Meant to Be Mine (A Porter Family Novel Book #2)

by Becky Wade

  This pastor was agreeing with her, in a way, freely acknowledging that no one in the room would ever be good enough. But he claimed that was all right because Jesus had already been good enough for them all.

  Unshed tears burned her eyes. She told herself somewhat frantically to think about something else. Her job search or Addie’s kindergarten or anything—

  It was as if God’s hands held her cheeks, keeping her attention on that long ago day when she’d hit her knees and prayed not to be pregnant.

  Think back, He seemed to say.

  It wasn’t hard to remember her terrified desperation. She’d been a young and heartsick working girl back then. The possibility of becoming pregnant had panicked her. At the time it had been almost impossible to imagine how she’d cope with a baby.

  What would you have had me change?

  Her mind went blank. Her thoughts spiraled. If God had answered her prayer the way she’d wanted Him to back then, if her pregnancy had never been, she wouldn’t have Addie.

  Addie’s blond head bent in concentration over her coloring. Celia watched as her glasses began to slip down her nose. Addie pushed them back with her index finger and continued to work on a scene depicting a plump white horse with a big bow on top of its head.

  Addie was the greatest joy of Celia’s life. Not a burden. Not a tragedy.

  A gift. A gift that God had perhaps insisted on giving her even when, in her fear, she’d asked for the opposite.

  Mercifully, the sermon concluded. Having been granted a reprieve, Celia stood on shaky legs for more songs, then sat for the offering and announcements, then stood again for the final song. The whole time her brain listed like a ship trying to right itself. She needed time and space to think about all this. To process.

  Meg, Bo, Celia, and Addie filed into the foyer at the end of the service. People walked past them, talking, greeting friends.

  “So,” Meg asked, “what did you think?”

  “The music was loud,” Addie answered.

  Meg smiled and affectionately rolled a lock of Addie’s hair around her finger.

  Meg and Bo moved their gazes to Celia. They struck Celia as two people assured with God, with themselves, and with each other. So much so that they had kindness enough to share with their surprise sister-in-law and niece.

  “It was good,” Celia said. A mere figment of nothing to describe the earthquake that had just happened inside of her.

  Meg gave Celia a hug. “Thank you for coming.”

  Within an embrace that smelled like blooming roses, Celia could almost feel God’s arms around her, His voice whispering, I love you, Celia. I’ve always loved you.

  Through methods known only to him, Uncle Danny had managed to find what might be the only mid-century modern house in all of Holley, Texas.

  Danny stepped onto his porch as Celia and Addie made their way up his front walk, Celia carrying a cake. “My favorite girls!” He had on a . . . a Ty Porter T-shirt? The man who never wore new clothing had on a black T-shirt so new that it still bore fold marks.

  Addie ran to hug him and the two of them went through their usual fist-bumping routine.

  “What are you wearing, Uncle Danny?” Celia asked.

  “My new shirt. Sweet, isn’t it?” He stuck out his arms and turned slowly.

  Heinous, more like. A cheesy image of Ty riding a bull plastered the shirt’s front. The back read Ty “The Terminator” Porter in a flaming red and yellow font and listed the years he’d won his world championships.

  “Want me to order you one, C?”

  A surprised laugh bubbled from Celia. “No. But thank you.”

  “I want one!”

  “’Course you do,” he said to Addie. “If I can get one in your size, I will. Won’t we look sharp riding our bike around town in our matching shirts?”

  “You haven’t been riding in this heat, have you?” Celia asked. The forecasted high for this third day of September: ninety-seven.

  “’Course I am. I’ve taken to this weather like a seal to water. Every time I’m out in it, I just soak in the vitamin D. Can’t get enough.”

  “Really?” Celia wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t feel like the inside of a furnace to you?”

  “Mo-om,” Addie protested. “It’s perfect here.”

  “I agree with Potaddie. It’s perfect here.” Danny looked at her cake. “What’d you bring me?”

