Bolton pushed on toward the car. It was a sleek, two-door white convertible with a candy-applered interior, her one attempt at recapturing a carefree youth she’d never actually had. After the impulsive purchase of it, the car had served merely to embarrass her on occasion. She bit her lip, wondering what the good reverend would think of it, and fell in beside him as he strode toward it.

“Uh, you might want to take your own car,” she said, but he shook his head.

“Nope. You can drive. I’m tired.”

“Oh. Fine.” She couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t look tired. He looked like he could carry Trenton downtown and back without breaking into a sweat.

He went around to the passenger side, opened the door, pulled the seat forward and gave Trenton a little shove into the back, claiming the front seat for himself. He slid down into place and buckled himself in. Clarice got in and did likewise, then adjusted the steering wheel to her liking and started the engine.

“I imagine you’d like the air conditioner turned on,” she said.

He lifted his arm around the back of her seat and grinned. “Actually, I’d rather put the top down.”

“Yeah, Mom, put the top down,” Trent echoed.

He liked to ride with the top down, but she usually felt, well, silly. She opened her mouth to say that she’d just come from the beauty shop and didn’t want her hair blown around, when Bolton leaned over and crooned plaintively into her ear, “Come on, Mom, a little wind and sun never hurt anybody.” She closed her mouth and reached up to release the catches that anchored the top to the windshield, then depressed the button that automatically lowered the top. Trenton cheered, Bolton grinned and she felt her own mouth curving into a smile.

“Okay, guys, where do you want to go for those burgers?”

Trenton made a suggestion, but Bolton immediately countered it, reminding the boy that another place had a playground. “Oh, yeah,” Trenton said, as if he’d never considered that particular benefit before. Clarice felt a pang of guilt. She had never considered it before, either. What was wrong with her? No wonder her son didn’t know how to be a child! She put the car in gear and headed toward the fast-food place with the playground.

They couldn’t go very fast in town, of course, especially with all the stop signs and lights between the church and the Bypass. Nevertheless, the wind felt wonderful on her face and in her hair. Her passengers seemed to enjoy it, too, judging by their laughter and smiles. She made a right hand turn onto the highway 81 bypass, and the pace slowed further. The whole county seemed to have come into town that day.

Bolton shook his head. “Traffic’s as bad here as in a big city, don’t you think?”

Clarice shrugged and glanced into her rearview mirror. “I wouldn’t know, frankly. The last time I was in a big city was, oh, six or seven years ago. It was the first time we’d left Trenton overnight. His father had business in Tulsa, and I went with him. My mother-in-law was alive then, and she looked after Trent. He was still in diapers.” She saw from the corner of her eye that Bolton gave her a speculative look, but he said nothing, and she couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. She dismissed the matter and concentrated on her driving.

Eventually they reached the fast-food place Bolton had suggested. Clarice parked the car and turned the mirror down to see what damage the wind had done to her hair. “You two go on in,” she said. “I’ll be along in a minute.” But nobody moved. She stopped combing her fingers through her hair and looked around. Bolton was looking at her, and Trenton was looking at Bolton. She couldn’t read either expression. “What?” she asked, her gaze working back and forth between them.

Bolton lifted a shoulder. “Nothing. We just prefer to wait. It can’t take long. You already look great.”

Her mouth fell open. He thought she looked great? The very idea did odd things to her stomach, and she shifted a nervous look over her shoulder at her son. Trenton was looking at his lap, a knowing little smile twisting his lips. She didn’t even want to think about the implications of that. What she wanted to do, in fact, was run. She slapped the mirror back into place and fumbled for the door handle. “Uh, I—I’m ready!”

She hopped out of the car and practically ran for the restaurant, the heels of her oh-so-sensible pumps clacking on the pavement. Bolton and Trenton caught up with and passed her. When she got there, Bolton was holding the door open for her and Trenton’s face was solemn to the point of silliness. She marched past them and breezed into the restaurant, her cheeks burning red. What was wrong with her?

She got in line at the registers and composed herself, pulling deep, silent breaths to still the wild thumping of her heart. His was not the first compliment she’d ever received for pity’s sake. Besides, he hadn’t really meant anything by it. He’d just wanted to hurry her because he was a gentleman and didn’t want to leave her alone in the car. And Trenton? He was confused. Yes, that was it. Trenton was confused and…She was the one confused. That was the whole problem, and what a pathetic statement it was about the condition of her mind, not to mention her nonexistent love life. Good grief, she was feeling attracted to a minister!

When the minister eased into line behind her and laid a companionable hand on her shoulder, she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Hey, hold on there,” he said quietly. “Nobody’s going to bite you.”

“I—I know that! You just startled me.”

“I wanted to tell you that lunch is on me.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”

“I insist.”

