by Arlene James
As a last act of exuberant self-indulgence, he insisted on visiting the local drive-through for milk shakes, ordering one of just about every variety. Later, they all sat around the patio back at Chatam House in their fashionable shades slurping decadently and ruining their lunches, staff included. He was so happy that it hurt Kaylie to think she might actually break his heart. And her own.
She knew what she wanted, but she waited for some sign from God to tell her what she should do.
Stephen felt very proud of himself, at least on one score. He did not attempt to press or seduce or even charm Kaylie. Instead he learned simply to be, with and without her, no artifice or attitude or even thought, taking each moment as it came, living in hope and, oddly enough, praying. The last was harder than he’d thought it would be.
He’d begun simply because she’d asked it of him, but he didn’t understand what he was supposed to say to a God whom he did not quite know. In the past, he had made demands or desperate, maddened pleas, but that had not worked out too well, so he did his best just to get acquainted. Telling God about himself, essentially explaining his actions, choices and feelings, seemed foolish. Wasn’t God omniscient, all-knowing, all-wise?
Yet, Kaylie had said that prayer must be grounded in a personal relationship with God, so Stephen set about first explaining and then, often, excusing. Or trying to. Funny, but the more he argued his excuses, the less he was able to, and in the process he somehow came to understand himself better. He didn’t like everything he found, especially the cowardice and the shame. In fact, some of what he saw in himself brought him to tears and, strangely enough, apology, though he did not quite get why he felt that need. In the end, however, he found a sort of peace with himself. How that could happen, he didn’t know, but wanted to. He wanted to understand.
An idea gradually took root, one he’d have scoffed at earlier, and he was trying to find a way to address it when Hypatia did it for him. She made the invitation at dinner on Saturday evening. He had come down for the meal, even though it meant not seeing Kaylie that night. Her father, she had said, required her at home. Stephen didn’t like the sound of that, but he couldn’t honestly plead a greater need when he was now capable of seeing to himself.
Odelia gushed about how happy they were to see him up and about on his own, and Mags, as he’d taken to calling her, offered to show him around her greenhouse one day early next week. Then Hypatia made her contribution.
“Perhaps, Stephen dear, since you are again ambulatory, you would consider attending church with us tomorrow? It would thrill us to have you there.”
He tried to smile and make light of it, as if it were nothing more than taking in a movie or playing a round of golf with his buddies, but the moment felt somber, almost monumental. He couldn’t quite pull it off with the necessary insouciance. Instead, he merely nodded and quietly said, “I think I’d like that.”
Hypatia patted his hand, Mags beamed, and for a moment he thought Odelia might cry, but then she burst into gay laughter, waved her hanky in the air and all but dived into a particularly sumptuous chicken pot pie.
“You should all know,” he said around a bite of that same tasty dish, “that I’m plotting to kidnap Hilda.”
The aunts laughed, while he secretly wished that it could be Kaylie, but Kaylie, he had come to realize, would have to be won, and that he could never do on his own, but only by the grace of God.
After dinner the aunts watched the hockey game with him. Ahead two games to one, the Blades lost, allowing their opponent to tie the series. Stephen’s disappointment was tempered by the sweet expressions of commiseration that the three old dears heaped on him.
“They’ll get ’em next time,” Mags offered hopefully, patting his shoulder.
“You’d have beat them!” Odelia insisted, squeezing his face between her hands.
Hypatia merely smiled benignly and advised, “Never doubt that God is in control, Stephen, and working for the benefit of all.”
He wanted to believe that with a desperation that frightened him, and that night he besieged heaven from his bed, asking for everything under the sun, from the team winning the Stanley Cup to keeping his position with them, from Kaylie’s father’s approval to deserving her father’s approval, from the strength to win her to the strength to lose her. And finally he found the strength to do something else.
At three o’clock in the morning, he called his mother.
