A Rush of Wings (25 page)

He shrugged. “Sorry they put you on the spot. My sisters make broad assumptions. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. But I'm embarrassed to have fallen asleep on arrival.” Rick's mother had left her to check something on the stove, and she must have dozed off on the couch. Not exactly Emily Post.

“Don't be. It's probably the last rest you'll get. I forgot how noisy it is.” Rick rubbed his sandpapery jaw.

She smiled.

“What?”

“I can't think of you with four sisters.”

He cocked his head. “Why?”

“You're so . . . such a man, I guess.”

He eyed her. “Does it bother you?”

She searched his face. It should. His manliness should terrify her. “No.”

Rick's sisters came back en masse. He did have a point about the noise.

“Mom said come celebrate Advent.” Tara reached for her hand and tugged.

Rick got to his feet. “That's the other thing. Don't expect one free moment.” He faced his sisters. “Take Noelle. I'll get my guitar.”

Noelle followed them to the table, as large as the one Rick had at the ranch. In the center was a wreath trimmed with greens. It held four candles, though they didn't match. Three were purple, one pink. It should at least be two and two, she thought.

Rick came in with his guitar, squeezed her shoulder, and whispered, “God songs.”

Was it a warning? So she'd be prepared—or so she wouldn't embarrass him? She looked around at the glowing, teasing smiles of his sisters. Four sisters. And neither he nor Morgan had mentioned them. That could only be a man thing.

She watched Celia light three of the candles. Noelle almost pointed out the missed taper, then realized there must be a ritual reason for the irregularities. She didn't wonder long, though, because Rick began to play. As before, his music touched her. She watched his fingers pluck and stroke the strings like a true minstrel. Her heart quickened, but she stood silent as the rest of them sang a sweetly haunting melody.
Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel
.

Here was Rick's God magnified. Morgan alone was absent, and she wondered how it would be if he were there. She could almost imagine the irreverent humor in his eyes and felt better but still nowhere near comfortable as all the eyes seemed honed on her.

Hank picked up the large family Bible and read a story about someone named Zechariah who was struck dumb for questioning the
angel messenger sent by God. So questions were not even allowed, and Zechariah's had seemed so reasonable.
By the way, my wife and I are too old to have a kid; how exactly does this work?
She glanced at Rick, but his eyes were closed. Her chest tightened, and she wished she could get away. As one voice after another lifted up prayers, Noelle clenched her hands and endured it.

Supper followed, so clamorous with voices and laughter, she could hardly eat. Even when she and Daddy entertained, it had not been so boisterous. She was thankful that as soon as it was finished, Rick insisted she go to bed.

She went to her room, or rather the room she was sharing with Therese, who followed her in and stretched out on one twin bed. Of all the girls, she seemed the most like Rick in temperament. Noelle sat down on the other bed. It was awkward sharing space with someone she didn't know, someone several years younger but worlds different. She'd never shared a room with anyone before.

Noelle cleared the stiffness from her throat. “May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you do that . . .” How did one describe the little ceremony they had?

“The advent prayers?” Therese asked.

Noelle nodded.

“It's preparation.”

“For what?”

Therese stared at her. “The birth of Christ.”

“That happened two thousand years ago.”

Therese nodded. “Historically, yes. But each Christmas we prepare our hearts to receive Him again, new, and . . . deeper, you know.”

No, she didn't know. All she knew was that Rick's mealtime ritual suddenly seemed tame. His simple prayers, his silent reading, his music. She'd heard the devotion in his voice, though, the first night she heard him sing. He'd played for his God, with no one to applaud him.

He had stopped when she intruded. But now she was part of it. He wanted her there, wanted her to believe. But what did she want?

———

After seeing Noelle and Therese settled in, Rick went to face the inevitable. Mom was in the kitchen waiting for him. She even had a
mug of hot chocolate and a plate of coconut macaroons, as though he were a little boy coming home from school. And as always, she wasted no words.

“How serious are you about her?”

He leaned on the counter and bit into the macaroon. May as well sustain himself. “I told you my reasons for bringing her.”

“You told me she needed a place, and the ranch wasn't it.”

“That's right.”

“Because you care for her.”

