He chuckled. “I showed you a bunch of stuff—valve bridges, camshafts, rocker arm assemblies.”
She waved her hand. “Whatever. All I know is they were big, and the engine was loud.”
The two continued batting eyes at one another for the rest of meal. Ainsley attempted conversation every once in a while, to no avail. Clearly she occupied the third wheel as yet another man dominated her mom’s attention. Come January, her mother’s infatuation would fade. Then her focus would return to Ainsley until another slug took her place. And was it really worth it? At what point could she wash her hands of it all, mourn her mom and move on?
Chris’s words spoken at the nursing home resurfaced, tugging on her heart and stinging her eyes with the threat of tears.
“I’ve come to realize this is who she is, and I love her for who she is and not who I’d like her to be. When I look at my mother, I see her sickness.”
Yeah, well, some people’s illnesses run deeper than others.
Chapter 37
lack storm clouds advanced across the sky, swallowing the moon and stars as sleet pelted Ainsley’s window. A semi barreled past her, splattering her windshield with salted slush. Hunched forward to see through the thick haze, she flicked on her wipers and sprayed the glass with washer fluid.
Slowing to a stop on the corner of North Oak and Vivian, she thought once again of William and his mother and all the other women who frequented the shelter. How many of them huddled on the street somewhere, drenched by the icy rain? The temperature gauge on her dash read thirty-five degrees. The weather man predicted a twenty-degree drop by morning.
She repeated what had become her most frequent prayer: Lord Jesus, please watch over those precious women and children tonight. Help them find shelter. Help them find You.
As she eased into her cul-de-sac, her cell phone rang. Richard. She hit Ignore.
A text message followed: “Can’t we talk?”
Two minutes later, he sent another: “My mother might stop by this week.”
She grabbed her phone and jabbed her finger on his number.
“Hello—”
“What? So you’re sending in reinforcements now? Figured harassing me yourself wasn’t enough?”
“I under—”
“No, you don’t. Let me clarify. I am not now nor will I ever marry you. So do yourself—and your mother—a favor, and stop the theatrics. Now.” She ended the call and tossed the phone into the console, then gathered her things. A cold gust of wind swept over her as she stepped onto the slush- covered drive. Using her hip to close the door, she stalked up the steps, face angled to the ground to ward off the driving sleet.
She fumbled through her purse for her keys, rain and hail pelting her face and soaking through her thin blazer.
“Where in the world.” Grumbling, she searched deeper into her purse, coming up blank. A few minutes later, teeth chattering and completely drenched, she dashed back to the car. She cupped her hands around her face and pressed her nose to the icy window. Lovely. Her keys lay on the passenger side floor-board and her cell phone remained in the console.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She grabbed the door handle and yanked—locked—then stood, shivering.
Now what? Hugging her arms to her body, she canvassed the homes on either side of her. Mr. Johnson’s house sat dark and quiet, curtains drawn. Light streamed through a few windows down the block, but she didn’t know the owners and certainly didn’t feel comfortable ringing random doorbells. Especially not at 10:00 p.m. Chris’s porch light glowed and the gleam of a television flickered behind partially closed curtains. Finding no other option, she scurried to his house then stood, shivering, on his front porch wishing she could rewind her day. OK, maybe her month.
Or perhaps the past five years to when she first met Richard. Where would she be right now if she’d walked away that day? Likely still shivering on her neighbor’s, now boss’s, porch.
After doing her best to smooth back her drenched hair, wiping smudged mascara from under her eyes, she rang the doorbell. The curtain beside her rustled and she stared at the ground, cheeks flushing hot. A moment later, the door swung open and Chris ushered her inside.
“Are you OK? Hold on.” He ran out of the room and returned carrying a thick, velvety blanket which he wrapped around her shoulders.
