Love Inspired August 2014 – Bundle 1 of 2 (34 page)

“What?”

“You ever ride a grocery cart in the supermarket?”

“Sure, but...”

He tapped his knees. “Same thing, only different.”

Heather didn’t think it was anything like any grocery cart ride she’d ever taken.
“Can you...hold me?”

“I’m not made of glass, darlin’, and holding you is the whole idea. I’ll be just fine.”

Feeling a bit ridiculous, Heather climbed gingerly onto Max’s lap. “Keep your hands
in your lap and lean to one side a bit so I can see where we’re going.” She followed
his instructions, and Max coasted the downhill slope of the street like a carnival
ride, going slow enough to make her feel safe but just fast enough to tug a small
squeal from her as he turned onto the short stretch of concrete that spread under
the patio of The Black Swan. Music and light spilled out into the night, creating
their own little dance floor.

The music flowed into a lazy samba, and Max hoisted her out of his chair as if she
weighed nothing at all. Keeping one hand on her elbow, he spun her to face him, then
took each of her hands in his. “I pull—you push.” Sure enough, she began to move with
Max, pushing apart and pulling together like dancing partners. He spun her, and she
laughed. “See? You’re a natural.”

Emboldened, Heather lifted up her arm, and Max deftly spun underneath it, catching
her waist as he went by and sending her twirling in the opposite direction. Back and
forth, spinning in small arcs and big dramatic circles, she enjoyed the dance more
than she’d ever have imagined. Max knew how to pull fun from life like no other man
she’d met. All the awkwardness of the earlier hours melted away in the lure of his
eyes and the strength of his hands.

“Put your foot here,” he coached, nodding to one of his footrests. She tucked her
toe in next to his as he pulled one of her hands to his shoulder. She raised herself
up on tiptoe beside Max on his footrest, the other foot extended out behind her in
a playful pirouette. Max spun her around, making her feel like the tiny ballerina
on her childhood music box, twirling under the stars in a dazzling finish as the music
ended.

Heather curled, slowly and effortlessly, into Max’s lap as if it was the most natural
place in all the world to be. He tilted his chin up toward her; the colored lights
of the patio above them played across his face and shoulders, lighting the unchecked
affection in his eyes. She moved closer, watching her hair tumble around his features
until it curtained the moment when her lips met his.

The kiss was sweet and urgent at the same time. It wasn’t a hungry, devouring kind
of kiss, but, while it was slow and soft, it was still driven by a need to be close
and closer still. Awe. That was what she felt in Max’s kiss. The starstruck wonder
that they’d ever met at all. It coupled with her own astonishment that he met such
a deep need in her; they matched beyond what either of them ever expected.

She felt him smile and heard a low, delightful laugh rumble from him as she settled
down to sit on his knees. Max ran his fingers through her hair, sending tingles out
through her fingertips. “That,” he said, his eyes bright as the starlight on the river
current behind them, “was officially wonderful.”

She couldn’t help but laugh herself. “You are a very good dancer.”

“Surprised you, did I?”

She leaned in again. “In a million ways.”

Chapter Fourteen

I
f anyone had told Max he’d spend a Sunday night making a complete idiot out of himself
with a Ping-Pong ball and a straw in front of a tableful of teenagers, he’d have laughed
in their faces. The youth-group brand of fun was never his thing, even when he was
the age to be in one. None of which explained how much he was enjoying himself tonight.
This riotous version of “air hockey” had him laughing and puffing so hard he was starting
to feel dizzy. With a conspiratorial look to Simon, Max sent the Ping-Pong ball the
boy’s way and Simon shot it into the makeshift goal on the opposite site of the table.
Victory hoots shot up from “Team Si-Max,” lording their conquest over a gangly sophomore
and his uncle, the town banker.

“We advance to the finals after dinner!” Simon pumped his fists into the air. Max
gave him a high five, enjoying the boy’s enthusiasm. It was clear the boy felt less
stress here than at school.

