Paisley's Pattern (3 page)

“Are we going to talk in the doorway forever? You should remember I'm not into the Cornhuskers, or any other kind of college ball.”

“Sorry. I'm really glad to see you. I forgot football isn't your game. I've discovered it's the topic of conversation from August to January around here, so you might have to get used to it.”

“Sounds more like mania.”

“Big Red football is a tradition in the state.”

“I get all that. Would you please tell me why I'm here? And is it all right if I come in?”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you hungry or thirsty?”

“I heard that. I've got pizza and cold drinks right here,” Oren said from the kitchen. “Doubt either of you ate much earlier.”

Paisley watched, delighted as a director of a reality show.

Oren turned from the table where he'd placed the food. His arms dropped to his sides as though weighted. Good thing the food wasn't in Oren's hands. He would have let loose of anything he held, as sure as the shock caused his jaw to hit the floor.

She grabbed her phone and tapped the video app, focusing from one hunky man to the other. Their main difference was defined by the way they were dressed, clothing that depicted their occupations. Oren typified a bank exec, dressed down today in long-sleeved, striped shirt with a red Husker tie and creased slacks. Rob's tee-shirt exposed his muscular physique. At least his dark jeans were free of holes or paint.

But their facial features drew Paisley's attention. No one could doubt they were closely related. Right now, they both wore frowns, raised brows, and disbelief sagged their jaws. At the same time, they cleared their throats. Which one would speak first?

Rob ran a hand through already messed-up hanks of hair that needed a trim, a familiar repeated gesture. He finally tore his gaze from Oren's face and looked at Paisley. “Put that phone away, please. I need to sit.”

How she had missed listening to his voice. Who would have imagined two such deep, raspy, and rough vocals? Not to mention two guys oozing magnetic, masculine appeal.

But only one of these men thrilled her to the marrow.

“You took the words right out of my mouth, sitting sounds like the thing to do.” At least Oren grinned. He entered the front room and sank onto the couch. His focus remained riveted on Rob.

It was a rarity for Rob to crack even a small smile. His seriousness was one of the issues Paisley had pointed out as a major difference between them. He nodded his head and searched the room, dropped his duffle, and chose a winged chair.

“Perfect timing, Oren.” Paisley smiled wide as she escaped to the kitchen for their late lunch.

“I'd venture to say it's clear we're related. I'm Oren Waverly. We're in the home where my father Mark lived as long as I can remember. I thought I'd bring Paisley lunch after she said she had a surprise. I never dreamt it was a visitor who looks like me. This is one lunch break I'll never forget.”

“Robin Paisley.” He paused and Paisley looked his way. Sure enough, he gestured toward her, and then shook Oren's hand. “I can see by your face you think that's funny.”

“Not at all. More than a coincidence the lady in the kitchen is Paisley Robbins. According to my wife, that's how the two of you met out in California. Your mail kept getting mixed up. I'd say God's sense of humor was at play.”

Paisley could now detect the difference in the men's voices. Nora no doubt responded to the tinge of humor in Oren's voice. But for some inexplicable reason, the rougher quality of Rob's growl still managed to sprinkle tingles down Paisley's spine.

“Actually, it was special delivery a few summers after we were out of the dorm,” Rob clarified. “I ordered a pair of birds that ended up with Paisley instead of coming to my home. That's weird when I think about it now. Why would I buy birds when I've gone through life named for a bird?”

“I find nothing humorous about your names at all. They are what they are. I'm guessing some names make God smile. Besides, He was probably in charge, bringing you and Paisley together because of your names.”

“I'll never understand why He allowed me to grow up with a prissy handle just because my mom wanted it. Besides, I never knew my father's name. First or last.” Bitterness painted Rob's rasp.

Paisley was amazed Rob admitted such a thing to a stranger.
But he's in shock.

“I'd say that's a topic of discussion for another day and time.” Oren gestured to the food. “We'll try to eat a bite and then I'll tell you the story of why Paisley contacted you.”

