That Wilder Boy Page 6

  She nodded. To her relief he pushed off from the car and strode away, his shoulders back and chin high in the familiar pose she’d once thought spoke of confident strength. Now its arrogance turned her stomach. With a sigh she slipped behind the wheel of her car and started the engine. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  Seven

  Rocky drove toward home, his right arm stretched straight out with his hand gripping the top of the steering wheel, the other arm propped on the window frame—a pose he’d perfected in high school to look cool. But right now he wasn’t thinking about looking cool. He was lost in thought.

  Wind rushed past his ear, tossing his hair and making his eyes water. He squinted, battling mixed emotions. Part of him celebrated the knowledge he’d gained this evening—God saw him as His adopted son. That realization made his heart sing. Then there was the other part—the heart-crushing part.

  Seeing Carrie with that other man.

  His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the image taunting him. The man’s thumb slipping up and down on Carrie’s skin, the gesture familiar, intimate. Carrie’s face turned up to his. Both of them in their designer clothes and styled hair and unscuffed shoes. They fit together. His heart clenched. They matched.

  Once again the differences between Carrie’s world and his own struck hard. Just who did he think he was? Maybe he needed a reminder. He glanced at street signs and realized he wasn’t too far from his old neighborhood. Slapping the directional signal, he made a left hand turn and wove his way to Avenue D.

  Familiar landmarks—the Tasti-Freeze, a weed-infested ball diamond, and a boarded-up warehouse—brought a rush of childhood memories. Turning north on Avenue D, he slowed to a crawl and stared through the gloomy dusk at sad-looking houses, their unkempt lawns littered with bicycles, broken toys, and empty beer cans. Pulling to the curb in front of 1713 Avenue D, he popped the gear shift into neutral and sat, his fingers cupping his chin, and let his gaze slowly sweep across the house where he’d grown up.

  Nothing fancy, that was for sure. A post-WWII bungalow—square, the front door centered between two windows. The window on the left was the living room, the window on the right his parents’ bedroom. He and Philip had shared the second bedroom which was behind his parents’. He wondered if the same faded cowboys and Indians wallpaper hung on the walls of that room. No way to tell, without going in, and he wouldn’t ask to do that. He had no desire to go inside that house again.

  He took in the sagging shutters, torn window screens, and peeling paint. It didn’t look as if anyone had tried to make improvements since his parents’ deaths. Of course, there wasn’t much to improve on, Rocky acknowledged. No porch softened the appearance of the house, only a cracked concrete slab with one sloping concrete step. Not even a railing. His mother had tried to plant flowers around the base of the porch, but he and Philip always jumped off the sides and trampled any living thing, preventing the plants from blooming. How Mom hollered at them for that.

  And Dad did more than holler. . . .

  Rocky sighed. Not many happy memories in that house. He glanced up and down the block, which was nearly hidden in shadow already. A few lights glowed behind window shades. He wondered if any happy childhoods were being played out in other houses around him. He hoped so.

  It had seemed to him, as a child and rebellious teen, that happiness only existed in the homes six blocks over—in the neighborhoods with names like Morning Glory Circle and East Briar Estates. Homes with neat lawns and swimming pools and spindled porches where swings or wicker furniture invited a person to sit, relax, and bask in all he owned. On impulse Rocky shifted to drive and made a U-turn, angling his vehicle toward the “rich district.”

  He crept out of the neighborhood as slowly as he had entered, almost with reverence, offering a prayer for the occupants of each house as he passed by. The houses slowly changed shape and appearance as he rolled along, from small disheveled dwellings to small neater dwellings then to large neater dwellings until he reached the large, ostentatious neighborhood of East Briar Estates.

  He felt like an interloper as he guided his old car between the brick pillars standing sentry on either side of the opening to the elite housing district. Homes protected by iron fences, many of them with gates blocking the curving driveways, stood in stark contrast to the neighborhood he’d left behind.

