by Tamara Leigh
Other cheek, Kate.
“I’m pleased with the outcome. Now may I offer some advice, Michael?”
“Sure.”
“Maia will appreciate your business cards less than I, so keep them to yourself.”
He grins. “Good advice.” Then he just has to add, “Of course, it’s not as if she needs any work done. She’s … you know …”
“Perfect.” On the outside, that is. Absolutely everyone can stand ongoing inner improvement—specifically the perfection of one’s faith in Christ, which is a far better pursuit than the perfection of one’s physical body, which in the end will be left behind.
I’m working on it.…
Michael nods and, with a far-off smile, says, “Yes, Maia’s perfect.”
Which brings us back to that inner stuff. “I hope you’ll continue attending church.”
“Yeah, I’ve really enjoyed it.”
“Great! And bring Maia along, if you can convince her.”
He hesitates. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Well, I’d better get back to work.”
“Kate?”
“Yeah?”
“I meant it when I said I like who you are on the inside.” He shrugs. “I guess I just wanted to make the outside as beautiful.”
I stare at him and swallow hard as unexpected emotion tightens my throat. “Thank you.”
He starts to lean in, pulls slightly back, then lunges forward and kisses my cheek. “See you later, Kate.”
“I hope so.”
I smile. He smiles. Then he turns away.
I linger in the hallway to work through the emotion roused by Michael’s statement that he likes who I am—grateful that, despite my difficulty in making time for God, He still shines through.
When I return to the domed room, Clive is where I left him. He captures my gaze as I cross toward him, making me uncomfortably aware of what Michael interrupted. With three feet separating us, I stop and clasp my hands before me. “All better.”
He just stands there.
I glance down, then back up. “Turns out Michael is attracted to Maia, as I suspected.”
Did his eyebrows just move?
“I think they’re going to start dating.”
He blinked. I think.…
“He also wanted to apologize for trying to perfect me.”
I believe that was a nod.
“So—” I throw my hands up—“where were we?”
Oh! That didn’t come out right. Sounded forward. Brazen.
His lips curve—definitely a smile. Then he straightens from the scaffold and steps to within inches of me. “About …” He lays a hand to my jaw. “… here.” He tilts my face up and lowers his mouth to within a breath of mine. “Right here.”
Then he’s kissing me, pulling me in, taking me to my toes … And there’s that queasy little flutter.
“Kate?” He lifts his head.
I open my eyes. “Yes?”
“This changes everything.”
It does, doesn’t it? The acknowledgment of which causes panic from another room in my heart to spill out. Though I want this to change everything, it can’t. Not everything.
I take a step back, and thankfully he releases me. “Clive, I like you—very much.” I press my lips inward and momentarily revel in the kiss that lingers there. “But we’re different. We want different—”
“I have news for you, Kate. There is no such thing as a completely compatible couple.”
Couple. That is what he’s suggesting, isn’t it? That we become a couple—at least in terms of dating. Even so, “couple” doesn’t usually stay “couple.” Along come children and, in my case, not.
“I know, but—”
I’m bit by Deuteronomy, which I stopped by on the way to Ruth last night. Though the Scripture commanded that accurate scales be used for weighing, it was really all about honesty. Again.
“No, Kate.”
I blink Clive back to focus. “What?”
“You can’t talk your way out of this.”
“Oh, yes, I can.” I give a vigorous nod.
He shakes his head slowly. “Not after that kiss—or this one.” And he does it again.
Okay, Lord, I know he’s not a practicing Christian, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t part of Your plans for me, right? Or that I’m not part of Your plans for him. Maybe I can bring him back. It’s possible. And I know You’d like that. So here goes. Lord, please guide me through this relationship. I trust You.
But only so much, I admit, when five minutes later Clive departs—smiling over my agreement to have dinner with him Friday night. Still ignorant of my inability to bear children.
Wednesday, June 6
Dear Lord,
It’s just a date. Just two people getting together to eat, enjoy each other’s company, maybe kiss a little. As it’s too early in the relationship to think about marriage, let alone children, why complicate matters? Why bare myself when this might not go anywhere anyway? If we even get past square one and I start feeling that he really is “The One,” there’ll be plenty of time to come clean. By then, maybe he’ll feel enough for me that it won’t matter. Maybe I’ll be enough. Just me. Just Kate.
Oh, Lord! I’m not fooling you, am I? I’m going about this all wrong. Which means it’s time for the next phase of Operation: Perfect Faith. Time to hunt down what you have to say about dating. Of course, people in biblical times didn’t date—arranged marriages and all. This could take a while.
Forgive me my toddler’s faith,
Kate
here are circles under my eyes, the likes of which I’ve rarely seen. Of course, yesterday’s night shift to graveyard shift to today’s day shift is largely responsible. But it was the only way I could free up Friday night for my date with Clive.
