Save the Date (17 page)

She stopped at her door and knocked.

“It’s open.”

The lecture died on Lucy’s lips as she took in the sight of the girl sitting on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

Marinell turned the page of a literature book and jotted down some notes. “Nothing.”

Without invitation, Lucy sat down next to her. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Flipping through a folder, Marinell pulled out a piece of paper. “I need you to sign this.”

“What is it?”

“A field trip permission slip. Don’t worry about reading all the boring stuff. It just says we’re going to the aquarium Tuesday. Sign at the bottom.”

The girls had initiated Lucy quickly on all the tricks a teenager could have up her sleeve. Lucy read every single line. “It’s a note from your counselor.” She reread a few significant lines. “It says here your grades have dropped in the last two weeks, and you haven’t registered yet for summer school.”

“I don’t need summer school.”

“You do if you want to catch up and graduate next year. You can’t take off a whole semester and expect the school to just wave you on through.”

“I can get my GED.”

“No.” Some of the girls had GEDs, and that was fine for them, but Lucy had seen Marinell’s transcript before her fall semester backslide. The girl had three years of As and Bs, so a GED was not what she needed on her college applications. “You’re gonna get that diploma so all of us can go to your graduation next year.”

“Why, so you can make fun of me in that stupid hat?”

“Exactly,” Lucy said. “Now start talking.”

“’Bout what?”

“About the fact that you’re apparently sleeping somewhere besides this bed and bailing on school.”

“I got a boyfriend.”

She didn’t know why, but something told Lucy that Marinell was lying out her teeth.
Oh no. Lord, am I such an accomplished liar myself now that I can smell it on everyone else?
“Where have you been going, Marinell?”

“Just . . . out.”

Lucy rubbed the sensitive skin over her right temple. “I’ve had a really cruddy day, and I’m fresh out of patience. So if you don’t deal straight with me—”

“I went to see my brother at the hospital, okay?”

Lucy stilled. “I didn’t know he was sick.”

Marinell sniffed and finally lifted her head. Tortured eyes stared back at Lucy. “Relapse,” she said. “Carlos has kidney problems, and he’s back at the Children’s Hospital. He didn’t get placed with no family, so he’s all alone.”

Lucy’s breath caught in her throat. “What about your mom?”

“She lost her job ’cause she visited the hospital so much. She sees him as often as she can, but she doesn’t have a car.”

“I can take you to see your brother any time.”

“He’s just eight, you know? He needs family. A group home isn’t the same.”

Lucy lifted Marinell’s long brown hair away from her face. “No, it’s not the same.”

“I need to keep an eye on him. I promised my dad, I—”

“I thought your dad was dead.”

“Dead? He’s just . . . gone. Not around.” Marinell picked a thread on her bedspread. “I can’t talk about it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, okay?” She stared back with doubt. “You’ll really take me to see Carlos?”

“We’ll go together,” Lucy said. “But you have to do your schoolwork. You’re not doing anyone any favors by flunking out.”

“I just feel so . . .”

“Alone?”

Marinell’s watery eyes closed. “Yeah.”

“But you’re not.” Lucy took a risk and pulled the girl to her, wrapping her in her arms. “You are not alone. You have me. And you have Saving Grace.” She held Marinell as the girl sniffled on her shoulder. “This might weird you out, but I’m going to pray for you. Okay?”

Marinell nodded against Lucy’s shoulder.

“God, we come to you today and ask for comfort for Marinell. Give her strength and courage, and wrap your loving arms around her. We pray for healing for Carlos. Let him feel your holy touch. Let him know he is not alone and that he is loved. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Marinell ran her finger across the edge of the pages. “I have some studying to do.”

It was enough. For now. “I’ll check in on you later.” With a heart weighted down like a water buoy, Lucy made her way to her office.

Where Alex Sinclair was waiting.

“Where’ve you been?” He sat in her chair like the captain of a yacht. Seat reclined, elbows locked on the armrest. He filled that small office and had her taking a step back for space.

“What are you doing?” was all she could manage. Had she noticed earlier how the lime green of his shirt set off his tan?

