Rest Thy Head (28 page)

She glanced at her watch. Only a few more minutes until Hayes arrived.

****

Clint Hayes parked his car in the minister’s driveway and sighed. Six long, dreary months stretched like an eternity in front of him. Reverend Amos would probably make him go to church every time the doors opened, but what did the man intend to do with him the rest of the time? As far as he knew, they only had church on Sundays and Wednesdays. Did the Reverend want help raking his leaves or splitting firewood? Maybe the house needed painting.

Actually, the house didn’t need painting. Its pristine white paint gleamed in the crisp, autumn air. Clint sort of liked the red shutters and the big front porch that ran from one end of the house to the other. The maple trees strewn around the yard blazed in shades of green, gold, and red and made the white house look like a picture in a calendar.

A dog barked in the distance, jerking him back to reality. Sitting in his car wasn’t getting the job done. Sighing, he got out and made his way to the front porch where he rang the doorbell. In a moment, Reverend Amos opened the door.

“Hello, Clint. Won’t you come in?”

“Uh, thanks.”

Reverend Amos stood an inch or so taller than Clint and outweighed him by probably forty pounds. He had dark hair and brown eyes that made Clint uneasy. The preacher didn’t stare at him or anything, but Clint feared Reverend Amos saw right past the front a man presented to the world and looked into his heart—a place Clint had kept private for years.

The preacher stood aside, allowing Clint to enter the lion’s den. He indicated a room on the right. “This is our living room. Come on in.”

The living room looked downright cozy. A fireplace occupied center stage while a brown leather sofa sat in front of a big picture window on the opposite wall. Colorful easy chairs in shades of brown, coral, and green were scattered around the room. A baby grand piano was positioned against the far corner.

A middle-aged woman with brown hair and plain features rose from the sofa to greet him. “Hello, Clint. I’m Cynthia Amos.” She held out her hand for him to shake. It made Clint uncomfortable because he never had liked shaking hands with women. With a guy, you could give a nice firm shake and be done with it. With a woman, you never knew what to expect. Some of them acted like shaking hands was a contest of strength, while some held your hand a little bit too long. However, he knew he didn’t have any choice in the matter.

Reverend Amos and his wife took a seat on the sofa. The preacher nodded toward a chair and said, “Have a seat, Clint. I thought we should clarify our expectations for you.”

Clint clenched his fists. Here it came. The huge, long list of rules and regulations that he’d dreaded for weeks now. “Yes, sir.”

Reverend Amos didn’t look angry with him like he’d expected. He didn’t hear any condemnation in the man’s voice either. The serious expression on the preacher’s face told Clint he meant what he said, but he wasn’t trying to bully anyone or throw his weight around.

“First of all, you’ll be living in the garage apartment,” Reverend Amos said. “It’s very nice, so it should present no hardship to you. You’ll have all your meals with us except for Sunday morning. We always have cereal on Sunday so we can hurry to church. Mrs. Amos put some cereal and milk in your apartment for you.

“Every morning I’ll set you a task for the day. You won’t wear an ankle monitor until after dinner. At that time, I’ll escort you back to your apartment where you’ll put it on and set it. Naturally, there’ll be no drinking, drugs, cursing, or pornography on my property. If you violate these rules our agreement is off which means you can pass the holiday season in jail.” Reverend Amos clasped his hands and leaned forward, his eyes boring into Clint’s. “Do we understand each other?”

Clint let out the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. “Yes, sir, we do.” He had expected so much worse.

“Good. Let’s take your things to the apartment.”

Clint watched Reverend Amos out of the corner of his eye as he took his bag out of his car. The preacher was studying his bumper sticker. No wonder. It was a cool sticker. A little confederate soldier brandished several big guns beneath a caption that read, “Forget? Hell no!”

“That has to come off before dinner,” Amos said, his brown eyes trained on Clint with no hint whatsoever of a smile on his face.

Clint’s lips thinned. He really liked that sticker, but he knew better than to argue. He guessed preachers didn’t like stuff like that even though the guys at the club got a good laugh out of it. “Yes, sir. I’ll take it off.”

“I’d also like to search your car, Clint. I want to make sure you don’t have any alcohol hidden away.”