“I’m too old for this,” complained a grandfatherly type Max recognized as George Bradens,
the retired fire chief and Clark’s father.

“Aw, c’mon, Chief—you used to be full of hot air,” another man Max vaguely knew from
the firehouse kidded George. Max had fun watching the two tease each other. His own
dad was always so serious and task oriented—Max could have never invited his father
to something so raucous as Friends Night. Max found it a pleasant surprise to know
that, at least at Gordon Falls Community Church, “spiritual” didn’t always have to
mean “serious.”

“Hey,” Simon pointed out, “Ms. Browning is here.”

Sure enough, Heather sat down at a dinner table with a gaggle of high school girls.
“She didn’t mention she was coming,” he replied, trying to keep the warmth of her
tender kiss from creeping into his voice. He hadn’t seen her since that night, and
the memory flashed through him as he watched her laugh at something. She was really
getting to him.

“She shows up for dinner a lot. She’s like an adviser or something.”

During dinner, Max tried to keep up a conversation with Simon and meet his friends
while at the same time he could feel Heather in the room with him. He would sense
her gaze and look up from spaghetti or chocolate pudding to find her eyes across the
room. It was as if the world were moving on two different levels—one with Heather
and one with everyone else. He couldn’t decide if the sensation was unnerving or exhilarating.
Maybe even both—a whole new thrill for this consummate thrill-seeker.

He was elated when Team Si-Max took first place in the air-ball finals, winning an
absurd trophy fashioned from tinfoil-covered paper cups. “Our champions!” Heather
beamed, giving Simon a quick hug and Max one that lasted just a bit longer. Max was
starting to find the scent in her hair downright addictive. From the flush in her
cheeks as she stepped away, he was starting to have the same effect on her. “So, how
are you enjoying Friends Night?”

“It’s not at all what I expected,” Max admitted.

Simon launched a superior look at Max. “
Told you
it’d be fun.”

“You did. And you were right. Try not to lord it over me, okay?”

“I dunno.” Simon’s face lit up in the smirk that was quickly stealing Max’s affections.
“That’d be hard.” He looked at Heather. “I need something to drink after all that
huffing. Want anything?”

“I’m okay. I’ll supervise Max while you’re gone—just so you don’t worry.” Max had
always found
sparkling
such an overdone description for a woman’s eyes, but the word sure fit tonight.

“Yeah,” Simon said as he headed off toward a tub of ice filled with bottles of root
beer. “He can’t be trusted.”

“Funny.” Heather sighed as Simon wheeled off to join some friends. “I told Mrs. Williams
just the opposite Thursday morning.”

Max’s mood lost some of its joviality. “Convinced I was behind Simon’s escape, was
she?”

“I think she’s just trying to figure out who this new Simon is and whether or not
the changes she’s seeing are a good thing. Don’t fault her for her suspicion. I’ve
got files of stories of teens led down wrong paths by the very adults who were supposed
to be helping them.”

Suddenly, it was crucial that he know. “Do
you
think I’m helping Simon?”

“I do, and that’s exactly what I told her. I think the fact that Simon felt he could
come to you kept him from making a far worse decision Wednesday night.” She tucked
her hands into her pockets, and Max knew why. The urge to reach out and touch her
was so strong, but this wasn’t the time or the place. Max Jones erring on the side
of discretion. It was a wonder the world didn’t tilt in alarm. “Yes.” She sighed the
word in a way that spread a cheesy but wonderful glow in Max’s chest. “You are helping
Simon more than probably either of us will ever know. Will you cringe if I call you
an answer to a prayer?”

Max had been called a lot of things in his day, but never that. “Yeah, I will. But
go ahead.”

* * *

Heather could barely contain the bubbly joy she felt watching Max and Simon say good-night
as the evening’s victors. There was no formal reason for Heather to be there tonight.
As a youth-group adviser, she was welcome at any of the Sunday night youth-group events,
and she’d wanted to watch Max discover how much fun church could be. Her heart was
in a dangerous place with Max: if things were going to move forward, she wanted to
know faith was becoming a part of his life. The way he looked tonight—laughing and
cracking jokes and meeting people—that was as much a gift as his exquisite kiss.
Am I ready to trust him with my heart? Has Max healed enough to be slow and careful
with it? Or will I be hurt again?

