A Wife Worth Waiting For

“Common,” Bolton corrected lightly.

“Common,” Trent repeated. “Like my mom.”

Bolton stopped and looked down at the boy. “I’m not sure I follow that.”

Trent narrowed his eyes. “Well, you like her, don’t you?”

Bolton considered an evasion, then thought better of it. “Yes,” he finally said, “very much.”

“Well, he liked her, too, didn’t he? I mean, they got married and all.”

“I see your point,” Bolton muttered, starting the trek toward the car again. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next, and he wasn’t wrong.

“Do you like her that much?”

He took it in stride. “Enough to marry her, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know, Trent. I haven’t had much opportunity to find out. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s avoiding me.”

“Yeah. Why is she?”

“I don’t know, pal. Maybe she just doesn’t like me as much as I like her.”

“Aw, that’s not it,” Trent insisted. “You know what it is? I think you just make her shy.”

Bolton smiled. “You could be right about that. What do you think I ought to do about it?”

“I don’t know. Whatever my father did, I guess.”

Bolton let his hand fall upon the boy’s shoulder. “Now that, my friend, is good advice.”

They walked on in silence for a few moments, then Trent asked, “Do you say good advice, Bolt?”

“Sometimes I do.”

“Well, that’s something else we got in common, huh?”

Bolton laughed and put his hand in his pocket for his keys. “And that’s not the end of it, I’m sure.”

Trent nodded, serious as a judge. “That’s what I figure, too.”

Bolton wanted to hug him, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he unlocked the car door and opened it for him. Trent scrambled in and went to work on the seat belt. He liked to do it for himself even though it was a particularly difficult restraint system, so Bolton resisted the urge to help him. He had the car started before the belt was secured, but at last the buckle clicked into place, and Bolton put the car in gear.

Trent was quiet on the ride across town, and he’d given Bolton plenty to think about, so conversation was kept to a minimum. Bolton could feel the boy worrying something around in his head, though, so he wasn’t surprised when, just as they turned into the Revere estate drive, he piped up again.

“Bolt,” he said gravely, “I don’t remember my dad.”

Apparently it was some kind of momentous confession, so Bolton considered carefully before he replied. He brought the car around in front of the house and parked, then turned to face the boy. “I know what you mean, Trent. Forgetting is a pretty normal reaction to death. My wife died a couple of years ago, and sometimes I get sort of sad because I can’t remember some little thing about her, like what size shoe she wore or if she liked a certain movie.”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember my dad at all,” Trent said, “and Grandpa keeps saying how I shouldn’t ever forget him. It makes me feel bad.”

“Well, you shouldn’t feel bad, Trent. You were only—what?—three when he died? No one could reasonably expect you to remember him. What your grandfather really wants is for you to remember who your father was and that he loved you and that he would love you today, too, if he could.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

The boy seemed to digest that, but those eyes were just slits and his bottom lip was well chewed when he looked up again. “You think my dad would mind that I like you so much?” he asked softly.

They had arrived, at last, at the very heart of the problem. Bolton put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Maybe, if he was here. Dads like to be their sons’ best friends, you know. On the other hand, I think that if he’d have known he wasn’t going to be here with you, he’d have wanted you to have a friend like me. I know this for certain, Trent. You shouldn’t feel disloyal to your father’s memory just because you like me.” And neither should your mother, he added mentally.

Trenton nodded his understanding, and those green, green eyes were wide open now. A movement at the edge of his vision caught Bolton’s attention, and he turned his head in that direction. The door was open, and Clarice stood framed in it.

“Time to go in,” he said.

They got out of the car and walked side by side to the door.

“I thought I heard someone out here,” Clarice said brightly. She bent to drop a kiss on the top of her son’s head. “Have a good time?”

“Sure.”

“Great. Well, thank you, Bolton. We don’t want to keep you.”

He ignored that obvious invitation to leave and rubbed a circle on Trent’s back. “Why don’t you go on in now, pal? I want to talk to your mom.”

“Okay. See ya’, Bolt.”

“Friday, three-thirty,” Bolton confirmed.

With a nod, Trent went inside and closed the door. That was one smart kid. Bolton put a foot up on the doorstep and looked down at Clarice. She was drawn up tight as a bow string. He smiled.

“Your son and I had an interesting conversation today.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm-hmm. Among other things, we talked about his father.”

That had her slack-jawed. “You’re kidding! Trenton never talks about his father.”

“He did today.”

“But why with you? Why not with me?”

Bolton pursed his lips. “Maybe he sensed I wouldn’t be upset by his choice of topic.”

“And I would,” she said bitterly, taking the thought to its logical conclusion. “I have made so many mistakes with that child.”