by Liz Talley
Tara tucked away that interesting tidbit for conversation with Garrett later. “Well, no wonder you’re good. It’s in your genes.”
Dylan’s mouth drooped at the corners, and he pointed to his cotton shorts. “I’m not wearing jeans.”
Tara laughed as she threw the ball back to him. The child’s mastery of the language made her forget he was only six. “Not the kind of jeans you wear. The things you inherit...um, you get from your parents. That kind of genes.”
“Oh, like my eyes. Dad says I got my mommy’s eyes.”
His words caught in Tara’s chest, making her next breath heavier than the last. “Well, she must’ve had beautiful eyes. They’re very handsome on you.” She coughed to clear away the sudden congestion in her throat. Which of her own physical characteristics came from Jacques Martin? Eyes? Height? Build? She would have an answer soon perhaps.
Dylan’s next pitch went a little wild, and she had to chase it down. When she got back into place, she moved the conversation to a less emotional common ground. “So, tell me about your school. Where do you go?”
“I attend L’école primaire publique ave Maria.” He was obviously enthused about the subject because for the next hour of pitch-and-catch, with frequent breaks, Dylan educated Tara on the French education system.
She learned that students only attended school four days a week, with Wednesdays as well as weekends off. But school days were long, lasting from eight-thirty to four-thirty.
This was the last week of school, and then Dylan would be on summer break for the months of July and August. Monique would be staying with him most days. And some days, he would go to Pierre’s house. Pierre was his best friend and a baseball enthusiast, also.
During their game of catch, Monique came out to check on him occasionally. “She doesn’t like to play catch,” Dylan explained. “I usually just throw the ball against the wall until Dad comes home.”
“What time is that?” It was already past seven-thirty, so Garrett was putting in a really long day.
“He’s working late this week, but he’ll be home by eight.” The words were hardly out of his mouth before a deep voice brought their game to a halt.
“Dylan!” As if their conversation had transported him to the spot, Garrett stood in the doorway of their flat. The sport coat and tie he’d worn at breakfast were gone, and his white dress shirt and khaki pants accentuated the broad shoulders and narrow waist of his athletic form.
An image of his naked torso flashed across Tara’s brain, and she felt her face heat in reaction.
“Hey, Dad.” Dylan ran to meet him with a hug, which Garrett greeted with a smile.
But, as she headed his way, Tara watched the facial expression transform into a scowl when Garrett’s eyes shifted up to meet hers.
* * *
DAMN IT! Garrett cursed his own shortsightedness. He should’ve told Monique not to allow Dylan to bother Tara. But he’d been so absorbed with work when she called to tell him they were home, he hadn’t given it a thought.
A quick glance at the happiness on his son’s face told him an attachment was already forming...and it was easy to see why.
The woman headed toward him held little resemblance to the freaky one he’d had breakfast with this morning. The wet yellow dress was gone, replaced by a pair of cream-colored shorts that showed off a set of long and toned legs. A peach T-shirt was the perfect complement to her fair complexion. No makeup disguised the adorable smattering of freckles that dotted her cheeks and nose. Had those even been there this morning? And what about the pierced eyebrow? Oh, yeah, there it was.... Her red curls—and a few of the blue ones—curved softly around her face and neck.
The entire effect was light and feminine, and Garrett fought down a wild urge to search among the curls for the tattoo nestled under her ear...with his mouth.
“Tara’s a good catch, Dad.”
The words stunned Garrett speechless for a couple of seconds, by which point she was already upon him.
Caution dimmed her bright eyes as she gave him a tentative smile. “We were just playing around some. I hope that’s okay.”
Garrett gathered his composure and shoved his sexual awareness to a deeper, safer place in his psyche. He took the glove she held out, searching for the appropriate words that wouldn’t sound overly harsh in front of the boy. “Dylan shouldn’t be interrupting your private time.”