  Making a right-hand turn at the first opportunity, he drove slowly past the stately Tudor home where Mac Steinwood and his family lived. How many times, as a boy, had he driven over here on his bicycle and stood outside the iron fence, peering in, wondering what was inside that house? The Steinwood mansion had been his dream house—tall, rambling, surely full of all the things his own family couldn’t afford.

  If Rocky closed his eyes, he could imagine the shining chandeliers and polished woodwork and—he allowed himself to release a rueful chuckle—a wood-paneled den with a pool table bigger than a king-sized bed. Funny the things that had seemed important back then. . . .

  He passed the Steinwood house and cruised around the block, aware of bright lights not only inside but outside each house, like hundreds of eyes watching, protecting. The feeling of being an intruder increased with every change of his odometer. His gaze drifted from the homes themselves to the beautifully landscaped yards. Probably the owners of those houses each had a crew to keep their yards nice—gardeners, like him, paid to bring beauty to the owners’ surroundings.

  He bet those gardeners never got inside the house, though. Someone who dug in the dirt sure wouldn’t be good enough to step through the front door. He clenched his jaw and swallowed. He didn’t belong here, and he’d better leave before someone called the cops on him.

  One more swing past the Steinwood Estate for old-times’ sake; then he’d go home. He paused at the intersection, prepared to turn toward the Steinwoods’ when headlights appeared on his right. He waited, and when the car passed him he realized it was Carrie’s sports car. She was home from church. His heart pounded as he watched her go by, and it was all he could do to keep from blaring his horn to let her know he was there. But the sight of a second car—a fairly new sports utility vehicle—right behind hers stopped him. The driver was the man he’d seen with Carrie at church.

  He held his breath, watching Carrie stop outside the gates for a moment to punch buttons in the box beside the drive. The gates opened, she drove through, and the utility vehicle followed.

  Rocky felt sick. The man obviously meant something to Carrie. The man obviously matched Carrie in wealth and education. As it had before, the realization at how well they matched struck like a blow. It was just as well he’d seen them together. It made things clear. He did not belong with Carrie. He did not belong in her world.

  Turning his car in the opposite direction, he gunned his motor and raced out of the neighborhood. “So long, Carrie,” he shouted out the open window. From here on out, he’d leave her alone.

  ❧

  Carrie stepped out of the garage and met Carl in the driveway. She didn’t want to take him in the house where Mac would see them together and make assumptions, so she pointed to the gazebo in the backyard. It was well lit, thanks to the solar lanterns that hung in evenly spaced intervals around the cedar-shingled roof. “Let’s sit out here.”

  Carl followed her without a word across softly illuminated stepping stones, and he waited until she seated herself in one of the cushioned bamboo-framed chairs before choosing the chair directly opposite her. He shot her a practiced smile and said, “This is perfect. You’re absolutely breathtaking in the moonlight.”

  “Stop it, Carl.” She frowned to let him know she meant it. “Flattery won’t work anymore. You said you needed to talk, so go ahead. I’m listening.”

  He leaned back, crossed his leg and let out a huff of laughter. “You’re in a sour mood.”

  His cajoling tone did nothing to soften her. “I’m not in a sour mood. I just don’t have time for your insincere compliments.”

 
; His posture didn’t change an inch nor did his tone. “Insincere compliments? You think I’m insincere?”

  “I think you say what you believe will benefit you the most.” She pressed into the cushioned back of the chair, bracing her hands on the armrests. “And I’m not the same naïve girl you duped two years ago. So let’s just skip the flattery and get to the point.”

  A night bird sang a lonesome chorus while Carl sat in silence and examined Carrie. She kept a stern pose, her face turned in his direction, and offered no more encouragement. At long last he blew out his breath, raised his hands in a gesture of defeat and said, “Okay. I’ll lay it out. I’ve missed you desperately. I realize I love you.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “I want you back.”

  Carrie gave an unladylike hmph. “Yes, I’ll bet you do.” She shook her head, the slight breeze tossing one strand of hair across her cheek. She anchored it behind her ear. “But it isn’t me you really want, is it, Carl?”