Daylight found Stephen tired but strangely serene. He dressed himself in the new navy-blue suit pants, a royal-blue shirt and a gray silk tie, black socks and one black shoe. Tossing the jacket over his shoulder, he took up his crutches and made it downstairs in time to share breakfast with the aunties, which they ate at the butcher-block island in the kitchen. As Sunday was a day of rest, the sisters did for themselves, allowing the staff as much freedom from their duties as possible. Chester, however, drove them to church, Hypatia riding in the front seat with him. Mags and Odelia—decked out in bright yellow with huge black buttons, black pumps with yellow bows, a black straw hat with a curled brim and black and yellow beads dangling from her earlobes—rode in back with Stephen. They all sported the latest in sunshades.
To his surprise, Chester, Hilda and Carol all attended church elsewhere, preferring, as Hypatia put it, a less formal evening service. The aunts chose to attend an early one. Chester left them at the main entrance. Odelia fussed over him, helping him into one sleeve of his suit jacket and adjusting the drape of the other side over his cast and sling. He kissed her cheek, and she giggled like a schoolgirl. They walked inside, as strange a quartet as anyone had ever seen, surely, and doffed their sunshades, tucking them into pockets and purses.
A whirlwind of introductions later, Stephen found himself seated at the very front of the soaring whitewashed sanctuary with its oddly elegant gold-and-black wrought-iron touches. The aunties kindly left him on the end of the aisle, with space to stretch out his leg and also for another person or two.
He fought every moment not to turn his head to look for Kaylie, but when another body dropped down onto the pew next to him, he turned with a smile, fully expecting to find her there. Instead, a distinguished-looking, fortyish fellow with medium brown hair and streaks of silver at his temples returned his smile, black eyes twinkling through the lenses of his silver-rimmed glasses. He had a very authoritative air about him, aided by the tan linen vest that he wore with a white shirt, brown suit and red tie. As he possessed the distinctive Chatam cleft chin, it came as no surprise when Odelia leaned close to whisper, “One of our nephews, Kaylie’s brother Morgan Charles Chatam.”
Before he could take that in, a hand touched his shoulder, and Stephen twisted in his seat to find Kaylie and her father behind him. She beamed as she settled back, but the sour look on Hubner Chatam’s face made Stephen’s heart sink in his chest. Gulping, he faced forward once more as the small orchestra gathered below the dais began to play. From that moment on, it was a challenge to concentrate, and Stephen found himself, wonder of wonders, falling into silent prayer.
I know I don’t deserve her, Lord, or any of the other good things in my life, but I want to. I can’t do it on my own, though. No one can truly deserve Your blessing without forgiveness. Isn’t that why Your Son took up the cross, that we might be forgiven and forgive in turn? Even ourselves.
With song rising around him, Stephen finally let go of the guilt that had blackened his soul for so long. Afterward, he began to enumerate those good things with which he had undeservedly been blessed. It was a surprisingly lengthy list, not the least of which was the stilted and then progressively cozy talk that he’d had with his mother last night and the three elderly triplets who had opened their home and hearts to him. Somewhere in the midst of it, he got caught up in a prayer being led by someone else, and before he knew what was happening, he was leaning forward to catch every word out of the preacher’s mouth.
When the congregation rose for a final hymn, Stephen’s mind was racing wi
th all he’d heard and how it supported what he had instinctively learned these past weeks, and then it was over, without him quite being ready. He felt as if he’d been plunked down in a strange place all of a sudden.
This new Chatam, Morgan, stepped out into the aisle and raised a hand to urge Stephen to follow. Without any sort of preliminary, he clapped that same hand on to Stephen’s shoulder and addressed him with the familiarity of an old friend.
“Hello, Stephen,” he said, his voice deep and resonant, as if it traveled up from a great distance. “Good to see you here. This way.” Turning, he led the way up the aisle. Bemused, Stephen slowly followed.
Kaylie fell in beside him as he passed her pew, leaving her father to walk behind with his sisters. “I’m so glad you came,” she told him through the brightest of smiles.
For some reason he blurted, “I called my mother last night.”
Kaylie gasped and hugged him, nearly knocking him off his crutches. “Oh, Stephen, that’s wonderful! How is she? What did she say?”
