Your Dream and Mine (7 page)

“Just leave it. I’ll put it away later,” he said.

When she turned, her chin was down where it belonged, and her full lips had lost their disapproving slant. “I’m sorry,” she said without looking at him. “When you sent him in for safety glasses, I thought you were giving him a hard time.”

“Who? Ricky?”

She nodded. Color flooded her cheeks. “I misunderstood.”

She hadn’t. But Trace couldn’t say so. To admit he was guilty would lead to excuses, and he had none. He moved toward his truck, then turned just short of it. Uncertain why he felt compelled, he said, “If you want me to take him home, the offer still stands.”

“What about your date?”

“She won’t mind. She’s got a soft spot for kids herself.”

Thomasina searched his face a moment. He wasn’t sure what she was looking for. But she yielded finally, smiling a little as she said, “I’ll leave it up to Ricky.”

R
icky had no trouble making up his mind. He climbed in with Trace and away they went. Whatever the trouble in the carriage house had been, apparently they’d settled it between themselves.

Thomasina stepped on a button while climbing the porch steps. She picked it up, looked down and realized it was hers. Tired and temporarily overwhelmed by the mess of moving, she changed her shirt and drove to Newt’s Market for a sandwich.

The store was crowded with Saturday-night loafers. Emmaline cajoled an old-timer into giving up his stool at the seven-stool counter to an “eating customer.” He hunkered down on a stack of dog food sacks at the end of the counter with his cup of coffee and a spirit of hospitality that put Thomasina in mind of Milt Chambers. She changed her mind about crossing the street to the park, and “ate in.”

The news of the village pitched to and fro from the men at the counter to Emmaline’s uncle Earl and his checkers opponent to the gent on the pile of dog food sacks. Milt and Mary’s plans to sell out was a hot topic. The news had
leaked when the appraiser stopped at Newt’s for gas on his way out of town. Nor did Trace escape the rumor mill. Popular opinion had it that his date was a long-lost love, Deidre Somebody-or-other. They’d been spotted that afternoon, two doors down from the church.

“Ought to put a wrinkle in young Austin’s love nest,” said the bearded old man facing Uncle Earl across the checkerboard.

“Love nest?” echoed Uncle Earl.

“Shore. Seen moving boxes on the porch just a while ago, and Trace helping the gal move in.”

“It’s a two-unit apartment, and shame on you, Charlie, for starting that yarn!”

That, from Emmaline. Grateful, Thomasina looked up and caught Emmaline motioning to the men, zipping her finger over her throat. The men swallowed their rusty cackles and tugged at the bills of their seed company caps. A siren rang, piercing the sudden shroud of silence. The men turned as one toward the wide front window.

“Fire.”

“Or rescue,” said another.

The stools creaked as the men swiveled to their feet and ambled to the window. A slice of fresh strawberry pie appeared in front of Thomasina.

“On the house.” Emmaline answered her questioning. glance. She gestured toward the men and said behind her hand, “I’d send the whole lot of them packing, but their wives just send them back again. Go figure.”

Thomasina smiled and thanked her and picked up her fork. “Mmm. This is delicious. Did you make it?”

“Fresh this morning. More coffee?”

“Why not?”

Thomasina and Emmaline were chatting like old friends when the sheriff ambled in and announced the rescue call
was at Antoinette Penn’s house. Charlie looked up from the checkerboard.

“Suppose one of them skintight dresses squeezed the air out of the merry widow?”

“You volunteering for the resuscitating committee, Charlie?” asked Uncle Earl.

“It’s her dad, the way I hear it,” said the sheriff. “He was there, watching the kids and got shooting pains in his chest. What’ve you got in the way of batteries, Emmaline? My watch has stopped.”

As she left Newt’s Market and drove home, Thomasina whispered a prayer for Antoinette’s father. She was applying her second wind to unpacking, when a doll of a gal showed up at her door. Silver earrings big as bracelets dangled from her shell-like ears as her ruby-red lips flashed in a rush of distress.

