Potter Springs (4 page)

Amanda didn’t see how, but she believed him anyway.

Inside the overcrowded French café, fresh-baked quiches lay behind sparkling glass and rotisserie chickens spun like headless
dancers on steel rods. Amanda spotted Katy Thompson seated at a corner table, cozied up to the riverstone fireplace, partially
secluded by a palm. Mother insisted on the best tables. She’d been known to move three times in one dining experience.

“Morning.” Essence of rose swept over Amanda as she kissed her mother’s cheek. The familiar smell she’d known forever. The
scent of perfection.One she’d never quite been able to mimic. As a girl, she’d doused herself from the heavy bottle on Katy’s
vanity, but it wasn’t the same. On Amanda, the fragrance had become loud and clumsy and she’d taken a steamy bath with deodorant
soap to hide the embarrassment.

If Mother noticed her daughter’s theft, she never said so. But a week later, Amanda found a pretty gift set on her own bathroom
counter, full of beautiful soaps and a small vial of fresh scent. When Amanda tried it, it suited her.

She still had one of the soaps tucked in a drawer somewhere, knowing even as a child not to waste it all.

At the brunch, Katy dressed in fabulous shades of taupe and burgundy red, which offset her golden highlights. An unobtainable
high-end form of panty hose, known only to Junior League presidents and sometimes favorite underlings, encased her slim ankles.

“Amanda.” After air-kissing her daughter’s cheek, Katy Thompson gave her a cool once-over, then sat down and stirred coffee.
Not cappuccino, but the blackest roast with the heaviest cream.

A dark-haired waiter, wearing an oxford shirt under a white apron, brought a breadbasket with muffins and biscuits. He took
their order and gave Amanda a warm look, more personal than customer service required.

I’m pregnant and the waiter’s flirting with me. He’s ogling a mommy, and doesn’t even know it.

She smiled impersonally into his Tabasco-print tie and grabbed the biggest muffin. She was starving, and the dense carbs might
help settle her stomach.

While they waited for their food, Katy released a slender cigarette from a metallic case. “So, how’s your preacher friend?
Mark, isn’t it?”

Preacher friend.
Somehow the woman spoke condescendingly of both Mark’s chosen profession and his relationship with her daughter in two callous
words. Highly irritating.

Amanda forced a smile, marveling how her mother could smoke a cigarette and look like a 1940s silver-screen diva. Her own
attempts at the habit in high school, practiced in front of a mirror, had made her look more like trailer trash.

“Mark’s great. And you know his name.” Amanda spun the slim ring on her finger, left hand hidden under the heavy tablecloth.
She nibbled her muffin and watched her mother smoke.

The silence seemed heavier in a room filled with chatterers. Katy’s complacency reminded Amanda of an old Western, the proud
and beautiful Indian chief high on a horse.

An impasse,
she thought.
We are at an impasse.

Careful not to let the stuck-together ice slap back in her face and soak her shirt, Amanda wet her mouth with the chilled
water. “Actually, that’s part of the reason I wanted to have breakfast this morning. To talk about Mark. And me,” she clarified,
clearing her throat. “Mark and me.”

“And here I thought you wanted a pleasant brunch with your lonely, old mother sheerly for the sake of my company.”

Amanda let that slip by. “He’s really wonderful.” She hated that she had to promote Mark, to soft sell him to anyone. Mark
was better than wonderful-he was glorious, tender and brilliant. If Katy Thompson couldn’t admit that, this might be the quickest
brunch in history. “You just need to get to know him.”

Katy blinked curled eyelashes, singly defined with jet-black mascara. No comment.

“We’ve been spending a lot of time together,” Amanda added. “I want you to like him, Mother. I need you to accept him. For
me.” She fought the urge to plead, hating that sound in her voice. The mama-won’t-you-approve-of-me whine that accompanied
every boyfriend, every dress she ever picked out, every new job or life choice.

Amanda pressed on. “He’s the one.”