“I’m fine.” Her tense muscles relaxed as warmth spread through her. “I locked myself out of my car. And house. My cell phone’s in my car.” Water dripped from her jeans, pitter-pattering on the floor. She glanced down at the growing puddle, wishing she could bury herself in the blanket. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” He disappeared down the hallway and returned with a mound of towels and folded clothing. After dropping most of the towels on the floor, he handed one to her along with dry clothes. “Why don’t you go get dry and slip these on? I’ll call the locksmith.”
Ainsley’s stomach flopped. She clutched the warm clothing, which felt like they came straight from the dryer, and chewed her bottom lip. Old Sunday School lessons flashed through her head, Deborah’s kind yet stern face hovering in her mind.
“Can’t go dancing with the devil and expect not to get burned. Most girls never plan to get themselves into trouble, but if you put yourself in a provocative situation, trouble’s bound to find you.”
What could be more provocative than standing in a man’s house, drenched to the bone? Standing in a man’s house waiting on a locksmith, wearing his clothing. And if the neighbors saw her?
The puddle beneath her grew drip by drip. Water streamed down her face, soaking into the blanket while her feet continued to saturate the towels beneath her.
Chris cocked his head, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes. “You’re not planning on standing there all night, are you? Cuz it could be an hour or more before the smith shows up. Those clothes are clean. Promise.”
She met his gaze and nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’d be better than making a mess of your floor.”
“Down the hall, last door on the left.”
Chris pulled out a telephone book still wrapped in cellophane—a present from the Kansas City Welcome Wagon. Poor girl would’ve caught frostbite if he hadn’t been home. He paused and closed his eyes as a memory of himself and his mother nestled on the couch while she read Princess and the Pea in glossy print. She loved the fairy tales, and read them all. At first, he balked at the idea, claiming it was a girl’s story. But the way she told it, changing her voice deep for the prince and stern for the mother, it made him feel like a prince. Like a knight who one day would rescue his princess.
“Despite her rather rough exterior, drenched in rain with mud splattered along the hem of her dress, the prince knew this girl was the one. His heart told him so. Only his mother was not convinced, and it wasn’t long before the mean old queen hatched a plan to expose this girl dressed in rain-soaked attire.”
“What’d she do?”
Momma pulled him close and wiggled her fingers into his ribs until he succumbed to a fit of giggles. “She made her eat her peas!”
Chris blinked the memory away and grabbed his phone. A few moments later, soft footsteps padded across the carpet. He exited the kitchen to find Ainsley dressed in his hooded sweatshirt and running pants. They hung from her slender frame, giving her an image of almost childlike vulnerability. Spiraled curls surrounded her face and her cheeks glowed pink. A hint of a smile graced her lips.
His breath caught when she lifted her long, dark lashes to meet his gaze. He cleared his throat, willing his pulse to slow. “Have a seat.” He motioned to the couch then settled in an adjacent loveseat. “Called all the numbers listed with no luck.” He glanced at the clock on his DVR. “Left a few messages. Hopefully we’ll get a bite soon.” And if not? He wasn’t ready to think about that yet, nor was he ready to deal with the surge of emotions welling within.
Lord Jesus, I could really use some of that strength made perfect in weakness here.
“You r
eady for the concert?” Keep talking. It’ll distract you. Although reality told him no conversation, regardless how stimulating, could make him forget the beautiful angel sitting in his living room.
Ainsley smiled, the pink in her cheeks deepening. “Sort of. I’ve never liked the idea of performing in front of people. In junior high, I joined the school choir. Loved it too. Rehearsals anyway. Thought for sure God wanted me to be a singer, like He created me for that very purpose, until my first solo.” She shook her head. “But in this case, the cause is too important to let stage fright get in my way.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Those poor women. Makes me feel ashamed really. I’m worried about looking bad in front of a group of people while they’re worried about finding their next meal.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
They sat in silence for a while. Ainsley perched on the edge of the seat cushions while Chris’s gaze shifted between her and his phone, which lay silent on the coffee table. His thoughts instantly shifted to Gina and his stomach soured. She seemed nice enough, but never made his heart race the way Ainsley did, standing on his porch like a drenched stray searching for a home. Only problem—the two were best friends, tighter than tight. He certainly didn’t want to do anything to chisel a crack in their friendship.
