Dad in Training (11 page)

Molly reviewed the additional information she had ready for Brent and then placed it into a folder and set it on her desk. She eyed it, wanting to call him to see if she could hand deliver it to his house. Instead she decided to e-mail it.

Bite your nose to spite your face. How many times had her mother warned her of that?

Her mother. Her parents were the modern-day Cleavers, June and Ward. Their relationship served as her model of what married life should be like, and her parents had come through, beyond her expectations. She’d asked them for financial help for the shelter, and they’d promised a monthly stipend until the business was self-sufficient. Though it was, by far, not all she needed, the donation gave her hope. Her dad had even volunteered to come to Michigan to help get the building ready for business. They behaved as their strong faith required. A faith stronger than hers seemed to be. Though she prayed for guidance, she feared the Lord might take her down a path she didn’t want to go.

Pulling up her shoulders, she grasped the folder and marched to her computer to e-mail Brent the information. She glanced at her watch. He’d still be at work, so he’d get it today. After she’d sent the information, she settled into her favorite chair, trying to make sense out of her life.

Wednesday she’d finished the grade reports, turned in the books and cleaned her classroom. Today she was officially on vacation. She loved the free time, but this year her mind felt bogged down with so many things, things that should be wonderful, but left her fearful, too. The building proposal could fail, and that meant starting again. She’d have to find another building and begin a new negotiation. Her means—even with her parent’s commitment and Steph’s—didn’t cover the cost of renting a building.

Then Brent. What did she want? A friendship for sure. She would miss his amazing dark blue eyes that often filled her dreams. She would miss Randy and Rocket. She would miss the hope of ever falling in love. No man had stirred her as Brent had done. He charged her with sensations she couldn’t explain—excitement, confusion, hope. Hope? Had he really given her hope?

The answer was yes. Hope for the shelter and hope for a life that included more than her own plans and dreams. She drew back as a scowl settled on her face. Did Brent have a
dream? He seemed on the edge of an abyss, and he certainly wouldn’t be dreaming of falling over. Could his dream be to step away from everything to find himself?

Molly rolled back her computer chair and headed into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of unsweetened iced tea. She filled a glass and popped in a slice of frozen lemon and a few ice cubes. She liked her drink cold. The first brisk taste brightened her spirit, and she headed into the living room. The sun shone through the window, beckoning her outside, but to what? She didn’t have a yard like Brent’s. No gazebo to sit in and enjoy a breeze or watch bunnies hop through the grass. She looked out on the parking lot or the side of another condo.

Still it was home. She looked around the empty space. If only she had a dog.

The telephone rang. She uncurled her legs and grasped the remote. Brent’s voice charged through her, and once again she caught her breath while thoughts became words. “Did you get the information?”

“Yes, thanks. I haven’t digested it yet, but I thought maybe…”

He paused and Molly hung on his words.

“Maybe you’d like to discuss it face-to-face. I could come there. Randy’s at my dad’s for the night. Or better yet, you could come here for dinner. I’ll make you one of my specialties.”

At this point, Molly didn’t care about his specialty. She longed to see him—the way they’d been when they talked and joked. She missed that. A sweet longing twined through her mind until a new thought poisoned the bright tendrils. “Do you want to see me because of a problem? Is there something wrong with what I sent?”

“No. That’s not it. I’ve only skimmed it, but I’ll read it before I get home. Could you come about six? We can talk about it then.”

Concern prickled up her arms, but the dinner invitation was a good sign. “I’ll see you at six.”

“Nothing fancy, okay?”

“I’ll leave my ball gown at home.”

He chuckled, and she languished in the sound. She’d missed this part of him.

Molly disconnected, took a long swig of her tea and walked the glass to the kitchen. Though she had certainly dressed casual after school, her outfit didn’t do a thing for her. She marched into her bedroom and peered into the closet. After pulling out endless possibilities, she finally settled on beige-and-black capris with a beige knit top. She liked the scoop neckline, and the hue complemented her hair color.

She applied makeup, fussing over every line, combed her hair with a side part and grasped the scrunchie for her ponytail. “Ponytails are for kids.” She winced, hearing her voice. Lately she’d begun talking to herself. She let her hair hang against her shoulders, appraising it from all directions. Good. She dropped the comb and strode through the doorway, looking for her sandals.

The drive to Brent’s was etched in her mind. She admired the lovely homes as she meandered through the curved streets with unexpected cul-de-sacs that his neighborhood called circles. Each house had wonderful landscaping with flowers tucked beneath well-trimmed shrubs and broad lawns where dogs could run and play. She’d never been inside, and today she looked forward to seeing Brent’s home.

She parked outside and headed up the walk, surprised when the door opened before she reached the brick porch. A wonderful aroma drifted to her as his playful tone caused her to wonder. “Something smells good.”

“Let’s hope dinner
tastes
good.” He gave her a playful grin, his eyes scanning her hair. “Your hair looks great.”

“Thanks.” She wasn’t sure whether to feel at ease or anxious.

Brent pushed back the screen door and she stepped inside, wanting to talk about his home but instead blurting the
question that had worried her. “Do you think my revisions are going to help my case?”

He rested his hands on her shoulders. “I’m not sure what they’re going to do, but this has nothing to do with that. I figured you wouldn’t come if I just invited you here.”

She studied the tender look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry for the past week or so.” He rubbed his temple. “When I don’t know how to handle something, I tend to walk away until I can get myself together.”

The warmth of his hands didn’t compensate for the chill of failure in her heart. “Are you saying you can’t handle me?”

A tender look spread over his face. “No. I can’t handle myself.”