  He scowled. “Of course it is. What are you talking about?”

  “Come off it. I know you investigated my trust fund. I know you know, to the penny, exactly what I’m worth. And I know you know I’ll be given control of that money in another month, when I turn twenty-five.”

  His eyebrows shot upward in well-feigned surprise. “Really?” He settled himself back into the chair. “Your birthday is around the corner? Oh, it is! I’d forgotten.”

  Carrie rolled her eyes. “Please, don’t patronize me. I haven’t seen or heard from you in almost two years, you show up conveniently just before I’m ready to have a large sum of money at my disposal, and you want me to believe you love me and want me back.” She shook her head, her gaze never wavering from his. “What you love is the idea of gaining access to my father’s wealth. It’s not me. It never was.”

  Carl stroked his lower lip with his finger while he stared at her, unblinking. “You underestimate yourself, Carrie. Don’t you see yourself as lovable without your money?”

  She refused to be sidetracked by his glib tongue. “It’s not a matter of what I see; it’s a matter of what you see. And when you look at me, you see dollar signs.”

  He laughed out loud at her, stirring her ire. “Sweet thing, you really are too cute for words. Dollar signs.” He continued to chuckle.

  “Cute, ugly, it wouldn’t matter, as long as I come with the fortune.” Carrie ignored his amusement. “And I want something more than a relationship built on a pile of bank notes.”

  Carl stopped chuckling and leaned forward, his expression fervent. “Tell me what you want, Carrie. Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you. Tell me how to prove that I love you.”

  How could she have ever seen him as handsome? His perfectly placed features were physically appealing, but the hunger in his eyes for material things made him seem so shallow. She berated herself for having given him a piece of her heart. She whispered a silent prayer of thanks for learning the truth before she’d accepted his marriage proposal.

  “Carl, there’s no way you can prove that to me. And I don’t want you to try. It would be demeaning.”

  “I’d demean myself for you, Carrie. Just say the word.”

  “Stop it!” He was embarrassing her, and he was embarrassing himself. All for money. It was all so pointless and. . .sad. She took a deep breath. “This whole conversation is ridiculous. We have nothing in common, except the fact we both happened to be born to wealthy families. Beyond that”—she lifted her shoulders in a shrug—“there’s nothing.”

  “Define nothing,” he shot back.

  She had no difficulty with that. “First, and most important, there’s faith. I believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God, sent to the world to save us from our sins. I’ve accepted His gift of salvation. You haven’t.”

  “Tell me how. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it right now.”

  His flippant reply made her heart ache for his lack of understanding. “That isn’t something you do for someone else. It’s something you do for yourself. And it’s a commitment, Carl, not a statement you make to impress someone.”

  He nodded his head slowly. “Okay. Then go on. What else do we not have in common?”

  Now she floundered. On many levels she and Carl were compatible, which was why he’d managed to win her before. They had similar backgrounds, similar interests, similar tastes. But she’d found a personal relationship with Jesus since she and Carl had broken up, and she knew none of their similarities would be enough without the common foundation of faith in Christ. Uncertain how to explain herself, she remained silent.

  Carl took her silence as an opportunity. Reaching out, he caught her hand, his thumb painting lazy circles on the back of her wrist. “See? There’s only that one thing. It could work, Carrie. Give me a chance.”

  She snatched her hand free and rose. “No, it wouldn’t work. That ‘one thing,’ as you put it, is everything. Without that we have nothing. So there’s no point in continuing this discussion. If that’s all you wanted, then—”

  “Please, Carrie. Don’t turn me away.” He stood and captured her shoulders with his smooth, tapered fingers. “You still care for me. You aren’t dating anyone else.”

  “Yes, I am.” Her adamant contradiction surprised Carl no more than it surprised her. Was she dating Rocky? Not really, yet she knew she wanted to. She stepped backward, freeing herself from his grasp, and darted behind her chair. Feeling safe with the barrier between them, she said boldly, “So this conversation needs to end immediately.”

  Carl’s gaze narrowed as he examined her. “Are you lying to me to get me to back off?”

