Perfecting Kate

by Tamara Leigh

  Sitting shoulder to shoulder with Clive, I stare out across the ink-spilled ocean to pick out lit boats and ships. And it’s then that I realize how high up we are. “First rooftop dining, now this.” I smile at him. “You’re partial to heights.”

  “Actually, it’s the night sky to which I’m partial, but height certainly improves the view.”

  Fighting the urge to touch his breeze-swept hair, I look lower. “I do believe, Clive Alexander, that you’re a romantic.”

  “And if I am?”

  I watch his mouth shape the words and feel a rush of attraction that borders on woozy. Or maybe that’s lack of sleep?

  “In that case, I’d place a check mark in your pros column under romantic.”

  He regards me across the dark. “Pros column?”

  “As opposed to cons.” Speaking of which, maybe I should formulate a pros and cons list for Clive as I did for Michael.

  “And what other qualities besides romantic would be on your list?”

  I stop on that. Oh, dear. Did not mean to reveal my mental tallying. How juvenile!

  Unfortunately, the hole I’ve dug is too deep to back out of, so I shrug. “Considerate is a good one.”

  “And you rank me …?”

  I laugh. “Pro, of course.”

  “Go on.”

  “Attractive—another pro.”

  His teeth flash through the dark. “Thank you.”

  “And intelligent—pro.”

  He leans near. “I’m listening.”

  I dip my gaze to his mouth. Is he thinking what I think he’s thinking? “Good kisser. Definitely a good kisser.”

  Yes, he is thinking what I think he’s thinking, as evidenced by the touch of his mouth on mine. A nice, lingering kiss …

  He draws slightly back. “Keep going.”

  “Er, self-sacrificing—you know when you caught me … the scaffolding. A pro.”

  “What about the cons?”

  How I wish he’d either kiss me again or remove the temptation of his mouth! “I haven’t really—”

  “Yes, you have. Tell me.”

  I roll my eyes. “And ruin the moment?”

  “Would it ruin it?”

  Uncomfortable with the conversation’s turn, I say, “Well, ruin is a bit extreme.”

  He waits but, when I continue to flounder, says, “Let me guess—the first con falls under the heading religious.”

  Rather, spiritual. But it’s not as if he’s never believed. He’s just on hold. Though his relationship with God is of utmost importance, the biggest obstacle is his desire for biological children.

  “Kate?”

  “Uh … yes. I mean, your spiritual state is important to me.”

  Ack! Spiritual state! Where did that come from? It sounds so … superior.

  Clive’s moonlit eyes consider me; then he turns his attention to the great, dark expanse. “As I mentioned earlier, Kate, I still believe.”

  And as happened earlier, my heart leaps like a tadpole that suddenly discovers it has grown legs. However, rather than burst forth with questions as I did before, I bite my tongue.

  Shortly, I have something to show for the discomfort when Clive says, “I know very well that God exists.” He pushes a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “I’ve just stopped trusting Him.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever trust Him again?” The question is out before I can think better of it.

  Fortunately, he doesn’t slam the door and hang the “closed” sign. “I want to. It’s just not easy.”

  “I know.”

  His mouth tightens with a forced smile. “And yet you trust Him, hmm?”

  I nod—an automatic response that my conscience grabs hold of and gives a good, hard shake.

  Well, aren’t you “holier than thou,” Kate Meadows? Yes, you trust God, but not when it’s easier to play it safe. Not when what you want doesn’t match what you have to give …

  “No.” I draw a breath. “That’s not exactly true. Though I know I should trust God completely—that He’s the only One who doesn’t need to earn my trust—I sometimes fail.” I give a halfhearted laugh. “Actually, more than sometimes.”

  Clive stares at me, and I feel his pain between us. Pain I long for God to heal.

  I touch his hand and spread my fingers across his. “God loves you.”

  His hand tenses.

  “He’s never stopped loving you.”

  His fingers curl.

