The Baby Tree (Christian Romance) Page 3

  Not that I want five , Lord, she mentally added. One or two would be ample.

  Olivia didn’t know what God had in store for her, but in spite of her painful past, she still thought it wise to put in the occasional request. Please, Lord, if it is Thy will, someday I’d like a family. So if you have any hints, I’d appreciate it.

  But no angel or burning bush appeared to guide her, and she was back where she’d started -- alone in her quiet, empty house, after a boring date.

  She was lonely.

  Olivia changed into a sleeveless nightgown and walked to the living room. She’d been cutting back on her media consumption and trying to rejoin the human race -- hence the date. But after tonight, she felt like she deserved a reward. Not a full five-hour, mind-numbing fictional binge, but a reasonable, hour-long treat.

  After all, her goal was to have balance in her life, not to abstain from visual media entirely.

  She looked at her DVDs. What did she need tonight? Austen, Gaskell or Bronte?

  Ah, Edward Rochester. He had his faults, but he was never boring.

  She debated over which of her six versions of Jane Eyre she should watch. Each had its merits, and she often entertained herself by mentally making hybrids -- taking Jane from one version, adding Rochester from a second, and Mrs. Fairfax from a third. Finally, she closed her eyes and picked one.

  Olivia considered quilting, but it was late and she was too tired to make even stitches. So she sat in her recliner, draped a lightweight quilt over herself and pressed the play button on her remote. She fast forwarded until Rochester rode up on his dark horse and fell asleep before Miss Ingram appeared.

  #

  Michael sat at the kitchen table when he heard someone knock at the front door. Alexis was feeding the children breakfast and Miss Kate was gathering up laundry, so Michael left his half-eaten bowl of shredded wheat and answered the door. Olivia stood on the doorstep, looking neat and professional in a pink blouse and a straight navy skirt. Her hair was smoothed back into a tight braid, but one renegade wisp curled around an ear. She pushed up her glasses in a nervous gesture. “Hi.”

  He said, “If it's about the tree, I forgot. I haven't called a pruning service yet, but I will today. I promise.”

  In the background, Michael heard the children banging their spoons on their high chair trays and squealing.

  “Too late,” she said succinctly. “During the storm last night, a branch fell and smashed my windshield. I'd like you to come over and see the damage before I clean it up.”

  He winced. So much for being a good neighbor. He looked at her closely. She didn't look as if she'd been crying, and she didn't sound angry. She'd stated the facts simply, without emotion. Maybe it wasn't so bad, after all. “I'll be back in a few minutes,” he called to Miss Kate and followed Olivia across the damp grass of his front yard over to her driveway.

  A tree limb, about eight feet long and six inches in diameter at its widest part, lay across the dented hood of her Honda Civic. The driver's side of the windshield was shattered. “I'm terribly sorry,” Michael said as he surveyed the wreckage. “If you want to say, 'I told you so,' you are certainly entitled.”

  Olivia smiled wryly. “Don't worry. It's only a car.”

  He was surprised. “You're taking this well.”

  “Why shouldn't I? No one was hurt. I assume you have insurance.”

  “Yes.”

  “And other than making me late for work, it isn't a real problem. I'd put it in the category of a messy annoyance.”

  Michael doubted that he would have reacted so philosophically to the destruction of one of his vehicles, but he was glad she wasn't in hysterics. Mary Ellen would have thrown a fit. He said, “Too bad your car wasn't parked in your garage.”

  She nodded. “I know. But I can't lift the door. I've bought an automatic opener, but I haven't taken the time to figure out how to install it.”

  He could understand that. He'd procrastinated getting the tree trimmed. It was difficult to get everything done. “I'll call my insurance company today and have an adjuster come out as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you. I'd appreciate it. I've already taken pictures on my phone and sent them to my insurance company.

  He raised his eyebrows at her efficiency.

  She finished, “I'm sorry to interrupt your breakfast.”

  “No problem.” They stood there, watching each other, not saying anything.

