Loving Care (14 page)

Patrick gave her concern some thought. “You might have room somewhere else you could spare. A cot in a quiet spot wouldn’t take too much space.” He swung his hand across the room. “Even that corner by the window. You could put a cot there and block it with one of those screens. It’s only temporary.”

Christie’s face brightened as she pushed away from the desktop and strode across the room. She held her chin between her thumb and finger, studying the space for a moment. “You know, that might work. I could pull that copy machine away from the wall and put it against a screen, leaving space behind.”

“It should work,” he said, pleased that she’d accepted his opinion without balking. “The waiting room might work, too.”

“I like having spillover space for the kids to play. Right here would work well. Thanks for the idea.” She walked to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a hug.

Her action surprised, yet pleased him. So natural, so real, so accepting—it slid over him like a warm glove.

Christie eased back, but didn’t move far. The
closeness seemed right, and Patrick rested his hand on her shoulder.

“How’s your dad?” Christie asked.

“Doing well.”

“I should stop by?”

“He’d love that. How about tonight? I promised him a home-cooked meal…and I could use some help.”

“Are you inviting me or my cooking skills?”

“You first. The skills are a bonus.”

She grinned. “Then I’ll accept.”

Her ready agreement felt like a gift, and Patrick’s mind flew with plans. He needed groceries. “I’d better get Sean and head to the grocery store or we’ll eat at midnight.”

“I’ll bring Sean home. You go ahead.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Why not?”

His spirit lifted. He gave Christie a hug and dashed toward the door, realizing she’d hugged him back.

C
hristie stood at Patrick’s sink, running hot water over the dishes before placing them into the dishwasher.

“You don’t have to do that,” Patrick said, leaning beside her clutching a dishcloth in his hand.

“You do your job, and I’ll do mine. You’re wiping up the stove.”

He chuckled and moved away, whistling as he always did as he worked. She heard him clanging burners as he removed the spatters from the stove. They’d made spaghetti and meatballs—the quick version. But it had been delicious, and Christie had gotten a kick out of watching Sean eat the noodles.

The evening had taken her back, and only once in a while did she feel a twinge of regret or envy when she focused on Sean’s peaked chin, reminding
her of the woman who gave him birth. If she centered her attention on his eyes and nose, the child was all Patrick.

“I think I’ll put Sean to bed,” Patrick said, as he draped the dishcloth on the edge of the sink. “Dad’s in the living room shuffling cards. I’m sure he’d love a game of hearts. He always wins.”

“I haven’t played hearts since…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. Patrick would remember the evenings they’d gotten together with friends and had the big hearts challenge.

Christie stood in the kitchen alone, thinking back to times they’d come to visit their folks. They tried to split the visit between Patrick’s father and her parents, even spending the night in the bedroom upstairs—Patrick’s old bed—a double where they were nestled like spoons, fingers woven together, body pressed to body—secure and comfortable. The memory kicked her heart to a gallop until she slammed the door on the unwanted nostalgia.

When she stepped into the living room, she knew Patrick was correct. Joe leaned back in his recliner, a deck of playing cards fluttering in a shuffle.

“Tired?” she asked, already knowing the answer to the question.

“No. I’m feeling good tonight,” he said, his eyes telling her why he felt so well.

“Looks like you’re up for a game of solitaire.” She grinned, goading him on.

“No. Hearts, but I need a couple of players.”

“I wonder who those might be.” Patrick’s voice sailed from the doorway. He came into the room and clamped his hand on his father’s shoulders. “Do you want me to bring in a card table?”

“Can’t play on the air,” Joe said, his chuckle brightening his gaunt face.

In minutes, Christie found herself on one side of a card table, playing a game she knew she would lose, but the activity bound them in laughter and chatter as they slapped a heart onto the play…or worse, the queen of spades, adding points to the score—points they didn’t want since the low score won.

When she reached one hundred, Patrick and his father cackled as she was crowned loser. Joe had won by three points, and made his way to bed with confidence that, even with a bad heart, he could at least play the game of hearts like a champ.

As Patrick put the card table away, Christie gathered her jacket and shoulder bag, ready to leave.

“You’re not leaving?” Patrick said, coming into the living room and eyeing the coat on her arm.

His face took on his boyish pleading that sent Christie’s heart on a wild ride.

“You don’t have to leave, do you?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. “It’s getting late.”

“Stay for a while longer.”

She felt the grin curve her mouth and knew she’d given in. “Just for a minute. Then I’m out of here.”

He motioned her toward the sofa. “It’s been a nice evening. I hate it to end.”

“It has.”

She followed his gesture and sank onto the cushion. “It’s good seeing your dad a little more chipper.”

“I think it’s when you’re around.”