“She cried,” he confessed, “and then she scolded, and then we had a good talk. I promised to visit as soon as I’m able. She’s having my houseboat taken out of dry dock for me, in case I decide to spend a few weeks there during the off-season.”
“And will you?”
“I think so.”
“Oh, Stephen, I’m so proud of you! I knew it. I just knew it. I even told Dad that it would happen.”
“You’ve discussed me, then?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure discuss is the right word, but yes, we had quite an exchange last night.”
Stephen’s heart lurched. “And?”
“And,” she said gently, “I know God brought us together for a reason. It’s in His hands.”
Stephen gulped. In God’s hands. Nodding, he let her steer him up the aisle, praying that they were moving toward an understanding, a beginning for the two of them. Together.
Chapter Thirteen
Ahead of them, Morgan beckoned, clearing the way through the throng. “Come on, you two,” he called loudly, “or we’ll never get out of the parking lot.”
“I see you’ve met my brother,” Kaylie said, sounding amused.
“I guess you could put it that way,” Stephen replied softly. “Does he have to approve of me, too?”
“Oh, Morgan approves of everyone,” Kaylie said gaily, “but if you want to impress him, you have to love history.”
Stephen sighed.
“I suspect you’re talking about me,” Morgan said good-naturedly, holding one of a pair of heavy, arched doors open for them. Stephen and Kaylie passed through, and Morgan immediately abandoned the post, staying to Stephen, “I assume sis has told you that I’m a history professor.”
“Uh, not exactly.”
Morgan clapped him on the shoulder again. Though shorter than Stephen by several inches, he was a solidly built man and packed quite a wallop. “She hasn’t exactly told me about you, either, but I’m pretty good at hearing what people don’t say.” He winked at Kaylie, adding, “I hope you like to eat Mexican. Sis always cooks Mexican when the cowboy comes around.”
The cowboy? Thoroughly confused, Stephen watched Kaylie throw her arms around her brother, crying, “Oh, Morgan, I love you!”
“Doesn’t everyone?” he chortled, hugging her hard enough to lift her feet from the floor. Releasing her, he slung an arm around Stephen’s shoulders. “Now, come on,” he said. “Let’s see if we can stuff you and that leg into my car.”
“But—” Stephen glanced over his shoulder at the aunts, who were just now filing into the foyer with Hubner.
“Oh, no,” Morgan declared cheerfully, “they can’t help you now.” He waved, and Odelia fluttered a black hanky at them. Morgan whirled and started off, the sides of his coat flapping.
“But where are we going?” Stephen asked, struggling to keep up.
“Why, to beard the old lion in his den,” Morgan answered, never once looking back.
It was a near thing. Morgan drove a decidedly un-professorial, starlight-blue sports car, and the only way Stephen could get in was to balance on his crutches and slide in legs first, twisting and folding his torso until he was wedged into the seat. Morgan had to open the sunroof and stick the crutches down through the top. Once behind the wheel, he acted like a teenager with a new license, whipping around corners, grinding gears and zipping through tight spaces. Along the way, he explained that things had “come to a head” between father and daughter, and Hubner had “called in reinforcements,” meaning Kaylie’s three older brothers, to “help the girl see reason.”
“As if,” Morgan added, “she’s ever seen anything else. I think she’s a little too reasonable, if you ask me.”
Stephen wasn’t sure what that meant or if he even liked Morgan speaking of her that way. “She’s just trying to do the best she can by everyone.”
“Wouldn’t be Kaylie if she didn’t,” Morgan said. “Brace yourself. We’re here, and Bayard has already arrived.”
Here was an older white frame house with red roof, red shutters, redbrick wainscoting, detached garage and a tree-shaded front yard. Morgan parked on the street at the curb behind a full-sized, silvery green sedan.
Stephen passed the crutches to him through the sunroof and was still trying to get himself out of the vehicle when Kaylie and Hubner turned into the drive in her boxy little convertible. She rushed to help, Hubner grousing that it surely didn’t take both Morgan and her to get Stephen out. It did, though, for he had to come out head and shoulders first, literally crawling his way up and onto his feet and then the crutches.
