by Arlene James
She felt tears well in her eyes. Family. She’d closed them out with everyone else, partly because they hadn’t liked Mark and partly because she couldn’t bring herself to admit that Mark might have earned their dislike. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to make demands on her time or loyalty or regard—and she hadn’t been able to face the fact that it was as much from selfishness as for love of her. Oh, Mark, she thought, I let you down. I was selfish, too. I should have faced our problems head-on and made us both be better than we were, instead of pretending that I was adored beyond all reason. You were right. I couldn’t face reality then, but I have to now or be buried alive with your memory—and my own illusions.
“Speaking of family,” Evans was saying, “I met your sister and brother-in-law the other day.”
“Oh, really?”
“Umm-hmm.” He got to his feet and stepped down off the bench, turning to reach out a hand to her. “We had dinner together at the church picnic,” he said. “They’re a neat couple. I really admire them.”
“Was Danna there?” Amy asked, allowing him to haul her up to her feet on muscles gone stiff yet again.
“Yep.” He lifted one foot to the bench and started stretching again. She followed suit. “I didn’t really spend much time with her, though. Mattie sort of monopolized her—and all the other kids there!”
“Well, I’m not surprised,” Amy commented off-handedly, concentrating on loosening up her hamstrings. “A love of kids dovetails neatly with everything else I’ve learned about that daughter of yours.”
“Oh? How so?”
She shrugged and fell in step beside him as he began a measured walk toward the street. “Well, Mattie’s definitely the domestic sort. I mean, I don’t know any other eighteen-year-olds who have Mattie’s fascination with keeping house and cooking and making a home. I think she’s definitely headed for the Wife-and-Mother-of-the-Year finals.”
“Oh, you never can tell,” Evans said tightly, swinging his arms, “she might surprise you. I’ve been thinking that Mattie’s particular skills could translate into some very useful occupations, like nursing, for instance.”
“True,” Amy said, “but Mattie hasn’t expressed any particular interest in nursing to me. All she’s talked about to me is getting married and having a family.”
“Mattie’s young,” Evans snapped. “Seventeen, not eighteen.”
Amy disciplined a smile. “For about another month.”
“Seventeen or eighteen,” Evans growled, “she’s too young to know what she wants out of life just yet. I think she should go to nursing school after she graduates. Then, if she meets the right guy, I won’t stand in her way.”
Amy stopped in her tracks and made him turn around to gape at her. “Evans Kincaid, of all the absurd notions. You can’t dictate Mattie’s life to her any more than your father could have dictated to you.”
“I’m not trying to dictate to her! I just want her to be prepared for whatever life hands her.”
“Evans, you have to know that Mattie doesn’t want to go to college. She’s tired of school. She’s looking forward to graduating from high school so she won’t have to go anymore!”
“You can’t do anything these days without a college education!” Evans scoffed. “Of course she’ll go to college!”
Amy shook her head pityingly. “Brother, for a smart guy, you sure are stupid about your own daughter.”
“Don’t tell me about my daughter!” he shouted. “I know my own daughter!”
“Why can’t you see that she’s different from other kids her age?”
“She shouldn’t be different!” Evans insisted, throwing up his hands. “She’ll only be a kid once! She ought to be concentrating on kid things, like school and football games and…” He stirred his hand in helpless agitation.
Amy took one of those hands in her own. “Oh, Evans,” she said, “can’t you see how little Mattie has in common with other kids her age? I suspect her mother was the very same way. You told me that you married her young.”
“Don’t be silly,” he snorted. “Andie was a lot more mature than Mattie, for one thing.”
“Oh, really? How so?”
He snatched his hand away, turned and started rapidly down the street. Amy once more fell in beside him, wondering if he was going to give her an answer. He did, eventually. “Andie never ever stiffened her hair with spray paint or ringed her eyes with black gunk,” he insisted flatly.
