“Thank you,” she said, sidling a few steps away from him. Out of reach.
“Phoebe, don’t.” So many emotions flooded those two words. The way he said her name made her want to fling herself into his arms and never let go.
“I—I think you’d better go,” she murmured. “I need—I need—” She broke off, not knowing what she needed. “I need you to go, please. I need—I can’t think with you here. With you touching me. You make my head spin.”
In two steps, he was around the table, his hands sliding up her arms to her shoulders, drawing her slowly, carefully, closer, until her rested his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes and said, “I’ll leave. I will. But don’t run, okay? Don’t leave me. I don’t want to wait another decade to find you again, but I will.” He drew back the tiniest bit so he could look at her, then his hands moved up the column of her neck, his fingers slipping into the hair at the back of her neck. His palms cupped her jaws and lifted her face, one thumb smoothing over the curve of her bottom lip.
And then he lowered his mouth to hers. It was only a kiss. But in that brief touching of his lips to hers, she sensed his hope, his fear, and his promise to her. I’m not going anywhere.
She wanted to promise him the same thing, but she couldn’t find the words. And when he stepped back and made his way to the front door, she wanted nothing more than to beg him to come back, to kiss her again, to hold her close. Dance with me, her heart cried out. Stay with me, her body echoed. “Pray for me,” she whispered, surprising herself.
He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll never stop.” He stepped out into the night and pulled the door closed behind him.
Phoebe stood rooted to the spot, her legs trembling beneath her, her blood pounding in her veins. Go after him! Go after him! Stop him! But she didn’t move. She couldn’t move. This was about more than Trevor and his unnerving certainty about them. This was about more than her mixed emotions toward him.
This was about more than her resistance to see Baby Charise. About more than her longing to see Lily, about more than the ache in her heart for her mother.
This was bigger, broader, all of those things combined and more.
“God? Can you hear me?” She sounded like a child to her ears. “I don’t want to run anymore. But I don’t know how to stay. I don’t know how to stop. I’m so—I’m so afraid.”
The spacious room reverberated with silence, but as Phoebe waited and listened, it seemed to fill with something—or Someone—more. With a sense of deja vu, Phoebe remembered the way this felt; like she was standing on holy ground. It was exactly how she’d felt when she first entered that church the day after Mother’s Day. What had Trevor said? Like she could almost hear God breathing beside her.
“Are you there?” she asked into the hushed stillness. “Will you show me that you’re who you say you are?” She knew it wasn’t that simple. God wouldn’t flip on the television to interrupt a newscast like she’d seen in the movies. He wouldn’t spell out his name in the stars, or turn a jug of water into wine; after the week she’d just endured, that sounded like the worst sign ever.
But she’d just spent the last several hours with a man who claimed God spoke to him in some way. Over and over, Trevor said God told him to do or say something, to obey or act. If God could communicate with Trevor on a regular basis, to the point that the man seemed to do nothing without first getting God’s approval, why wouldn’t he make himself real to her in some small way? She wanted so desperately to believe in him, to trust him, but she also wanted so desperately to know that she could, that he was who he said he was, and that he would be there for her.
She heard Trevor’s voice in her head: I’m not going anywhere.
“I need you to promise me the same thing,” she whispered to God.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Phoebe filled a huge glass with tap water and added ice for good measure. She didn’t like the way the city water tasted, but it was fine if it was cold. She turned off the lights downstairs—it was later than she’d thought—and headed upstairs to get ready for bed. She didn’t have the energy to do anything else; she felt completely drained and undone.
Tucked away in her cloud bed, she smiled at the white gauzy canopy overhead and imagined what Trevor’s reaction might have been to her bedroom. “What was I thinking inviting him up here? Poor guy.” And that was the case; she hadn’t thought about him and his feelings at that point. She’d just wanted to distract him. And any other man would have jumped at the chance.
