“You’re thinking,” Patrick said, breaking through her reverie.
“Thinking about Annie and Ken and Gracelynne.”
“It’s a blessing. That little girl will be loved by two great people.”
His words settled uneasily in her chest. “I’m not trying to drag up old issues, but I wonder if I would have been a good mother. I like to think so.”
“How can you question that, Christie? You’re a natural.” His hand slid across the empty space and pressed her arm. “I enjoyed seeing the baby, but it made me sad, guilty really. I’ll never forgive myself for asking you to wait before having our child. I was so wrong.”
“Maybe not, at least not in our situation. A divorce is consuming. I was so filled with anger and hurt. If I’d had a child, he or she would have sensed my bitterness, felt it and the bad feelings would have made an impression. Whether I like it or not, maybe God knows what He’s doing.”
Her ridiculous comment made her laugh, and Patrick joined her. The sound of their lighthearted chuckle filled the car and edged out the gloom and longing she’d been feeling.
“It’s nice to hear you laugh,” Patrick said. “I’ve missed that.”
“Me, too,” she said, remembering nights so long ago when they’d spent time laughing, even climbing into bed and recalling humorous things that had happened during the day. They’d often laughed themselves to sleep. Where had those fun-filled days gone?
“I could adopt,” Christie said, letting the words escape before she’d locked the door on her thoughts. She startled herself with the admission and glanced at Patrick to see his reaction.
He didn’t move, but kept his eyes on the highway, but she could almost hear the gears cranking in his thoughts. Then she noticed his jaw tighten and his full lips draw into a straight line.
“Why would you think to adopt now?” he asked. “You’re still young enough to have children.”
“You’ve forgotten. Besides my age, my condition is worse now. Endometriosis doesn’t get better. It only heightens and makes conception impossible. Anyway, I’m not married and don’t plan to be.” Saying the words aloud to Patrick broke her heart. Her imagination played with her mind, conjuring up romantic moments with him again, like the brief kiss they’d shared.
“It’s my fault and there’s nothing I can do,” Patrick said. “I wish there were.”
If wishes were horses, Christie’s mind rattled out the old saying, but beneath her skepticism, she realized he could do something. She could do something. They could marry again, if only… The “if only” halted her thoughts. She’d created the “if onlys” and she was the only one who could make them go away.
Patrick pulled away from the hardware store heading for Loving Care to pick up Sean. When he’d spoken to Christie earlier, she’d mentioned wanting to talk with him if he had time. Time. He had all the time in the world. But now, she’d aroused his curiosity.
A fine mist of snowflakes drifted past the windshield, leaving moist dots on the pane. He turned on the wipers but the window only streaked, leaving a blurry view of the gray day. Since Christie’s call, his spirit felt drab.
What had happened to his optimism? He’d clung to a distant hope that one day all would be well between them. Yet each time they spoke, he waited for the guillotine to drop. He’d asked himself why he persisted, and the answer seemed easy. Because he’d fallen in love with Christie again, and this time he was confident they could make it work.
He pushed the lever for the window washer and the view brightened. For a moment the clouds parted and a hazy sun spread its rays on the cold earth. He grasped at the hidden promise that beneath the clouds and haze he’d see a golden sun again.
Loving Care came into view, and his stomach knotted. He wondered what Christie wanted to talk about. He sent a quick prayer to the Lord for wisdom and fortitude. He needed both badly.
Outside the November wind flapped the tail of his fleece-lined jacket, and he shoved his hands into his pockets as he hurried up the center’s sidewalk. He waited only a moment for Bev to open the door and send him a warm greeting.
The comfortable temperature inside the room welcomed him as well, and without hesitation, he strode toward Christie’s office, hoping the welcome and warmth were signs of what was to come.
“Hi,” Christie said, seeing him at the doorway. She beckoned him inside. “I’m glad you didn’t have plans. I really need to talk with you.”
Her face looked calm and her stance relaxed, giving Patrick hope. “No problem. What’s up?” he asked, trying to sound upbeat and assured.
She motioned him toward a chair near her desk, and he stepped forward with a mix of emotion.
“Actually,” she said, coming around the desk and leaning against the corner. “I want to apologize.”
“Apologize?” He tried to stop the frown that appeared on his face. “About what?”
“What you said about the addition. I jumped on you because I felt threatened and belittled. I don’t know what I felt, but you suggested I wait on making any big plans, and I said you were interfering.”
“I was. I admitted that. This is your business, and you’ve done a bang-up job without my two cents worth.”
She shook her head. “But you were right.” Within a few moments, she’d explained about the other child-care center opening in town and her loss of enrollment.
Instead of feeling smug, Patrick felt disappointed. “I wish it hadn’t happened, Christie. You had some nice ideas there. I’d have been thrilled for you to see the place grow and prove me wrong. I don’t know why I opened my mouth that day. Habit, I guess.”
“You did me a favor. The only loss I really feel is a room for keeping sick kids away from the others. It’s a real problem when a child gets here and we realize he has measles or a virus. It spreads so easily. By the time the child’s parents arrive, the germs have spread to the others.”
