The Barclay’s daughter, LaWanda, looked like a younger version of her mother. Many men considered that a good thing. But no one had been able to tolerate her sharp tongue for very long. Holt didn’t intend to try, but since the Barclays were voters, he didn’t want to alienate them.
“I appreciate the offer. This is really a busy time for me.” He smiled to take the sting out of his refusal.
“Busy? Are you seeing someone?” Barbara cut straight to the heart of the matter.
He instinctively started to say no, but Megan Watson’s face popped into his mind. “Kind of.”
“Ohh. . .” Barbara’s heavily made-up face contorted as the disappointment of losing a possible date for her daughter warred with delight over a tidbit of gossip concerning Holt.
Holt left her struggling with her emotions and turned his attention to the ropes. When he had the length he wanted, he paid quickly and practically ran out of the store.
He loved small towns. But sometimes gossip seemed to run rampant there much more than it did in a big city like Little Rock. In the city, you were only gossiped about by people in your own circle. Here everybody was open game.
Of course, if God saw fit to make him governor, he’d be open game anyway—three-hundred-sixty-five days a year, seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. He struggled with the idea of so much scrutiny.
Public opinion was very important to him, but if he hoped to succeed, he would have to live his life, as much as possible, above reproach, then trust the Lord to take care of the rest.
Megan Watson’s face flashed in his mind. How did she figure into God’s plans for Holt’s life?
As he walked down the sidewalk, shopkeepers called to him from their doorways, and he returned their waves. Yes, in small towns, people could be counted on to pull together in a pinch, but the flip side of that was they always thought they should know each other’s business. No wonder Megan found it easier to hide out on her little farm.
❧
Megan pressed a hand to her stomach, hoping to calm the butterflies that had been cavorting there since lunch. This morning she’d been too busy finishing Mrs. Gaskin’s quilt to think about Holt McFadden’s scheduled visit. But as soon as the woman picked up the quilt and waved good-bye, the fluttering had begun.
Megan pulled out her favorite capris. Tiny pink flowers adorned the white material. She topped the pants with a bright pink shirt and slipped on her walking sandals. She ran a brush through her long hair and, after a glance in the mirror, decided on just a touch of lipstick. Compared to the well-coifed beauties that one normally associated with politicians, she looked terribly bland.
Her disappointing self-evaluation jerked to a halt at the honk of a horn. A peek out the window revealed Holt and Sarah exchanging merry waves. Megan shrugged once more at the mirror image. “You can’t be more than friends anyway,” she murmured. “Don’t get bent out of shape.” Shaking her head at the disparity between her wise advice and her churning emotions, she hurried down the hallway.
She opened the front door and stepped out on the porch. A good rain shower from yesterday had brightened the trees and flowers and even the grass to radiant colors. But today, just as she’d wished, sunshine cascaded down in abundance. Her heart lightened, and she waved at the man in the cowboy hat.
“Got on your walking shoes?” she called, as she approached them.
Laughing, Holt lifted up his foot to reveal well-worn cowboy boots. “I can even run in these babies if the need arises.”
“Hmm. . . Being a politician, I bet the need arises fairly frequently, huh?”
“I won’t even honor that with a reply.” He grinned. He glanced at Sarah playing near the porch with her doll. “Before we go, I need to ask you something.”
Megan forced her face to remain calm. Had he heard something about her past? Was their friendship over before it had barely had time to begin? “Yes?”
He lowered his voice. “I had an old tire at home, and I bought some heavy rope at the hardware store.” He pointed at a big tree in Megan’s front yard. “I was thinking that old oak right there would be perfect for a tire swing.” He grimaced. “If you don’t mind.”
Relief pushed the air out of her lungs, and it came out as an incredulous little laugh. “That would be great. Sarah would love it.”
“Well, it’s not a puppy, but it doesn’t eat much and is pretty quiet.” He tossed the words over his shoulder as he retrieved the tire and rope from the back of his truck. With them in his hands, he swung back around to face her. “I didn’t want to mention it to Sarah without asking you first.”
“I appreciate that. It’s really nice of you to think of her.” Megan fought back the suspicion that Holt felt sorry for Sarah due to their somewhat solitary life.
“What’s that for?” Sarah had abandoned her doll and was staring at the rope and tire.
“We’re going to put up a swing.” He deftly knotted the rope and tossed it effortlessly over the high limb. In minutes, he had the tire swing fully operational.
Holt and Megan took turns pushing Sarah. She giggled hysterically with every pass but finally motioned for Holt to stop. He grabbed the tire and held it still while she got off.
“Now it’s your turn, Mama.”
Megan shook her head. “Oh, no, Honey. It won’t hold me.”
Holt nodded. “Actually, it will. Go ahead, Megan. Give it a try.”
She cast him a doubtful glance, but he and Sarah were already propelling her forward to the tire. She climbed in, feeling incredibly awkward.
Holt grinned. “Hold on.”
She nodded toward her hands clenched tightly around the rope. “Don’t worry. I am.”
He pulled the tire—with her on it—back as if it weighed no more than a pillow. Then he let go.