“Hey there.”

Heather turned to find Melba Bradens. “Hi. Your father-in-law sure had a good time
tonight.”

Melba’s sigh reminded Heather it had barely been two weeks since Mort’s funeral. “It’s
good to be silly after all that other stuff.”

“How are you feeling?” Heather touched Melba’s arm. “Is it still really hard?”

“Yes.” Melba blinked back a few tears. “And no.” She smiled. “I wanted you to hear
it from me.”

“Hear what?”

Melba’s hand slid to her stomach. “I’m pregnant. A little girl. In March.”

Heather wrapped Melba in a huge hug. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Really wonderful.” She
pushed the woman to arm’s length. “You don’t even show. I mean, you do—you look wonderful.
Did—” she was almost afraid to ask “—did your father know?”

Now a tear slid down Melba’s face. “We told him.” She laughed and swiped the tear
away. “Actually, I think we had to tell him about twelve times, but I’m positive it
sunk in.”

“That’s so sweet. What did he say?”

“He asked if we could call her Maria after my mom. He actually laughed and said he
was glad it was a girl because he’d feel bad asking us to give anyone a name like
Mort.” She sniffled. “I would have, you know? Well, okay, maybe as a middle name,
but I would have.”

Heather squeezed Melba’s hand. “So it’ll be Maria Bradens?”

Another tear escaped to slide down Melba’s cheek, and Heather felt her own eyes brim
over with the bittersweet balance of it all. “Clark gets to choose the middle name,
and he hasn’t done that yet, but yes.” She managed a damp laugh. “He made a joke about
Morticia the other day, though, so I know he’s working on it.”

Heather leaned in. “So, how many pairs of baby booties have you knit?”

Melba winced. “Six. It was the only thing I could do until I could tell everyone.
I’ve knit dozens of baby booties before, but in a way I feel like I’ve been waiting
my whole life to knit
my
baby’s booties. That’s kind of sick when you think about it, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. Congratulations. I’m so happy for you and Clark.” One of the reasons
Heather wanted to learn to knit from Melba was so that someday she would be able to
do exactly what Melba was doing. It had always stung her that she’d never found the
time to let Grannie Annie teach her to knit before the wonderful old woman had passed
on. How many pairs of socks had Grannie Annie knit for her as her leg was healing?
Families were where healing was born. How life went on. Heather hoped that when God
gave her a family of her own, she’d glow just as much as the woman smiling in front
of her.

“So what about you and Max Jones? Don’t think I didn’t notice the way he looks at
you. And let’s just say your dinner at The Black Swan didn’t go unnoticed.”

Some days it seemed as if nothing in Gordon Falls was ever private. Not to mention
how impossible it was to blend in beside Max. Heather wasn’t quite sure she was ready
to be that public about Max, even to a friend like Melba. “He’s doing wonderfully
with Simon.”

Melba leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s not
what I asked.”

Heather felt her face heat up. “Well, maybe there’s something there, but...”

“Oh, there’s something there all right.” Melba’s eyes were kind behind the teasing.

Heather simply pushed out a breath and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t really know
yet. Parts of him are so amazing. But he’s wild and loud.”

“Well, you know what they say about opposites.” Melba cocked her head to one side,
offering a smile. “Maybe you’ll be perfect for each other.” She looked into the room,
where Max was telling some rousing and evidently funny tale to an audience of teens.
“The kids love him. That’s always a good sign, right?”

“Not if it’s because he’s just a great big kid himself.” Mr. Williams had said something
to that effect after lambasting Max for aiding and abetting Simon’s escape.

Melba gave a small hum. “Maybe you should get your eyes checked, because that is most
certainly a man. A handsome man who can’t seem to stop staring at you.”

