Southern Sympathies

by Boeshaar, Andrea

  “That’s very original,” Lydia said teasingly, although the humor was lost on the five-year-old.

  “We’re learning about Adam and Eve in Sunday school.”

  “That’s right.” Kissing her daughter’s forehead, Lydia was suddenly reminded of the lesson she had to prepare for the ladies’ Bible study she taught right before the Sunday morning service the next day. “All right, say your prayers now.”

  Brooke squeezed her eyes closed and then folded her hands over Mr. Lion. “God bless Grampa Boswick and Gramma Boswick, Gramma Reimer—” She paused. “What’s her new name again? I forgot.”

  “Jackson,” Lydia reminded her daughter as another little piece of her heart crumbled. “She’s Gramma Jackson now.”

  Brooke nodded. “And God bless Gramma Jackson, Mama, Tyler. . .and me.”

  She peeked at Lydia, who raised a questioning brow. “That’s not much of a prayer.”

  “I know, ’cept it’s all I can think of right now.”

  “Very well,” Lydia conceded, bestowing one last kiss on Brooke’s cheek and wishing her a good night’s sleep. “You can talk to Jesus any time, not just when I’m listening to your bedtime prayers.”

  The little girl nodded once more.

  Smiling, Lydia shut off the lamp beside Brooke’s bed and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Tyler, time to turn off that computer,” she announced, crossing the hallway.

  “Aw, do I have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I’m trying to see if Matt’s E-mail still works.”

  “It probably doesn’t.”

  “I’m almost done typing the letter. . . .”

  “Okay. Finish up, but make it quick. You can type a longer message once you find out if Matt has the same on-line address.”

  The boy smiled, turned back to the computer screen, and continued his “hunt-and-peck” method of typing out a message to his friend.

  Sitting down on the end of Tyler’s bed, Lydia surveyed her son’s room. Blue and green plaid walls surrounded the heavy mahogany furniture that had once belonged to Michael when he was a child.

  Michael. Oddly enough, thinking about him didn’t hurt nearly as badly as it once did. She could even talk about him now and his freak heart attack without choking on her emotions and tears. Dead at the age of thirty-four. Who would have ever guessed it? Not Michael’s parents, who’d never known about their only son’s rare heart condition, one that had gone undetected until the autopsy. Not Lydia, who was crazy in love with the tall, blond, handsome young man whom she’d met right after she and her mother joined Southern Pride Community Church.

  She’d been just sixteen years old at the time. He was twenty, refined, educated, and mature. They were immediately and obviously attracted to each other, and they fell hopelessly in love. While the Boswicks encouraged Michael to marry a slew of other young ladies—those closer to his age—Michael had waited determinedly for Lydia, even though they’d been separated while he went to college and law school. Then finally they were married the day after her twenty-first birthday. Tyler arrived three years later and Brooke, three years after him. Life had been perfectly blissful. . .until Michael died.

  “Okay, I’m done,” Tyler said, causing Lydia to snap out of her reminiscing.

  He jumped into bed and dove under the sheets, ruffling the light blue comforter. Smiling, Lydia tousled his hair. Both children had inherited their father’s coloring, blond hair with deep brown eyes. Her heart used to ache just looking at them, remembering her beloved husband each and every time she did so. But time was a healer of wounds and though Lydia once thought she’d never get over the pain of losing Michael, it had dulled to the point of being tolerable. She’d even been able to counsel a new widow at church, another sign that she was healing.

  “Thank you, God, for bringing me and my family through another day,” Tyler began. “Please bless Grampa and Gramma Boswick. . . .”

  As her son continued to say his routine bedtime prayers, Lydia’s thoughts strayed and time after time she had to force herself to concentrate on what he was saying. She still had much to do before she could call it a night.

  “And please, God, give me a new bike.”

  That got her attention. “Tyler. . .?”

  “Well, my birthday is coming up on May first. I just wanna make sure God has plenty of time to get it.”

  Lydia made a tsk sound with her tongue. “You have a bike.”

  “I know. But I want a mountain bike—like the one Matt got at Christmas.”