Telling myself it’s worth it, I apply another layer of concealer beneath my eyes and determine that nothing else can be done for my face. Or my outfit, which is beyond peachy thanks to Michael, who months past convinced me I could pull off a lacy black crocheted top over a raspberry knit top. Very feminine, especially matched with a mid-knee black skirt that masks the state of my thighs. Not that they’re as bad as that liposuction business card keeps telling me—or so I keep assuring myself. And the promise to get serious about an exercise regimen once the burn unit is complete is second only to the promise to stick with Operation: Perfect Faith. Or should be …
Remembering my search for Scripture to guide me through my decision to date Clive, I grimace. Though, as expected, the Bible had nothing to say about dating, it had plenty to say about deep relationships with non-Christians—as in “don’t,” since being with an unbeliever can draw a believer away from God. But as I keep telling myself, Clive isn’t an unbeliever. He’s on hold. Sort of.
I turn from the mirror and consciously avoid looking at my prayer journal, which hasn’t seen pen or pencil for two days. As for my Bible …
I’ll get back to them. Really.
I grab my purse and head for the door. Per Maia’s shouted announcement minutes earlier, Clive is waiting for me at the base of the stairs. And no Maia in sight, which I’d find odd were it not that she has a date with Michael.
I pause on the landing and smile. “Hi.”
Clive’s appreciative gaze sweeps me, and I glory in it until his eyes falter at the level of my knees. It’s then that I realize how much my hemline reveals from his vantage point. Squelching the impulse to slap hands to my skirt, I hasten down.
“You look pretty,” he says as I step from the last stair.
“Thanks.”
Here comes that smile I like so much, not even remotely á la carte. “Ready?”
I lift my purse and give it a shake. “Ready.”
He leads me outside into early evening. As is proper—unfortunately only early in a relationship—he opens the car door for me.
“So where are we going?” I ask when he settles in beside me.
He eases away from
the curb. “That’s up to you.”
Huh? “You want me to pick the place?” Not how I envisioned the evening. I don’t mind having a say, but the romantic in me—I think that’s what it is—would prefer Clive to have it worked out. Of course, he didn’t have candlelight or a linen-covered table that night on the roof—
“What I mean is that you have a choice.”
So it’s not completely up in the air. “Okay, so—”
I catch my breath, as I do when my mind strays from the steep streets for which San Francisco is known. Built on over forty hills, the sudden drops inherent in traversing the city by car, especially at speeds faster than posted, often tempts my tummy to pay a surprise visit to my throat.
Clive glances at me. “Sorry. Got going a little fast there.”
I nod. “Okay, so what are my choices? Seafood versus steak house? Mexican versus Chinese?”
“Bistro versus in-laws.”
Did he say in-laws? I can’t have heard right. In … inlos? Some newfangled cuisine I haven’t heard of? Or maybe he meant Indian food …
Braking for a light, he gives me an apologetic smile. “I’d planned to take you to a bistro across the bay, but the option is to take you to meet my in-laws.”
Grateful for the green light that draws his attention from my expression of disbelief, I shake my head. “I’ve heard of taking a woman home to meet one’s parents, but in-laws?”
“Obligation.” He snaps his blinker to turn left. “My niece’s birthday.”
“Oh. You forgot about it, then?”
“Conveniently.” He eases into the mob of cars heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Her mother called to remind me, and I didn’t check caller ID before answering. So I can come up with an excuse—tell her there was a hospital emergency—or you can accompany me.”
I’m ashamed at how tempted I am to urge him to make the call so we can head for the promised bistro and the intimacy of the two of us.
“So what do you think?”
Realizing I’ve scrunched up the hem of my skirt, I release my grip. “You know, Clive, it would have been perfectly fine for you to cancel our date.”
“I considered that, but it would have been short notice, and I know you worked through the night to free up the time.”
Yep. Home at 4 a.m. and up again at 8 to get to my other job—late. So did someone inform him of my extended hours, or is this a case of under-eye concealer failure?
He noses into the traffic on the bridge. “More, though, it doesn’t bode well for a relationship to begin with a cancellation.”
Nor for a relationship to begin with a nonbeliever. Operation: Perfect Faith elbows me.
“On-hold” believer. Clive is merely on hold.
He switches lanes, accelerates past cars that aspire to the bridge’s forty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit, finds another opening, and snags it. “So bistro or in-laws?”
Oh, the temptation of the bistro! I struggle as I stare out the windshield past the cars heading in the opposite direction along a bridge that, despite the name Golden Gate, is actually painted a deep red-orange.
“As I don’t want you to lie and your niece expects you, in-laws it is.” There! That ought to appease my conscience after the nonbeliever versus on-hold believer argument.
Were I not watching Clive closely, I would’ve missed his tightening jaw and thinning lips, both of which evidence that he was hoping I’d go the other way.
“Not what you wanted to hear?” I venture.
He glances at me. “It will be awkward. If they’re expecting anyone to accompany me, it’s Adelphia.”
That casts a whole new light on the situation. As we pass the Vista Point exit and come off the bridge, I say, “Then they’ve met her?”
“A few times.”
Awkward doesn’t begin to describe what I’m about to walk into.
An instant later, I startle when Clive’s hand covers mine in my lap.
“They like her, Kate, but only to a point.”
I drag my gaze from his hand. “And that point is?”
“Date, don’t mate.”
My reaction earns me a halfhearted smile.
