A Wife Worth Waiting For

A light tap sounded on his office door at precisely four o’clock. Bolton put away the sermon notes he had been jotting down and rose to walk around his desk and lounge upon its corner.

“Come in.”

The door opened and a small, pretty woman walked through. Bolton came instantly to his feet, taken off guard by the delicate creature before him. Her wispy blond bangs hung in her eyes. The remainder, cropped at chin length, swirled around her head in charming disarray. Then she lifted her hands and swept the whole of it back from her face; it fell forward again in soft wings that revealed the precise, sophisticated cut. She smiled politely, the softness of her full mouth belied by the sharpness of large, tilted, moss-green eyes set deeply beneath straight, delicate brows. Her nose, though small, was finely cut. Her chin, gently pointed, gave way to the roundness of high-boned cheeks, lending her face the piquant shape of a heart. She straightened the ribbed bottom of the sleeveless, periwinkle blue knit top she wore with a matching pleated skirt. A single pearl at each earlobe was the only jewelry she wore. Bolton noticed, with interest, that she was not wearing a wedding ring.

She held out a dainty hand with manicured nails painted a soft shell pink. “Reverend Charles, I am Clarice Revere.”

“I assumed as much.” He smiled, very conscious of the way his hand literally swallowed hers. Hers was cool, almost weightless, making him very aware of the heat and heaviness of his own. He cleared his throat. “Ah, where is Trent? I thought he would be with you.”

Her smile was thin, rueful. “Yes, Wallis did intend that, but my father-in-law sometimes forgets that Trenton has a mother who does not like to shirk her responsibilities. I felt we should talk, you and I, before I decide whether or not this notion of Wallis’s is a good idea.”

Well, this was a surprise. Here was a female, small and cool and delicate, whom Wallis Revere had not succeeded in cowing despite years of undoubted effort. The lady possessed hidden strength. Bolton liked that. His grip tightened on her hand. Only then did he realize that he still held it. He let it go, forcing himself not to snatch his own hand back as if hers was a hot potato, and offered her a chair. Then, in a deliberate effort to put distance between them, he went back to his place behind the desk.

When they were both comfortably settled, he began. “What would you like to know, Mrs. Revere?”

She grimaced. “Clarice, please. In my mind, Mrs. Revere is still my late mother-in-law.”

He nodded, ridiculously pleased. “A fine woman, I understand.”

“A doormat,” she said bluntly, then grimaced again. “Forgive me. I’m afraid cynicism is a necessity in my present circumstance. Wallis is a terribly controlling man. I find I must remind myself at every turn not to knuckle under.”

“Which is what she did?” he asked gently.

Clarice Revere took a deep breath, as if immensely relieved to find that he understood. “Yes, and what I did for a long time, too.”

He templed his fingers. “I gather this visit has something to do with not ‘knuckling under’ again.”

Her smile was self-deprecating this time. “You’re a very perceptive man, Reverend.”

He bit back the temptation to offer her his given name, reminding himself that he was functioning here as a professional. “I don’t know Wallis well,” he said carefully, “but well enough.”

She laughed, the sound rich and clear and bright. “I think he was right in this instance.”

“About?”

“You,” she said. “About you being a good influence for my son.”

His pleasure at that was inordinate—and a little dangerous. Only with great effort did he manage to keep his manner one of relaxed professionalism. “Thank you. I look forward to spending time with Trent. Maybe you could give me some idea what he would like to do. His own list of favorite activities were rather solitary exercises.”

She frowned, nodding. “I am aware of that fact,” she said. Then she sighed and leaned for ward in the manner of one about to confide a personal secret. “I should explain something to you, Reverend Charles. This determination of mine not to let Wallis control our lives is fairly new. You see, when you’re lost and alone and responsible for a young child, it’s horribly easy to let someone else take care of you, and when that someone is a man like Wallis Revere, well, you find yourself being taken over completely. You start to lose yourself, and when that happens, you start to lose even the will to go on. I let that happen to myself a long time ago, but when I realized that it was happening to my son, too…” She lifted her chin. “I’m fighting him every way I know how, and I’m trying so hard to fight smart, to pick my battles and approach them from the position of greatest strength. But it isn’t easy. I have to weigh every situation carefully and be absolutely certain that if I take a position opposite Wallis that it is because it is the right thing to do. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

He stifled the very inappropriate impulse to applaud the woman! Instead, he sat forward, forearms aligned atop the blotter on his desk, and mentally tamped down the absurd elation he was feeling. “I not only understand,” he said carefully, “I also approve, for what that’s worth.”