But Trevor Zander was different than the men she usually spent time with. She’d known that at the gas station when he’d left his bike behind to help her, when he’d done so expecting nothing in return from her; not a phone number, not an email. He hadn’t dropped any inappropriate comments about her appearance or accidentally brushed up against her or made a joke about her owing him. She’d seen the look in his eyes—she had no doubt he’d been attracted to her—and had wondered what she’d done to make him not act the way most men would. But knowing now the kind of man he was, his behavior toward her made perfect sense.
She’d known he was different when he’d claimed his relationship to her sister based on their shared belief, calling Juliette his sister in Christ. Even before she’d met him, she’d known he was different from Juliette’s recounting of their date, and she’d known he was different when he showed up on her doorstep asking her forgiveness for something he’d done a lifetime ago.
No, she wasn’t surprised that Trevor had said ‘no’ to a visit to her loft, and she wasn’t surprised that he’d done so without making her feel trashy or stupid.
Instead, he made her feel valuable. Cherished. Pursued…in the best way; chosen, like he wanted to be with her, and her alone. What woman didn’t want to be pursued that way?
He hadn’t come right out and said he was pursuing her…had he? She rolled onto her side and tucked her pillow more firmly under her head, remembering how it had felt to rest her cheek against Trevor’s chest when they danced.
She tried to recall all the things he’d said tonight. She’d done most of the talking, but his words, though fewer by far, carried a whole lot of weight, meaning.
“You have been a part of my life all this time,” he’d said. “This isn’t an accident or coincidence. God has been steering us to this time and place, chipping away the things in me that sent you running, turning me into that man I need to be so that I can sit here with you as the man you need me to be.”
Maybe he hadn’t said he was pursuing her in so many words, but Phoebe didn’t know a person alive who wouldn’t melt at hearing those words spoken over them.
Did he love her? How could he? They’d only known each other for a few weeks, and even that couldn’t really count since they hadn’t spent any time together until tonight.
But, oh, the time they’d spent together! She felt like she knew more about Trevor—about his character, his passions, what drove him—than she knew about anyone else in her life, with the exception, perhaps, of her sisters. And as well as they knew her, Trevor knew things about her that they didn’t. And he’d known them for more than a decade. He’d also known her through the eyes of Gia, and Juliette, and maybe even Vic, just as she’d learned of Trevor through them as well. They hadn’t really been strangers when they met almost two weeks ago at the gas station.
And Trevor had been talking to God about her since the day she’d stormed out of the church. All this time, someone had been praying for her, praying her through her darkest nights, her deepest wounds.
“Oh God,” she whispered, a sudden realization taking her breath away. “Is that why I could never go through with it?” Were Trevor’s prayers what stood between her and death all those times she’d tried to take her own life? Something had stopped her every time. Something—or Someone—had pulled her back from the edge again and again. “Just like Maman used to do.”
Phoebe wiped at the tears that had gat
hered once more in her eyes and were now spilling over. “Thank you.” Was that God’s answer to her prayer already? Was this revelation his way of showing her he’d been with her this whole time? She wasn’t sure, but for tonight, it was enough.
And Trevor had kissed her. Softly, sweetly, tenderly, but that was no chaste peck from a man who was simply glad to have cleared the air between them. And he’d asked her not to run, not to leave him.
And he’d kissed her! Phoebe touched her fingertips to her lips, remembering, savoring.
~ ~ ~
She awoke suddenly, sitting up in bed like she’d been shot. Her bleary eyes darted around the room, and then landed on her clock. Almost two in the afternoon? She hadn’t slept in that late since high school!
But oh, how lovely it felt to have gotten a good night’s sleep, especially after such a rough week. And after the emotional unleashing last night. Granted, she wasn’t quite ready to leave home and face the world—more precisely, to face Renata and Baby Charise. But she’d made her peace with Trevor Zander, even if the evening had ended a little rough, and she was beginning to make her peace with God, one small step at a time, just like Trevor had said.
Oh yes. She smiled and hugged herself. And Trevor Zander, Juliette’s Jesus freak, rock and roll biker, had kissed her.
