The Color of Hope (3 page)

She turned down Grandma Geri’s street, catching herself for
still thinking of it that way. But how could she not? That’s how she’d thought of it all her life. It would take a long time to get used to walking through the door of the family home and seeing Janelle and Stephanie living there instead of Grandma Geri.

Her foot tapped the brake a little as she approached Travis’s place, and the butterflies swirled. They always swirled when she passed his house. She glanced over and saw the door ajar, with only the outer screen in place. Probably about to take his morning jog. Or maybe her cousin Marcus was up and about. To her surprise, the two of them had forged a tight bond after reconnecting at Grandma Geri’s party. Marcus had asked Travis to mentor him spiritually, and Travis took it seriously. Next thing Libby knew, Marcus had been hired for a position at Hope Springs High and was staying with Travis until he got his own place.

Just as Libby realized her car had stalled, Travis opened the screen door and walked out, clad in Duke shorts and a T-shirt, arm muscles clearly defined. He looked even better than when they’d dated in college, though she wasn’t sure what to think about that. Finding out he’d become a pastor had thrown off her equilibrium where he was concerned—and she hadn’t quite gained it back.

“Good morning!” He was smiling. Always that smile. “You were stopping to say hello, right?”

He often chided her for driving past his house to get to her grandmother’s and never stopping by. She smiled back. “Yeah, that’s it. I was stopping to say hello.”

He laughed. “Now that you told that lie, you
have
to stop.”

She pulled into the driveway behind his SUV and felt her heart hammering as she got out and walked toward him.

“You look nice,” he said.

She glanced down at the shorts and shirt she’d thrown on. “I look bummy. This is reunion-prep-plus-help-Stephanie-move-in attire.”

“You couldn’t look bummy if you tried.”

He gave her a hug, and quick as it was, it brought back memories.

“You got a minute to come in?” he said.

“Sure.” She smiled. “Janelle texted that she’s making breakfast, but I’m sure she’ll save me some.”

“And you’re smiling because you know I’m about to call Janelle and tell her to save
me
some. The most breakfast variety we’ve got here is Wheat Chex and Wheaties.”

Libby followed him to the door. “I’m trying to remember the last time I was in your family’s house. Had to be high school.” Whenever she saw him, it was at Grandma Geri’s.

“Those were the days,” Travis said. “So many summer memories.” He opened the door. “You and Janelle were a bad influence on Todd and me.”

Libby needed only to give him a look. “Yeah, that’s why Grandma Geri said you two were so bad she couldn’t believe you both turned out to be pastors.” She stopped short when she walked inside. “You have
got
to be kidding me.” She looked at Travis. “You weren’t too embarrassed to invite me in? Look at this place.”

“What?”

Marcus emerged from the kitchen, a glass of orange juice in hand. “Hey, cuz.” He surveyed the scene himself. “Yeah. What?”

She checked out the shirt on the arm of the sofa, the empty potato chip bag and glass on the floor, the carryout carton on the coffee table that had to have been from last night at least. “Y’all are slobs. I don’t even want to see the kitchen. Definitely not using the bathroom.”

“Aw, that’s cold,” Travis said. “I thought we were doing a good job keeping it straight.”

Libby turned to Marcus. “I know Aunt Gladys taught you better than this. I’ve never seen a more spotless house than hers.”

Marcus’s face turned sheepish. “Actually I might’ve been spoiled,
being the baby and the only boy. Between Mom and four older sisters, I escaped cleaning detail.”

Libby shook her head, turning back to Travis. “And what’s your excuse?”

He spread his hands. “I’m still trying to figure out what the problem is. It might not look exactly like it did when Mom was here, but it’s not
that
bad.” He donned a mischievous smile. “But your grandmother did say I needed a wife.”

“When you find one,” Marcus said, “ask her if she has a sister. I’m in my late twenties and wondering where all the good women are.”