“The one?” Katy’s brows shot up. “How could you possibly know if he’s the one? You’ve been dating for less than a year.” She
ground out her cigarette for emphasis and removed another from the case, snapping the lid shut.

Chain-smoking. Not a good sign.

“Now, if you would date other men-it’s not like I don’t
care
for Mark-but more
professional
men like I’ve introduced you to, maybe you would have some frame of
reference.
Instead of limiting yourself.” Katy shook her head at the pity of it all. “So exclusive.”

“Is it the exclusivity that bothers you? Or the fact Mark doesn’t take home six figures?”

“Don’t use that tone with me.”

“Mother, I don’t need a frame of reference. I know. We love each other.”

“Well, of course he loves you, Amanda. You are beautiful, gifted, smart and
young.
Far too young to tie yourself to a preacher who will never be able to support you in the way you are accustomed. Trust me.”
Katy took a deep drag, the thin burn line pulling halfway down the cigarette. The tower of ashes, a miniature Pisa, held on,
leaning, before she flicked it in the marble ashtray. The tower didn’t disintegrate but fell, broken in two, atop the other
ashes.

“Mother.” Amanda twisted the linen napkin in her lap, making a storkish-looking bird shape. “I love him,” she repeated. She
met her mother’s gaze. “We’re getting married.”

Through the elegant swirls of smoke, Katy Thompson’s deep blue eyes widened, then narrowed.

Amanda brought forward her hand to reveal the ring. The marquise tilted to the side and slid upside down. She balanced it
so the diamond would show.

Katy squinted at the ring as if to assess the quality of the stone, then leaned back and brought the dying cigarette to her
matte red mouth. “It doesn’t fit.”

“We have to take it in.”

“He didn’t know your size? Nice.” Katy ran a buffed fingernail over her lips, examining her daughter.

Amanda felt like a one-celled microorganism under her stare, with no supporting skeletal structure.

“Are you pregnant?” Katy’s voice broke the quiet. Almost a whisper, but piercing.

“Yes.” Amanda hooded her eyes and fiddled with her fork.

“On purpose?”

“Mother!”

“I know how much you want to have a family. It’s what you’ve always wanted since you were a little girl with your dolls.”

The ones you wouldn’t let me play with, high on the shelf, too precious for my awkward hands.

“No, not on purpose. But I’m not sorry.” Amanda lifted her chin. “I’m ready for a family, with Mark. To make a life together,
build a marriage.”
Not like yours
went unsaid.

“I understand about the baby. It happens.” Katy sniffed. “To the best of us.”

The Thompsons’ shotgun wedding still sent kicks through the family, aftershocks Amanda felt on nearly every birthday. Ben
Thompson, a redneck pilot from nowhere, landed a society bird dripping in oil money. Opposites attracting, but not sticking.
Loosely jointed for two and a half decades, always on the verge of collapse.

Amanda had asked her father once when he knew for certain he loved her mother. “Why, I guess when her daddy left her all that
money,” he drawled, then popped the tab on his beer. The worst part was she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. The idea
of being locked in a marriage like her parents’ kept Amanda awake some nights.

Which is why she knew Mark was perfect for her. She made him laugh and he loved her for it, flaws and all. He didn’t hide
out in the garage, like her father, but reveled in all the world had to offer. Effortlessly gliding through the social channels
with the skill of a chameleon. Everyone loved him, so how could she not? Goldenboy.

Besides, Mark and Amanda had
it.
Whatever it was, that intangible thing, a gut-level connection. They didn’t seem to struggle as much as other couples, but
had an almost rhythmic, unspoken communication.

They faced their first real hurdle with this early pregnancy, and Amanda could admit, it was a doozy. Still, she thought they
both handled it rather well.

Katy sighed, and sat silent for a moment. “So, it’s a done deal then.”

“Yes.” Amanda refused to slump or cry under the weight of her mother’s resignation. It blanketed her, but she would not wrestle
against it, knowing it would only tangle her further.

