The Color of Hope Page 3

  “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

  Charlotte 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.”

  Charley could feel her brows bunching into a frown. “But why? I don’t think I’ve ever heard your problem with it.”

  “It’s simple, Charley.” Her grandfather sat back. “Calvary Church has existed for more than one hundred years as a bedrock of this town. Between your great-grandfather and me, there’s been a Calvary elder in this family for more than half a century, and we’ve worked hard to maintain the church’s integrity and position as a pillar in this community.” He leaned forward, clearly agitated. “Todd’s family has a long history with Calvary as well, and I can only presume he means well. But we didn’t bring him on board as pastor to take us down this road—and we won’t sit back and watch him do it.”

  “But . . . you say that like it’s the wrong road.” Charley rarely challenged her grandfather, but she had to say it. “The goal is to bring the two churches together, to foster unity, right? And it’s only one Sunday a month. What could be wrong with that?”

  “Charley, you’re naïve,” Skip said. “Pastor Todd and Pastor Travis grew up best friends in Hope Springs. They’ve been away for years, and now they’re trying to import their big-city ideas into our town. It’s clear to me the real goal is to somehow merge the two churches.”

  Charley almost asked what could be wrong with that, but she heard her brother calling from upstairs.

  “Hey, Charley, don’t leave without me!”

  She looked at her mother. “Something wrong with Ben’s car?”

  “Probably on empty,” Dottie said. “I told him I’m not giving him gas money. Still can’t believe he got himself fired because he couldn’t
show up to work on time.”

  “So now it’s my responsibility to shuttle him to football practice?”

  Charley hadn’t minded playing chauffeur when she started at the high school two years ago. She’d hoped the short drive would help them reconnect now that she was back from college. Instead, time spent in the car—and crossing paths at school—let her know that her once fun-loving kid brother had developed a funky attitude about almost everything. The loss of their father surely played a part and made her sympathize—when she wasn’t about to throttle him. And he’d only gotten worse now that he’d turned eighteen, as if it gave him a license to do what he wanted.

  “You only have to take me this morning.” Ben’s six-foot-three, two-hundred-plus pound frame entered the kitchen. “I’ll have gas money after that.”

  Dottie looked at him. “From where?”

  Ben got a glass of juice. “Don’t worry about it, Mom. You wouldn’t give it to me, so I asked someone else.”

  “Who? Kelsey?” Dottie asked.

  He chugged the juice, grabbed a protein bar, and headed for the door, eyeing Charley. “Ready?”

  Charley’s gaze bounced from Ben to her mom, who was still awaiting an answer.

  “Ben.” Grandpa Skip stood. “I’m seeing a lot of disrespect from you lately.”

  Lately?

  “Answer your mother’s question,” Grandpa Skip said.

  Charley watched even more intently now. Her grandfather was tall and lean, his stature not very imposing. But he had a penetrating gaze that went well with the gravelly voice. The look alone was all the check she’d needed when she was young.

  Ben sighed. “Yeah, it’s Kelsey.”

  “You shouldn’t be taking advantage of her like that,” Dottie said. “She thinks you’re committed to her, and what’s going to happen if you break her heart? You know her mother and I are friends.”

  “Mom. Seriously. Can we not do this right now? I have to go.”

  Dottie sighed at him. “Fine. But we’ll pick it back up later.”

  “The boycott as well,” Grandpa Skip said. “I want my family on board. This is an important juncture in the life of our church.”

  “Oh, and, Charley, don’t forget to call Connor about that date on Saturday.”

  “Connor Webber?” Grandpa Skip said. “Wonderful. That’s a great family. Excellent addition to our town.”

  Charley sighed to herself. Were they really setting her up again, after Jake?

  Ben looked puzzled as he and Charley left the house. “What boycott?”

  Charley explained in the car.

  Ben nodded easily. “Cool.”

  “You’re just happy to get out of going to church.”

  “Exactly.”

