A little boy with light brown hair and his grandfather’s vibrant green eyes walked into the room. He was your average kid, dressed in bluejean shorts with neatly rolled cuffs and an oversize T-shirt bearing the logo of a professional basketball team. He wore a wristwatch and expensive high-top athletic shoes with black socks. His thick, straight, light brown hair had been cut in a modishly conservative style: very, very short in back, considerably longer on the top and sides. It showed signs of having once been parted but now fell forward in a thatch of bangs that covered one eyebrow. He was taller and bigger than average, more physically mature in some ways than any other eight-year-olds Bolton had known. Otherwise, he was just an average kid. His face was yet too round to display any significant bone structure. His fingernails were too short, as if they’d been bitten back. He had a nasty scrape just below one knee. Wallis beckoned to him.
“Come here, Trent, and meet Reverend Charles.”
The boy walked forward without hesitation and offered the reverend a noticeably grimy hand. Bolton swamped it with his own, pleasantly surprised by the strength in the boy’s grip. “How do you do, sir?”
“Very well, thank you. And you, Trent? I have the feeling we took you away from something interesting.”
The boy nodded engagingly. He was a very self-possessed sort and rather solemn. “I was checking my traps,” he revealed.
Wallis chuckled. “We’ve a skunk somewhere hereabouts, and I’ve given orders that it’s to be shot at first opportunity. Trent disagrees with my solution to the problem. He thinks he can trap the critter and make a friend of it.”
Bolton disciplined a smile. “Aside from the obvious problem,” he said, addressing Trent, “have you considered the possibility that the skunk could carry rabies?”
The boy’s chin went up a fraction of an inch. “I wasn’t going to let it bite me,” he said, very matter-of-fact.
Bolton regrouped quickly. “Of course not. I was thinking more of the other animals a rabid skunk could infect, like that old battle-scarred cat I met outside.”
“General,” the boy murmured, obviously thinking.
“I beg your pardon?”
Trent looked mildly confused for a moment. “Oh. His name is General. General Tom.”
“I like that,” Bolton said. “It suits him.”
“He’s not a very nice old cat,” Trent said. “If you pet him, he’ll hang his claws in you. But I like him anyway.”
“He kind of makes you respect him, doesn’t he?” Bolton commented.
The boy looked at him consideringly. He was forming an opinion. Bolton believed it would be a favorable one. Apparently, so did Wallis, and that was what seemed to matter to the old man. “You can get back to your traps now, Trent,” Wallis said dismissively.
His high-handedness suddenly irritated Bolton immensely. Before he could stop himself, he caught hold of the boy’s hands. “Not just yet. I’d like to ask you a few questions, Trent.”
The boy tensed but did not object. “What?”
“What are your favorite things to do?”
Trent shrugged. “Video games. Reading. Movies. Cartoons. I like to draw sometimes.”
All solitary amusements. “Who’s your very best friend?” Bolton asked.
Again the boy seemed confused. He thought a long time, then slid a wary glance toward his grandfather. “Denny Carter, I guess.” The old man scowled. Trent rushed on. “He’s older than me but not bigger, and he’s the only one who can beat me wrestling.”
“You like him, do you?” Bolton pressed.
Trent held his gaze for a long moment. “Like General Tom,” he said finally.
“You respect him, then,” Bolton mused. “And does he like you?”
Trent’s gaze wavered. He fortified it. “He likes being able to beat me.”
Bolton wondered what the answer would be if he asked Trent if he let Denny Carter beat him at wrestling. He glimpsed something unsettling behind that calm gaze, as if the boy was terrified that he would ask that very question. Bolton took pity on him and clapped his hand over his shoulder, putting on a smile of satisfaction. “Anybody would like you, Trent,” he said. “I certainly do.”
The kid’s relief was palpable, though not evident. “Thank you. It was very nice meeting you, sir.”
“It was very nice meeting you, too, Trent.” Bolton put his hand on the boy’s back, turned him toward the door and gave him a little shove. He fled with all the enthusiasm of every kid escaping the confusing presence of adults. When he was gone, Bolton looked at Revere. The old man was frowning, but he quickly smiled. Bolton doubted Wallis Revere had the least concern over his grandson’s lamentable lack of friends his own age, not that it mattered. “He’s a fine boy,” Bolton said. “I’ll like spending time with him.”
Triumph infused the old man with an almost physical power. “Wonderful. I’ll have my daughter-in-law bring him around tomorrow for a getacquainted session.”
Daughter-in-law. Trent’s mother. Bolton cocked his head. “I trust she approves of this arrangement.”
The old man dismissed that concern with a wave of his hand. “Why shouldn’t she?”
Bolton bit his tongue. High-handed was an understatement where Wallis Revere was concerned. He got to his feet, aware that his temper had been stirred and unwilling to allow it free rein. “I’m afraid I won’t be available until about four o’clock,” he said firmly. “I’ll expect them then.”
Revere nodded. “Four o’clock it is.” He extended his hand, neck craned at what seemed an uncomfortable angle.
Bolton took it, careful to keep his grip light. He knew without a doubt that he wasn’t about to hear an expression of Revere’s gratitude. That old despot didn’t know the meaning of the word. But it didn’t matter. Whatever he did, and he wasn’t at all certain now what that would be, it would be for the boy’s sake, regardless of the grandfather’s intent. He would make his decision after speaking with the boy’s mother and not before. As he saw it, the boy’s mother was the authority on the boy’s welfare and his duty was to the boy rather than the old man. That thought gave Bolton immense satisfaction, and he didn’t bother to chastise himself for enjoying it while he shook the old man’s trembling hand.
Bolton let himself out after voicing the opinion that Teresa had been bothered enough for one morning. His stomach was telling him that it was almost lunch time, and as he got into his car he decided that he would pick up a bite to eat on his way back to the church. He usually ate carry-in with Cora, but Cora was lunching with her daughter and grandchildren that day, so it would be a solitary meal, as so many of his meals were.
He paused a moment at the gates of the Revere estate, pondering this new situation. He’d been called upon in many ways over the years, but he’d never been asked to play surrogate father. It was ironic in a way. He’d expected to be enjoying the real thing by now. Yet, for some reason, God had seen fit to deny him that privilege—not that it was too late by any means. He was only thirty-seven, and he had always intended to marry again; during those final weeks before the cancer had taken her, Carol had insisted that he must. The problem was that he just hadn’t found the right woman yet. He had thought for