A Reason to Stay (8 page)

Faith ate crawfish, red potatoes, corn, and sausage—all spiced with Cajun seasoning—until she thought her stomach would pop. So when Veta Marin set an enormous bowl of peach cobbler with a scoop of Blue Bell vanilla bean ice cream mounded on top in front of her, she tried to decline.

“No peach cobbler? Oh, c'mon.” His mom held out a spoon, her eyes hopeful.

Faith let out an overstuffed sigh, knowing there was little way to politely decline. She smiled and took the spoon his mother held out.

As soon as she'd taken a big bite, Geary's mother wiped her hands together and stepped away in satisfaction. Geary leaned
over and placed his hand on Faith's arm. “Don't feel bad. She gets all of us like that.”

Across the table, Wendell grinned and nodded in agreement. “No one can say no to my wife, especially when she's armed with her famous peach cobbler.”

When the crowd at the tables dissipated and Faith noticed her hosts were beginning to clean up, she rose from the table and offered to help. Veta waved her off. “No ma'am, you're our guest.” She grabbed her son's arm. “But you, son, are not.”

Geary's head bent back and he laughed. “Sure thing, Mom.” He turned to Faith. “I'll only be a minute.”

Across the lawn, Gabby chased Gunner with the hose. “I'm telling,” the little boy hollered at his laughing tormenter.

“So,
you're
Geary's new friend.”

Faith turned, sizing up the woman before her. “Yes—uh, I suppose,” she responded carefully. The size 4 wore tight jeans and a carelessly low-cut peasant blouse, her shoulder-length hair dark. The color of coffee, without cream and sugar—dark and intense.

The same could be said for the gal's expression. She arched her finely tweezed brows. “Are you enjoying the Marins' little party?”

“I am.” Faith's gaze darted around the lawn, looking for any sign of Geary.

“He's helping his mama with the dishes.” The woman pursed her garnet lips and extended a hand, showing off manicured nails to match. “I'm Stacy Brien.”

Faith shook the young woman's hand.

Bobby Lee stepped forward and joined them, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Man, there's something blooming out here that's really getting to me.”

Stacy smirked. “Bobby Lee.”

“Stacy.” Bobby Lee dropped his hands. “Hey, did you know somebody nicked your car door out in the parking lot?”

Immediate alarm spread across the gal's overly made-up features. “My Jag?”

He cocked his head. “Is your Jag silver?”

Stacy let out an expletive. “Rednecks. They never learn to park right.” Without bothering to say goodbye, she turned her well-shaped torso and faded into the crowd.

“Wow.” Faith couldn't think of anything else to say. Well, that wasn't necessarily the truth. She could think of a lot to say, none of the pondered phrases necessarily polite.

“Be careful of that one,” Bobby Lee warned.

Faith frowned, even though relief flooded her. Bobby Lee had just confirmed he felt similar distrust for the woman she'd only barely met. “What's her deal? I mean, if you don't mind me asking?”

Bobby Lee's face took on a conspiratorial expression. He leaned forward. “She views you as, uh, the competition.”

“For Geary?” She stared at him, the thought incredulous. “Did he? I mean, were they—?”

Bobby Lee shook his head. “Naw, Stacy Brien ain't Geary's type.”

His statement was both a relief and a little bit disconcerting. Why would the Marins invite someone like her to their party?

As if reading her mind, Bobby Lee pulled a toothpick from his T-shirt pocket and scraped at his bottom front teeth. “Her family owns one of those big places on the lake. They go to Lake Pine Community.”

“Ah, I see.” But she didn't. Not really.

“Generous contributors, I suspect.” He flicked the toothpick on the grass. “Wendell and Veta aren't like that. They just love on people, you know? But they've been around the block a time or two. They snub Stacy in any way, and the evil one will make good use of that.”

Faith suddenly wanted nothing more than to find Geary. Bobby Lee seemed to sense that too. “C'mon, follow me,” he said and led her inside to the kitchen.

Geary was at the sink wiping a pot with a tea towel, his back facing the doorway. His niece was parked on the counter next to him, her legs swinging. The little girl wiped at her forehead with her arm. “That lady is so pretty.”

Geary set the pot down, unaware Faith stood within hearing distance. “Who's so pretty?”

“That lady you brung.”

“Brought,” he corrected. “And I think so too.”

