Boo (24 page)

The drive back to her house seemed short, and Ainsley felt the heaviness of disappointment in her chest when Wolfe pulled his Jeep up to the curb outside her house. It was after five, and she knew she had to go inside and begin preparing dinner for her father. But so much of her wanted all this to last into the night.

“I had a nice time,” he said.

“Me, too.”

“Even with the movie?”

She smiled. “Yes, and you passing out.”

“Good.” He swallowed and said, “I was wondering … about church. I’m going Sunday. I just … Can I … sit by you?”

She patted his arm gently. “Of course you can. I would love it.”

“I should’ve gone last Sunday. I sort of chickened out.”

Ainsley had noticed his absence but thought it better not to mention it. “I can’t wait for you to hear Reverend Peck preach. He’s really good.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you for a wonderful day. I had a lot of fun.”

“Good.” He grinned at her, and Ainsley felt her legs go numb. That grin was going to do her in.

She opened the car door and stepped out. “Wolfe?”

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to invite you to—” Ainsley paused, wondering if she should speak with her father about this first. She dismissed the thought quickly. Heavens, she’d worn perfume twice in one week. If that wasn’t reckless abandon, what was? “To Thanksgiving dinner at my house.”

“Really?”

“Yes. We always have a lot of guests over. I want you to come. You’ll have a lot of fun, and I cook the whole meal, so that’s reason enough, right?”

He laughed. “Sure. Thank you.”

“Bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Ainsley closed the car door, walked up the sidewalk to her house, and turned to wave at him as he drove off. She stood on her porch until his car was gone, trying to relish every last second of their time together. She didn’t know what their future held. But she knew she liked this man. She smiled at the thought of spending more time together and decided the chill in the air was telling her it was time to go inside.

She turned around to find her father standing inches from her in the doorway.

M
ARTIN
B
LARTY STUDIED
his friend’s face as they sat across from each other at the Deli on the Dark Side, trying to determine if Oliver at all suspected that he’d bought a new car. Thankfully, Oliver seemed more interested in what Martin was saying than what he was driving.

Martin continued, trying to remember what exactly Missy had told him. Oh yes. Be sly as a serpent and interfere like a dove. It didn’t sound right at the time, but he knew there was something in the Bible about serpents and doves.

She
had
made a lot of sense when she’d mentioned that it wasn’t good for anyone involved if Wolfe Boone and Ainsley Parker hooked up. And since Oliver and Ainsley were longtime friends, surely he would be concerned enough to intervene in “a budding romance.”

Then there was the whole argument about the “good of the town.”

“I had no idea they were seeing each other,” Oliver said. “I mean, I knew … at least I heard that someone had witnessed to Boo. But now Ainsley’s interested in him?”

“I think it’s more than interest, my friend. Much more.”

Oliver studied the pickle next to his half-eaten sandwich. “I’d hate to see Ainsley hurt.”

Martin shrugged. “One thing’s for sure, Wolfe Boone can’t be God’s best for Ainsley.”

Oliver nodded. “I agree.”

“I always thought it’d be Garth, myself.”

“I had my bets on Billy Hanover, but I guess he’s not too fond of shotguns.”

“So you gonna say something?”

Oliver threw some money on the table and stood, prompting Martin
to do the same. “I don’t know.” They made their way outside, and Martin was just about to ask Oliver again when Oliver said, “New car?”

“What?”

Oliver pointed to Martin’s Chevrolet, four cars down, which should have been hidden by a truck. The truck had left. Martin’s knees grew weak. “Oh, um …”

“The Ford belongs to Sally Pratt. Bought it last fall. Traded in her four-door. The Nissan is Dave Bennett’s. Still running after eight years. Sold it to him on his fiftieth birthday. And the white minivan is owned by Judy Johnson. Even though her husband wanted an SUV. So the only other car left is the Chevy. Yours?”

Martin swallowed hard. “My uncle’s. Dead now. Left it to me.”

Oliver smiled. “Oh, well good for you! Looks like an ’87. That was a good year for that model.”

“That’s good to know,” Martin said, with what little breath he had. “Well, good evening.”

“See you soon, Martin.”

Oliver turned and walked toward his BMW. A sigh of relief escaped Martin, who sure was glad he knew his Bible verses, because being sly as a serpent was coming in handy.

“I’m running a little late. I’ll get dinner started,” she said, walking briskly past her father and into the kitchen. She heard him follow her.

“Ainsley, please. Slow down.”

“It’s roasted chicken with rosemary, Dad. We’re looking at over two hours to cook.”

He grabbed her shoulders gently and turned her around. “It can wait. We need to talk.”

Ainsley looked up at her father. His eyes were gentle and kind, as she knew them to be. She felt the knot in her stomach loosen. “Okay.” Ainsley turned the oven on to preheat, then joined her father at the kitchen table.

“I’m sorry about how it’s been between us, honey. I hate that I left the house when we were both so angry. And I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you about it sooner. I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

“Me too, Dad. I’ve felt horrible all week.”

He smiled at her. “That was Wolfe? Driving the Cherokee?”

“Yes.”

“Well, at least he has good taste in cars.”

“And German food. He took me to Ingrid’s last week.”

“I’ve eaten there once. Several years ago. It
was
good. All right, good taste in food, too.”

Ainsley leaned across the table. “He’s great, Dad. I mean really great. I like him, and I haven’t felt this way about a man before.”

