A Wife Worth Waiting For. Arlene James

hands tightened commensurately upon his shoulders. That seemed to satisfy something in her son, for he then swung his gaze around to the reverend.

      “Trenton is the name my mother calls me,” he said. He might as well have added that she was the only one allowed to do so.

      Bolton lifted his gaze to Clarice’s, but she couldn’t interpret the expression there. “Good enough,” he said quietly, and his eyes held hers a moment longer before he dropped them once more to the boy. “Well, Trent, I had in mind to toss around a baseball this morning. Want to join me?”

      Clarice knew that in this instance the inscrutable look upon her son’s face meant he had misgivings that he was trying to hide.

      “I don’t know if I’d like it,” he said bluntly. What he meant was that he hadn’t ever done it before.

      The message, thankfully, did not escape Bolton Charles. He shrugged. “Why don’t we give it a try? If it’s not any fun, we’ll do something else.”

      Trenton screwed up that eye again, then briskly nodded.

      Bolton clapped him on the shoulder. “Great!” He pointed toward the door in the far wall. “There are two gloves and a ball waiting on a black chair inside my office. If you’ll get them, I’ll just have a word with your mom.”

      Trent flipped his mother a look and departed. Clarice watched him go through the door then turned her attention to Bolton Charles. “You handled that well,” she said lightly.

      He smiled. “I had a long talk with my secretary yesterday. She has two grandchildren. They’re younger than Trent, I’m afraid, but since she raised three children of her own, two of them sons, she was able to give me a few insights. Her best advice, I think, was to share things I enjoy with Trent.”

      “And you enjoy baseball,” Clarice surmised.

      “When I have the chance,” he confirmed, “which isn’t often.”

      She couldn’t resist the urge to tease him. “Did you play baseball in high school, Bolt?”

      He grinned at her. “And college.”

      That surprised her. “Really? Then you must be pretty good.”

      “Actually, I was good, past tense. I even considered, briefly, playing pro ball.”

      “What happened?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

      His gaze locked with hers. “Just what was supposed to happen,” he told her evenly. “I graduated college and went on to seminary.”

      “Oh.” Of course. What a foolish question. She felt heat rising in her cheeks.

      He laughed easily. “Why is it that people seem to think the ministry is foisted on hapless fellows with no particular talent for anything else?”

      “I don’t know,” she said, not quite able to meet his gaze again. “Maybe because it seems such a difficult, thankless job.”

      “But it isn’t,” he protested. “You don’t see the bank president being asked to toss a ball around with a kid, do you?”

      She smiled. “No, I guess not.”

      Trent reappeared then with the gloves and ball, which he carried over to Bolton. Bolton picked one much the worse for wear and wiggled his hand into it. He then beamed a bright, happy smile at Clarice. “I rest my case.”

      She laughed outright. “You’ve really taken your secretary’s advice to heart, haven’t you?”

      “Absolutely. Now, if you’ll excuse us, this glove is begging to be used.”

      He held it up to Trent’s ear as if the boy could really hear it beg. Trent giggled, something so completely out of character for him that Clarice felt a shock of guilt, followed swiftly by a welling of gratitude for this good-looking minister. She wondered if he knew how grateful she was. His smile seemed to say that he understood completely, but suddenly it was she who understood. This was what he meant. This was why the ministry for him could never be just a thankless job. This was what it was all about for him. Such goodness and generosity were awesome and therefore a little frightening—and even a little defeating somehow. She felt suddenly diminished, as if she could not measure up to such a standard of goodness.

      “I—I have some errands to do,” she mumbled, turning away.

      “Fine,” he said. “Why don’t you meet us back here in a couple of hours? Then, if you have no other plans, maybe we could all go to lunch together?”

      That unexpected invitation sent her gaze zipping back around to his, but his expression was bland, almost impersonal. Obviously he was just being nice. He was a nice man, after all. He was a minister, for pity’s sake. She felt a stab of disappointment. “We’ll see,” she said softly.

      He didn’t reply to that, and she hurried away, scolding herself for such perverse emotions. Bolton Charles was a fine man, the sort to help anyone he could. Why should she resent his kindness toward her, especially as she was so willing to accept his kindness toward her son? She pushed the disturbing thoughts away, and knew herself for a coward. She simply could not go on refusing to think about the complications that popped up. Somehow she had to take back control of her own life and her son’s, and she couldn’t do it by continually sticking her head in the sand. She’d had enough of that.

      So then, what was she to do? Admit you’re attracted to that man, for starters, she told herself. But realize that his attentions to you are part and parcel of his ministry as he sees it—and nothing more. But she had to do more than realize that fact; she had also to accept it, weigh her own choices, and decide how to respond to the reverend. Resolutely, she turned the matter over and over in her mind while she went about picking up the clothes from the cleaner, dropping off the vacuum to be repaired and having her hair trimmed.

      By the time she returned to meet her son, she had had plenty of good, sober reflection, all done at a distance, and she welcomed the chance to relate to Bolton Charles strictly as a minister. The problem was that the windblown, panting fellow who jogged up to her car and greeted her was very much a man.

      His knit polo shirt clung to his body damply, revealing a flat middle, well-developed chest and broad, muscular shoulders. His dark hair had fallen forward in thick, gleaming waves, and he tucked his baseball mitt beneath one arm as he freed his hand and pushed his hair back off his forehead. His smile was immediate, welcoming and infectious. Trenton was right behind him and panting just as hard. Apparently they’d had a real workout with the ball gripped in Bolton’s right hand.

      Bolton laughed as the boy skidded to a halt and collapsed at the edge of the grass. “I think we may have gotten a little carried away,” he said to Clarice. “He’s got such a strong arm, I forget he’s a boy.” He looked back at Trenton as he said that last, and the boy beamed. Suddenly Bolton flicked his wrist, and the ball popped up out of his hand. With a grunt, Trenton threw himself backward, his arm flying out, and the ball plopped down into his glove as smoothly as if he’d been ready and waiting. “All right!” Bolton laughed and gave him a thumbs-up before turning back to Clarice. “Kid’s got great reflexes, too, and he throws really well on the move. I think you’ve got a fine, all-around athlete here and you ought to be getting him into Little League sports.”

      “Well, he does wrestle,” she said a bit defensively, and instantly regretted her tone.

      He seemed not to notice. “Yes, I know, and he’s been very successful at it. I think he can be just as successful at almost any other sport—baseball certainly, football, probably soccer. Basketball, I don’t know. Not my game. Anyway, I’ll look into it and find out what’s available, if you want.”

      For some reason the very idea sent her into a kind of panic. “Ah, no. I mean, we don’t want to be a bother, that is, more of a bother.”

      He flashed her a totally disarming smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m having a ball.”

      At