  “He wants to heal you of your losses.”

  His hand clenches.

  “If you could just—”

  He pulls his hand from beneath mine. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  I blew it. Saw—rather, felt—the signs, but ignored them. And now I’ve gone and scared him back to the other side.

  Pulling my hand from his knee, I finger my way around the bracelet.

  Lord, I’m not cut out for evangelism, so why do You put it on my heart to talk to him? Of course, maybe it isn’t You. Maybe it’s me. Me wanting to fix his beliefs. To make him more datable. What if he never comes back to You? And even if he does come back, what if he never gets past his loss? What if that wedding band becomes permanently embedded in his finger? Three going on four years, Lord!

  I startle when Clive covers my hand with one of his, halting my unconscious medallion-rubbing.

  “You’re doing it again, Kate. What is it you want to believe?”

  “You.” I don’t mean to thrust the word at him, but that’s how it comes out. “That you really are available.”

  Once more, his hand tenses. “Are we talking about religion again?”

  “No! I mean, not exactly. Well, some, but …” And the dam breaks. “Gloria showed me the pictures in her hallway. She told me about Jillian. And Sam. And the fire. And—”

  Cool air rushes in to replace the warmth of his hand upon mine. “I didn’t expect that.” He draws back. “From Jack, perhaps, but not Gloria.” His silence stretches to keen discomfort. “How did you manage it, Kate?”

  “What?”

  “How did you get her to give you the lowdown?”

  “I—”

  Wait a minute! He thinks I was prying. That I forced my way into her confidence. That I could be that nosy …

  Deep breath, Kate.

  … that desperate …

  Deep breath.

  … that insensitive …

  Deeeeep.

  I narrow my gaze on his dark countenance. “You’ve got it wrong.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.”

  With a rumble in his throat, he rises. “It’s late. I should get you home.”

  That’s it, then? He’s not going to give me a chance to explain what happened in that hallway with Gloria? Not that I couldn’t unload on him. And I would if not for the realization that it would be a waste of time. Clive Alexander isn’t ready—in fact, he’s surely searching for a way out of his attraction toward me. And I …

  It’s for the best, as it saves me the unnecessary awkwardness of revealing something intensely personal. In fact, I’m relieved—or will be once I move on.

  With a lump in my throat, I look up.

  Though Clive doesn’t offer me a hand up, when I straighten, he takes my arm to lend me his sure-footedness.

  I suppress the temptation to jerk free. In my present circumstance, it could prove dangerous—cutting off my nose to spite my face and all. Of course, it has been brought to my attention that that particular member of my face is violating my personal space by as much as a quarter inch—

  Get your mind out of the bottom of your purse, Kate!

  Yes, I have yet to toss all those business cards, but I’m going to. Just as soon as I get home. And half an hour later, following a ride so bereft of conversation that I repeatedly renew my “thou shalt embrace singledom and be unbelievably, inconceivably happy” creed, that’s where I find myself.

  As Clive pulls to the curb, I reach for the door handle.
r />   “Kate.” His voice closes over me as effectively as a hand on my arm.

  I look around.

  The porch light illuminating his features, his eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry.”

  As I frown at him, the angst that’s been building throughout the drive teeters toward forgiveness.

  He shifts his jaw. “It’s difficult for me to talk about what happened. And you surprised me. I didn’t expect Gloria to open herself—or me—so wide to someone she’d just met.”

  Does this mean we’re not fighting anymore? That he wants to kiss and make up? A thrill skips up my spine a moment before the renewed creed singsongs through my head.

  I sigh. “I understand your reluctance to speak about your past, and though I admit to being curious, I didn’t pry. Gloria wanted me to know.”

  He continues to study my face.

  Opting for lightheartedness, I flash a smile. “Can I help it if she likes me?”

  He leans toward me and slides a hand up my cheek. “I like you, too, Kate.”

  The creed!

