Love in Bloom (20 page)

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Authors: Arlene James

BOOK: Love in Bloom
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Things had changed, and nothing had changed. Instead of making announcements at the beginning of the service, as they had used to do, they began with a congregational song, saving the announcements for last, according to the bulletin. Other elements of the service had also been juggled, but all were familiar.

Tate had missed singing. He hadn’t realized it until he’d opened the hymnal and actually started to sing, but he’d missed the feeling of lifting his voice, especially in concert with others. He wasn’t the best singer or the worst, but he could carry a tune, and singing with others seemed to make him better. Something more happened, however. He realized that he had a need to praise God, not just to sing about Him but a need to actually praise Him, to worship.

He remembered a time when he had foolishly told himself that he would never be able to truly worship again. He’d told himself that his doubts, anger, disappointment and grief would forever taint his reverence for the Almighty. Somehow, over time, that had all changed, however. Without him even realizing it, his hunger for God had slowly and quietly grown until even his anger could not stand against it. In the end, a little girl’s “second birthday wish” had been all it had taken to overcome that.

The service proved somewhat troubling merely because Tate had some difficulty with concentration. Perhaps he was out of practice, or perhaps the problem was Lily sitting just an arm’s length away there on the other side of Isabella, looking pretty in a straight sleeveless dress of peach-colored lace with a big square collar that overlapped her slender shoulders. Whatever the reason, he found his thoughts wandering after the Scripture reading, which came from the third chapter of Second Timothy.

His mind snagged on the sixteenth and seventeenth verses:
All Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness: that the man of God may be complete, thoroughly equipped for every good work.

That word
complete
jumped out at him. He hadn’t felt complete since Eve’s death. Or maybe the truth was that he’d felt even
less
complete after Eve had died. She’d always said that he’d seemed to have something to prove because everyone thought they’d married too young, and maybe that had been true. At times he’d felt that she was the only one on his side, and then suddenly she’d been gone, leaving him a single father. Maybe that was why he’d pored over his Bible in those dark days that had followed her passing. He’d needed answers for her death, so he’d dug through books like Lamentations and Psalms, Ecclesiastes, James and even Revelation. He hadn’t found the answers that he’d sought, and he’d refused to come to church until he had. He realized now, in the back of his mind, he’d felt that he was punishing God by staying at home on Sunday mornings, but he’d really been hurting himself. And his daughter.

The joy on Isabella’s face this morning had been eclipsed only by her sobs when she’d leaped into his arms and wept upon realizing why he’d shown up wearing a suit. That had humbled him as nothing else could have done, so he would make a concerted effort to leave the past behind and go forward. He wanted completion, and God knew that he hadn’t found it on his own.

After the service, which seemed surprisingly short, people seemed torn between knocking him senseless by pounding his back in welcome and playing it cool, as if they saw him there every Sunday. Tate felt happy with either reaction. He just felt happy, period. It was weird. His insides quivered like the proverbial bowlful of jelly, but the sun seemed to shine a little brighter—on what was turning out to be an overcast day—and he found himself grinning like an idiot when no reason could be found for it, except…well, maybe returning to church had been easier than he’d expected, after all. He’d thought he’d have moments of unease, at least, but he really hadn’t.

It had been a lot like walking back into the school the day when he’d enrolled Isabella for preschool or that day Coraline had called everyone to the principal’s office to start the SOS Committee. In each case years had passed since he’d last walked through those specific doors, but he’d felt just as at home as ever.

“So,” Lily asked, as soon as they had a moment to themselves, Isabella having run off to speak to her grandparents, “was it as difficult as you expected?”

Tate couldn’t help himself; he burst out laughing. “No,” he managed. “It wasn’t. Not at all.” He sobered to a grin. “In fact, it was quite enjoyable.”

“Then what was so funny?” she asked, chuckling uncertainly, her wary gaze casting about them in little jerks of concern.

“Well, lightning didn’t strike, for one thing.”

Her blue eyes zipped to his face. “Tate!”

“I’m joking. I’m joking. It’s just that I had it built up in my mind as this earth-shattering event and, well, it turns out to be pretty much like the last time I was here.”

