Trusting Him. Brenda Minton
like for you to start work on Monday,” his dad said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Why in the world do you want to live in this place?”
The conversation had been overdue. Michael knew his parents would want answers. Being a lawyer was out of the question. As a felon he could work as a paralegal for his dad’s law office, but he would never be a lawyer. His job and his trust fund would pay the bills. Working at the church filled another need, one his parents wouldn’t understand.
“This place sort of suits me. It’s quiet out here, and this is a good starting place. I can be alone, spend time thinking about the future.” Michael glanced around the sunny yellow kitchen with the avocado-green appliances.
“You could do all of that in town, in a nice apartment,” his mother offered. He loved her optimism, her willingness to just sweep his past under a big rug.
His dad was more of a “this is just a bump in the road” sort of guy.
“I don’t want the noise of an apartment in the city, or the crowds. Maybe later.”
“Well, I do think you should call Katherine. Her mom said she was hurt that you never wrote. Michael, the two of you dated for three years. I think you owe her something.”
Michael’s mouth dropped and an explanation nearly escaped, one that couldn’t escape. His mother didn’t need to know, not yet. Katherine had been there during his meth years and she had been a part of that world. He hadn’t answered her letters and he didn’t plan on letting her in his life now.
His mom wouldn’t understand. She would never understand that—what it meant to be an addict. To stay clean, he needed to stay clear of temptation. The phone rang. Michael shot his parents an apologetic look as he went to answer it.
He hadn’t expected it so soon, but the caller identified himself as a probation officer. Michael would need to set up an appointment, and he would need to get in touch with his sponsor at Narcotics Anonymous.
Reality hit home as he wrote the addresses and numbers on a piece of paper. He had a lot to prove to a lot of people, and he had no intention of letting any of them down. If he let them down, he’d be letting himself down.
Thursday morning the door to Maggie’s office opened as she lifted a cookie to her mouth. She dropped it on the desk and brushed crumbs from her chin as Michael Carson walked in, hesitating just inside the door. He looked unsure, slightly wary and sweet. She hadn’t expected that the tough guy, with the perpetual five o’clock shadow and hazel eyes that challenged, had a sweet side.
“I didn’t expect you so soon.”
He lifted a box of doughnuts and smiled. If he wanted friendship, that was a good first step.
“The receptionist told me where to find you.” He took another step into the room. “I brought doughnuts.”
“That sounds good.”
He offered the gesture, placing the box in front of her on the desk. At close range she could see that his hair was still damp and curled against his collar. The smell of soap and aftershave lingered even after he moved away.
Maggie took a doughnut from the box.
“I wish I could offer you a good cup of coffee to go with them, but Pastor Banks beat me here this morning. His is barely drinkable.”
And then more silence. What did she say after that? She motioned to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. He took the offer and sat.
“Have you enjoyed your first few days at home?” She grimaced as the words slipped out. Too bad there wasn’t an etiquette book on right things to say in tough situations. “I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.”
His gaze connected with hers and one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “I survived. And don’t tiptoe around, trying to say the right things. I’m a big boy.”
“Good, because I’m notorious for saying the wrong thing.”
“I’d rather you be honest, Maggie. And if you have questions, I’ll try to answer them.”
“Honesty is always good.”
“Fine, since we agree on that, I’d like to ask you a question.” He dusted powdered sugar off his hands before looking up, his smile having disappeared. “Do you mind having an ex-con here? Do I frighten you?”
Mouthful of doughnut, and total shock—not a good combination.
Did she mind? Was she frightened? She stared at him, trying to find the right answer, an answer that would have told him too much. She had been frightened before. As a child, listening to her mother partying with friends, and on a cool night in September, the night Greg drove her to the lake. Here, in this room with Michael, no, she wasn’t frightened.
His gaze remained unwavering, hazel-green pools in a face with defined features, but that hard edge that said he had lived through something difficult.
“I’m not afraid of you.” Because of his eyes. The mirror of the soul. And his were kind, belying the hardness of his features. “There might be times when I mind that you’re here, but that’s because it took me by surprise that you would want to work here.”
Another half smile. “That’s definitely honest.”
“You said…”
“I meant it. And thank you for the supplies you left behind. That first morning it was nice to wake up and find that you’d thought of the important stuff.”
“The coffee was good?” Coffee, a subject she could deal with.
“Yes, and the toaster pastries.” He looked away and she wondered what else had gone on in the last few days. “How did you guess?”
“About the pastries?” She shrugged and then smiled. “I didn’t. Pastor Banks told me that you had mentioned missing Pop-Tarts. I thought it was a little strange, but hey, who am I to judge?”
“Yes, I guess it was a strange thing, but when you have four years to think about what you really miss, you can think of a lot. I’ve spent the last three days eating at every fast-food joint in town.”
Too much, too soon. Maggie searched for a more neutral topic.
“How is your family?”
“We’ve had a good reunion. Mom even cooked.”
“Sounds like a good homecoming.”
His brows shot up at her comment and he half smiled. Okay, maybe not so great. Maybe he was just giving her the niceties, the details that would keep them on level footing as casual acquaintances. She was good with that.
“I can’t undo what happened.” He glanced toward the window as he made the statement that brought her front and center into his life. “My mom is always going to be afraid that I’ll fall again. Dad is always going to think that life can go right back to the way it was.”
“It might take time.” She knew all about regret. She knew how it felt to live with choices she couldn’t undo. Time would bring healing. Or so the saying went.
It was true, but she didn’t think it would make him feel any better to hear those words now, not yet. He was a grown man and he’d figure it out on his own.
“This morning my mom called. She wanted to know where I’d be today and what I’d be doing. I’m almost twenty-eight years old and I’m still giving an account for every minute of my day.”
“I’m sorry.” Another platitude that wouldn’t do him any good. The words had to mean something, or they were just words. Sorry. She thought it should be a verb, something a person put into action.
Her father had apologized to her mother twenty-seven years ago. He had followed the apology with the words that he didn’t want to be a dad. He had other plans. Sorry.
Her mother had