“Is this your mom?” Ainsley pulled a picture frame from a box at her feet and held it up.
In the photo, Chris’s mom nestled beneath his dad’s muscular arm, her cheek resting against his chest. They looked so happy, in love.
“Yeah. My sister took that picture five years ago during a family reunion in Hilton Head, South Carolina. Sweetest couple I ever saw. My sisters and I used to cut jokes about them dancing through the nursing home halls in their old age, still acting like a pair of newlyweds.” A lump formed in his throat as a memory of his parents waltzing in the kitchen emerged. “My dad died just over a year ago of a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry. Were you close?”
“Not as close as we should’ve been. I was too wrapped up in my career as an up-and-coming lawyer. Always said I’d call later, visit next year. Never even said good-bye.” His chest ached as old emotions rushed to the surface. “I was in a meeting when I got the call. Only I never took the time to answer. Saw my sister’s number and hit Ignore. I’d like to say I thought she wanted to talk about something trivial, but truth is, I didn’t give it much thought. Couldn’t take my mind off that next big win long enough.”
He inhaled, releasing his breath slowly. “Sold my practice a couple months later, determined not to make the same mistake with my mom.” He shook his head. “Dad’s death has been especially hard on her. He used to take care of her, once her mind started to go. She’d probably still be living here, under his watchful eye, if he hadn’t died. I’d take care of her, but honestly, I don’t know how.”
Ainsley’s eyes moistened. “Can I pray with you?”
“I’d like that.”
She rose, her bare feet shuffling across the carpet, and knelt before him, holding out her hands. “Do you mind?”
He shook his head and encased her soft, warm hands in his. Closing his eyes, he said a silent prayer of his own as her words poured over him.
Lord Jesus, barricade my heart here before I fall in love with this woman.
The dull ache in his chest told him it was too late for prayers.
Richard pulled behind Ainsley’s car and studied her dark house. Her porch light, normally lit, lay dormant, and thick shadows enshrouded her front door. He checked the clock on his dash—10:30. Odd. Maybe she’d blown a fuse? He smiled. How convenient. A perfect knight-in-shining-armor opportunity. With her fear of the dark, she’d welcome him in with gratitude. Then, he’d disappear into the basement to “save the day,” flip a switch, and return her long-forgotten her. Taking her steps two at a time, he reached her door and rang the bell. Silence, save the low rustle of wind following the tails of the early winter storm. He rang again, twice this time.
Nothing. Perhaps she fell asleep? But even so, surely the doorbell would awaken her. Pivoting on his heels, he glanced at her car to the door then tensed. Only two scenarios made sense: Either she and Gina went bar hopping, which was highly unlikely, or . . .
He stared at the house next door, teeth grinding. Chris’s pickup occupied his driveway, light streaming from the house’s windows.
Fisting his hands, he stalked across the lawn and bounded up Mr. Langley’s front steps. He punched the doorbell three times, waited, then punched it again. The door creaked open a moment later and Mr. Langley stood in the entry way, eyes wide. Ainsley stood a few feet away, face flushed, mouth ajar.
“Richard, what a—”
He pushed past him, muscles twitching, fingers digging into his palms. The image of Ainsley, hair damp and disheveled, dressed in men’s clothing, seared his brain. “Oh, I get it now.” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Why get married when you can play the field?”
Ainsley stepped forward. “It’s not what you think.”
“Really? Then tell me, what is it?”
The weasel started to speak but Richard raised his hand. “Did I ask you?” He stared at Ainsley. “Haven’t you learned enough from watching your mother? I thought you were smarter than this. Guys like this care about one thing.” Expletives flew from his mouth.
“Out. Now.” Chris pointed to the door, eyes blazing.
Richard’s chest heaved. Chris stepped forward, thick veins pulsating in his neck. They locked eyes.
