A Path Less Traveled (8 page)

Strike three.
“Hey, you guys order me some fajitas and a glass of tea, will you? I’ll be back
in a sec.” Andy strode from the booth, unable to get away fast enough. Barely
home and already he needed a break from these people. When had their company
started to grate on his last nerve?

* *
* * *

Trish hunched
over the oak desk behind the counter at Designs By Trish, and crunched the
numbers. The calculator’s digital read-out glared the same red, less-than-zero
numbers.

With a frustrated
grunt, she fell back against the rickety desk chair and hurled a ballpoint pen
across the store. It bounced off the wall in pieces and landed on the wooden
floors with two distinct clacks. She glanced at the almost-empty calendar and
her completely-empty checkbook, and her vision blurred. What else could she do
to make this work? She had no funds for advertising, and to make matters worse,
school let out in a few weeks. Summertime more than likely meant less business.

Trish trudged
around the counter and picked up the pen pieces, deposited them in the trash,
and slumped in her chair, face against fist. She’d scheduled a couple of
storefront displays for later in the afternoon, but the two jobs combined would
only net a hundred dollars. Not enough. The money her family collected had paid
the car payment and bought a few groceries, but the electricity bill was long
overdue, and her Suburban was on the bottom side of a quarter tank. Something
needed to give, or she’d have to.

The bell above
the door jangled. A customer! She hastily swiped the tears from her cheeks and
rose to her feet.

Carla Clark
stalked toward her, her too-tight blue jeans making a sound that reminded Trish
of a grasshopper. Bright blue eye shadow hiked up both sides to Carla’s one
eyebrow, her wiry orange hair pulled back from her face with a net.

Trish swallowed
her fear. From as far back as her high school days, Carla had intimidated her
with her brusque voice, muscled arms, and sheer size. “Hi, Carla. Can I help
you?”

“Yeah. My kid
sister’s getting married.”

Another
wedding. Thank You, Lord.
“Congratulations.” Trish assumed a smile and her
best sales voice. “So you saw the decorations at Dani’s wedding?”

“Yeah. I liked
the arch thingy and thought we could use it for Becca’s wedding.”

“Okay, let me
check my calendar. When is the wedding?”

“This Friday.”

Alarm skittered
through Trish’s veins, but she controlled it with a silent gulp of air. How
could she possibly be expected to decorate for a wedding with less than a
week’s notice? She smiled up from her calendar. “Well, you’re in luck. I don’t
have anything scheduled for that night.”

Carla snickered.
“Yeah, I bet.”

“Pardon me?” Her
glued-on smile threatened to slip.

“I bet you don’t
have much scheduled on any day. Miller’s Creek ain’t the Ritz, you know.” Carla
sneered and glanced around the sparse decor of Designs By Trish, then pointed
to the arch Trish had reassembled for the display window. “I just wanna borrow
the arch. I’ll decorate it myself.”

Her hope
plummeted. “Oh.” She released a shaky laugh. “Silly me. I thought you wanted me
to decorate for the wedding.”

“In this economy?
Most of us don’t have a daddy made of money, you know.”

Trish waged
battle with the surge of anger threatening to spill and bit back a comment with
clenched lips.

“So, can I borrow
it?” Carla smacked her gum, blew a large bubble, and then blasted a hole
through it, showering Trish with the sickeningly sweet smell of bubblegum.

She coughed
lightly—to clear her lungs—and peered down at her calendar to buy some time.
The arch wasn’t paid for yet. What if it was damaged during the loan? This
wasn’t gonna be easy. “I’d be happy to rent it to you.” She feigned a chipper
tone.

Carla’s eyes
bulged. Then she clenched her fists, the veins in her neck expanding as she
released a disbelieving snort. “Rent it?” She pivoted and waddled to the store
entrance, leaving grasshopper noises in her wake. “Never mind. You uppity
Millers think you own the whole town. One of these days you’ll learn how the
rest of us live, and I’m gonna laugh my head off.” Carla hurled the words over
one shoulder, then slammed the antique wood and beveled glass door.

Trish flinched at
the sound and brought a hand up to massage her temple. Carla was right. An
interior design business in Miller’s Creek made as much sense as trying to turn
a Ford Pinto into a Lamborghini. What had made her think she could pull it off?

