Apprentice Father (14 page)

He stayed in the doorway as she slid into her car. Watched her
back out of his driveway. Waited until her car disappeared around the corner.

She never looked back.

As he closed the door and flipped the lock, Clay mulled over his next steps. And ran through a list of questions that were beginning to demand answers.

Was he ready to make the kind of commitment a woman like Cate would expect?

Was it fair to her to act on the attraction between them if he wasn't?

Should he see how things went with the family responsibilities he'd accepted before taking on any more?

Why was Cate so skittish?

What impediments did she see to a relationship?

Were they surmountable?

Clay didn't have any of those answers. But before too much more time passed, he'd have to seek them out.

Because he knew they held the key to his future.

 

As the children knelt at their beds later that evening—a ritual Anne had taught them, and one they continued to follow—Clay rested an arm on the dresser. He was used to the routine by now. They always said the same prayer, in unison, then asked God to take care of certain people at the end, each contributing names.

The list was pretty familiar to Clay, though it kept growing. Anne was always first, followed by him and Cate. Pop had been added weeks ago. Other members of Cate's family came next. Reverend Richards had joined the list at some point, along with assorted people they'd come to know as they did errands each day with Cate. The lady at the bakery who always gave them a cookie. The librarian who set aside special books for them. The
waitress at the diner on Sunday who always managed to bring them a special treat “on the house.”

As they finished, Emily gave Clay an uncertain look. “Should we pray for Daddy, too?”

His first inclination was to say no. The man didn't deserve their prayers. But there was no question he needed them. And Clay knew what Reverend Richards would say, if asked the same question. Or Cate.

“Yes, honey, I think that's a good idea.”

“How about Grandpa?”

That was harder. Praying for a man who could never inflict any more harm was one thing. It was a magnanimous gesture. Sanctioning prayers for someone who remained a threat, who had the potential to ruin the lives of these children, was harder. And Clay wasn't inclined to be that generous. But perhaps his old man needed the prayers most of all, Clay conceded. His stay on earth wasn't over yet. A chance remained—however slim—that, with the grace of God, he would see the light and mend his ways.

“It couldn't hurt,” he told her.

The children concluded, mentioning their grandfather last. While Clay didn't hold out a lot of hope their prayer would have much impact, it was possible God would listen to these little children and work a miracle.

Because nothing less would soften his father's heart.

 

“What's this?” Clay picked up the envelope on the kitchen table. His name had been printed in crude lettering on the front with a green crayon—by Emily, he assumed. With lots of coaching from Cate.

The two children beamed up at him. “Happy Father's Day!”

Clay's hand froze, and his heart did a funny somersault. He'd
forgotten it was Father's Day. The day had never meant anything to him, as a child or as an adult. And since he'd never planned on having a family, he'd never expected to get a Father's Day card. Receiving one gave him an odd feeling in his chest. Not bad, but…different. Warm. And full. And good.

Stunned, Clay sat at the table. The children pressed close on each side, watching in excitement as he lifted the flap and withdrew the card that proclaimed him as a “special uncle.”

“Cate helped us pick it out,” Josh told him. “But we each signed our name.”

With hands that weren't quite steady, he opened it, read the sentiment, and looked at the sprawling printed names at the bottom and on the inside of the cover. Emily had added a flower and a smiling face above her name, and Josh's drawing resembled a fishing pole and a swing. Sort of.

“Do you like it?” Emily's eyes were anxious.

“It's the best present I ever got.” Clay choked out the words.

“But we have presents, too!” Josh declared. He scampered into their bedroom, returning a minute later with two small boxes. “This one's from me.” He thrust a gaily wrapped package at Clay.

His fingers fumbling, Clay pulled off the paper and withdrew a small wooden picture frame. Stones and acorn shells and twigs had been glued around the edges, and inside the frame was a photo of Josh and Emily holding fishing poles, their faces split by huge grins.

“I glued the stuff on the frame,” Josh said. “Cate helped me collect it. And she took the picture. Do you like it?”