  Shaking her head, Lydia thought her son had more toys than he could possibly ever need—and then some! “Tyler, we should pray for people who don’t have all the nice things we do. There are children right here in the United States who don’t have a place to sleep tonight. They’re poor and homeless. But look at you. . .you’re very blessed, all snuggled in a warm, cozy bed with lots of toys around you. It’s selfish to ask for more.”

  Tyler looked quite contrite. “Oh, all right.” He closed his eyes and resumed his prayers. “God, if you get me that new bike, I promise I’ll give my old one to a poor child.”

  Lydia shook her head at him, but Tyler kept praying. “And please make that bike a red and black one.” Peeking at his mother, he added, “I also ask for all the poor, homeless children in the world—please find them homes, Lord. I’ll even share my bedroom with another boy if You want me to.”

  The offer touched Lydia’s heart, reminding her that Tyler could be very benevolent most of the time.

  At last, the boy finished his prayers and Lydia gave him a good-night kiss on the cheek. “Sweet dreams,” she murmured as he turned onto his side sleepily.

  “Sweet dreams. . .” Then suddenly he sat upright, his forehead nearly colliding with Lydia’s chin.

  “Now what?”

  “I forgot to ask God something else.”

  She sighed impatiently, thinking this was one of Ty’s many ploys of bedtime procrastination. “All right. Be quick about it.”

  He closed his eyes. “Dear God, please send me and Brooke a new daddy.”

  Lydia stifled a gasp of surprise. He’d never prayed for that before. Moreover, his voice rang with sincerity.

  “He’d have to be a special daddy,” Tyler continued, “to take the place of our real daddy who’s in heaven. But I know You can do it, God. Amen!” Flopping back against his pillows, the eight-year-old grinned up at her. “Okay, now I can go to sleep.”

  Startled out of a reply, Lydia could only nod. She walked out of the room and closed the door softly. Taking the stairs slowly, she wondered why her son would ask God for a new daddy. Surely it wasn’t because he felt a particular fondness for any certain man. Lydia didn’t date, although lately her father-in-law, Gerald Boswick, had been trying to coax her into going out with his attorney, who was also the church’s treasurer, Simeon Crenshaw. The only trouble was, Lydia didn’t feel interested, and since Gerald wasn’t pushing too hard, she politely refused Sim, ignoring the fall bouquet of flowers he’d sent her last Thanksgiving Day and the long-stemmed red roses accompanied by a box of expensive chocolates at Christmas.

  I’ll have to make a point to question Ty about this new daddy thing tomorrow, she thought, picking up the manila folder off the desk in the living room. Opening it, she pulled out her Bible study notes. She crossed the room and, making herself comfortable in the brightly upholstered, wingback armchair, she began to plan her lesson.

  ❧

  Sunday afternoon shone with promise as Alec drove his sleek black Chevy pickup back home after the worship service and the potluck luncheon that followed. He had visited the small community of Woodruff, North Carolina, several times before actually making the move from Wisconsin, and he’d liked what he’d seen—still did. Life moved at a slower pace down here. Even the fast-food places were slow. But people seemed friendlier and more innocent, to the point that Alec considered them backwards, but in a complimentary way. Who needed big-cit
y sophistication with its high crime rate? Not him. Not anymore. This little “hick town,” nestled in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, suited him just right.

  Turning into his driveway, Alec sent up a prayer of thanks that he’d so easily found a local church to attend. It was perfect for him, quaint and simple—a reflection of his own personality. And Mark Spencer, the pastor of Berean Baptist Church, was a man with whom Alec’s spirit identified. He was a down-to-earth African American whose heart and enthusiasm for people of all races were contagious. A soft-spoken man, Pastor Spencer wasn’t flamboyant. His services were filled with practical teachings from God’s Word. Even the church building wasn’t anything to speak of, with its gray aluminum siding and modest chapel inside, housing metal folding chairs instead of pews. But Alec had learned firsthand that appearances could be deceiving. He refused to judge the congregation solely on its dwelling. He wasn’t disappointed, either. Berean’s church members turned out to be warm and personable and, just as they’d received him with open arms weeks ago, during his last “just making sure” visit to Woodruff, they’d welcomed him today. Alec appreciated that.

