by Linda Wisdom
Her Secret, His Son
By
Linda Wisdom
A LINDA WISDOM CLASSIC ROMANCE
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PUBLISHED BY:
Joyride Books
Her Secret, His Son
Copyright © 2014 by Linda Wisdom
Joyride Books Edition License Notes
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Her Secret, His Son
“Hey, don’t I get some service around here?”
Sara straightened up, her hand rubbing her lower back, sore from bending over a car’s fender for the past hour. She peered out of the darkened interior of the garage toward the gas pumps, hoping her ears had lied to her. No, that was Albert all right. She walked slowly out to the pumps under the bright gaze of a thirty-five-year-old man going on ten. She knew from experience what he was like when he was in his macho-man role, acting like the town stud. Town dud was more like it, she scoffed. His eyes were already stripping her faded jeans and cotton shirt away from her body, and she had barley gone five steps. “Damn, Sara, you’re sure lookin’ good today,” he told her leaning back against the hood of his pickup, his brawny arms crossed in front of his chest, just above the beer belly hanging over the waistband of his worn jeans. “Good enough to eat.”
“I’d give you heartburn,” she said caustically, unscrewing the gas cap. She poked the nozzle into the tank and stuck the cap under the nozzle grip so it would pump unattended. “Say, darlin’, it’s too nice a nice a day for you to be cooped up here: I’m driving into Charlotte. Why don’t you come with me?” he coaxed. “We could even stop somewhere on the way back for an hour or two of Privacy.”
“Why don’t you ask your wife to go with you? I can imagine she doesn’t get out much what with looking after all those kids.” Sara hated herself for sounding so waspish when she wanted to sound cold, but she hated the men who undressed her with their eyes and muttered their lewd comments. She hated it all.
Albert was undaunted. He watched Sara withdraw the nozzle from the tank.
“Lookin’ at you sure makes the day brighter, pretty Sara.” He pressed the money in her band, his fingers rubbing her arm in a not too soothing caress. “Maybe I should’ve had you check the oil. I sure do like watching the way your pretty little rear moves when you’re hanging over my fender.” He smiled broadly.
She stepped back, her eloquent eyes speaking what her lips refused to.
Albert laughed heartily and climbed into the truck. He tipped his billed cap to her in a mocking salute and drove off in a cloud of dust.
Sara returned to the garage to finish the oil change she was working on before she had been so rudely interrupted. On her way she stopped in the rest room. Staring into the speckled mirror, she saw silvery blond hair escaping the braid she had fixed that morning and her face shiny from lack of makeup. Not a very glamorous picture. She sighed turning away.
She suddenly visualized herself dressed like someone out of a fashion magazine. Her hair would be caught up in a fancy twist, and she would wear a pretty dress and makeup on her face. Oh, yes, she would look and feel pretty, and she wouldn’t find one pair of worn jeans or grubby shirts in her closet. And her nails wouldn’t always have grease under them and she shook her head almost violently to stem the flow of tears that was sure to come next. Sara had gone this long without feeling sorry for herself. This wasn’t the time to start. After all, she had an oil change to finish, and by then Jackson should be back with that special order of spare parts. An hour later the oil change was finished, and Jackson still wasn’t back. Sara began to feel apprehensive. Where was he?
“Afternoon, Sara.” A silver-haired man in his seventies walked slowly up the drive.
“Reverend, you shouldn’t have walked up here in this heat,” she scolded, ushering him into the office. “I told you I’d deliver your car to you.”
“You’re sounding just like Mrs. Harris,” he said testily, taking the chair she offered and lowering his bony frame into it. “I may have one foot in the grave, but that doesn’t mean the other is standing on a banana peel just yet.”
Sara worked hard to hide her smile. Reverend Mapes enjoyed sounding like a crotchety old man, but she knew all too well what a kindhearted person he truly was. He had been the pastor of the church she had attended ever since she could remember, and he had married her parents in the small, white frame church several blocks away. She would miss him.
“Reverend, what will I do without you?” she whispered, grasping his hand tightly, feeling the fragile bones beneath her fingertips.
He smiled. “You’ll do fine, Sara. You’re a very strong woman. You’ve had to be all these years.” His faded brown eyes watched her behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. He understood her worries, and he wanted to reassure her that he had put her in good hands, but he couldn’t assure her about something that he didn’t feel certain about. He was leaving the area due to poor health that required a drier climate, and a new minister would soon take over his duties.
Sara roused herself quickly and released his hand. “If I’m not more careful, one of the good ladies from the Home Mission Society might come along and say I’m corrupting you,” she said with a brittle laugh. He shook his head, looking too somber for her peace of mind. Reverend Mapes knew only too well the trials Sara had endured in the small town. Even in the eighties an unwed mother did not go unnoticed, and when she owned a business the townspeople needed, well, that just made matters worse. How the tongues wagged the day old man Carson’s will was read disclosing he had left everything to Sara.
Always knew she was up to no good when she moved in with that old man,” one woman sniffed.
“She turned his head, that’s what she did.”
