Page 39 of This Means War

“Oh, well…” She takes a bite of her food, studying me with an annoyingly knowing expression as she chews. “It’s just,” she finally goes on, “last I heard, praying is a verb, which makes it an action. Of course, Jamie is the English teacher, not me.” She sits back in her seat and gives me a smug smile. I want to kiss the smirk right off her face. Instead, I take a bite of pasta and pretend it’s the burst of flavor that’s making my mouth water. Infuriating woman.

“You know what I mean.” My gaze hitches on her mouth again, and I try to imagine falling offa building or being the victim of a shark attack in hopes of reigning my hormones in. “Prayer is all talk. I like to solve my own problems.”

“Right.” She laughs lightly. “I totally get that. You want to be in control, always have a plan, tell someone I’m your sister.”

I break off mid-nod, “Wait, what?”

“Oh wait–” Another laugh from Lydia, this one clearly fake. “I’m getting you confused with this other guy. He was all about control too. He moved to this new place and told the leader there that his wife was his sister because his wife was gorgeous, and he was afraid the leader would kill him because he wanted the guy’s wife for himself.

I gape at her. “Is that the plot of one of your romance novels or something?”

“Um, no. That would be a story from the Bible. You’ve heard of Abraham, I presume?”

“Abraham? As in Father Abraham had many sons,” I lift my right hand then my left, “right hand, left hand, and all that.”

Lydia purses her lips against a giggle. “Wow, that’s a Sunday School flashback, but yes, same guy. There are all sorts of stories about him in Genesis where he lets fear get the best of him and instead of listening to God, he takes matters into his own hands. Like the thing with telling the Pharaoh that Sarah was his sister when she was actually his wife. Or the time he slept with Sarah’s slave because it was taking too long for Sarah to get pregnant, even though God had told him she would.”

“I’m not sure I get your point.”

Lydia sighs and sets her fork down. “The point is, Abraham regularly spent time with God in prayer and even he sometimes fell victim to trying to take control of his own life. If you’re not spending any time in prayer at all, of course you’re going to buy into the whole ‘I don’t need God, I have everything handled’ mindset.”

“And what’s wrong with not needing God?” I ask, but even as I say the words a hollow feeling settles in my stomach.

Lydia studies me, her penetrating gaze unnerving me. “I think you’ll have to figure that one out on your own.”

A chill runs down my spine, but before I can formulate a reply Lydia’s phone starts ringing loudly. She tears her eyes from mine, her finger automatically sliding across the screen to pick up the call.

“Hi, Mom,” her voice sounds wary, but I don’t get to hear anything else she says because she stands and makes her way out of the room, leaving me to wonder why her words left me feeling so unsettled.

Chapter 27

Lydia

“Lydia! Finally!” Ihurry out of the kitchen, cringing as my mom’s voice comes over the line. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for weeks. I must’ve left a dozen messages.”

“Right, sorry,” my voice lacks any conviction, and I choose not to tell her that I haven’t listened to any of her messages. She called me the day after Josh found out about my marriage to Cole, and I knew without talking to her that Josh had told her about us. Ever since, I’ve been avoiding her calls like the plague, not ready to hear her reprimand me for once again ruining my life. Unfortunately, tonight she caught me off-guard. My conversation with Cole had been too intense. My thoughts had been muddled by the way he’d opened up to me and the simple sweetness of having someone to be with on an ordinary Friday night. Bringing up Cole’s obvious need for God had been a defense mechanism against my hormones, who’d been about to stage a coup and jump him. Of course, talking about God had broughtup all of my own current vulnerabilities in that department, freaking me out on a whole other level.

As a result of all this, when my phone rang, I’d grabbed onto the escape like a man overboard clings to a life preserver, realizing too late that it was my mom.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve been busy adjusting to married life,” she laughs and my body stiffens in surprise. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she sounded happy.

“Uh, yeah.” I tread carefully, worried she’s trying to lull me into a false sense of security before bringing the hammer down. I open the door to my bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed.

“I must say,” finally a hint of the disapproval I’d been expecting creeps into her voice, “when Josh told me about your nuptials, I was quite disappointed you didn’t include us. Of course, I understand how new love can be. You get so caught up in it that an elopement feels like the height of romance.” An image of Cole and I standing in front of a city clerk, Tom looking on with displeasure, surfaces in my mind. Romantic? Not so much.

“That being said,” she goes on, “a phone call would’ve been nice, Lydia. We did raise you, provide for your every need, and what not. The least you could’ve done was call us.”

“Right, sorry,” I say again, still flustered that she’s not yelling at me. “I mean,” I cough, trying to get my head on straight, “you’re so right, Mom. It did all happen so fast, and then Cole and I have justbeen trying to settle into married life, like you said. I was going to call.” Which is true. I would’ve called…eventually.

“Well, never mind,” she closes the matter down. “I know now, and I fully expect you and Cole to let us throw you a reception here in Florida.”

“What?” Panic strums across my chest. A reception. I look down at my glimmer of a bump. She’s handling my sudden marriage surprisingly well, will her goodwill extend to the announcement of our pregnancy?

“A reception, honey. We want to celebrate with you,” she trills. “Of course, we’ll work around Cole’s schedule. I know how busy he is with work and his campaign.” She gives a dreamy little sigh. “I can’t believe it, my daughter, married to a senator.”

Everything starts to click into place then. Why she’s being so understanding. Why she’s not angrier. In her mind I’ve gone from being a failure of a daughter to being the wife of a politician. She couldn’t be happier.

“Mom,” I rush in, “he’s running for mayor, not the senate.”

---