  Parking his truck outside the garage, he suddenly thought about his boss, Greg Nivens. Ever since Alec started working at the national firm of Heritage Craft Furniture and Cabinetry, where he labored as a carpenter, Greg had been doing his best to talk Alec into attending his church, Southern Pride Community Church. It was nearer to Charlotte, the same “big city” in which he worked, so right away he wasn’t interested. He’d rather stick closer to home. Then the kids next door had mentioned the very same body of believers yesterday. Alec had begun to wonder if maybe the Lord really wanted him there—as if God were giving him hints, leading his thoughts toward SPCC for a special reason. However, Alec got Divine assurance this morning. He was most definitely attending the right church.

  Getting out of the garage, he spied the bicycle he’d bought for Denise before she’d broken their engagement. Why had he brought it down here? He should have given it to charity before moving from Wisconsin. Then, again, he hadn’t been thinking straight since Thanksgiving. Heartbreak did that to a guy, he reasoned. But still, to haul a lousy bike almost a thousand miles. . .

  Alec shook his head and continued making his way toward the house. Childish giggles wafted across the yard, causing him to pause in his tracks. The boy, Ty, waved from his perch on the large wooden gym set, and his little sister repeated the greeting. Alec waved back, smiling and walking the rest of the way to the house. Those kids sure were cute. He fished in his trouser pocket for his keys and then thought of Denise’s bike. He couldn’t use it—the frame was too small for his large physique. Why not give it to Tyler? The boy would probably appreciate it, and Alex wouldn’t have to look at it every time he passed the garage.

  “Hey, kid,” he called from his small back porch. “Tyler, come over to the fence. I want to ask you something.”

  The boy immediately obeyed. “Yes, Mr. Alec?”

  “Could you use a bike?”

  He shrugged.

  “Here, let me show it to you. It’s brand new.” Alec fetched it from the garage, and the boy’s brown eyes grew as big as dessert plates.

  “Wow! A red-and-black mountain bike! Just what I prayed for! Mama, Mama,” he yelled, turning toward the house and cupping his mouth with his hands, “come see how God answered my prayer. Mama, come out here!”

  His mother, a petite brunette, stepped out of the back door. “Tyler, you stop that bellowing. It’s rude.”

  She gave Alec an apologetic look and he smiled. How could he help but smile? She was lovely, dressed in a long, bluish-gray dress and matching heels. He watched as she gracefully stepped to the fence. Her gaze met his and Alec noticed her eyes were a dusky color—the same hue as her outfit.

  “I’m Lydia Boswick,” she said in a Southern velvet tone, offering her right hand. “I see you’ve met my children.”

  Alec took her hand, keenly aware of how small and cool it felt in his. “Yes. . .” It was the most intelligent reply he could think of.

  “Mama, Mr. Alec is giving me this bike. Look!”

  Alec released her hand and gave the woman an embarrassed grin. “Bought it for someone who didn’t want it,” he stated lamely. “I thought maybe your son would like it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he would,” she replied, assessing the bicycle with a dubious expression.

  “It’s what I prayed for, right, Mama?”

  “Yes,” she answered slowly, “it seems to fit your exact description.”

  “I prayed for a red-and-black mountain bike,” Tyler told Alec, fairly gyrating in all his excitement.

  “Well, here you go.” Alec lifted the thing over the fence. “It’s all yours.”

  “We can’t accept such a gift—”

  “Really, you’d be doing me a favor. It’s way too small a bike for me anyway. I’d just have to find another way to get rid of it. And after all, it is the answer to the boy’s prayer.”

  Lydia smiled. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. . .?”

  “Corbett. Alec Corbett. Call me Alec.” He wanted to bite off his tongue for rambling on like such an idiot!

  She smiled. “Well. . .Alec. . .you’re very generous. Thank you.”

  “Aw, it’s nothing. Like I said, I bought it for someone who didn’t want it.”

  Tyler straddled the bike. It looked a little big for him, although he managed to reach the pedals from the seat. He took a quick, but shaky spin around the wide end of the driveway.

  “Let me grab my tools and then you bring that bike over here,” Alec told the boy. “Maybe I can lower the seat a notch—the handlebars, too.”