“I’ll get Bayard to take you home in his sedan later,” Kaylie promised, walking him up to the dark red door. Hubner and Morgan apparently entered through a back way.
“And Bayard is?” he asked as she opened that door, revealing a small, dark foyer screened from the living area by a wall of carved wood spindles.
“My oldest brother.”
She slipped past him, pushing the door wide, but he caught her around the waist, his crutch digging into his already sore armpit.
“Wait. Who’s this cowboy you cook Mexican food for?”
“That,” said a stern male voice, “would be me.”
Stephen looked up at six feet two inches of boots, snug jeans and well-filled-out chambray shirt. His big, thick hands parked at his waist, the cowboy in question lifted a heavy, sandy brown eyebrow, silently challenging Stephen’s right to so much as touch Kaylie. Stephen looked at that hard, set face with its dimpled chin and knew he’d finally met his match. All right, he thought, resisting the urge to toss aside his crutches, let the battle begin.
“Chandler!” Kaylie cried, launching herself.
“Hey, sprite!” Catching her up, Chan spun her around before setting her feet to the floor again—as far away from Stephen as possible. Stephen frowned at that.
“I didn’t see your truck.”
“It’s got a four-horse trailer hitched to it, so I had Kreger drop me.”
“Kreger is Chandler’s partner,” Kaylie explained to Stephen, “both in a ranch outside of town and the rodeo arena, where they compete in team roping, among other events.” She turned back to her brother. “Are you in town for long?”
He eyed Stephen and rumbled, “Long as it takes.”
Stephen smiled and said conversationally, “You know, I’m not as helpless as I look.”
“Oh, stop,” Kaylie admonished, stepping to Stephen’s side and sliding an arm across his back to urge him forward. “This isn’t a macho-man contest. Behave yourselves, both of you. Come in, Stephen, and sit down.”
Smugly, Stephen allowed her to direct him past Chandler and a dark hallway into a surprisingly large, oak-paneled living room with an impressive rock fireplace. Cushions had been scattered across the knee-high hearth, and it was there that Stephen chose to sit, craning his neck to view the portrait over the mantel. An oil painting of a sweet-faced woman, it had to be
Kaylie’s mother, given the red hair, bobbed at chin length, and big brown eyes.
Across the room, in front of a sliding glass door that looked out onto a wild, pretty garden, Kaylie’s father somberly occupied a brown corduroy recliner, and another man took up one end of a long, matching sofa with an enormous rectangular coffee table parked in front of it. Rather portly with thick lips and a deeply cleft chin, he had stuffed his big belly into an expensive, black three-piece suit and looked like the sort who might sleep in silk ties, so much a part of his daily routine were they. His brown eyes goggled when he saw Stephen.
“Good grief!” he exclaimed. “You’re Hangman Gallow. I heard they signed you at three million a year.”
“It’s not straight salary,” Stephen said somewhat defensively. Indeed, once the taxes, annuities and expenses were paid it amounted to much less, but even that figure was ample.
“No, no, of course not,” the other man said. “Wouldn’t be wise. I’d be glad to look at the structuring of it for you.”
“This is my oldest brother, Bayard,” Kaylie put in, her smile a tad strained. “He’s a banker.”
“This is not a business meeting!” Hubner declared hotly.
“No one said it was,” Bayard retorted, “but a good businessman always has his eyes and ears open.”
“Well, there you have it,” Morgan said cheerfully, strolling over to lean with both hands on the back of the sofa. “Bayard votes for Stephen’s bank statement. I vote for Kaylie’s good sense, and Dad and Chandler, while forever at odds over everything else, especially Chandler’s chosen profession, vote for their own convenience.”
“I resent that,” Chandler snapped.
At the same time, Hubner declared, “The Chatam men have always prided themselves on their decency and refinement. We are bred to boardrooms and pulpits. We put our skills and educations to the betterment of others, not frivolous, barbaric sport! We are ministers and, yes, bankers, professors and lawyers—”