Her wariness gave way to a relieved smile. “He didn’t interrupt anything. I had a good time.” She held up what remained of her right hand, stretching the fingers apart. “It was good therapy—mentally and physically.”
Garrett’s spine stiffened at her words. If she needed mental therapy, she needed to get it from someone other than Dylan.
Her thumb caught her middle finger, leaving her index finger pointed to the sky. “Oh, be right back.” She turned and jogged across the terrace to her flat.
Garrett had no idea what she was up to, but he used the time to get Dylan out of hearing distance. “You need to go get washed up for dinner.”
“Can we invite Tara to eat with us?”
Oh, hell. The entreaty in Dylan’s eyes solidified that Garrett’s fears were justified. He squatted down to eye level with his son—time for some damage control. “No, bud. Tara didn’t come to Paris to visit with us. She’s only going to be here for a month, which isn’t really too long, so we need to leave her alone, and let her do what she wants with her time.”
Dylan’s bottom lip protruded in advance of his protest. “But—”
“No buts. You’re not to bother Tara. Understand?”
Dylan sighed. “Yeah.” He dropped his glove and ball inside the door and slunk off toward the bathroom, looking like a whipped puppy.
Garrett watched him until the bathroom door closed. When he turned back, Tara was headed toward him from across the terrace. He stepped out to meet her, sliding the door closed behind him.
The clothes he’d loaned her this morning were arranged in a neatly folded bundle, which she held out to him. “I figured out the washer and dryer, so these are clean.”
Garrett took them from her. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
She slid her hands into her back pockets, which stretched her shirt tighter across her breasts. “Well, y’all didn’t have to help me out this morning, but I sure did appreciate it. I...um...” She cleared her throat and tossed her head in the direction of her place, flashing the tattoo under her ear in Garrett’s direction. “I picked up some sausage and cheese and wine and a few nice pastries. I plan to have a light supper on the terrace, and I was wondering if you and Dylan would like to join me? Give me a chance to pay you back for breakfast?”
Her accent coupled with the expressive, vivid green eyes battered at Garrett’s resolve, but the cautious voice inside him whispered its repeated warning about getting too friendly. “It’s nice of you to offer, but I don’t think we’d better. I work long hours, so dinnertime is special for Dylan and me. Alone time, you know?”
“Oh, sure.” A deep blush crept up her neck into her face. “I should’ve thought of that.”
The disappointment in her voice was palpable, but the first snip was made, and Garrett was determined to stop any more buds of friendship before they blossomed. “Well, there isn’t a lot of privacy around here, so we’ll try to respect yours as much as possible while you’re here.” A movement from the corner of his eye told him Dylan was headed back toward them. Garrett laid his hand on the door handle. “I’m sure you’ll do the same for us,” he added before sliding the door open and stepping back through it.
His escape wasn’t quick enough to keep him from catching the hurt look in Tara’s eyes—the same look that was reflected in his son’s eyes when he met them.
“Now, how about some dinner?” Garrett clapped his hands together in
a fake show of enthusiasm.
Dylan shrugged, looking like lead weights were attached to his shoulder. “I’m not very hungry.”
Garrett’s gut twisted at the words.
But they also told him without a doubt he’d done the right thing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FAITH PUSHED THE BEIGE DRESS to one side, and studied the next one carefully—a sleeveless shift in a pretty shade of mint green that Sawyer had always liked on her. But, like everything else in her closet, it was modestly cut and gave no hint that the creature clothed in it had a clue that such a thing as sex existed.
Just once, she’d love to wear a dress that was a little provocative...that showed a little cleavage or more of her back than was strictly proper. Nothing vulgar. Just something feminine and sexy. Something that would remind her...and Sawyer...who she was at her center. The way God made her before the congregation of Taylor’s Grove Church had molded her into who it wanted her to be.
The green dress was her best option for tonight, though.
