A Test of Faith (12 page)

“Better not have too many of those, Momster.”

Anne’s cookie paused in middunk, and she shot her daughter a sideways glance, feeling the heat rush into her cheeks. She never had to monitor her eating habits. Faith could earn honorary vulture status when it came to hovering over her mother, making sure she ate the right things.

Hopping off the counter, Faith snagged her mother’s cookie and popped it into her own mouth.

“Faith!”

Utterly unrepentant, Faith washed the cookie down with a swig of milk. “I’m just saving you from yourself, Mother mine. Your sugars have been way too high lately. Gotta get ’em down.”

“Hmph.” Anne pushed back her chair and went to ease the lid off the stew she was simmering for dinner. “Remind me, will you—” she stirred the savory stew—“who’s the child and who’s the mother around here?”

Faith shot her a cheeky smile. “Oooh, ‘
Flashdance
’!” She ran to the radio to turn the volume higher. “I
love
this song. It hit number two on the top forty.”

“That’s good, huh?”

Faith laughed. “Yeah, Mom. That’s good.” The music filled the room. Faith grinned. “And
that’s
good.”

As her daughter lifted her hands over her head and moved to the music, Anne could only watch and wonder,
How did a woman with two left feet ever produce this graceful creature?
She and Faith were clear proof of God’s sense of irony.

Or His sense of humor.

“Whaddya say, Mom? Feel like dancing?”

Anne sniffed. “Maybe. Unless you think I’m too fat.”

Her daughter’s low laugh tugged at her, drawing a smile from her. Faith danced over to her, taking her hands. Anne giggled and tried to mimic her daughter’s movements.

Like a whale trying to imitate a porpoise
.

She ignored the chagrined thought and focused on enjoying herself. And her daughter.

When the song was done, they collapsed against each other, breathless and laughing.

“That was fun.” Faith hugged her mom. “You’ve still got it, Mom.”

“Yes, well, if only I could figure out what to do with it.”

Faith gave her another hug, then leaned past her to sniff at the stew. “Beef?”

“Beef,” Anne confirmed. Before Anne could stop her, Faith snagged the saltshaker and tapped some into the pot. “You never put in enough salt.”

Anne grabbed the wooden spoon she’d used to mix the cookie dough and swatted at the salt shaker. “I put in plenty, young lady.”

Faith dodged the spoon to tap in another dash. “
Now
it’s plenty.”

The ringing of the doorbell cut off Anne’s laughing retort. She glanced toward the front door. “Who on earth—?”

“Oops!” Faith dropped the saltshaker back on the shelf. “I forgot to tell you. Winnie and Trista are coming over.”

Anne held back a sigh. “Sounds as though they’re here.”

“Right as always, Mom!” With that, Faith raced for the door. Where
did
that child get her energy?

A trio of squeals split the air, and Anne jumped, then went to toss her daughter a look.

Faith put one hand to her chest and waved at Anne with the other. “Sorry, Mom. We got carried away.”

“Hey, Mrs. B!”

“Hey, Winnie.”

Faith grabbed the girls by the arm and hustled them down the hallway. Her giggling voice drifted to Anne. “Oh, Trista! He did
what
?” They disappeared into Faith’s room, but Anne could hear them chattering away, like magpies on uppers.

Amazing. You’d think it had been days rather than, what? A half hour since those three had been together? If they weren’t at each other’s houses, they were talking on the phone nonstop. Good thing Jared found an extra long cord for the kitchen phone. More often than not Anne found that cord snaking its way through the house as Faith went from room to room, giggling and talking a mile a minute.

Turning back to the stew, Anne took a pinch of seasoning and sprinkled it over the liquid. The Three Musketeers. That’s what she called Faith and her two bosom buddies. Winnie was an especially good match for Faith. But Trista?

Anne put the lid back on the pot. It was evident how much Faith liked Trista, but they were so different. From what the other mothers had told Anne, Trista’s father had a temper problem, one made worse by his fondness for anything alcoholic.

No one knew for sure that the man’s anger had turned on his daughter, but there had been an abundance of speculation. Speculation Anne considered well founded, considering how … well,
hard
Trista was becoming. Oh, not in an obvious way, which to Anne’s way of thinking would actually have been better. If she had something solid to hang her concerns on, she could lay down the law, tell Faith she couldn’t see Trista any longer.

