The Rescue - Nicholas Sparks [43]
Maybe, she thought to herself, that was the reason she’d responded to Taylor. He’d already proven that he could do heroic things, but it wasn’t simply his dramatic rescue of Kyle that inspired her . . . interest in him, if that’s what it was. Even cads could do the right thing some of the time. No—it was the little things he’d done while they were at the store. The way he’d offered to help without expecting something in return . . . the way he seemed to care about how Kyle and she were doing . . . the way he’d treated Kyle. . . .
Especially that.
Even though she didn’t want to admit it, over the last few years she’d come to judge people by the way they treated her son. She remembered compiling lists in her mind of the friends who tried with Kyle and the ones that hadn’t. “She sat on the floor and played blocks with him”—she was good. “She barely even noticed he was there”—she was bad. The list of “bad” people was far longer than the “good.”
But here was a guy who had for whatever reason formed a bond with her son, and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Nor could she forget Kyle’s reaction to him. Hewwo, Tayer....
Even though Taylor didn’t understand everything Kyle had said—Kyle’s pronunciations took a while to get used to—Taylor kept talking to him as if he did. He winked, he grabbed his helmet in a playful way, he hugged him, he looked Kyle in the eye when he spoke. He’d made sure to say good-bye.
Little things, but they were incredibly important to her.
Actions.
Taylor had treated Kyle like a normal little boy.
Ironically, Denise was still thinking about Taylor even as Judy pulled up the long gravel driveway and parked in the shade of a looming magnolia tree. Denise, who was just finishing up the dishes, spotted Judy and waved before making a quick scan of the kitchen. Not perfect, but clean enough, she decided as she moved to meet Judy at the front door.
After the traditional preliminaries—how each was doing and all that—Denise and Judy seated themselves on the front porch so they could keep an eye on Kyle. He was playing with his trucks near the fence, rolling them along make-believe roads. Right before Judy had arrived, Denise had liberally coated him with sunscreen and bug spray, and the lotions acted like glue when he played in the dirt. His shorts and tank top were streaked a dusty brown, and his face looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a week, reminding Denise of the dust bowl children Steinbeck had described in The Grapes of Wrath.
On the small wooden table (picked up at a garage sale for three dollars—another excellent buy for bargain-shopping ace Denise Holton!) sat two glasses of sweet tea. Denise had made it that morning in a typically southern fashion—brewed Luzianne with lots of sugar added while still hot so it could dissolve completely, then chilled in the refrigerator with ice. Judy took a drink from her glass, her eyes never leaving Kyle.
“Your mother used to love getting dirty, too,” Judy said.
“My mother?”
Judy glanced at her, amused. “Don’t look so surprised. Your mother was quite a tomboy when she was young.”
Denise reached for her glass. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same lady?” she asked. “My mother wouldn’t even collect the morning paper without putting makeup on.”
“Oh, that happened right around the time she discovered boys. That was when your mom changed her ways. She turned into the quintessential southern lady, complete with white gloves and perfect table manners, practically overnight. But don’t let that fool you. Before that, your mother was a regular Huckleberry Finn.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No—really. Your mother caught frogs, she cussed like a shrimper who’d lost his net, she even got in a few fights with boys to show how tough she was. And she was a good fighter, let me tell you. While