Authors: Linda Goodnight
Ian held up a five-fingered stop sign. “Don’t go there, friend. You know how I feel about that subject.”
His friend made a face. “Right. You’re waiting for a wife to drop straight from Heaven.”
“A Christian wife, Roger. That’s the operative phrase. Gretchen knows a lot about religion, but she doesn’t know a thing about a relationship with a loving God.”
Regardless of the hours they’d spent together, Gretchen remained very cool to the topic of faith.
Some minister he was.
“I’ve never seen you spend this much time with a woman. You must like her a lot.”
“She’s doing a news story on us.”
Roger’s guffaw rang out. “Since when?”
What Roger said was true. Other than a nice piece about the annual Thanksgiving meal, Gretchen’s series hadn’t mentioned Isaiah House in a long time.
“We’ve been keeping a low profile, I guess. Nothing to report.”
“All the more reason not to mention the petty cash problem. Gretchen would be on that like a duck on a June bug.”
Before either of them could say more, a female voice spoke. “Are you guys talking about me?”
Both men spun toward the open office door. Ian’s heart thumped once, hard, against his rib cage.
“Gretchen.” He grappled for words, hoping she hadn’t overheard their conversation. Neither the missing money nor Roger’s suggestion that Ian was taking Gretchen home to Mama were topics he wanted to share with her. “You’re looking good.”
Real good. Her flippy hair was blonder, her eyes greener above a skirt and sweater the color of honeydew melon. Silver snowflake earrings dangled from her ears.
“Well, thank you very much.” One hand holding her
gauzy skirt out to the side, she executed a quick curtsy. The action stirred her perfume and drew attention to her legs. Ian had a hard time not staring.
“Ready to go?” he asked. “I told Mom we’d be there by two and I need to run by the hospital first.”
The topic of last night’s trouble proved ample diversion. Gretchen had been with him. She knew what went down, and she’d been so shaken by the unresponsive, overdosed boy, she’d cried afterward. Her tears had really gotten to him.
“Do you think he’ll survive?” Gretchen asked after they bid farewell to Roger and started down the steps.
“I hope so.” He’d spent an hour on his knees in the chapel asking God to spare the kid and give him one more chance to help. “All we can do at this point is pray.”
As they crossed the lawn Ian avoided the area where Maddy had died. The action had become such a habit he barely thought about it anymore, but Gretchen glanced quickly in that direction and then away.
“God doesn’t hear my prayers, Ian.”
A place inside him went still. “What makes you say that?”
“Experience.” She moved a tiny silver purse from one hand to the other. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it today either.”
But she would. Eventually, he’d find out what had hurt her. He had to.
As soon as the van rattled into the driveway lined with Christmas lights, Mom flew out the front door of the comfortable suburban home where Ian had spent his
childhood. Face wreathed in a smile, a red Santa dish towel over one shoulder, she threw her arms around her son. With a joyful laugh, he lifted her several inches off the ground, breathing in the welcome scents of Estée Lauder perfume and home cooking.
“Do I smell pecan pie?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I have the best mom in Louisiana.”
This was their normal mother-and-son banter but this time Mom grew uncharacteristically serious. She whapped him softly on the chest with her dish towel. “Don’t you forget that, either, young man. Ever.”
Before he could read too much into the statement, she turned her attention to Gretchen and the moment passed.
“Oh, honey, it is such a pleasure to meet you.”
With her usual Southern warmth, she reached out and grasped both of Gretchen’s hands, eyes sparkling in a way that made Ian want to groan. He’d told her on the phone that Gretchen was a business friend spending the holiday alone, but his mother was a hopeless romantic.
“That TV report you did on Ian’s mission at Thanksgiving was lovely.”
As his mother led the way up the front steps, Ian and Gretchen exchanged wry looks, both aware that most of her reports about Isaiah House had been anything but lovely.
Once inside the fragrant house, his mother disappeared into the kitchen to check the hot rolls. Gretchen began to walk around the living room, looking at the Christmas decorations, the family pictures and keepsakes. Even
with Mom’s lighted village and other Christmas decor, no one could escape the room’s main focus.
Gretchen raised an eyebrow at him. “The Ian shrine?”
