by DiAnn Mills
Promptly at noon, Miles pulled into the gravel driveway at Paige’s house. He’d meant to get there sooner, but he ended up having breakfast with Walt and his family after all. Good people who had goals for their children and exceptional faith.
Snatching up a Sonic bag containing lunch for Paige and himself, he once more anticipated a nap before the day was over. Locking his truck, he made his way to her porch and knocked on the door.
“Come on in. I saw you drive up,” she said from inside. “Not much to do here today but watch who speeds by.”
He walked into the cool air-conditioning. “If I’d known that, I’d have ordered a parade.”
She tossed him a teasing look with a half smile. That special look in her eyes kept his longing alive.
“What’s for lunch?” she asked.
“The best Split Creek has to offer.”
“That’s a Sonic bag.”
“You have a problem with that?” He studied her bandaged foot propped on the sofa table. “First tell me how you’re feeling.”
“No pain, only the thrill of ice.”
“I thought it was the chill of ice.”
“Depends on what you’re taking at the time.”
“I think I’m going to enjoy the new you.”
“Which is why I hate taking anything that reduces my reaction time.” She tilted her head. “The bag doesn’t look full enough for both of us.”
“Were you expecting a grocery sack?”
“Sitting around high on pain meds makes a girl hungry.”
“Point me in the direction of plates, and I’ll get this feast spread out.”
“To the left of the sink, second shelf. Anything else you need?”
“Nope. You sit right here. Close your eyes so I can surprise you.”
Instantly she obeyed. Too bad he couldn’t kiss her. He chuckled. With the effect of the pain pills, he might get by with it.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing you’d find humorous.” He took a peek at her on the sofa, looking far too appealing—even with no makeup. With her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she looked fresh, natural, and he’d better get the food on plates before he did kiss her.
With her eyes still closed, she lifted her chin. “I don’t hear any plates rattling.”
He whistled the last song he heard on the country and western radio station—something about picking turnips and falling in love. Miles found the plates and arranged the food in what he referred to as a good presentation. He carried hers to the sofa and set it on the table. “Okay, your lunch is served, O injured one.”
One glance and she rubbed her palms. “Yum. Grilled cheese, onion rings, and a lemon-berry slush. You remembered my favorites.”
He could remember a lot more if she’d only allow him. “Only the best for the lady. How was your morning?”
“Hmm.” She bit into her sandwich and chewed it slowly. “I made coffee, surfed the Internet and the TV, made more coffee, and talked to Voleta. Actually she came by with doughnuts. How about you?”
“Went to see Walt.”
“Is he doing better?”
“I think so. He’s in a tough spot any way you look at it, but I believe in him. His family supports all of their kids.” He paused, thinking about his not-so-great visit with Chris and Ty Dalton and nixed telling Paige about that venture.
She nodded. “At the benefit catfish fry for the Aubrey girl, the Greywolfs helped Voleta and me more than any of the volunteers. Did you see Chris too?”
“Oh yeah. His parents blamed last night’s loss on Walt and my poor judgment. Nothing I didn’t expect.”
“I’m sorry. But the season is just starting.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
“Oops. We didn’t bless this. Why don’t you pray, and while you’re at it, ask God to bless the team?”
He removed his baseball cap and prayed for a multitude of things. When he finished, he took a bite of his burger and picked up a stack of DVDs. “Voleta?” he asked.
“How did you guess? The movie queen.”
Miles thumbed through the stack, all suspense. “These aren’t chick flicks. All of them are about the FBI, Secret Service, CIA, or border guards.”
“She knows what I like.”
He pulled out a season of 24. “Mind if a tired coach watches this one with you?”
“I’d really like the company, but I don’t want to—”
“You’re not stopping me from anything. I’d rather be here with you than anywhere else.” He raised a brow. “No negative comments please.”
“Only because you brought me lunch and it’s perfect. I suppose you have a chocolate shake.” She reached for an onion ring.
He lifted the shake and nodded. “If you eat all of those, no one will want to kiss you.”
“That’s my defense line.”
He saluted her and slipped the DVD from its case. He needed a diversion from the gorgeous woman beside him.
* * *
Paige pretended interest in the show, but she’d seen it before. Lived some of it too. And although the screen couldn’t possibly bring the complete plot to the viewer’s eye, it might pull off a realistic film. TV and movie producers always amazed her at what they got right about government security agencies and what they perceived as accurate information. Now and then a well-done episode caught her attention. But most of the time, the producers threw in tactics or technology that no one within intelligence had ever heard of or would consider using. Right now, she had difficulty doing much more than reining in her emotions wrapped around the man sitting beside her.
Her logical side said to chase him away, to say her ankle hurt or the pain meds had made her sleepy. She could think of lots of excuses for why Miles should go home. Lots more for why he should stay there. And the lines in his face and droopy eyes indicated his exhaustion. Then why didn’t she send him packing? Was it the lure of the forbidden that kept her drawn to him?
She and Miles actually had much in common. They enjoyed sports, especially football and baseball. They shared much of the same likes and dislikes about food. Both were Christians. They valued teens and serving as good role models for them. But the big difference was her deceit in her identity and her shadowed past. Paige Rogers existed only on paper. Hollywood could do a reality show about her life and call it The Ex-Survivor.