Amy chuckled. “Just because the fashions of rebellion seemed less outrageous to you back then, Evans, doesn’t mean that she didn’t wear them. Believe me, when she did, her parents thought they were every bit as outrageous as Mattie’s hair spray and eyeliner.”
He made a face, complaining, “You don’t understand!”
“Or you don’t,” Amy said softly beside him.
Evans hardened his jaw and picked up the pace. Amy took a deep breath and went after him. Now who refused to face reality? she asked herself, chortling. Far from being disappointed in him, she felt a sort of kinship—and the urge to be there for him when he finally opened his stubborn eyes. As he was here for her now, now that she could finally look at the past and herself with honesty and perspective. He was right, she realized humbly. These things didn’t happen for no reason.
Maybe God was paying attention, after all.
Evans moved in place, shaking his hands and, on occasion, his feet, in an attempt to cool down. It was a rare morning, utterly sparkling in its brightness. He could almost feel a touch of autumn in the air, but September was barely middle-aged, and the afternoons still blazed. True autumn was still a couple of weeks away, and Evans found that he was not looking forward to it. Autumn would undoubtedly mean chilly nights, and as pleasant as it was to be out on so glorious a morning, he did not want to think of giving up his late-night runs with Amy. He liked having that dark, shadowy park all to themselves, even though it was becoming more and more difficult to play the friend when what he wanted more and more was to be the lover.
He sneaked a peak at his running partner. She had made an amazing transformation in the past few weeks. She had taken to running like a duck to water, and her diligence had paid off handsomely. He suspected that she had been working much harder than he’d realized, that she had taken herself out alone in the mornings as well as accompanying him in the evenings. Either that or she was doing something equally strenuous in the daytime, for her hair had not acquired those subtle, shining, golden highlights at the hairdresser’s and her body had not melted into that svelte, willowy shape because of their nightly runs alone.
But it was more than appearance. Something inside her had changed. It was as if a door had cracked open inside her and a crystal light was beginning to shine through. Amy Slater was quickly becoming a woman any man would want, any man. She might not realize it yet, but Amy Slater could have her pick—and she was apt to pick any man but him, he was beginning to fear.
Certainly she had not indicated in any way, not by the slightest nuance, that she found him personally attractive or anything but a running buddy, a friend and a neighbor. She was close to Mattie, though, and Mattie had developed a great admiration and respect for her. He was frankly surprised by how much Amy was able to accomplish with Mattie, surprised and a little envious. He was Mattie’s father, after all. Ought not he be the one to move his daughter onto the correct pathways? Yet, all he and Mattie seemed to do anymore was argue. She was only months away from high school graduation, after all, and her whole future was at stake. Didn’t anyone but him understand that?
“Oh, it’s a wonderful day, isn’t it?” Amy exulted, throwing her arms out and spinning in a circle on the lawn.
Evans shook off his reverie and smiled, nodding. “Beautiful.”
“I’ve never been much of a morning person, you know,” she said, strolling toward the porch steps, “but I don’t seem to require as much sleep now as I used to. One of the benefits of all this exercise, I guess.” She smiled engagingly, and Eva
ns smiled back.
“You do seem to have a lot more energy,” he said, “and you’re certainly looking good.”
She literally twinkled. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s nice.”
Suddenly everything felt awkward. Evans moved backward, as if he had overstepped and must remove himself to a safe distance. It was a feeling he hated, and he hated it all the more for its newness, but he didn’t make an excuse and turn, as he was inclined to do, and walk home. Instead, he stood, caught by the need to be with her, to have her want him as he wanted her. Dear God, he was falling in love with her. She was more to him now than an attractive woman who might one day come to fill a physical void in his life, and he wasn’t at all certain that he could be happy with the idea. Loving involved risk, more risk than he had ever realized, and he had already lost more than he had ever thought he could bear. He realized suddenly that she must be struggling with that same vulnerability, and his admiration of her grew.
