Hatfield - Heart of Clay

by

Heart of Clay

Copyright 2011 by Shanna Hatfield

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Shanna Hatfield

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products ofthe authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Anyresemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events ispurely coincidental.

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To my husband -

You are an amazing person and Imgrateful

every day for the blessing of lovingyou.

My life with you is better than anything I could have dreamed.

Thank you for slowing my run down to awalk,

for supporting my endeavors, believing in me,

and loving me unconditionally.

Callan Matthews struggled to fall asleep,tormented by the sounds her husband made as he obliterated thepeaceful quiet of the night with his nocturnal serenade.

Somewhere between a snore and a whistle, shewondered if he intentionally made such an annoying racket. If so,he had perfected it to an art.

Even though he created the horrendous noise,she had no idea how he could sleep through it. A childhood accidentleft Clay with a severely impaired ability to breathe through hisnose and absolutely no sense of smell, but right now, she didn'tcare.

She turned to look at him, releasing a longsigh. A tiny sliver of moonbeam snuck through the parted drapes tocaress the hollow of his cheek, giving Callan the ability to seethat Clay looked peaceful.

How could he do that? How dare he do that?How could he turn off all the turmoil of daily life and sleeppeacefully?

Rising on one elbow, she debated if it wouldbe better to put a pillow over his face and end her suffering, orput it over her own and end the suffering of them both. Incapableof committing murder or suicide, she instead punched the pillow,rolled over, and tried to block out the noise. To relax. To give into the fatigue that had plagued her for months.

After a few more minutes of restlessturning, Callan quietly rose from the bed, pulled on her chenillerobe, and wandered through the darkened house to stand at thekitchen window. She moved aside the ruffled chintz curtain andstared out at the backyard. Moonlight washed the snow-patched lawnin shades of silver and gray.

She hated winter, hated the cold, hated theweeks of dark gloom that filled her days and pervaded her verybeing. Ironically, it seemed fitting that the bleakness of thewinter nearly matched the bleakness of her spirit.

Briskly rubbing her hands on her arms,trying to ward off the chill, she let her thoughts tumble.

What am I doing here? In this house, in thislife, in this marriage?

What was in that heart of Clays? She usedto know like she knew what was in her own, but not anymore. Notsince hed gone from being everything shed ever dreamed of to astranger she barely recognized and all too often didn't evenlike.

She couldnt believe theyd just celebratedtheir anniversary. At least, she supposed it could be considered acelebration if take-and-bake pizza and noncommittal conversationsabout work counted.

How had the two of them taken thirteen yearsof marriage and made such a mess of it? It hadnt happenedovernight, that much was certain.

Callan thought back to the first time shesaw Clay during the summer she graduated from college. Afterreturning home to Tenacity from Oregon State University with adegree in marketing and no immediate career prospects, she took apart-time job working at the local newspaper. With an abundance offree time on her hands, her aunt Julie recruited her to help withthe sorority clubs booth at the county fair, selling ice creamcones and sundaes.

She looked up from dipping what seemed likethe millionth vanilla cone that first day of the fair and into apair of the warmest blue eyes she'd ever seen.

Clay was masculine and rugged, standing wellover six feet. The tips of sandy curls peeked out from the brim ofhis cowboy hat while his blue-striped western shirt accentuated thebreadth of his shoulders.

Her undoing, however, came when he smiled,flashing not only white teeth, but dimples that should have beenpositively illegal to brandish without advance warning.

Frantically gathering her wits, Callanasked, a bit breathlessly, if she could get him something. Heordered a plain vanilla cone, gave her exact change, thanked herand left. Fascinated and speechless, she watched him walk away,entranced by the way he filled out his jeans. She wished she atleast knew his name.

He came back three more times to order icecream and showed up again the next day, looking just asunbelievably handsome as she remembered.

"You must really like ice cream." Callanhanded him another vanilla cone. "Since you've been my bestcustomer, I should at least introduce myself. My name is Callan."She gave him what she hoped was an engaging smile.

"I'm Clay," he said quietly, accepting thecone from her outstretched fingers. "Clay Matthews. And honestly, Idon't like ice cream at all." He turned and strode away, seeminglyunaware of the trail of cold confection dripping from the cone anddown his hand. She gazed after him until he disappeared around thecorner of the big barn.

When Aunt Julie nudged her from behind withher elbow, she jumped. Callan, if I didnt know better, Id thinkthat incredibly good-looking young man is sweet on you. Eitherthat, or he is extremely fond of vanilla ice cream cones.

Completely flustered, she anxiously waitedfor him to return. It didnt help that Aunt Julie and her friendsteased Callan relentlessly.

She didnt see him again the rest of the dayand decided he probably wouldnt come back. As she helped close upthe booth for the evening, Clay suddenly appeared.

"Hello, Callan. I wondered if you might beinterested in going for a walk." Clay stared down at his dustyboots or glanced behind her instead of making eye contact.

"Sure. Just let me finish a few things hereand I'll be ready to go." Her voice sounded calm although nervousfluttering filled her stomach and made her a littlelightheaded.

She turned to help pack up the last of thethings for the night, but Aunt Julie caught her hand and whisperedin her ear. "Callan, girl, quit wasting your time here. Go take awalk with that handsome cowboy."

With a pat on the shoulder, Aunt Julie gaveher a playful nudge out of the booth.

Callan and Clay strolled along the promenadelooking at the variety of booths and making comments about who soldthe best lemonade, the great job the FFA kids were doing with thebarbecue wagon, and how old Mrs. Biggs made the best doughnuts.

They discussed the odd shapes of vegetablesin the produce display in the big barn and the huge dahlia thecounty judge brought in for the floral competition. It not onlytook first place but also drew a small following of bees thatterrified the women watching over the flower display until someonedecided his dahlia had to go.