Bobby Lee patted Faith's shoulder and walked away, leaving her to eavesdrop.

Geary wiped the counter down. “I'm pretty sure Faith is pretty on the inside too.”

The little girl stopped swinging her legs. Her voice grew serious. “I bet you she's a princess, Uncle Geary.”

“Yeah?” he asked, egging her on. “You think I have any chance of being her Prince Charming?”

“What if she doesn't want a prince?” she challenged.

Faith brought her hand to her mouth, stifling a chuckle.

Geary placed his hands on each of his niece's knees and looked her in the eyes. “Oh, but every girl deserves to be cherished.” He tweaked her nose.

He noticed Faith then, standing in the doorway. Their eyes met and he grinned. “Sometimes even smart, hardworking, and amazing girls like Faith want to feel special.”

W
ithin weeks of her report from the bridge, Faith was promoted to weekend anchor. She celebrated the boost to her career by inviting Geary to dinner. This time, her treat.

Typically, reservations at the popular Sky Bar Steak and Sushi needed to be made days ahead, but in a stroke of major good luck, there'd been a cancellation minutes before Faith called.

She couldn't wait to introduce Geary to her favorite restaurant on Galveston Island, a short forty-five minutes from downtown Houston where Faith often spent days off wandering Old Galveston Square, the Strand District, or sometimes the lobby of the historic Hotel Galvez, the grand dame of all island hotels.

It was there her dad took her to the gift shop as a child and bought her a necklace with an anchor charm. Last year she'd scraped some money together and had the anchor plated in gold and placed on a gold chain. Perhaps in some weird way, he'd unknowingly sensed who she was destined to become.

Geary rubbed at his chin. “Sorry, I'm not sure I can stomach raw fish.”

Faith looked across the table and grinned. “Oh, c'mon, Geary. A little sashimi isn't going to kill you! Besides, I watched defenseless live crawfish get dumped into boiling water, and then I learned to
squeeze their heads off and eat their insides. So buck up, Prince Charming.”

He shook his head. “Huh-uh. Nope. Mr. Charming likes his fish baked, boiled, or breaded and fried crisp, with lots of tartar sauce.”

She tapped the edge of his plate with her chopsticks. “Fine. You can eat your sirloin,” she said. “But first, at least try one of my California rolls. Nothing raw inside.”

He still appeared skeptical. “Okay, but just for you.” Having already given up on chopsticks, he stabbed the piece of sushi roll with a fork and examined it carefully before dipping the rice and cooked crab rolled with nori into a bowl of wasabi and soy sauce.

He popped the roll into his mouth and chewed, barely able to disguise his hesitancy. The way he grimaced before swallowing made her laugh again.

Geary Marin had many qualities she adored. First, there were those eyes. Stark blue and bottomless, complex even from across a room. He stood taller than most men she'd dated and wore his thick dark hair in a casual short cut. Not like the carefully tended styles most of the male anchors wore down at the station.

She loved the way his broad shoulders looked in a white button-down rolled up at the sleeves and that he wore plain old Wranglers. His hands were large and slightly calloused and he walked with determination, like a man who didn't have a thing to prove to anybody. Never had she met anyone more genuine, more warm-spirited and open.

A strange thing happened to her when she was with Geary Marin. She forgot to be self-conscious and nervous, and she found herself laughing breezily, countering his light banter with clever, witty comebacks so atypical for her.

They could talk for hours on the phone, sometimes into the wee hours of the morning—even when she had to be at the station early.

She loved how his face lit up when he saw her. Loved how he intertwined his fingers with hers when they walked.

Faith hated to admit it, but she'd secretly enjoyed the envy in Stacy Brien's eyes that day on the Marins' lawn. No doubt Geary Marin was a catch, and she'd been the lucky one to lure him in.

Using her chopsticks, she reached for some seaweed salad. “Tell me more about your fishing.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Obviously, you must be pretty good to make a living at something so competitive,” she prompted.

“Yeah, I've got to admit fishing is a pretty good gig. The tournaments can get intense, and sometimes the monetary benefit gets a bit spotty. But there's nothing like being on the lake with a rod in your hand as the sun breaks over the horizon.”

She thought about his nice place. “But you must do well at it.”

His sizzling steak got delivered to the table then. She waited until the server was gone before using her chopsticks to lift a piece of calamari from her plate.

