Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [43]
“As a matter of fact, I thought Charlie played a little too laid-back. We’re going to hit the road jogging after this tournament’s over.”
Fran stared straight ahead, opening her mouth to speak. Closed it. Repeated the movement once more before calmly venturing, “Charles, I think Charlie’s going to need to rest after the tournament. It’s clear to me his body’s trying to tell him that—”
“Nonsense. Already asked him about the leg. Both him and Coach Henry think it’s just a deep bruise. Isn’t that right, son?” Once again he met Charlie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, but this time there was no question in his piercing stare.
“Right, Dad,” Charlie answered eagerly, ever seeking his father’s approval.
Fran turned around, her face registering concern. Purposefully didn’t say anything—wanting to avoid the inevitable argument with Charles. But she promised herself she’d corner Charlie later to learn the truth about how he felt.
In the backseat, Charlie was restless, constantly switching positions in an attempt to find relief from his throbbing leg. But nothing eased the now-unremitting pain. He wanted to ask for pain relievers, but his dad would frown on it and his mom would only worry more. Dynamics that could ignite yet another argument between the two. So Charlie decided he would bear the pain. In silence.
Later, when they turned into their neighborhood, Charles was still in his element; he enjoyed waving at friends and took great pleasure in the elegance of the neighborhood that seemed to greet him personally. Huge oaks, elms, and cottonwoods bordered the street; though the trees were not yet waving leaves from their graceful limbs, the buds were there. Stately homes lined the winding sidewalks, well-built brick and stone edifices that provided security, status. Charles unconsciously nodded his head, reassured. He breathed a sigh of relief as he scanned the neighborhood one more time and then allowed his gaze to rest on his own home.
An opulent mansion greeted them. Artistically designed landscaping framed the stone house, while stained glass—sparkling, catching the light of the sun—arched above the imposing front door. The graceful lines of the turrets and gables tempted the eye to study its roofline, the rod-iron balconies, rich fabrics of draperies peeking through windows. Inside, a spacious two-story foyer held a winding staircase, pink marble floor, artwork on the walls along with the most recent family portrait. The stunning oil had been painted by a nationally known artist, and he had captured not merely their physical likenesses, but a sense of the three individual personalities.
Charles had leaned toward the painter, chin on hand, elbow on knee, appearing to take on any onlookers. Driving home his point—whatever that might be—on any given subject. By contrast, Fran lightly draped one slender hand on her husband’s knee, while the other rested on Charlie’s shoulder. Appearing as fragile as exquisite bone china, she was clearly a bridge between father and son, negotiating a connection between their starkly differing personalities by the sheer force of her intense love for each of them. And then Charlie, the young physical replica of his father. But the resemblance ended with his visage, for Charlie’s face was an open invitation, reaching out for life—naïveté, eagerness, and vulnerability stamped on his features.
Climbing the steps from the garage, Charlie had to concentrate on not limping. He was simply hoping to get to his room, lie on his bed, and read—resting under the pretense of finishing a book assigned over spring break. But when their rambunctious yellow lab Bradley came racing around the corner and jumped on him, Charlie nearly lost his balance. Had to jerk backward, shifting all his weight to his right leg. This time, he couldn’t hide his immediate reaction. “Ouch. Bradley, cut it out.”
Instantly, Fran was next to him, her face a picture of worry.
Noting that his dad was still out in the garage, Charlie decided the timing—if he were going to admit anything