  Struggling against attraction, I say, “It’s late. I should—”

  “I’m driving up to Fairfax tomorrow. Will you come with me?”

  “Fairfax?”

  “I’ve bought an old house that sits on twelve acres and has an incredible view of Mount Tam that I think you’d like.”

  “You live there?”

  “No. I keep an apartment here in the city, but once the renovations to the house are complete, I’ll move out there.”

  “A bit of a commute.”

  “Worth it.” His thumb caresses my cheekbone. Tempts me.

  I shake my head. “I have to work tomorrow.”

  “Sunday, then?”

  “Church.” Of course, I could—

  Not! Remember Operation: Perfect Faith? You know—your getting-back-to-God exercise that you’ve let slide for the past two days?

  “What about after church?”

  And what about the creed? Hmm, Kate?

  “Uh … my friend, Belle, is having her baby shower right after church.”

  “So you should be done by …?”

  Creed!

  “Hard to say. You know, baby showers can go on for hours. But if I can swing it, I’ll call you.”

  He looks momentarily down, then draws back, opens his car door, and comes around.

  Clasping his hand, I step to the sidewalk. “Good night, Clive.”

  “Good night, Kate.”

  He doesn’t walk me to the door, but as I fit my key in the lock, I glance around and find him right where I left him beside the car.

  “ ’Night,” I murmur across the darkness, then open the door and slip inside. As I climb the stairs, I hear his car pull away. And feel empty.

  Upon entering my bedroom, I kick off my shoes and drop to my knees beside the bed.

  “Lord, I want him to be ‘The One.’ I want him to be right with You. I want him to make it past his loss.” I clasp my hands tighter before my mouth. “Of course, then there’s still the matter of what I can’t give him. I know I should tell him, but then he might not be The One. But if I don’t tell him, and he really is The One, when I finally do tell him, it could be too late. But then, if it’s too late, that would mean he isn’t The One. Unless he would have been The One if—”

  I drop my forehead to my clasped hands and shake my head. This is why I journal. Though I’m capable of verbal expression—to a point—when it comes to actually talking to God, I’m all over the place.

  I blow a breath up my face. “Let me start again.” And I do. Several times. Until I decide to just … be … still. Which is hard, especially when silence is all I hear on the other end.

  My head gives a warning throb. Knees creak. Back aches. Clenched fingers tingle. But, in the end, my bladder is my undoing.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, I stop at the sight of my journal, which stares blankly at me—as in “plenty of room here to talk to God.” And my Bible, which gives me a knowing look—as in “plenty of Scripture here to guide you.”

  I avert my eyes. “I know. Just … not tonight.”

  Telling myself that Operation: Perfect Faith will get back on track first thing tomorrow morning and that talking to God will suffice for now, I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling. “Lord, if I don’t get it right soon, my life is going to be in the toilet.”

  and me that roll of toilet paper!”

  “When I’m jolly well done with it.”

  I eye the young woman unwinding another length of the ultrasoft fluffy stuff that is the means by which we guess the size of Belle’s belly.

  Andrea wiggles her eyebrows at me, rolls off another half dozen squares, then tosses the roll to me. “Kate’s up!”

  Eyeing her wad of toilet paper, I rise from the sofa. “Sheesh, Andrea, we’re measuring her girth, not wrapping her for mummification.”

  Belle’s younger sister guffaws amid the chuckles of the other women attending the baby shower.

  I tear off twelve squares. “That ought to do it. What do you think, Belle?”

  “That you’re too kind.” She shifts her bulk in the recliner. “I feel twice that size.”

  “Told you so.” Andrea waves her toilet paper.

  Belle’s mother stands. “Everyone line up—and be quick about it. Belle doesn’t need to be on her feet.” As we scramble for position, the older woman turns to her beautifully pregnant daughter and helps her out of the chair.

  We take our turns wrapping the toilet paper around her belly, and it’s not long before I discover that I was too kind—by two squares. As for Andrea, she pulled off ten too many. Delia Speck, a boutique employee, is the winner at fourteen squares, for which she takes home a cute little tin of rose petal soap.