The smile she presented him this time was brilliant. “It’s worth a great deal!” she told him. “It means I can trust you to consider my wishes over those of my father-in-law should the two conflict.”

He was a little shocked. “But that goes without saying. You are, after all, the boy’s mother.”

He thought he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes before she dropped her gaze to her lap, but when she lifted her head abruptly a moment later, she was very much in control of herself. She crossed her slender legs at the knee, tugging gently at the hem of her skirt.

“I’m a little surprised at how this has gone,” she said. “I wanted to be honest with you, and you’ve made that very easy. Now I must ask that you be honest with me.”

He sat back again, liking her more and more. “By all means.”

She sat forward, her whole posture suddenly intense. “Were you coerced into this arrangement with my son? Isn’t it an inconvenience to be saddled with someone else’s little boy? Wouldn’t you rather not go through with it?”

Bolton couldn’t help grinning. “No. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. Very much.”

She seemed pleased, very pleased. She relaxed. Her face softened, her eyes seeming to grow quite large and doelike. “Oh, how easy you make it for me. I can’t tell you how grateful I am! Trenton really does need a man’s guidance, Reverend Charles, and I couldn’t be more pleased with my father-in-law’s choice. But you mustn’t let us become a nuisance. Promise me that you won’t let us take unreasonable advantage of your time or generosity.”

Us. A happy glow spread through the reverend, at once oddly familiar and utterly foreign. He heard himself saying, “I promise, provided you’ll call me Bolton.”

She gave him that brilliant smile again. It forced him to gulp down a sudden lump in his throat.

“Of course,” she said, “and you must call me Clarice.” Then, getting to her feet, she held out her hand again. “Thank you, Bolton, for everything.”

He scrambled up and around the desk, grasping her fingertips. “Uh, about Trent…that is, your suggestions for activities of interest to…us, him…and me, that is.”

She laughed at him. It was a most companionable laugh, almost affectionate. “I’m sure you’ll do very well in that area all on your own. Why don’t we take a clue from Wallis in this instance? Why don’t I bring Trenton around for a short visit, and the two of you can decide how you want to begin. All right?”

He nodded, feeling patently ridiculous for having babbled so. “Fine. This evening perhaps? Or tomorrow morning. Whatever is most convenient.”

“We are completely at your disposal. Choose a time.”

He couldn’t think for the life of him. Finally he just snatched a time out of thin air. “Nine-thirty.”

She shook his hand. “Nine-thirty tomorrow morning it is.”

Tomorrow morning. Of course. Nine-thirty at night would hardly be the time to begin such a project. “Right,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound like the idiot he felt at the moment.

She smiled at him benignly. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Right. I mean, yes. Tomorrow, definitely.”

“At nine-thirty.”

“Ri—uh, uh-huh.” He was starting to sound like a broken record, for pity’s sake!

She gently extracted her hand from his and left, that smile upon her face.

Bolton sank down upon the corner of his desk, mind awhirl. Well. He felt as if he’d been hit between the eyes. She was not at all what he’d expected. This woman was no cipher, no colorless, defeated little wren. She was gentle, yes, and sensitive—even delicate—yet intelligence and determination had lit a bright spark of vivacity in her—and struck sparks off him. Oh, yes, sparks were flying everywhere. He laughed aloud, eager to see her again, to feel those sparks again, which he would do at nine-thirty the next morning. Suddenly he smacked himself in the forehead with the flat of his hand. Quickly he leaned across the desk and slapped the button on his intercom machine.

“Cora?”

“Yeah?”

“Do I have anything scheduled for nine-thirty tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Nine-thirty tomorrow morning,” he repeated forcefully.

A lengthy silence followed, then, “Hey, Bolt, tomorrow’s Saturday.”

Saturday! He gaped, then he snapped off the machine and started to laugh. Saturday. Apparently his mind had gone out to lunch the moment Clarice Revere had walked through the door! Could it be, he wondered, that Wallis Revere, of all people, had actually introduced him, finally, to the woman his own beloved Carol had promised him existed. If so, that old saw about God working in mysterious ways had just proven a serious understatement. Why, the mind boggled. He shook his head. Wallis Revere. Miracles, apparently, did still happen.