He shook his head, embarrassed. “The curse of the only child.”
Mom still displayed the tennis trophy he’d won in middle school; every degree, certificate and award he’d ever earned; band ribbons; and even a plaster of paris handprint bearing his name and the date. He’d made the thing in Bible School when he was in second grade.
Gretchen trailed a finger over a childishly crafted felt ornament. His teeth, too big for his narrow eight-year-old face, grinned from a school photo in the center of the snowman’s belly.
“Pretty cute,” she said.
“If you like Bugs Bunny.”
She smiled. “All kids go through that stage.”
“This is my favorite shot. No teeth showing.” He took a photo from the fireplace mantel and handed it to her. “That’s my dad.”
The picture recorded a skinny, uncertain seven-year-old Ian in midjump off the diving board. His dad waited below in the water, arms stretched up.
“Were you scared?”
“Terrified. But Dad said I could do it. I believed him.” And he would rather have drowned than disappoint his dad.
Memories washed over him of the strong, quiet father who’d taught him everything he knew about being
a man. From how to fix a flat tire to how to pray, Dad had been a terrific role model. Sometimes he wondered how he’d been so lucky to have Robert Carpenter for a dad. Christmas wasn’t the same without him.
“How long did you say he’s been gone?” Gretchen asked.
“Two years. I’d give anything if we could have one more Christmas together.”
“I’m sorry. I know how hard it is to lose someone you love.”
He touched her fingers where they curled around the picture frame. “I know you do. And I’m sorry, too.”
Though she seldom mentioned Maddy, this first Christmas without her sister had to hurt like mad. Suddenly, he was glad he’d invited her.
He gently reclaimed the photo, returning it to the mantel as his mother bustled into the living room.
Cheeks pink from the oven, eyes dancing with happiness, she said, “If you like pictures, I’ve got albums full of the things. Ian was so cute, we took zillions.”
As if that wasn’t obvious from the wall and table decor.
Ian rolled his eyes and groaned. “Mom.”
She flapped her hand at him. “Well, you were.”
Gretchen apparently enjoyed torturing him. Either that, or she thought the secrets of Isaiah House resided in his childhood. “I’d love to look at your albums.”
His mother beamed. Score one for Gretchen. “After dinner we’ll dig them out. Come on now, everything’s ready.”
They filed into the dining room where his mother had outdone herself. Gleaming silver and china, steaming
vegetables, glazed turkey breast with Mama’s special Jezebel sauce and yeasty, hot bread filled the lovely, old table. Mom was in her element.
As Ian held her chair, Gretchen looked back at him. “This looks wonderful.”
So did she. And she smelled good, too. Even with the tantalizing scents of Mom’s home cooking, Ian couldn’t miss the unmistakable lemony fragrance that was Gretchen.
“A little different than the soup kitchen, huh?”
Ian moved to seat his mother and then took the place at the head of the table, stomach growling in anticipation. He hadn’t had Mom’s home cooking in months. In his line of work, meals were grab-and-go.
“Ian, will you please ask the blessing?” his mother asked.
Elbows on either side of his plate, hands folded at his chin, he offered thanks for the meal, for the company, and most of all for mankind’s greatest Christmas gift ever. Inside he prayed that Gretchen would witness the true meaning of Christmas in his mother’s home and grow hungry to know the Savior as he did. He also prayed that she would see him as he really was, a simple man of faith doing the best he could to make a difference. He needed to stop the lingering worry that she might yet discredit Isaiah House on television.
“Amen.”
The word was echoed by his mother. Then Gretchen also softly murmured, “Amen.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him, smiling a little as if sensing—and enjoying—his surprise. Her
green gaze held his for several seconds before she glanced down.
Something in that tiny smile got to him. A warmth spread through his chest, filling him. He reached for his iced tea and swigged the cold sweetness past the disquiet.
His mother, a master of polite conversation and Southern hospitality kept small talk flowing easily around the dinner table. Though Ian protested and made groaning noises, she filled Gretchen’s ear with his childhood antics. At the same time, she also found ways to draw their guest out. In that short dinner, Ian discovered more about the reporter’s work and her life than he’d learned since they’d met.
