by Cathy Bryant
Andy frowned. “Sorry. I’m not following.”
“I’m not trying to be rough on you, son. I just know how you think. You get stuck in your head, instead of allowing for the possibility that God might have a different plan.”
A few minutes later Andy punched the end call button. Was Lester right? Should he return to Miller’s Creek? The humiliation inscribed on Trish’s face when her dad tossed out the money set off an ache in his chest he couldn’t shake. For the first time, he saw how much it hurt her to take help from others, no matter how kind their intentions. As much as she needed assistance, more than anything else she needed to feel capable.
Andy pursed his lips. Had it been her pain that prompted him to ask her to design his office if he made the move to Miller’s Creek? Or did his motivation go deeper? He rubbed a hand across his mouth. Only yesterday he’d been afraid of getting hurt, but he’d noticed how the offer had sparked hope in her eyes. Hope was something he very much wanted to give to both her and Bo. He blinked in surprise. Where had that come from?
His thoughts flashed to the night he’d doctored her arm. The touch of her fingers on his, the warmth in her voice, the sad, chocolate-colored eyes that melted his heart. It had taken every ounce of willpower he had to put distance between them.
He puffed out a breath and tapped the satellite radio button. A bluesy jazz flowed from the speakers. Lester was right. He did spend too much time in his head.
Andy tried to focus on the scenery, but to no avail. A move made no sense. Trish was perfect proof that starting a business in a small town was a huge financial risk. He’d spent the first twenty-five years of his life in poverty, and had sweated blood to enjoy the kind of life his Dallas practice afforded. Why should he give that up? Why would he want to? Besides, his first stint in Miller’s Creek had turned out worse than a bad blind date.
His cell phone buzzed, and he brought a hand to his ear. “This is Andy.”
“Happy Birthday, bro!”
Matt’s cheery voice brought a smile. “Thanks, little brother. And thanks for not calling me old.”
“Oh, man, now my next comment is ruined.”
Andy’s mouth curved into a smirk. “Okay, lemme have it.”
“Just gonna ask how many fire trucks were summoned to put out the fire on your birthday cake.”
“Ha! Very funny.”
His brother laughed. “I’m sure you’ll return the favor when my birthday rolls around.”
“Count on it. How’s school going?”
“Pretty good, I guess. Had another gig last night at a coffee shop close to campus. Everyone seemed to enjoy my music.”
“Good for you.” Andy waited, anticipating the next comment, understanding now how difficult it was.
“Uh, look, could you send more money? I’m running low on cash, and I need gas and food.”
Again Trish’s embarrassment flooded his thoughts. “Sure. I’ll wire it to your bank account first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks, bro, I owe you.”
“No, you don’t. It’s not a loan, it’s an investment.”
Andy hung up the phone a minute later. More proof that staying in Big D was the right decision. He wasn’t the only person in the equation. Matt depended on him, and trying to jumpstart a career as a musician meant he could be dependent for several more years.
He increased the radio volume and lowered the roof, the wind whooshing above him as he zipped down the road toward Dallas—his home.
Two hours later, Andy rolled to a stop in the parking lot at Papa Jack’s Grill in North Dallas, not really in the mood to celebrate an event that made him more aware of his age and single status.
As he entered the building, he positioned his Ray Bans on top of his head and scanned the noisy, over-packed restaurant. The air was saturated with the smell of fresh-grilled beef. His friends called out and waved from the back, and he zigzagged his way through the tables to their booth.
“Well, it’s about time the birthday boy showed up. How was the wedding?” With boredom slung across his face, his law partner, Dave, reclined with one arm curled around his new wife.
Andy lowered his head. Yet another reminder of what he didn’t have. Strike one. “Good. Sorry I’m late. I promised a kid a game of catch before I left Miller’s Creek.”
No one asked about the kid or their game of catch, but Ned, their second-year law clerk, waggled his eyebrows. “Meet any babes?” His tone carried insinuation. Strike two.
“Nope.” Instead, he’d met a beautiful and talented woman. Babes were a dime a dozen.