“Give me a break, little cousin,” Libby said. “You’ve had girls after you from the time you were young, and Aunt Gladys had to tell them to quit calling her house late at night. You’re just too picky.”

“Oh really?” Marcus gave her a look. “Pot calling the kettle black?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m
picky
.” She thought a second. “Okay, maybe I am. But key difference—I’m not looking to get married.”

“Does Omar know that?” Marcus added suddenly, “Where
is
Omar, anyway? You’ve been leaving him in Raleigh lately. Is he coming to the reunion?”

“Omar’s not coming, no.”

She’d brought Omar to a couple of family gatherings last spring, mostly to act as a buffer against her lingering feelings for Travis. But Omar started taking things too seriously. Plus—and she was only lately admitting this to herself—she no longer wanted that buffer.

Marcus swallowed the last of his juice and put the glass on the coffee table, then caught Libby’s eye and took it to the kitchen. “Better get to work,” he said. “Can’t believe the kids’ll be starting school in a week and a half.”

“How does it feel, working at our parents’ alma mater?” Libby called after him.

“In a word, weird.” Marcus rejoined them, apparently pondering
it. “If it weren’t for this man right here, urging me to pray about applying—then urging me to take it—I would’ve stayed in Greensboro.” He sighed. “Every school district has its politics, but small-town politics?
And
we’re smack in the middle of this joint service thing?” He shook his head. “It’s crazy.”

“I know, man,” Travis said. “I thought things would settle down over the summer, but it’s only gotten worse.”

Marcus opened the screen door. “I’ll be back early afternoon to help Stephanie and Lindell move in.”

“See you then,” Libby said, heading to the door herself. She turned to Travis as Marcus left. “You coming too?”

“I’ll be there. I can come earlier if you need me. Don’t you need help setting things up outdoors?”

Travis had already been a big help in planning the reunion. He’d suggested the basketball game Saturday morning and another tourney on Sunday, and gave assistance whenever she came to town.

“That would be great.” She looked at him. “Thank you for all your help with this.”

“No need to thank me,” he said. “Seems like I’ve been hanging out at Sanders family reunions all my life. I feel like I
am
a Sanders.” He kept his gaze on her. “And if this is the only way I can get you to be nice to me again, I’ll take it.”

She swatted his arm. “You’re saying I’m only being nice so I can get some tables set up?”

“And a basketball player.”

She tried to swat him again, but he grabbed her hand and held it.

“It’s nice,” he said, “being friends again.”

The touch of his hand stirred even more butterflies. “It is.”

Neither broke the stare, and Libby could almost feel his arms pulling her close. And that kiss that used to drive her crazy. But he
dropped her hand and stepped back, reminding her—that was the old Travis. She and “Pastor Travis” could be no more than friends.

He slipped on his shoes.

“Where are you going?” Libby asked.

“With you. Those Wheaties wore off an hour ago.”

CHAPTER THREE

C
harlotte Willoughby whisked her blond hair into a ponytail and slid her feet into her sneakers, making quick work of the laces . . . then rethought the ponytail, turning to the bedroom mirror. Sighing, she loosened her hair, grabbed a brush, tamed the wisps, and ponytailed it again. Then looked closer at her eyes.

Hmm . . . where was her makeup bag? She found it, laid out a few essentials, just for a light touch, then paused. Why was she doing this? Makeup, to coach a volleyball clinic at the high school? Except . . . she had a meeting before that, for which it wouldn’t hurt to look decent. Not that she typically got dolled up for meetings either. But this one was a little . . . different.

She went to the laptop on her desk to reread the e-mail she’d just gotten.

Coach Willoughby,

Do you have a few minutes to meet this morning before your volleyball clinic? If not, no problem. We can schedule a time later today or tomorrow. Thanks.

She stared at his signature—
Marcus Maxwell, Assistant Principal,
Hope Springs High School
—and her insides got a little jumpy. Again.

She should’ve said later today or tomorrow would be better. After all, it was last-minute, and she’d been in the middle of researching a job listing for a ministry in Charlotte when Marcus’s e-mail diverted her.