Chapter Two

He was waiting in the outer office when they arrived, long legs crossed at the ankles as he leaned against the corner of his secretary’s desk. He looked uncommonly handsome and surprisingly at ease in loafers, crisp white jeans and a sky blue polo shirt. His short, dark hair was combed casually to one side from a straight part, and his mouth was curved upward in a welcoming smile that deserved a like response. She could not deny the urge to give it to him, and so moments later found herself standing in the middle of the floor grinning like an idiot while his dark winged brows slowly lifted. The realization brought on a fit of giggles, which she stifled with less than complete success. Trenton, solemn little man that he was, stared up at her with undisguised curiosity. The look on his face said it all: his mother never giggled. Clarice cleared her throat and schooled her expression.

“Reverend Charles,” she said decorously.

Those winged brows pulled down into a frown. “I thought we had agreed on given names.”

And so they had. Whatever was wrong with her? “Yes, of course. Well then, Bolton, I believe you’ve met my son, Trent.”

“Indeed I have.” He straightened and stepped forward, bending slightly to offer his hand to the boy. “How are you this morning, Trent?”

Obediently, Trent shook hands. “Fine, sir, thank you.”

The reverend folded his arms thoughtfully. “You have excellent manners, young man. Do you think we could dispose of them in favor of something as mundane as, say, friendship?”

The boy merely stared at the tall, dark man before him, then, ever so slowly, he turned a questioning gaze up at his mother. Clarice smiled. Why not? Heaven knew her little boy seldomly had opportunity to be just that, a little boy. Why did she think this man could teach her son how to be a child? Trent turned his attention back to the reverend, his expression as inscrutable as usual, and slowly nodded.

Bolton Charles ruffled the boy’s hair. “Okay, now, buddy, here’s the deal. When it’s just you and me or maybe you and me and your mom, I’d like you to call me Bolton. That all right with you?”

Trent screwed up one eye and chewed one corner of his mouth in his typical expression of engrossing thought. Clarice smoothed a hand through his hair, repairing the damage done earlier and fixing this moment in her mind. He was such an endearing little boy. So bright, so beautiful, so determined to be all that he was expected to be—and with such conflicting expectations! Wallis wanted a carbon copy of the son he had lost, who in turn had been meant to be a carbon copy of himself, while she wanted only for her son to discover who and what he was. She was under no illusions about Wallis’s motives in setting up this arrangement between Bolton Charles and her son. His goal, ultimately, was to remove Trenton as much as possible from her influence. What Wallis failed to consider was that by bringing in Bolton to monopolize the boy’s time, he also removed his grandson from his own influence. She dropped her hands to her son’s narrow shoulders, prompting him to answer the reverend’s question. Obediently, Trenton complied.

“I think I’ll call you Bolt,” he announced firmly.

The reverend blinked, clearly taken aback, but then a hand came out to stroke his chin and a grin slowly stretched his mouth into a broad curve. “All right, if you like.”

Trenton shrugged, unconcerned. “I do,” he said ingenuously. “It fits you.”

“Does it now?”

“Mmm-hmm. ‘Sides, I like having my own names for people,” Trent admitted.

Bolton laughed. “All right. Bolt it is. Now suppose you tell me what you prefer to be called.”

The reply was immediate. “Trent.”

“Not Trenton?” the reverend asked, glancing at Clarice.

The boy tilted his head back and sent a look of his own up at his mother. Clarice’s heart seemed to expand to fill her entire chest as she recognized the love and trust shining in her son’s eyes. But there was more. In that look was also the desire to protect, and it made her wince inwardly. How had she let this happen? What other eight-year-old bore the burden of protecting his mother? Mothers were supposed to protect their children, not vice versa. Silently she promised her son that things were going to change, and her hands tightened commensurately upon his shoulders. That seemed to satisfy something in her son, for he then swung his gaze around to the reverend.

“Trenton is the name my mother calls me,” he said. He might as well have added that she was the only one allowed to do so.

