Only Uni (15 page)

How could she explain it to cynical Venus? Because she was right — Trish had lots of phases, but she somehow knew this time was the real McCoy. God had given her a massive wake-up call, and she wasn’t going to risk something even worse happening if she didn’t shape up this time.

“So, uh . . . no reference?”

“No. I’m going to tell Lex and Jenn not to do it, either, until you prove this isn’t something temporary.”
Click
. She hung up.

Hmm. Venus was more annoyed than her usual grouchy self. PMS?

So Trish needed some other people to write those references. Well, she had the Seniors’ Potluck this weekend. She’d have to talk to Spenser tomorrow at work about other volunteer activities — getting to know people, figuring out who she could ask.

Olivia, maybe. She’d felt an instant connection with her, but maybe Olivia was like that with everybody.

Olivia’s words about burning her bridges made sense. It probably wouldn’t be enough to convince Venus, but it would be something symbolic for Trish. She just wasn’t sure what she had to burn. How to commit herself completely to her new course? How to prove to Venus — well, and to God, too — that she wasn’t going to turn back?

Her new church was the biggest step. Maybe she could formally have her church membership transferred. Was that enough?

No, she wanted something big, dramatic, bridge-burning.

Burning . . .

Her gaze strayed to her open closet door, to the psychedelic colors of her wardrobe. To all the too short, too low, too transparent, too skimpy clothes.

She got up and started pulling blouses from the hangers. Then skirts, then dresses. That blouse showed too much cleavage. The slit on that skirt was too high. That dress was slightly, well, backless.

This blouse exposed too much midriff, but oh, it was that delicious cherry bubblegum color she loved . . . Those pants had too low a waist, but they had the really cool embroidery on the sides . . . Her gold dress wasn’t as backless as the other one, was it?

She ran her fingers over the rich fabrics. It was like throwing away her close friends. For some of them, she didn’t even have the excuse that they didn’t fit her anymore. She sighed and held the blouse up in front of her. She faced the mirror.

She looked like a prostitute. A
cheap
prostitute. The realization gave her a disgusted feeling like rotting flesh infested with beetles in the center of her stomach. Had she really looked like this?

She pitched the dress.

Okay, her closet was depressingly empty. She reached in and chucked a few granny dresses and some outdated slacks with waists up to her ribs.

Would her life be that empty, too? Being a good Christian girl hadn’t been
uneventful
so far, that’s for sure, but it hadn’t been as fun as her old life. Then again, if the high road was easy, more people would take it.

Nothing. Her closet had nothing. Her life had nothing. She needed to fill both.

Good thing she loved shopping.

“Spenser, I need more work.” Trish nudged the door open and strode to her desk.

He looked up from his computer. “Good morning to you, too. I had a lovely weekend. How was yours? Fine, thanks. I spent most of the day watching college basketball — ”

“I would never watch college basketball.”

“You’re not following the conversation close enough. That was my response. Here’s yours: I would never watch college basketball — ”

Trish rolled her eyes. “Doofus. Pay attention. I need more stuff to do at church.”

“Oh, you mean you weren’t volunteering to do my assays today?”

She gave him a
How stupid do I look?
face. “Hmm. Let me think about it . . .
no.
”

He sighed. “Can’t blame me for hoping.”

“You’re lazy enough as it is.” Which wasn’t really true, but it was fun to rile him.

He gratified her with the expected defensive response. “I’m not lazy. What are you talking about? I’m busting my butt for you— er, this project.”

“Well, bust your butt for me another way — I want more stuff to do at church.”

“That’s right, you mentioned that before the whole ‘lazy’ crack.” He leaned back in his chair and raised his arms above his head, which unfortunately — or fortunately, if she was being brutally honest with herself — set off his nicely honed biceps and triceps and that lovely wide expanse of chest straining against the knit fabric of his Calvin Klein shirt —

Whoa! Slow down! Remember rule number one — no looking. No looking means no looking.
Trish snapped her head forward and stared at her blank computer screen, which actually wasn’t a great idea because then she saw that muscled torso in her mind’s eye . . .

“Worship team.”

“Huh?” She cast a quick glance at him, then away. The man was too handsome for his own good.

“You could serve on the worship team.”

She snapped out of her dazed daydream about his dimpled smile. “Didn’t we already have this conversation? I can’t sing.”

“Can’t play anything?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm.” He looked away. He muttered something under his breath, but she didn’t catch it.

“Anything else?”

“Sunday school.”

“Children’s Sunday school?” The thought made her pause. Could she really help children? With her past? God wouldn’t strike her with lightning for corrupting kids, would He?

The old has gone, the new has come.

A cool wave washed over her soul, sifting the sand, leaving her heart feeling sparkly like water reflecting the sunlight. Maybe it wasn’t an issue.

But kids? She’d held one of her cousins’ babies once. Did that count?