“Humph! An old man and her so young. It’s easy to guess what she did to get put in his will.”
Sara’s thoughts echoed the reverend’s. Funny how a woman could live all her life in the same town, except for a couple of years away at college, and it only took those two years to change
“In high school I used to be called Sara the Saint, because I wouldn’t go out to the pond alone with a boy,” she mused bitterly. “Now I’m called Sara the Slut. It doesn’t take much, does it?”
Reverend Mapes shook his head. It was a shame someone so young should be so bitter, and he told her so as he rose slowly to his feet. “I better be heading home before Mrs. Harris sends out a posse.” He smiled, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a worn leather wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
She shook her head and stood back. “Reverend, have I ever charged you for such minor work before?” she chided, a ghost of a smile touching her lips.
“None of your work is minor,” he retorted, slipping his wallet back into his pocket. He knew from past experience that Sara refused any money from him for small repairs on his car, and the one time he had insisted she take the money he had watched her the following Sunday, with a broad smile on her face, drop that same money in the collection plate. “You don’t make any money this way, Sara. I know you haven’t charged Mrs. Gold a fraction of what she really owes for her gas for the last two years.”
She flushed. “She lost a great deal of her savings when she was conned by that so-called bonds salesman,” she muttered. “Besides, that old clunker of hers doesn’t take all that much gas anyway, and at least it takes regula
r.”
Reverend Mapes chuckled. “You’re a wonderful woman, Sara. I’ll miss you.”
Her smile wobbled. “I’ll miss you, too. Do me a favor, will you? Ask the new pastor not to run me out of town too soon. I want to make sure to have everything packed first.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” he intoned, walking outside to his car and getting inside. “I’ll see you on Sunday, Sara. Don’t be late. The new minister will be there, and I don’t want him to have a bad first impression of you.”
She laughed and waved him off. She had turned around to reenter the office when a wheezing pickup pulled up to the garage opening.
“It’s about time you got back, Jackson,” she said to the old man climbing out of the cab. “Where have you been?” He didn’t bother answering, because he was too busy swearing at the truck, which emitted a cloud of steam from under the hood.
“Damn truck ain’t good for much ‘cept for collectin’ rust,” he grumbled, kicking one of the tires.
“If you’d take a little extra time and work on it, you wouldn’t be threatening to put it out to pasture every five minutes,” Sara told him, looking into the truck bed to make sure he had gotten everything she needed. She’d bet he had a brown paper bag in the cab holding the whiskey he drank-for medicinal purposes, he explained. He believed the fiery alcohol was better than any multivitamin manufactured. Since he hadn’t been sick in more than thirty years, people had to wonder how right he was. Jackson peered into the garage.
“You take the car over to the reverend?” he asked in a voice made rough from the cigars he smoked.
“He walked over to pick it up.” She began unloading the truck and carrying the packages into the garage. “Come on, help me with these. They’re heavy.”
Jackson grumbled loud and strong the entire time they unloaded the truck, but Sara didn’t care as long as he did his share. She smiled as she listened to him mumbling to himself. She saw his grumbling as part of his charm. Sara couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been around. He had been a close friend of Harvey’s, and he never said a word against her when Harvey had taken a teary-eyed, pregnant Sara into his home, cared for her during the last months of her pregnancy, driven her to the hospital when her baby was born and left her the gas station in his will along with enough money to Jackson to keep him from feeling dependent on anyone. When Sara had once asked him if he resented Harvey not leaving the station to him, he had loudly protested, “Hell, no! That would mean I’d have to do real work when now I just work when I feel like it. ‘Sides, he knew you’d need some security for that kid of yours.” She had smiled at that. Jackson’s favorite name for all men was bastard, another part of his homegrown charm, but he had never called Tim that. Even when the now fifteen-year-old boy deserved it, which was more often than she cared to think about.
“I thought Tim was coming by after school to help you,” he rumbled, putting away the boxes of oil and filters. .
“He was.” Her clipped tone was answer enough. How many other times had her son promised to do something for her and hadn’t come through? About as many times as Sara wished she had moved somewhere else, where Tim might have been able to live a more normal life. Had she been wrong in staying here? Would both of them, especially Tim, have been better off in a town where no one knew of her past? She could always have posed as a widow or a divorcee.
“You wanna get your brain back where it belongs?” Jackson’s raspy voice intruded into her thoughts. “We gotta lot of work to do here before dinner.”
Sara looked up, then flushed when she realized she had probably been standing there holding the boxes for the last few minutes.
“If a woman wants to daydream, she can,” she retorted with a touch of the asperity she used to be known for. “Besides, you should talk when it comes to work.”
Jackson grinned as he turned away.
“Let’s get this stuff put away and close up the garage,” Sara said, heading back out to the truck. They kept the gas pumps open until eight, since the house was behind the gas station and they could hear incoming customers from there, thanks to Harvey’s foresight in installing a buzzer wired into the kitchen.
“What we havin’ for dinner?”
“Beef stew,” she replied, going into the office and picking up the day’s receipts.
