.”
His gut dropped to his flip flops. “Hop in.”
He didn’t wait for her bum to hit the seat. He jogged around the back of the truck, practically threw himself inside, and cranked the engine.
Before he put the truck in reverse, uncertainty tightened his grip around the gear stick until his knuckles turned white. Was he choosing to trust Bristol over his son? Would Trip forgive his father for not trusting him? But what if…what if they were too late? What if the deed had already been done and Kiwi was already pregnant? What if Trip was headed down the same road as his father, a dad at sixteen?
He had to stop anything before it happened. Before they reached the house, he’d come up with some excuse to be there, however lame.
12
Before the truck’s engine shut down, Trace was out of the truck and halfway to the front door.
Bristol hopped down and hung back near the edge of the driveway, not sure of her welcome since Trace hadn’t spoken a single word to her during the frantic five-minute drive to his place. She got that he was worried, but didn’t he trust her to help deal with whatever situation they stumbled upon?
He twisted over a shoulder, his expression fierce. “You coming?”
So, he did want her there. Pleasure bloomed in her chest.
“Sure.” She caught up to him as he gave the front door a hard push. “But you might want to erase the glower first.”
Silence met them. Then, a faint giggle.
“They’re upstairs.” Trace’s face morphed from angry red to a sickly shade of white.
Apparently, she needn’t have worried about his stormy expression. “Would you like me to find out what’s going on?”
He hesitated as if considering it, but then he shook his head and threw back his shoulders. “No. Being a parent means dealing with the hard stuff too.” Even so, he still grabbed her hand and tugged her upstairs behind him.
The bedroom door was partially open, and two sets of feet dangled over the side of the mattress. Trace braced his foot against the door, set to nudge it open.
Bristol squeezed her eyes closed, afraid to look. What would Trace do if Trip and Kiwi—
What would he—
Oh, for mercy’s sake, she was a professional. She’d been trained to deal with these kinds of things. But this was Trip, Trace’s beloved son. Trace’s world revolved around the kid. Would he blame her for this…er, situation?
Her chest lifted with a heavy sigh along with her lashes. Trace’s flip flop hinged against the partially open door. A quick sideways glance at the man revealed moving lips and closed eyes, still the pasty face. Probably praying.
She’d missed the fireworks last night. But it looked like she might see some today.
She knocked on the door and pushed it open the rest of the way, prepared for the worst.
Arms and legs attempted to untwine in a hurry, bodies twisting and writhing, but both kids appeared to be fully clothed. Thank You, Lord.
Trip fell onto the floor and landed on a stack of books. Somehow, he managed to stagger to his feet, his face a dark red, eerily similar to his father’s look earlier but more from humiliation than fury. He shielded Kiwi, who was scooting to the edge of the bed and fluffing up her hair. “Dad! What are you doing here?”
She stole a sideways glance at the man who’d kissed her just minutes ago. If it were possible, steam blew from Trace’s nose. His chest rose in angry swells. The white face had grown dark again.
She pressed her fingers against Trace’s arm and squeezed gently. “No harm. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Today. But what about next time,” he spoke through gritted teeth for her ears only.
Kiwi’s head poked around one of Trip’s legs. “I think I better go.”
She made a dash for the door, but Trace planted himself in the doorway, stopping the teenage girl. She backed up, and Trip pulled her against his side.
“I have a better idea. How about we call your parents, Kiwi, and we can all talk about this.” Trace folded beefy arms over his chest, looking every bit the intimidating father.
“Dad!” Trip protested.
&n
bsp; “That’s right. I’m your dad, Trip. Maybe I haven’t always been there for you, but I am now. And it’s about time we set some ground rules.”
Good for him. In all her conversations with Trace in the past, he’d seemed more like an older brother than a father.
“Kiwi, call your parents, please.”
“Oh…kay.” The girl flashed a frightened glance at Trip then scanned the bed. She snatched it, tapped at the screen, then held it to her ear.
Next to her, Trace blew out a frustrated breath. She rubbed circles on his back, feeling his tension ease.
