Rich in Faith (Richness in Faith, Book 3)

by Peterson, Lindi

  THE DAY SPENT at the Treyhune compound proved to be exhausting. As we arrive home, the girls are sleepy and weepy and already missing their cousins.

  It was a bad time to mention their hair.

  A really bad time.

  “If I start at the bottom and work my way up, it won’t hurt. I promise.”

  You’d think I’d just asked them to give up their iPods instead of asking them if I could brush their hair.

  “We don’t want you to brush our hair.” Bristol speaks for Team Twin.

  “Girls.” I sit at the end of the bed they are sitting on and they move a few feet toward the headboard, like I’m dangerous. “It’s got to happen sometime. Those tangles must be brushed out.”

  “We can get the tangles out, see?” Bristol starts poking her fingers in her hair. She grimaces as her fingers collide with a tangled mass, but pushes through. Darling copies Bristol and starts yanking her hair as well.

  “Good job, girls. Keep at it.”

  Court’s voice pierces the room and we all look toward the door where Court is standing. His gaze drifts from the girls to me, where he nods his head toward the kitchen.

  I look at the girls. “I’ll be back.”

  Brush in hand, I follow Court to the kitchen. “Have they always brushed their hair with their hands?”

  “Look. I know it seems strange, but MaryLeigh always let them do what they wanted with their hair.”

  Pressing my lips together I try to figure out how to say what I want to say without being disrespectful to Court or MaryLeigh, may she rest in peace.

  “I can see how that would be all right when they were little,” I say, not seeing at all. “But they are becoming young women, now. Their hair is long and probably beautiful, but who can tell?”

  “Young women? They’re ten.”

  “Ten today, thirteen tomorrow. It will be here before you know it.”

  “Can’t we let nature take its course here? By the time they are thirteen I’m sure I won’t be able to drag them away from the mirror.”

  Before I can answer, Bristol and Darling come running down the hall, bursting into the kitchen with an air of exuberance.

  “Look,” Bristol says, running fingers through part of the bottom of her hair. “It’s working. No more tangles.”

  Darling hasn’t been as successful as Bristol, but is still smiling and pretending that she has.

  I now realize this battle is bigger than the hair. This has to do with MaryLeigh and hanging on to ways and ideas that she implemented, even if they weren’t practical or even right.

  Setting the brush on the bar stool I walk to Bristol and smooth my hand over the bottom of her hair. “Very nice. You’ve done a great job.”

  She smiles and so does Darling.

  Court? I wouldn’t call his expression smiling or happy. I’d call it more like he’s trying to figure out what I’m up to.

  As if I have a clue.

  “DO YOU HAVE A minute?”

  I’m sitting on my bed checking my email but look up when Court’s voice interrupts my browsing. There are still people sending me emails regarding my former CFO job, and it’s all I can do not to delete them.

  Instead I’ve been forwarding them on to Dale’s email. I’m surprised at how little emotion I have looking at his name. It’s like the man of my dreams hadn’t even been in the picture of my life ever.

  “Sure.” I set my laptop on the bed and follow Court, trying to decide which one of the many topics he wants to discuss with me. The homeschooling, the hair, the deceased wife’s strange life ways, or the deceased wife’s secrets.

  He walks into the living room, a place I haven’t spent much time. He chooses one of the chairs to sit in, so I choose the other, leaving us facing each other. He looks in place with his expensive attire settled into an expensive chair, covered in a soft cream-colored fabric.

  “The girls like you a lot.”

  I can’t tell by the expression on his face if he thinks this is a good thing or not. But it should be a good thing, so I’m going with that mindset. “I’m glad.”

  “They’re different around you. Like me. I’m different around you. Which leaves me wondering what it is about you that has captured our attention?”

  My stomach flutters at his words. This topic wasn’t on my agenda of topics.

  He stands, shoves his hands in his pockets, and slowly paces, his gaze on the floor as if looking at me might provide an answer that he doesn’t want to receive.

  I must say if he’s playing stump the nanny, he has won this round.

  “If you’re expecting an answer, I don’t know what to say. I’m not magic and I don’t cast spells.”

  I think his eyes are smiling even if he isn’t. “I’ve told you before you’re pretty. Too pretty to be a witch.”

  “Thank you.”

  Totally out of what I’ve determined to be his character, he perches on the wide arm of the couch. This is something I would yell at the girls for, but he paid for all this furniture, so he can sit if he wants.

  But I bet Mrs. Stratton would have something to say about it.

  “Barb told me about your situation in Atlanta. Why you wanted to get away for a while. It’s no good when something isn’t what you think it is. It’s even worse when somebody isn’t who you thought they were.”

  At this point I, the queen of being somebody I’m not, try not to break out in a visible sweat.

  I guess he takes my silence as an invitation to move forward with what is on his mind. “A broken engagement is hard, but it’s better to find out before the marriage takes place. Trust me, I know.”

  He’s not asking me questions, so I don’t feel like I can ask him any questions. It’s obvious though that his marriage wasn’t the perfect picture the media painted it.

  And Jared played a part in all this.

  What part I can only guess.