She gasped. The air whizzed by, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. She was vaguely aware that he was continuing to push her, but for the most part, she was mindless. She closed her eyes and peace settled over her like a soft blanket.
Memories of swinging as a child came back, and she wondered how she could have ever forgotten this simple joy. Eventually, she became aware the swing was slowing down, pulling her back to the present. She opened her eyes. Holt and Sarah were beaming at her.
Regretfully, she allowed her feet to drag her to a complete stop. But when she eased out of the tire, her legs felt strangely noodle-like. “Whoa.”
Holt grabbed her and slid his arm around her waist. She leaned in against him, relishing the pleasant smell of his aftershave. This is only making the trembly feeling worse, she thought, biting back a small giggle.
Mindful of her vow to be friends only, she stood up straight. “I’m okay now.” When he released her, she offered a tremulous smile. “That was wonderful.” Heat crept up her cheeks. Surely he would know she was referring to swinging.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Before she could decide if he was teasing her, Sarah threw her arms around her.
“Yeah, Mama, you looked like you were a princess.”
Megan stared down at the precocious four year old. If she didn’t change the subject, Sarah was sure to combine this analogy with the one that they’d made up before they knew who was at the door the first day Holt had visited. “So, who’s ready for a walk?”
“I am! I am!”
Motioning at the expanse of rolling hills, Holt asked, “Where shall we start?”
“Let’s go down to the creek, Mama, please!” Sarah flitted around Megan, bouncing up and down.
“Sounds like a plan, Hon.” She chuckled as Sarah bounded down the path before she could finish her sentence. “I worry about her,” she said, with a mock frown. “She’s such a couch potato.”
“I can see that.” He fell into step beside her, and they enjoyed a companionable silence for awhile.
The four year old skipped ahead of Holt and Megan, stopping only to blow a “wishing flower” now and then, spreading dandelion seeds to the far corners of t
he property and beyond.
“So, have you always lived in this area?” Holt asked.
“This was my grandma’s house. My mom’s family is from here.” She measured her words, careful to reveal no more than she wanted to. When she was younger, she’d always loved to talk. But she’d spent the last three years speaking when she was spoken to and never volunteering information. Even a smooth-talking cowboy couldn’t loosen her tongue. “I was raised in Jonesboro.”
“Really?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I don’t know.” He kicked a loose pebble with his foot. “You just seem so at home here.”
“That must be because I spent summers here. It was the highlight of my year.” Surely this rugged country she loved would be a safe topic. She paused as they topped a small hill. “I was baptized there,” she said, and nodded down at the creek below, “the summer I turned thirteen.”
His eyes grew wide. “You’re kidding.” He shook his head. “I was baptized in this same creek, about ten miles down the road.”
“Wow. It’s that ‘small world’ thing again, isn’t it?” In spite of her attempt to make light of the connection, Megan sensed a crack in the barrier she’d erected between them at the revelation that this man was a Christian. Mouth dry, she stood beside him, watching the water ripple over the smooth rocks.
“Have you ever thought of leaving here? Living somewhere else?” Megan asked. Then she turned to study the face of the man who seemed as much a part of the land as the rocks and trees.
“Thought about it once.” Something that looked like pain flickered across his face. “Decided against it.” He bent down, picked up a flat rock and, with a practiced move, skipped it across the water. His cowboy hat shaded his eyes, but Megan was sure she hadn’t imagined the emotion.
“Must have been a pretty good offer for you to even consider it.” Her burgeoning curiosity surprised her. The man was as mysterious as the nooks and crannies of the big rock bluff across the water, and probably as dangerous to explore.
“I guess I thought it was, until I realized how little I had to gain compared to how much I had to lose. So I stayed here.” His eyes seemed to take measure of her soul, and she felt suddenly ruffled by his cryptic answers. Was he nursing a broken heart?
Sarah had given up dandelions in favor of collecting the tiny rocks along the beach, and her sudden cry broke the mood. “Come see this one, Mom. Look, Mr. Holt.”
Megan and Holt obediently “oohed” and “aahed” over her latest find, then Megan sank down on a large jagged boulder.
Holt rested one foot on the slab, and they stared in silence at the rippling water.
Finally, he spoke. “Look at those rocks barely under the surface. They’re so smooth they look like they’ve been hand polished.”
“The water beats them down until they lose their identity in the current.” Mesmerized by the constant flow, she had a sudden epiphany. “Sometimes the world feels like rushing water, doesn’t it?”
Had she really said that aloud?
She looked up to find his dark blue eyes studying her intently, confirming that she had indeed spoken her thoughts. She quickly summoned a grin. “You’d better be careful. I hear it’s especially that way in politics.”
He looked as though he might delve deeper into her earlier comment but offered an answering smile instead. “I’m going to have to hang around just to change your mind about those of us in public service.”
In spite of the impossibility of the statement, his words sent a tingle of anticipation down her spine.
Five
Holt couldn’t think of another excuse to show up at Megan’s, but he couldn’t stay away. When he drove up on Tuesday, he considered walking in with his toolbox and saying, “What needs fixing?”
Instead, empty-handed, he knocked lightly on the door. He saw Sarah peek out the front window, then heard the lock click. She pulled the door open and peered at him suspiciously. “Did Mama know you were coming?”