  “I’m not lying. I met someone recently, and we are seeing each other.” A picture of Rocky, his head bent over his Bible, his forehead creased in concentration, brought a smile to her lips.

  Carl must have seen it, because his expression hardened. “Okay. Fine. I concede defeat.” He started for the opening of the gazebo then stopped and turned back, his hand braced on a spindled beam. “But what makes you so sure this guy is any different from how you see me? What makes you so sure he’s not after your money, too?”

  Carrie felt heat fill her face. She found no words.

  He gave a knowing nod. “That’s what I thought. Well—be careful, Carrie. You can’t separate the girl from the money, you know.” He turned and strode away. In moments the engine to his vehicle revved, and he backed out of the drive.

  Carrie sank back into the chair, staring into the dark. As much as she hated to admit it, Carl’s words had found their mark. Once again the old doubts surfaced. Rocky wasn’t wealthy. What if he truly did see her as an end to his financial needs?

  “Carrie?”

  She glanced up. Her mother stood on the walkway. How long had she been out here? “Hi, Mom.”

  Her mother entered the gazebo and sat down where Carl had been. “Carl left in a hurry. Is everything okay?”

  Briefly Carrie recounted their conversation. She ended with, “Mom, I don’t trust Carl, but I do trust Rocky. I know you and Mac think Carl and I would be ideal together, but—” She shook her head, unable to proceed.

  “Honey, I know Mac can be pushy, but underneath he only wants what’s best for you, as do I.” Her mother tipped her head, her silver earrings glinting in the soft light cast by the lanterns. “How well do you know this. . .Rocky?”

  Carrie grimaced at the way her mother said Rocky’s name. “Not all that well, yet. But I want to get to know him better. He has a gentle strength that I admire, and even though he’s a new Christian he’s growing. I can see it.”

  A soft smile graced her mother’s face. “You’re smitten.”

  Carrie released a light laugh. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “Well, honey, I suppose you’ve heard that old adage that opposites attract. But the adage doesn’t guarantee the attraction has lasting value. This Rocky of yours isn’t a part of our social circle, so I won’t lie and say I don’t have my concerns. A common background is very impo
rtant in building a relationship.”

  Carrie lowered her gaze.

  Her mother reached out to grip Carrie’s chin and raise her face. “Promise me you’ll go slowly. Think things through before you make a commitment to this man.”

  Carrie met her mother’s gaze squarely. “I’m doing more than thinking, Mom. I’m praying. If Rocky is the right person for me, then I trust God to help us work out all the differences we might encounter.”

  Lynette Steinwood drew back, her expression closed. “Just be careful.”

  Carrie nodded. “I will.” But inwardly she rebelled—just once she wished she could simply trust and move forward without worry about hidden motives. Would God grant her that peace?

  Eight

  Carrie spritzed apple-scented body spray into the air then stepped into the mist, giving herself a subtle essence of the fragrance. One last glance in the full-length mirror, and she decided she was suitably attired for an evening at the Ironstone. It wasn’t a fancy place, so her denim capris, saucy pink T-shirt with lime-green rhinestones imbedded around the V-neck, and rhinestone-studded pink flip-flops would be appropriate. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail and tied it with a pink and lime-green scarf. The thick ponytail swished back and forth across her shoulders as she bounced down the stairs.

  Rounding the corner from the hallway to the kitchen, she heard her stepfather call her name. She turned back, resisting a glance at her wristwatch. She didn’t want to be late.

  “Yes, Mac? I’m on my way out.” She offered a quick smile and remained poised to leave, one hand on the kitchen’s swinging door, hoping he’d take the hint.

  “I can see that.” His gaze roved from her head to her toes then back again. “But not to anything formal, I assume.”

  Carrie felt a blush building, but she forced another smile. “No. Nothing formal. Just pizza with a friend.”

  Mac crossed his arms and peered down his nose at her. His pale green eyes narrowed into probing slits, making Carrie feel much younger than her twenty-four years. She fought the urge to squirm.