“Huh?”

He released her shoulders and drew her elbow into the crook of his arm. “Let’s go to the kitchen before I burn our dinner.”

Though wondering about what he thought of her new report, she couldn’t ignore the rich scent that drew her to follow. Coming through the doorway, she noticed a pot simmering on the stove. Brent released her arm, lifted the lid and dragged a wooden spoon through the meaty mixture.

“Is that chicken?” She headed his way, her stomach reminding her she’d skipped lunch.

“Paprikash.”

“Chicken paprikash? I’m impressed.” She moved beside him, letting her concerns be covered by the thought of the succulent dish he’d prepared. “You did this from scratch?”

“It’s my mother’s recipe. Her grandmother was Hungarian.” He lifted a file card and flashed it in front of her.

His mother. Brent rarely spoke of her. Molly took the recipe and read the ingredients, amazed that he really cooked.

“Try it,” he said, dipping a teaspoon into the sauce and bringing it to her lips.

“That’s delicious.” She scanned the yellowed card again. “Do you make the spaetzel noodles, too?”

He arched a brow. “Never tried. I think that’s beyond me.”

“How about if I give it a try?” Standing beside him in the kitchen felt perfect. Two people working together, talking about everyday things, being good friends. Her pulse skipped up her arm. “I’ve seen my mom make them.”

“Sure, if you know how and if I have the ingredients.”

Molly told him what she needed, and while he gathered the items, she filled a large pot with water and placed it on the burner. She loved the feeling of hominess she felt in the kitchen and sensed in Brent’s demeanor.

While he watched, she mixed flour, eggs, a dash of salt and a sprinkle of parsley and water and then mixed the dough, searching for the right consistency. She dribbled in more water. “Did Rocket go to your dad’s house with Randy?”

“He’s in the backyard. I didn’t want to wear Dad out.” He left her side and wandered to the window, a different look on his face. “Speaking of my dad,” he said, turning back and lowering his gaze and watching her pile the dough onto a cutting board, “we had a talk.”

“A good one?”

He nodded. “I think so. Time will tell, but it makes a difference to me.”

“I’m glad, Brent.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a butter knife. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

His rebuff disappointed her. “I’m happy you made some progress.”

“Me, too.” He stepped away and stirred the paprikash again. “How long will those take?”

“Not too long.” The water simmered while she used a small cutting board to scrape off small dollops of dough, letting them drop into the water.

“Don’t rush. The paprikash still needs time.” He gave it another stir.

As the spaetzel rose to the surface, she ladled them into a
strainer Brent had found for her, and when all the dough had been cooked, she turned off the burner. “Before we eat, I’ll just brown these in a fry pan with butter and some breadcrumbs, if you have them.”

He pulled out a fry pan and placed it on the burner. She poured half of the spaetzel into the skillet with a glob of butter and a few crumbs. “Let the rest cool and you can freeze them for another time.”

He stepped closer and brushed a wisp of hair from her cheek. “How about sitting for a while. I can keep an eye on this chicken. It shouldn’t be too long.”

His touch waffled through her chest.

When Brent strode away, she followed him into the great room. Though she’d been to the house before, she’d never been inside, and what she saw impressed her. Lacking the usual manly leather look, the room was graced with comfy furniture. No frills, but overstuffed easy chairs, a love seat and one recliner. The tables appeared to be walnut or maybe cherry with a warm tint that added friendliness to the room.

The carpet’s earth tones drew in the outdoors, and through the window, the landscape spread before her with Rocket lying on the grass watching birds dip into the birdbath. “Your home is lovely.”

“Thanks.” He motioned for her to sit.

She chose a cozy easy chair. “You surprised me with that recipe of your mother’s. Tell me about her.”

“She died a couple years ago. Not much to tell. She supported my dad in the business and was involved in some church activities.”

She’d never heard Brent mention religion. “Do you go to the same church?”

His smile faded. “God and I had a falling out a number of years ago.”

“I’d say you had the falling out. God is faithful.”

His look delved into her eyes. “That might be true.”

“He hasn’t given up on you. I hope you know that.” As often as the weight of guilt pressed on her spirit, Molly knew God hadn’t walked away. He’d forgiven her. She only needed to forgive herself.

Brent shifted in his chair. “Tell me about your parents.”

She’d made him uneasy with her comment, and now she wondered where he and the Lord stood. Her emotions had already gotten out of control, but she knew nothing could move forward with Brent unless he loved the Lord as she did. “My parents are well and happy. They retired to Sedona and love it there.”

“It’s a beautiful place.” He rose. “I need to stir the chicken.”

Rocket’s woof outside the door caused her to rise. “Can I let the dog in? He’s barking.”

“Go ahead.”

She opened the door, and Rocket bolted in, leaping around her as she decided to let that be his next lesson. “Sit.”

He did one small skip before he stopped and sat.

Pleased, Molly wished she had a nugget. She headed into the kitchen and snatched one from his doggie dish. When she turned, Rocket had followed. “Sit.”

He did.

“Good boy.” Molly slipped him the food and then settled beside Brent. “Randy’s doing a good job with Rocket.”

He smiled. “He’s trying.” He placed the spoon on a plate. “Just a few more minutes. I added the sour cream, and it needs to thicken.” He motioned her back to the living room.

She suspected the food was ready, since he’d turned off the burner, but she hoped maybe he’d decided to tell her about his father, so she followed him back and sat in the easy chair, waiting.

“I wanted to say a couple of things before we eat.”

“About the propos—”

“About us.”

Her chest squeezed. “Us? What about us?”

“This has been on my mind all day, and I need to get it off my chest.”