  “Lemon poppy seed.” After the monumental things that had occurred during the church service earlier, Celia had been feeling like a stroke patient struggling to recover normalcy. She’d gone straight to the kitchen when they’d arrived home and started in on her therapy. Neill had brought his boys over, and he and Celia had talked while the cake had baked and the kids had played. Baking hadn’t helped her organize her thoughts much today, but it had produced one pretty cake.

  Danny lifted the cake from her hands and led them inside. More mid-century modernness everywhere Celia looked.

  Within minutes, they’d settled around his kitchen table with slices of cake and glasses of coconut water over ice.

  “I know I’ve said this before.” Danny took a moment to close his eyes and chew with a blissed-out expression. “But this is insanely good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You have got to let me sell this online.”

  “Lemon poppy seed cake alongside wet suits?”

  “It’d be awesome!”

  Celia took a sip of coconut water and tried not to wince. As health conscious as she was, she’d never been able to bring herself to like coconut water. It might be more hydrating than plain water, but it also tasted yuckier than the original. For Addie’s sake, she’d pretend to drink it, then dump it in the sink.

  “These Texans sure are mannerly, aren’t they, Celia? Everywhere I go they greet me, shake my hand, and offer to help me out. Ty’s mom, for one. Nancy? She and I have been talking and scoping out my next dating move.”

  Another example of the Porter Family Help Squad in action.

  “She’s a great lady,” Danny continued. “If she wasn’t taken, I’d snap her up in a minute—”

  “But she is. Taken.”

  “Which is a shame.” He forked off another bite of cake. “Now that I’m in a new part of the country, I’ve decided to revisit the online dating thing. I’ve found a couple of ladies who live within driving distance of here.”

  “I don’t know, Danny. Online dating hasn’t been that productive for you in the past.”

  “Nah, but hope springs eternal. Waiting on the right wave takes patience. It’s the same with this. If I keep trying, keep waiting, then the right woman will eventually come my way.”

  “Like a bump on the surface of the ocean.”

  “You and me. We’re here.” He moved two fingers back and forth through the air between her forehead and his. “There’s this one lady that I met online through a site called Flirty and Over Fifty. She lives in Hugo, Oklahoma, which is just two hours from here. I can’t really tell from the picture what she’s got to offer in the looks department. I know she has diabetes, loss of vision in one eye, and a recurring case of the hiccups—but, hey, she might have some real potential.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Betty.”

  No potential. Unless she was born and raised in the Czech Republic, then changed her name to Betty upon her arrival on American shores.

  When they’d finished their cake, Danny—true to his insistence that he enjoyed the heat—took Addie out on a bike ride. Celia went to work assessing his fridge and attending to Danny’s other housekeeping needs. She’d swept half his living room when her phone buzzed to signal an incoming text. The tingling sensation that cascaded through her in response meant only one thing.

  She pulled her phone from her purse. Are you ever going to wear the boots I gave you?

  Nope, she answered. Are you ready to return them and get your money back?

  Never. Then ten seconds later, Will you be coming ov
er tonight to flush any more medications down my toilet?

  Not unless provoked.

  I’m thinking the plumbing pipes beneath my house are feeling pretty painless and relaxed right about now.

  She caught herself smiling. He didn’t seem to bear her any ill will. Of course, that may be because she’d fled (in fear of her chastity) before securing his sworn promise not to take more Vicodin.

  Bring Addie over this afternoon? Ty asked. Whitey’s lonely.

  Out of all the girly and fanciful names Addie could have chosen for her pony, she’d tossed up an air ball by choosing Whitey. Whitey doesn’t care about anything except her next meal, she typed back.

  Okay, I admit it. Whitey’s fine. I’m lonely.

  Her fingertips hovered over the phone. She wanted to write Why don’t you call Tawny? but Ty would be even more insufferable to deal with if she confirmed the envy he already suspected she harbored toward Tawny. We’re spending the day with Uncle Danny, she typed instead. He’s lonely, too. The fact was, a part of her wanted to drive to Ty’s house. She did, in a way, sort of . . . miss him. Ludicrous. Also worrisome, because she’d definitely not given herself permission to miss Ty.