“No, really—”

His hands clamped down on her shoulders. “Clarice,” he said silkily into her ear, “shut up and go find us a table.”

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!” she exclaimed.

“I hardly think it’s worth bothering Him about,” he quipped, gently indicating his disapproval of her choice of words.

“I’m sorry, but you’re hurt!”

“It’s just a bruise.”

“Your hand could be broken! Of all the idiotic—”

“It’s not broken,” he said, suddenly gripping her fingers to make his point. “See? It doesn’t even hurt. And I don’t want Trent thinking it’s his fault. That wasn’t the first time I’ve pulled that particularly stupid stunt. I knew better, and I did it anyway, but if he sees or hears of this bruise he’ll blame himself, so not another word, you hear me?”

She nodded, so profoundly sorry and yet grateful at the same time that tears gathered in her eyes. Bolton laughed and gently smoothed his thumbs over her cheekbones.

“Well, now I know who he gets the guilts from,” he said teasingly, then he added in a soft voice, “as well as his good looks.”

Her mouth fell open again. He shook his head and chucked her under the chin. She snapped it shut just as Trenton ran up to the table. Bolton made the transition as smoothly as buttering bread. “Ready to go?” he asked the boy.

Trent nodded, and Bolton piled their refuse on the tray. Trent went to dump it in the trash can, and Bolton turned to follow, but Clarice grabbed his arm before he could get away.

“Thank you,” she said, “for lunch and…” She couldn’t think how to finish the sentence without embarrassing herself.

He smiled and waved her in front of him. “You’re welcome.” With that, he ushered her out after her son.

Chapter Three

“What’s the matter, pal? Want to talk about it?”

Trent hunched one shoulder in reply, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

Like mother, like son, Bolton thought, gazing up through the dark green tree leaves overhead. He wondered if she knew just how much like her Trenton was. He smoothed his hand over the boy’s nape and waited. Finally Trent looked up.

“Did you know my dad?”

Bolton leaned forward on the hard bench, elbows on knees. “No. Why do you ask?” He got that shrug again.

“I just wondered. I thought maybe if you knew him, then that’s how you’d know what I like and…maybe that’s why I like you so much. I mean, maybe I remembered you from before, only I don’t know it. Kinda stupid, huh?”

“It’s not stupid at all,” Bolton told him. “Good friends, even if they’re new friends, often feel as if they’ve known each other all their lives.”

“But what makes it that way?”

Bolton clasped his hands together. “I’m not sure I know. Maybe it’s what they have in common.”

Trenton screwed up his face. “What’s that mean?”

Bolton sighed inwardly. He wasn’t doing a very good job at this. He spread his hands and tried again. “Well, let’s take us for instance. We both like sports, so that’s something we have in common.”

Trent’s face lit up. “Oh! And hamburgers and fries.”

“What?”

“We both like burgers and fries!” he said excitedly.

Bolton grinned. “Right. That’s something else we have in common.”

“And chocolate milk shakes!” Trent went on excitedly. “And driving with the top down, and blue! Our favorite color is blue! Oh, and General! Don’t forget General.”

Bolton laughed from sheer pleasure. “Now how could I forget that scraggly old tomcat? You know what else? There’s that red wagon you’ve got, too.”

“Yeah! You had one when you were a boy!”

“I sure did. But it’s even more than all that, Trent. You and I, we think alike, even feel alike in lots of ways.”

Now the boy seemed genuinely intrigued. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve noticed a few things about you that remind me of myself when I was your age. For example, you’re a little shy around new people. You don’t always know what to say or do to make them like you. You haven’t learned yet that the thing to do is just to be yourself. I was exactly the same way when I was eight.”

“You were?” Trent’s eyes were big and round, and his voice was imbued with awe.

Bolton chuckled. “Yes, I was, and the next time you feel like swallowing your tongue, I want you to remember it.”

Trent’s mouth was hanging open. “That’s just how it is! You’re so afraid you’re gonna say something dumb, you practically choke!”

“It gets better,” Bolton promised him, “and the more you just try to be yourself, the quicker it happens. Remember that, okay?”

The boy nodded solemnly. “I’ll remember.”

Bolton clapped his shoulder affectionately, then glanced at his watch. “Mmm, time we headed back, I guess.”

They got up and ambled across the grass toward the car. Bolton noticed wryly that when he hooked his thumbs in his hip pockets, Trent did the same. He wondered if the other people in the park would assume they were father and son. Trent craned his head back to look up at him.

“Hey, Bolt?”

“Hmm?” That nickname still made him want to snicker, but he did his best not to let Trent know that.

“Do you think you would’ve liked my dad?”