No, Trista wasn’t that obvious. Her rebellion was subtle,
her disdain for everything cloaked in seemingly courteous words and actions.

The ringing timer pulled Anne from her deliberations, and she pulled out the last sheet of golden cookies. She slid several of the still-hot cookies from the sheet onto the ready and waiting plate, then placed the plate on a tray. Three glasses of milk joined the cookies, and Anne hefted the tray, heading for Faith’s room.

Fortunately, the door to her daughter’s room was cracked open. She leaned close to push it all the way open when Trista’s disbelieving voice floated through the opening—and jabbed its way into Anne’s chest.

“You’re going to the movies. With your
parents
.”

There was nothing overtly offensive in the words. It was what lay beneath them—a hint of something derisive—that troubled Anne. Kept her poised outside the door. Listening.

Apparently Winnie heard the undertone as well. “Something wrong with that?”

Anne smiled.
Go, Winnie
.

“Nothing.” Trista’s breezy response spoke volumes. “Hey, go with your parents. I mean, if you really want to.”

Tell her, Faith. Tell her how much fun we have. How we laugh and teas—

“Well, I mean, it’s not like I’d rather be with them than with you guys.”

Anne pulled back.
Ouch
.

“But,” Faith went on, though her voice was less confident, “they’re okay. You know, for parents.”

Anne tried to let the words encourage her. So it wasn’t exactly a rousing endorsement. It was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

Kind of.

But Trista wasn’t done. “Hey, fine. Whatever. But don’t they …? I don’t know. Never mind.”

Hook baited and cast. Would Faith bite?

“What? Never mind what?”

Oh yeah. Solid hit
. And as Anne expected, Trista set the hook—big-time—and reeled Faith in.

“Well, no offense, but gosh! Don’t they have friends of their own? Why drag you to the movies with them?”

“They don’t
drag
me.”

Yeah
. Anne nodded.
So there
.

“It sounds like fun to me.”

Winnie again. Anne really liked that girl.

“Of course it would. To you. You’d be happy to have
anyone
want to spend time with you. Even if they were relics.” Trista’s tone was light, the words spoken as though in jest, but Anne knew better. Darts were flying. And striking home.

The room fell silent, and Anne held her breath. Should she back away? But they’d hear her, wouldn’t they?

Thankfully, Faith broke the stillness.

“Come on, Trista. You don’t have to be mean.”

“Mean? I was kidding. Gosh, Winnie, I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I? I mean, you
can
tell kidding from being serious, can’t you?”

Good heavens. Trista’s veiled insults would have done any actress proud. Sound like you’re apologizing when you’re really pushing the knife even further into the back. Anne had heard enough. Balancing the tray on one arm, she gave the door a sharp rap. “Girls?”

No response, as though the three inside suddenly lost their voices. Then Faith pulled the door open. “Uh … hi, Mom.” She glanced back over her shoulder, then turned to her mother again. “What’s up?”

Anne took in her daughter’s wide eyes. Clearly she was hoping against hope her mother hadn’t heard their little discussion. Anne painted a smile on her face and stepped into the room, lifting the tray a fraction. “Cookies, fresh from the oven. And some milk to wash them down.”

Her smile slipped a bit when she looked at Winnie. The girl was staring at the carpet, misery in her posture, as she gnawed on one ragged fingernail. Obviously Trista’s barbed comments hit their mark.

Irritation simmered deep inside Anne as she met Trista’s wide-eyed, Gee-I-can’t-imagine-what-upset-poor-Winnie gaze. “Gee, Mrs. B. Cookies!
And
milk. Thanks!”

Giving the girl her best don’t-even-try-to-mess-with-me-you-infant-or-you’ll-see-just-how-far-out-of-your-league-you-are look, she set the tray down on Faith’s desk. “Everyone up for cookies?” She turned back to the girls. “If you’d rather, I’ve got some nice—” her gaze swiveled to Trista—“
aged
cheddar cheese and crackers.”

Something flickered behind Trista’s eyes, and Anne let herself feel the tiniest bit smug. Message sent and received:
You don’t fool me, kid. Not one little bit
.

A slow smile spread across Trista’s fine features—the girl would be such a beauty if she replaced that bored look with a smile—and she tipped her head, eyes still wide and innocent. “You use such neat words, Mrs. B.” She batted her eyes. “
Aged
. Does that mean it’s old and smelly?”