Changing out of her white slacks and navy blue knit top into the new pink lace and satin bra and panties gave her a rush as if she was doing something scandalous...and fun. She paused to look in the mirror and evaluate the effect. A subtle attack was what she was going for. Just a touch of sexiness that would spur Sawyer on if she got him to the stage where he wanted to undress her.
The idea came to her after prayer group this morning. She’d never had to seduce her husband before, so shopping for sexy underwear this afternoon with that motive had been venturing into foreign territory.
Until four weeks ago, Sawyer had pursued her with a vigor that sometimes made her question all the jokes about middle age. She’d counted herself blessed to have someone who’d always made her feel attractive and desired despite the frumpy clothes and the weight gain that had crept up on her in her forties. They both understood that the preacher’s wife had to be appropriately dressed at all times. They’d accepted that fact and had made ultimate use of their private time. And when all the kids finally moved out, she and Sawyer had had plenty of...how did the younger generation put it? Bow-chicka-wow-wow?
Well, this chicka was going to try her darnedest to coax the wow-wow out of the bow tonight.
She swiped on just a touch of foundation, and a light application of mascara defined her lashes. The salesperson had assured her that the pink lip gloss would make her lips irresistible. It looked like any other pink lip gloss, but maybe the extra price indicated it had some esoteric qualities perceived only by men. If the manufacturer truly wanted to make it irresistible, it would’ve been bacon-flavored.
A quick brush-through to fluff her hair, a squirt of cologne and a pair of beaded flip-flops finished the look that she hoped was casual yet sassy.
Back in the kitchen, the timer indicated it was time to put the cornbread in to bake alongside the meatloaf. The green beans were done, tomatoes sliced, and ears of fresh corn were buttered, wrapped in waxed paper and ready to be popped into the microwave.
New sexy underwear. Sawyer’s favorite dress. His favorite meal. Fresh strawberries waited in a bowl on the counter, but she hoped she would be his dessert of choice.
Her heart skipped a beat when she heard the door open.
“Hey,” he said as he entered the room.
She watched his eyes skim over her. “Hey,” she answered, trying to keep it casual. “Supper’s almost ready. You hungry?”
“Famished.” He paused, and she saw his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “You, uh...you look pretty.”
That’s a start. Don’t scare him away. “Thanks.” She started the corn cooking in the microwave and pointed to the plate of tomatoes. “I was out in the garden—you can put those on the table—and I got sweaty and itchy. I had to take a shower to cool off. By tomorrow, we should have a nice mess of okra.”
The light came on in his eyes—the one she hadn’t seen in far too long—as it dawned on him that tonight she wasn’t going to try to talk about their problems. She watched the transformation as his shoulders relaxed and the lines disappeared from between his eyebrows. With an easy, compatible fluidity, they fell into their routine of her dishing up the food and him setting the table, and for the first time since Memorial Day, her hopes ran high that perhaps the dry spell was over.
After supper, she set the second part of her plan into action. “Let’s walk down to the park. Are you up for that?”
His hand hovered motionless for a moment before he placed the dish into the dishwasher. “Yeah. Sure. If you want.”
Faith’s pulse quickened. That he was willing to face the park together was a positive sign. She adjusted the strap of her new bra and smiled to herself.
Sawyer wiped off the countertops while she swept, and when the kitchen was clean, they started their stroll to the park at the center of town.
They’d managed to stay under the radar because, since Tara’s accident, their park visits had become more sporadic rather than a daily occurrence. One or the other of them would show up a few times each week, armed with plausible excuses about the other’s absence. Tonight’s two-minute walk was a journey of a thousand miles as it was the first time they’d made it together since the Memorial Day Faith would never forget.
The park, which had no other official name because it was the only one in town, was the official gathering spot for the whole community. On any given night, you could catch up on the happenings of the day within a ten-minute period.
It was the park where everyone came after weddings to celebrate, after funerals to mourn and after births to pass out cigars and roses.