“You must be Thomasina. The kids told me about you. I’m Antoinette Penn. Do you know where Trace is?”

“He’s out for the evening,” said Thomasina.

“Oh, no!” The tension lining her young face deepened. “He was my last resort. Dad’s been taken to the hospital with chest pains. I was hoping Trace would keep the kids while I go to meet Dad at the hospital. Never mind, I’ll think of something else,” Antoinette replied over her shoulder as she hurried down the steps.

“Wait, Antoinette!” Thomasina called after her. “I’d be happy to watch them for you.”

Antoinette stopped midstride. Surprise, then gratitude flashed over her countenance in quick sequence. She motioned to Paul and Winny, waiting in the car, ushered them up the steps into Thomasina’s care and hurried away.

“Is Grandpa going to die?” asked Winny, tipping her freckled face.

“Die?” echoed Pauly. He lifted his face in silent entreaty to Thomasina.

Tears gathered. Their little mouths puckered. Heart turning, Thomasina leaned down and gathered them close. “Your mama’s gone to help, and we can help, too. We can ask Jesus to watch over your grandpa.”

“Who’s Jesus?” asked Pauly, lifting his face.

“The doctor?” chimed Winny, clinging to Thomasina.

“Yes,” said Thomasina, touching her cheek. “The best in the business.”

Pauly squirmed free. He darted into Thomasina’s apartment, zigzagged between strewn boxes and back again. “Where’s the phone?”

“You don’t need a phone to call Jesus. You ask and He hears.”

Trace had chosen a popular downtown restaurant known for its good food, soft light and live music. He and Deidre had finished their meal. They lingered over dessert and coffee while the band played across the room. Deidre suggested they skip the movie and talk instead.

Trace knew he should be over the moon. But his ticker was as steady as a clock. It hadn’t wobbled since that last glimpse of Thomasina in his rearview mirror, disheveled in her wrinkled shorts and her hair tumbling down around her shoulders as she waved to him and Ricky from the driveway.

Deidre had always been a good conversationalist. Far better than he. Yet his thoughts kept drifting. Will’s news about Milt selling the farm had nearly blown him away. It was exactly the sort of the place he’d been wanting for years. He went over every inch of it in his mind. Laying out vacation cabins. Putting canoes on the creek for vacationers. Making a fishing pond and stocking it so youngsters
would get the thrill of hooking a fish without having to wait hours and hours.

Deidre pulled him out of the wool of his thoughts, and gave a lively account of the mission school expanding to include a summer camp ministry for the children. “It was the brainstorm of a young man I taught the first year I was there. Don’t think that doesn’t make me feel old, seeing my students return to take up the work!” she concluded, and smiled even as she sighed. “That’s the whole purpose, of course.”

“Making you feel old?”

Deidre laughed. “No. Preparing others.”

“Sounds as if you’re working yourself out of a job.”

“That’s the general idea.” Deidre smiled and got to her feet and stretched a hand to him in that wordless way she used to do when she wanted to dance.

Reluctant, he said, “You sure? I’m kind of rusty.”

Deidre’s lips curved. “I’ll watch my toes. Come on.”

They crossed the floor hand in hand and found space on the dance floor just as the band swung into a tune from the past, one they’d thought of as “their song.” Trace reacted instinctively and drew Deidre close. She tipped her face and smiled.

Trace saw the laundry room light burning and let himself in the back door. Thomasina was on the stepladder humming to herself as she peered into the cupboard over the washing machine. She rose on tiptoe and stretched a hand up to pat down the top shelf.

“Looking for something?” asked Trace.

Thomasina spun around so fast, the rickety ladder threatened to collapse. Trace leapt to steady her and got his hand slapped away.

“Don’t ever do that again!”

“I was trying to keep you from breaking your neck.”

“Not
that,
” she said, scrambling down off the ladder, her face aflame. “I meant don’t sneak up on me.”

