Love Remains

© 2010 by Kaye Dacus

Print ISBN 978-1-60260-989-1

eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.ePub) 978-1-60742-199-3
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-200-6

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Cover design: Lookout Design, Inc.

Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683,
www.barbourbooks.com

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses
.

Printed in the United States of America.

Dedication/Acknowledgment

To Kevin Cloud, Sergeant, U.S. Army, and Joshua Lesley, Senior Airman, U.S. Air Force, for your bravery and devotion in volunteering to put yourself in harm’s way for us. We can never thank you enough.

Prologue

Y
ou’d think she won the lottery or something.” Katrina Breitinger glared at the woman flouncing by, nose in the air.

“She’ll be lording it over all of us until someone else achieves the same feat.” Lindy Patterson crossed her arms and blew a lock of blond hair from her eyes.

“One would think she’d be mortified that it happened when she’s still so young.” Celeste Evans craned her neck to continue watching the woman in question.

Helen Bradley made a derisive raspberry sound. “Young, my foot! You know she’s had work done.”

“The least she could do would be to stop coloring her own hair.” Maureen O’Connor touched her professionally hued auburn tresses. “Hers always looks so brassy.”

Trina clicked her tongue, feeling slightly guilty. “Listen to the five of us. Standing here being catty about someone in church.”

“You’re right. Someone might overhear us and tell her.” Lindy looked over both shoulders.

“We sound just like teenagers. It’s unbecoming of us to speak ill of someone else.” Trina set her lips in a firm line and looked at her four companions.

“To
speak
ill of her, but not to
think
ill of her?” Lindy, Trina’s best friend since high school, winked.

“You know what I mean. Honestly. We’re over eighty years old, and we’re still acting like sorority girls.” Trina raised her hand to signal her husband, who’d just entered the back of the sanctuary.

“But what are we going to do about her?” Helen jutted her chin toward the object of their ire.

“There’s nothing we can do. Until one of our grandchildren gets married, she’ll keep taunting us with the fact that she’ll have great-grandchildren before we do.”

Lindy grabbed Trina’s arm. “That’s it!”

“What?” Maureen asked.

“All of us have grandkids who’re getting up into their twenties and thirties. High time they should be getting married.” Lindy pulled the rest of the girls into a huddle.

“Don’t remind us,” Helen wailed.

“No, listen. We make a pact. Since each of us prides ourselves on knowing our offspring well, we’re going to be very picky about whom our grandchildren choose. So we narrow the pool.”

Trina stared at Lindy, following the train of thought to the next logical step. “We set our grandkids up with each other’s grandkids.”

“Exactly! We take the guesswork out of finding suitable partners for them.”

“But how—?” Celeste’s question was cut off by the organist beginning the prelude.

“We’ll work that out later—we’ll talk about it at coffee on Thursday.” Lindy stuck her right hand into the middle of the circle. “Who’s with me?”

Trina hesitated only a second before placing her hand on top of Lindy’s. Celeste, Helen, and Maureen quickly followed suit.

Lindy looked around at each of them, beaming. “I hereby dub us the Matchmakers.”

Chapter 1

T
he sharks were circling.

Bobby Patterson had been at the party a total of three minutes. But half that time was all it took for the smell of fresh blood to circulate among the single women.

“Hey, you must be Bobby. Patrick told us you were coming. I’m…” (fill in the blank with a female’s name).

He shook hands, smiled, greeted, laughed, introduced himself, and promptly forgot the names of the couple dozen women who continued to circle around…as if there weren’t a couple dozen other guys out on the back deck supervising the few men in charge of the grills.

“Diesel Patterson!” The masculine voice boomed through the room, and Bobby started to relax.

“Mack Truck Macdonald.” He accepted Patrick Macdonald’s hand for a vigorous handshake, which turned into a back-slapping hybrid embrace. A
bro-hug
, they called it back in California. Here in Nashville, Tennessee, he wasn’t so sure. Having been gone for sixteen years, he had a lot to relearn about his hometown.

“I can’t believe you actually came back, man. When you left the day after graduation, I thought you had shook the dust of this place
off your feet for good.” Patrick led him through the large gathering room and the open french doors to the expansive deck attached to the back of the house.

“I thought it was for good, too. But, you know, once your parents and grandparents get to a certain age, it’s nice to be nearby.” The edge of annoyance caused by the excessive female attention began to dissipate when Bobby was once again surrounded by men. Quick surveillance gave him a count of twenty-two men, in their early twenties to early forties, well-dressed—though they all wore jeans or shorts, they were high-end and new-looking—and with only a slight diversity in ethnicity, just as the women had been.