He hadn't told her that. “Yes, I care for her. She's . . . special.”

“Even if she doesn't share your faith? You can't have missed her discomfort.”

“I expect she will, in time.” Or did he hope it only?

“Those are large expectations.”

Rick chased the macaroon down with a gulp of chocolate. “Wait till you get to know her. There's a lot more than you can see.”

“I see enough. She's very beautiful, very vulnerable.”

He warmed. He wanted so much to protect her, to heal her. Had his mother chosen those words to show him his own vulnerability? He knew it already.

“But it takes more than that,” she said. “You should know.”

“I do. She won't disappoint you, Mom. Just give her a chance.” He watched his mother's face settle. She might not approve, but she would be fair. The rest was up to Noelle. If she even wanted to try.

———

Three days with Rick's family felt as though she were landed inside a beehive. Noelle was growing accustomed to the endless voices, laughter, and even the tiffs. She felt more welcome and included than she had thought possible. A house full of sisters! And Rick and Hank . . .

Only Celia seemed reserved, but they were such different women. And they'd had little time together. Rick's sisters had hardly spared her a free moment. Noelle watched now as they pulled on skates, coats, and mufflers from the closet.

“Where's my other glove?” Stephanie looked pointedly at Tara.

“How should I know?” She turned to Noelle. “They think since I'm the youngest they can blame me for everything.”

Noelle smiled. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen. We're stairsteps. Fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, and twenty. Then there's the big gap to Rick and Morgan. How old are you?”

Brazen. But Noelle answered. “Twenty-three.” Almost twenty-four, but she wasn't about to let anyone know that.

Tara cocked her head. “That's about right.”

“Right for what?”

“Rick's twenty-nine. But boys are immature. You need that many years between to have any kind of meaningful relationship.”

Tiffany tugged a hat over Tara's braids. “Rick said to mind your own business.”

“But she
knows
so
much
about
romance
.” Stephanie clasped her hands over her heart.

Rick came in as the girls burst into peals of laughter, then filed out to his truck. He eyed Noelle in one of Therese's coats. “You're going?”

“Why not?” Noelle wrapped a scarf around her neck.

“It's thirty degrees out, they're skating on a pond, and you have pneumonia.”

“I'm over that. All I needed was a good, strong antibiotic and a little rest.” Though rest had taken on a new meaning. She shrugged. “I'm not planning to skate—just to watch.”

He shook his head. “Let me drive them over and come back. They'll understand. They've had most of your time since we got here.” He reached out and took her hand.

Her pulse quickened at his touch. What power was there in his hands? She pictured Destiny shying and Rick's hands on his neck. Rick had mastered Destiny. Would he now master her?

Tara rushed back in. “Come on, come on.”

Noelle smiled. “I think we should go.”

“Okay.” He motioned her through the door.

The girls huddled in the back of the truck as he drove them to the lake. Then they made their way to the ice, pulled off their boots, and tied on their skates. Noelle watched them wind the laces around their ankles and step onto the ice, its gray surface laced with white.

Rick stood beside her. “You've made quite an impression on them. The whole family, actually.”

“That's because I came with you.”

“Why do you say that?”

Noelle tipped her head. “Something Therese told me last night.”

He raised her chin with his gloved hand. “I heard you all laughing and hushing each other in your room.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Those late-night chats are very informative.”

Rick frowned. “If you're discussing me, they can't be very interesting. Not like Morgan.”

“You just run deeper.”

He released her chin. “So what did she tell you?”

“That every girl in the youth group wanted to date you, but you wouldn't have any of them.”

“I was the youth leader,” he said. “It would have been highly inappropriate.”

“They told me you'd say that.”

He raised a hand. “It's the truth.”

“And they told me the tricks you played on them, ice cubes in their shoes, switching their school uniforms so they'd put on each other's in the rush to get ready, the garden snake in Stephanie's bed . . .”

“She deserved that.” He looked up as Tara and Tiffany collided and fell.

Noelle saw his concern, but they untangled, laughing, and got up again. “They also told me all the scrapes you got them out of. The time you restrained Stephanie's date.”

“She's got a dumb streak that gets her in trouble.”

Noelle glanced up at him. “I think there's a hint of armor beneath that sheepskin coat.”

