The Forgiving Hour (18 page)

Now, over four years later, he still didn’t have that fancy stereo system he’d once wanted. He continued to do things for others instead of for himself.

She glanced across the room. Her son was kneeling on the floor, transferring folded clothes from a box into drawers built into the wall. She wondered what she’d done to deserve a child like him. She’d certainly made countless mistakes in her role as mother. But despite them, Dakota had grown into an incredible young man. Loving and honest and selfless. A man of integrity and honor.

Completely unlike his father.

The thought caused her eyes to narrow as she pressed her lips into an unhappy line. Only last week, Alana Moncur had told Claire she needed to get over her ex-husband.

“There are more good men in the world like Jack and Dakota than bad apples like Dave,” she’d said. “You’ve made a fine art out of male-bashing, Claire Conway, and you know it. Some marriages don’t work out. So get over it and get on with your life. It’s been eight years, for crying out loud.”

She knew her friend was right, but knowing and doing were two different things. Her feelings toward Dave were like an old pair of jeans — frayed around the edges but familiar and hard to throw out.

What am I going to do with myself now that Dakota’s gone from home?

An empty life lay before her like a deserted stretch of highway across the plains of Wyoming.

Sara doubled over at the waist, allowing her long mane of hair to almost touch the ground. Then she captured it into a ponytail high on her head. As she straightened, she told her tennis partner, “Let’s cream ‘em.”

Vince Lewis grinned wickedly. “You got it.”

Every Saturday morning, Sara and Vince met Joyce and Chuck Carruthers at the tennis club for a friendly, if heated, match. The four of them enjoyed the good-natured competition as well as the exercise; their games were filled with plenty of laughter and teasing.

But they all liked to win, and no one more than Sara. Last week, she and Vince had lost to the married couple. She didn’t want a repeat this week.

She got her wish. She and Vince were in fine form, playing flawlessly throughout the match. It was one of their easiest wins since they’d paired up four months before.

After the game, Sara showered in the locker room, then met Vince in the lounge area of the club.

He kissed her lightly on the lips before asking, “Where for lunch today?”

She named her favorite bistro in a little out-of-the-way place north of Denver.

“Sounds good to me.” He took hold of her arm. “I’m starving.”

“Me too.”

She smiled, thinking how happy she was. She liked Vince a lot, and she wondered if their relationship would deepen and grow. She thought it might. They seemed perfect for each other. The two of them had met when he had come to install a new computer system in Sara’s department at work, and he’d asked her out before the installation was complete.

The best part of their relationship was discovering how many things they had in common. His folks had a ranch near Cheyenne, and he’d grown up riding horses. They both liked the outdoors, playing tennis, and going for long walks. Each enjoyed reading, although Sara’s taste ran to romances and Vince’s to thrillers. Their favorite date was a movie and a late dinner, then talking into the wee hours of the night while drinking cup after cup of decaffeinated coffee. And while Vince would have obviously liked their relationship to move in a more physically intimate direction, he hadn’t pressed when Sara made it clear she wasn’t ready for the same.

With the wind from the open window causing her damp ponytail to flap against her shoulders, Sara turned toward Vince. “My folks want me to come home for a visit next month. Eli’s baby is going to be christened on the tenth. They said you’re welcome to come too. Interested?”

“If I could swing the time off work, I would be.” He glanced quickly in her direction, then back at the road. “You think I’m up to meeting your folks, your brothers and their wives, and all those nieces and nephews?”

“I think you could handle it.”

“I guess I could.”

They continued the drive in silence, Sara’s thoughts drifting to her family.

All her brothers were married now, and each had given their parents at least one grandchild. Josh and Fiona had celebrated their fourth wedding anniversary in March. Their son, Ron, had turned three the same month. Their daughter, Theresa, would be a year old in July. And the couple thought Fiona might be pregnant again, although it was still a bit early to know for certain. Tim and Darlene had been married over three years now. Their daughter, Becca, was a year old, and Darlene was expecting twins in October. Eli had married Myrna two years ago come August. Their first child, Randy, had arrived last month.

Surreptitiously, Sara glanced once again toward Vince. She wondered if he wanted children. They’d never talked about that, she supposed, because they’d never talked about marriage either. For some reason, they’d both avoided broaching those subjects. Now she wondered why.

Would she want this man to be the father of her children? She thought she might. She would if she fell in love with him.
Was
she falling in love?

She wished she knew for sure. She wished she trusted herself to know.

Funny how life worked. She’d gotten over Dave Porter years ago. That Christmas Eve day when she’d parked in front of his old house, she’d let go of the heartache. But there was one residual of that disastrous affair that remained unchanged. It wasn’t that she couldn’t trust men — it was that she couldn’t trust her own emotional response to them. She’d had several boyfriends in the past four years. She’d even received a proposal of marriage from one of them. But she hadn’t been able to accept. She hadn’t known for certain if she loved him or not.

“God has the right man in mind for you, honey,” her mother had told her a few weeks ago.

Well, if
He
knew who the right man was, it would be nice if He’d let
her
know. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t asked. It wasn’t as if she weren’t trying to hear God’s voice. In fact, in recent months she’d felt an ever-increasing desire to understand more about spiritual things, a yearning to know what God wanted for her and from her.

Her mother had assured her that those who sought the truth would find it. “It isn’t about religion, Sara, or what church you go to. It’s about a personal relationship with God.”