Her hand paused midair. “So how do you do it? What's the secret to snagging the big one?” She popped the calamari into her mouth and chewed, waiting for him to answer.

He leaned back in his chair. “Ha, that's the big question. A question with a lot of answers, depending on who it is you're talking to. Bass are ambush predators. On bright-bluebird sunny days the fish hold tight to cover, stumps, shady areas, and ditches. The strike zone gets smaller because they won't chase. When clouds, wind, and low light strike, the zone expands. Bass are intelligent fish—and extremely difficult to catch, really. Rarely happens by accident.”

“If catching bass is so hard, why do you love it so?”

“For me, it's the lack of proven method that intrigues me the most. I can find a spot where I know the habitat is there under the surface, I can select the perfect lure, the right test line on the best rod, and use the finest reel—still, nothing guarantees success.” He took a sip of his water, watching her. “Maybe that's it—the thing that draws me to fishing for the big ones.”

“What's that?” she asked.

“I can use my best equipment and skill, but most times success comes from outside myself. The sport is definitely a solo act, yet it's as if I'm partnering with some unseen hand—maybe God, I don't know. Makes the big catch all the sweeter when it happens.”

She didn't quite understand his logic but nodded just the same.

He reached across the table and covered her free hand with his own. “So why the news?”

“Huh? Oh, I've wanted to be a journalist since as long as I can remember. On Sunday nights growing up, I'd wrap up in a blanket on the sofa to watch
Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman
. I loved watching Teri Hatcher portray Lois Lane, the feisty, shiny-haired news reporter who was always seeking the truth. No doubt, I knew that was exactly what I wanted to do. In high school, I mustered the guts to send an email to the editor of Baytown's local newspaper. I told her I wanted to be a journalist and that I'd do anything to work for her newspaper, even cleaning the floors, making coffee, or doing filing. A few days later, she called me and said she needed someone to do write-ups on the local high school football games. I was elated. As far as I was concerned, it was my big break! I knew nothing about the game. But I learned. And somehow I eked out an article each week, with play-by-plays of the game.”

She noticed how intently he watched her, and continued. “When I began attending the University of Houston, I was a writer for the student newspaper, the
Daily Cougar
. One day the director took me aside and told me I'd be perfect for KUH-TV—the first public television station in the United States, owned by the University of Houston System. I was all ears. Of course, I wanted to be considered for their relief anchor. The day of the audition, I walked around campus like a pack mule because I didn't have time to go back to my dorm before tryouts. I strapped on an extra backpack stuffed with makeup, hairspray, and a curling iron, I
carried a pressed button-down shirt on the hanger from class to class, and I scooped my hair into a claw clip on top of my head so I'd have some volume in my hair by the end of the day. I don't remember the audition. But I got the gig!”

Geary laughed with her while cutting his steak. “Then what?”

“Well, during my senior year I interned, which gave me the opportunity to shadow some of Houston's local news anchors, hanging on every word they uttered about their craft and watching them scribble on page after page of yellow notebook paper while out on field reports. I spent my days and nights basically following reporters around and sitting in the back of their live trucks when they'd jet off to stories. And as a college female with my career aspirations, that was the score of a lifetime.” She paused and a smile nipped at the corner of her mouth. “As far as I'm concerned, I'm still living the dream.”

After dinner, she and Geary stepped outside the restaurant just in time to witness the sun's final show before it dropped from the horizon. The sight caused them both to stop and take in the kaleidoscope of color the sinking sun cast across the Gulf.

Geary squeezed her hand. “Do you need to get home early?”

She shook her head. “Not necessarily. What do you have in mind?”

“C'mon, let's go get some coffee,” he said, pulling her toward the crowd of tourists wandering the sidewalk.

At nearby Catalina's coffeehouse, they found a quiet corner and nestled into two overstuffed chairs. He had dark roast, she had tea with a touch of coconut milk. Though still stuffed from dinner, they shared one of the largest cream puffs she'd ever seen.

“My mom makes these.” He took a bite that left a touch of powdered sugar clinging to the corners of his mouth.

“She makes cream puffs? Like from scratch?” Her mother could barely pour dry cereal out of a box.

Geary nodded. “And homemade maple bars and glazed donuts.”

“Goodness, that's . . .
domestic
.” She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Once, my mom decided to cook an elaborate jambalaya dish after she'd watched Emeril's cooking show on television.” The minute she mentioned the fact, she wished she hadn't let her guard down.