Anne pursed her lips. Trista’s message sent and received as well:
And you don’t scare me, you old bat
.

Several retorts came to Anne’s mind, but before they could break free, Faith slipped her arm around Anne, giving her a squeeze. “Cookies are great, Mom. Thanks.”

“Yeah, Mrs. B.” Winnie roused herself from her contemplation of the rug. “Your cookies always taste great.”

“Don’t eat too many, Win.” Trista’s laughing caution was accompanied by a jab to Winnie’s midsection. “You’re roly-poly enough.”

“Never you mind.” Anne’s words came as quick as the red in Winnie’s cheeks. “You look just right to me, Winnie. Honestly. Some girls today are so skinny, if they turned sideways and stuck out their tongues, you’d mistake them for a zipper.”

The red faded a fraction as Winnie giggled. “Thanks, Mrs. B.”

“Actually, I need to thank you, Winnie. That paper you gave me was perfect. The decorations look great.”

The girl’s smile was beautiful, as was the glow that lit her face. “I’m glad.”

As Anne walked from her daughter’s room, she heard Faith’s animated voice. “That’s so cool you helped Mom like that, Win. We’ll have to go take a look at the decorations later.”

“Go to the grade school? Oh boy,
there’s
excitement.”

Trista’s comment caught Anne, had her turning back to the room to tell the girl what she thought of her attitude, but Winnie’s speedy rejoinder halted her in her tracks.

“You’re right, Trista. You’d be bored silly. Faith and I will just go by ourselves. Right, Faith?”

“Sure.” Faith’s agreement sounded as though it was spoken around a half-chewed cookie. “You don’t have to go Trista. We’ll be fine.”

Anne smiled and continued back to the kitchen. Faith was right. Trista or no Trista, she and Winnie
would
be fine.

Back in the kitchen, Anne found the lid dancing atop the pot of stew. She lowered the heat, then pulled a large spoon out of the drawer, dipped it into the stew, and took a sip to check the flavor. “Oh, dear …” She set the spoon down, grimacing. Too much salt. Someday she’d get through to Faith that it doesn’t take much of the wrong kind of seasoning to affect the whole taste.

Kind of like rebellion. Doesn’t take a lot to affect the whole person
.

Pulling a potato from the pantry, Anne washed it, then sliced it into the stew. That should help absorb some of the excess salt. Too bad she didn’t know any ways to temper Trista’s attitude as effectively.

Setting the knife down, she turned to where the cookies were cooling on the counter.

Almost without thinking, she picked up a cookie and took a bite, chewing it the way she was chewing her worry.

For all that Trista liked to act tough, something was sad about her. Maybe, Anne thought as she chose another cookie, Trista was so hard on Winnie because she actually wanted to be more like her. But then, why didn’t she get after Faith, too? Faith was a sweet, funny, loving kid who adored her daddy and seemed to enjoy being with her mom.

Thank You for that, God
.

Even as the prayer slipped through her mind, Anne’s gaze flitted past the cooling cookies and screeched to a halt. Good heavens! She hadn’t really eaten that many, had she? Counting
in her mind how many she’d taken the girls, her heart dropped.

Yup. She’d eaten five. Five cookies. Well, so much for the diet she started on Monday.
Oh, well
—she reached for cookie number six—
I’ve already blown it
.

She could only pray that she didn’t blow it as easily with Faith. Or, for that matter, with Trista. It was easy to treat Winnie well—to smile at and welcome her into their home. Anne had to work at those things where Trista was concerned. And yet, didn’t that mean Trista needed to be liked and welcomed most of all? Had the girl ever known love—real love? From things Trista had let slip, it sounded as though her mother was tired and bitter and spent most of her time talking Trista’s father down.

Stop worrying
, she scolded herself as she brushed cookie crumbs from her hands.
Faith isn’t like that. Our home isn’t like that. We’ve raised Faith right. There’s no need to worry
.

She moved to the sink to wash her hands, but apprehension gnawed at her, setting her nerves on edge. Shutting off the faucet, she reached for the towel and caught her reflection in the window over the sink. Took in the furrow on her brow. The tight lips.

“Relax. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

The only response to her whispered statement was a renewed stirring of anxiety—an uneasy confidence that she was wrong. She couldn’t pinpoint why, exactly, but deep inside, certainty grew. There was something to be afraid of.