She looked at her mother, and kept her expression clear.
I will not cry. I will not fall apart in this snooty uptown restaurant with unbelievably delicious quiche. I wonder if I could
get another slice to go?

“I never wanted you to repeat my mistakes.” Katy’s voice could barely be heard.

“It’s not a mistake. I know what I’m doing.” Amanda watched the headless chickens spin, oil shining on their flanks. Twirling.
Imprisoned for the delight of the feasting diners.

“You don’t have to go through with it.” Katy leaned forward. “You know I’ll help you… whatever it takes.”

“I know.” Amanda wiped a wayward tear. “But this is what I want. I want Mark. I want this baby.” She was off the silver spindle,
ready to dance on her own, to break free and begin her own adventure. With Mark, her favorite person, at her side.

“You’re sure?”

“No question.” Perhaps she hadn’t started in the right order, according to some, but she’d landed the man of her dreams. And
a baby too. Not too shabby for a rich girl from Houston, destined to serve on volunteer committees in the best panty hose.

Katy nodded once. “Don’t tell your father. I’ll do it when the time is right.” She stamped out the cigarette butt with a final
tap, signaling an end to that strain of conversation.

She cradled Amanda’s cheek with a tobacco-scented hand. “It’s going to be okay, baby.”

The tenderness in the endearment nearly slayed Amanda’s bravado, but she nodded and accepted the gesture.

Katy Thompson shifted back and surveyed her daughter over an ivory coffee cup. “We’ve got a wedding to plan, little girl.”
And with that announcement, she bestowed her first genuine smile of the morning.

T
he dim atmosphere of St. Paul’s Presbyterian Church did nothing to quench the morning heat. Ancient air conditioners wheezed
against Houston’s early-summer temperatures while the sanctuary, with its stone walls and intricate stained glass, registered
a whopping ten degrees cooler than the humid ninety-eight outside.

Mark stood at the front and smiled at the gathering assembly. He played host again today, but for an entirely different purpose.
The warmth that radiated from his chest, under his arms and from his hairline didn’t reach his fingertips, cold as ice. He
flexed them, willing the blood to ease their chill. Amanda would need a warm grasp after the gauntlet they faced this morning.

The wedding. Hastily assembled by an undaunted Katy Thompson, full-throttle
Southern Living
style in a matter of weeks. Amazing.

The house of worship was one of the oldest and most beautiful in Houston, with stone masonry, mahogany beams, glimmering chandeliers
and commissioned artwork. Naturally, Amanda’s parents were lifetime members. Mark couldn’t imagine how Katy had wrangled a
Saturday time spot in the middle of June. He didn’t want to know.

Until yesterday, Mark had never stepped foot in a Presbyterian church and, judging from his mother’s sniffs of disapproval,
Marianne Reynolds hadn’t either.

“Where’s the baptismal?” she asked too loudly during the awkward rehearsal. Her question reverberated through the sanctuary.

“They sprinkle, Mom,” he whispered to quiet her, wishing he’d never picked her up at the airport.

“Oh!” The look of shock she gave the entire Thompson family suggested they might all be in danger of hellfire, not having
their sins properly washed by a full-body dunking.

Even now, the aisle marked the Red Sea division between the Baptists and the Presbyterians. Marianne sat in the front pew,
encased in yellow, already dabbing her eyes. She liked to cry in church.

He knew, without searching the remaining rows, that James Montclair would not be in attendance this morning.

Shortly after Mark’s confession in the corner office, his former boss made an emotional announcement from the pulpit of Pleasant
Valley. James declared that Mark had chosen to follow the Lord’s calling elsewhere, and they’d sure miss him. The board and
congregation threw Mark a farewell reception, complete with a slide show of his various works at the church.

At the party, they’d handed him a guitar case. Not his. This one had no stickers or beat-up edges. The accompanying card read,
Please accept this small token of our thanks in appreciation for your years of service.
The envelope included pages of handwritten notes and signatures from church members.