Bolton lifted his gaze to Clarice’s, but she couldn’t interpret the expression there. “Good enough,” he said quietly, and his eyes held hers a moment longer before he dropped them once more to the boy. “Well, Trent, I had in mind to toss around a baseball this morning. Want to join me?”

Clarice knew that in this instance the inscrutable look upon her son’s face meant he had misgivings that he was trying to hide.

“I don’t know if I’d like it,” he said bluntly. What he meant was that he hadn’t ever done it before.

The message, thankfully, did not escape Bolton Charles. He shrugged. “Why don’t we give it a try? If it’s not any fun, we’ll do something else.”

Trenton screwed up that eye again, then briskly nodded.

Bolton clapped him on the shoulder. “Great!” He pointed toward the door in the far wall. “There are two gloves and a ball waiting on a black chair inside my office. If you’ll get them, I’ll just have a word with your mom.”

Trent flipped his mother a look and departed. Clarice watched him go through the door then turned her attention to Bolton Charles. “You handled that well,” she said lightly.

He smiled. “I had a long talk with my secretary yesterday. She has two grandchildren. They’re younger than Trent, I’m afraid, but since she raised three children of her own, two of them sons, she was able to give me a few insights. Her best advice, I think, was to share things I enjoy with Trent.”

“And you enjoy baseball,” Clarice surmised.

“When I have the chance,” he confirmed, “which isn’t often.”

She couldn’t resist the urge to tease him. “Did you play baseball in high school, Bolt?”

He grinned at her. “And college.”

That surprised her. “Really? Then you must be pretty good.”

“Actually, I was good, past tense. I even considered, briefly, playing pro ball.”

“What happened?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

His gaze locked with hers. “Just what was supposed to happen,” he told her evenly. “I graduated college and went on to seminary.”

“Oh.” Of course. What a foolish question. She felt heat rising in her cheeks.

He laughed easily. “Why is it that people seem to think the ministry is foisted on hapless fellows with no particular talent for anything else?”

“I don’t know,” she said, not quite able to meet his gaze again. “Maybe because it seems such a difficult, thankless job.”

“But it isn’t,” he protested. “You don’t see the bank president being asked to toss a ball around with a kid, do you?”

She smiled. “No, I guess not.”

Trent reappeared then with the gloves and ball, which he carried over to Bolton. Bolton picked one much the worse for wear and wiggled his hand into it. He then beamed a bright, happy smile at Clarice. “I rest my case.”

She laughed outright. “You’ve really taken your secretary’s advice to heart, haven’t you?”

“Absolutely. Now, if you’ll excuse us, this glove is begging to be used.”

He held it up to Trent’s ear as if the boy could really hear it beg. Trent giggled, something so completely out of character for him that Clarice felt a shock of guilt, followed swiftly by a welling of gratitude for this good-looking minister. She wondered if he knew how grateful she was. His smile seemed to say that he understood completely, but suddenly it was she who understood. This was what he meant. This was why the ministry for him could never be just a thankless job. This was what it was all about for him. Such goodness and generosity were awesome and therefore a little frightening—and even a little defeating somehow. She felt suddenly diminished, as if she could not measure up to such a standard of goodness.

“I—I have some errands to do,” she mumbled, turning away.

“Fine,” he said. “Why don’t you meet us back here in a couple of hours? Then, if you have no other plans, maybe we could all go to lunch together?”

That unexpected invitation sent her gaze zipping back around to his, but his expression was bland, almost impersonal. Obviously he was just being nice. He was a nice man, after all. He was a minister, for pity’s sake. She felt a stab of disappointment. “We’ll see,” she said softly.

He didn’t reply to that, and she hurried away, scolding herself for such perverse emotions. Bolton Charles was a fine man, the sort to help anyone he could. Why should she resent his kindness toward her, especially as she was so willing to accept his kindness toward her son? She pushed the disturbing thoughts away, and knew herself for a coward. She simply could not go on refusing to think about the complications that popped up. Somehow she had to take back control of her own life and her son’s, and she couldn’t do it by continually sticking her head in the sand. She’d had enough of that.

So then, what was she to do? Admit you’re attracted to that man, for starters, she told herself. But realize that his attentions to you are part and parcel of his ministry as he sees it—and nothing more. But she had to do more than realize that fact; she had also to accept it, weigh her own choices, and decide how to respond to the reverend. Resolutely, she turned the matter over and over in her mind while she went about picking up the clothes from the cleaner, dropping off the vacuum to be repaired and having her hair trimmed.