Did he mean what he said about wanting a second chance? Because she really wanted to be there with him for the rough bumps in life. To share life and all its challenges and possibilities.
****
“Thank you for coming right over, and I appreciate your willingness to set the same boundaries.” Trace smiled at the trio standing on his front porch.
After their thirty-minute conference, they all wore different expressions. Kiwi’s dad, even angrier than Trace had been just minutes ago. The mother, disappointed and resigned, as if she’d expected something like this to happen. Kiwi, a mixture of fear and rebellion, judging by the hike of her chin, the crossing of her arms and the frequent swallows.
Trace had some damage control to work with his son, who’d charged up the stairs the minute Kiwi’s parents stood to leave and slammed his bedroom door.
But him? After his prayers—before interrupting whatever was going on in the bedroom and then again before Kiwi’s parents arrived—he finally felt peace. Not just about this present situation with Trip but also with his past. For so many years, he’d blamed others for his failures. But today he’d placed the blame squarely on his shoulders, owned his wrongs, and after begging forgiveness, buried them, never to be dredged up again.
Peace still flooded him. He’d made some wrong choices, but God, in His amazing Grace, had wiped the slate clean. And not just that. He’d redeemed the time Trace had lost with his son. A precious gift. Just like the woman standing beside him, strands of her silky hair tickling his arm, the faint hint of jasmine and melon drifting up to tease his nose.
God loved him. He knew that with every fiber of his being. And God loved his son even more than Trace did. He had to trust that Trip’s journey, wherever it took him, was between Trip and the Lord.
As was his own life. And the idea of sharing it with a sweet and very talented counselor was growing on him.
He probably shouldn’t be grinning, but he couldn’t help it.
“And I’m available to help if you need it.” Next to him, Bristol spoke up, her gaze sliding across the threesome but landing on Kiwi. She nodded at the girl. Almost a twitch. If he hadn’t been standing next to her, felt the slight tug of her head against his arm, he might’ve missed it.
“Do you make house calls, too?” Mrs. Wilkerson glanced pointedly over his shoulder.
“Uh, no. I’m available for conferences at the school, but—”
“We’re dating,” he interjected, reaching for her hand and weaving their fingers together.
“Oh, I see.” The woman had the decency to look flustered after such a personal question.
Bristol turned slowly and very deliberately to stare at him but didn’t unlatch their hands.
He lifted a shoulder and arched an eyebrow, challenging her to say otherwise.
“Thank you for alerting us to Kiwi’s behavior. We’ll see that it doesn’t happen again.” Mr. Wilkerson pivoted and stalked to their car.
Mrs. Wilkerson nodded her agreement then turned to her daughter. “Come along, Kiwi. Your father isn’t happy. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”
The porch cleared off except for him and Bristol. He looped an arm around her shoulders, and they watched the car in silence until it disappeared.
“Poor girl. She might be grounded for a month,” he finally muttered.
“Or longer. Her father seems rather strict.”
He rested his cheek against the top of her head and nodded. “Thank you for staying.”
She twisted in his hold to circle her arms around his waist. “You’re welcome. I wanted to be here for you.”
That was so Bristol. Giving. Generous. Kind. How could he have let her go? Two years wasted.
The Lord had redeemed his time with Trip. Maybe He would be willing to do the same with this amazing woman.
13
“Oh, no! I’m so sorry to hear that.”
Sorry and…frustrated. Now what would she do? The career fair was next week!
She’d checked in several times with Noah over the last month, and each time the man had reassured her that he’d finish the project on time. Now to find out that he hadn’t even started!
She listened to his apology for at least the tenth time. What could she do? The man wasn’t a school employee but a parent with construction experience who, after she’d approached him with her vision, had graciously agreed to put it together. It wasn’t as if he’d volunteered.
After offering a few more platitudes, she disconnected and blew out a breath. Massaging her forehead with one hand, this morning’s headache still hammering against her temples, she tossed the phone on her desk and stared at the clutter. Papers didn’t just cover the surface but actually mounded in various stacks.