“I didn’t sneak. I walked right in. What’re you so allthe-time jumpy about, anyway?”

“I’m not jumpy. I didn’t hear you coming. I thought you had a date. I wasn’t expecting you for hours.”

Expecting him?
Trace couldn’t say why that pleased him. “Tell you what. Next time I’ll just keep going and not speak. That suit you better?”

“What would suit me is a hammer,” she said without much grace. “Have you got one?”

“Yes. But I’m not sure I trust your frame of mind.”

Thomasina swept a hand through her hair. Heat rising, she fought an impulse to retreat and countered, “I’m not sure I do, either.”

He chuckled. Retrieving a hammer from its resting place between the water softener and the wall, he asked, “What is it you’re building?”

“I’m not. I’m hanging rods for curtains,” Thomasina explained as the hammer changed hands.

“The yard sale curtains fit, did they?”

“Yes. I never did thank you for measuring the windows for me.”

“I was glad to.”

“Still, it was the second mile.”

Trace wasn’t up to speed on his Sunday school parables. It took him a moment to realize what she meant. By then she was on her way into the kitchen. Reluctant to let her go, he said, “Need some help?”

“No thanks,” said Thomasina.

“Your dad teach you how to swing a hammer, did he?”

She nodded and smiled and was about to close the door when Winny stumbled into the kitchen with a storybook.

“I heard you, Trace.”

Surprised, Trace asked, “What’s she doing here?”

“Antoinette’s father had to go to the hospital.” Thomasina leaned closer and whispered, “Chest pains. It sounded serious.”

Winny yawned and blinked sleepy eyes and said, “Know what, Trace? We called Dr. Jesus to take care of Grandpa.”

“Good thinking,” said Trace.

Winny looked up at Thomasina, then back to Trace. “You wanna look at a book with me?”

Trace arched an eyebrow. Thomasina countered with a downturned mouth. “No, thanks,” Trace said.

“Why not?” Winny asked.

“Because I’m going to bed. Which is where you should be.”

“I can’t. I don’t got a bed here,” replied Winny. She watched as he took his door key from his pocket. “Hey! Where ya going?”

“Home.”

“You
are
home.”

“No. This is Thomasina’s home. My home’s through there.” Trace pointed out the opposite door leading off the laundry room.

“Oh, ya.” Winny spread her dimpled hands. “It’s a great big dollhouse called a part…part…What’s it called, Thoma?”

“Apartments.”

“Right!” Winny yawned and lifted her arms to Thomasina as Trace turned the key in his door.

“Did you get Ricky home all right?” Thomasina called after him.

He turned back to nod just as she leaned down and lifted Winny into her arms. He noticed her slender fingers as she caressed Winny’s hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Noticed too, that she’d changed her blouse. He shifted his feet “If those rods give you trouble, let me know.”

“Thank you, Trace.”

Trace moved through the dark house and up the stairs with two pictures in his mind. One was of the deer-in-the-headlights look as Thomasina swirled on top of that stepladder. The other was of her mothering Winny whom she had met only a day ago, and doing it in a way so natural to her that he realized with a flash of insight that she was God’s to the core.

It was a sobering thought, for Trace had learned the hard way that a man couldn’t compete with God for a woman’s heart.

T
homasina put the curtains up, and stretched out with Winny beside her. She had just drifted off to sleep when Antoinette came with news that a severe case of bronchitis was responsible for her father’s chest pains.

“Then it wasn’t his heart.” Thomasina rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

“No, thank God! I was pretty scared. I don’t know what I’d do without Dad.”

Antoinette averted her face, but not before Thomasina saw the tears in the woman’s eyes. She looked no older than a child herself as she plucked up the sheet covering Pauly, and touched his freckled face. “Daddy’s the glue that holds us together, and my safety net, too. He keeps my babies while I work,” she added, voice breaking.

“It must be difficult, two little ones depending on you,” Thomasina said gently. “What a blessing we’ve a Heavenly Father to look after us, too.”

