Potter Springs (2 page)

Mark dreamed of future Sundays. He would helm the pulpit, and fill James’s shoes to capacity. Maybe even better. The congregation
would love him. The board would adore him. And his wife, his future wife, Amanda, would stand beside him.

He felt the ring in his pocket. His future started today.

“Where’s Amanda?” James asked, as if reading Mark’s thoughts. “Didn’t see her this morning.”

“Not sure,” Mark said. Though Amanda made it a point to attend Pleasant Valley, her Presbyterian upbringing gave her full
freedom to play hooky every now and then, guilt free. He almost envied that in her. “We’re supposed to have lunch.”

“Want to go with us? Sarah should have the kids wrestled into the van by now.” Watching his reflection, James loosened his
tie and unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt.

“No, but thanks. I better check on Amanda.”

Back in his office, he autodialed her phone number. No answer.

Not at church, not home at her apartment, sick. Where?

The park. Watching people from her bench in Memorial Park, scribbling in that journal of hers. On a day like today, sunny
and still cool for spring, she probably hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of a morning outdoors.

He’d have to find her. He couldn’t wait one more day. Not one more hour.

He’d waited too long already.

At the park, Mark slung his jacket over his shoulder and surveyed the grounds. Streams of sweaty joggers clogged the trails.
Going against the flow, his size worked to his advantage, unpadded shoulders slicing through their disgruntled waves.

Then he saw her. In her favorite spot, away from the path next to a lush, landscaped area. He slowed, enjoying the chance
to catch her unaware. Her copper hair shielded her face. Sunlight echoed off the waves in amber sparks. Legs tucked underneath
her, she wrote furiously in the black book on her lap.

Amanda Thompson had the worst handwriting in the world. Mark often teased her that she had the laugh of a child, the lips
of a goddess and the penmanship of a serial killer.

He inched through the grass, oxfords glinting in the dew. How close could he get before she noticed? “Mandy.”

Startled, she slashed her pen stroke, running over the scrawls. “Oh. Mark.” She sat straight, pushing her feet into the gravel.
Pink polish sparkled against green flip-flops.

His girlfriend never wore socks, but kept an impeccable pedicure in five-dollar sandals.

“Hey, you.” He brushed the concrete next to her and sat down. Her head still only reached his shoulder. “Where you been?”

“Here.” She shifted, touching knees to his and pulled the hair away from her face.

Freckles winked up at him from her nose. He’d memorized their pattern, spread out over her cheekbones, frail and high. He
traced them now, the sweetness of the curve.

Her eyes fluttered closed, dark lashes against her cheeks, letting his hands love her this way.

“Missed you this morning,” he whispered.

“Sorry.” Her blue eyes shone like hot glass. The corner of her lips tugged up for a half second, then disappeared. “I’m glad
you came.” She squeezed his hands. “I figured you would find me.”

Such strength, in those little hands. He loved the passion within her. How she laughed loud and cried hard and joked with
him. She’d never hurt him, and her pure kindness wrapped around him until everything about her sang in his veins and made
him alive and whole.

Belonging. She made him belong.

Two 10-speeds clicked by on the path. A car backfired on the busy road just over the bridge and a siren sounded in the distance.

Not exactly the piano serenade he’d planned in the upscale restaurant. But this spot was her oasis. The place she ran to.
She’d read him a poem here one afternoon, from one of her ever-present books. Clear honey, her voice poured over him. Because
he loved her, he hid his hatred of poetry and simply watched her as she read. Craving her nearness while he casually discarded
the words.

Yet, one day, from a skinny volume of Yeats, the lines surprised him. They took life and crept inside his apathy, inscribed
themselves into his heart.

I whispered, “I am too young,”

And then, “I am old enough”;

Wherefore I threw a penny

To find out if I might love.

“Go and love, go and love, young man,

If the lady be young and fair.”

Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,

I am looped in the loops of her hair.

She finished the last part theatrically, twirling her curls at him. Then she’d tossed the book aside, slapped her hands together
and dug in the picnic basket. “What’s for lunch?”

While his heart, invisible, lay twisted at her feet.

Now the Tightness of it clicked inside him.
Her oasis,
he thought.
Brown Penny.
This was the right spot. The perfect spot. He should have trusted she would lead him to it.

“I’ve got something I want to ask you.” He closed his hand around the box in his pocket. The box he’d hidden in his sock drawer
for months. Bought and paid for. Ready.

Fear had kept him from giving it to her. Fear had kept him waiting for the right moment. Fear had paralyzed him. That she
might say no. That she didn’t love him enough to marry him, not enough to step down from her rich family to be a preacher’s
wife.

But today was the day. He knew it in his soul.
I am too young.
He pushed the whispers aside.
I am old enough.
He grasped her hand and felt no fear.
To find out if I might love.

“Mandy.” He set his face, his game face from a thousand football fields, and tossed the penny like he tossed the ball, far
and sure and spiraling. “Will you …”

His hope shot forward with all the power he possessed, swirling high and perfect. The sun crisp on his shoulders, the roar
in his ears the roar of the crowds. Confidence surged through him, he’d timed it just right and she’d catch his heart and
make him whole….

She put a hand on his arm. “I’m pregnant.”

“W
hat?”
Amanda saw the panic register on Mark’s face before the word shot out of his mouth.

“Are you sure?” He ran a hand through his blond hair, making it stand on end. A Mad Hatter effect atop a heart-stopping face.
Her Goldenboy.

“I took a test.” Amanda spoke slowly, to let it sink in. She’d had a week to mull it over and still found the truth unbelievable.
Like an exotic rock, she’d pull it out from time to time, feeling the ragged edges. Wondering at its depths, its crevices,
before tucking it away again, to share later. Show-and-tell.

