with Slater there.
“I know.” His eyes were taking in the youth-softened yet strongly chiseled lines of the boy’s features, the trace of blue in his gray eyes, and the mop of dark hair that rebelled against any orderly style. “What’s your name?” He picked up the two glasses, but withheld giving one to the boy.
“Randy,” he mumbled, trying but not quite meeting Slater’s look.
“Your full name,” Slater prompted and offered one of the glasses.
There was a moment of indecision before theboy answered. “Randy MacBride Lord.” Then he looked up to watch Slater’s reaction, wary and defensive.
The answer confirmed what Slater had doubted all along. The sudden burden of it removed all emotion from him, wiping him clean like a blackboard.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked with a lack of expression that bordered on a deceptive nonchalance.
Again, he was subjected to a measuring study by the boy before Randy affirmed his knowledge with a slow nod of his head. It was followed by an equally hesitant—“You’re Slater MacBride”—as if Randy didn’t want to admit how much he knew.
“I met your mother today,” Slater said.
“I know,” Randy said, then explained, “I saw your car parked in the driveway behind hers when I rode by the house on my bike. Did she—” he faltered, lowering his gaze to nervously study the handlebars of his bike, “—did she . . . tell you about me?”
“Yes.” Slater released a bitter, laughing breath that held no humor. “It seems I’m the last one to know.” He noticed the moisture gathering in Randy’s eyes and his desperate attempt to hide the tears. It tugged at something in his heart. A new gentleness entered his voice when Slater spoke again. “I think it’s time you and I talked about a few things.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a hopeful tremor in Randy’s voice.
“Why don’t you lock up your bike in that rackstand over there?” Slater nodded to one positioned at the corner. “Then we’ll go walk somewhere and find a place to drink our limeade.”
“Okay.” Randy pushed his bike toward the stand with a betraying eagerness.
Chapter Four
Her shoulder-length red hair was tied atop her head in a short ponytail to keep the hot weight of it off her neck while she helped her mother fix the evening meal. Dawn dabbed at the perspiration beading in the hollow of her throat from the heat of the stove. She poked a fork into the potatoes to test whether they were done. It broke into pieces at the touch of the fork tines. She turned off the burner beneath the pan.
“The potatoes are almost mush,” she announced to her mother and turned. “Any sign of Randy yet?”
Her mother peered out the window above the sink where she was tearing lettuce leaves to make a salad. “I don’t see him. Maybe he’s in the garage with your father.”
“I’ll see.” Dawn moved away from the stove and walked to the screen door.
Outside, she made a quick scan of the backyard, looking for Randy’s bike. There were hammering sounds coming from the garage and Dawn headed toward the raised door. The garage was so crowded with pieces of wood, slabs ofcypress trunks, and objects in various stages of completion that there wasn’t any room for a car.
Without attempting to work her way through the obstacle course of nails, sawdust, and the lumber-strewn floor, Dawn paused inside the opening and called to her father, raising her voice to make herself heard above the racket of his hammering. “Hey, Pop!”
He straightened from his workbench and turned, taking a mouthful of nails from his mouth. “Time for supper?” he guessed.
“Yes. But I’m looking for Randy. Has he come home yet?” she frowned.
“Haven’t seen him all afternoon,” he said with a shake of his head, then laid his tools on the counter and turned to walk through the maze on a path only he could discern. “I’m going to get all this cleaned up someday. Problem is, I’ve run out of friends to
“I know.” His eyes were taking in the youth-softened yet strongly chiseled lines of the boy’s features, the trace of blue in his gray eyes, and the mop of dark hair that rebelled against any orderly style. “What’s your name?” He picked up the two glasses, but withheld giving one to the boy.
“Randy,” he mumbled, trying but not quite meeting Slater’s look.
“Your full name,” Slater prompted and offered one of the glasses.
There was a moment of indecision before theboy answered. “Randy MacBride Lord.” Then he looked up to watch Slater’s reaction, wary and defensive.
The answer confirmed what Slater had doubted all along. The sudden burden of it removed all emotion from him, wiping him clean like a blackboard.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked with a lack of expression that bordered on a deceptive nonchalance.
Again, he was subjected to a measuring study by the boy before Randy affirmed his knowledge with a slow nod of his head. It was followed by an equally hesitant—“You’re Slater MacBride”—as if Randy didn’t want to admit how much he knew.
“I met your mother today,” Slater said.
“I know,” Randy said, then explained, “I saw your car parked in the driveway behind hers when I rode by the house on my bike. Did she—” he faltered, lowering his gaze to nervously study the handlebars of his bike, “—did she . . . tell you about me?”
“Yes.” Slater released a bitter, laughing breath that held no humor. “It seems I’m the last one to know.” He noticed the moisture gathering in Randy’s eyes and his desperate attempt to hide the tears. It tugged at something in his heart. A new gentleness entered his voice when Slater spoke again. “I think it’s time you and I talked about a few things.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a hopeful tremor in Randy’s voice.
“Why don’t you lock up your bike in that rackstand over there?” Slater nodded to one positioned at the corner. “Then we’ll go walk somewhere and find a place to drink our limeade.”
“Okay.” Randy pushed his bike toward the stand with a betraying eagerness.
Chapter Four
Her shoulder-length red hair was tied atop her head in a short ponytail to keep the hot weight of it off her neck while she helped her mother fix the evening meal. Dawn dabbed at the perspiration beading in the hollow of her throat from the heat of the stove. She poked a fork into the potatoes to test whether they were done. It broke into pieces at the touch of the fork tines. She turned off the burner beneath the pan.
“The potatoes are almost mush,” she announced to her mother and turned. “Any sign of Randy yet?”
Her mother peered out the window above the sink where she was tearing lettuce leaves to make a salad. “I don’t see him. Maybe he’s in the garage with your father.”
“I’ll see.” Dawn moved away from the stove and walked to the screen door.
Outside, she made a quick scan of the backyard, looking for Randy’s bike. There were hammering sounds coming from the garage and Dawn headed toward the raised door. The garage was so crowded with pieces of wood, slabs ofcypress trunks, and objects in various stages of completion that there wasn’t any room for a car.
Without attempting to work her way through the obstacle course of nails, sawdust, and the lumber-strewn floor, Dawn paused inside the opening and called to her father, raising her voice to make herself heard above the racket of his hammering. “Hey, Pop!”
He straightened from his workbench and turned, taking a mouthful of nails from his mouth. “Time for supper?” he guessed.
“Yes. But I’m looking for Randy. Has he come home yet?” she frowned.
“Haven’t seen him all afternoon,” he said with a shake of his head, then laid his tools on the counter and turned to walk through the maze on a path only he could discern. “I’m going to get all this cleaned up someday. Problem is, I’ve run out of friends to
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