If Antoinette replied, it was lost on her way out the door. Thomasina picked up Winny and followed her out to the car.

“What do I owe you?” asked Antoinette, as she lay Pauly across the front seat.

“Nothing. If you need someone again, let me know.”

Thomasina hurried inside, climbed the stairs and dropped on a makeshift bed of cushions, limbs aching with weariness. She thought she’d go to sleep right away. But she could not turn off the Ferris wheel in her head. Antoinette and the kids. Milt and Mary. The farm. Flo and Nathan— she had forgotten to call them. A perky blonde named Deidre. They all circled by, appearing and reappearing. Trace, too. Handsome in a dark suit and tie and white shirt that set off his tanned features and those tummy-tipping summer-sky blue eyes of his.

Darkness fell over the Ferris wheel as those images, only hours old, cycled. The rickety ladder. Trace’s unseen approach. A voice. A touch. Terror and a slap propelled by a cataclysmic panic that burned away reason and thrust her back in time to a kitchen that reeked of dishes left in the sink, and her mother’s flowery perfume.

Thomasina broke out in a cold sweat, pulse fast, breath shallow as she tried to hold images from the past at bay.
A strange bird,
Ricky had called her. Trace’s expression had echoed that sentiment, with indignation thrown in. Jumpy, he labeled her response. It didn’t come close.

The mouth of the tunnel yawned wider. Thomasina stopped ducking the images. She turned her eyes on that squalid kitchen and was there once again. Her chest tight, her breath shallow, her eyes level with the countertop.

“Mama?”

Her mother stepped into the dim light of that single overhead bulb. She gleamed like Christmas tinsel. Shining eyes. Starry-bright hair. Smudged lipstick on her laughing mouth.

“Go back to bed, Thomasina.”

Thomasina didn’t remember the rest of the conversation.
Just that it went on for a short space, and that she was scared and confused and reluctant to do as she was told. And that her mother got impatient. Then
he
stepped out of the dark recess, startling her with his touch.

“You heard her. Go to bed.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. His expression was cold steel, his eyes the color of a snake she’d seen at the zoo. Even his tattooed arms looked like snakeskin.

Her mother left with him. Left her alone, crying under the covers. It was three days before the neighbors noticed Thomasina in the hallway alone and called the Department of Children and Family Services. She was four, left behind by a mother who was hardly more than a child herself.

Through the tunnel into the light, Thomasina knew in her adult mind she had not walked it alone. What had seemed so devastating at the time was divine intervention. She knew too, that she was His workmanship in the making as He saw her safely through the years of foster care and into the loving arms of Flo and Nathan.

The campground for at-risk children would be her work. This Thomasina would do, both for her heavenly Father, and for her heart parents, too. Was it time? Was Milt’s farm the place she’d been trusting God to lead her to for this work? If so, the farm would be hers.

Thomasina’s nerves jumped as something bumped on the other side of the house. Trace. A wistfulness twined its way through her, a secret lonesome yearning she was too honest to deny and too tired to pursue. She closed her eyes and envisioned God covering her with His hand.

The sunlight was shining in the uncurtained window when Thomasina awakened. She’d forgotten to set her alarm. One look at the clock, and she knew it was too late to make it to early church in Bloomington. Eleven o’clock
services would throw her even further behind. Wishing she’d asked someone about services in Liberty Flats, Thomasina rolled to her feet, stood still and listened for signs of life in the next apartment. No running water, no music, no footsteps, not a sound. Trace was either still sleeping, or he was gone.

Thomasina showered and shampooed and styled her hair in a waterfall of dark waves. By nine-fifteen, she had herself turned out in a filmy ivory cap-sleeved blouse and a pale dusty green summer-weight suit, gold accessories included. Not bad for living out of boxes. In good spirits, she hummed and slipped into high heels and sunglasses and grabbed her purse, keys and Bible on her way out the door.