He turned. “You are imaginative.”

She shook her head. “Did I imagine that you saved my life?”

Rick looked away. “I don't know that you'd have died.”

“I had given up.” She saw that now. Her weakness and depression had so incapacitated her, if he hadn't come to her door, she might never have gotten up from the bed again. She reached out and touched his arm. “You saved me.”

He caught her hand and brought it to his chest. “It's not me, Noelle.”

“It is.” Her heart swelled with emotion when his arms closed her safely in.

N
oelle took up her drawing pad and tucked her feet underneath her in the corner. While Stephanie and Therese stitched tree ornaments, she sketched the two of them. She studied Therese's long, slender features, then transferred the line of her cheek and jaw to the page. Next she drew in the shape of her eyes, well placed beside the straight nose, then added the generous mouth.

The real task was bringing the features to life on the page, portraying Therese's gentle way, her warmth, her quiet strength. Noelle caught the shadow at the edge of her mouth that hinted at a smile, an inner contentment, the same completeness she'd seen in Rick.

Satisfied, she turned to Stephanie. She was thicker, like her mother, her eyes wider set, a harder mouth. She kept her hair in a braid, too busy for vanity. Noelle captured her frank, saucy manner.

Therese came and looked over her shoulder. “That's amazing. It looks just like us.”

Stephanie leaned over to look. “Ugh. You got my broad chin.”

Noelle held it out. “I haven't done much with people before.”

“Why not?”

A shadow passed through her. Why did she avoid human subjects? She shrugged. “I never found them very interesting.”

Stephanie flipped her braid. “But we are?”

Noelle smiled. “Yes, you are. I always wanted sisters. You're lucky to have each other.”

“Most of the time,” Therese said.

“Except for Tara.”

Noelle smiled. “I think Tara's adorable.”

“You haven't lived with her the last fourteen years.” Stephanie rolled her eyes.

Therese knelt beside Noelle. “Have you drawn any others?”

“A few.” Noelle flipped through the pages. “Here's one of your father. And here's Tara reading.”

“She looks almost tame.” Stephanie leaned closer. “Have you done Rick?”

“Yes, but I'm not happy with it.” She flipped to the sketch. “He was watching the football game with your father and kept yelling and frowning. It came out harsher than I wanted. But I'll try again.”

Therese laughed. “That's Rick's serious-citizen face.”

Noelle said, “I'd rather get his smile.”

Therese studied the picture. “It's so real. How did you make him look so real?”

“It's mostly in how you see the subject. Then it's just copying it down.” But it pleased her to have Therese's acclaim. Though three years younger and still attending the small community college, Therese seemed wise in ways Noelle was not. How was she so content?

“It's the eyes especially.” Therese sat back on her haunches. “You're very talented.”

“Thank you. Have you studied art?”

“Me?” Therese jabbed a finger to her chest. “I'm terrible.”

“I'm sure you're not,” Noelle said.

“Oh, yes she is.” Stephanie stretched out on Noelle's bed. “Undeniably awful.”

“Speak for yourself.” Therese tossed a pillow onto her sister's head.

Noelle smiled. Their sisterly banter was totally foreign. But it filled an emptiness that nothing else had. This was family, really family. Rick didn't know how lucky he was.

Tara bounced into the room, all legs and energy, and flopped onto Noelle's bed beside Stephanie. “So what are we doing?”

“Having a private conversation.” Stephanie nudged her with a stockinged foot.

“Oooh. Are we talking about Rick?” Tara rubbed her hands.

“None of your business.”

Tara pouted. “Why is it private?”

“Because you're not invited.”

Tara turned her blue eyes to Noelle. “So is he a good kisser?”

Noelle's heart jumped, but she couldn't tell whether it was fear or something else.

“Get out, Tara.” Stephanie stood and dragged Tara out. She closed the door behind her. “Was I that obnoxious at her age?”

Therese smiled. “No, Tara's an original.”

Stephanie settled back onto the bed. “Where is Rick, anyway?”

“Getting presents.” Therese sent them both a conspiratorial look. “He acts like he wouldn't dream of it, but he's very generous.”

“She knows that. She's his girlfriend.” Stephanie tossed the pillow back.