Patrick gave her concern some thought. “You might have room somewhere else you could spare. A cot in a quiet spot wouldn’t take too much space.” He swung his hand across the room. “Even that corner by the window. You could put a cot there and block it with one of those screens. It’s only temporary.”
Christie’s face brightened as she pushed away from the desktop and strode across the room. She held her chin between her thumb and finger, studying the space for a moment. “You know, that might work. I could pull that copy machine away from the wall and put it against a screen, leaving space behind.”
“It should work,” he said, pleased that she’d accepted his opinion without balking. “The waiting room might work, too.”
“I like having spillover space for the kids to play. Right here would work well. Thanks for the idea.” She walked to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a hug.
Her action surprised, yet pleased him. So natural, so real, so accepting—it slid over him like a warm glove.
Christie eased back, but didn’t move far. The closeness seemed right, and Patrick rested his hand on her shoulder.
“How’s your dad?” Christie asked.
“Doing well.”
“I should stop by?”
“He’d love that. How about tonight? I promised him a home-cooked meal…and I could use some help.”
“Are you inviting me or my cooking skills?”
“You first. The skills are a bonus.”
She grinned. “Then I’ll accept.”
Her ready agreement felt like a gift, and Patrick’s mind flew with plans. He needed groceries. “I’d better get Sean and head to the grocery store or we’ll eat at midnight.”
“I’ll bring Sean home. You go ahead.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Why not?”
His spirit lifted. He gave Christie a hug and dashed toward the door, realizing she’d hugged him back.
Chapter Fourteen
Christie stood at Patrick’s sink, running hot water over the dishes before placing them into the dishwashe
r.
“You don’t have to do that,” Patrick said, leaning beside her clutching a dishcloth in his hand.
“You do your job, and I’ll do mine. You’re wiping up the stove.”
He chuckled and moved away, whistling as he always did as he worked. She heard him clanging burners as he removed the spatters from the stove. They’d made spaghetti and meatballs—the quick version. But it had been delicious, and Christie had gotten a kick out of watching Sean eat the noodles.
The evening had taken her back, and only once in a while did she feel a twinge of regret or envy when she focused on Sean’s peaked chin, reminding her of the woman who gave him birth. If she centered her attention on his eyes and nose, the child was all Patrick.
“I think I’ll put Sean to bed,” Patrick said, as he draped the dishcloth on the edge of the sink. “Dad’s in the living room shuffling cards. I’m sure he’d love a game of hearts. He always wins.”
“I haven’t played hearts since…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. Patrick would remember the evenings they’d gotten together with friends and had the big hearts challenge.
Christie stood in the kitchen alone, thinking back to times they’d come to visit their folks. They tried to split the visit between Patrick’s father and her parents, even spending the night in the bedroom upstairs—Patrick’s old bed—a double where they were nestled like spoons, fingers woven together, body pressed to body—secure and comfortable. The memory kicked her heart to a gallop until she slammed the door on the unwanted nostalgia.
When she stepped into the living room, she knew Patrick was correct. Joe leaned back in his recliner, a deck of playing cards fluttering in a shuffle.
“Tired?” she asked, already knowing the answer to the question.
“No. I’m feeling good tonight,” he said, his eyes telling her why he felt so well.
“Looks like you’re up for a game of solitaire.” She grinned, goading him on.
“No. Hearts, but I need a couple of players.”
“I wonder who those might be.” Patrick’s voice sailed from the doorway. He came into the room and clamped his hand on his father’s shoulders. “Do you want me to bring in a card table?”
“Can’t play on the air,” Joe said, his chuckle brightening his gaunt face.
In minutes, Christie found herself on one side of a card table, playing a game she knew she would lose, but the activity bound them in laughter and chatter as they slapped a heart onto the play…or worse, the queen of spades, adding points to the score—points they didn’t want since the low score won.
When she reached one hundred, Patrick and his father cackled as she was crowned loser. Joe had won by three points, and made his way to bed with confidence that, even with a bad heart, he could at least play the game of hearts like a champ.
As Patrick put the card table away, Christie gathered her jacket and shoulder bag, ready to leave.
“You’re not leaving?” Patrick said, coming into the living room and eyeing the coat on her arm.
His face took on his boyish pleading that sent Christie’s heart on a wild ride.
“You don’t have to leave, do you?” he asked.
She glanced at her watch. “It’s getting late.”
“Stay for a while longer.”
She felt the grin curve her mouth and knew she’d given in. “Just for a minute. Then I’m out of here.”
He motioned her toward the sofa. “It’s been a nice evening. I hate it to end.”
“It has.”
She followed his gesture and sank onto the cushion. “It’s good seeing your dad a little more chipper.”
“I think it’s when you’re around.”
“Blarney,” she said, pushing his words away with her gesture.
“No. I mean it. It’s like a healing. He told me how bad he felt when you’d avoided each other. I know why it happened, but I’m glad it’s over.”
“Me, too.” Her mother’s changed attitude came to mind. “By the way, Mom’s invited all of you for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Really?” Patrick’s eyebrows lifted over his questioning eyes.