A knock sounded on the door, insistent, as though it wasn’t the first time the person had done so. Maybe that was what had awakened her.
She wasn’t expecting anyone. What if it was Trevor? She scrambled out of bed and slipped her arms into her white chenille robe, a vintage style she loved with its ridges and floral patterns. She dashed into the bathroom and groaned when she saw her reflection. Her eyes were still puffy from all the crying she’d done last night, and there was a crease that ran from jaw to hairline on the left side of her face.
“But hey. At least my hair looks good,” Phoebe said, dryly. “Thanks, Maman.” Besides, maybe it was one of her sisters, finally coming to check on her. Knowing Granny G, she’d sent Gia over with food.
She tightened the sash around her waist and hurried downstairs. “I’m coming!”
It wasn’t Trevor banging on her door. Nor was it Gia or Juliette. It wasn’t even Granny G herself, who would’ve been Phoebe’s next guess.
“Rennie? What on earth—what are you doing here?” Phoebe stared in shock at her sister, who stood patiently on the doorstep, a bundled-up baby in one arm and an overstuffed diaper bag slung over her shoulder. Ren’s minivan was parked in the driveway beside Xena. “You drove her yourself? Should you—it’s not too soon?”
Tim was right about his wife. Renata did look radiant. Exhausted, a little frumpy, but glowing with happiness. Even the shadows under eyes were lovely, giving her a fragile, otherworldly appearance.
“I just felt my milk let down.” Renata grimaced. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Still stunned, but no longer immobilized, Phoebe lurched forward to take the huge baby bag. “Here. Let me help you.”
“No, I got that. You take Charise.” Renata levered her arm toward Phoebe, practically forcing the baby on her.
For one heart-stopping moment, Phoebe froze again, but when Ren’s eyebrow rose in that perfectly Renata way of hers, Phoebe flipped her long hair back over her shoulder and took the tiny girl in her arms. She stepped back so her sister could sweep past her, and then pushed the door closed behind her.
Phoebe stood there, staring down into the little round face—all that could be seen of the bundled-up baby—the bump of a chin beneath pouting miniature lips, a nose that tipped up at the end like Renata’s, and eyelids so thin they seemed made of moonbeams. Charise’s features twitched and fluttered as she stirred, and then stretched, arching into the crook of Phoebe’s arm, one little fist poking out of the top of the blanket, long fingers uncurling like a delicate pink orchid in bloom. Phoebe watched, mesmerized as Charise’s tiny mouth puckered into a rather French moue, and then her eyes popped open, one at a time.
“Hello, little one,” Phoebe cooed. “It’s all right. Yes, it’s all right. It’s me, Aunty Phoebe.” Her voice came out high and a bit strangled, but it was all she could do not to burst into tears. She’d just fallen instantly and madly in love with the baby girl.
“I need to use the bathroom and then I’ll feed her. You okay to keep her for a few more minutes?” Renata spoke quietly from several feet away where she’d unloaded her things onto a library table against one wall. “Here’s a binky if you get desperate.” She held out a pacifier and a cloth diaper. “You might need that, too; she’s a dribbler.”
Phoebe took the proffered items, and with great effort lifted her gaze from the baby’s face to Renata’s. “Can I unwrap her? I want to see her.”
“Of course. I’ll warn you, she might freak out a little. She really likes being a burrito baby. Poor thing,” Renata added as she pushed open the bathroom door. “The boys have started calling her Little Burro. They think it’s a cute nickname for burrito.”
“What? No!” Phoebe called out to the closed door. Charise startled a little in her arms. “Sorry, baby girl. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She crossed the room, babbling away at the baby, making for the couch she’d shared with Trevor the night before. It was close to an open window and the sun streamed through, warming the spot nicely. “You’re not a little burro, are you? No, you’re not. You’re a precious baby girl, yes, you are.” Phoebe lifted her up close so she could nuzzle her face into the baby’s neck and breathe in the almost edible newborn scent. “Mmmm,” Phoebe sighed. “I could just eat you up, Charise Olivia. You’re a yummy little Olive, that’s what you are. My little round Olive baby.”