“Preschoolers. There’s only one teacher, and they could use another one.”

That was okay. Kids that age liked games, right? Trish was terrific at games. “Will I be by myself?”

“No, it’ll be you and the other teacher, at least until you feel comfortable.”

“Okay. That sounds good.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why the sudden rush to serve more? You haven’t even done the Seniors’ Potluck yet.”

“Uh . . .” Telling him she needed references for her MDiv seemed kind of selfish. “It’s part of my new resolve. Rule number two — tell others about Christ.” Yeah, that sounded reasonable, right?

“Okay. Speaking of the potluck, here’s the information I got.” He clicked his mouse and brought up a document. “I’ll print out a copy.”

“Good.” She leaned over his shoulder to read while it printed. Something light — something very male and very nice — tickled her nose. Trendy cologne, but not doused in the stuff. A sharp, refined, James Bond type of smell.

It was . . . quite heady. And not in a bad way.

She could see the curve of his cheekbones, the light sheen of oil from his skin, as well as a few pimple scars. She smiled to herself. The imperfections made him more appealing, somehow. Kazuo’s face had been so perfect —

“Trish.”

She and Spenser both jolted at the sound of the husky male voice behind them. The familiar way he said her name sent a shiver down her spine — a very excited shiver, which was bad because she didn’t
want
to be attracted to him.

She straightened and turned. “Kazuo! What are you doing here?”

TWELVE

S
penser automatically turned his head to look when Trish stood to face Kazuo, but her body blocked most of his view. Good thing, too, because he didn’t want to see that pale face again.

Because he’d pulverize it.

He turned back to his monitor.

“I told you not to come to work to see me.” Trish’s voice had become strident. It also sounded like she was walking toward the open doorway. “You never listen to me.” The end of her sentence was muffled as she went into the hallway and the door clicked shut behind her.

Spenser hadn’t heard Kazuo’s name in years, until Trish had mentioned it last week in her phone conversation with her grandmother. He’d been startled, but thought she must be talking about a different Kazuo. After all, it wasn’t an uncommon Japanese name.

But hearing his voice, seeing that glimpse of his face — it was the same man. He gripped the armrests of his chair, and the rubber groaned as he pressed his fingers into them.

Had he seen Spenser? Probably not, or else he might have said something. Both of them always bristled when they met. Old territorial responses.

It was stupid, Spenser knew. It was over and done with. So why did seeing Kazuo still bother him? There was a busted connection between his rational mind and the rage coursing through his veins.

So Trish had been involved with someone like Kazuo. It occurred to him that her moral about-face — including her three rules and her refusal of Spenser because he wasn’t Christian — might be a knee-jerk reaction to breaking it off with her slick ex-boyfriend.

Then Spenser realized he could hear snatches of the conversation.

“I don’t . . .” Trish sounded as if she’d run a five-minute mile. “I don’t want to get back together with you.”

“You are the beauty in every line from my brush.” Kazuo’s voice had a deep, smooth resonance. “I need you.”

Kazuo wanted her back? She didn’t want him, according to what she’d told her grandmother, but she had a mesmerized quality in her voice. Kazuo was weakening Trish’s resolve.

The idea came into Spenser’s head like a whisper. Soft, not fully formed, but there on the edges of his mind. Trish. Kazuo. Their push-pull.

What if a wrench came in between them?

Someone to distract Trish from Kazuo. He knew she didn’t have any other guys calling her — at least in the past few weeks. Maybe if she had someone to compare Kazuo to, she wouldn’t have to fight so hard to simply tell him to go away.

Spenser had wanted to go out with her once. Why not again?

The part about her assuming he wasn’t Christian had cooled his interest. But she was still fun to talk to, fun to banter with, fun to annoy. She knew now he was Christian, so he was acceptable to her stupid rules. Was that in her rules, that she could only date Christians? He couldn’t remember.

Regardless, Kazuo would be livid if Spenser could turn her away from him. He could do it.

He could go after Trish.

Trish whirled through the apartment, clearing, dusting, wiping, and vacuuming. Her head spun, but she got everything ready for Marnie, who was returning that afternoon. She even demolished the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling.

She coached herself as she did a last-minute swipe of the counter. Marnie had sounded her normal quiet self on the phone, although a little fragile.
Don’t alarm her. Don’t say anything stupid or irrelevant. Be happy to see her, but not overwhelming. Be —

A key turned in the lock.

She stuffed her dishcloth into the handle of the refrigerator and sprinted to the door. She swung it wide with a flourish — but not too exuberant. “Hi.”

Marnie hesitated on the doorstep but didn’t respond. Trish then realized she blocked the doorway. She stepped aside.

Still silent, Marnie shuffled into the living room and set down a covered basket along with her duffle bag. She shed her jacket while her eye lingered over the unusually clean living room.