“I guess that’s good,” she said hopefully, rocking from heel to toe and toe to heel.

“I think so.”

He wasn’t the least surprised when his mother approached then to invite Lily to come over for Sunday dinner. “It being Isabella’s actual birthday, and especially after all the help you gave us at the party yesterday.”

Tate had no doubt that the matchmaking little miss had instigated the whole thing, not that he minded really, though he would have to be careful not to inflame his daughter’s all-too-active imagination. He wasn’t sure where all this was going. Lily was, first and foremost, Isabella’s friend, and he didn’t know that she would ever be more than that. Yes, he had finally said goodbye to Eve, and he was finally back in church and glad to be talking to God again. Plus, he liked Lily. In truth, he more than liked Lily. Still, he’d learned some hard lessons in life, and he wasn’t about to forget them.

Lily ducked her head, delicate color rising to her cheeks. Her eyes skittered behind the lenses of her glasses, her innate shyness reasserting itself. He thought for a moment that she would refuse his mother’s invitation, but then she lifted her chin, smiled and nodded her head.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “That would be lovely.”

“Let everyone get changed,” his mother instructed Tate smartly, “then bring Lily and Isabella along. Your father wants to eat before the baseball game starts.”

“Not much hope of that,” Tate warned.

“That’s what I told him.”

“We’ll be as quick as we can.”

“That’s all I ask.” His mom went off to join her impatiently gesturing husband.

Tate looked to Lily then. “So how do you want to do this?”

“Just drop me at the apartment and give me three minutes.”

He chuckled. Eve used to say three minutes when she meant thirty. With Lily three minutes probably meant ten. He’d give her the ten happily. Then they’d head out to his place so he and Isabella could swap their Sunday best for family comfortable before going over to his parents’ house.

Lily excused herself briefly to apprise Coraline and Miss Mars of the situation. By the time she rejoined them, Tate had belted his daughter into her seat in the truck, warned her to be on her best behavior, and held an open door for Lily.

She smiled at him as he handed her up into the cab of the truck, and he instantly remembered kissing her. Suddenly he wondered if having her over for the afternoon was such a good idea. He seemed to lose his head with Lily. She’d wormed her way into his heart with surprising speed. In her own quiet, unassuming way, Lily Farnsworth was a dangerous woman.

Still, what was he going to do? Tell her that he’d changed his mind and was rescinding his mother’s dinner invitation? He was surely man enough to behave with good sense and some measure of discipline.

He dropped her at the apartment as suggested and waited in the truck at the curb. Lily proved that she could tell time while changing her clothes better than the average woman of his acquaintance. She skipped back down the stairs in under five minutes, wearing hay-colored cotton capris and a matching top embroidered with turquoise-blue hummingbirds. On her feet were turquoise-blue sandals with enough sparkle to make Isabella sit up and take notice.

She jabbered delightedly about getting a pair for herself all the way out to the ranch. Once there she had to be bullied up to her room, and only Lily could coax her into suitable clothing for a casual afternoon at her grandparents’ house. She wanted to dress up as she had for the tea party the previous day, but Lily convinced her, before Tate could lose his temper, that was not a good idea. Tate put his foot down about bringing Spunky along with them, however, pointing out that Grandpa’s dog and Grandma’s cat would not appreciate Spunky’s presence.

“Besides,” as he told Lily, “I know it’s her birthday, but she can’t have
everything
she wants.”

“I didn’t say she should.”

“Uh-huh, but I know that look.”

He wondered if that look could mean that Isabella was enough for her, then chastised himself for wondering.

By the time they finally piled into the truck and sped off to his parents’ place, Tate knew that his dad was going to have to interrupt his ball game to eat, but Tate did his best, as promised, throwing up dust getting over there. As he pushed through the screen door into his mother’s kitchen, he could hear the TV in the other room.

“Ball game’s on, huh?”

“He’s waiting for you to set the DVR so he won’t miss anything.”

“I better get in there.” His dad had a way of messing up the DVR settings, but Tate couldn’t help feeling that he was abandoning Lily. Still, she wasn’t
his
guest.
He
hadn’t invited her. He was just the transportation.