The answer hit
before the question finished sounding in her brain. Because of her parents. Her
design degree had been their idea, not hers. All she’d ever wanted was to be a
wife, mother, and artist, in that order. Now she was clinging to her life’s
dream by one tenuous thread—motherhood.

She sipped her
now tepid water. Everything happened for a purpose. Maybe God had directed her
path toward the design degree for a time like this. He knew she’d need
something to fall back on when Doc died. But in Miller’s Creek?

Her cell phone
vibrated and danced across the desk top. She snagged it, as a number she didn’t
recognize flashed to the screen.
Lord, please let this be business.

“Designs By
Trish.”

“Hey, Designs By
Trish, this is Law By Andy.”

A giggle burst
out. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“Well, I met my
objective.” His teasing tone played havoc with her already frazzled emotions.

“Oh, really? And
what, may I ask, was your objective?”

“To make you
laugh.”

Trish’s heartbeat
throbbed at the base of her throat, and she raised a hand to cover it. Falling
for his natural charm would be so easy, but she had Little Bo to consider, as
well as Doc’s memory. Best to keep things on the friend level. “What’s going
on?”

“Well, I called
to see if you’d given any thought to my idea.”

“Idea? What
idea?” Was it her imagination or had her tone bordered on mild hysteria? She
coughed and twirled a silky strand of hair around one finger, pretty sure she
knew where the conversation was headed.

“If I move to
Miller’s Creek, will you design my office?”

Trish scrambled
for words--and more time. “Uh, so you’re actually thinking about a move to
Miller’s Creek?”

“Yeah, go
figure.” He gave a short laugh. “Let’s just say I’ve been looking at the
numbers.”

Numbers. Ugh! She
hated them. Her eyes returned to her own lack of a bottom line. Should she say
yes to the job? No. She couldn’t. Saying yes meant putting herself into direct
contact with him, and the fiasco last Saturday night after the wedding proved
she wasn’t ready. “I really can’t make any promises, Andy. A lot of it depends
on the timing. Since the wedding I’ve been . . . uh . . . kind of busy.”

“Good for you.
Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Trish
squeezed her eyes tight against the ensuing stab of guilt. Man, she’d just lied
to him. “Sorry to have to cut this short, Andy, but I’ve got a couple of
clients lined up for this afternoon.”

“Oh, I see. Sorry
to have interrupted your work. Well, you take care.” Hurt edged his voice.

“You, too. Bye.”
Trish sat a moment with her eyes closed and her forehead at rest on her palm,
the phone still pressed to her ear. The last thing she’d wanted to do was hurt
his feelings. Finally she clicked the phone shut, dropped it in her shoulder
bag, and grabbed her keys. Work would help take her mind off her problems. At
least temporarily.

Fifteen minutes
later, she removed the last of the old decorations from the store window
display at Betsy’s Antique Mall when her phone rang again. Trish glanced at the
screen. The school? Again? She flipped it open quickly. “Yes?”

“Trish, this is
Pam at the elementary school.”

“Is Bo okay?” Now
her voice really
did
border on hysteria.

“He’s fine, but
he’s crying and asking for you. We’ve tried to calm him down, but . . .”

“I’ll be right
there.”

Less than five
minutes later, Trish arrived at the school. She entered the door to the
kindergarten wing, children’s copycat artwork plastered to the walls. Suddenly,
a child’s fearful screams reverberated down the fluorescent-lit hallway,
followed by the words: “I want my Mommy! I want my Mommy!”

Hurt ripped
through her chest as she sprinted in the direction of the gut-rending cries.
She rounded a doorway, where Little Bo wiggled in a chair, damp tendrils of
sweaty hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes swollen and red, his cheeks
flushed and damp with tears.

“It’s okay,
honey, Mama’s here.” She knelt, gathered him into her arms, and crooned in his
ear. “Shh, sweetie, it’s okay.”

He continued to
hiccup and sob softly.

Trish rose to her
feet. Bo’s teacher, Mrs. Walsh, looked ready to hand in her resignation and hit
up the fast-food industry for a burger-flipping job. “How long has he been like
this?”

“Since lunch
recess.”

“That was two
hours ago. Why didn’t someone call sooner?”