  “Thanks!” Tyler beamed, while Brooke had gone back to her swing, watching the scene from afar. He glanced at his mother. “Can I?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, but don’t make a pest of yourself. I’m sure our new neighbor has a lot of other things to accomplish today.”

  “Naw, nothing’s going on. It’s okay,” Alec heard himself say before he winced inwardly. He had a kazillion things to do! Something about this modern-day Southern belle caused him to act as though he didn’t have a brain in his head!

  “Now God just has to answer my other prayer. . .for a new daddy. I don’t suppose you can help Him out with that one, too, Mr. Alec.”

  “Tyler!” his mother declared, a crimson blush running up her neck and cheeks.

  Alec grinned sardonically, his senses returning in full force. “Sorry, pal,” he said, gazing at Tyler’s innocent countenance. “God’s on His own, there.”

  He glanced at Lydia, who wore an expression of chagrin. She seemed sincere, but then Denise had seemed sincere, too—at first. Was it a mask? Maybe Lydia Boswick coaxed her kids to “break the ice” with eligible men. Maybe she played the same kind of games that all women played. Well, he wouldn’t fall for it again. Praying for a husband, was she? Well, it wouldn’t be him!

  “Nice meeting you,” he said curtly, adding a stiff nod before turning and striding toward his house. No way was he going to get sucked in by another female’s wiles. Not even if she was a pretty little thing with kitten-gray eyes who looked as though she’d welcome the strength of a man.

  Right.

  He unlocked his back door and walked into the hallway. Women like Lydia Boswick could appeal to a male’s ego, that’s for sure! But he wasn’t going to be swayed by her Southern charm. No sir. Not him!

  Three

  “Tyler, you shouldn’t have said that!”

  “Said what?”

  Lydia gazed into her eight-year-old’s face, noting his dark brown eyes were veiled with naivetО. “Oh, never mind,” she replied gently, unable to reprimand her son right there and then. They’d have to discuss proper social etiquette another time. “Just make sure you don’t go inside the neighbor’s house, all right?”

  “Why, Mama?”

  “Because we don’t know Mr. Corbett very well, now do we? Besides,
I’m sure he has plenty to do since he just moved in yesterday.”

  “Okay. . .”

  Lydia turned toward the house as Tyler led his new bicycle down the driveway. She entered the kitchen and spotted her straight-backed mother-in-law, standing at the sink, cleaning up lunch dishes.

  “Who’s that man you were conversing with, Lydia?” she asked over one narrow shoulder.

  “My new neighbor. He just moved in yesterday and would you believe he gave Tyler a bicycle? Why, it looks brand new!”

  Elberta Boswick turned off the faucet and swung around. “He gave that boy a bicycle?” Her face was heavily lined with age and even more so now that she was frowning. “And you allowed it?”

  Lydia shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, Elberta. I mean, I didn’t see a reason to reject the kind offer. And Tyler so wanted a bike just exactly like it. . . .”

  “We Boswicks take care of our own, Lydia,” she stated sharply. “You know that. If Tyler had a need, you should have let Gerald know about it.”

  Lydia opened her mouth to explain herself, but thought better of it. Elberta was a proud woman and often looked at gifts as charity—something the Boswicks would never stoop to accept. Why, they’d starve to death first! Hadn’t their ancestors done much the same during the Civil War? Ah, yes, Lydia had heard all about it and, generally, she felt privileged to have a part in such a wealth of heritage. Unfortunately, her mother-in-law had never treated her with the same kindnesses as a real member of the Boswick family. It used to anger Michael, but it hurt Lydia. Still did.

  “What’s going on here?” Gerald Boswick asked curiously, entering the kitchen, a cup and saucer in his right hand. A tall man, pushing sixty years old, he remained a handsome and imposing figure. Lydia had always thought he resembled the Hollywood actor Kirk Douglas, right down to the cleft in his chin.

  “Lydia,” Elberta ground out, turning back to the sink, “has allowed Tyler to accept a bicycle from a perfect stranger.”

  Gerald glanced at Lydia, sending her an affectionate wink—one that said he’d handle his wife just as he always did.