  Danny and Addie, sweaty and red faced, bustled into the house with the bike and third-wheel attachment.

  Ty sent her another text. Come over after you leave Danny’s.

  No, she answered. Don’t you have any cowboy things to do? Like spit tobacco? Rope stuff with your lasso? Chew cud?

  It’s cows that chew cud, sweet one.

  She burst out laughing, only to swallow the sound when she looked up and saw that Addie and Danny were watching her.

  “Who’s that?” Addie asked.

  “No one.” Celia slipped the phone back into her purse and returned her attention to sweeping.

  “Was it Daddy? You like him, don’t you?”

  “Hmm?” Ever the rotten actress.

  “You like him.”

  It didn’t look like Addie was going to drop the subject, so Celia faced her and took up her mommy face and tone of voice. “Of course I like him. He’s your father, and he’s a good man.”

  Danny snickered.

  Addie regarded Celia with the heaping and withering scorn that only a five-year-old can muster.

  “What?” Celia asked defensively, her spirits starting to slump because she knew what.

  “You like Daddy the way that the princesses like the princes in the movies. And in the end, the princesses and the princes always kiss each other, Mommy. Everybody knows that.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Monday mornings. A day and time of the week not known for bringing joy.

  But as Celia stood in her dining room with her phone clasped to her ear listening to Donetta offer her double the pay to work at Cream or Sugar, she realized that this particular Monday morning brought with it bucket loads of joy.

  “So what do you think?” Donetta asked. “Do you want the job?”

  “Yes. Yes! I definitely want the job.” Celia pressed a cool hand to her hot cheek. “Thank you so much. You won’t be sorry, Donetta. I’ll work really hard for you. Wow. Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome, honey. Can you start tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I can.”

  “See you at nine.” Donetta clicked off.

  Celia lowered the phone. For a minute straight she stood unmoving in the silence, grinning from ear to ear. She was going to get to work at a bakery, many years after she’d put that dream away. A bakery!

  Oh my goodness! It felt like a gift beyond price. Too sweet to be true . . . and yet it was. She, Celia Park Porter, baker! She’d no longer have to stress over her job search. She could support her daughter. And she’d done it herself, without Ty’s help. But with, she suspected, God’s.

  The timing couldn’t be a coincidence, surely. Yesterday she’d been to church and heard God tell her He loved her. Today Donetta had called and miraculously offered her twice as much per hour as she had last week.

  Astonishing. Humbling. Thrilling!

  With a squeal, Celia broke into a dance. Her bare feet thrummed against the floor. Her hips swayed. Her hands jabbed skyward. It was vaguely tribal and wholly uncoordinated.

  I have a job!

  Celia wasn’t the only person finding a foothold on their career aspirations that morning.

  Across town, Ty climbed a hill alongside his neighbor. Jim had been eager to show Ty the land he had for sale, and Ty hadn’t asked to tour the property on ATVs like he should have because he hadn’t wanted to sound like a wuss. So here he was, hiking up a hill on his crutches. His shoulders and his good leg were in agony and all the movement had caused his bad leg to hurt like a— He cursed inwardly, keeping his face turned from the older man so Jim wouldn’t see his pain.

  At last they reached the hilltop, and Jim stopped. “Here we are.” Jim tilted his straw Stetson to blot sweat from his forehead, then tugged the brim back into position.

  A 360-degree view spread out from where they stood. Mostly grassy, with some bunches of trees here and there—a typical north Texas landscape more familiar to Ty than the back of his own hand. He’d grown up on land just like this. He’d built his home on the property next door because this type of acreage made him comfortable.

  “What do you think?” Jim asked.

  “Well, like I told you, I have a mind to raise rodeo stock. Looks perfect for that.”