There was an apprehensive note in his question, and Clay gave him a tender smile. “It's wonderful, Josh. I'm going to take this to work and put it on my desk. That way I can see you and Emily even when I'm not with you.”

Josh beamed as Emily held out her package. Inside Clay discovered a shallow box, open on the top, constructed of popsicle sticks. It was painted bright blue and decorated with buttons.

He had no idea what it was.

“Cate says you can use it for stuff on your desk at work,” Emily offered.

Grateful for the clue, he smiled. “It's perfect.”

And it was. Both gifts were. Maybe the edges didn't quite line up on the desktop caddy. Maybe the decorations on the frame weren't quite straight. But the love represented by the gifts was perfect. And it meant the world to him.

He told that to Cate later, pulling her aside after the worship service while Pop kept the children occupied. She shook her head, however, at his thanks.

“I wish I could take the credit. But Emily came up with the idea.” She smiled at him, her eyes soft green pools in the dappled shade of morning as she rested her hand on his arm. “They love you a lot, Clay. And that kind of love can't be bought or bribed or bartered. Especially from children. You've done a great job.”

The children's gifts had filled him so full of happiness Clay hadn't thought there was room for any more. But Cate's words of praise were the icing on the cake. A torrent of emotion overwhelmed him, and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

She turned away before he could speak, taking the warmth of her hand from his arm.

But in its place, she left a warm glow in his heart.

C
lay lifted his elbow and wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his T-shirt, then took a long, cold swig of lemonade. In typical Missouri fashion, the late June Saturday afternoon was hot, muggy and uncomfortable. But the heat hadn't deterred the dozens of congregants who'd shown up at church to lend a hand with the pavilion-raising project.

From his vantage point across the property, Clay examined the results of their labors. The structure of the cedar pavilion was in place, and the willing, if unskilled, crew was diligently working on the floor and railings. Children played in a safe area off to one side, and an abundance of home-cooked food was being set out for a late lunch in the shade of a towering oak tree.

Reverend Richards, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, broke apart from the cluster of people wielding hammers and saws and headed toward Clay. “I'm glad to see you're taking a much-needed break.”

“To be honest, I feel a little guilty about it. Everyone else is still hard at it.”

“They're a good group.” The minister surveyed the scene. “I
was very blessed to receive a call from this church when I was ordained four years ago.”

“You mean you weren't always a preacher?” Clay had assumed the man had spent all of his adult life in ministry.

“Far from it. I worked for quite a few years in the corporate world first.”

Intrigued, Clay cocked his head. “What did you do?”

“I was vice president of planning for a pretty sizable company.”

When he named a firm on the Fortune 500 list, Clay's eyebrows rose. Bob Richards had been a successful business executive, with all the perks and prestige that came with a coveted position in a blue-chip firm. And he'd walked away to be a small-town pastor.

It didn't compute.

“Wasn't that a lot to give up?”

The minister smiled. “I found something better.”

His response surprised Clay. What was it about being a minister that had been compelling enough to induce him to make such a radical change in lifestyle?

“Had you always been drawn to the ministry?” Clay ventured.

The pastor gave a rueful laugh. “No. In my younger days I barely had a speaking acquaintance with the Lord. My sights were set on a business career, and the Lord didn't fit in with my plans. I wanted to be rich and powerful, and in the eyes of the world I achieved that.”

“So what happened?”

“No bolt from the blue, if that's what you mean. I just began to realize that despite the money and the power and the perks, I wasn't happy. Nor did I feel grounded or secure. I knew some essential component was missing from my life, but I couldn't quite figure out what it was. I only knew I felt restless.”

The minister stuck his hands in his pockets, his expression reflective. “Over time, though, I began to hear a voice.
His
voice. Calling me home. Only I didn't want to go. It was way too scary. And the sacrifices required were too great. He was asking me to give up everything I'd worked for, change the plan for my life. And I didn't want to do that. I liked being in charge of my destiny, and I was afraid to relinquish that control. I fought Him every step of the way.”

“What happened to change your mind?”