She had an inkling what the meeting might be about; he’d already talked to her before about staying on as a P.E. teacher and assistant coach of girls volleyball. But any mystery surrounding the meeting wasn’t the issue. Since he’d joined Hope Springs High at the beginning of June, just being around him made her jumpy.

She stared vaguely at her laptop screen. Was this a
crush
? Is this what it felt like? It’d been so long since she had one, if she ever had. Her only relationship had been with Jake, and they’d known each other practically from the womb—their families talked up a relationship between them as far back as she could remember. And over time it seemed a given that they would marry and live out their lives in Hope Springs, like their parents and their parents’ parents. It was the easy thing to do, the expected thing. But when she learned this past spring that he’d cheated on her, ending it was surprisingly easy too. Almost a relief.

Now she was free to follow the stirring she’d been feeling to do life differently. College at UNC–Chapel Hill hadn’t been that far away, but it felt like a different world. New church, new friends, new passions, like serving at a women’s shelter and raising awareness for human trafficking. She’d been praying for a heart to embrace Hope Springs again, but with the breakup, she no longer had to. She resigned from her job at the high school, made plans to move in with college friends in Charlotte, and was praying God would show her what kind of out-of-the-box life she could lead.

But that was all before Marcus Maxwell came to town . . . Not that it mattered.

Charley logged off, shouldered her athletic bag, and descended the stairs. The front door opened as she hit the bottom step, and Grandpa Skip walked in.

“Mornin’, Charley Warley.” His gravelly voice made his silly nicknames sound sillier. “How’s my best granddaughter?”

Charley smiled. “Best and only.”

“Mere technicality.” He closed the door. “Headed to the office, but had to stop by with some church news.” He looked to his right. “Dottie in the kitchen?”

“I’m sure,” Charley said. “When I came down for breakfast, she was baking up a storm for the nursing home.”

Her grandfather led the way, pushing the swinging door that opened into the kitchen. Morning wouldn’t be morning if he didn’t cross the street from his house to theirs to talk news of the day and solve the world’s problems, all in the space of a cup of coffee. He’d been a constant in Charley’s and her brother’s lives, even more so after their dad died six years ago.

Charley’s mom removed a delicious-smelling tray from the oven and set it next to two others.

“Let me guess.” Skip paused, inhaling. “Apple turnovers, dash of nutmeg, extra shot of cinnamon.”

Dottie laughed. “You should know. This was one of Nancy’s favorite recipes.”

Charley grabbed a banana to go. “I’m headed to school, Mom,” she said.

“Charley, wait a sec.” Grandpa Skip poured a cup of coffee. “I want you to hear this too.”

Charley turned, waiting.

“We had an elders’ meeting last night,” he said. “Decided to call a boycott of the joint service this Sunday.”

“What?” Dottie pulled off her oven mitts. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dottie, you’re not in favor of combining services any more than I am.”

Charley leaned against the counter next to her mom. She’d been hearing rumblings about this all summer, mostly from her grandpa, but only with half an interest. She’d mentally checked out of Hope Springs weeks ago.

“I said I wasn’t in favor of the
timing
of it,” Dottie said. “Todd Dillon was only here a few months when he started this. We needed time to heal from his dad’s sudden death, time to get to know Todd as our new pastor. But a boycott? I just don’t see it.”

“A boycott is how we end this thing.” Skip took a seat at the table, blowing steam from his coffee. “The elders didn’t attend last month, hoping we’d send a signal. But it got drowned out by all the people who showed up from outside of Hope Springs.” He took a sip. “Now we’re telling Calvary people outright, don’t go.”

“And what will Todd think?” Dottie said. “Won’t this seem like a conspiracy behind his back?”

“How is it behind his back?” Skip said. “We told him up front we were opposed, and he went full-steam ahead. This Sunday will be the fourth one. It’s got to stop.”