Knowing she only had a few minutes until Renata returned, she began to gently unwind the baby’s blanket. Her miniature arms flailed in surprise at being suddenly loosed, and when her legs were freed from the confines as well, Charise drew them up a little and squirmed in protest. Phoebe sang a silly French lullaby Maman used to sing and laid the little girl in her lap so she could ruck up the soft yellow sleep gown. She reached inside it and pulled Charise’s arms out of the long sleeves and then slipped the whole thing off over her head. The baby wore a pale pink onesie beneath the gown, and although Charise had been born almost two weeks early only a week ago, she was already showing signs of a healthy eater. Her solid little belly filled out the knit bodysuit, the hard knot of her umbilical cord dark under the fabric. Her squishy thighs were already forming rolls, and she sported a darling triple chin. Phoebe ran her fingertips along the velvet skin of the inside of Charise’s arms, wrapped her hands around calves so small they fit perfectly in her palms, and pulled fuzzy socks of each foot, grinning like a lovesick puppy as Charise spread and flexed her pea-sized toes.
Oh, the ache in her heart as her eyes devoured the infant in her lap. This was what she’d missed, what she’d handed off to someone else. She gathered the baby up close to her chest, tucking her inside the lapels of her soft robe, and lowered her head to breathe her in. Charise seemed perfectly content to be snuggled tightly while her auntie wept quietly.
“She’s been anxious to see you,” Renata murmured as she lowered herself gingerly onto an overstuffed chair close by. She said nothing about the tears dribbling down Phoebe’s face.
Phoebe didn’t respond. She didn’t think Ren expected her to. Her throat was tight with emotion—love and need and grief, all tangled together in her chest, making it hard to catch her breath.
“I heard you singing Au clair de la Lune,” Renata said. “I’m sure Maman is smiling in heaven right now.”
Phoebe nodded, not sure her voice would work. The words, the sounds so unique to that language, the lilting phrases…when she sang in French, she could almost hear Maman sing with her.
“Oh, this is lovely,” Renata sighed as she sank back into the chair. “The arms are the perfect height for nursing. Is she ready to eat?”
Phoebe was loathe to give up the baby yet, but as Renata s
poke, Charise began to squirm again, emitting small mewling sounds and bobbing her face against Phoebe’s neck. “I think so.” She stood and took her to Renata, along with the blanket she’d peeled off the infant, and then returned to her place on the loveseat, wiping away the last of her tears with her sleeve.
She watched unabashedly as Renata unbuttoned the front of her shirt, unclipped the cup of her nursing bra, and lifted Charise to her breast. “Oh!” she ground out as the baby began to suckle. “Still a little tender when she first latches on, but it’s better than it was a few days ago—yikes. I’m telling you, the first week or two? Between wonky sleep schedules and the uterus flushing out and the milk coming in and the tender places where there aren’t usually tender places? It’s a wonder women keep having babies.”
With her free hand, Renata deftly tucked the blanket around the baby, and then sat back, an expression bordering on euphoria smoothing the lines around her eyes. She lifted Charise’s fist from where it rested against her full breast, and pressed a kiss to the curled fingers. “But then, moments like this happen. The world slows, time becomes irrelevant, and all that matters is the beating of her heart in tandem with mine. It’s really only an echo of what we shared when I carried her inside of me—in my heart, I know that—but I’ll take the echo any day if it means I can hold her like this, carry her in my arms rather than in my womb.” She sighed contentedly. “It’s moments like this that make it all worthwhile.”
Phoebe marveled at how easy Ren made it all look, but deep down, she was certain that she, too, would have been a good mother, had she been given the chance. She looked away, lest the longing in her heart give away too much.
Phoebe and the Rock of Ages Page 23