Gretchen seemed comfortable in his mother’s home. So comfortable and warm and friendly that Ian would have a hard time convincing Mom that Gretchen was a hard-nosed barracuda who ate charities and politicians for breakfast.
Midway through the meal the telephone rang. The sudden noise startled Margot. She jumped and gasped, a hand going to her lips. Ian tossed his napkin aside and pushed back. “Stay put, Mom. I’ll get it.”
“No, no.” She leaped up from the table and waved him off. “It’s probably my friend Theresa wanting to brag on some new gadget her daughter brought from Chicago. Get the pie out of the fridge. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as she left the room Ian went to the refrigerator. Over one shoulder, he called, “Pecan, pumpkin, chocolate cream or coconut?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Gretchen rose and came into the kitchen. “You’re not kidding.”
Ian refused to think about how close she was or how tempted he was to remain here with his head in the fridge forever.
“Mom goes a little overboard when I come to visit.”
“Who’s going to eat all those?” she asked in wonder.
“We are. What we don’t eat today, she’ll cover with foil and send home with us.”
“Your mom is amazing.”
“Yes, she is. And I’m a blessed man.” He patted his belly. “So where should we begin?”
She pointed to the chocolate. “I haven’t had that since I was small.”
“Chocolate cream loaded with Mom’s golden meringue coming right up.” With a flourish he swept the pie from the shelf, mouth watering as he cut three huge slices.
“Was it Theresa?” he asked as Margot returned to the table.
“No.”
Her strained, curt tone caught his attention.
Ian frowned, noticing now that she had paled and her fingers trembled as she accepted the saucer of pie from Gretchen.
“Mom, what’s wrong? Who was that?”
“No one, honey. A wrong number. That’s all.”
A wrong number took that long? “Then why are you shaking?”
“Because I’m an old woman. Now, stop fretting.”
He didn’t like thinking about her age. “Have you been sick again?”
“Don’t start fussing, Ian. I’m fine.” She rolled her eyes toward Gretchen. “He’s such a nag sometimes.”
The gentle rebuke was spoken with affection.
“When are you seeing the doctor again?”
“Next Tuesday morning, though there is not a bit of need in it.”
“You’ll call me afterward?”
“Yes, yes.” She’d regained her color and seemed less shaky. “Now eat your pie. It’s made from scratch.”
They finished dessert with a return to general conversation, but Ian couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with his mother. Sure, she was getting up in years, but she had always looked and acted so much younger. He couldn’t stand thinking that something serious could be wrong. She was all the family he had left.
As he slid a fork into the rich, creamy pie, he focused his attention on his mother. She chatted away as though nothing had happened, and he hoped his gut instinct had missed the mark this time. Dad was gone. He couldn’t bear to lose Mom, too.
Not yet, Lord. Please, not yet.
For as long as he could remember he’d been terrified of losing his parents. As a boy, he’d often dreamed they had disappeared and he couldn’t find them. Even now, when he was stressed the dream still came. Then the other nightmare would take hold, and he’d wake up shaking and cold and crying like a baby. He hated the dreams. Hated to even think about them.
Automatically, he touched the pocket of his slacks and felt the fish key chain through the thick fabric. He had never understood why the little metal trinket brought such comfort. He only knew that it did.
“Ian.” Gretchen’s voice broke into his thoughts. He
looked up to find both women clearing the table, the meal apparently over. His plate was empty, though he didn’t recall tasting his favorite pie.
He scraped his chair away from the table.
“I’ll do KP.” Anything to shake the dread that had settled over him.
“And I’ll help,” Gretchen offered. She took Margot’s apron from the back of the chair and tied it around her narrow waist.
Ian nudged Margot away from the sink. “You take a rest. You cooked, we’ll clean.”
“I’ll go put on some Christmas carols.” His mom shook a finger at him and grinned. “And dig out those picture albums.”
“Retribution for my boyhood misdeeds,” he muttered and was rewarded by Gretchen’s giggle.
In no time the kitchen was clean and they settled on the couch with fat, fragrant mugs of spiced tea and Margot’s memory books spread out on the coffee table.
Ian figured he might as well go with the flow and let his mother show off their family. She was determined. And from her sly maneuvering to seat Gretchen in the center with him on the left, he suspected she was up to a little matchmaking, as well.