Clint shrugged. “It’s under the spare tire.” Lucky thing this guy was a preacher. No man did a thing like this to him and got away with it. He learned a long time ago not to take crap off anybody. It irked him to know that if he said anything now he’d go to jail. Amos removed the whiskey and checked the rest of the car. “Is that all of it?”

“That’s it.”

The preacher uncapped the bottle and poured that nice expensive whiskey onto the ground. “Tell me something.”

Clint sighed. “Yes, sir?”

“Why did you agree to come here?”

Clint would have thought that was pretty obvious. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t say so though. “I agreed to do this because I didn’t want to go to jail.”

“Is that all?”

He shook his head. “No, it isn’t. I feel bad about burning your church, so I thought you deserved a piece of me if you wanted it.”

The preacher looked as if this answer had somehow pleased him. “I just wondered.”

They climbed the garage stairs to the apartment where Reverend Amos unlocked the door. He waved Clint inside. “Here we are.”

What a neat place! Golden oak floors gleamed in the sunshine, making the bright space even more inviting. A red sofa with several matching chairs in crisp stripes clustered around a TV. A green rug with touches of red anchored the area, while a white bookcase filled with books occupied the far wall.

A small kitchenette took up one corner of the room. Opposite a glass-topped table, a door led to what he guessed was the bedroom. Amos pointed toward the door. “Let’s take your bag into the bedroom. I’m afraid I have to check it too.”

The bedroom had an oak dresser and a queen-sized bed covered by a red comforter. Clint saw a door that led to a tiny bathroom which was done in black and white tile. There was plenty of space for one person even if it was small. He and Bud shared a bathroom about seven-by-eight at the club. Tight, but plenty of room to get clean.

A wave of homesickness flooded him. Bud was more than just his employer. Bud was his best friend, the man who took him in when he had no place to go. If he hadn’t thrown that stupid cigarette into dry mulch, the two of them would be working at the club right now. They’d maybe be playing a little pool or having a cool one.

As soon as he flung his bag on the bed, Amos went through it and confiscated his cigarettes. “Sorry. No smoking either.”

Clint answered back on this one. “I’ve been smoking since I was twelve. Nicotine withdrawal’s going to be rough.”

The preacher pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “Dr. Dean is a member of my congregation. I’ll get a prescription for you.”

“A prescription?” Not the response he’d hoped was coming.

“Yes. To help you through the withdrawal symptoms.” Amos checked his watch. “Dinner’s in one hour. Ring the bell and come on in.”

“Yes, sir.”

After Amos left, Clint wandered back into the living room to watch TV. No smoking and nothing to drink. He had congratulated himself on avoiding jail, but maybe he’d been a little premature with that. At least in jail Bud would have brought him some cigarettes.

Flipping through the TV channels didn’t help either. Nothing looked good to him. Maybe they had something to read on the bookshelf. He had always liked to read even if his stepfather had mocked him for it.

He inspected the books on the shelf, but he didn’t like any of the titles. Reverend Amos had a lot of religious books, women’s magazines, and things like Tom Sawyer. Frowning, he pulled a Good Housekeeping off the shelf but tossed it aside when he heard the sound of feminine laughter outside his window. Taking care not to be seen, he peeked through the mini-blinds at the two young women getting out of a white onvertible.

The smiling red-haired girl didn’t appeal to him, redheads never had, but the other one…Oh! She made his mouth water. Even from this distance he saw how beautiful she was. Her dark hair hung down her back in pretty, springy, black curls while her fair skin glowed with a delicate, pink color that gave her an air of innocence or…or something. Happiness, maybe? She wore a pair of jeans and a blue sweater—mmm. And what a great figure. From this distance he had no idea what color her eyes were, but he hoped they might be blue.

He grunted. It didn’t matter what color her eyes were. The preacher hadn’t brought him here to flirt. Anyway, a girl who hung out at a preacher’s house probably wouldn’t be interested in a guy like him. If he wanted a girl, he’d pick one who hung out at Bud’s Club. Someone like Darlene. The two of them had had some good times together.

The young women went into the house. Minutes later the red-haired girl came out by herself and drove off. Since the coast was clear, Clint decided he might as well get that bumper sticker off. By the time he finished, the hour the preacher had told him to wait had passed. He wiped his hands on the seat of his pants, rang the doorbell, and went on in.