By the time she returned to meet her son, she had had plenty of good, sober reflection, all done at a distance, and she welcomed the chance to relate to Bolton Charles strictly as a minister. The problem was that the windblown, panting fellow who jogged up to her car and greeted her was very much a man.

His knit polo shirt clung to his body damply, revealing a flat middle, well-developed chest and broad, muscular shoulders. His dark hair had fallen forward in thick, gleaming waves, and he tucked his baseball mitt beneath one arm as he freed his hand and pushed his hair back off his forehead. His smile was immediate, welcoming and infectious. Trenton was right behind him and panting just as hard. Apparently they’d had a real workout with the ball gripped in Bolton’s right hand.

Bolton laughed as the boy skidded to a halt and collapsed at the edge of the grass. “I think we may have gotten a little carried away,” he said to Clarice. “He’s got such a strong arm, I forget he’s a boy.” He looked back at Trenton as he said that last, and the boy beamed. Suddenly Bolton flicked his wrist, and the ball popped up out of his hand. With a grunt, Trenton threw himself backward, his arm flying out, and the ball plopped down into his glove as smoothly as if he’d been ready and waiting. “All right!” Bolton laughed and gave him a thumbs-up before turning back to Clarice. “Kid’s got great reflexes, too, and he throws really well on the move. I think you’ve got a fine, all-around athlete here and you ought to be getting him into Little League sports.”

“Well, he does wrestle,” she said a bit defensively, and instantly regretted her tone.

He seemed not to notice. “Yes, I know, and he’s been very successful at it. I think he can be just as successful at almost any other sport—baseball certainly, football, probably soccer. Basketball, I don’t know. Not my game. Anyway, I’ll look into it and find out what’s available, if you want.”

For some reason the very idea sent her into a kind of panic. “Ah, no. I mean, we don’t want to be a bother, that is, more of a bother.”

He flashed her a totally disarming smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m having a ball.”

At that, Trenton quipped, “A baseball!” and let fly a high, wide zinger.

Bolton lurched into action, sprinting across the parking lot to snatch the ball out of the air—barehanded. His glove lay on the asphalt at Clarice’s feet, where it had fallen when he’d darted after the ball. Clarice didn’t know which was more unbelievable, the satisfied look on Bolton’s face when that ball smacked into his bare hands or the force with which her own small son had hurled it heavenward. She was so caught up in those two interconnected mysteries that she at first did not register Trenton’s howl of remorse when that ball connected loudly with Bolton’s hands. Only when the boy hurtled past her, catapulting himself at Bolton, did she realize anything was wrong.

“I’m sorry!” he cried. “I’m sorry! Your hands!”

Bolton’s expression instantly sobered. He went down on his knees, pulling the boy into his arms. “Hey, pal, what’s this? You didn’t hurt me.”

But even Clarice could see that her son’s eyes were big and filled with horror. She threw off her shock and started forward, instinctively squelching the desire to run.

Bolton rolled the ball up onto his fingertips and showed it to Trent. “I’m fine,” he was saying. “Besides, it wasn’t your fault. Nobody made me go after that ball. I knew what I was doing, and I wouldn’t have gone after it if I hadn’t thought I could catch it safely. Here, I’ll show you.” He pushed the ball into Trenton’s trembling hand and turned his own palm up, his other arm wrapped snugly around the boy’s waist. He wiggled his fingers. “See. Right as rain.”

In his relief, Trenton slumped against Bolton’s shoulder, and Clarice’s heart turned over as Bolton gave him a comforting hug. Her steps slowed, and she came to a halt. Bolton obviously had the situation under control, but it was more than that. Suddenly she felt like an interloper. Oddly, Bolton seemed to sense her feelings for he looked up then and smiled at her. His smile had the same comforting aura about it as that hug. She swallowed down a lump that had risen unexpectedly in her throat. Bolton shifted his arm to support the boy, then got to his feet and pushed up to a standing position, lifting the boy with him as easily as if he weighed no more than the ball. He walked toward her, carrying the boy against his shoulder. Trenton’s arms were around his neck, and Bolton spoke softly to him as they drew nearer. Trenton nodded and lifted his head, bestowing a smile upon his mother.