Cars were lined up and down both sides of Church Street for two blocks. Thomasina was about to circle when she spotted Trace on the roof of his latest acquisition. His olivegreen T-shirt was a second skin spanning broad shoulders and chest, tapering to the beltless band of his faded jeans. He worked a crowbar, stripping shingles from the roof with muscle-rippling efficiency.

Thomasina stopped in the street and hit the window button. “Mind if I park in your driveway?”

He tipped back the ball cap shading his face and wiped his brow with a brown forearm. “Help yourself. Nice morning, isn’t it?”

Thomasina smiled in agreement, and backed up a little so she could make the turn into his driveway. She climbed out, put her sunglasses in her purse and flung a hand in the air. “Thanks. The keys are in the ignition if you need to move it.”

A knee protruded through a hole in his jeans as he shifted his stance. “Thought you’d be moving furniture today.”

“After church,” she said. “What time does it start? Do you know?”

“Ten, I think.” Eye caught by sunlight shining in her hair, he dropped his crowbar and moved to the edge of the roof. “Unless they’ve changed their schedule. I haven’t been in a while.”

“You’re welcome to come with me. I could use a familiar face.”

“I could use another pair of hands,” he countered.

“I’d offer, but I don’t like heights.”

He shot her a lopsided grin. “Heaven-bound and you don’t like heights?”

She smiled.

He swung from the roof to the ladder and down and crossed the grass. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No. I overslept,” Thomasina admitted.

“I’ve got doughnuts.”

“I better not, I don’t want to be late.”

“Did I mention they are iced in chocolate?” he coaxed.

Thomasina smiled. “On second thought…”

“I thought that might make a difference.” Grinning, Trace stepped past her to let down the tailgate of his truck. “Have a seat.”

“I thought the store was closed on Sunday.”

“It is,” he said. “I got these in town last night.”

With his date.

It was hot in the sun. Thomasina took off her suit jacket. She folded it across her Bible and purse on the tailgate beside her and smoothed her skirt as he circled back with a thermos of coffee and a sack of doughnuts.

Thomasina accepted first pick. “Mmm. How’d you guess chocolate was my favorite food group?”

“A couple of jailbirds were wearing the evidence. Remember?”

Thomasina laughed as he tipped the thermos. The coffee streamed black and aromatic into the cup. Her nose buzzed
her taste buds as he offered it to her. Seeing only one cup, she fought the coffee bean tyrant and said, “I’m fine. You go ahead.”

“Take it. Wouldn’t want your equilibrium suffering.”

“Shame on you for reminding me.” Thomasina took the coffee and hijacked the thermos, too.

He chuckled and returned to the cab for another cup. She’d taken off her shoes while his back was turned. Slender feet, well-turned ankles and girlie toes, tipped in glossy pink enamel. Her white throat caught the light as she tipped her head back, looking toward the house.

“So how’s the roof coming?”

“Off,” he said.

“The whole thing?”

“Right down to the joists.” He explained his plan to convert it into another two-unit apartment.

“You’re quite the wheeler and dealer, aren’t you?”

“A regular horse trader.” He answered her smile. “Which reminds me—I caught a glimpse of Ricky’s truck last night when I dropped him off.”

“The purple one?”

“That’s the least of its problems.” He should have brought some napkins. Or maybe not. There was artistry to her tongue flicking to a corner crease, collecting a crumb. He took his time chewing and sipping, curious over the unseen flaw. Had to be one, or someone would have snapped her up a long time ago. His glance fell to her Bible, peeking out from beneath her jacket. For a moment, it was Deidre all over again. He hardened his jaw and watched churchgoers looking for parking space.

“You want to cut a deal?”

“With a horse trader?” she said doubtfully, and grinned when he did.

“I’ll help you move your furniture if you’ll go out to
Milt’s with me tomorrow and hold Mary’s hand while Will and I cut down that tree. I told Will Mary’s attached to it,” he added as she opened her mouth to protest. “Even reminded him of how he and I used to crawl out his upstairs window, down that tree and off to the creek on hot summer nights.”