“It’s been hard for her, and I know she still has reservations about our relationship. She’s worried that I’ll get tangled up with you again, hurt again, but I told her not to worry.” Christie realized the statement left a multiple of interpretations, meanings she’d just begun to deal with herself.
Patrick’s gaze searched hers. “How do you feel about the invitation?”
“Thanksgiving’s a day to share. Even the pilgrims and Indians got together. Remember?”
He shrugged. “Interesting way to look at it.”
Christie was sorry she’d used that example. It connoted strangers. People from different worlds together for a moment, but not a lifetime. Weariness washed over her. She’d struggled too long with the issues surrounding her relationship with Patrick. Christie needed some sign to let her know that love could happen and be forever. She wanted to be assured that she could forget Sean’s parentage—as Patrick had said before—and that she could open her arms and love the child fully for who he was. She longed for God’s direction, but hadn’t felt it yet. Maybe she’d waited too long to ask the Lord for guidance, or maybe God had already spoken and she’d missed His message.
“What should I tell my mother?” Christie asked finally, turning to the present.
Patrick sat in thought as she had done. His head drooped over his folded hands resting between his knees. He raised his head. “It’s up to Dad. I’ll have to let you know if that’s okay. Tell your mom we appreciate the invitation.”
Christie sensed their conversation losing its spontaneity, as if they’d begun to tiptoe again, afraid of what they might say. But seeing his face filled her with a warmth that gave her courage to be honest…to take a risk. “It’s been a long time since we’ve celebrated Thanksgiving together. I really hope you can come.”
He raised his eyes to hers and in them she saw such deep feeling it took her breath away.
“I do, too,” he said.
“You’re sure, Dad?”
“I’d be a fool to go out in this weather,” Joe said, staring out the front window at the heavy snow that had fallen overnight and stood in deep mounds over everything in sight.
“I shoveled the driveway and walk, and I’ll warm the car for you,” Patrick said, hating to leave his father home alone on Thanksgiving.
“Emma and Wes will understand, and I know Emma will send me home enough food for a week.”
Patrick grinned, knowing his father was right.
“And don’t rush,” Joe said. “I have some ham here and those scalloped potatoes you made from a box, but they weren’t bad. I’ll admit that. Just bring Emma’s dinner home later tonight. I’ll enjoy it tomorrow.”
No sense in fighting city hall. He knew when his father had his mind set. Patrick zippered Sean’s jacket and helped him tug on his boots, then grabbed his navy jacket and plaid scarf. He dug a pair of leather gloves from his pockets. “We’re going then. If you need me, I wrote down the telephone number by the kitchen phone. Okay?”
“Okay. So get on your way, or you’ll be late.”
“They’ll be disappointed you’re not coming,” Patrick said, giving one last try at changing his mind.
His father’s look was all he needed for a response. “I’ll call you later,” Patrick said, hoisting Sean in his arms and heading to his car.
The wind had died down, but a crisp feeling hung in the air. Sunshine peeked from behind a cloud, creating diamonds in the pristine snow. Sean eyed the fluff with amazement, as if he’d never seen a snowfall. “Snow,” he said, then held his tongue out to catch a flake.
Patrick settled him into the car seat, then climbed in and backed down the driveway.
The roads were clear but slick, and he eased his way around the last corner, happy to see the Goodson house. He parked in the driveway behind Christie’s sedan, and climbed out. While he
leaned over the back seat to loosen Sean from the belts, a thud whacked him in the behind.
He swung around to find Christie bundled up in a scarf and down jacket near the porch. She’d bent over to form another snowball, and seeing her gleeful smile, Patrick grabbed Sean in his arms while he called to her over his shoulder. “I have a hostage.”
Her laugh tickled him, and when he faced her, he held Sean in front of him. Sean wiggled to get down, curious about the snow. Patrick lowered him to the ground, and stealthily scooped up a handful of white stuff, squeezing it into a ball, then fired it at Christie.
She ducked, but the glob hit her hair. She brushed it away and came toward him, laughing. “I surrender,” she said.
He checked her hands to make sure they were empty. She wore mittens matted with pea-size lumps of crystalized snow.
“Let’s make a snowman for Sean,” she said, bending down to form a ball.
He eyed her action, making sure it wasn’t a trick. When he saw she was serious, he closed the distance. “What about dinner? Shouldn’t we be helping your mother?”
“Everything’s under control. We’re just waiting another forty minutes for the turkey to be ready.”
Hearing that, Patrick joined her, helping Sean to roll a smaller ball to make the snowman’s head. His fingers became frigid as the snow dampened his gloves, but he didn’t want to let go of the joy he felt, spending time with Sean and Christie making a snowman.
The snow glimmered like his heart sparkling with a renewed joy. They worked together, lifting the large spheres, one on top of the other. Christie’s cheeks glowed and her nose reddened with the cold while she scrounged beneath the large tree to find two sticks for arms. He and Shawn had found a few pebbles in the flower beds hidden beneath the mounds, and he let Sean plop them into the snowman’s face to form its features.
Finished, they stood back, he and Christie arm in arm with Sean in his other, admiring their amateur creation.
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