She probably should’ve worked on the career fair over the weekend instead of going to the cookout at the lake. But everything had been on schedule at that point. It was only today that things started to unravel. Five vendors had pulled out just this morning, three of them facing financial challenges, two citing a hiring freeze.
“Looks like those oils aren’t doing their job today.” Trace stood in the doorway. He held up a takeout bag. “Maybe this will do the trick. Keep the hangry at bay.”
Trace and food? She’d never seen a more welcome sight. Her body literally wilted against the desk. “Oh, you have no idea.”
The smile faded, and he walked into her office, bringing the outdoors in on his clothes. Warm sun. Woods. A hint of the lake.
She closed her eyes and filled her lungs with it, with him. Just like that, her spirit lifted.
He pushed a pile aside on her desk and set the bag of food on the cleared space. When his arm circled around her back and squeezed, she leaned into him, drawing on his strength and peace.
“What’s wrong, honey?” At his soft and gentle tone, she almost lost it.
“First, I came in this morning and the air conditioner, which normally keeps this area as cold as the arctic, was broken. There is no air circulating in here whatsoever. And, of course, I dressed for the frozen tundra today.” She unlatched from him and stepped back, gesturing at the pants and long-sleeved shirt she’d worn. “Just this morning five vendors for the career fair cancelled. Then the man who was supposedly building my model school for the fair just called and said he has a virus. He can’t do it.” Her voice came out quivery with a combination of frustration, exasperation and maybe a tinge of anger. All these people…they’d had months to prepare, to let her know of any issues, but they’d waited until the week before the event. Her first time organizing it.
The principal would never ask her to do it again, and she couldn’t blame him.
She pushed some hair away from her face and crossed her arms. “He hasn’t even started it. And did I mention that the fair is next Wednesday?”
Trace’s fingers circled her arms, holding her until she looked at him. Kindness and something soft shimmered from his eyes. Was that…love? No, it was probably just concern. After all, he’d never seen her all worked up like this. She’d never seen herself this frazzled.
“I can do it, sweetheart.” With his thumb, he caressed her cheek, his touch sending tingles of fire to dance up her arms and spike her pulse.
“But I don’t have a plan, just a vision. You don’t even know what’s—”
“It doesn’t matter. I build real houses for a living, honey. I think I can handle a miniature scho
ol. With your help, that is.” Framing her cheeks, a devilish smile curving his lips, he kissed her forehead. “Now, let’s go outside and eat. You can tell me all about your vision. Maybe it’ll look something like mine.”
****
Maybe his vision hadn’t been so far off base. Because it looked very much like this.
Bristol, perched on a stool in his garage workshop, her head bent, her eyebrows puckered in concentration as she painted little trees that would go in front of the school. Trip sat opposite doing the same thing, but he was working on the scoreboard for the football stadium.
Worship music played softly in the background, but mostly the power saw wheezed on and off as he cut different lengths of wood, drowning out the music. Or they talked over it.
He glanced over at his phone charging on the counter. The numbers were fuzzy, so he stepped closer and refocused. Almost two o’clock?
He couldn’t risk losing a hand by the blade from being exhausted. Not when they planned to continue this tomorrow.
He shut the saw down and scrubbed at his face. Specks of sawdust dropped from his beard but even more clung to his shirt.
“Ready to call it a night?” Bristol plopped the brush into a can of water and slid off the stool, rubbing her lower back and chuckling. “Make that morning?”
Trip lifted his head. His son looked fresh and alert, as if he’d gotten his second wind at the stroke of midnight. Of course, he wouldn’t show his face until noon tomorrow.
“Yeah. For me at least. It’s too dangerous to keep running the saw when I’m tired.”
“Of course,” Bristol agreed, wiping a rag across the smudges on her fingers.
“Want me to take over, Dad?” Trip asked, not looking up from his current masterpiece. The kid’s upper teeth tucked over his bottom lip as he dotted color onto the piece of wood, miniscule letters and numbers taking shape.
Although the electric saw was like music to Trace, his son didn’t enjoy working with the power tools as much. He’d seemed to find his groove with the paintbrush. And they had plenty of pieces to paint before they could start assembling.