He made no move to get out of her seat but watched her with a casual interest that belied the tightly bound energy rolling off him in waves. “I was worried about you after church. I’ve been calling.”

Why was he looking at her like that? Like he could see straight through her. “I had some things to take care of.”

And then his voice softened. “Want to talk about it?”

She was at that point where talking could only lead to tears. “Probably about as much as you want to talk about your brother.”

And then Alex Sinclair, with his football player’s body and Playboy smile, peeled himself from the chair, closed the distance between them, and met her where she stood in the doorway.

“Bad day?” he asked quietly.

Lucy nodded. “Just worried about one of my girls.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it.” And he listened as she outlined Marinell’s situation.

“You”—he tilted his head, studied her—“are a very good person.”

“Minus a few lies here and there?”

He smiled. “Did you speak to Clare this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else?”

She nodded again, expecting him to press. To pry. At the very least, she waited for the comfort of his familiar sarcasm.

“I’m sorry.” Frowning, he brought his hand to her cheek, then slid his fingers to the back of her head. Pulling her close, he wrapped those steely arms around her and drew her tight.

He smelled of Ivory soap, expensive cologne, and the raw power that could only be derived from the golden branch of a family tree. Goose bumps broke out on her skin as a rogue frisson of electricity danced through her system. The air around them swirled with heat, saturating her senses. Confusing her even more.

Lucy broke away. “I have to . . . um, get some work done.” It was a weak excuse. But she would not fall like every other woman who had encountered him.

His lips curved, dimpling his right cheek. “You have issues, Lucy Wiltshire.”

“My allergic reaction to football players?” She nodded and gave a bored little sigh. “Every time you touch me, I do break out in a rash.”

He laughed low and gave her a slow wink. “Let me know if you need help with that.” And walked away.

Wilting into her desk chair, Lucy could still catch his scent. She didn’t know what had just happened.

She only knew it couldn’t happen again.

Chapter Seventeen

T
wo weeks and twelve dates later, Morgan stood in Lucy’s apartment, her finger pointed like a pistol ready to fire.

“Did you think I wouldn’t read today’s paper?”

Lucy pulled a Cool-Whip bowl from the kitchen cabinet and positioned it on her coffee table in the living room next to her sweating glass of tea. It was the third day of the apartment upstairs leaking, and despite her landlord’s promises, it had yet to be fixed. As if split into a triplex against its wishes, the old house protested with fierce regularity.

Apparently the landlord didn’t care that the leak had already ruined the cover of one Brian Jacques novel and the latest issue of
Vogue
, a magazine she had purchased for the sole purpose of adopting a new style for Alex. Never mind that she hadn’t even opened it yet. She would’ve. Eventually. Because who didn’t want to read about purses that cost more than her car the day she bought it or earrings that elongated the neck and overloaded the credit card?

“Lucy, I’m talking to you.”

And then there was Morgan.

“Do you smell that?” Lucy sniffed the stale air in her living room. “It smells musty, doesn’t it?”

“The only thing that stinks here is the fact that you’ve been keeping things from me.” She held up the paper and regarded Lucy like she was about to hand over a red letter
A
. “This says you and Alex have been dating for almost five months. There are even photos to back it up.” She pointed to one that had been artfully created on someone’s computer. “Look, here you and Alex are at a ski lodge in Vail on January fifteenth.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I happen to know you weren’t anywhere near the state of Colorado on that date because that was the night Chuck proposed to me, and you were planted in our carriage taking our pictures. Remember that?”

“I do vaguely recall being a little too close to a pair of mules at some point that night.”

“I don’t understand.” Morgan pulled the magazine from Lucy’s hands. “First you start dating Alex. You kick Matt to the curb, which really didn’t bother me. But
now
I’m supposed to believe that your relationship goes all the way back to the beginning of the year?”

“Fine.” She couldn’t put it off any longer. “I’m a liar, Morgan. I’m the scum of society.” Lucy blew an exasperated breath and flopped down on the couch, covering her face with her hands. “I’ve crossed over to the dark side and . . . I have become its mistress.”