Amos met him in the living room. “Good, you’re on time. I hope you’re hungry. Cynthia has a treat for dinner.”

“Uh, I probably need to wash my hands. I just took the bumper sticker off my car.”

“The bathroom is the first door on the right, just down the hall.”

Clint went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. It wasn’t very big. Someone, probably Mrs. Amos, had painted it pink and put up a white shower curtain scattered with hot pink flowers. Why did women have a thing for pink? He couldn’t stand it. Give him a bold red any day.

He washed his hands, but he dried them on his pants. The lacy, pink towel on the towel bar didn’t look like the kind of thing anyone would really use. Taking a deep breath, he went into the kitchen. “Come into the dining room,” Mrs. Amos called.

Clint stared at the table. They were using place mats even though it wasn’t a holiday. Oh, and look at the leaves. Someone had brought in some red leaves and made an arrangement in a glass vase. He shoved his hands into his pockets. Why hadn’t they let him fix a plate to eat in his apartment? There weren’t any placemats there to drop food on. Amos indicated a chair across from the dark-haired girl he had seen on the porch. “This is our daughter, Rachel. Rachel, this is Clint Hayes.”

Rachel didn’t want him here Her blue eyes flashed even as she offered her hand to him. She had a firm handshake, but she let go as quickly as possible. Her lip pooched out as she shot a quick look at her hand.
Go ahead. Wipe it off, sweetheart. I couldn’t care less.
“Let’s join hands while we say grace,” the preacher said.

Clint gawked at him. They expected him to hold hands with another man? If anyone at the club ever found out about this…Everyone stared at him, so he took the preacher’s hand and that of Mrs. Amos. He bowed his head like everyone else, but he didn’t close his eyes.

“Lord, bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and our bodies to your service. Amen.”

Mrs. Amos removed a lid from a big china tureen sitting in the center of the table. “We’re having vegetable soup and cornbread, Clint. If I do say so, I make a dynamite vegetable soup.”

Vegetable soup and cornbread! Man! He hadn’t eaten that stuff since his stepfather kicked him out at age fourteen.

“Oh, I forgot the milk,” Mrs. Amos exclaimed.

“I’ll get it, Mama.” Rachel jumped up and returned with four big glasses of milk on a wooden tray, the cheap ones like they sold at the discount store in Sterling.

Milk. For dinner last night, his last night of freedom for six months, he had cooked himself a thick steak he bought at the grocery store and eaten it with a bottle of beer. Now the preacher expected him to eat soup, cornbread, and milk.

Resigned, he took a big bite of his soup. It was delicious. It reminded him of the soup his mother had cooked when he was little. Truthfully, though, Mrs. Amos’s soup was better because it had more ingredients.

She must have noticed he liked it because she said, “Eat up, Clint. There’s plenty more in the kitchen.”

Clint did. They probably wouldn’t give him any snacks to keep in his room, and he hated to sit around hungry all evening.

After they finished dinner, the preacher and his daughter carried their dirty dishes to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher. Without being asked, Clint did the same. No use in behaving like a guest because he wasn’t.

Mrs. Amos favored him with a smile. “Thank you, Clint.”

For some reason, it made Clint glad that he’d pleased her. She acted as if he’d made her day even though it was only a little thing.

“You’ll need to be ready to leave at nine-thirty tomorrow,” Amos said.

Oh, yeah. Tomorrow is Sunday.
“I don’t have a dress shirt or a tie to wear. I don’t have anything except jeans and tee-shirts.”

The preacher didn’t seem concerned about his clothes. “Oh, that’s fine. Not everybody dresses up. As long as your clothes are clean and don’t have objectionable slogans on them, you’re fine.”

Okay,
he thought.
Guess I can’t wear my new tee-shirt.
He stifled a grin when he thought of the slogan on the front. It said, I’m not as dumb as you look. A new thought made him feel guilty. “Uh, where are you holding services, Reverend?”

“At the local high school. You’ll ride with us, so don’t be late.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rachel thrust a blue and gold tin at him. “Mama made you some cookies to snack on.”

The slight frown on Rachel’s face told him what she thought of that nice gesture. He turned to Mrs. Amos and said, “Thank you, ma’am. That was nice of you.”