“And he wants to cut it down anyway?”

“He says it’s all wrong from a landscaping point of view.”

Thomasina had enough of an eye for balance to concede the point. “Still, it’s a shame to lose a mature tree. Especially a healthy one.”

“I’m no tree doctor, so I won’t venture a guess.” Seeing protest in her dark eyes, Trace added, “Will may be short on sentiment, but he’s right about one thing. If it did come down on its own, it would have a hard time missing the house.”

“Okay, okay.” Thomasina held up a hand. “I give up.”

“You’ll come out to the farm, then, Monday?”

“Yes, and hold Mary’s hand. If she can’t be talked into trying the last resort. Tears,” she said at his questioning glance.

“Now you’re showing some ingenuity!” He laughed, and splashed the last dregs of his coffee on the ground. “So when do you want to get started on the furniture? Right after church?”

“That’d be great.” The church bells chimed. Thomasina slipped into her jacket and stacked her clutch purse on top of her Bible. “It’s only fair to warn you, though. I’ll be getting the better end of this deal.”

“Let me worry about that,” said Trace. He grinned as she slid off the tailgate into her spiked heels, then waved as she hurried up the sidewalk, dusting the seat of her skirt as she went.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Trace and Ricky and two of Ricky’s pals lugged Thomasina’s furniture down two flights of stairs, loaded both trucks and drove south to Liberty Flats. Antoinette came with her kids while they were unloading, and offered to help.

On the second and final trip to town, Thomasina stayed behind with Antoinette to “clear a path,” as she put it. Storm clouds rolled in on the way back to Liberty Flats. Keeping the fixer-upper and water damage in mind, Trace wanted to make fast tracks. But he was following the boys, and their old clunker developed a hitch in its stride. The purple truck made it to Liberty Flats by the skin of its teeth, limped into the carriage house drive, coughed twice and died.

Trace pulled in behind the boys. Unloading was a race with coming rain. He and Ricky were carrying in the last piece when it started to drizzle.

Thomasina was throwing sheets over her shoddy mattress when Trace guided Ricky through the door with her free-standing mirror. Plain white cotton sheets. Nothing provocative about that. But as she turned and met Trace’s glance, she was uncomfortable and wished she’d ignored the impulse to hide the lumpy mattress.

Ricky ducked out the door and tramped down the stairs to go see about his truck. Thomasina hoped Trace would follow. He didn’t. Hearing rain hit the window, she said, “Just in time.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s raining. We’ve finished just in time. Thanks for all your help, Trace.”

Was that a note of dismissal in her tone as she tucked the last corner, and reached for the quilt? The quilt billowed out over the bed. Trace stirred himself, went downstairs
and asked the boys to help him get the roof on his rental house covered.

They found tarps in the shed, hurried across town and got soaking wet getting the job done. Upon their return, the boys tried the truck, but it wouldn’t start. Trace slid the carriage house door open, helped them push it inside and looked under the hood.

“Could just need a tune-up,” said Ricky.

“Maybe,” Trace replied, fairly certain it was more than that. “See if you can get it running while I go change my clothes.”

Trace let himself in the back door just as Antoinette and the children cut across the yard, trekking homeward under a black umbrella. They quarreled as they went.

“Pauly’s a slowpoke!” taunted Winny.

“Nuh-uh, you’re the swow poke,” retorted Pauly.

Trace tramped over the back deck and into the laundry room. The door leading into Thomasina’s kitchen was standing open.

“Where are the boys?” she called to him. “They didn’t leave, did they?”

“No, they’re trying to get their truck running.”

“Good. I want to treat them to supper over at the church. It’s the least I can do for the way they’ve pitched in. You’ll come, won’t you?” Thomasina added, and tossed him a hand towel. “You’re wet.”

“I won’t melt,” he said, and pitched it back.

“Trace!” she protested, and came toward him, the towel in hand. “Antoinette just finished mopping this floor. Dry off before you come in here.”

“Is that an invitation?” he asked.