“Blarney,” she said, pushing his words away with her gesture.

“No. I mean it. It’s like a healing. He told me how bad he felt when you’d avoided each other. I know why it happened, but I’m glad it’s over.”

“Me, too.” Her mother’s changed attitude came to mind. “By the way, Mom’s invited all of you for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Really?” Patrick’s eyebrows lifted over his questioning eyes.

“It’s been hard for her, and I know she still has reservations about our relationship. She’s worried that I’ll get tangled up with you again, hurt again, but I told her not to worry.” Christie realized the statement left a multiple of interpretations, meanings she’d just begun to deal with herself.

Patrick’s gaze searched hers. “How do you feel about the invitation?”

“Thanksgiving’s a day to share. Even the pilgrims and Indians got together. Remember?”

He shrugged. “Interesting way to look at it.”

Christie was sorry she’d used that example. It connoted strangers. People from different worlds to
gether for a moment, but not a lifetime. Weariness washed over her. She’d struggled too long with the issues surrounding her relationship with Patrick. Christie needed some sign to let her know that love could happen and be forever. She wanted to be assured that she could forget Sean’s parentage—as Patrick had said before—and that she could open her arms and love the child fully for who he was. She longed for God’s direction, but hadn’t felt it yet. Maybe she’d waited too long to ask the Lord for guidance, or maybe God had already spoken and she’d missed His message.

“What should I tell my mother?” Christie asked finally, turning to the present.

Patrick sat in thought as she had done. His head drooped over his folded hands resting between his knees. He raised his head. “It’s up to Dad. I’ll have to let you know if that’s okay. Tell your mom we appreciate the invitation.”

Christie sensed their conversation losing its spontaneity, as if they’d begun to tiptoe again, afraid of what they might say. But seeing his face filled her with a warmth that gave her courage to be honest…to take a risk. “It’s been a long time since we’ve celebrated Thanksgiving together. I really hope you can come.”

He raised his eyes to hers and in them she saw such deep feeling it took her breath away.

“I do, too,” he said.

“You’re sure, Dad?”

“I’d be a fool to go out in this weather,” Joe said, staring out the front window at the heavy snow that had fallen overnight and stood in deep mounds over everything in sight.

“I shoveled the driveway and walk, and I’ll warm the car for you,” Patrick said, hating to leave his father home alone on Thanksgiving.

“Emma and Wes will understand, and I know Emma will send me home enough food for a week.”

Patrick grinned, knowing his father was right.

“And don’t rush,” Joe said. “I have some ham here and those scalloped potatoes you made from a box, but they weren’t bad. I’ll admit that. Just bring Emma’s dinner home later tonight. I’ll enjoy it tomorrow.”

No sense in fighting city hall. He knew when his father had his mind set. Patrick zippered Sean’s jacket and helped him tug on his boots, then grabbed his navy jacket and plaid scarf. He dug a pair of leather gloves from his pockets. “We’re going then. If you need me, I wrote down the telephone number by the kitchen phone. Okay?”

“Okay. So get on your way, or you’ll be late.”

“They’ll be disappointed you’re not coming,” Patrick said, giving one last try at changing his mind.

His father’s look was all he needed for a response.
“I’ll call you later,” Patrick said, hoisting Sean in his arms and heading to his car.

The wind had died down, but a crisp feeling hung in the air. Sunshine peeked from behind a cloud, creating diamonds in the pristine snow. Sean eyed the fluff with amazement, as if he’d never seen a snowfall. “Snow,” he said, then held his tongue out to catch a flake.

Patrick settled him into the car seat, then climbed in and backed down the driveway.

The roads were clear but slick, and he eased his way around the last corner, happy to see the Goodson house. He parked in the driveway behind Christie’s sedan, and climbed out. While he leaned over the back seat to loosen Sean from the belts, a thud whacked him in the behind.

He swung around to find Christie bundled up in a scarf and down jacket near the porch. She’d bent over to form another snowball, and seeing her gleeful smile, Patrick grabbed Sean in his arms while he called to her over his shoulder. “I have a hostage.”

Her laugh tickled him, and when he faced her, he held Sean in front of him. Sean wiggled to get down, curious about the snow. Patrick lowered him to the ground, and stealthily scooped up a handful of white stuff, squeezing it into a ball, then fired it at Christie.

She ducked, but the glob hit her hair. She brushed it away and came toward him, laughing. “I surrender,” she said.

He checked her hands to make sure they were
empty. She wore mittens matted with pea-size lumps of crystalized snow.

“Let’s make a snowman for Sean,” she said, bending down to form a ball.

He eyed her action, making sure it wasn’t a trick. When he saw she was serious, he closed the distance. “What about dinner? Shouldn’t we be helping your mother?”