“Yeah?” he said, reaching for his coffee mug.

Faith looked down at her lap, silently scolding herself. She tried to whisk away stray powdered sugar that had landed on her black slacks. The effort left a gray spot she covered with her napkin.

“Tell me about it,” he urged. He took a long sip of his coffee and watched her over the rim of his mug, seeming to sense her sudden discomfort.

Despite his inviting tone, she wasn't ready to fully give in to her blunder.

His eyes grew soft and thoughtful as she considered how to respond. Finally, she took a deep breath and proceeded with a sanitized version.

Her mother had tuned the radio to a jazz station and went to work in their kitchen, carefully measuring the ingredients. Earlier in the afternoon, after that cooking show had aired, she'd grabbed her wallet and raced to H-E-B, yelling over her shoulder for Faith to watch her little brother. That she'd be right back.

She returned two hours later with bags filled with the needed ingredients, including a five-pound bag of onions, dozens of bell peppers and tomatoes, and a large box of Minute Rice. “She made enough jambalaya to feed seven families,” Faith remarked, trying to make her voice light.

She didn't tell him her mom had substituted plain hot dogs for andouille sausage and used canned shrimp (“It's absolutely ridiculous what that fancy sausage and shrimp cost!” her mom complained), or how she'd accidently gotten mixed up and purchased a little can of cinnamon instead of paprika, but shrugged at the discovery and decided to use it anyway.

When a bowl was placed in front of her, Faith complained the food tasted
icky
.

Her mother screamed in response, “There are kids in Africa who don't even have food!” She grabbed Faith's plate and scraped it in the sink, then whirled and pointed her glossy red nail back at the table. “Now, you get yourself to bed. We'll see if little Miss High and Mighty appreciates her food a little better by breakfast time.”

Sitting next to her at the table, her younger brother, Teddy, grew wide-eyed and quickly shoveled the nasty stuff into his mouth. “I like mine just fine, Mom,” he said, his cheeks bloated with the food. “It's good.”

Later, he admitted he had to gag the horrible mixture down, but Teddy Jr. would do nearly anything to please their mother.

But there was no need to tell all that.

Gripping her teacup, she let her gaze rest on the soggy leaves floating at the bottom. “My dad used to claim my mother always did everything in bright Technicolor, even back when the world was broadcast in black-and-white.”

Geary set his coffee mug down. He reached across the table and took her free hand in his own, his fingers gently stroking hers.

“So where are they? Your family.”

She struggled to find the right words. “My father died when I was young.”

Geary's expression turned concerned. “I'm so sorry.”

She shrugged. “Eh, that was a long time ago. You move on—you have to.”

“And the rest of your family?” He stirred creamer into his coffee and waited.

Faith swallowed, aware these questions would eventually come. “Well, my mom died too. A couple of years back.” Before he could express condolences, she hurried on. “And my brother lives somewhere here in Houston. He's a bit of a loner. I don't see him often.”

That was an understatement. She hadn't seen her younger
brother in over two years, not since days after her mother died. She didn't know where he was—or even if he was alive.

Geary Marin was fortunate. He was raised in a loving and fairly stable family. Not so for her. The Biermans had been anything but steady.

“Tell me more about
your
family,” she urged, changing the subject.

Geary was lost in thought for a moment. Finally, as if sensing she wasn't going to say anything more, he drew his hand back. “Well, as you know, my dad's a pastor. He and my mom have been married nearly thirty-five years.”

“Wow,” she said, not bothering to hide her surprise. “Thirty-five years is a long time. What does your mom do? For work, I mean.”

He folded his napkin. “She's a pastor's wife. That can be a full-time job. And she had me and my sister to raise.”

Faith looked across the table, wondering if he knew how lucky he was. “Sounds wonderful.”

“Yeah, I've got a great family,” he easily conceded. Again, his eyes turned thoughtful, and with a flicker of hesitation he circled the discussion back around. “What did your dad do for a living?”

Without intention, Faith held her breath. If she was her mother, this was where she'd claim her father owned a large recreational vehicle distributorship, when in reality he'd managed an RV lot in Baytown owned by some guy who'd made his real money in oil. She'd describe their tiny house located in a subdivision backing up to a smelly marsh in Baytown as a comfortable ranch with a water view.