  So the sad, lonely widower Barb portrayed to me when she told me about this job probably isn’t as sad as she thinks he is.

  Or maybe he is. But the sadness might come from other places in addition to his wife’s death. “Break-ups are deaths on a smaller scale.”

  And yes, I did just voice those words. Words that sounded great when they ran through my head, but I’m not so sure how great they sound to a man who is still grieving the death of his wife.

  Or grieving the death of who he thought she was.

  “Much smaller, but yes.”

  I’ll give him that. I shiver, hoping I haven’t belittled his situation in any way. “The point is we’ve both lost something. We just lost it in different ways.”

  “Someone, not something.”

  Maybe he was more vested than I was. I shrug.

  He stands, walking toward me. He holds his hand out, like I need help. I wasn’t aware I needed helped out of the chair.

  But it appears I do.

  His touch is gentle. The problem comes in that instead of letting go of my hand, he strengthens his grip and pulls me close to him. Unable to resist, I look into his eyes. A whole section of the wall he hides behind has eroded, and I can see way more than I want to as I drown in his gaze.

  His lips move so I know he’s speaking, but it takes a few seconds for the words to sink into my brain.

  And when they do, I almost wish I’d stayed oblivious.

  “Maybe one day we’ll find another something.”

  “Maybe.”

  Sometimes silence can be awkward, but right now it seems right. I let it linger before asking if I heard him right. “Something or someone?” My words are whispered in the silence of the big house, my gaze never leaving his.

  His lips finally curve into that smile I’ve been waiting to be the recipient of, and I’m thankful for his support as the word swoon enters into my mind.

  “I think we’ll be able to determine that when it happens.”

  MY FEET POUND THE pavement harder than ever the next morning. Sleep broken by visions of a handsome man plagued me
all night long, until I knew I’d be better off not even trying anymore.

  I know that after last night everything has changed. Court’s implication is clear, and while I don’t think he’s ready to have another relationship, he wants to let me know he is well on his way to that point.

  Maybe he’s enamored by Team Twin liking me. The vibe I’m getting is that they haven’t liked anyone who has been their teacher or nanny since MaryLeigh died.

  And honestly, if Court hadn’t told me they liked me I wouldn’t have known.

  There are a lot of ghosts in every closet of the Treyhune home. Way too many bones rattling together at the same time. I’d be a fool to become involved in all of their lives.

  Too late.

  As each foot hits the pavement it screams the phrase until “too late” pounds through my head, one word right after another.

  I stop running as if that will stop the words.

  It doesn’t.

  They simply come as I breathe in and out.

  Too. Late.

  The skies are gray this Monday morning. Showers threaten while thunder rumbles in the distance. The breeze doesn’t help cool me down. It only fuels the rapid pace of my thoughts in directions I can’t believe they are going.

  Court Treyhune.

  In a million years I never would have thought he’d be accompanying me on a morning run. Plaguing my thoughts.

  Making me think happiness could come again so soon.

  But the scales on this are way off balance. Weighing heavier than the promise of happiness, are past hurts and mistrusts.

  MEMORIES

  BRISTOL, DARLING AND I plow through the day. The rain came again making it impossible to go outside. I decided to take on the task of cleaning their rooms. They were excited at first, but soon became bored.

  “But I want to keep that. Don’t throw it away,” Bristol whines.

  I hold up the electronic learning device. “I’m not throwing it away. This is the box to give away. And this is for two-year-olds. You are way past this.”

  “But these are my toys.” She grabs it out of my hands and hugs it to her chest.

  “Girls. You have so many toys here that you’ve out grown. Can’t you share them with others? Some parents can’t afford to buy toys like these for their children.”

  I’m amazed at what these two have stored up. It’s like they’ve never gotten rid of anything.

  Whereas Court can’t get rid of his memories, these girls can’t get rid of their stuff.

  They’re all holding onto the past in different ways.

  It’s like their hair. I can see progress being made in the tangles. But I still want to grab a brush and be done with it.

  “Some kids don’t have toys?” Darling asks.

  I nod. “That’s right. Some kids don’t.”

  “What do they play with?” Bristol asks.

  Remembering back to my childhood, I have visions of jumping rope and using tree limbs pretending they were weapons. I also remember one year wanting a popular doll for Christmas.

  It was all I wanted.

  “Do you want to hear a story?” I ask.

  They shrug. “Sure.”

  “When I was a little girl, about your age, there was a doll all the girls wanted. Her name was Pretty Patty.”

  Bristol smiles. “Was she pretty?”

  “Of course she was. All I wanted for Christmas was a Pretty Patty doll. When Christmas morning came there was only one box for me under the tree. I still remember how excited I was when I opened the box and saw Pretty Patty.”

  “So Santa brought you what you wanted.”

  “He did. But later in the day I noticed the box was a little banged up, and the flaps looked well worn. Later that night, I was in bed, hugging Pretty Patty close to me. While I was hugging her I noticed a smudged pen mark on the side of her left cheek.”

  “Someone wrote on her? Why?”

  “It was probably an accident. But that doll hadn’t been out of my arms all day long, so I knew I hadn’t done it. I rubbed the mark as hard as I could, but the blue smudge wouldn’t go away.” I decline telling them that even my tears falling on Pretty Patty’s face didn’t help take the mark away.