“Everything’s under control. We’re just waiting another forty minutes for the turkey to be ready.”

Hearing that, Patrick joined her, helping Sean to roll a smaller ball to make the snowman’s head. His fingers became frigid as the snow dampened his gloves, but he didn’t want to let go of the joy he felt, spending time with Sean and Christie making a snowman.

The snow glimmered like his heart sparkling with a renewed joy. They worked together, lifting the large spheres, one on top of the other. Christie’s cheeks glowed and her nose reddened with the cold while she scrounged beneath the large tree to find two sticks for arms. He and Shawn had found a few pebbles in the flower beds hidden beneath the mounds, and he let Sean plop them into the snowman’s face to form its features.

Finished, they stood back, he and Christie arm in arm with Sean in his other, admiring their amateur creation.

A rap at the window signaled them, and they headed up the porch steps. Patrick knocked the snow
from his shoes onto the mat before stepping into the warmth inside, knowing the furnace could never radiate the kind of heat that already burned in his heart.

Later as they sat around the table enjoying the end of the meal, Patrick’s thoughts drifted to the snowman and the perfect pleasure he’d shared with Christie. In the silence of his thoughts, he sent a thank-you to God for the day, for the healing he felt and for giving him hope of things to come.

“Patrick, how’s your father doing?” Wes asked.

“Good. He didn’t want to get out in the cold, but the doctor thinks he’s doing great. He had an appointment a few days ago.”

“Praise God,” Emma said, her gentle face letting him know she really cared.

“I thought I’d lose him a while back, but it looks like he’ll have more years if he takes care of himself. In fact, I’m thinking about looking for my own place soon.”

“Really?” Christie said. “You didn’t tell me.”

Patrick smiled. “I was waiting for the right time. I wanted to con you into helping me find a house.” He couldn’t admit the real reason to her parents, not until he talked with her. Hope glowed like a jewel in his thoughts.

Emma rose and slid back her chair. “I’ll make up a big plate for your dad,” she said, reaching out to clear the table. “Enough for all of you, and I have an extra pie.”

“Dad’ll enjoy it, but don’t overdo. Just a meal for him will be great.” He checked his watch, noticing how time had flown. “I’d better call him if you don’t mind. I’m still a watchdog. I want to make sure he’s okay.”

“Go ahead,” Wes said. “Use the telephone in the living room. It’s quieter there.”

Patrick rose, still amazed to see Sean sitting on Wes’s knee, his cheeks rosy from playing outside, his head leaning against Wes’s broad chest. The two had stuck together like adhesive.

Christie watched Patrick leave the room. Her heart lifted at what they’d shared—normal, relaxed fun in the snow. She eyed her father holding Sean as if he were his grandchild. Though a jab of sadness made her recall her usual “what ifs,” she’d grown fond of the child. If she were to admit the truth, she cared for the child more than she had dreamed possible. In her deep caring, she had let go of her anger and hurt—those feelings she’d lived with for so long.

The realization lightened her heart. She felt good letting go. Was this how it felt when she handed her burdens to the Lord? Could God’s grace and mercy boost her spirit so completely? Uplift her and fill her with joy? Could this be what she’d been missing for so long?

Patrick came through the doorway all smiles.

“He’s fine,” he said, sinking back to the chair he’d vacated and eyeing Sean. “But either I need to
get going or find a place to lay my boy, unless you want to hold him the rest of the evening.”

Her father chuckled. “I think we can find a spot.” He looked at Christie. “Why not put him in the spare bedroom?”

She rose and waited for Patrick to lift Sean in his arms. She beckoned him forward, and he followed her to the only bedroom on the first floor—a small room, but one that worked well for company.

Patrick laid Sean on the bed, and Christie unfolded an afghan that had lain at the foot and covered the child. His rosy cheeks seemed brighter than earlier, and she smiled, remembering how much fun they’d had outside.

In the living room, the men gathered around the television watching the football game, and Christie and her mother chatted with half an eye on the plays. When the game ended, they enjoyed the pumpkin pie. Then afterward, her parents excused themselves, Christie was sure, to give Patrick and her time alone.

Their action surprised her. Months ago, Christie’s mother had stood guard over her, concerned about her feelings and afraid of her involvement with Patrick. Today she sensed encouragement. The awareness left her thoughtful.

Patrick rose from the chair near the TV and plopped onto the sofa beside Christie.

“It’s been a great day,” he said. “Like…” His voice faded.

She shook her head. “Let’s focus on the present.”

He nodded, his face serious. “I know. Still, I can’t help but wish that things had been different.” He touched her arm, and she lifted her eyes to his. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I cherish this time with you and your family. I’m so glad Sean has the opportunity to know your folks. It’s just that…”