“I don’t guess so. Is that okay?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think her hair is brushed. So she might be mad.”
“Is she busy?”
“Nah, she’s just quilting.”
Holt bit back a grin at the four year old’s priorities. He could hear the machine noise down the hallway. It stopped suddenly, and he heard footsteps on the hardwood floor.
“Sarah,” Megan called. Just as she finished saying her daughter’s name, she came around the doorway into the hall and skidded to a stop. “Holt. What are you doing here?” Her hand went to her hair. Sarah knew her mama well.
“I just dropped by to see if you needed anything, but since I’m here, may I ask a favor?”
“What?” Her tone was suspicious, and she still stood frozen in the hallway.
“Would you let me watch you quilt? I’ve never seen anyone use one of those machines before, and I’d love to see it.”
Hesitance clouded her face.
“Only for a few minutes,” he asked. “So I can explain to my mama how you do it.”
At the mention of his mother, she capitulated and motioned him brusquely to her sewing room. He noticed she smoothed her hair down with her hand one more time. He thought it looked beautiful, a little more unruly than she usually wore it. The extra fullness of her hair emphasized her delicate facial features.
“Sit there.” Megan’s abrupt words and motion toward a stool in the corner brought him back to the room. The quilting machine was even bigger than he imagined. It easily took up half the room. A desk on the other side had a sewing machine perched on top. Fabric was everywhere, giving the illusion of a kaleidoscope of colors. Compared to the sparseness of the rest of the house, this room seemed plush and luxurious.
He sat as directed and watched a master at work. Sarah came in, perched on his knee for awhile, then disappeared to her own room to play. Holt took this opportunity to stand and move in closer to the machine.
Standing, he could see the delicate stitches appearing on the fabric as if by magic when Megan moved the red laser light across the paper pattern on the shelf in front of the quilt. Her hands worked swiftly and surely. Holt could see she’d had lots of practice.
“Do you always use a pattern?”
She shook her hand and slipped one finger free. She held it up. “Just a minute.”
He nodded and waited.
Soon she stopped. “That one’s all done.” He could see she was relaxing. “Want to see me do one freehand—without a pattern?”
“Sure.” He was fascinated by the quilting process, but he knew in his heart he would have gladly watched her clean the rug if that’s what it took to spend time with her. Then again, she didn’t have a rug. Her feet were standing firmly on the hardwood floor. He wondered at the stamina it must take to put in as many hours at this as she obviously did a day.
She skillfully switched quilts and offered him a tentative smile. “Pay attention. There may be a test later.”
He watched in amazement as she stitched around several different style birdhouses imprinted on the forest green material. She carefully followed the edges of the design then stopped and met his gaze. “Now it’s your turn.”
When she offered him the controls, he shook his head. “I might mess up your quilt.”
“So? This is one I’m doing to sell, not a quilt top someone brought me. If you mess it up, you can just buy it from me.” Her mischievous grin reminded him of Sarah.
“I don’t have any quilts. Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea. I’m not sure birdhouses are my thing though.”
“No quilts?” She looked at him as if he’d said he had three noses. “Your grandmother never made you a quilt?”
He shook his head. “I guess she thinks a bachelor deserves to be cold.” He grinned. “She does quilt, though. But she doesn’t have a machine.”
Megan’s eyes brightened. “She hand quilts? My granny used to hand quilt. She’d spend ten times longer quilting
one this size by hand.” She patted the large quilt on the machine. “Of course, it was worth a lot more, but people around here couldn’t afford to pay the bigger price. Granny hated going with a machine at first, but she finally agreed that comparing it with hand quilting was like comparing bacon and ham. Both of them are pork, and both are delicious, but they’re just completely different.”
“So do you hand quilt?”
“In my spare time?” She shook her head with a rueful grin. “No, but I really admire people who do.” Her grin grew broader. “Come on and give this baby a try. Just think. You’ll be able to tell your grandmother you quilted a quilt.”
He glanced at the material. “Yes, a pink and yellow quilt, no less. I’m sure she’ll be impressed.”
“Trust me, she will.”
Holt reached out tentatively toward the handles. Megan sighed, put her hands on his, and guided them to the correct place. At her touch, an almost electrical shock jumped through him, but he kept his eyes on the job at hand. She leaned up to reposition his fingers and the fruity scent of her shampoo assailed his senses. He was still careful not to react. She reminded him of a hurt kitten, and the last thing he wanted was to scare her off.
After a few false starts, he was able to do a painstakingly slow version of her work. He enjoyed it but was thankful when she took it back. She finished in silence, then turned the machine off and faced him. “Why are you really here?”
“I thought we might go for another walk.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to have just said that than to have suffered through home-ec class?”
“I enjoyed the quilting. It was kind of fun, really. Kind of reminded me of racquetball.”
She shot him a look that let him know she thought he was crazy. “Uh-huh.”
“Well, it’s the eye/hand coordination thing. It works the same brain nerve-endings, I bet.”
“Good thing you’re a senator and not a doctor.”
“If you’re through doubting my medical knowledge, would you like to go for a walk?”
Patchwork and Politics Page 4