Reverend Richards refocused on Clay. “The voice kept growing stronger, always gentle, but always there. Until I conceded that I needed to at least consider what He was asking. And once I opened that door, once I allowed for the possibility that maybe God had a different idea about what He wanted for my life than I did, the rest fell into place. I left my job, went to divinity school, and now I'm content serving the Lord in this small church in Washington, Missouri.”

The man's story resonated with Clay, touching on many of the emotions he'd been experiencing in the past few months. The restlessness. The feeling that some essential element was missing. The fear of letting go, of relinquishing control. Even the need to connect with the Lord and understand His will.

Except Reverend Richards had found his answers. Clay's search continued.

“I envy you your sense of contentment,” Clay admitted.

“It didn't happen overnight. But in the end, my life played out the way it was supposed to. If I'd come to ministry sooner, I wouldn't have brought with me as many insights about the pressures and temptations of the business world or understood the struggle to hear God's voice.”

The pastor shifted his position to take advantage of the pro
tective shade of a sheltering maple tree. “You know, I used to envy those whose beliefs have been solid and sure since childhood. But those of us who struggle to understand and accept bring a special gift to the faith. And it's encouraging to know the history of Christianity is full of holy people who grappled with doubt and temptation. They serve as a great reminder that God calls us by many different paths to His truths, and that He calls us
all
—sinners and saints alike. We just have to listen for His call and say ‘yes' when the time comes.”

Clay swirled the ice in his lemonade, watching it melt in the warmth of the sun. “I think I fall more into the sinners category. I haven't had much of a relationship with the Lord. To be honest, I wouldn't be at church now if it wasn't for the children.”

“The Lord often works in interesting ways, doesn't He?” The minister's lips tipped up into a gentle smile. “And as for being a sinner, we all are, Clay. We're human. God doesn't expect us to be perfect. He just expects us to try.”

“I don't think I'm ready to take the leap of faith you did,” Clay confessed. “But I've begun to recognize there's a hole in my life. And I'm beginning to think part of what's missing is a relationship with the Lord.”

“Then you've taken the first step. The rest will come, if you listen for His voice and open your heart.” He gestured toward the tables of food, where a hungry horde had gathered. “Now let's go have some lunch. And a word to the wise: Be sure to try the apple cobbler in the big white casserole. That's my wife's contribution, and if you'll pardon me for bragging, she makes the best cobbler in Franklin County.”

 

“Say, Pop, what's the story on that guy?” Clay snagged a can of soda from an oversized cooler and flipped the top.

Pop followed the direction of Clay's gaze toward Dan Maxwell, who was hammering a floorboard into the pavilion. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You have an odd expression. The same one you had when he stopped to talk to Cate a few weeks ago after services. Like you don't like him.”

“Hmph. So much for my acting ability. And Christian charity. I'll have to work on both.”

“Cate had an odd expression that day, too.”

After a brief hesitation, Pop took Clay's arm and drew him away from the work crew putting the finishing touches on the pavilion. “I'm not one for gossip, but I guess it's time you knew about Cate and Dan.”

He turned his back toward the tall, blond man with the athletic build and vivid blue eyes. “Dan came to Washington about five years ago and joined our congregation. I suppose he's the kind of man who can turn a woman's head. Handsome, in a Nordic kind of way. Excellent manners. Churchgoing. He and Cate started dating, and things got pretty serious. We all expected an engagement announcement any day. Then, out of the blue, it was over.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know.” Pop scratched his head. “Cate never talked much about it. All she said was that things didn't work out and they weren't going to be seeing each other anymore. There was no acrimony between them. But Cate changed after that. Got quieter, and resigned. Whatever Dan did killed her dreams of finding a man to love, of having a family.”

Clay scrutinized the blond-haired man. His wife had joined him now, bouncing their baby on her shoulder. Dan tousled the little one's head and leaned over to kiss his wife's forehead. They were the picture of a loving family.

“For the record, I don't much care for people who hurt the ones I love.”

Picking up the warning in the older man's tone, Clay leveled a steady look in his direction. “I feel the same way.”