“With dumplings?”
Sara smiled, well aware Jackson didn’t consider stew complete without fluffy dumplings. “Would I fix stew without dumplings?”
A half hour later she was in the kitchen cutting up fresh vegetables for a salad. Jackson would remain at the gas station until dinnertime.
Sara knew why she was feeling sorry for herself. This was the month it had all begun. More than sixteen years ago she had been working part-time as a waitress in a coffee shop while going to school, and one evening a young man had come into the restaurant and sat down at one of her tables. A young man who changed her life and broke her heart. Even if she had wanted to forget him, she couldn’t. Not when her son had his eyes and smile. She didn’t regret having Tim, and while her hometown hadn’t exactly welcomed her back with open arms, she still hadn’t regretted one thing she had done over the years. She just wished Tim wasn’t so bitter.
“Hey.” The object of her thoughts breezed through the back door and filched a slice of carrot. “When’s dinner?”
Sara stopped her work and turned to face him. Long, shaggy hair the same dark brown as his eyes, a face that would be handsome if he didn’t look so sullen most of the time and a mouth that usually looked angry. He was taller than she was, his height another legacy from his father.
“I thought you were going to come by the station to help out when you got out of school,” she reproached him. “We had a lot of parts to put away, and we could have used you.”
He shrugged. “I forgot.” He pulled off a ragged denim jacket to reveal an equally ragged T-shirt.
“You went to school looking like that?” Sara practically wailed. “Tim, you look like a bum.”
“Teachers believe I’m one anyway. Why not make it easy for them?” He tried to snatch a cucumber slice, but her slapping hand stopped him until his hand snaked around hers and stole it anyway. He flashed her a broad grin as his white teeth bit into the slice.
Sara’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t go to school today, did you?” She sighed. She knew the truth from his silence. Tim saw the sorrow on his mother’s face and instantly melted. Whatever else he was and his teachers had quite a few names for him-he did love his mother, and he wouldn’t do anything to intentionally hurt her. But how could he explain that he didn’t care for school and didn’t see where it would get him? Oh, sure, he knew what the counselors said about his having a high IQ and how he had the potential to do great things if he would just get off his butt and apply himself. Apply himself, hell, all he wanted to do was get a job, make good money and get his mom out of this stinking town. He wanted to see her smile more and look happy all the time. That he just might be a good part of her worries hadn’t even occurred to him.
“Dinner will be ready soon. Would you please call Jackson and then wash up?” Sara asked, carrying the salad bowl over to the table.
Tim opened the back door and leaned out. “Jackson, dinner’s ready!” he shouted and closed the door again.
Sara stared at him as he washed up at the sink. “I believe I asked you to call him, not shout the windows out.”
Tim tore off a paper towel and dried his hands. “You know he can’t hear a damn thing without the hearing aid he refuses to wear half the time.”
Sara wanted to laugh at the frustration bubbling up inside her. She had reprimanded Tim in the past for swearing, but she was positive he said much worse when she wasn’t around her, so she tried to ignore his colorful language more often than not in hopes he’d soon realize profanity didn’t make the world any better. She rarely swore, basically because she didn’t like the sound of it. So when she tripped over the coffee table and broke her little toe,
Tim had scolded her for using bad language, then assisted her into the car and driven her to the emergency clinic, all the time ignoring her alarmed protests that he didn’t have a driver’s license yet, much less a permit. Like his father, rules never occurred to Tim. Perhaps that was why Sara loved him so much, teenage rebellions and all.
During dinner Sara looked over her companions, listening to a repeat of many other dinnertime conversations. Jackson railed at Tim for not helping his mother and always raising hell when he should be working harder in school so he could make something of himself. Tim countered with the argument that there was nothing to make when there were so few jobs around, except for the textile mill outside of town, and he wanted more for his life than working as a mill hand. The arguments, which never grew heated, were so familiar to Sara that she tended to tune them out.
Tim looked at the unseeing glaze in his mother’s eyes and knew what caused it. After seeing it this time every year, he soon figured out it had something to do with his father. His heart hardened against the man who had given him life, and he daily cursed him for leaving Sara when she had needed him most. The fact that there had been many times Tim had needed him never came up, because he had convinced himself a long time ago that he didn’t need anyone. But he vowed to always be there for his mother; he knew she had no one else to count on, except for Jackson. Tim brushed a wayward strand of hair away from his face and concentrated on his second ‘helping of stew.
Later, when Sara stood up to gather the plates for washing, Tim stopped her.
“I’ll do them,” he offered roughly, jumping to his feet and taking the dishes out of her hands.
Sara smiled. She knew this was his way of apologizing for not being at the station that afternoon. She would probably end up with a broken glass or plate, if not both, but it was worth it.
“Then, if no one would mind I think I’ll go upstairs and soak in a hot tub,” she said brightly.
“Those long baths addle the brain!” Jackson shouted after her as she left the kitchen.
“That’s something you couldn’t know about since you only believe in baths on Saturday nights,” Tim retorted with a rare teasing grin.