“I just need to be more...sure...than I am now. It’s going to take time, and Max doesn’t
strike me as the patient type.”

“So give it some time. I have a feeling Mr. Hot Wheels might just surprise you.”

Heather nodded. She was certain Max would surprise her. She just couldn’t be sure
if the surprise would be a happy one.

Chapter Fifteen

T
wo days later, Max found himself in an Iowa college library. Such academic surroundings
were not his home territory. An internet search was about the furthest he’d go in
the name of research, but he’d uncovered a story of a World War II wounded aristocrat
funding a nature-path renovation that would accommodate a wheelchair, and he thought
it would make a nice bit of info to add to an event AA was planning in another Iowa
city. The scarcity of available materials meant actually going to a library to do
it old-school—microfiche readers and old files of yellowing newspapers. At first it
seemed like a pain, but it was getting too cold to go out in the
Sea Legs
and Max had decided he needed the three-hour drive to think over everything that
had happened lately.

“May I help you?” the librarian asked.

“I need newspaper files from 1980 to 1984 on the Baker trail-system renovation. Your
website said those aren’t electronic yet, right?”

“No...sir, they’re still on microfiche. Our electronic archives only start in 2000.”
Max found it amusing that she seemed to have to think about whether to call someone
dressed like him “sir.”

“Can I get to the readers and the files in my chair?” Max pictured a musty file room
down several flights of stairs.

“You can access the readers fine, but I’ll have to bring the hard-copy files up to
you one year at a time.”

It sounded as if he was going to be there for a couple of hours. “That’ll work for
me. Lead on.”

The librarian removed the chair from in front of one of the ancient-looking microfiche
reading machines, gave him a few slips to fill out and within fifteen minutes Max
was trudging his way through endless images, feeling like one of Heather’s high school
students working on a boring research paper. Academic research was definitely not
how he liked to spend his time.

By the third reel, Max needed a break. He wheeled up to the reference desk and put
in an order for the files of hard-copy issues he’d managed to identify as likely sources
for the information he needed, then asked for directions to the nearest decent cup
of coffee.

The diner half a block down was not only accessible, it had free internet access.
Max flipped open his laptop for a little twenty-first-century coffee break, deciding
that not all small Iowa towns were boring and backward.

Come to think of it, Heather had said she was from Iowa, hadn’t she? Would an internet
search bring up any high school pictures of her? Had the town made a big deal when
she’d graduated despite such a traumatic injury? Normally, Max wasn’t in the habit
of cyber-sleuthing women of interest, but the query seemed the perfect way to recharge
his history-numbed brain cells. Counting backward, he guessed her high school graduation
at somewhere around 2004, typed that and her name into his search engine, and started
in on his very good coffee.

He found four photos of the small graduating class—there couldn’t have been more than
fifty students—and a pair of articles on “inspiring seniors.” Heather looked young
and fresh-faced, a cheerful but wobbly smile under her mortarboard cap. She had the
beginnings of the beautiful woman she was now, but a shy and cautious nature came
roaring through in the way she posed for pictures. In fact, he saw more of Simon in
those photographs than the Heather he’d come to know.

The Heather he’d come to care about. A lot.

He clicked a few associated links, ending up at two articles covering her accident
and the resulting burns. Another article covered the driver’s charges—the ones that
had so angered Heather’s father. Max could see where Heather’s father’s fury came
from: the article was clearly written to cast the boy as a victim of his youthful
indiscretion. There wasn’t a single mention in that article of Heather’s injuries
and the resulting medical consequences.

It was the next set of links that dropped his jaw. They were from a few years later—her
senior year in college, as far as he could tell. They were engagement announcements.
Heather had been engaged.

She’d never mentioned it, and he’d have thought something that significant would have
come up in the conversation by now. Who was this Mike Pembrose, this all-American
farmboy-looking guy who had captured Heather’s heart in college? And, more importantly,
what had broken them up? He began clicking on links about Pembrose, curious and surprised
at the jealousy rising in his gut.