“Hey, y’all.” Patrick raised his voice to get the attention of the majority of the guys standing around drinking sodas from red plastic cups and cans. “This is Bobby Patterson, my high school football buddy I was telling you about. He’s just moved back to Nashville and will be looking for a church home, so let’s make him welcome tonight and convince him he wants to rejoin Acklen Avenue Fellowship—because we could really use him on the softball team next summer.”

After Bobby met a few of the guys, Patrick cuffed his shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ve got to go back in and help in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, Mack.” Peripheral sightings informed him the women had grown tired of the segregation and were infiltrating the formerly all-male encampment outside.

One of the men standing near Bobby nudged the guy beside him. “Hey, pressure’s off us. New meat.” He jerked his head toward Bobby but grinned at him. “The gals in this group are great…once they get used to a guy. But don’t worry. We’ll try to protect you as best we can.”

Bobby returned the guy’s smile—he’d identified himself as Steve—and stifled his frustration. One of the reasons he’d left California was that the undercover work he did for the California Bureau of Investigation made it impossible to become an active member in a church, to be a part of a community, to meet someone.

Yeah, that last one was laughable. Ever since leaving New Mexico fourteen years ago, the possibility of meeting someone he’d want to spend the rest of his life with had been pretty much nil.

“So, Bobby, what brought you to Nashville?” Someone—the guy with the mole on his jaw…Chris—handed him a can of soda.

Though already the Saturday before Labor Day, the heat of summer lingered on, so Bobby really didn’t care what flavor the drink was, as long as it was cold and wet. “I’m an agent with the Tennessee Criminal Investigations Unit.”

“Oh, yeah?” The pronouncement drew quite a bit of interest. “Like…are you out there busting the drug dealers and murderers and stuff?”

Bobby shook his head. “No, I leave that up to guys who have a higher threshold for excitement than I do. After two tours in the Middle East, I prefer chasing the guys who commit crimes from behind desks—fraud, conspiracies, political corruption, and stuff like that.”

As he suspected, the others picked up on the mention of war and his involvement in it. “What branch?” the former marine asked. Had to be former—wasn’t in great shape, but still wore the jarhead haircut.

“Army—infantry. You?” Might as well get it out in the open.

“U.S. Marine Corps, baby.” He raised his sleeve to show the USMC tattoo at the top of his bicep. “Did my tour five years ago. Afghanistan.”

“I got back six years ago. A year in Afghanistan and a year in Iraq.” To keep the conversation from turning to politics—as it had always done when the topic of the war had come up out on the West Coast—he cast around for another; his gaze came to rest on the orange baseball cap of the slender twentysomething across from him. “How’re the Vols looking for this year?”

It turned out to be the perfect diversion. With the University of Tennessee’s first football game of the season tomorrow, the entire group surrounding him jumped into the conversation—and warded
off all but a few of the hardiest women—until the grillers announced the meat was finished and carried the pungent platters, piled high with hot dogs and hamburger patties, through the crowd and back into the house.

Bobby’s new acquaintances ushered him inside. The forty-some-odd people all crowded into the house made it feel much smaller than before, even when split between the family room and living room.

He turned to Ryan—only to find the former marine had been replaced by one of the generic-looking females he’d met on his way in. She smiled up at him expectantly.

“Restroom?”

Her expectation fell into disappointment. “Past the kitchen and to the left.”

“Thanks.” His hands had been touched by so many people tonight that he wasn’t about to use them to touch food that was destined for his mouth until he had washed them.

Unlike the houses he’d been looking at online, most of which were new or recent construction, the kitchen in this older home was cut off from the rest of the house by walls. Not the best setup for holding parties like this. Something to consider as he planned to get involved in the singles group at whatever church he decided to join and would love to host gatherings.

He rounded the corner and headed down the hall between the kitchen and dining room.

Someone zipped out of the kitchen, mitt-covered arms laden with an aluminum pan so full it sagged in the middle.

Both of them stopped short—and Bobby jumped back as a wave of baked beans sloshed over the side of the pan.

“I am so sorry!”

Bobby, who’d reached out to steady the woman, froze at the familiar voice. He dragged his eyes up from the mess on the floor to the face that had haunted him for fourteen years.

“Zarah?”