Besides, if she was Eve, he wouldn’t think twice about leaving her with his mom. Nevertheless, walking out of that room required a surprising amount of steel.
Staying
out of it proved to be one of the most difficult things he’d ever done.

Chapter Thirteen

G
inny had a way of drawing Lily into the work of meal preparation without making her feel awkward about it. Isabella sat at the kitchen table and colored in a stack of well-used coloring books. This was apparently a favorite activity at her grandmother’s house, but Lily didn’t believe for a moment that her little ears weren’t pricked for every sound and nuance of what passed between the two women as they moved about the small, dated kitchen.

The elder Bronsons’ house had little in common with that of their son. Though two-story and wrapped-in porches, it was much smaller, older and had been sided entirely in clapboard, which could use a good wash and a coat of white paint. Yet it exuded an aura of home and warmth. The older appliances, olive green in color, gleamed with cleanliness, as did the white tile floor and countertops. The yellow walls behind the olive green cabinets showed off decades’ worth of handprints in clay disks, Bible verses printed on cardboard and decorated with colored macaroni, bird feathers shellacked to bits of wood and designs glued to strips of felt. These were the keepsakes of childhood, the sort of things Lily’s own mother had displayed on her desk for a prescribed period of time and then relegated to a special box until the end of each school year, when two special keepsakes would be chosen. Lily liked that Ginny Bronson still kept the offerings of her own children as decorations in the heart of her home.

She saw framed colorings of Isabella’s, too. The old-fashioned refrigerator was plastered with them. Lily couldn’t help wondering where Tate kept Isabella’s bits of artwork. She’d seen some things on his nice big stainless steel fridge but only a few. Maybe Isabella was prone to gifting her grandmother with her artwork. Then again, she’d given Lily quite a number of her colorings. Lily put the matter out of mind to help carry food to the table in the other room as Ginny dished up the meal.

Because the dining room was in one end of the long narrow living area, Ginny had an iron-clad rule about the television not being on during mealtime, so Peter and Tate dutifully shut off the set and came to the maple table. Peter took the chair at one end of the long oval. Tate chose a chair in the center, leaving the seat at the other end for Ginny. Isabella sat across from her father, and Ginny had laid an extra place beside her for Lily.

The china, Ginny had told Lily, had once belonged to Peter’s grandmother. Many of the serving pieces were as cobwebbed and darkened as the ivy-latticed dinnerware, but that seemed appropriate when piled high with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans and cream gravy—all Isabella’s favorites, which she mentioned while giving thanks for the food.

“Not that her grandmother spoils her or anything,” Tate said pointedly, following the prayer.

“And not that you don’t benefit significantly from that,” Lily observed as he loaded his plate.

“Hey, I won’t get fed like this again until my own birthday,” he objected.

“Which isn’t so far away,” Lily remarked unthinkingly. “September, isn’t it?”

“The sixth,” Isabella confirmed, reaching for a buttered roll.

Lily pushed the bread basket a little closer to her, but she still caught the look that passed between Ginny and Peter, as if they found significance in her knowing the month of Tate’s birth. She bit her lip, trying to think of a way to explain that Isabella had told her both her father’s birth date and his age within the first hour of their meeting. Abandoning the effort, she asked Tate what he would choose for his own birthday dinner.

Ginny and Peter both laughed.

“Catfish,” Isabella supplied. “Fried catfish.”

“With corn bread, cole slaw, and potatoes cooked up with onions, celery and peppers,” Tate said, shaking his fork at his mother.

“As if I’m likely to forget,” she said to Lily. “He’s been eating the same birthday dinner since he was twelve.”

“Remember the year Eve tried to bake the catfish?” Peter asked with a chortle.

Everyone at the table froze.

A trio of heartbeats later, Tate finished chewing and swallowed then looked at Lily, a half smile curling one corner of his lips. “Nearly put me off catfish for good,” he said easily before switching his attention back to his plate. He forked up a bite of potatoes and gravy. “She was just trying to ‘healthy things up,’ as Dad puts it.” He smiled to himself, adding, “But the good Lord intended catfish to be fried. Period.” He ate the potatoes, following them with green beans, and said no more.

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