  “Yes, well . . . “ She looked down, breaking eye contact. She brushed her hands on the sides of her skirt. “I'd better go call a taxi or I'll never get to work.”

  “Would you like a ride?” he asked, startling himself with the question. “After all, I owe you something after nearly totaling your car.”

  She hesitated, then smiled. She had a lovely, lit-from-within smile. “Yes, thank you. I'll be ready in about five minutes.”

  Michael smiled, too, surprised by how good he felt. He whistled on the way back to his house.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “This isn't a date,” Olivia told the reflection in her bathroom mirror. “So don't smirk.” But in spite of her good advice, she brushed her teeth twice and sprayed a tiny bit of perfume behind her ears. She debated changing her navy flats for a pair of high heeled pumps, then told herself not to be silly. She was going to work, not out dancing.

  She made certain the cats had food and fresh water in their bowls, then grabbed her purse and was out the door.

  Michael had already carried the tree limb to the curbside. He was sweeping up the broken glass as she locked the back door. Olivia smiled at him. “You didn't need to do that, but thank you.”

  He set the broom aside, then opened the door to his old fashioned pick up truck and bowed with a flourish. “Your carriage awaits, madam.” He frowned.

  “Thank you, kind --” She noticed the frown. “--sir.” What was his problem? She hadn't asked him to drive her to work; he had volunteered. Maybe he'd looked at his watch and was now regretting his charitable gesture. Olivia quickly climbed up into the high cab, trying to keep what was usually a modest slit in her skirt, still modest. It was a good thing she had decided not to wear heels, she thought, or he really would have gotten an eyeful.

  Michael climbed into his side and pulled the door shut. He put his key in the ignition. “Where do you need to go?”

  From Point A to Point B. No social conversation, just the facts. Olivia was amused. He reminded her of her Dad -- a man focused on a task. “My office is just off Forest Lane, between Greenville and Central.”

  He was surprised. “So is mine.”

  “It's a small world.” For a few minutes, it was quiet in the cab as he drove. Olivia glanced at the dashboard and the 1950’s or 1960’s radio, wondering what kind of music he liked. But maybe after the noise at home, he preferred silence in the car. She looked at the floor. Plain black carpet floor mats: neat, stark and surprisingly clean, considering the age of the vehicle. John’s car had always been a mess with a crushed empty fast food cup on the floor and a soccer jersey or two on the back seat.

  She noticed that the truck upholstery was faded and worn, but not torn. The vehicle had either been lovingly taken care of by its original owner, or it was a meticulous remodel.

  She sneaked a glance at her neighbor. He was much taller than John, at least six foot two or three. He wore a blue oxford cloth shirt, cuffs rolled up, no tie, khaki pants, and socks, one gray, one navy blue. The mismatched socks were surprisingly endearing.

  The back of his thick dark hair was still wet from a shower. He had deep set eyes, long eyelashes and a beautiful nose. A nose like Michelangelo's David.

  Olivia settled back in her seat, determined not to waste their time together. “So, what do you do for a living?”

  “I'm an electrical engineer.”

  He didn't elaborate, and he didn't ask her what she did. “I'm a graphic designer,” she volunteered. He nodded, but didn't comment.

  He was a quiet man.

>   “Where are you from?” she asked after another minute.

  “Denver.”

  Another silence.

  If she wanted to get any more information from him, she would have to use a sledgehammer. Olivia looked out the window at the surrounding traffic. According to Mrs. Shuman, who’d heard it from Miss Kate, Michael Claiborne never mentioned the babies’ mother. Miss Kate thought his wife was probably dead. “What if she died in childbirth?” her neighbor had asked in a ghoulish whisper.

  Olivia wondered. No woman would leave five children, so she must be dead. How terrible for Mr. Claiborne. Her heart ached with sympathy for him. She knew something of how he must feel, but she also knew that everyone’s grief was different. There was no set pattern or emotional plan for dealing with death. She stole another glance at him. He was frowning again.

  At least he still had the children to remind him of her.

