“There’s room in here if you want to park out of the weather,” he said as he led her past his pickup truck. “I keep the doors locked, so you won’t have to worry about the kids playing road trip in your car.”
“So that’s what they were doing.” Thomasina chuckled. “Creative of them. Thanks for the offer. I’ll take you up on it, come winter.”
“I’ll have an extra key made, then.” Trace led her to his workshop at the back of the carriage house and switched on a light. “Phone’s on the wall over there.”
“Thanks,” said Thomasina. “I’ll call about getting a phone, too. What’s the address again, in case they ask?”
Trace wrote it on a matchbook, then left. Thomasina picked her way to the phone through a maze of toolboxes, free-standing cabinets, saws, drills and other power tools. She phoned her supervisor first and got her work schedule for the following week, then called about having the phone line turned on.
The blended scent of sawdust, drying wood and oiled tools stirred poignant memories of her foster parents. Much of their nurturing had been done in a shop similar to this. Thomasina picked up curled wood shavings and held them to her face, her thoughts reaching back in time. Flo loved flowers and Nathan, and Nathan loved Flo and woodworking, and together they loved Thomasina after abandonment by her own mother and a winding road of short-term foster homes had placed her with a family next door to them.
“Thomasina Rose. What a beautiful name,” Florence had called when Thomasina dropped over the fence that first day. “A name to grow into. Do you like roses? I’ve got aphids on mine. Have you ever seen aphids? They’re like fear in a human heart—hard to see, but oh, my! What a lot of damage they’re capable of doing. Don’t be shy! Come have a look, dear.”
That summer, over lemonade and cookies and Bible stories, Florence introduced Thomasina to much more than aphids and gardening. She had introduced her to God.
“The world is His garden, my dear,” she had said one day, a trowel in one hand, a young plant in the other. “Sometimes He transplants His flowers. No one knows why. But I’m thankful He’s sent such a sweet rose to ramble over our back fence!”
After getting to know them, Thomasina was scared she’d get shuffled again and lose Nathan and Flo. Her social worker saw the change in her. She convinced Flo that she and Nathan were the very kind of people so desperately needed in the foster care system.
Soon thereafter, the switch was made. Nathan and Flo were walking talking funnels from heaven to earth, spilling all the love God gave them into restoring Thomasina’s lost childhood just as most teens were relinquishing theirs. But Thomasina’s thirsty heart was in no hurry for independence. She stayed with Nathan and Flo through two years of junior college and nurse’s training. More than foster parents, they became her heart-parents, her model for good neighboring, and at the core of her wish to establish a camp where wounded, broken children could be led to God, and find help.
Hearing children’s hushed voices in the carriage house, Thomasina snapped out the light in the shop. “Hello.”
The twosome who had made such havoc of her car stopped short at the sight of her, and traded wary glances.
“I’ve got boxes to carry inside and not enough hands. I wonder where I could get some good help,” said Thomasina.
“Are you moving in with Trace?” asked the little girl.
“No, I’m moving into Mr. Austin’s apartment.”
“What’s a ’partment?”
“It’s more than one home under a single roof. When I get moved in, will you visit me?”
“Is your ’partment like a playhouse?”
“Something like that,” said Thomasina, smiling. “Perhaps your mother would come, as well. It’s lonesome when you move, and nice to make new friends.”
“Momma’s already got a friend,” the little boy said. “His name’s Red.”
“Fred,” corrected Winny.
“Nuh-uh. It’s Red ’cause his hair’s red.”
“His hair’s red, but his name’s Fred,” argued Winny.
“Wanna bet? We’ll go ask Momma.”
The little boy dropped something on his way out. It was the battery to Thomasina’s phone. She put it in her pocket, locked the carriage house behind her and unloaded boxes until Trace returned. His hair was still damp from the shower. His work shirt, tucked neatly into his trousers emphasized his lean waist and narrow hips.
“This belongs to you?” he asked as she climbed into the truck.
Thomasina took the blue barrette from his open hand. “Winny’s, I think. They were here a moment ago. Curious fingers and power tools can’t be a good combination,” she added, seeing his frown.
“You wouldn’t think so.” Trace backed the truck out of the carriage house, then climbed out to slide the track door closed.
“A word to their mom perhaps?” said Thomasina when he returned to the truck.
“Antoinette’s thin-skinned these days, and not too good at taking advice, not even when it’s well-intentioned.”
“I was hoping we could be friends.”
“I doubt you’ll have much in common,” he said.
“I meant the children. Though you’ve piqued my interest,” admitted Thomasina with a sidelong glance.
“Antoinette lost her husband last winter. Car accident,” he added.
“What a shame,” murmured Thomasina.
“She’s had it kind of rough.”
“Being both mom and dad to two children. That can’t be easy. Does she have a good job?”
“She waits tables at a truck stop in Bloomington. A word to the wise?” he added. “Don’t encourage the kids unless you don’t mind having them underfoot. One friendly gesture, and you can’t duck ’em, scare ’em or beat ’em off with a stick.”
“I’m not entirely sure I approve of you, Mr. Austin,” said Thomasina, her head to one side.
“It’s Trace.”
“Trace, then. But I’m hungry.”
He answered her smile, and gripped the gearshift knob with a well-shaped hand. “Anything behind me?”
“All clear,” said Thomasina, looking out the back window.
Trace stretched his arm along the ridge of the seat, his hand grazing her shoulder as he backed toward the street Thomasina’s pulse quickened as his blue gaze glanced off hers. The truck cab seemed to shrink then expand again as he shifted his hand away and focused on the curve in the driveway.
“Any rules against hanging pictures?” Thomasina jumpstarted the conversation again.
“Not so long as you fill the nail holes when you move out,” he replied.
“It’s a deal,” said Thomasina, thinking all the while what a monkey she was, unnerved by a chance touch. She lapsed into silence as he reached for the radio dial.
Three blocks and half a country song later, Trace nosed the late-model pickup truck into a space in front of Newt’s Market. Groceries, Notions And Dry Goods must have been painted on the bricks decades ago. The bricks were faded, too. An old bench, a couple of pop machines and a trash container rested in the shade of the wooden canopy that ran