  In five minutes they were at school, and Charley saw Kelsey waiting outside the building. Cute girl. Popular. One of their best volleyball players. She had everything going for her except, it seemed, common sense. She seemed to stay at Ben’s beck and call.

  She met them at the car. “Hey, Coach.”

  Charley got her athletic bag from the backseat. “Hey, Kels—Ben, really? Right out here in public?”

  He had stepped out of the car, pulled Kelsey close, and kissed her.

  Ben snickered. “What then? In private?” He tightened his arms around Kelsey. “Fine with me.”

  Charley cut her eyes at him, starting for the entrance, then glanced back. “Anyone else here, Kelsey?”

  “Just Sam,” she said. “Of course. Working on that serve.”

  “And you encouraged her.” Charley paused. “Right?”

  “Coach, seriously . . .” Kelsey gave her a look. “She can’t play.”

  Charley knew that was the consensus among the girls in the clinic, especially those on the volleyball team. She had spied Sam’s interest in volleyball during gym class last spring and encouraged her to take the clinic. But though Sam had worked hard to learn the fundamentals, she wasn’t exactly a natural. Charley knew she couldn’t micromanage the girls’ interactions with one another, but something about Sam—her innocence, sweetness—made Charley want to rise up and defend her.

  “I explained what this clinic was about from the beginning,” Charley said. “Not just developing skills, but developing—”

  “Confidence.” Kelsey indulged her with a thin smile.

  “The clinic ends tomorrow.” Charley started toward the building. “I’m sure it would mean a lot to Sam if you told her how much her serve has improved.”

  Charley walked into the high school. In the echo of the empty halls, she could hear the faint sound of a ball being hit against the wall. But her thoughts shifted for the moment from volleyball to the administrative offices her feet were moving toward. She opened the outer door and, seeing no one, made her way past the administrative assistant’s desk to the office of the assistant principal.

  She peeked her head in and saw Marcus on the phone. He waved her in as he nodded at his caller. “Absolutely . . . No problem . . . That’s fine . . . Okay, but I’ve really got to—”

  He raised his hands apologetically, and Charley took a seat across from him, letting him know it was fine. Her eyes grazed piles of paper on his desk, looking for a spot to land—but kept flickering past him instead. What was it about him? The smile? Seemed his facial muscles naturally formed one, a nice one, as he talked. And the straight teeth definitely enhanced the smile. Was she weird for finding straight teeth attractive?

  She checked herself, moving her eyes around the room. He hadn’t put anything on the walls yet. No pictures on the desk. The view from his window was the parking lot. So . . . back to the piles of paper . . . Maybe it’s his eyes . . .

  “Really sorry about that.” Marcus recradled the phone. “I know you don’t have much time. But let me start this off properly.” He stood, hand extended. “Good morning, Coach Willoughby.”

  She stood as well, noting the formality. It was part of the culture at the school to be sure. But having interacted with him at school for almost two months, she found herself wondering what his less formal side was like.

  “Good morning, Mr. Maxwell. And no problem.” She added as she sat, “But I can probably save some time if you’re about to ask me to reconsider and keep my position here.”

  He had a curious look. “And if I am? What would you say?”

  “I’d say, ‘Sorry, I’m still leaving.’”

  “Okay. Well, that’s not my question . . . not exactly.” He paused. “I want to know if you’ll consider another position here.”

  Now Charley was curious. “What position?”

  “Head volleyball coach.”

  “What?” She scooted forward. “Coach Nelson is leaving?”

  “It happened quickly,” Marcus said. “You know her husband’s been out of work. He got a great offer from a Dallas company, and turns out Coach Nelson has friends who run a club volleyball team down there that makes it to nationals every year. She’s excited to coach for them.”

  “And so . . . you’re asking me to take over as head coach? I’ve only had two years’ experience.”

  “But you played Division I volleyball, you know this program, and you’re a natural instructor.” Marcus clasped his hands. “You also have a love for the sport, which is huge.”