Andy started to pull up a chair, when Serena, one of the paralegals, flashed a too-friendly smile and patted the cushion next to her. “Here. I saved you a seat.”
Strike three. “Hey, you guys order me some fajitas and a glass of tea, will you? I’ll be back in a sec.” Andy strode from the booth, unable to get away fast enough. Barely home and already he needed a break from these people. When had their company started to grate on his last nerve?
* * * * *
Trish hunched over the oak desk behind the counter at Designs By Trish, and crunched the numbers. The calculator’s digital read-out glared the same red, less-than-zero numbers.
With a frustrated grunt, she fell back against the rickety desk chair and hurled a ballpoint pen across the store. It bounced off the wall in pieces and landed on the wooden floors with two distinct clacks. She glanced at the almost-empty calendar and her completely-empty checkbook, and her vision blurred. What else could she do to make this work? She had no funds for advertising, and to make matters worse, school let out in a few weeks. Summertime more than likely meant less business.
Trish trudged around the counter and picked up the pen pieces, deposited them in the trash, and slumped in her chair, face against fist. She’d scheduled a couple of storefront displays for later in the afternoon, but the two jobs combined would only net a hundred dollars. Not enough. The money her family collected had paid the car payment and bought a few groceries, but the electricity bill was long overdue, and her Suburban was on the bottom side of a quarter tank. Something needed to give, or she’d have to.
The bell above the door jangled. A customer! She hastily swiped the tears from her cheeks and rose to her feet.
Carla Clark stalked toward her, her too-tight blue jeans making a sound that reminded Trish of a grasshopper. Bright blue eye shadow hiked up both sides to Carla’s one eyebrow, her wiry orange hair pulled back from her face with a net.
Trish swallowed her fear. From as far back as her high school days, Carla had intimidated her with her brusque voice, muscled arms, and sheer size. “Hi, Carla. Can I help you?”
“Yeah. My kid sister’s getting married.”
Another wedding. Thank You, Lord. “Congratulations.” Trish assumed a smile and her best sales voice. “So you saw the decorations at Dani’s wedding?”
“Yeah. I liked the arch thingy and thought we could use it for Becca’s wedding.”
“Okay, let me check my calendar. When is the wedding?”
“This Friday.”
Alarm skittered through Trish’s veins, but she controlled it with a silent gulp of air. How could she possibly be expected to decorate for a wedding with less than a week’s notice? She smiled up from her calendar. “Well, you’re in luck. I don’t have anything scheduled for that night.”
Carla snickered. “Yeah, I bet.”
“Pardon me?” Her glued-on smile threatened to slip.
“I bet you don’t have much scheduled on any day. Miller’s Creek ain’t the Ritz, you know.” Carla sneered and glanced around the sparse decor of Designs By Trish, then pointed to the arch Trish had reassembled for the display window. “I just wanna borrow the arch. I’ll decorate it myself.”
Her hope plummeted. “Oh.” She released a shaky laugh. “Silly me. I thought you wanted me to decorate for the wedding.”
“In this economy? Most of us don’t have a daddy made of money, you know.”
Trish waged battle with the surge of anger threatening to spill and bit back a comment with clenched lips.
“So, can I borrow it?” Carla smacked her gum, blew a large bubble, and then blasted a hole through it, showering Trish with the sickeningly sweet smell of bubblegum.
She coughed lightly—to clear her lungs—and peered down at her calendar to buy some time. The arch wasn’t paid for yet. What if it was damaged during the loan? This wasn’t gonna be easy. “I’d be happy to rent it to you.” She feigned a chipper tone.
Carla’s eyes bulged. Then she clenched her fists, the veins in her neck expanding as she released a disbelieving snort. “Rent it?” She pivoted and waddled to the store entrance, leaving grasshopper noises in her wake. “Never mind. You uppity Millers think you own the whole town. One of these days you’ll learn how the rest of us live, and I’m gonna laugh my head off.” Carla hurled the words over one shoulder, then slammed the antique wood and beveled glass door.
Trish flinched at the sound and brought a hand up to massage her temple. Carla was right. An interior design business in Miller’s Creek made as much sense as trying to turn a Ford Pinto into a Lamborghini. What had made her think she could pull it off?