  #

  Your carriage awaits, madam. Where had that come from? Michael didn't know what was wrong with him today. Olivia was a nice-looking girl, but there was nothing special about her that should turn his brain to mashed potatoes.

  He saw her glance at him. There was a look of concern in her eyes that startled him. What was she thinking? She quickly looked back out her window. “Nice weather we're having,” she said lightly. “The storm cooled everything down.”

  Michael was surprised that she could find something good to say about the storm that had wrecked her car. He supposed he should say something, just to be polite. “It’s still hot to me,” he said. “I’m not used to having temperatures in the 90’s at night.”

  Olivia nodded. “Thank goodness for air conditioning. Sometimes I wonder what it was like to live in Texas a hundred years ago.”

  “Miserable?” Michael suggested.

  Olivia smiled.

  “Were you born in Texas?” he asked after a few minutes.

  “No, I'm from a small town in Pennsylvania, originally. I went to college in New York.”

  “So what brought you to Big D?” He said it with a Texan drawl.

  “A job. What brought you here?”

  “A job.”

  She was quiet, then said, “I miss the snow. The winters here are really wimpy. Occasionally there's an ice storm or half an inch of snow, but it's not the same.”

  “Did you go sledding when you were a kid?”

  She smiled briefly. “All the time. My brothers and sisters and I practically lived outside. My mother swore we were going to lose our fingers and toes from frostbite.”

  He imagined her as a child with red cheeks and two long braids, wearing a hooded snowsuit and boots. “You seem to have survived.”

  She wiggled her fingers. She had long graceful hands with short trimmed nails. “Still all here.”

  “Where do I turn?”

  “North on Greenville.”

  Most women gave directions in left and right instead of compass readings. “So you come from a big family?” he asked.

  “Yes. There were nine of us kids.”

  “That's what I always wanted. I was an only child.”

  She laughed. “And that's what I always wanted. No,” she said in a more serious tone. “I'm joking. I was the oldest and sometimes felt I didn't get all the attention I deserved.” She pointed toward a three-story black glass office building. “There's my office. Turn into the parking lot here.”

  Michael drove the truck into the parking lot and found a parking space. He turned off the engine and reached for his door handle.

  “No, I'll let myself out.” She fumbled with her seat belt. “Thank you for dropping me off.”

  “I'll talk to my insurance agent today,” he said again.

  As she opened the door and started to climb down, the strap of her large purse caught on the door handle, jerking her backwards and spilling the contents of her purse across the seat, the car floor and onto the asphalt below. “Ow!”

  “Are you okay?”

  Olivia rotated her right shoulder gingerly. “I'm fine.” She hastily stuffed items back into her purse.

  Michael had never understood why women needed to carry small suitcases. He reached down to help her. “This just isn't your lucky day,” he joked.

  “I don't believe in luck,” Olivia said as she picked up a single heart-shaped earring from under the passenger seat. “Everyone has good things and bad things happen to them. The challenge is to find happiness in whatever situation you’re in. Not to sit around blaming it all on bad luck.”

  “That's a positive approach.”

  She shoved a comb and what looked like a utility bill into her purse. “Don't think I walk around with rose-colored glasses. I just believe I can choose to be happy.”

  She sounded defensive. He wondered how many times she had been ridiculed for her optimistic outlook. It always sounded more serious and intellectual to be gloomy. “I agree.”

  Her gaze flew to his. “You do?”

  She was like a clear sunny day after months of overcast drizzle. He smiled. “Yes.”

  They both reached for a lipstick at the same time, his hand touched hers briefly, then pulled back. She gathered up the lipstick, a few more papers, and a gift card. “I think that's it.” Her face was pink, as if she were embarrassed by the mess. “Thanks again for the ride.”

  “And thank you for being so understanding about your car.”

  Michael saw her smart phone underneath the seat.

  “Just a minute,” he added as she was shutting the door. “You forgot something.” He reached over to roll down the passenger side window.

  “What?”