What a question. Would he have liked Wallis Revere’s only son, the son Wallis had been determined to mold into a likeness of himself? He cleared his throat. “I would have if he was anything like you.”

“That’s what I thought,” Trent said. “Grandpa says I am like him.”

“Oh?” Somehow Bolton had his doubts, but he kept them to himself.

“Yeah,” Trent went on, “and you’d have other things in collman.”

“Common,” Bolton corrected lightly.

“Common,” Trent repeated. “Like my mom.”

Bolton stopped and looked down at the boy. “I’m not sure I follow that.”

Trent narrowed his eyes. “Well, you like her, don’t you?”

Bolton considered an evasion, then thought better of it. “Yes,” he finally said, “very much.”

“Well, he liked her, too, didn’t he? I mean, they got married and all.”

“I see your point,” Bolton muttered, starting the trek toward the car again. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next, and he wasn’t wrong.

“Do you like her that much?”

He took it in stride. “Enough to marry her, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know, Trent. I haven’t had much opportunity to find out. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s avoiding me.”

“Yeah. Why is she?”

“I don’t know, pal. Maybe she just doesn’t like me as much as I like her.”

“Aw, that’s not it,” Trent insisted. “You know what it is? I think you just make her shy.”

Bolton smiled. “You could be right about that. What do you think I ought to do about it?”

“I don’t know. Whatever my father did, I guess.”

Bolton let his hand fall upon the boy’s shoulder. “Now that, my friend, is good advice.”

They walked on in silence for a few moments, then Trent asked, “Do you say good advice, Bolt?”

“Sometimes I do.”

“Well, that’s something else we got in common, huh?”

Bolton laughed and put his hand in his pocket for his keys. “And that’s not the end of it, I’m sure.”

Trent nodded, serious as a judge. “That’s what I figure, too.”

Bolton wanted to hug him, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he unlocked the car door and opened it for him. Trent scrambled in and went to work on the seat belt. He liked to do it for himself even though it was a particularly difficult restraint system, so Bolton resisted the urge to help him. He had the car started before the belt was secured, but at last the buckle clicked into place, and Bolton put the car in gear.

Trent was quiet on the ride across town, and he’d given Bolton plenty to think about, so conversation was kept to a minimum. Bolton could feel the boy worrying something around in his head, though, so he wasn’t surprised when, just as they turned into the Revere estate drive, he piped up again.

“Bolt,” he said gravely, “I don’t remember my dad.”

Apparently it was some kind of momentous confession, so Bolton considered carefully before he replied. He brought the car around in front of the house and parked, then turned to face the boy. “I know what you mean, Trent. Forgetting is a pretty normal reaction to death. My wife died a couple of years ago, and sometimes I get sort of sad because I can’t remember some little thing about her, like what size shoe she wore or if she liked a certain movie.”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember my dad at all,” Trent said, “and Grandpa keeps saying how I shouldn’t ever forget him. It makes me feel bad.”

“Well, you shouldn’t feel bad, Trent. You were only—what?—three when he died? No one could reasonably expect you to remember him. What your grandfather really wants is for you to remember who your father was and that he loved you and that he would love you today, too, if he could.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

The boy seemed to digest that, but those eyes were just slits and his bottom lip was well chewed when he looked up again. “You think my dad would mind that I like you so much?” he asked softly.

They had arrived, at last, at the very heart of the problem. Bolton put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Maybe, if he was here. Dads like to be their sons’ best friends, you know. On the other hand, I think that if he’d have known he wasn’t going to be here with you, he’d have wanted you to have a friend like me. I know this for certain, Trent. You shouldn’t feel disloyal to your father’s memory just because you like me.” And neither should your mother, he added mentally.

Trenton nodded his understanding, and those green, green eyes were wide open now. A movement at the edge of his vision caught Bolton’s attention, and he turned his head in that direction. The door was open, and Clarice stood framed in it.

“Time to go in,” he said.

They got out of the car and walked side by side to the door.

“I thought I heard someone out here,” Clarice said brightly. She bent to drop a kiss on the top of her son’s head. “Have a good time?”

“Sure.”

“Great. Well, thank you, Bolton. We don’t want to keep you.”

He ignored that obvious invitation to leave and rubbed a circle on Trent’s back. “Why don’t you go on in now, pal? I want to talk to your mom.”

“Okay. See ya’, Bolt.”

“Friday, three-thirty,” Bolton confirmed.

With a nod, Trent went inside and closed the door. That was one smart kid. Bolton put a foot up on the doorstep and looked down at Clarice. She was drawn up tight as a bow string. He smiled.

“Your son and I had an interesting conversation today.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm-hmm. Among other things, we talked about his father.”

That had her slack-jawed. “You’re kidding! Trenton never talks about his father.”

“He did today.”

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