She took a bite of her grilled cheese and snatched a glimpse of Miles from the corner of her eye. She couldn’t marry him, which is what she suspected he eventually wanted. The problem was she cared for him, as ridiculous as it sounded. Still, the idea of sharing a life with Miles and bearing his children, no matter how far-fetched, reached deep down inside and caressed a need. A wife. A mother.
She remembered crawling up on her own mother’s lap and listening to her read stories. They baked cookies together, and her mother, of Swedish descent, had introduced her to the art of preparing herring salad, ostkaka, and authentic apple cobbler. Mom had made her prom dress that was a knockoff of a New York designer original. Both parents had sent care packages when Paige was in college. And Dad . . . She missed his humor and his wisdom. They lived in a rural community in Wisconsin near a small town that reminded her a bit of Split Creek. A few times she’d phoned to hear the voice of whoever answered. It was always Mom, and it took all Paige’s strength not to break down and tell her the truth.
Guilt over the lies squeezed her heart. She had nearly enough money in the bank to someday repay the insurance company for the generous check written to her parents. But a parent shouldn’t have to bury a child.
She shouldn’t be thinking about Miles or her parents while under the influence of painkillers. That was like going on a date and drinking, then wondering why poor decisions were made.
She attempted to concentrate on the show. Her focus should be on what to tell Palmer.
She blinked and her mind dulled. She willed the strange vision to evaporate, the one that swept across her memory
without warning. But no, this was a key to her past. She needed to experience it and not block out what she didn’t understand. Closing her eyes, she allowed the moment to unfold.
She was blinded by the sun, so bright that she wanted to turn her face, but she couldn’t move. Heat engulfed her body. A furnace ignited every nerve ending. The muffled voice of a man captured her attention. “Too bad she had to die. She’s much too pretty to waste.”
“Are you okay?” Miles asked.
“A little tired.” And she was, but not physically. The vision always ended with the garbled voice of a man she didn’t recognize. It had to be from the bombing. When she found Rosa, Paige would ask her to help pull the pieces together.
“I can pause the show so you can rest,” Miles said.
My sweet man, I am not from your world. Won’t ever be. “Probably a good idea. You look tired too.”
“I am. Guess I should leave you alone and check back later.”
She nodded. “If you will hand me my crutches, I’ll make my way to bed.”
“Need any help?”
“Ever worn a crutch?”
“Uh, I don’t think so.” Miles handed her the crutches. “I’ll be back around six thirty with something more substantial and nutritious.”
“Chicken soup?”
“Yeah, I can bring the cans and crackers if you have a can opener.”
“Sounds tempting.”
“Thanks for lunch.”
Once more her conscience needled at her. She should have refused dinner, given him a good excuse to stay away. She should have done a lot of things differently. “Let me take a rain check. I’m really not doing well.”
Chapter 15
Sunday morning, Paige woke with a mixture of anticipation and dread. She’d told Palmer that she’d give him her decision tonight, and she’d been praying. Her mind had swung into a debate over right and wrong. She was not only asking God if she should resume her operative role but also giving Him a deadline for the answer. Not exactly the best approach to seeking His will.
Her ankle throbbed, but she refused any pain medication. Her head and heart needed to be open. Palmer had said her parents would be protected. He needed to know about Nathan, if he didn’t already. And what about her foot?
Voleta arrived at noon with more Sonic and a spontaneous plan to watch movies all afternoon. Here it was a gorgeous day in August, and Paige was sitting with her leg propped up on the table in front of her sofa, munching fries. Much more of this, and she’d have to buy bigger clothes.
Paige closed her eyes and pondered the decision bearing down on her.
“I love romantic suspense.” Voleta sighed as the credits rolled by at the end of the movie. “What more could a girl want except maybe a real hunk?”
“I thought you liked this new guy.”
“Found out he was married. That’s what I get for going to a casino, lookin’ for a good time beside a slot machine.” She tapped her chin. “Casinos and slot machines are eating up my tips and turning my love life into two cherries and one orange.”
Paige smiled at her goofy friend; however, Voleta’s dark hair, today streaked with copper and worn in pigtails, gave her more of a punk look than that of a grown woman in rural Oklahoma.
“You’ve told me before about home life being rough. So what was it like growing up?”
“That’s a joke.” Voleta shook her head.
“Why?”
“My folks had a love affair with the bottle—sort of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde approach to life.”
Now she understood Voleta’s need to help others. “I’m sorry. Did you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Four older brothers. Do you want to know what they did to me when dear old Mom and Dad weren’t using me as a punching bag?” Voleta glanced away and swiped at a tear.
“That’s okay, unless you want to tell me.”
“Not really. I went through the shrink thing.”
If Paige could have stood, she’d have wrapped an arm around her friend. “I know we’ve been through this before, but I really think you should give God a chance.”
“What about my hair, tattoos, and eyebrow piercings? And my lifestyle is not exactly the granola type.” She picked up her glass of iced sangria and chinked the cubes. “I don’t imagine your God approves of this either.”
