Potter Springs (17 page)

Across the street, a door slammed. Mark realized they were in the front yard, in full view. The preacher and his wife necking
on the lawn.

He fought the urge to toss preparations and order to the wind and whisk her to the privacy of the bedroom. But, rationally,
he wanted the evening to unfold slowly. Delayed gratification.

He’d waited months for her to come to him like this. He figured he could handle a few extra minutes.

More surprises waited in the house-roses, music and new candles. The domino effect, to fall according to plan, needed a push.
The first gift.

He pulled away, while he still had the strength. “We’ll go inside.” He brushed her lip with the pad of his thumb, touching
the swell there. “In just a sec. I want to show you something first.”

After gathering her coat from the top of the heap, he explained while she shivered into it. “It’s a … a kind of surprise.
A big one.” He delivered his much-practiced sell line, “For now, and for the future.”

She didn’t seem particularly impressed with his wording, just smiled up at him, blowing into her hands.

Guiding her to the garage, they crunched across brown grass, narrow shoots dead from an early freeze.

He’d planned this all out, had the electric door opener in his palm. His hands felt slick on the plastic, and he hoped she
didn’t notice them shaking.

The creaky door, solid wood warped with time, groaned open with the speed of a turtle. Inside, glossy green paint sparkled
in the setting sun. Mark slung an arm around Amanda, taking in the view.

Perfect. He’d timed it just right.

A gigantic red bow graced the sloping hood. The minivan filled almost the entire garage, barely leaving room for Mark’s bike
and the washer and dryer. He spent all day yesterday clearing out junk to make room for it.

She stood so still under his arm. Not moving, or jumping up and down, like he’d imagined. Just staring.

“I know what you’re thinking.” He had no idea, but took a stab at it anyway. Anything to fill the void. “That it’s too much.
But with low interest rates and a long-term plan, we could swing it.”

She said nothing.

“I figured it all out,” he continued, unable to stop the projectile explanations. “I’ve got the paperwork … I still need your
signature to make it final… plus my math inside.” Why wasn’t she
saying
anything? “I can show you down to the penny. It’ll work, hon.”

His stomach cramped in the silence.

“Where is my car?”

He didn’t think he heard her right. “What?”

“My car. What have you done with my car?” Her voice rose to new heights with each syllable, ringing in the twilight.

He glanced at the neighbors’ houses, wondering if sound traveled farther in cold temperatures.
“Shhh.
You’re right, we should go inside. We’ll talk about it inside.”

“No. We’ll talk about it
now.
What have you done with my car?”

Her old fire had returned, he noticed. His eyebrows might just be in flames. “I’m sure this isn’t the time or the place to
bring this point up, but technically, it’s
our
car-”

“The car I worked through high school for, the car I drove in college-”

“I cleaned it up for you.” He wanted her to know that part. “And then I realized how banged up it was. The high miles. It
was time.”

“Banged up? High miles?”

“We needed a warranty, and this one has unbelievable safety features and a super
Consumer Reports
rating.”

“I know every tic and joint to that car. And it was…
is… mine!”

“I traded it in.” To compensate for her volume, he made his extra quiet.

“Traded it in?
Traded it in?”

More shrieking. Piercing, almost.

“To get a lower payment.”

“You traded in my car? My car?”

She sounded like a parrot. He thought he might hear her in his dreams.
My cahr, my cahr, my cahr.

“Yes.”

“Where? Where is it? Who did you give it to?” She looked around wildly, as if he’d hidden the hatchback in Mrs. Zimmerman’s
landscaping.

“The dealership. Hemp’s Used Motorway. You know, the one on TV? And I didn’t
give
it to them. I
traded
it. Worked for hours on a good price so we could get this. Like I said … I don’t think you were hearing me… this one has
a
warranty.
It’s only one year old. All you have to do is sign.”

“Tell me, Mark. Who are you expecting to ride around in all these seats? What is it, a six passenger?”

“Actually, seven, ’cause there’s this little half seat in the back-”

“Mark!”

“I thought it’d be good for…” he hesitated. His perfect evening had dominoed, all right. But in all the wrong directions.
He didn’t want to upset her any more, but she expected an answer. “For ministry,” he finally admitted. “Since you’d met the
ladies and hit it off, I thought you might jump in with the youth. We need some sponsors.” He scuffed his shoe against a broken
piece of driveway.

“A youth sponsor. You bought this”-her fingertips, red from cold, pointed at his gift to her-“because you want me to be a
youth sponsor?”

“In a nutshell.”
Anything in a nutshell. Let’s stick it all in a nutshell so we can go. Inside. Now.

“Not for any other reason?”

Her lips had that quiver.
Not tears. Oh, Lord, please, sweet Jesus. No more crying.

“Just what is it that you want me to say?”

Mr. Chesters twisted around his legs, purring violently. No doubt the animal wanted Mark to stoop to pet him. To get him close
enough for a good clawing. But Mark had learned the cat’s games long ago, and ignored him.

“Family.” Amanda scooped up Mr. Chesters, and he slumped like a contented infant in her arms. Leering at Mark. “Children.
That you wish we could have children.”

“Oh, Mandy.” He watched her face crumple. “I didn’t mean-”

“Of course you didn’t. Wonderful Mark Reynolds,
precious
Pastor Mark would never mean to.” She hiccupped and buried her face in Mr. Chesters’ fur. “Because
that
would bring up the topic of
babies
and we can’t talk about that because ours was too early and not in your timeline, and
what will the good folks at Lakeview Community Church say,
but then, as luck would have it, she died.”