She thought she heard Morgan give a small laugh, but Lucy kept going. “I was going to tell you. But I couldn’t seem to find the time to let you know that your best friend was daily walking in danger of God smiting her off the planet.”

“Just tell me what’s going on.”

And Lucy did. Every last
Days of Our Lives
moment.

When she had finished her story and wrung out her heart like a soapy dishrag, Morgan just stared. Gob-smacked and silent.

“Morgan?”

Her friend got up. Went to the kitchen. Poured herself a Diet Coke, no ice. Tipped it back and downed it like discount liquor, then turned blazing eyes to Lucy. “Are you
insane
?”

“No, I just—”

“You should’ve come to me. You should’ve told me.”

Lucy’s temper kicked in. “So you could talk me out of it?”

“Yes!”

“What choice did I have?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Morgan threw up her hands. “Maybe let God take care of it instead of charging in and faking an engagement with some self-indulgent skirt chaser?”

“He’s really been misrepresented and I—”

“Lucy, open your eyes.” Morgan crashed back onto the couch and pulled her long Angelina Jolie locks off her shoulder. “The man is dangerous. He’s a user.”

“So am I!” Lucy pointed to the paper. “I’m clearly a master manipulator, and we didn’t even know it. Which is just further proof I
must
be Steven Deveraux’s daughter.”

“You have to end this thing with Alex. It’s insanity.”

“It saved my girls.”

“Nothing is worth that cost.”

“I have thirteen lives depending on me who prove otherwise.”

“You didn’t even let God move in this. You just jumped at the first crazy idea that came your way.”

Lucy’s cheeks burned with the accusation. “I was hours away from kicking my girls out on the streets. I couldn’t do that to them because I—” Lucy stopped herself. Morgan would never understand. She couldn’t possibly know what it was like to be homeless. To not have anyone to take care of you. To sleep with your belongings as your pillow and your meager cash stuffed in your bra.

“God often comes through in the midnight hour too,” Morgan said. “Wasn’t it just a few months ago we had a Bible study on that very thing for the girls?”

“Okay, yes. I know.” Lucy got that she was supposed to totally depend on him and not merely give the Lord a few multiple-choice options to use to save her. “I’m not saying what I did was the right thing.” She moistened her dry lips and prayed for words. “But God hadn’t shown up, and I panicked. It’s so easy to sit where you are and say what I should’ve done. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m in this thing. Saving Grace will be set for at least five years now. And we can help even more people.” And Alex, in return, was now closing in on his opponent in the polls.

“And you lost everything . . . so your girls could gain it all.”

“I had to save them. It’s what I’m put on this planet to do.”

“But not by your own power.”

There was no arguing the truth.

“This is why you walked away from Matt, isn’t it?” Morgan asked. “Not because you doubted him, but because you had already committed to Alex.”

Matt had called her numerous times since that day at his house. She had let her voice mail pick up every time. She just couldn’t deal with the life he was still offering her. That door was closed. For now.

Morgan reached for her friend’s hand. “You should’ve told me. That’s what best friends do.”

Lucy took a drink of her iced tea, but her throat still felt like she had swallowed a cotton plant. “This has to stay between us, Morgan. Please just trust me to handle this.”

Morgan shook her dark head. “This isn’t like you at all.” She gestured to the paper. “And neither are those pictures. In every one you’re dressed up like you’re on the red carpet but look like you’re down to your last friend.”

“You try having a camera trained on you everywhere you go.”

“Lucy, you look miserable. What’s wrong with dressing like yourself?”

It earned her the censorious looks from Clare Deveraux, for one. “I need to be more polished, at least for the formal events with Alex. You know, less . . . Doris Day.”

“But everyone loves Doris Day. It’s you. It’s cute. This”—she pointed to a photo of Lucy in a black evening gown that had cost Lucy half of her last paycheck—“is for Miss America. And look at your shoulders, all slumped over.”

“I’m sure I was just tired.”

“What you are is beaten down—again. God’s brought you a long way—don’t go back to doubting who you are. Why let those people in your head? You’re just as good as anyone Alex could possibly introduce you to. If you’re going to play this game, at least don’t let it devastate what’s left of the confidence you’ve built.”