A Turn in the Road - Debbie Macomber [37]
“Thanks,” she said, accepting it gratefully. Her throat was parched. They wandered over to a row of plastic chairs and sat quietly, side by side, while Marvin made phone calls.
After several minutes of discomfort, Bethanne found herself breaking the silence. “I thought about you last night.” The confession popped out before she could censure it. She had no idea what had prompted the comment and instantly regretted it.
His gaze shot to hers. She could tell she’d surprised him.
Instead of dropping it the way she should have, she made matters worse. “Actually, I said a prayer for you…. I didn’t used to pray,” she added awkwardly, feeling she needed to explain herself. “Not until recently.” The words just kept coming. Normally Bethanne would never have blurted out something this personal. She hardly ever talked about politics or religion and never with someone who was basically a stranger.
He stared at her as if he didn’t know how to take her ad mission.
She’d started down this road, so she might as well continue. “I always believed in God. I went to church and all that, but, well…after my husband left me, I backed off for a while. I feel differently now….”
“You’re divorced?”
She nodded. “Six years now. Annie’s my daughter and Ruth’s my—mother-in-law.”
“Ex-mother-in-law.”
“Technically, you’re right. But I don’t think of her in those terms. Grant divorced me, but I chose to keep Ruth.”
“Your husband’s an idiot,” Max said.
“Ex-husband,” she corrected, and to her astonishment, Max laughed.
Marvin glanced their way and lifted his chin. Max stood, joining the mechanic in his office. The two men spoke for a while; she finished her soda before Max returned.
“Marvin found a tow truck willing to drive out to the lake.”
That was a relief. “Would it be okay if I rode back with the driver rather than on the Harley? No slight intended, but I think we’d both be more comfortable.”
“That’s fine.”
Once again they sat in silence. Finally, Max leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. “Why did you feel you needed to say a prayer for me?” he asked.
Bethanne wasn’t sure what to tell him. She couldn’t very well admit he’d remained in her thoughts—and that she didn’t understand why. “I…asked God to keep you and your friends safe on the road. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know I was going to be riding, uh, buddy with you in the very near future.” She tried to make light of it and realized she was saying far more than necessary. Maybe it was because he didn’t speak much that she felt this compulsion to fill the void with chatter.
“Why?” he asked again after she’d stopped talking.
Bethanne closed her eyes and settled back against the hard chair. “I don’t exactly know.” She wasn’t being completely honest. At the café she’d been aware that he was watching her as she moved about, waiting tables, delivering meals, doing her best to keep up with customers’ demands. A couple of times their eyes had met. She’d smiled, but he hadn’t. His lack of response hadn’t intimidated her; instead, she saw something in him…something she recognized in herself. Pain. She sensed that he’d suffered the same kind of wrenching emotional pain she had. Ultimately that was what had prompted her to pray for him.
“Would you mind if I asked you a question?” She looked up at him.
“That depends. You can ask, but I might not answer.”
“Fair enough.”
Max walked over to the vending machine as if he needed to put distance between them.
Bethanne stood and followed him. “Did your wife leave you?” she asked in a low voice.
He turned and faced her and seemed to be studying her intently. Bethanne held his gaze.
“No,” he said after a lengthy moment.
“Oh.” She couldn’t keep her foot out of her mouth with this man.
“Kate died three years ago.”
Bethanne wanted to tell him how sorry she was but instinctively knew he’d find no comfort in her condolences. “You’ve been on the bike ever since, haven’t you?”
He frowned and then nodded.
Bethanne wasn’t sure how she knew it, but she did. Living the life of a drifter probably meant he didn’t have children. No roots.