A Wife Worth Waiting For. Arlene James
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He left no doubt that he meant business, and she was only too glad to get away. She started off swiftly, but he reached out and grabbed her hand, turning her back.
“I forgot to ask what you want to eat.”
She pulled her hand free, flipping it through the air. “A, oh…” She looked helplessly at the menu, without really seeing anything, and said, “Salad! Salad will do nicely. And, ah, tea, ice tea.” She exhaled with relief, turned and got the heck out of there. She didn’t see the troubled look that followed her or the speculative one her son directed up at Bolton Charles.
By the time they came with the food trays, Clarice had once more talked herself into a calm state of mind. And once more it vanished the moment Bolton smiled at her. Seemingly oblivious to the panic he incited in her, he placed her tea and salad in front of her, laid down a napkin and a fork and slid into the seat next to Trent. They divided up the remainder of food and drinks on the tray. Clarice watched, feeling ridiculous and neglectful as Bolton tucked a napkin into her son’s lap. Trenton dug in with obvious relish, and to her consternation Bolton leaned forward.
“Something wrong with your salad?”
“What? Oh. No, nothing.” She picked up her fork and poked at the shredded lettuce.
“Trent said you didn’t care for salad dressing, but maybe you’d like some extra lemon or something.”
“Lemon?”
He captured her gaze with his and held it. “Some people prefer to eat their salads with lemon juice as opposed to eating it dry,” he said as if speaking to a child. “Would you like me to get you some lemon?”
She shook her head, dropped her eyes to her lunch, and managed to say, “No, thank you.”
After that, she concentrated on eating, forking the lettuce and occasional sliver of carrot into her mouth, chewing, and swallowing. The single wedge of tomato required special concentration as she ground it into pulpy pieces with the side of her fork and intently chewed each one. Just as she’d worked her way through her own small lunch, Trenton announced that he was ready to go out to the playground. Bolton got up and let him out of the booth, then sat back down again. Clarice lurched to her feet, intent on escaping with her son, but Bolton’s hand shot out and prevented her.
“He’ll be all right,” he said gently. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
She looked longingly after her son. “The sign says they’re supposed to have adult supervision.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “There are plenty of adults out there. Sit down.”
Deprived of her excuse, she slowly sank back onto the bench seat. Bolton popped a few fries into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I’ve been wanting to ask why I haven’t ever seen you at church. Do you attend elsewhere?”
Church. She almost slumped with relief. Church was certainly a nice, safe subject to discuss with a minister. She made herself smile. “No, we don’t attend elsewhere. It’s Wallis. He doesn’t like to go out now that he’s confined to the wheelchair, so we sort of hold our own service on Sunday mornings. Wallis chooses a passage from the Bible, and I read it aloud and answer any questions Trenton may have about it.”
“He has quite a few questions, does he?”
“More and more as he gets older.”
“Don’t you think he might benefit from an organized Bible study, then?”
“Yes, I’m sure he would.”
“Good. Now what about you?”
She blinked at him. “Me?”
He laid his hands flat against the tabletop. They were large hands with wide palms and long, gracefully tapered fingers with healthy, oval nails. “We have a Bible class at the church for women your age. It’s a friendly bunch. I’m sure you’d like them.”
“I—I’m sure I would.”
“You wouldn’t have to stop Wallis’s private services,” he pointed out. “You could always do both.”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to speak to Wallis.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I was under the impression that you were taking charge of your own life.”
“I am.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem, and I don’t want to cause any.”
He looked down, pressed his napkin to his mouth and wadded it up. “If you don’t want to come, just say so.”
“It’s not that!”
He pinned her with dark, intense eyes. “Then what is it?”
She couldn’t even breathe, let alone formulate a coherent answer. She just sat there with her mouth open, like a fish out of water. To her utter confusion, he smiled and changed the subject.
“I like your hair. You got a good cut. Mine always take two or three weeks to look like it’s supposed to.”
“Maybe you need to change barbers,” she managed to mumble, flattered but shaken that he’d even noticed.
He laughed. “And insult a faithful member of my congregation?”
She grimaced. “That is awkward.”
He shrugged. “Comes with the territory. There are worse things than a bad haircut.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she didn’t say anything at all. Instead, she watched Trenton out the window. He was crawling across a rope bridge strung between two barrels suspended no more than three feet off the ground. Two other boys were running around with toy guns pretending to shoot each other. Trenton stopped to watch them, and they shot right through him, ignoring him as if he wasn’t there. Even at a distance, she could not miss the longing look in her son’s eyes. She bit her lip. Oh, why had she let this happen? She wanted to cry. Bolton noticed and looked over his shoulder. He sized up the situation in a moment, and when he turned back to her, he reached for her hand.
“He’s going to be all right,” he said, turning her hand over in his. “He’s a great kid, Clarice. A super kid. Bright, sensitive, caring. He just needs a little practice with kids his own age. That’s another reason I want to see you get him involved in Little League, and it wouldn’t hurt if he attended Bible study on Sunday mornings, either. I’ll pave the way for him, if you’ll let me.”
The last was as much a question as a statement. She made an instant decision, telling herself that it had nothing to do with the way that heat was spreading up her arm. “Yes, please.”
He smiled and gripped her hand tighter. “I’ll call his Sunday school teacher and tell her to expect him. She’ll introduce him to the other kids and make sure he gets involved in a group activity. I’ll also see what I can find out about Little League sports in this area. It may be too late to get him on a baseball team for this season, and it’s definitely too early for football, but there is bound to be something gearing up. What about swimming lessons? Has Trent been taught to swim?”
She nodded. “I insisted. We have a pool.”
“Let me guess. Private lessons.”
She winced. “How did you know?”
“Would Wallis Revere send his only grandson down to the public pool?”
“No, but I should have insisted he do so.” She sighed and dropped her gaze, carefully extracting her hand from his. That was when she saw the bruise. “Bolton!” He attempted to close his hand, but she grabbed his wrist and pried his fingers down. The center of his palm—his left palm, not the right, which was the one he’d shown Trenton—was a purplish red.
“Oh, my God!”