by Becky Wade
Meg glanced at him. The mellow bronze light played over his features and his shorn hair. As he turned to grin at her, it caught and glittered in his eyes.
She grinned back. Neither one of them needed to say a thing.
Joy suffused every cell of her body as she shifted her attention back to the sunset. Each hour with him had been like this—golden. Impossibly perfect.
“If you and I were to share a house one day,” he said, “where do you think we ought to live?”
“Hmm,” Meg answered.
He hadn’t said “I love you” or “I want to marry you” again since that first night at his house. He chose his words carefully, in an effort, she guessed, not to rush or frighten her. She appreciated his caution. It suited her because she didn’t want to label her own feelings for him yet. She’d been mentally skirting around an I-love-Bo-Porter moment because to love Bo—to really love him—she’d have to trust him fully with her heart and also with the possibility of heartbreak if he let her down. After what she’d been through before, that level of vulnerability terrified her.
So, while they avoided formal declarations, they did occasionally discuss funny hypotheticals about their future together, like the one he’d just brought up. Things like: What would you name our sixth son? What breed of dog would you buy me for my birthday? If we wanted to vacation in January would you choose the ski slopes or the beach?
“We could live in a cardboard box,” Meg said.
“Sounds windy.”
“It would be good enough for me if you were there.”
A pleased smile tugged at his lips. “No kidding?”
“Well. I am kidding, just a little.”
He chuckled. “I can’t say as I’d allow you to live in a cardboard box, anyhow. Not enough security.”
“Your house, then?”
“Still not enough security.”
“Really?”
“’Fraid not.”
“I’ll have you know that no kidnapper or extortionist has ever given me a moment’s trouble.”
“All the same, I like the big wall and the cameras and the guards.”
She groaned. “You want me to spend my life in the big house?”
“Not if you don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it.”
“The guesthouse, then?”
“It’s all right for me by myself, but not for a married couple.”
“How about a new house? Right here on this very spot?”
“Now you’re talking.” The circle of the sun had sunk halfway below the horizon.
“What kind of house would you like?” he asked.
“Something charming. Something that looks like a cottage out of a fairy tale.”
“A Texas fairy tale?”
“Yes, exactly. We could build it out of Texas stone—”
“That, I like.”
“—and some of those big wooden timbers. High ceilings. White wainscoting. Distressed wooden floors.”
“Why do new houses these days always have to have old-looking floors?”
“Because it adds character.”
“How many stories?”
“One. With a rambling floor plan.”
“Lots of windows,” he added.
“Yes, and soft comfy furniture.”
“Will the soft comfy furniture have pink on it?”
“Of course.”
He made a dissatisfied sound.
“What’s the matter with pink?”
“I’m a man. That’s what’s the matter.”
Her lips curved. “Perhaps I could make some concessions.”
“Generous of you.”
“How about if I limit pink to the master bedroom only?”
“Definitely no pink in the master bedroom.”
“No?”
“A man shouldn’t sleep under pink covers.”
She laughed, but her mind caught on the mental image of him with her under any-colored covers. Her skin flushed. “Well, then how about a pink guest room? Whenever I need a fix, I’ll just go in there and breathe in the pink.”
“I’ll agree to that.”
Their imaginary house sounded heavenly to her. She could almost envision how it would be, the two of them sharing a home, a life.
“Tell me about all the places where you’ve lived,” he said.
She snuggled closer to him. “Let’s see. You’re already familiar with the big house. After that I lived in a dorm at Rice.” She told him about her dorm room freshman year, and the apartment close to campus she’d shared with friends the following three years. Then her words trailed off.
“And?” he prompted. “What came next?”
“I . . .” Should she tell him what had come next or just gloss over it? They’d shared countless conversations this week, but they hadn’t talked about this. She hadn’t wanted to haul this ugliness into their beautiful bubble.
“Go ahead,” he said. The sun vanished, leaving behind a streak of yellow at the horizon. “You can tell me.”
She released a painful breath. “After college, I got married and my husband and I rented a house in The Village in Houston.”
“I heard it didn’t last very long between you two.”
“No, it didn’t.”
“You want to tell me about it?”
“Yes and no.”
“Okay.” He simply lay there, his body relaxed alongside hers.
She sensed that it really would be okay with him either way—if she told him or if she didn’t. His patience encouraged her to talk.
While the sky darkened to dusky purple above them, she told him about Stephen. Haltingly at first, and then with more assurance. She explained how they’d met, how he’d acted toward her while they dated, her father’s reservations. She told him about the way Stephen had changed after their marriage: his lies, explosive anger, lack of remorse, and finally about the money he’d stolen from her when he left.
At that news, Bo pushed himself to sitting. He stewed in silence, the sawing noise of crickets loud.
She placed her hand on his back.
“No offense, Meg, but your ex-husband sounds like a world-class—” He set his jaw, holding in whatever violent word he’d been about to say.