“A test? What kind of a test? Did you go to the doctor? Without me?” The questions rolled out of Mark at a lowered pitch as
oblivious joggers crunched past them. The sun shone. The birds sang. They sat, two pretty people, the truth an invisible boulder
between them.

“Blue lines. One if you’re not, two if you are. We got two.” She held up a peace sign to show him, as if it were some kind
of victory. Allowing herself to smile.

He didn’t smile back. “It could be wrong.”

“It’s not. I did more than one. To be sure.” The tests only confirmed what she had already known from her swollen breasts,
the calendar days not adding up.

Still, she had stared at those pieces of plastic long enough to know. Read the directions over and over, looking for a loophole,
some miscalculation to put the tests in error.

At first, leaning against the tiled white of her bathroom counter, she willed that second line to disappear. Shook the test,
blew on it, held it upside down to see if it would go away.

It didn’t.

“I’m pregnant,” she informed her reflection in the mirror, and saw the disbelief there. She lay down on the bathroom floor,
fear pouring out in sobs and gasps.

The bathmat tickled her nose as she cried, yellow acrylic gathered in her fingers. Mr. Chesters, a silent witness to despair,
brushed against her.

Amanda flipped to her back and grabbed toilet tissue from the roll above her head. She considered the ceiling and the heavens
above.

Why?

No answer, only the pounding of her heart and the gurgles from her clogged sinuses.

The toughest part would be telling him. Harder than skulking in the drugstore with her illicit home pregnancy tests, like
a beer-buying teenager. Worse than squatting over her potty, trying to hit the miniscule square on the wand.

Scarier even than owning up to what they’d done. Telling friends. Family. Church.

Though it terrified her, deep down she wanted this child. Without question. A secret exhilaration grew as the possibilities
raced through her. A baby. Mark’s baby. They’d be together, and have a family. A real one, not like either of the homes they’d
come from.

She knew, with Mark by her side, the rest didn’t matter. If only he’d stay by her side.

Now, on the stone bench that felt like quicksand, she prayed for strength. “I’m going to the doctor tomorrow. For blood tests-to
find out how far along I am. You can come with me if you want.”

“I just can’t believe it.” Mark shook his head, as if he hadn’t heard her. Still cycling on the curve she’d thrown him. “You
can’t be pregnant. How is that possible? How did this happen?”

“Mark.” She smoothed his hair. “I think we both know how this happened.”

He flushed, that athletic color, high and red as if he’d been running sprints. Her heart stretched thin that she could love
him even more, now.

She had first realized she loved him, oddly enough, on her initial visit to his church. He’d invited her after one of their
early dates. A sense of curiosity, more than obligation, prompted her to go. Confirmed along with the rest of the sixth graders
in her parents’ church, Amanda had helped warm the family pew her entire childhood.

Still, church attendance as an adult had been spotty at best. Since college graduation three years ago, she’d landed the job
at the communications firm and gotten caught up in life as a single girl in Houston. But something about Mark, his sincerity,
his earnestness, fanned the flame of faith that still burned, quiet and long untended, within her.

She got up early, dressed in a fluttery jersey skirt and a yellow sweater. Mark would sing, not preach that morning. She was
anxious to see him at work, to meet his friends and his boss, to watch him in his home base.

The glossy building held no intimidation for her, but the crowds of strangers did. She chose a seat a few rows back from the
stage, wanting a good view but not the spotlight. She hoped no one would notice her, but other attendees greeted her anyway.
They shook her hand at the “Welcome Friends” portion of the service.

With the stubby pencil from the pew in front, she discreetly checked off her bulletin. Choir, check. Opening anthem, check.
Communion, check. She doodled in the margins, flowers and stars, waiting for the best part.

Special music.

Up front, Mark stood alone with his guitar. He strummed the strings with a practiced hand, cleared his throat at the side
of the microphone, and started singing.

His song-she couldn’t think of the words now, but the tune stayed with her. The notes soared from him, unworldly and rare.
The guitar played itself, matching his voice seamlessly. Perfect.

The music pierced her, picked her out among all those suits and panty hose, to cut to her very soul.

His song tied her to him, fused like wings to an angel. Bound by his precious heart. He caught her stare, just once, at the
end.

See?
his face asked.
Do you see?

Yes.

The rest of the service blurred as she stood and sat and prayed like a normal person. A person whose heart hadn’t been revealed
and broken and healed by a song. Changed.

How do you tell someone,
I’m bound to you for an eternity because I heard you sing and I saw your heart and wherever you go I will follow and now I
believe in your dream because you were living it and it was beautiful?

Afterward, he strode directly to her side. Claiming her.

She had gone willingly, and never looked back. Now, she must be gentle, and help him understand what she already knew. That,
regardless of timing, together, they were home. Scooting forward, she brushed his hair away from his face and kissed him on
the forehead. “Are you asking, literally, how did this happen? The time, you mean?”

“No, I don’t mean that.” He ran his hands down his slacks, the sharp crease wilted from the humidity. “What I wonder is, what
are we going to do?” Bewilderment softened his face, made him look younger.

“I know what I’m going to do.” She pressed her face to his neck. “How about you?”

He pushed her away. For a moment, her worst fears bloomed into reality.

But then his hand disappeared inside his coat pocket. An instant later, he was on his knees, on his knees in the dusty gravel
in his very best suit. A tiny pop and a stone, brilliant bright, flashed up at her and he said the words. The words her ears
had grown tired of straining to hear. The words her heart had been weary of waiting for him to say.