  It’s another hour before the shower winds down, and when I glance at my watch and discover it’s only two-thirty, the first thing that pops to mind is that I could have gone to Fairfax with Clive. Not that I had any intention of doing so, but I definitely could have fit it in.

  And still could.

  Which brings me back to all the wrestling I’ve done since Friday night. Fortunately, I didn’t awaken with a limp like Jacob after his all-night wrestling match with God. Unfortunately, I’m this close to a headache.

  “What’s up?” Belle asks.

  I look up from the gift bags I’ve been folding and meet her gaze across the sofa table. “What?”

  “You’re agonizing. Please tell me it’s about a man—preferably Dr. Alexander—and not your work.”

  Though I hadn’t meant to say anything, when we talked by phone Friday afternoon, my pending date with Clive slipped out. She was thrilled and, undoubtedly, has been on pins and needles since I arrived with the other guests. Now we’re finally alone.

  I sigh. “Yes, it’s Clive.”

  Her left eyebrow arches. “He didn’t try anything funny, did he?”

  “Other than take me to meet his in-laws, no.”

  “In-laws? In-laws! You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  Belle points to the ottoman upon which her feet are elevated. And I’m almost grateful for the summons. After all this “agonizing” over Clive, I need to talk to someone.

  “Start to finish,” she says as I lower alongside her feet, “and don’t leave anything out.”

  I tell it all—from my initial attraction to Clive, to his advice against “instant” self-improvement, to his desire for biological children, to his wanting to trust God again, to the fallout from Clive’s mother-in-law’s disclosure.

  “But at least it seems to be working out between Maia and Michael,” I say. “I heard them come in after midnight. They sounded happy.” Even past the pillow I’d dragged over my head.

  Belle narrows her lids. “Tell me Michael didn’t spend the night.”

  “Nope. He left ten minutes later.”

  “That’s progress.” She shifts her bulk around. “So you really like this Dr. Alexand
er, hmm?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But?”

  Here we go again. “Remember our disagreement over the inclusion of religious symbols in the burn unit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, though I was finally able to convince him to allow the symbols, he’s still turned away from God.”

  “Hmm. That is a problem. Of course, from what you’ve told me, it sounds as if he’s receptive to turning back. What else?”

  “There’s the matter of him holding on to his loss—wedding ring and all.”

  “Better than him not holding on. Shows he’s capable of real love, Kate.”

  True. “And then, when he learned that his mother-in-law told me about the fire, he closed down on me.”

  Belle raises an eyebrow. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s afraid to let someone in? The only one with secrets?”

  I flush guiltily. “Of course not.”

  “I’d guess once he accepted that you knew more about his past than he was prepared to tell, he was actually relieved. Hence, the apology and invitation to accompany him to Fairfax—which you were right not to accept, of course.”

  I was?

  She smiles. “He likes you, Kate. I’d say very much.”

  And I like him. Very much.

  Belle sits forward to reach a hand to my knee, but her belly gets in the way.

  I smile, scoot closer, and clasp her hand. “Yes, Belle?”

  “Have you prayed about you and Clive?”

  My smile crumples. “A lot—especially since Friday.”

  “What’s God telling you?”

  I shrug. “He’s not speaking much to me these days.”

  “More than likely, you’re not listening.”

  Or reading my Bible. Or journaling. Though I had every intention of doing so this morning, especially after missing Saturday on top of Thursday and Friday, time got away from me as I lay in bed rehashing my date with Clive.

  Well, actually, I let time get away from me. Did not want to open my Bible and be confronted yet again with more truths that I’m not ready to act upon.

  “Are you listening to God, Kate?”

  I shake my head. “I know God wants me to tell Clive about my infertility, but he seems to thinks I’m stronger than I am.”

  Belle makes a sound in her throat. “And we know how often God is wrong.”