Nonetheless, she understood him perfectly. “Yeah. He was.”
He looked back at her on the blanket. His eyes, gleaming in what had become mostly moonlight, told her volumes more about his emotions. He extended his hand. She took it, and he pulled her up to sit next to him. “Did you get your money back from him?”
“No. I should have gone after Stephen and tried to get it back, but I didn’t. I’m sorry now that I didn’t.”
“How old were you back then?”
“Twenty-three.”
She didn’t realize she was fiddling with the back of her earring until he took hold of her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. Without a word, he pulled her into his lap, surrounded her with the two flaps of his corduroy jacket, and hugged her against him.
“If I’d gone after him,” Meg murmured against his throat, “I might have been able to protect people like Amber from him.”
“Is that why you took her in when she came to you for help?”
“In part. But also, I couldn’t stand to turn her away. She needed a place to stay, and a job, and help finding Stephen.”
“Help finding Stephen?”
“She wanted him to pay child support.”
“I . . .” He paused for a long moment. “I didn’t realize she was looking for him. Did she find him?”
“No. She got close but then changed her mind and decided to stop looking.”
“What about you? Did you ever try to find him?”
“No. I never want to see him again as long as I live.”
He set his chin on the top of her head and they stayed that way, intertwined so closely that she could feel his pulse.
“I wish,” Meg whispered, “that my past was different. That I was new and s
hiny. That I’d never been married and divorced.”
“I’ve done all kinds of things I regret, made all kinds of lousy choices.”
“You didn’t marry the wrong person.”
“No, but I did other things that can’t be undone.” He slid his hands behind her neck, angling her head so that she was looking directly into his darkened face. “I’m sorry about what you’ve been through, but I can’t be sorry about the person it made you into.”
“I’d have been better without it.”
“But you wouldn’t be the same. And you wouldn’t be as strong.”
She swallowed hard.
“God’s forgiven you, Meg. Now you’re going to have to forgive yourself.”
She had no words.
“You hear me?”
“Yes.”
He pressed her back into her spot against his chest. His embrace spoke to her of acceptance, of her and her past. And perhaps for the first time since her divorce, Meg felt as if she could fully receive God’s complete and total grace, move on, and leave it all behind at the foot of the cross.
“What did you do after Stephen left?” he asked.
“My father and I had agreed a long time ago that I’d come to work at Cole Oil ten years after I graduated from college. But after what happened with Stephen, my father tried to talk me into coming home and working for him. I turned him down.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, I’m not a fan of the oil business. Until those ten years were up, I wanted to choose my own career.”
“And?”
“I knew that if I was living on nothing but a normal salary, then no one would have any reason to manipulate me or pretend to like me the way Stephen had. It just . . . it felt safer.”
“It probably was safer.”
“I ended up taking a job in Tulsa because it was far away from Houston.” She told him about the condo she’d rented during her Tulsa years.
“And that ends the list of places you’ve lived.”
“That ends it.”
“So here’s what I’m wondering.”
“Mmm?”
“In which one of those places were you living when you decided that you had to look perfect all the time?”
“What do you mean?”
“Every time I’ve ever seen you, even when you’re about to go to the gym, you look like you’re ready to pose for a magazine.”
“I . . .” Was he criticizing her? Pointing out her vanity? Her insecurity? “I was living in the big house, I guess, when I started looking this way.” He couldn’t know what it had been like to grow up as William Cole’s daughter. “As a kid I was always aware that people were sizing me up. So, to some degree I’ve always tried to look presentable so I wouldn’t let my father down. I was . . . Well”—she frowned—“probably more anxious about that than most kids.”
“And after Stephen left?”
She groped for a reply.
“You made sure that you always looked extra perfect,” he said gently, “so that no one could say or think anything bad about you.”
His words struck her like a two-by-four. She froze in his arms, trying to absorb the blow. Difficult, because she knew at once, with piercing certainty, that he was right. She’d never consciously made that decision. I’m going to be as pretty as I possibly can be so that no one can blame me for the fact that my husband abandoned me. But that’s exactly what she’d been trying to do and why. “Bo Porter,” she whispered, “you shouldn’t say things like that unless you have a doctorate in psychology.”
“I’m sorry, Meg. I have no business talking like that. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m probably dead wrong.”
“I wish I could say you were.”
“Please forgive me. I’m such a jerk. I only said it because I want you to know how beautiful you are to me. You might doubt a lot of things about this world, but I never want you to doubt that.” His voice had turned severe. “You’d be just as beautiful with no makeup and messy hair and—and old clothes that don’t fit.”
Tears rushed to her eyes, an inner pressure. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“Then cry. You know I have tissues.”
Tears began to slip over her lashes.
“For me, you’re perfect just the way you are, and nothing you do or don’t do is ever going to change that.”
“Oh, Bo. I’m just so-so looking, and I’m too curvy.”