He opened his mouth to make his excuses after all, when she surprised him by speaking first. “Want a glass of tea? No sugar, I promise.”
He chuckled, remembering that first glass of her tea that he’d tried to drink. He nodded and moved toward her. “I’d love a glass of tea, thank you.”
She danced in front of him into the house, the door opening with just a turn of the knob. He was going to have to speak to her again about leaving her house unlocked. It wasn’t wise, even in Duncan, for a single woman to leave her doors open while she was gone, especially for an attractive single woman. He followed her inside.
The house was clean and neat and smelled faintly of pine. The little table in the kitchen was covered with a pretty cloth and decorated with a pair of ruffled place mats and a small bouquet of flowers in a clear vase, the kind of flowers for sale at the grocery store. She was taking pains with her environment even though no one was there to see but her. Or was there? He remembered Mattie saying only the morning before that Amy had had company. He had wondered aloud if her sister had come to visit, but Mattie had said firmly that it wasn’t her sister. He had bitten his tongue to keep from asking if Amy’s visitor had been a man, and he had told himself half a dozen times since that it didn’t matter. The important thing was that she was well and truly coming out of her shell of grief. She was beginning to live again, and she needed friends, even male friends. It didn’t have to be more than that. He was her friend, after all, only her friend.
He took the glass of iced tea that she brought him and smiled his thanks before lifting it to taste it. It was surprisingly good, freshly brewed, clear and clean tasting. “Very good,” he said, saluting her with the glass.
She laughed. “Mattie’s been teaching me the fine art of brewing. I think I drank it so sweet before because I made such a bitter glass.” She made a face, adding off-handedly, “Mark didn’t drink tea, and it never occurred to me to make it good for myself.” She shook her head, smiling almost secretively.
Evans wanted to pull her onto his lap and kiss her silly. Instead he leaned forward, his forearms against the tabletop. “You’ve certainly come a long way in a short time,” he told her softly, aware that his voice held a certain pride.
She leaned back against the countertop, one slender leg crossed over the other and propped up on a finely pointed toe, and smiled uncertainly. “Actually, it’s taken a very long time,” she said. “Nearly three years in fact. But I’m finally getting there.” She lifted her glass in a salute to herself, then drank deeply of its amber contents.
Evans sipped his and set it down again. “You seem very happy these days,” he told her, remarking silently how odd it was that as she had grown happier, he had grown less and less satisfied with his own life.
She nodded and came away from the counter to sit in the chair opposite him. “I am,” she admitted, “and do you know why I’m happy? Because I decided to be. Does that sound strange to you or, I don’t know, disloyal?”
He shook his head. “No, not at all. I understand exactly what you mean by disloyal, but surely you’ve realized that Mark would want you to be happy.”
“I hope so,” she said, “but I’m not absolutely certain, really.” She narrowed her eyes as if looking into the past. “Mark was ill, and that illness was so awful. He was in pain, and he was miserably disappointed, and he was frightened—and angry, angry at the illness, I suppose, angry at life, maybe even angry at God. At the time it felt as if he was angry with me, and I internalized that, swallowed it down with all the rest of the pain. I should have called him on it. I should have made him talk about it. Our last days together might have been happier if I had—and I would know now if his anger had really been aimed at me and why. I wouldn’t have to wonder if he wished me ill or not.”
“I can’t believe he wished you ill!” Evans insisted, capturing her hand as it lay against the tablecloth. “He must have loved you. He chose you for his wife. You told me yourself that he went looking for a wife, and he settled on you.”
She nodded. “Yes, I think he loved me, as much as he was able. I just don’t know anymore how able to love he was.” She smiled sadly. “All those years, and I don’t know.”