The woman
stiffened. “This is a school, Mrs. James, not a daycare. We try to calm the
children when they get like this. We can’t call parents every time the kids get
in a little snit.”

“A little snit?
I’ve never seen him this upset.”

Mrs. Walsh
sniffed. “You’ll need to talk to Bo about what happened. He instigated a fight
on the playground today, his second one this week, and will have to miss recess
for the next several days. I know it’s been a rough year for him, but he needs
to understand how serious this matter is.”

Bo slumped
against her, lifeless, except for an occasional shudder that shredded her
heart. She knew she needed to respond, but words wouldn’t squeeze past the lump
in her throat. Instead she ran from the room, her son dead weight in her arms.

Chapter 8

T
rish laid Little Bo
on the plaid sofa in the family room of the main ranch house and watched him
slumber, his thumb stuffed in his mouth. She raised both hands to her cheeks.
Would he ever get past the trauma of his daddy’s death? Would she? The area
around his eyes puckered, and he whimpered in his sleep.

Her heart ached
with words she couldn’t speak, her eyes pricked by stinging needles. If only
Mom were here to tell her what to do.

“Did he tell you
what happened?” Dad draped an arm across her shoulder, and she inhaled the
comforting scent of his familiar aftershave.

She burrowed her
head in his shoulder for a moment, and then motioned her dad to the other room
so they wouldn’t awaken Bo. “I buckled him in and got in the car,” she
whispered, her voice sounding like it came from some place far away. “When I
turned around to back out of the parking space, he was already asleep.
Apparently, he started a fight at school today—the second one this week.”

Lines furrowed
Dad’s baby-white forehead, an obvious tan line where his cowboy hat usually
rested. “That’s not like him.”

A weary breath
burst from between her lips. She meandered to the oversized picture window and
peered out, her eyes seeing nothing. “He hasn’t been himself in such a long
time.” Trish lingered a few seconds, then returned to the table. She sagged to
one of the maple dining room chairs, and stroked the bridge of her nose. This
headache had morphed into a real doozy.

“Are you okay?”
His tone held worry.

Trish shook her
head. “Honestly, I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do.” Her voice
cracked, and she paused to gain control. “Life would be so much easier if God
gave us a detailed outline of what He wants us to do, so we could at least know
if we’re on the right path.”

He sent a kind
smile. “Tell you what. I’ll go fix us a glass of tea, and then I want to show
you something that’s helped me through a lot of tough times.”

She nodded,
grieved that she and Bo were responsible for the concern etched on his face.

“I’ll be right
back.” He tottered to the kitchen.

Trish took
advantage of his absence and called Betsy. “This is Trish. Sorry I never made
it back, but Bo isn’t feeling well.”

“Sorry to hear
that. Hope he’s better soon.” Thank goodness her voice held no reproach.

“You know how
kids are. I’m sure he’ll be better in the morning. I’ll come in to finish the
display right after I drop him off at school, if that’s okay.” She rushed
through the explanation, hoping the plea would work.

“Don’t worry about
it, Trish. I’ve already taken care of it.”

Her heart sank.
No job. No money. “Thanks for understanding.” She ended the call and laid the
phone on the table, her mind numb. Right now she just didn’t have the strength
to make the second business call. It would have to wait until later.

“Here you go.”
Dad shuffled back into the room, and set the tea in front of her, the ice cubes
clinking against the glass. He turned an object over in his hand, his eyes
tender, then gave her a hand-stitched bookmark, many years old, judging by the
worn edges.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own
understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your
paths.”

Trish trailed her
fingers over the bumpy stitches. The verse from Dani and Steve’s wedding.
Whoever made this did beautiful work. She took a sip of the sweet tea. “Where’d
you get this?” She passed it back to him, but he shook his head and curled her
fingers around the bookmark.

“You keep it for
now. A dear friend gave it to me a very long time ago. Every time I reached a
point in my life when I couldn’t decide which path to take, this verse helped.”
Dad eased back down into a chair, his hand still covering hers, and his
gray-blue eyes trained on her. “I know things are confusing right now, honey.
It’s hard to know what to do when life yanks the rug out from under you. The
best advice I can give is to trust God. I know it sounds too simple, but I
promise one day this will all be behind you.”