The answer hit before the question finished sounding in her brain. Because of her parents. Her design degree had been their idea, not hers. All she’d ever wanted was to be a wife, mother, and artist, in that order. Now she was clinging to her life’s dream by one tenuous thread—motherhood.
She sipped her now tepid water. Everything happened for a purpose. Maybe God had directed her path toward the design degree for a time like this. He knew she’d need something to fall back on when Doc died. But in Miller’s Creek?
Her cell phone vibrated and danced across the desk top. She snagged it, as a number she didn’t recognize flashed to the screen. Lord, please let this be business.
“Designs By Trish.”
“Hey, Designs By Trish, this is Law By Andy.”
A giggle burst out. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
“Well, I met my objective.” His teasing tone played havoc with her already frazzled emotions.
“Oh, really? And what, may I ask, was your objective?”
“To make you laugh.”
Trish’s heartbeat throbbed at the base of her throat, and she raised a hand to cover it. Falling for his natural charm would be so easy, but she had Little Bo to consider, as well as Doc’s memory. Best to keep things on the friend level. “What’s going on?”
“Well, I called to see if you’d given any thought to my idea.”
“Idea? What idea?” Was it her imagination or had her tone bordered on mild hysteria? She coughed and twirled a silky strand of hair around one finger, pretty sure she knew where the conversation was headed.
“If I move to Miller’s Creek, will you design my office?”
Trish scrambled for words--and more time. “Uh, so you’re actually thinking about a move to Miller’s Creek?”
“Yeah, go figure.” He gave a short laugh. “Let’s just say I’ve been looking at the numbers.”
Numbers. Ugh! She hated them. Her eyes returned to her own lack of a bottom line. Should she say yes to the job? No. She couldn’t. Saying yes meant putting herself into direct contact with him, and the fiasco last Saturday night after the wedding proved she wasn’t ready. “I really can’t make any promises, Andy. A lot of it depends on the timing. Since the wedding I’ve been . . . uh . . . kind of busy.”
“Good for you. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Trish squeezed her eyes tight against the ensuing stab of guilt. Man, she’d just lied to him. “Sorry to have to cut this short, Andy, but I’ve got a couple of clients lined up for this afternoon.”
“Oh, I see. Sorry to have interrupted your work. Well, you take care.” Hurt edged his voice.
“You, too. Bye.” Trish sat a moment with her eyes closed and her forehead at rest on her palm, the phone still pressed to her ear. The last thing she’d wanted to do was hurt his feelings. Finally she clicked the phone shut, dropped it in her shoulder bag, and grabbed her keys. Work would help take her mind off her problems. At least temporarily.
Fifteen minutes later, she removed the last of the old decorations from the store window display at Betsy’s Antique Mall when her phone rang again. Trish glanced at the screen. The school? Again? She flipped it open quickly. “Yes?”
“Trish, this is Pam at the elementary school.”
“Is Bo okay?” Now her voice really did border on hysteria.
“He’s fine, but he’s crying and asking for you. We’ve tried to calm him down, but . . .”
“I’ll be right there.”
Less than five minutes later, Trish arrived at the school. She entered the door to the kindergarten wing, children’s copycat artwork plastered to the walls. Suddenly, a child’s fearful screams reverberated down the fluorescent-lit hallway, followed by the words: “I want my Mommy! I want my Mommy!”
Hurt ripped through her chest as she sprinted in the direction of the gut-rending cries. She rounded a doorway, where Little Bo wiggled in a chair, damp tendrils of sweaty hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes swollen and red, his cheeks flushed and damp with tears.
“It’s okay, honey, Mama’s here.” She knelt, gathered him into her arms, and crooned in his ear. “Shh, sweetie, it’s okay.”
He continued to hiccup and sob softly.
Trish rose to her feet. Bo’s teacher, Mrs. Walsh, looked ready to hand in her resignation and hit up the fast-food industry for a burger-flipping job. “How long has he been like this?”
“Since lunch recess.”