“You’re not worth it.” He turned to Ainsley. “And you . . . His voice quavered. “Mark my words, you’ll come running back to me once this guy uses you like a sheet of toilet paper, then tosses you aside to sully someone else.”
He stomped outside and slammed the door behind him, then stood on her neighbor’s porch gasping for air.
So that’s why Ainsley broke their engagement? For a coffee boy? He snorted.
That poor, naive girl, conned by a smooth-talking playboy.
Oh, you’re good, Mr. Langley. But not nearly good enough.
Marching back to his car, he chuckled as a plan took form.
May the best man win.
Chapter 38
insley shifted her guitar case to free her hand and swung open the café door. She paused to inhale the rich chocolate and cinnamon aroma. “Silent Night” poured from the overhead speakers like a soothing balm. A sharp contrast to the nerve-firing, gut-churning stress she experienced at Voltex. Almost made the minimum-wage pay worth it.
If only she could find housing to fit her salary. But that was God’s department. Her job was to surrender and obey. He would take care of everything else.
Chris caught her gaze and meandered over. He swung a coffee-stained dish towel between his hands.
“Sorry if I got you in trouble last night.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Richard’s just having a tough time accepting our breakup.” Not that they’d left him with a very palatable image. The door behind her clinked open. She turned and smiled at a group of women ushering inside, buried in jackets, hats, and scarves.
“Business seems to be picking up.” She surveyed the handful of customers seated throughout the room. In the corner, toddlers stacked blocks while their mothers chatted in nearby chairs. A group of elderly women occupied the tables near the far wall.
Chris nodded, his blue eyes sparkling. “All thanks to Mrs. Jeffreys. Guess she’s been talking us up to all her church friends quite a bit.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Can’t wait to see the turnout for our benefit concert next Saturday.”
Her stomach churned. She’d back out if her conscience would allow. But she gave her word and intended to keep it.
Except when it comes to engagements, apparently.
The thought swirled through her mind, causing her already soured stomach to cramp tighter.
“You OK?” Chris touched her arm, sending a shiver through her. “You got all serious on me. You’re not thi
nking of backing out, are you?”
She studied him, his soft eyes soothing her hyperalert nerves. “I . . . no, not—”
“Oh, Chris?” Candy’s syrupy voice drifted toward them.
Ainsley turned. Across the room, Candy leaned over the counter, twirling a lock of hair. Her gaze darkened when it met Ainsley’s and her coquettish smile hardened into obvious disdain.
“Glad to hear it. We’ll talk details later.” Chris gave her a parting grin before crossing to the counter where Candy waited with pouty lips and fluttering eyelashes.
Ainsley shook her head and slipped into the back hall to deposit her winter gear. Almost reminded her of high school, and the way the “popular” girls flaunted themselves at every passing jock. Most of the guys took them up on the offer, too, so long as there were fringe benefits.
But Chris was different.
Right? And yet, even the good guys had weaknesses. How long would it take Miss Barbie Doll to chisel through Chris’s good-boy boundaries? The idea caused the muscles in her neck and shoulders to twitch.
Seriously, Ainsley, as if you care.
She blinked as reality set in. She did care, much more than she wanted to admit.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, she closed her eyes and leaned against the wall.
I am becoming just like my mother! Oh Lord, help me. Steel my heart.
Chris rounded the counter and tossed his dishrag into a nearby bus tub. “Listen, I told you last week, your shirt needs to stay buttoned no less than two from the top. And perhaps you need to go a size bigger.”
She arched her back and made an O with her lips. “I’m sorry. Didn’t even notice.” Cocking her head, she lowered her lashes and tugged on the bottom hem of her blouse. “My shirts must’ve shrunk.”
Chris sighed and punched open the cash register, then sifted through the bills. Business had picked up, but his bank account still hovered in the red. “I’ll order you another.” He grabbed a notepad from under the counter. “What size do you wear again?”
Beyond I Do Page 23