It was the park where Sawyer had proposed to her in the gazebo under the stars after everyone had gone home for the night.
It was the park where Tara had taken her first step in an endeavor to join the children playing on the swings.
The park at the center of town was the center of the town’s life. The heart of Taylor’s Grove.
As they approached, the sweet strains of “Gentle Annie” being played by Ollie Perkins on his violin met Faith’s ears, and the poignant tune encouraged her to slip her hand into Sawyer’s and pull him in the old man’s direction. He didn’t protest. While macular degeneration was doing its best to steal away the last vestiges of Ollie’s sight, his ability to make the violin sing seemed to increase in an indirect proportion to what he lost. His renditions of Stephen Foster tunes could squeeze a tear from the devil himself.
Bobo Hudson vacated his seat beside Ollie and motioned for Faith to sit down. She could hardly refuse, but felt the sting of disappointment when she had to let go of Sawyer’s hand.
Ollie finished his song. “Ev’nin’, Faith.” He turned his head slightly and nodded in her direction.
“How’d you know it was me?”
The disease had wiped out Ollie’s central vision almost completely, but left a bit of the peripheral. He wiped his forehead with his trademark red bandanna. “I recognized your cologne.”
She patted his knee affectionately. “You gonna play my favorite?”
She always requested “Shenandoah,” and he always obliged, but, this time, he shook his head and tucked the bandanna between his chin and the chinrest on his instrument. “Nope, not yet, anyway. Got something different tonight. I was thinking today about Tara, and how she’d always ask for something Irish she could dance a jig to. Well, since she’s in Paree, I thought we might just join her there, instead.”
Faith cringed inwardly and cut her eyes to Sawyer, who blanched at Ollie’s words as “Pigalle” rolled off the strings. The subject of Tara’s being in Paris still cut Sawyer to the quick. He barely lasted until the song was over, then hurried away to join a small knot of men who always discussed the county’s politics while they refereed the checker game between Johnny Bob Luther and Kimble Sparr. Faith, however, was
stuck in Ollie’s audience for a while longer.
She tried not to despair...hoped the mood of the evening hadn’t been spoiled completely by Ollie’s innocent comment.
When Al and Mary Jenkins walked up, Faith gave up her seat to them and found her way back to her husband’s side. He and Tank Wallis were discussing how badly the crumbling steps on the front of the church needed repair. The project had been at the top of Sawyer’s list for months now, but he couldn’t get the maintenance committee, which Tank was the chairman of, to get off dead center with it.
“Some of those cracks are getting so big, it’s just a matter of time before somebody catches a toe in one and breaks a hip,” Sawyer declared.
“I hear you, Preacher, but it’s not time to fix them until Sue says it’s time.”
The mention of Sue’s name reminded Faith of their little verbal skirmish that morning, and with it came a flicker of irritation. The woman’s power over the church, over the town and, yes, over Sawyer, was sickening.
Sue hadn’t earned that power. Her daddy, Burl Yager, was the one who sold a huge tract of land on Kentucky Lake to a developer. And it was Burl who built the Taylor’s Grove Church out of that money and set up the trust fund that paid for the upkeep of the building, as well as the preacher’s salary. Burl had been a fine man who loved the church and wanted it to thrive.
When Sawyer, as a teen, had surprised everyone in town by accepting God’s call to become a minister, it was Burl who’d paid for his college and seminary study. But, when Burl died, Sue had inherited everything, except his benevolence. The church had tried to circumvent her ways by forming committees. But that had done little good. Sue held the purse strings.
“I’ll talk to Sue again,” Sawyer said, but his tone indicated he doubted that would do any good.
A chuckle rolled out of Tank’s big belly. “Maybe you ought to send Faith this time.” The big guy gave her a knowing wink. “Word from the prayer group says it’s one to nothing in Faith’s favor.”
Sawyer sent her a questioning glance. He hadn’t heard yet. Good. At least she could give him her side first.