  “So what did you do?” Darling asks.

  “I just loved her even though she had the mark on her face.”

  Team Twin look at me with wide eyes.

  “I never would have had Pretty Patty if some nice girl like you hadn’t given her away. So what do you say? Can we pick out some toys that you don’t play with anymore and give them to some other little girls?”

  Their eyes take on an excited look. They jump up and walk over to the pile of toys. “Sure.”

  “I’ll help.” As I stand I see a shadow out of the corner of my eye. Looking toward the door my face turns red and my head starts to spin as I see Court leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, with a half-smile on his face.

  Mrs. Stratton indicated he never came home early , and it’s barely mid-afternoon. I would never have told my story if I thought there was a remote possibility that he would be around.

  Thankfully, Bristol and Darling are busy picking out toys. It’s bad enough the drama being played out in my head and heart is being witnessed by Court. Certainly he can see my turmoil at revealing sacred secrets of my past.

  A past I never wanted him to know anything about.

  But it appears my charade is up. He motions for me to come to him.

  As I reach him, he steps outside the door and I follow. He’s smiling which surprisingly puts me at ease. Probably because it took me so long to be on the receiving end of one of those.

  When I reach him, he puts his hand on my shoulder, once again reeling me in to a comfortable place. “That was great. You didn’t tell me you were a master storyteller.”

  All thoughts of asking him why he came home early leave my mind. A master storyteller? Because I related a piece of my childhood to the girls? “I don’t think I’m a master storyteller by any means.”

  “Are you kidding me? The way you had them wrapped up in that tale? You almost had me believing it for a minute. It sounded so real. And it brought them around. They can’t shove toys in that box fast enough.”

  I’m not sure whether I should feel the relief I’m feeling.

  He doesn’t believe I’m the poor kid who wouldn’t have Christmas if it wasn’t for second-hand stores.

  He thinks my memories are tales?

  For the first time, my heart tells me that Court would understand. That Court is different from Paul in high school and from Dale. I want to believe he is.

  I really do.

  But I can’t embrace it yet. I continue to let Court think my story is just that.

  A made-up story. “I’m glad I was convincing.” There. That doesn’t confirm or deny anything. He came to his own conclusions without any prompting from me.

  But somehow my conscious isn’t cleared by my statement at all.

  In fact, it’s more conflicted now than ever.

  “SO, IF I SEND Mrs. Stratton home will you cook us some fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy?”

  Court catches me as I step out of my room just a few minutes after our previous conversation. The conversation that caused me to splash cold water on my face to wake up to the reality of what is happening.

  I did this while the girls showed Court what they were doing and why. Their excitement at sharing their toys was almost as grand as seeing their dad home midday.

  “Fried chicken is not very healthy eating. I think we should let Mrs. Stratton do her stuff.”

  “Only if you give me an IOU.” There’s a serious look in his expression.

  “Maybe.” I’m not committing to anything.

  Rubbing his neck, he stares at the hallway wall for a moment like he’s bothered. Moments later, he looks at me. “Can we talk for a minute? In my office?”

  My breath hitches slightly. Nothing he would notice. But I’m catching on to his voice tones, an
d this one indicates turmoil.

  What kind of turmoil I’m about to find out.

  He follows me, and when he steps into the office he shuts the door behind him.

  In my book, that inches up the turmoil factor.

  Now my mouth is starting to feel dry. Why does everything having to do with Court make me aware of every internal struggle I have? It’s like being around him forces me to see more of who I am.

  Who I really am.

  And that’s not at all who I want to be.

  Maybe it’s because Court is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get type of guy. There’s not any pretense when it comes to him.

  Only amazing honesty and integrity.

  Traits to be admired.

  “You can sit if you want.” He perches on the edge of the desk while motioning me to the love seat.

  My nerves are too crazy to sit, so I don’t. He raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t comment on my refusal of his offer.

  “Before we left North Carolina yesterday, my dad asked me to do him a favor.”

  My nerve endings quit tingling a little as I realize this talk is going to be about Court and his dad and not about Court and me.

  My nerve endings are also a tad bit disappointed.

  But they won’t tell anyone.

  “What kind of favor?”

  “The kind of favor I wish he wouldn’t have asked.”

  Those words tell a tale, don’t they? “I hate those kind of favors. Especially when asked by someone you love. Kind of makes it hard to say no, doesn’t it?”

  “Impossible, really.”

  “So what does your dad have you doing that you don’t really want to do?”

  He pushes off the desk and stands, lowering his gaze momentarily. When he does look up, his gaze captivates me more than I want it to.

  “He wants me to go to the track for the Fourth of July race at Daytona.”

  Oh, that race. That race that my dad has graciously been given tickets to by Mama. “Why?”

  “Because he can’t go. Storm is usually with him, but that’s his anniversary and he and the wife are taking a vacation. So my dad wants me to fill in for the weekend.”

  I shake my head. “How did Storm get away with getting married in the middle of the season? I thought they all got married and had babies in the winter, when they weren’t racing.”