The full force of her anger fell, and he found himself pushing back. That she would mock him, even in hurt. “If you want to
read all that into it, fine. Take it how you want. I only thought you’d like the van, and it’d be a good surprise.” He clung
to that tenet, for fear of having to look elsewhere.

“I can’t do this. I can’t
do
this.” She dropped a squirming Mr. Chesters and went in the house, slamming the screen door. Leaving Mark and the bags in
the chill night air.

Alone. Again.

“Evidently, I was wrong,” he told the cat, who stared at him, switched his tail and climbed over the fence with amazing grace.

Next door, Mrs. Zimmerman’s porch light came on. She peered out, clasping a terry robe to her throat and balancing Princess
and a cordless phone. She held the glass screen open with one hip.

Pink rollers filled her hair, a sight she normally wouldn’t have allowed. Curiosity must have overcome her.

“Did she love it?” Her face shone with night cream.

“She was … surprised.” He couldn’t fake a smile.

Mrs. Zimmerman lifted the receiver from her chest and whispered to whoever was on the other end. “She didn’t like it.”

Mark’s hand ached from gripping the remote, the warmth in his palm had long since cooled. He pressed the button again, watching
the great mouth swing shut, then headed inside to deal with the mess that was his life.

T
he hollow moon lay over Amanda. Unlit candles, freesia and vanilla, scented the darkened bedroom. Deep red roses on her dresser
appeared black in the shadow. The buds, cut before full bloom, drew tight together like a kiss. The small card beside the
vase, in Mark’s fluid handwriting, simply read,
Welcome Home.

The sound of the water running stopped, bathroom drawers slid opened and shut. Quietly, with no banging or slamming. The silence
of resignation. Not wanting to upset her while she slept, but she didn’t sleep at all.

Her suitcase, still packed, slumped in a corner full of dirty clothes and her folder. The letter was no longer tucked inside.
She’d handed the sealed envelope to the session leader this morning, to be mailed back in one year. “You’ll see how far you’ve
grown,” the elderly woman promised. “How your prayers have been answered.”

Leaving emotions of hidden hurt, which weighed a thousand pounds, Amanda flew home on wings. Yes, she’d left some heaviness
behind, but what had she taken with her? Back in Potter Springs, the same difficulties, the repressed anger, had grabbed hold
of her before she could breathe.

I want to get better.

She stared at her suitcase, the shape of leaving, until her eyes burned. She closed her eyes and saw the brilliant sun in
Colorado, the bright blue sky. She’d felt so high and near to God, truly on a mountaintop, seeking answers for wisdom and
direction and healing.

One morning, under the privacy of a towering tree, the poetry of the Psalms voiced a promise to her, clear as a lover’s song.
Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.

She grasped it and made it hers. She would see morning, she believed it. Her gifts from the retreat had been new friends,
and a new perspective. That she might find hope, if only she kept going. She just didn’t know how long her night would last.

Mark slipped in the sheets beside her, damp from the shower. He settled his large frame, not disturbing her as she curled
on her side away from him.

She heard loneliness from the curve of his back, and it called to her. He deserved so much more than she gave him. His heart
was precious to her, even if his actions made her crazy.

She unwound and turned to him, smelling his neck, his body, the steam and the stillness. Sliding her arms around his chest,
she kissed his bare shoulder, and wondered at the weight he carried there.

He’d been so strong for her, for so long.

I want to get better.
Effort thickened her voice. “I’m sorry.” The hardest thing to say, but a place to start. “I hurt your feelings… about the
van …” She would not say the words
my car
again.

“It doesn’t matter.” He spoke to the wall.

But it did, the straightness of his spine said. The links of his vertebrae arched together, lined up against her. She traced
a finger along the bumps and felt his involuntary shiver. In the tender spot at the base of his back, the place tension coiled,
she pressed with her thumbs and rubbed. His muscles bunched, then separated, smooth as glass under her hand.

She said the words. “I missed you.”

He turned on his side to face her, one arm supporting his head. “You did?” His breath smelled like mouthwash. The moonlight
caressed him.

“I did.” She nodded, and brushed away the hair on his forehead. He needed a haircut. She hadn’t noticed it before.

His hand spanned her waist, smaller now through sit-ups and walks. Soreness hummed in her legs, strained from hiking in Colorado.
She welcomed the tightness in her thighs. Hoping he felt a renewed firmness in her body. Her muscles, her strength, returning.

“How much did you miss me?” He dragged her across his chest so she lay full atop him. His pajama bottoms warmed her bare legs.

She tangled her toes in the flannel and tugged down, her calves restless. Her sleep shirt bunched against her hips and he
gathered it up farther, rubbing as if it were silk and fine. Calluses on his fingertips feathered her legs, her ribs, the
curve of her breasts.

He freed her from the cotton. “How much?” he asked again.

As he kneaded her flesh, she slid kisses along his neck, burrowed her face against his chest. “Much.” She pulled away to look
at him.

Meeting her gaze, his eyes spoke of longing and hope. Her tangled hair pooled around their faces, a makeshift canopy, warm
and safe. Hidden from the outside world, from the gray moon and the darkened flowers.

“I love you,” he said.

“Me too,” she whispered back.

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Show me.”

SHE WOKE LATE
, as usual, and after throwing on her robe, found Mark already dressed in the yard fooling with the weed-eater. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” He grinned with all his facial muscles. The look of a truly happy man.

Sleep still fogged her brain as the sun stung her eyes. “Don’t you have work?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I took the day off, thought we could spend it together.”

A small miracle.

“I like that.” She watched him. His love language to her, doing things around the yard, picking up the house. Not with words,
but with actions.
Show me,
he’d said.