Pembrose was a medical student. “Dedicated,” one hometown paper announcement declared,
“to the treatment of the diabetes that has afflicted him since childhood.” That felt
significant, although Max couldn’t say why.

Two more links led to bits of information: one was an announcement of Pembrose joining
a medical practice last year in Des Moines, his name mentioned on a fund-raising committee.
The second, a post in a forum for diabetics, gave him the most telling detail of all.
The comment thread was about when a man should tell his girlfriend he was diabetic.
Pembrose—at least it sure looked as if it was Pembrose—wrote a long post about how
challenging the issue was for some couples. “As involved as my disease was, my girlfriend
knew about it, but we never really discussed it. I never tested in front of her. I
kept my insulin out of sight. I never talked about the complications. That was a dumb
thing to do, but I think I knew somewhere inside that she couldn’t handle it. I learned
I was right. She ended up breaking off the engagement—my future marriage yet another
victim of the Big D.”

That didn’t sound like Heather. Then again, did he really know her that well? It was
a few years ago, but could someone’s basic nature really change? And given the nature
of their conversations, why hadn’t this come up? Why hide that she’d been engaged
before?

Granted, this was Pembrose’s side of the story—and at least the guy had the decency
not to call the lady out by name—but could it be anyone other than Heather? Luke Sullivan’s
words about women came back to him:
They only think they can handle it. Then everyone finds out how ugly it can get.

She’s different,
his heart argued with a force Max hadn’t expected.
No, she’s not different,
his head countered.
When you let her in far enough to see all of what it’s like, it’ll be over. Sullivan
said it. Pembrose said it.
Could he even hope to have enough of a sense of things to call them wrong?

Talk to her about it.
Alex had taught him the virtues of going straight to the source when a problem arose.
Only he knew what would happen if he did. She’d swear by her loyalty now. She’d say
all those sweet and hopeful things that turned his jaded defenses inside out. She’d
convince him. He’d believe it because she’d believe it. And then, like Mike Pembrose,
he’d be too far in when the bottom fell out. Reality never had to play fair—wasn’t
he walking...
rolling
proof of that?

Max slammed his laptop shut and stared out the diner window at the charming little
town. It looked like someplace Heather would have grown up, all quaint and friendly
and rural. Then the corner of his eye caught the three people from the counter staring
at him. They averted their eyes the minute he met their gazes—no smiles, no friendly
hellos, just the embarrassment of having been caught gawking. For a handful of moments
Max considered getting in his car and heading west instead of back east, of just ditching
the whole “have a real life” dream and embracing his life as an oddity drawing stares.

You can’t do this alone.
The infuriating truth was that Max needed other people to survive: doctors, aides,
money, an accessible place to live. He couldn’t pretend not to need JJ; for all his
bravado, he wasn’t ready to be all alone.

Max stared at his now-cold coffee.
I don’t know what to do.
He was surprised to find the thought feeling closer to a prayer. Alex always said
he went to God with his problems—and Alex was the best, most creative problem solver
Max knew. Heather, JJ and many of the other nice people at Gordon Falls Community
Church had said the same. None of that made him feel better.
I don’t know who to believe,
he admitted, still staring into the fragrant brown liquid.
I can’t believe God, Heather, Sullivan, Pembrose and Alex all at the same time. I’ll
have to choose.

* * *

“Oh, no!” Heather dropped the file she was holding as Simon Williams rolled into the
administrative suite with blood all down one side of his face. “Simon, what on earth
happened?”

“Three guesses,” Simon said with a sneer, his voice dark and sharp. He spun his chair
toward the nurse’s office as the door behind him filled with the algebra teacher,
a hefty man who was currently wrestling a fuming Jason Kikowitz into the office by
one elbow.

“No,” Heather said in disgust more to herself than to anyone else. “I’d hoped we were
past this.” She shot up a quick, silent prayer for wisdom, squelching her own rising
temper.