Pop perused him in silence, then gave a slow nod. “That's good to know.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Cate hitched a ride with me this morning. But Joe, my buddy from the garden club, asked me to take in a movie tonight. I'd sure like to go.”

“I could give her a lift home.”

“I was hoping you could.” There was a twinkle in the older man's eyes.

He started to walk away, but Clay put a hand his arm. “Thanks, Pop.”

A smile touched the corners of the older man's lips. “Sometimes you just have to trust your heart.”

As Pop strolled away, Clay downed the rest of his soda and regarded Dan Maxwell again. He understood Pop's feelings about Cate's one-time suitor. He shared them. Cate didn't deserve to be hurt, and he didn't have much respect or tolerance for anyone who had caused her pain.

Yet might he be setting himself up to do the same? he wondered. He hadn't made any secret about his attraction to her, and he was pretty sure it was mutual. But what if things heated up and he got scared? He could end up jilting her, as Dan had. And that wasn't good. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt the lovely woman who had added such joy to his life.

Scanning the women setting out the food for the potluck supper, Clay had no trouble spotting Cate, with her mane of blond hair. She was cutting a layer cake at the dessert table.

Suddenly she glanced up, as if she'd sensed his scrutiny across the lawn, and her hand stilled. She was too far away for him to
read her eyes, but he didn't imagine the jolt of electricity that arced between them.

A soft blush turned her peaches-and-cream complexion pink, and she froze. A few charged seconds ticked by, and then she tucked her hair behind her ear and went back to work.

Crushing the empty aluminum can in his hand, Clay drew a long, steadying breath. His instincts told him to ignore the warning signs flashing in his mind. But his innate sense of honor wouldn't let him. He couldn't act on his feelings unless he came to grips with his commitment phobia and put to rest the fear that he wasn't husband material.

But how was he supposed to do that?

Pray.

The single word echoed in his mind—perhaps triggered by his conversation with Pastor Bob, he theorized. But it wasn't a bad idea. And he didn't have any better ones.

Turning away from the crowd converging on the food tables, Clay tipped his head back and focused on the blue expanse of sky.

Lord, please guide me. I don't want to hurt Cate. But I'm beginning to believe she and I were meant to be together. Help me overcome my fears and give me the courage to follow my heart, trusting You to steady me if I falter. And please help Cate deal with whatever is holding her back, too. Because I sense her obstacles are as potent as my fears.

 

Cate felt as if she'd just run a marathon.

Shifting away from the group of women setting out casseroles on the long table next to hers, she began to divvy up the slices of cake among paper plates as she struggled to catch her breath.

No longer could she dodge the truth. Not after those amazing
few seconds, when one look at Clay had short-circuited her vital signs.

She had to face the facts.

Despite her vow to keep her distance, the handsome engineer who'd come to town to build a manufacturing plant had also managed to build a bridge between their hearts.

And that was dangerous.

Or was it?

For the first time, Cate allowed for the possibility that maybe her heart didn't need protecting. From Clay, anyway. Over the past few months, as she'd watched this man who'd claimed to be rootless, anti-religion and commitment-averse move to a house, connect with a church and take responsibility for two traumatized children, putting their needs above his own, he'd shaken her resolve to steer clear of romance. From everything she could see, Clay Adams was a good, decent man well worth the risk of loving.

But she'd thought the same about Dan.

And paid the consequences.

“Everything okay, Cate?”

Her hand jerked, and a piece of cake plopped icing-side-down on the Formica-topped table.

“Hi, Marge.” She shot the picnic chairwoman an apologetic glance. “Yes, I'm fine. Sorry about this.” It took her two attempts to scoop up the cake. Not because one of her hands had limited use, but because both were trembling. A fact the gray-haired woman had no doubt noticed, Cate concluded in dismay.

“No problem. We have cake coming out our ears. You sure you're okay? The heat's not getting to you, is it?” The woman fanned herself with her hand and shook her head. “Could Pastor Bob have picked a hotter day?”

Disposing of the cake in a nearby trash can, Cate wiped her hands on a napkin and latched onto Marge's explanation. “It's pretty intense for the end of June. I think I'll grab a cup of lemonade.”