She could feel her father tense even though he tried to keep a smile on his face. “What about Garth? You two clicked, right?”

“Dad! Garth and I never clicked. Ever. He’s nothing I want in a man or a vet. Don’t you get that?”

Sheriff Parker held his hands up. “Okay, okay. I get it. Garth still needs to win you over.”

“Why do
you
like Garth so much?”

He shrugged. “I know the guy. I’ve known him for years. You two practically grew up together. I know his family.” His eyes met Ainsley’s. “I don’t know too much about Boo except that he writes horror novels.”

Ainsley leaned back in her chair. “Okay, that’s only fair. But will you give him a chance?”

Her father was silent.

“Please.”

He nodded, his eyes shutting and his head bowing as if he’d just surrendered to something he’d long dreaded. But at least it was a start.

“Thank you, Daddy. You won’t regret it. You’ll love him.”

“By the way,” he said, “I have my Thanksgiving guest list made out for you. Worked on it yesterday at the donut shop.”

“Good!” Ainsley said, relieved to be switching topics. “I have mine, too.” Ainsley stood and retrieved hers from the kitchen. They exchanged lists. Ainsley scanned his quickly.

“You’re inviting
Garth?”
Ainsley asked.

“And you’re not,” he said, eyeing the list in his hand. “You invite Garth every year.”

“I didn’t want to this year. Why did you?”

“Because I had a strange feeling you wouldn’t.”

Ainsley sighed and shook her head. Her stomach hurt at the thought of seeing Garth Twyne at all, let alone for an entire day at Thanksgiving.

“We’ve always said we can invite whomever we want, right? Anyone we think would be blessed by a huge Thanksgiving dinner. You’re not changing the rules on me now, are you?” her dad asked.

Ainsley shook her head. “No, Dad. It’s fine. Garth can come.”

“Good,” Sheriff Parker said with an obvious smile of satisfaction.

“But I have one more addition.”

“Oh?”

“Wolfe.”

Her father’s cheery face fell into consternation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“ ‘Anyone we think would be blessed by a huge Thanksgiving dinner,’ remember? Both his parents are dead, and I have a feeling he spends most Thanksgivings alone.” She gave her father a pointed look.

He nodded and stared at the table. “How about putting that chicken on? We don’t want to eat at midnight.”

Ainsley stood and went to the kitchen. Her father would come around, once he met Wolfe. She’d had to overcome her first impressions of Wolfe too.

“What did you do on your date today?” her father suddenly asked, leaning over the kitchen bar on the other side of the kitchen.

Ainsley stuck her head in the refrigerator, squeezing her eyes shut. Did she
have
to tell every detail of the date? And what was she supposed to say about the movie? Her father would never understand. She took the chicken out and gently put it on the counter, trying to act nonchalant.

“We went to a movie.”

“A movie?”

“Yeah, Dad, a movie. People go to movies, you know.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. I just haven’t been in a while.”

Her father snorted disapprovingly. “What movie did you go see?”

Ainsley salted and peppered the chicken furiously, hoping to come up with something creative to say. “Um … it was a love story.”

“A love story?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

Her father frowned. “A love story on the second date?”

“It was good. It was about a woman everyone expected to be strong and perfect her whole life, and the imperfect man who came and saved her from a destiny of hardship.”

Her father scratched his balding head. “I hope there wasn’t a sex scene.”

Ainsley couldn’t help but smile. No sex scene. There was an axe scene, however. Luckily she didn’t have to see that. “No, Daddy.”

“Good. There can be such trash in those movies.” He smiled at her. “And my baby’s always been pure and good. I don’t want anything to change that.”

Ainsley smiled back, then turned to put the chicken in the oven.

It was after eleven o’clock on Saturday evening, two hours later than Reverend Peck normally went to bed. His eyelids drooped with exhaustion, and though he hated the sound of his pencil tapping against the wooden desk at which he sat, it managed to keep him awake. The words of his sermon blurred in front of him, and for the life of him, he couldn’t even remember what he’d written only moments before. Nothing was flowing. It hadn’t all week. Usually sermon ideas were no trouble. But this week, his heart had been unusually heavy, and only in the last couple of days had he begun to realize why.

Reverend Peck dropped his pencil, pushed his pad of paper back, stood, and began to pace the cold floor of his bedroom. The despair he
felt amazed him; he was quite sure he hadn’t felt this way since his beautiful wife had died nearly twenty years before. His throat ached with emotion as he realized with great pain what all this meant.

He had failed.

And he was going to fail again, by not having a sermon ready for tomorrow morning. How could he possibly stand in front of his flock with nothing at all to say? And with disappointment lingering in the back of his mind as well?

He sat on the edge of his bed, clasping his hands together as if to pray, though no prayer came to mind. But in a brief moment of clarity, he realized that his mental block must mean
something
. The fact that he couldn’t put words to paper and come up with a sermon must mean God was trying to tell him something. But what?

For a long time he just sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, trying to make sense of a long and draining week. And then, without warning, he realized with excitement there was a
test
. He sat up straight and lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. Yes, a test! Something he could do to see if his little flock had indeed been listening all these years. He stood and laughed out loud.

Yes! With one simple test he would know. Surely they would pass. It wasn’t
hard
, after all. But he knew one thing for sure: The test would tell him if his church had put his words in their hearts.