Even if he mentally clung to the past rather than living with what today offered, from Paisley's perspective, today opened up a life change for Rob.

She prayed Oren's influence would impact Rob's life where she had failed.

 

~*~

 

Rob couldn't be more dumbfounded over Oren Waverly's appearance than if he'd been clobbered by a twenty-ounce hammer. It was as if he looked into a trick carnival mirror.

He automatically nodded thanks when Paisley handed him a plate wafting Italian pizza spices and hot gooey cheese. Her fingers grazed his thigh as she curved a napkin so it wouldn't fly off his leg. He ignored the swirl of heat her touch wrought, and sensed her attention.

But he zeroed in on Oren. What was he saying?

“…Mom's name was Linda. I'm thirty-seven, a banker right over on Thirteenth Street. Nora and I fell in love the day we met at the local college. She went on to attend Wayne State and now she teaches in the school where Sara attends. Sara is our adorable second-grader, who wants to dress like a Disney star. As soon as we're done, I'll show you pictures on my phone.”

Rob wanted to take a breath for the other man. They both raised cans of root beer at the same time. Mirror images. Oren flashed a grin. Rob blinked.

Now he knew the definition of surreal. His mind threatened to float away to the ceiling. It was tough, and took a concerted effort to absorb what was going on. Robin Paisley in Norfolk, Nebraska, seated across from…who was this guy? His brother? His cousin? Even though he was younger, Oren's black manicured hair was peppered with flecks of gray at the temples.

And he was still talking. “Nora graduated and I got my business degree online while I worked at the bank. Too bad we're eating pizza. I'd show you the pictures Paisley found in a drawer. They'll have to wait a few more minutes. I'll try to shut up since I've had time to absorb the obvious. Now I want to know all about you.”

Rob crunched a bite of savory crust and guzzled his soda, washing the tasty pizza down. He set the paper plate next to the empty aluminum can. “Not much to tell. My mother's name is Precious. She never answered any questions I had or gave one hint as to who my father was. She claimed it didn't matter as long as we were together. She never told me where she grew up. I was born in a communal straggle on a small patch of farm ground not far from the Golden Gate Bridge. Paisley probably told you I'm into old stuff. Junk is a challenge for me to turn into a treasured belonging. Or I find something for fun and sell it for a tidy profit.”

They finished eating.

“Well, big brother. It's time to show you what brought you to our fair state.” Oren was that convinced they were brothers? He didn't appear bothered by such a possibility.

Rob tried to ignore the prickle of excitement.

Oren rose to his feet, handed his plate to Paisley, and opened his arms to Rob. “Welcome to the family.”

Rob didn't move.

Paisley threw away trash in the kitchen and put the remainder of the pizza in the fridge.

Hugging a stranger who could pass as his twin was way beyond his comfort zone. Rob was used to a handshake, fist bump, or a fist to the upper arm when greeting guy friends. He managed to raise one arm and thumped Oren on the shoulder, more muscular than Rob first thought.

“Right here is the evidence, Rob.” Paisley approached through the kitchen doorway and branded him with her fingers on his bicep when she handed him a photograph. “The first time Oren walked in, I about passed out. You can't imagine…”

Oh, yes, I can. Same thing happened to me.

“…what I felt when I dug in the back of a drawer and pulled out this photograph. Just look at the people in this picture. Check out the man.”

Rob was drawn to the old milk truck, but he studied the couple in the doorway. Root beer threatened to bubble from his stomach as it turned to bile. He was looking at a young version of his mother, standing with a man he guessed Oren was about to reveal as his—or possibly
their
—father.

Evidently Rob hadn't been worth this Waverly guy sticking around.

Paisley turned the image over and exposed the writing on the back.
Precious…
his mother...and
Mark Waverly
... his father?

Did all this mean the gaps he'd lived with his whole life were about to be filled?

Rob willed away the buzzing in his ears to concentrate on what Oren said.