Noelle's throat tightened. “I'm not his girlfriend. We've never even gone out.”

“Oh.” Stephanie clamped her mouth shut. “I thought . . . oh.”

The pillow soared and caught her in the face. “Don't be such a goose, Steph.”

“I'm not!” This time she flung it past Therese's head. “It's just, you know Rick. I figured it must be serious if . . .”

Therese sent Stephanie a look that Noelle read all too well. With what she'd learned about Rick, it was no wonder they assumed . . . And then there were his own feelings. Hadn't he said as much? Did he hope for something more between them? She waited for the trembling to set in, the true panic to wash over her. But it passed.

Therese retrieved the pillow and tucked it behind her head. “Anyway, Rick's gone Christmas shopping.”

“I hadn't thought about gifts.” Noelle straightened her leg and rubbed the muscle. “My bills took all the money I had.” It was shocking how quickly the money had been spent. And now she was penniless and once again thrown on the mercy of strangers. Only they didn't feel like strangers anymore.

Therese sat up. “Make a picture. We're big on homemade gifts.”

“Do a portrait of everyone.” Stephanie struck a pose.

Noelle's spirits rose. “You'd all want that?”

“Are you kidding? We'd love it.” Therese's face lit.

“I did bring my watercolors. . . .” She bit her lip. “You'd have to act surprised.”

Therese laughed. “We're big on that too. I know what both Tiff and Tara have for me already.”

“You don't know what I have for you,” Stephanie said.

“You don't have anything. You never have your gifts until the last minute.”

“You're right. That way you don't know what they are.”

Therese wrapped her knees in her arms. “It's hard to keep secrets around here.”

Noelle leaned back. “If I make sketches of everyone, I can work from those for the portraits, and then no one will suspect what I'm doing.”

“And our lips are sealed. Right, Steph?”

“Right.”

“I wish I could frame them.” Noelle sighed. “But that takes money.”

Therese waved her hand. “Have Rick make them. He's good with wood.”

Noelle pictured the daybed he'd fashioned just for her. Of course he could make frames. He might even enjoy it. “Then he'd know what I'm doing.”

“Just tell him you need frames. He'll think you're working.” Again Therese showed her wisdom.

Noelle felt a warmth spread inside her. “This will be the first Christmas I've celebrated since I was six.”

Both mouths dropped open. “No Christmas?”

Noelle shook her head. “Not since my mother died. She loved Christmas. I think it was too hard for Daddy without her.”

Therese looked like Rick when he wanted to say something but didn't. Stephanie was not so constrained. “Do you remember her?”

“Not as much as I'd like.” There were images, but the face was fuzzy, unclear. And the last ones were frightening. Noelle remembered looking at her mother but not recognizing her. She'd been changed, shrunken, as though her skin used to fit but couldn't anymore.

Rick tapped and opened the door. “Noelle?”

She turned. His cheeks were reddened with cold. He must have just come from outside.

“Telling secrets?” He glanced at his sisters.

“Absolutely,” Therese replied.

“Then I'm taking Noelle.” He strode in and helped her up.

“There was something I wanted to talk to you about, anyway.”
Noelle winked at Therese and Stephanie. She followed Rick into the hall. “Can you make me some frames?”

“Picture frames?”

She nodded.

“Are you going to paint?”

She hoped her smile didn't give her away. “Yes.”

He shrugged. “I'll see what wood Dad has.”

“Thank you.”

“But tonight.” He took her hand. “I thought we'd go out.”

Noelle hid her surprise. Rick was asking for a date?

He took a box from the table in the hall and held it out. “I didn't think you brought anything dressy, and the restaurant is . . . nice.”

Her heart beat fast. What had he done? Didn't he understand how gifts, expectations . . . She stared at the box. She wouldn't take it, wouldn't open it. No, she had nothing to wear to a nice restaurant, had brought only jeans and sweaters and one woolen skirt. But she didn't care.

He opened the lid of the box, and she saw a winter-white angora dress. Synthetic seed pearls lined the scoop neck and the gathered shoulders. Folded in the box, she couldn't tell its cut, but it was lovely, as lovely as anything she'd owned with a designer's name. But she could not take it.