“He’s more interested in your heart.”
“Mine is filled with how to have fun, not avoid it.”
Paige chose to let the conversation drop. It was always a challenge to know how to share her faith with Voleta without shoving it down her throat. Lord, please show Voleta how much You love her.
“How did your parents come up with the name Paige?”
Paige grinned. “Didn’t I ever tell you? It was a compromise. My dad was a baseball fan, and Satchel Paige was one of his heroes. My mom was a schoolteacher. She thought if she named me Paige, I’d grow up with my head in books. It must have worked, because I don’t play baseball, but I work at a library.” That story had brewed while she lay in the Nairobi hospital.
“I think it’s funny, like you were destiny. What’s your middle name?”
“Turner. It’s my mom’s family name.”
“Oh, nice,” Voleta said. “My middle name is Marie.”
Paige stared at her for a moment. “That was a joke, Voleta. No one would really name a kid Paige Turner.”
Voleta paused a second. “Oh yeah. Ha! I got it.”
“Elizabeth.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Paige Elizabeth . . . my middle name. Why are you so curious about me anyway?”
“I like names. Got to admit mine is unusual. Voleta.”
“Let me guess. Your dad drove a Volvo, and his family name is Loleta. So you became . . .”
Voleta’s cell rang. She glanced at the caller ID. “I need to take this. Mind if I step outside?”
“No problem.” Paige shook a finger at her. “If he’s married, you don’t need him. Like the kids say, he’s sketchy.”
Voleta stood and shrugged one shoulder before walking onto the front porch. She shut the door.
Paige had noted a quick dart of Voleta’s eyes to the left when she normally cast her glance to the right, which indicated she was hiding something. One day Voleta would see that her social life would never satisfy the yearning in her soul. Paige reached for her glass of iced green tea with a dose of aloe vera. She willed the antioxidants to speed up the healing process. Even if it didn’t do a thing, it tasted good.
Voleta came back inside and dropped her phone into her purse.
“That was short.”
“It needed to be.” Voleta offered no eye contact. “He had the nerve to say he’d like to continue seeing me and have a relationship with his wife too.”
“I’m proud of you. Think about coming with me to church. The answers to life and its problems are there.” Paige picked up the TV remote and pressed in channel 6. “Hope you don’t mind if we catch the six o’clock news.” She needed a dose of reality after the movie and happily-ever-after nonsense—along with learning that Voleta was hiding the details of her social life.
A dark-haired anchor wearing a much-too-low-cut blouse introduced the next story. “Now we’re going to Jake Montoya at Oklahoma University Medical Center, where Daniel Keary and his family visited the hospitalized children.”
Oh, great. As if I wasn’t already depressed enough.
“That’s right, Leah,” the reporter said. “Daniel Keary, the man who is quickly rising in the polls as the candidate most likely to secure the office for Oklahoma’s next governor, put aside his political ambitions today to allow charity to take precedence. Keary’s dedication to critically ill children at Oklahoma University Medical Center began six years ago. Today his wife and five-year-old son joined him in making hospital rounds. Keary brought picture books that he and his wife read to the children.”
“I really like this guy,” Voleta said. “Even if he’s a bit conser
vative, I can’t find much not to like about him. Put him in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and he’d be hot.”
Paige wanted to change the channel, but it was easier to find out what the saint of Oklahoma was up to rather than explain her dislike for him.
His actions didn’t surprise Paige in the least. The videotape showed a small Asian boy handing a doll to a child who had no hair.
“Do you like coming with your daddy and mommy to the hospital?” the reporter asked the dark-haired little boy.
“Yes, sir. I like picking out toys for them and puzzles too. At home, we talk about the sick children.”
Paige sank her teeth into her lip. Keary’s tender side for children was not an act. Nine years ago, while he and Paige were working in Russia, his first wife and their two children were killed in a tragic car accident. The vehicle had burst into flames, and his family had suffered through an agonizing death. If the man had one humane bone in his body, it was his passion for children. She’d thought more than once that the devastation of having his family destroyed might have been part of the reason he’d betrayed his country. The CIA used the acronym MICE to figure out what motivated traitors: money, ideology, compromise, ego, or a combination. For Keary, it was a complex combination of it all, and to outwit him, she’d need to put all of the pieces together—working from the outside in, just like Aristotle.
The camera flashed to Keary and an attractive woman. “Mrs. Keary, how often do you visit the children at the medical center?” the reporter asked.
“Once a week. Actually we’ll visit anywhere there are hurting little ones.” She smiled into the face of her husband, and he reached around her waist. “We met here when I was a nurse.”
Paige wished she were wrong about him. His wife appeared devoted . . . and Keary had a child to help ease the pain of the two he’d lost.
More footage showed him and his family talking to a mother whose child suffered from cystic fibrosis. Again, Paige recognized genuine care and concern.
Voleta picked up her drink. “I know you don’t like him, which I have no clue why. But he did contribute computers to the library, not only in our town but also all over the state. I actually helped Eleanor put up the campaign posters around town.” Voleta pointed to the TV. “Any man with good abs who cares for kids has my vote.”