“Mr. Kikowitz” came Margot’s equally displeased voice. “What a disappointment to find
you in my office again.”

Heather stood up, momentarily stumped as to whether to head left toward the nurse’s
office or right toward the principal’s. Simon won, and she walked to the left. “Simon,
are you all right?”

“Fine!” Simon barked, slamming the nurse’s office door shut behind him. Clearly, he
didn’t want questions right now. At least not from her.

“I don’t know what Jason said to him in Study Hall,” the teacher said, wiping his
hands off with a tissue from the secretary’s counter, “but suddenly there was a whole
herd of them shouting. When Jason tried to tip Simon’s chair over, Simon turned on
him and rammed him so hard Jason fell over. It went downhill from there.”

“Stupid baby raked my shin open with his baby carriage, that’s what!” Jason pointed
to his bloody shin. “I’ve got a game on Friday and this hurts like—”

“Enough!” Margot cut in before Jason’s language went south. “What did you say to Simon
to start this?”

“Candace Norden told me she got hired to be Simon’s babysitter.”

Heather slumped against the wall, her eyes closed in a wave of regret.

Jason went on. “Little twerp made fun of my algebra grade—”

“Your
failing
algebra grade,” the teacher cut in, earning a “don’t make this worse” look from Margot.

“So I called him a baby who needs a babysitter. Then he called me a thug.”

Heather winced. “Thug” had been Max’s term of choice for Jason.

“You can imagine how things went from there,” the teacher concluded.

Margot steepled her fingers. “Jason, this isn’t the first time. This isn’t even the
first time with Simon.”

“He hit me!” Kikowitz actually sounded surprised. “And not just with his chair—the
little nerd actually tried to punch me.”

Heather’s stomach began to tie in knots. This was not the kind of confidence she was
looking to foster in Simon.
Please, Lord, do something!

“I’ll find out soon enough if that’s true, but let’s keep this conversation about
you. I warned you if there was another incident, I’d have to suspend you. I don’t
make empty threats, Mr. Kikowitz. You’re suspended for two days beginning immediately.
And that includes Friday’s game.”

“But we’re playing Bradleton on Friday!”

“It might have been helpful to remember that before you baited Simon Williams into
a fight. Straighten up, Jason. Any more suspensions and you risk your graduation.”
As Kikowitz took a breath to launch an argument, Margot stood up and called out past
Heather to the school secretary, “Please call Mrs. Kikowitz and inform her Jason is
to leave immediately and why.” She pulled some forms out of her desk and handed them
to Jason. “I know you drive to school, so I suggest you go straight home. These must
be signed by both your parents before you can return on Monday. What you do next could
decide your whole year, Jason. I’d take some time to think about that if I were you.”

Jason stood and kicked back his chair. He stared daggers into Heather’s eyes as he
stomped past. “Gonna defend your little handicap project, are you?”

“No,” Heather said, her voice a lot calmer than she felt. “I think he did that all
on his own, thanks.” She’d never wanted to call a student the slew of names that flew
through her head right now. How did someone so young get so mean? For all his saber
rattling, Jason wouldn’t last two weeks facing all the challenges Simon or Max endured.
Someone needed to take that boy down a peg before his arrogance ruined his future.

And Candace. How could Candace go and betray Simon after promising Max she wouldn’t?
Max’s brilliant solution was falling apart right in front of her and there didn’t
seem to be anything she could do to stop it. There were only three periods left in
the day, but that was more than enough time for word to spread about Simon’s “babysitter.”
This was a disaster.

The nurse’s office door opened, and Simon emerged, a series of bandages on one cheek
and a few more on his right hand. His shirt had a rip in one shoulder and blood on
the collar. He looked as dark and angry as Heather had ever seen him.

“Simon.” Margot’s tone held the cool, soft edge of a principal about to do something
she hated. “In my office, please.”

Heather made to follow him, but Margot put her hand out. “No. I think you’d better
sit this one out.”

Heather left the office, walked calmly to the faculty washroom, locked herself in
the last stall and cried.