Home to Safe Harbor. Kate WelshЧитать онлайн книгу.
raging, door-slamming battle. She hates it here. Hates me for bringing her here. She should have stayed with Seth and Mary. She called me ‘stupid’ and ‘selfish’ among other things, the kindest of which was ‘dictator.’ She apologized later but…” He grimaced.
The man was heartbroken. “But you thought you were her hero and it hurts that she’s coming to see things about you she characterizes as faults.”
Matt blinked and stared at her. “How did you know that?”
“I’m smarter than the average minister because I’m a woman,” she teased, shooting him a grin.
The teasing did no good. Matt was just too upset to unwind that easily. “One of the things she really unloaded about is that practically every minute we’re together has something to do with chores. She’s right. Between trying to get completely moved in—my garage is still wall-to-wall boxes—and all the everyday things Diane would have handled while I was at work…” He sighed. “She told me later that she was just angry but… Justine, I’m not sure she meant it. I thought I knew my daughter.”
“I’m sure you do. More than the average male parent of a thirteen-year-old girl. It’s a very difficult period. So much changes in that year. I often feel sorry for those ninth graders. They don’t really belong in the junior high building nor the high school building. She’s growing up, Matt, and unfortunately that means growing away, as well. It’s a natural, albeit painful, process.”
Matt scrubbed his hand over his face. “I wish I were sure that’s all there is to it. Listen, I know it’s an imposition, but would you mind coming over for dinner one night soon and just sort of observing her? Maybe you’ll see something I’m missing. And maybe if she hears another woman in an informal setting talking about this dieting idea, she’ll see she’s going at it all wrong.”
Justine really didn’t think she’d be able to help, but didn’t want to close the door with a refusal. “It isn’t an imposition at all. I’m always here for the kids and their parents. Besides, it’ll save me cooking for myself at least one night.”
“Would tonight be too soon?”
“No. Tonight would be fine.”
He smiled broadly, his relief palpable. “Thanks.”
At six-thirty sharp, Justine pulled up in the Trents’ driveway and took a moment to send a quick prayer heavenward that she wouldn’t misstep.
She was only halfway up the walk when the front door flew open and Cindy and Gina spilled out with Matt trailing behind.
“Don’t knock the poor woman over, girls,” he called after them, as they both barreled into her, shooting greetings and queries a mile a minute. She put her arms around both girls and tried to answer.
“Now, let me see. Yes, I’d love to see your room, Cindy. And, yes, I’d love to meet your friend Binky,” she said, carefully taking a baby blanket that had seen better days. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to smooth it over her hand and turn it quickly into a puppet.
“Hello, Reverend Clemens,” she said, giving Binky a squeaky voice. “Hello to you, too, Binky,” she answered, quickly changing back to her own voice. “Gina’s my person. We’re very good friends,” Binky replied.
Gina giggled and took Binky back, clumsily fashioning the puppet around her own hand. “Will you be my friend, too, and maybe stay overnight? We have bunk beds. We’ll share. Won’t we, Gina?”
“Sure,” Gina continued in the high-pitched voice she’d assigned to Binky, then quickly corrected the tone, and giggled, saying “Sure” again in her own register.
Matt cleared his throat. “I don’t think, Reverend Clemens could—”
“I really can’t,” Justine said at the same moment. They both laughed in shared camaraderie and chagrin.
“Girls, let’s get inside before dinner burns…or our guest runs for her life,” Matt put in, after scooping Gina and Binky up in his arms.
He’d promised to fix ravioli in a red meat sauce that he called gravy, a term he said he’d learned from his Italian grandmother. His Mediterranean background wasn’t a surprise to Justine. His deep brown eyes, dark complexion and nearly black hair told an unmistakable tale of Latin roots.
Justine followed the crowd inside the farmhouse-design home. She found it a pleasant surprise after the way Matt had described the state of his garage. The living room was beautifully arranged. If the rest of his home looked as put together, she would know he’d been exaggerating.
“Matt, this is lovely. You have a real talent for decorating.”
A snort came from behind and to the left. Justine turned and found Leslie leaning in the doorway of a softly lit room next to the staircase. “Like Dad knows more than how to stuff a room full of furniture.”
“Les told me where to put what, what color to paint the walls and what to hang where,” Matt confessed. “Otherwise, nothing would have been hung up and the furniture would be arranged like a doctor’s waiting room. My back still aches thinking about moving everything around till my slave-driver daughter was satisfied.”
Mindful that a lack of self-esteem was reported to be a prime cause of eating disorders, Justine jumped on the chance to bolster Leslie’s sense of self. “You have quite a talent, Leslie. Maybe someday you’ll be an interior designer.”
The teen shrugged shyly. “Mom bought it all. I just said where to put it. And the paint color was common sense. It was no big deal.”
“Oh, you’re wrong. Really. It takes the right eye to know how to arrange things this nicely. And color is so easily off a shade. I know grown women who can’t do this well. Unfortunately, I head the list. Maybe you could lend me that eye of yours someday, if it’s all right with your dad. I hate the way my place is coming together. As your dad said, it looks like a doctor’s waiting room with the furniture lined up along the walls.”
Again Leslie shrugged, but she did stand a little straighter and taller. “Yeah. Sure. I could help.”
“I guess that means I’ll be moving furniture again,” Matt said, giving a deep theatrical sigh.
Leslie rolled her eyes. “Oh, Daddy,” she said with the kind of exaggerated disgust only a thirteen-year-old can do justice to.
Justine laughed. “So, where’s this authentic Italian dinner I was promised?”
Matt tucked the younger girls in bed and settled Les down at the computer in her room to finish the rest of her homework. Then, somewhat reluctantly, he headed back to the family room where Justine waited. He watched her lovely face in silent repose reflected in the window as she stared out at the darkened sky and took a sip of the tea he’d given her before going off to see to the girls.
For a moment Matt found himself unable to move—held in check by Justine’s beauty. But, he reminded himself, he needed something of more substance from this woman—this minister—than her captivating loveliness. With his daughter’s happiness at stake, attraction took a back seat to answers. Answers he needed but feared.
Matt took a deep fortifying breath before plunging ahead into troubled waters. If she said something negative, he didn’t know how he’d handle it. There was nothing more important to him than being the best of fathers. What would he do if he’d failed?
“Everyone’s all settled,” he told her before losing his nerve.
Justine turned and smiled, but there was a hint of nervousness in her expression. “Matt,” she said, almost as if she were surprised to see him there.
“Oh-oh. You spotted a problem, didn’t you? I don’t relish hearing you tell me I’m a failure as a father, but—”
Justine’s eyes widened. “Goodness, Matt, you’re nothing of the sort. I was just going over something troubling in