“Their words, not mine. You’ll understand when you meet them. If you meet them.” He nods at the signs in the distance. “Last chance. Mill Valley and the in-laws, or Tiburon and the bistro?”
I zoom in on the latter. Never has a sign been so appealing—nor more closely resembled a crisp, shiny apple. Of course, I know that this temptation in no way compares to Eve’s, but at the moment I feel a deeper than usual kinship with the woman.
“Mill Valley,” I croak.
Clive takes the exit and, for the duration of the drive, fills me in on his in-laws. His niece is celebrating her fifteenth birthday at her grandparents’ home. There will be twenty or so people that will include relatives and friends, and the Murphys are good people.
He gives me a knowing glance. “They’re practicing Christians, which should make you feel more comfortable.”
It does—until he mentions that I might want to avoid his father-in-law, a boisterous, doesn’t-read-body-language retired salesman whom Clive credits with the “date, don’t mate” comment. Is it Adelphia Clive’s father-in-law objects to, or just the idea of her replacing his daughter? If the latter, this could be a long night.
A while later, we draw up to the curb in front of an immaculate one-level home that hails from the sixties. The long driveway is lined with cars, and the curtains are drawn wide to reveal the partygoers.
With a little cough, I clear the nervousness from my throat. “So this is it.”
“Sure you want to do it?”
Knowing I’m being given one last chance to chicken out, I look into Clive’s shadowed—and hopeful?—face. “No, but I’m willing, especially as it’s something you should do.”
His lids narrow.
I smile and take a chance. “Remember the things you missed out on with Jillian and Sam? If you miss out on this, you’ll regret it.”
The air between us changes abruptly, the only sound and movement Clive’s breath as he regards me across the dimming day. But then he nods, leans in, and touches his mouth to mine. “Thank you, Kate. I appreciate that.”
So do I. So … do … I …
He pulls back and, a few moments later, comes around the car to open the door for me.
As he hands me out, I realize something’s missing. “What about a gift?”
Clive closes the car door behind me. “At fifteen, cash is all they want.”
“Okay, but you ought to at least present it in a card. I don’t suppose you have one?”
He spreads his empty hands.
“So you’re just going to open up your wallet and whip out a few bills?”
He grimaces. “I see what you mean, but we’re late and—”
“Wait! Give me the money.”
Wavering between a smile and a frown, he says, “Is this a holdup?”
I shove my hand forward. “Come on.”
He pulls out his wallet.
Using the roof of his car, I fold and fold until the twenty dollar bills are fashioned into a graceful swan with outstretched wings.
“Ta-da!” I turn to where Clive leans against the car watching me. “Origami.”
He picks the swan from my palm and turns it left and right. “You are a woman of many talents, Kate Meadows.”
I curtsy. “Why, thank you.”
He zeros in on my mouth. “Do you realize you bite your tongue when you’re concentrating?”
Though I knew he was watching me, I thought he was focused on my hands. “Uh … I do?”
“Seen it a dozen times.”
“When?”
“When you don’t realize you’re being watched.”
“And you’ve been watching me?”
“More than you realize.” He smiles. “I’ve seen you dance on top of scaffolding.”
That I know about.
“A couple of t
imes now.”
Oh.
He takes my arm and turns me up the driveway. “I’ve heard you sing.”
I grimace.
“Once you were talking to a somewhat misshapen little boy near Australia.”
Caught conversing with a layer of paint! “And you still wanted to date me?”
“More so. You were comforting him, assuring him you’d get his face right.” He frowns. “Sounded a bit like me, actually.”
I roll my eyes. “Big difference between what I do and what you do.” As we start up the porch steps, I ask, “What else?”
“You rub that bracelet of yours a lot.”
I turn it on my wrist. “A gift from my friend Belle, the one who owns the children’s shop where we met.”
He halts before the door and lifts my hand to examine the bracelet. “Believe?”
I nod. “In God and His plans for me—at least, I try.”
And fail, that conscience of mine kicks in again.
To my surprise, Clive doesn’t drop my hand like a hot potato but rubs the little medallion—just as I do more often than I realize.
“Do you ever question God?” he asks quietly.
His question nearly robs me of breath. On top of that, we’re standing so near that I can feel the heat coming off his body.
I give a jerky nod. “I do. But I still believe.”
He looks into my eyes. “So do I, Kate.”
My heart leaps … rolls over … plays dead.… And the sound that squeezes through my vocal chords sounds more like a toy squeaker than a human voice. “You do? You really do? Then you haven’t—”
He releases my hand. “I even heard you curse once.”
Hardly a smooth change of topic, but to be expected. Knowing that the opportunity to delve into his faith has passed, I wonder what foul word burst from my lips. And what must he think of me, a Christian, talking like that? “Sorry.”
He presses the doorbell. “Don’t worry; it was one of the lesser curses.”
Still a curse, and one I would never have spoken were I aware of an audience. I cross my arms over my chest. “You do know, don’t you, that it’s bad manners not to announce one’s presence?”
“Yes, but character is who we are when no one’s watching.”
“When we think no one’s watching.” He smiles.