She looked from the dress to Rick, saw the realization dawn in his eyes. He closed the lid. “I didn't think. I was out shopping and saw it and . . .” He shoved the box back onto the table. “I'm sorry.”

She hadn't expected that. She thought he would wheedle and coax or simply insist. She glanced at the box. Her face pinched and her voice sounded tight. “It's beautiful.”

“You don't have to wear it.”

She reached for the box. Slowly she lifted the lid and slipped the dress out. It was as soft as it looked, straight cut tea length. The sleeves tapered from the gathered shoulders. She held it to her throat and closed her eyes. She had to choose.

Rick wasn't Michael. His gift didn't bind her. He wouldn't force her to wear it. She opened her eyes. “I'll try it on.”

———

Walking down the hall in the new dress, Noelle caught sight of Rick standing in the living room in a charcoal three-piece suit. She stopped
still and stared. That couldn't be Rick. Not the Rick who landed in the dirt and shoveled out fires and built his own ranch log by log. Oh, she knew the clothes didn't make the man, but . . . he was great in a suit.

He turned, and his eyes went down the dress that sheathed her in simple elegance. “It fits.”

She smiled. He was still Rick, still putting so much into so few words.

He held out his elbow. “Ready?”

Was she? Until now she could pretend he was nothing but a friend, someone willing to help, to listen and understand. But she knew his nature now, thanks to bits and pieces from his sisters and what she'd seen for herself. He didn't date idly. He was offering her something more than he'd offered before.

Her fingers trembled as she took his arm. “I'll have to call you Richard, tonight.”
Richard the Lionhearted
.

His mouth quirked. “Watch it.” He led her out front where Therese's compact idled.

She glanced up. “Why not the truck?”

“I'm having the heater repaired. Unless you want to go to dinner in a quilt.” He let her into the car. The truck's heater had been acting up on the drive out, but Rick looked ungainly in the car. And instead of woodsmoke and horses, he smelled amazingly of cologne.

As they drove, Noelle tried to reconcile this new Rick. She had defined him differently. “Why haven't you dressed up before?”

“Didn't have a reason to.”

“Well, you were made for a suit.”

He glanced sidelong. “It'd be real sensible when I'm getting thrown from a horse.”

Ah, there he was. Practical, no-nonsense Rick Spencer. He parked outside the restaurant at the edge of town.

She looked at the white stucco walls and arched windows, the pillared garden that lined the walk to the heavy girded door, the red tiled roof. Italian or Mediterranean. She wouldn't have thought such a small town would possess a formal restaurant. It was probably no more than three stars, but something kept her from going in.

Would it recall other occasions, other nights, dining in style while the noose tightened around her neck? The evenings with Morgan had not, but she hadn't remembered it all then. Rick must have sensed
her hesitance. He reached for her hand. “There's a McDonald's down the road.”

She laughed. He understood without her saying anything. Was that a good thing? “I think this will do.”

They were seated at a small side table, and she leaned forward to sniff the single red rose in the vase. The firelight flickered on the white stucco walls of the Mediterranean alcoves, and the candle in the amber globe softly scented the air.

She looked across the table at Rick. She wouldn't have pictured him here. His face still had the strong, straight lines, but it was no longer hard. Maybe he had gentled, or maybe she'd seen only the surface before. Maybe he, like Morgan, had kept his real self from her. Did they all wear masks? She felt hers slipping.

He returned her gaze without flinching, then took her hands in his. “You're beautiful, Noelle.”

Her heart skipped. She had heard those words all her life, but coming now from Rick it was different. He didn't use them cheaply. He was saying what he thought, not trying to impress or score. His hands on hers were strong and sure.

She remembered his first firm grip when he'd introduced himself, his hand in the hospital, when she couldn't bear to let go. And again when she told him everything. Now she felt his hands crushing her shell, yet she clung to the fragments. She had to.

He released her when the waiter came. She ordered club soda, and Rick asked for coffee. By now, Morgan would have been well into his first Manhattan. And she'd be fending him off. Glib, suave, outrageous Morgan. But it wasn't Morgan across from her now, and she wasn't sure what to make of that.

She picked up the menu and studied the entrees. “I loved veal until I learned how they treat the poor things.”