“I didn't grow up seeing my dad dressed as dapper as in the picture. Not often, anyway. He worked for a farmer when I was growing up, but my mother insisted we stay living here in town. I have more photographs at our house. When he was younger, Dad delivered milk. The company folded and he bought one of the older milk trucks to restore. By the time he was in his fifties, he wore glasses. He had a swaggering walk that turned into a stooped-shoulder shuffle the last few months he lived. Sorry.” Oren reached over and slapped a hand on Rob's shoulder. “This is a lot to take in.”

“No kidding.” How much of the narration would Rob recall later? For now, once the names had registered, he flipped over to the image. He stared into the dark stormy eyes of Mark Waverly. His father? For real?

Oren prattled on. “After we buried my mom, Dad wore a ponytail. Toward the end, he couldn't tie it back any longer and a couple months before he died, I took him for a haircut.”

Rob raised his hands palms out, not even embarrassed at the way they shook. He attempted to pull in a deep breath three times. “Give me some space here, please.”

He sank back to the chair. All his life he'd wanted to know his absent parent. Now he had a name and the man was dead.

On top of all that, he was here with the woman he still loved.

The baggage she referred to had damaged him.
Could Waverly really be his father
?

Dazed, he was aware Paisley took their napkins and empty soda cans away.

“I'll give you a minute.” Oren slapped him on the shoulder and followed Paisley.

In an effort to gain control of his light head, he slumped forward as low as he could bend. He drew in several deep breaths and gingerly raised his head.

Paisley and Oren were speaking too low for him to catch anything specific.

“I need some air.”

Rob longed to give in to the urge to flee in his rental car, but he didn't trust himself to get behind the wheel in an unknown place, even a mid-size Nebraska town. He ate up the sidewalk in long strides, not crossing any streets, but tromped three sides of the block in record time.

He stopped to catch his breath at the final turn of the block. Time stilled. He willed away the rush of blood pounding in his ears to survey his surroundings. He observed the manicured lawns, neat new vinyl siding on older homes accented by leaves just turning colors, foreign to California trees. He raised his gaze to the sky. The inverted blue bowl of spaciousness had switched to clouds. Shimmering white meringue peaked in one direction, churning gray swirled in another, where only a hint of blue dusted the horizon peeking between trees and houses. What had happened to the sun?

All of a sudden, a boisterous boy bounded from one of the garages across the street. He hooped and hollered and leaped in the air as he ran down the street away from where Rob stood. A man Rob assumed was the boy's father backed an SUV from the open garage. Out of the vehicle, he turned on a radio. Pop music blared from speakers. The guy proceeded to wash his rig while he sang with the radio.

Rob turned at the corner and stopped. The wind carried the scent of cooking meat. He could have grown up with that smell, along with drifting farm odors, and something earthy he couldn't quite place. He studied the Waverly home three houses down, still trying to digest this unbelievable turn of events. He no doubt stood in the hometown of his parents. Had his mother not gone to California, he may have grown up with Oren on this very street.

 

 

 

 

3

 

Paisley worked on the third drawer in the front room, with an ear attuned for Rob's return.

Oren waited on the front step, for whatever happened next between the two men.

She'd had a knee-jerk reaction upon her discovery of the photographs. Had she not been so taken aback, she would have turned the whole situation into a prayer for Jesus to work out His plan.

Rob had clearly been in shock when he left.

“Lord, You know where he is, please keep him safe. Forgive me for not turning to You first. Please use this new connection with Rob's heritage as a means to erase the lack of joy in his life. I want him to be happy, Lord.”

She heard the men's voices and glanced their way. They embraced in the driveway beyond the glass door. Rather, Oren was doing the hugging. She sighed from the depths of her diaphragm. At least Rob no longer looked defeated or beaten down. He patted Oren on the back, his face less burdened, and retreated. Rob returned to his usual upright, self-assured stance.

Paisley glimpsed a hint of hope on Rob's face.

Through the open kitchen window, the sounds of humanity drifted. People and their noise erupted everywhere. She heard revved up leaf blowers and muted voices. She imagined neighbors chatting about football as they gathered outside.