  “It is. See just there?” Jim pointed to a stream that wound across a section of the property below them. Greenery had grown up around the water source, which formed a natural pond at one point, before continuing out of sight. “That’s Whispering Creek.” In salesman fashion, Jim went on to describe the features of the land and the improvements he’d made to it.

  Ty had built his house four years ago. Since then, he’d had reason to come over to Jim’s occasionally. Neighbors helped neighbors, and there’d been times when the two men had worked together to clear downed tree limbs after thunderstorms, when Ty had loaned his generator to Jim, when Jim had let him borrow a power tool. This was the first time, though, that Ty had viewed this land with the option of owning it. As it happened, the idea of owning it felt exactly right.

  He filled his lungs with air, smelling warm earth and sunbaked grass. For the first time since his fall off Meteor, interest for something beyond bull riding began to awaken inside of him.

  He could do this. He could raise stock and spend his energy and time doing something that had meaning. He hadn’t left all his worth behind him on the dirt floor of an arena in Boise, Idaho.

  Jim finished talking.

  “I want to buy it,” Ty stated.

  A smile dawned across Jim’s face. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Would you like cash or a check?”

  Jim chuckled. “You know that Howard Sanders wants it, too.”

  “I do.”

  “Howard’s been calling Marjorie and me for years, reminding us of his interest in buying the place. I can’t say he’s been the easiest neighbor. He’s opinionated about everything under the sun and we’ve had our run-ins.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I’d rather sell the land to you.”

  It didn’t hurt that Ty could outspend Howard many times over, and that Jim knew it.

  “I told Howard, though, that I’d give you both an equal shot at the property.”

  “Understood. How about you work up a price that’s fair and pass it along to us both? If Howard is willing to pay above your asking price, I’d appreciate the chance to make a counter offer.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Will you agree to sell the land to the man who’s willing to pay the most?”

  “I will.”

  “That’s all I ask.” Ty’s determination rose. In no time at all, he would own this property.

  The next morning Celia drove her Prius to Cream or Sugar so she wouldn’t appear for her first day of work looking heat-rumpled. She’d chosen a scoop-neck green
top and a lighter-than-air knee-length patterned skirt. Even though neither piece required ironing, she’d ironed them both twice in hopes of making a good impression.

  She let herself into the bakery and found Donetta making change for a customer. Donetta tipped her head toward the door at the rear of the space. “You can go on back, hon. Jerry’s there.”

  The bakery case ended with a slab of wood that could function as a counter, but hinged at the wall so that workers could lift it and walk past. Celia did so, then made her way into a square room.

  A large commercial oven loomed in one corner. Double refrigerators. The appliances appeared old, but not awfully so. Clinton era, not Reagan. Metal counters, sinks, fixtures. The short hallway that proceeded out of the space looked to hold a stairway, a rear exit door, and likely a bathroom. Numerous open shelves ran horizontally around the kitchen. Some held bowls, pans, trays; others contained industrial-size bags of supplies like flour and sugar. Everything appeared rigorously clean.

  A man stood with his back to her, stirring what looked to be cookie dough. As she approached, he turned.

  “Jerry?” Celia asked.

  “That’s me.” He spoke with a quiet, unhurried voice.

  “I’m Celia. Nice to meet you.”

  “You too.” He gave her a gentle smile. Apparently this was Celia’s champion, the one who’d talked Donetta into paying her extra. He reminded her of Hulk Hogan, except ginger-haired and without the muscle definition.

  “Thank you for hiring me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She’d have liked to hug him or babble with gratitude. “What can I do to help you?”

  “In a minute you can help me get these cookies on the sheet.”

  “I’d be glad to.”

  He told her where to find an apron and a box of hairnets. She donned the apron in two seconds. The hairnet—less familiar. In her sous chef days, she’d simply worn her hair pulled into a ponytail. Either Donetta and Jerry were old-school or Donetta had been motivated by the sight of Celia’s flyaway curls to make a trip to the nearest culinary supply store.