An Old-Fashioned Love. Arlene JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
clasped her hand in his own large, very hot one, and pumped her arm a few times. “I’ll see you soon, Miss Temple,” he said. “’Bye.”
“Goodbye.”
She got in the car and closed the door. It was broiling hot in there, but she was too aware of Wyatt Gilley, standing on the other side of the door, to open it again. The month of May was still new, and the weather was sparkling, perfect, but this black car seemed to absorb the bright sunshine and hold it. The price one paid for a bit of flash, she mused distractedly, digging in her purse for the keys. She found them, fitted them into the ignition and started the engine, immediately flipping on the air-conditioning before engaging the transmission and backing out of the parking space. Through it all, Wyatt Gilley just stood there smiling. He was there still when she glanced in her rearview mirror before turning out into the street. She’d be a liar if she didn’t admit how much that pleased her, but it disturbed her even more.
Wyatt Gilley was not a friend. Perhaps he was not the adversary she had previously thought him to be, but that did not make him a friend. Neither, she told herself firmly, did that make him a prospective romantic interest, not that she knew, really, what would. She labored under the conviction that when she met the right man she would just somehow know. She imagined that this knowing would bring her a great sense of peace, a kind of settling of her soul, a quiet, steady joy. She based these assumptions on the very thing everyone else did: secondhand experience. That is, the behavior, manner and countenance, as observed by herself, of the happily coupled individuals of her acquaintance, most prominently, her parents and grandparents. Nothing about Wyatt Gilley could be equated to her father or grandfather. Nothing about Gilley inspired in her even a pretension of the serenity in which her mother and grandmother so obviously dwelled, let alone inspired joy. It was quite the opposite, in fact. He disturbed her, agitated her, set her nerves on edge and her senses reeling. He was, somehow, dangerous.
And so that was that. Lieutenant Colonel Wyatt Gilley, retired, undoubtedly had certain virtues, but all in all he was just one more thing to be endured, an added bit of discomfort, a puzzle without an answer. Eventually the relationship, such as it was, would run its course and be severed, forgotten. That being the case, she could simply put him out of her mind, at least in theory. In practice, it might not be so easy. After all, she would have to explain to her grandmother what had happened in court. Also, she ought to call the reverend and let him know how everything had turned out.
Now there was a fine man. No one would have to drag him into court in order to open his eyes to the truth. In fact, the Reverend Bolton Charles was everything a woman like her could want. Tall, dark and handsome, he was also sensitive and gentle and caring, and he possessed a deep spirituality with which she could well identify. It was obvious in the way he spoke of her that he had loved his late wife very much, and that made him all the more attractive. Yet, despite her grandmother’s obvious attempts at matchmaking, Traci could not quite see herself forming a romantic attachment to Bolton Charles. How was it that she could see such an attachment forming between Wyatt Gilley and herself?
But no, that was nonsense. Wyatt Gilley was not at all the sort of man who would suit her. Not at all. And she mustn’t allow herself to think otherwise. Once more she pushed him firmly out of mind, only to find herself having to do so time and time again.
The Reverend Bolton Charles smiled at her over the rim of his tea glass. “Sounds as if everything’s finally beginning to work out.”
She nodded. “I really didn’t even expect him to show up in court, so you could’ve knocked me over with a feather when he admitted full liability.”
Bolton shrugged, the knit fabric of his polo shirt pulling taut over his shoulders. “It’s easy to misjudge someone in an emotional situation.”
“He was just so certain that his kids were telling him the truth, and to be fair, they’re gifted little actors. They almost convinced me, and I caught them at it!”
Bolton chuckled. “Sounds like quite a pair.”
Traci sighed. “Too much for me, I’m afraid. Frankly, I’m not sure having them around is such a good idea. I mean, they’re supposed to be learning a lesson, but I’m just not certain that I’m the one to be teaching it to them. I’m best with little kids, you know, infants and creepers.”
Bolton reached across the table in her grandmother’s kitchen and covered her hand lightly with his. “You’ll do fine,” he said reassuringly. “Just be firm from the outset, and be honest about what you expect of them. Don’t pretend that they can do any and everything. Kids know they have limitations, and they can smell pretense a mile away. No one can trust deceit, even if its well-meaning. Remember that you’re the adult. You’re the one in charge.”
“I know that, but will they?” she worried aloud.
“Don’t give them an option. Believe me, in the long run everyone will be happier that way. Kids aren’t comfortable when adults abdicate their control. They may resent being told what to do—that’s normal and part of developing independence—but inside they know they aren’t capable of making all the decisions. They need the security of adult supervision, whether they realize it or not.”
Traci smiled at her handsome friend thoughtfully. “You really ought to have children of your own, you know.”
A shadow passed briefly over his face. “I hope to.”
Traci could have bitten her tongue off. How could she have been so thoughtless? She had been told that after years of hoping, Bolton’s late wife had finally believed herself pregnant, only to discover that her symptoms were those of cancer. With her had died their hope of having a child of their own. She turned her hand over beneath his and squeezed his palm. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It was a compliment. I took it as such, anyway.”
“It was meant as one.”
“Well, then, for pity’s sake, don’t apologize,” he declared, laughing. “Even a minister’s ego occasionally needs nurturing, you know.”
Traci laughed at that. Bolton Charles was the least egocentric man she’d ever known. Wyatt Gilley, now there was a man with an ego. It was obvious in the pride with which he held himself, the way he dressed and moved. What had it cost him to admit his liability in open court? She couldn’t help admiring him for doing the right thing, even if he had come to it rather late. She wondered if his ego had taken a beating when his wife had divorced him. Did he still love her perhaps? Might he take her back if she wanted him to, put his family back together again?
“Traci?”
“Hm?” She looked up into Bolton’s smiling eyes.
“You got lost for a moment there.”
Lost? Thinking about Wyatt Gilley, of all things! She felt color heat her cheeks. What on earth was wrong with her? “Was I? I, ah, was just wondering if it wasn’t about time to start dinner. You’ll stay and join us, won’t you?”
He released his hold on her hand and’ leaned back in his chair, a knowing little smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “I never turn down a homecooked meal,” he said good-naturedly, “or the company of a beautiful woman.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, relieved to hear the teasing tone of his voice, and quipped, “I’ll tell Grandmother you said that. She’ll be so thrilled.”
They both laughed at that, having admitted some time ago that an obvious attempt at matchmaking had brought them together. Traci could only wonder why it wasn’t working.
Traci dropped her gloves, folded her arms and succumbed to an open stare. Why was she surprised? Wyatt Gilley was exactly the sort of man to drive a sky blue convertible sports car, when any other single parent of twins would have opted for a small, sensible station wagon. She wondered if all three could get in it with the top up and if the boys didn’t mind being squished and belted into a single seat. Well, it wasn’t any of her concern. She walked out onto the narrow front deck that essentially served as a doorstep