“That was two hours ago. Why didn’t someone call sooner?”
The woman stiffened. “This is a school, Mrs. James, not a daycare. We try to calm the children when they get like this. We can’t call parents every time the kids get in a little snit.”
“A little snit? I’ve never seen him this upset.”
Mrs. Walsh sniffed. “You’ll need to talk to Bo about what happened. He instigated a fight on the playground today, his second one this week, and will have to miss recess for the next several days. I know it’s been a rough year for him, but he needs to understand how serious this matter is.”
Bo slumped against her, lifeless, except for an occasional shudder that shredded her heart. She knew she needed to respond, but words wouldn’t squeeze past the lump in her throat. Instead she ran from the room, her son dead weight in her arms.
Chapter 8
Trish laid Little Bo on the plaid sofa in the family room of the main ranch house and watched him slumber, his thumb stuffed in his mouth. She raised both hands to her cheeks. Would he ever get past the trauma of his daddy’s death? Would she? The area around his eyes puckered, and he whimpered in his sleep.
Her heart ached with words she couldn’t speak, her eyes pricked by stinging needles. If only Mom were here to tell her what to do.
“Did he tell you what happened?” Dad draped an arm across her shoulder, and she inhaled the comforting scent of his familiar aftershave.
She burrowed her head in his shoulder for a moment, and then motioned her dad to the other room so they wouldn’t awaken Bo. “I buckled him in and got in the car,” she whispered, her voice sounding like it came from some place far away. “When I turned around to back out of the parking space, he was already asleep. Apparently, he started a fight at school today—the second one this week.”
Lines furrowed Dad’s baby-white forehead, an obvious tan line where his cowboy hat usually rested. “That’s not like him.”
A weary breath burst from between her lips. She meandered to the oversized picture window and peered out, her eyes seeing nothing. “He hasn’t been himself in such a long time.” Trish lingered a few seconds, then returned to the table. She sagged to one of the maple dining room chairs, and stroked the bridge of her nose. This headache had morphed into a real doozy.
“Are you okay
?” His tone held worry.
Trish shook her head. “Honestly, I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do.” Her voice cracked, and she paused to gain control. “Life would be so much easier if God gave us a detailed outline of what He wants us to do, so we could at least know if we’re on the right path.”
He sent a kind smile. “Tell you what. I’ll go fix us a glass of tea, and then I want to show you something that’s helped me through a lot of tough times.”
She nodded, grieved that she and Bo were responsible for the concern etched on his face.
“I’ll be right back.” He tottered to the kitchen.
Trish took advantage of his absence and called Betsy. “This is Trish. Sorry I never made it back, but Bo isn’t feeling well.”
“Sorry to hear that. Hope he’s better soon.” Thank goodness her voice held no reproach.
“You know how kids are. I’m sure he’ll be better in the morning. I’ll come in to finish the display right after I drop him off at school, if that’s okay.” She rushed through the explanation, hoping the plea would work.
“Don’t worry about it, Trish. I’ve already taken care of it.”
Her heart sank. No job. No money. “Thanks for understanding.” She ended the call and laid the phone on the table, her mind numb. Right now she just didn’t have the strength to make the second business call. It would have to wait until later.
“Here you go.” Dad shuffled back into the room, and set the tea in front of her, the ice cubes clinking against the glass. He turned an object over in his hand, his eyes tender, then gave her a hand-stitched bookmark, many years old, judging by the worn edges. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.”
Trish trailed her fingers over the bumpy stitches. The verse from Dani and Steve’s wedding. Whoever made this did beautiful work. She took a sip of the sweet tea. “Where’d you get this?” She passed it back to him, but he shook his head and curled her fingers around the bookmark.
“You keep it for now. A dear friend gave it to me a very long time ago. Every time I reached a point in my life when I couldn’t decide which path to take, this verse helped.” Dad eased back down into a chair, his hand still covering hers, and his gray-blue eyes trained on her. “I know things are confusing right now, honey. It’s hard to know what to do when life yanks the rug out from under you. The best advice I can give is to trust God. I know it sounds too simple, but I promise one day this will all be behind you.”