  He held up her phone. In the jumble, the on button must have been pushed, so the screen opened up to a website on the internet. For a split second, he saw her last search topic: christian dating service dallas.

  His eyes widened. Why would a girl as lovely as Olivia need a dating service? Guys should be lining up at her front door.

  She took the phone from him and saw what he’d read.

  If he'd thought she was embarrassed before, now he knew it. Her face grew pink. She turned away.

  He wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything funny that might diffuse the tension.

  “Thank you again for the ride,” she said stiffly. She pulled the strap of her purse up higher on her shoulder, walked over to her office building, then disappeared inside the big glass double doors.

  Michael watched her go. He didn't want to like her or to care about her feelings. She would just complicate his life.

  He started up the engine. As far as he was concerned, his young, pretty neighbor now had a label on her forehead. Warning: Hazardous Material. Keep away.

  #

  AUGUST

  Olivia wondered if Michael Claiborne was avoiding her. On three occasions, he came out into his yard, saw her working in hers, then turned around and went back inside his house.

  The first and second time, she told herself he had probably forgotten something. But the third time?

  Well, live and let live. The man was obviously busy, and if he didn’t want to be friendly, there was little she could do about it. Today she was going to wash her car. She’d scrub her blues away. As she carried out the buckets and brush, she saw her neighbor in his backyard. He rolled a big army green tarp out on the grass.

  She wondered if he’d retreat back into his house, but told herself not to worry about it.

  She screwed the spray nozzle on the end of her garden hose, then went back into the house to get the detergent.

  When she came back outside, he was gone. Just as she had expected. Olivia hosed down her car and started scrubbing the back bumper. When she reached the back tires, she heard her neighbor come outside again. He carried an armful of one inch diameter aluminum poles.

  To her surprise, he walked over to the picket fence to talk to her. “It's looking good,” he said and smiled.

  He actually smiled at her. Olivia was too startled at first to speak. She strai
ghtened up, the sponge in her hand dripping soapy water all over her sneakers. Finally she found her tongue. “It's amazing what a little soap and water will do.”

  “I was referring to the windshield and the hood.”

  Of course. What did she think he was referring to? “Oh. Yes. It's as good as new. Thank you again for taking care of it so quickly.”

  “And did you notice - the tree has been trimmed, too.”

  “Yes, I saw that. Thank you.”

  For a few seconds they stood there, smiling at each other. Then he said, “Well, back to work,” and turned away.

  Olivia didn't want him to go. “What are you working on?”

  He glanced over at her. “It’s a stockade for babies. It's a big portable play pen, about twelve feet in diameter.” He started sliding the aluminum poles through nylon casings.

  “What an ingenious contraption. Where did you get it?”

  “I made it.”

  At this, Olivia abandoned her soap and water and walked over to the fence. “What? Like with a sewing machine?”

  “Uh huh.” In between the support poles were yards of heavy white nylon webbing.

  “What gave you the idea?”

  “One day I was thinking I could use a stockade so the kids could crawl around outside safely, without eating grass and rocks, and I got the idea.” He sat back on his heels. “When I was a kid, my Dad and I made a tent, so I thought, 'Why not try this?'“

  Olivia watched as Michael hammered plastic tent stakes into the ground to hold the floor of the stockade steady, then started setting up the sides. From what she could see, it looked like an above ground swimming pool, but with soft mesh sides that the children could see through. He worked methodically, patiently, obviously enjoying the process. She said, “I’m impressed.”

  He shrugged. “I like to build things. It's a good way to relax.” He motioned to the wooden play gym in his backyard. “I built that, too, before the kids were born.”

  “Wow.”

  “Thanks. Mary Ellen thought I was crazy, but --” he stopped suddenly and frowned as if he had said more than he wanted to.

  So his wife's name was Mary Ellen. Olivia didn't want their discussion to end so abruptly. Not when they were finally getting to know each other. She scrambled to get the conversation back on safer ground. “I think the stockade is a great idea,” she said cheerfully. “Have you considered marketing it?”