“Excuse me!” He glared down at her with the most insulted expression she’d ever seen on his face. “You’re crazy if you think so. You’re going to make me mad, talking like that.”
He looked so outraged that she laughed.
“I’m serious!”
Meg smiled. “I know.”
“You’re gorgeous. In my eyes you’re the most gorgeous woman that ever lived.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out some tissues. “Now here.”
“Thank you.”
But she ended up not needing the tissues because he kissed away her tears, then just plain kissed her.
“Our house here on this hill,” he said against her lips, their breath intertwining.
“Our Texas fairy-tale house?”
“Our Texas fairy-tale house will be the best place of all the places you’ve lived, countess.”
She squeezed him around the middle.
“I promise you.”
Much later they set off in the direction of the guesthouse. Bo insisted on carrying the tackle box, his pole, the picnic basket, and the blanket draped across his shoulders. That left Meg with only her fishing pole and the flashlight she was using to illuminate their path through the trees.
“My family eats lunch together at my parents’ place on Sundays after church,” Bo said. “My brother Ty’s in town this weekend, and I’d like for you to come with me tomorrow.”
So far they’d sheltered their relationship by keeping it secret from everyone except Jake. They hadn’t been anywhere public together. Meeting his family? Very public. “I . . .”
“We don’t have to make a big deal out of it or say anything to them about us.”
His tone held a touch of defensiveness. Meg came to an immediate stop and pointed the flashlight down between their feet. “I hope you don’t think I hesitated just now because I’m embarrassed to be dating you. I hesitated because I’m tempted to keep this relationship private longer so that I can protect it.”
“From?”
She gestured with the pole. “Outside people. Would you want to go to lunch with my family tomorrow?”
“No.” He gave her a sheepish, crooked smile.
“That’s what I thought.” They started walking again.
“So your plan is to stick your head in the sand?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Not gonna work. Holley’s a small town, and the truth is going to come out sooner rather than later.”
“How about we let the truth come out next weekend or next month or next year?”
“How about you go with me to lunch tomorrow?”
She sighed.
“I won’t tell them we’re dating, okay? They won’t be any the wiser.”
She snorted.
“Meg?”
“Yes?”
“Will you please come eat lunch with my family?”
His request, phrased so politely, rendered her physically, mentally, and emotionally incapable of saying no. “Yes, Bo, I’ll come eat lunch with your family.”
“Thank you.”
“If I were Catholic I’d do the sign of the cross.”
Chapter Eighteen
I’ve got two quick warnings for you,” Bo said to Meg as they walked up to his parents’ house for Sunday lunch.
“Warnings?” She was already nervous about making a good impression, worried that she’d overdressed, and second-guessing the bouquet she’d brought as a thank-you for Bo’s mom.
“My mother’s never met a stranger,” he said.
“All right.” That didn�
�t sound too bad.
“So I apologize in advance for anything she might say.”
“Second warning?”
“Don’t you dare take a shine to my brother Ty.” Bo mock glared at her from beneath the brim of his straw Stetson.
Such unbridled chemistry flowed between the two of them that simply looking at him full in the face—just that, just looking at him—made Meg’s head swim and her body ache with desire. “Uh, I think I’ve got my hands full with you at the moment.”
“Good. Hang on to that thought when you meet him.”
“He’s smooth with the ladies, huh?”
“Women have always found him irresistible. It’s disgusting.”
Bo pushed open the front door and ushered her into the house he’d grown up in.
Similar to Bo’s own house, the front door emptied right into the den. At the back of that space, half walls revealed a dining room on the left side and a kitchen on the right.
A woman turned from the kitchen sink. “There y’all are!” She hurried over, grinning widely.
“Mom, this is Meg Cole.”
“I’m Nancy. Nice to meet you, Meg.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
Nancy greeted her son by rising on tiptoes and planting a smack on his cheek.
Bo’s mom was a robust-looking woman, a few inches taller than Meg, with a tan face that didn’t need makeup. Her brown hair, cut just below her shoulders, boasted a wide streak of gray that swooped upward from her forehead, then ran to the tips.
Meg handed her the bouquet of gerbera daisies, climbing roses, and dianthus. “These are for you.”
“They’re so pretty! You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you for having me.”
“It’s our treat! Come on in.”
It appeared that Nancy subscribed to the more-is-more style of decorating. Wall-to-wall tan carpet supported a den packed full of antique furniture accented here and there with faded blue and yellow pillows in a French Provincial print. Woven baskets and decorative iron pieces hung from the walls alongside framed posters—one of a church next to a field of lavender, the other of an aged French storefront with a bicycle leaning against it.
The Porters’ whole house could have fit into the garage at Whispering Creek. Meg could already tell, though, that this home possessed something better than square footage: It had a kind of homey appeal that spoke to a person. That made them comfortable when they were within the walls, and made them want to return when they left.