She wasn’t sure she understood what her mother had meant, but she was trying.

Vince pulled into the parking lot next to the Rocky Mountain Bistro, bringing Sara’s attention back to the present. He steered his restored 1968 baby blue Mustang into the last space at the back, far from any opening doors that might scratch the paint job or put a dent in the side of his beloved automobile.

“I think I’m in the mood for some of their world-famous meatloaf and hand-mashed potatoes with gravy,” he told Sara. “How about you?”

She laughed, her more serious thoughts evaporating for the moment. “The health nuts at the club would faint dead away if they heard you.” She reached for the door. “And meatloaf and mashed potatoes sound good to me. Down with vegetarians!”

NINETEEN

John leaned over on his right hip and stared at the sofa cushion. “Hey, Dakota. You’ve either got a spring about to pop through or there’s a gremlin living in this thing.”

“Very funny.” Dakota handed his friend a mug of strong, black coffee. “What do you expect for fifteen bucks? Besides, didn’t you notice that it’s the same olive green as the shag carpet and the drapes? That means my apartment is color coordinated. That’s real uptown, man.”

“Hurray for you.”

Dakota grinned as he sat on the floor, stretching his legs out before him, his back against the wall. Michael W. Smith’s “I Will Be Here for You” played on the boom box, the volume turned low.

“So, how’s your mom doing with this move of yours?” John asked, all joking aside.

“It hasn’t been easy.” He shook his head. “I’ve always come first with her, especially after it was just the two of us. I think she’s feeling at loose ends. Not knowing what to do with herself.”

“Too bad she won’t start coming to church with you. From what I hear, Sunrise has got a great singles group for people her age. She’d probably enjoy the fellowship if she’d give it a try.”

“Yeah, but she won’t go. I’ve told her about it. Not for her, she says.”

“Keep praying for her. It’ll happen one day.”

He nodded. He believed God never failed to answer prayers. It was simply hard to wait sometimes.

Unlike a lot of other kids, Dakota and his mom had remained close, even during the toughest of his teen years, even when he’d been so angry with the world at large and his dad in particular. He loved his mother. One of his greatest desires was to be able to share this most important part of his life with her. They’d always been able to talk about anything. But she didn’t let him talk to her about God. She cut him off whenever he tried.

The jangle of the telephone interrupted his contemplation. He went to answer it, figuring it must be his mom calling. She knew he was always up early on a Sunday morning. And she was the only other person who knew his phone number besides John.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Dakota Conway?” The female voice on the other end of the line was faint and unfamiliar.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t know me, but I … I’m calling about your father.”

“My father?” He frowned. “Who is this?”

“My name is Wanda. Wanda Porter.”

“Porter?”

“Yes. I … I’m Dave Porter’s wife.” She paused a moment, then said, “I’m his widow. He passed away Thursday evening.”

Michael W. Smith crooned something about love carrying him away.

John got up from the lumpy sofa, a look of concern on his face.

The beige walls of the small apartment seemed to close in around Dakota. The air was too still, too stuffy.

Images of his dad flashed through his mind, distant and fuzzy. His dad teaching him how to fish. His dad dropping his leather tool belt beside the washer and dryer. His dad driving off to work in his pickup. His dad fighting with his mom.

“I do have the right person, don’t I?” the woman asked. “You were born Michael Dakota Porter. Correct? And your dad called you Mikey?”

Not for a long time. Not for eight years.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“How?” he asked, his voice gruff. “How did he die?”

“Cancer. But it took him very suddenly.” There was a lengthy pause. When she continued, her voice was soft and full of sorrow. “Just a few weeks was all he had after they discovered it.”

“I’m sorry.” His words seemed inadequate, but he couldn’t think what else to say.

“The funeral is tomorrow afternoon.”

“Where?”

“We live in Salt Lake.”

Salt Lake City. Seven hours away. His dad had been as close as that.

“I … I just thought you should know,” she continued, her voice cracking.

“Yeah. Yeah, I appreciate it.” Was that a lie or not? He couldn’t be sure.

“Dakota? Your father talked about you a lot toward the end. He was … sorry. Sorry for many things. He would have told you if he could. I … I thought … I hoped you might come to the funeral.”

Old feelings of resentment welled in his chest, burned his throat, and stung his eyes. Instinctively, he wanted to strike out at something, hurt something. He wanted to shout at the faceless woman on the other end of the line. Shout and tell her he couldn’t care less what she hoped.

John’s hand on his shoulder stopped him from doing it.

Yeah, Lord, I know. We’ve been over that be-angry-and-don’t-sin lesson before. But it’s not easy.

“Listen,” he managed to say at last, “can I take your number and call you back this afternoon? I need to think about this a bit.”

“Of course.” She gave him her phone number, adding, “Please do call me back.”

“Yeah. I will.” He hung up.

John’s fingers tightened on Dakota’s shoulder. “Your father died?”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“So what’re you feeling?”

“I don’t know. Anger mostly, but I’m not sure what I’m the most angry about.” That his dad hadn’t bothered to contact him in eight years. That he hadn’t known where his dad was living. That his dad had married again, maybe even had other kids, kids he’d actually loved.

“You going to tell your mother?”

Dakota closed his eyes. “I don’t know. That woman. His widow. She wants me to come to the funeral in Salt Lake. It’s tomorrow.”

“Are you going?”

“I don’t know that either.”

God, what am I supposed to do?