Evans didn’t know what to say to that, not about Mark Slater, anyway. He hadn’t known Mark and wasn’t in any position to judge the man now, but he knew something about Amy, something important. “Listen to me,” he said softly. “I know you well enough now to know that you were a good wife to him. Whatever you think you should have done, you were the best wife to him that you could possibly have been at the time. I’m absolutely convinced of that. If you see things now that you might have done differently then, you must know that hindsight is simply a different perspective. Whatever you did, I know you did the very best that you could do at the time. You deserve to be happy, Amy. You must believe that.”
She turned her hand over and clasped his. “Yes, I do believe that now, but thank you for saying it. I needed to hear someone else say it, someone besides Ruthie.”
“Ruthie?” He seized on the name with absurd relief. “Oh, she’s that friend of yours, the one who lives where? Marlow?”
“Waurika.”
“Right. I still get mixed up.” He curled a finger into her palm, trying to sound vastly more nonchalant than he felt. “Was she, um, your company night before last?”
She sat up a little straighter. Her gaze no longer held his. “No, that was another friend,” she replied off-handedly.
“Ah.” A man. He knew it with dead certainty, and he knew, too, that if he didn’t get out of there at once he was going to make a fool of himself. He practically bolted. “Well, I’d better get going. You know how it is on your day off, a million things to do.”
She got up and followed him into the hallway. “Is there anything I can help you with? I, um, like to stay busy.”
He shook his head, not at all certain what urgent things he was going to find to do. “Oh, that’s all right. Enjoy your day. I’ll see you, um, tomorrow night, I guess. I won’t have time to run in the morning.”
“Tomorrow night then,” she said, sounding to him markedly unenthusiastic.
Irritation flashed over him. “Listen, if you don’t want to run with me at night anymore, that’s all right. I understand. You prefer the mornings, and I can’t run most mornings, not in the cool of the morning, anyway, so if that’s a problem, just say so.”
She looked rather bewildered. “Oh, no, I love the night runs. I make myself run in the mornings for the extra toning, for the weight loss, actually,” she muttered.
He didn’t know with whom he was more exasperated, her or himself. He pushed away all the fears and irritations and forced a chuckle. “You don’t need to lose any more weight. You look great as you are. And I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
She beamed at him. “Thanks. Tomorrow night, then.”
He almost kissed her. He almost leaned forward and kissed her goodbye. With that near lunacy to spur him, he marched stra
ight to the door and out of it.
Tomorrow night. He almost wished she had cried off—and didn’t know what he’d have done if she had.
Chapter Eight
Amy took a deep breath, put on a bright smile and knocked firmly on the door. Evans opened it a heartbeat later. “Oh, hi!”
“Hi.”
“What’s up?”
She linked her hands behind her and widened her smile until her face hurt. “Not much. Just thought I’d come over and issue an invitation.”
“Oh? Well, come on in. Someone I think you know is here.”
Amy felt her smile falter as she cast a quick look over her shoulder. Sure enough, a bright red convertible was sitting at the edge of the curb across the street. Great, she could invite Evans Kincaid out to dinner with an audience. Terrific. She’d finally gotten fed up with waiting for him to say something, had even screwed up her courage to do the asking out herself, and he had company. Why in heaven’s name hadn’t she bothered to even glance at the street on her way over? Because you were too busy keeping your knees from knocking together, she told herself resentfully. Evans, meanwhile, had turned back into the house. She followed him timidly, wondering if it was too late to cut and run. Evans was standing half in the entry way, half in the living room, an arm extended in her direction even as he spoke to whoever waited inside.
“I assume you know my next-door neighbor, Amy Slater. Amy is, of course, Joan Shaw’s sister.”
Amy stepped into the curve of that proffered arm and found herself ushered forward. A tall, dark, extremely handsome gentleman was coming smoothly to his feet. “Ah, yes. How are you, Amy?” The Reverend Bolton Charles extended his hand. “You’re certainly looking fine.”
Amy felt a gush of unexpected pleasure at his compliment. “Why, thank you, Reverend Charles. You’re looking nicely tanned yourself.”
