When First We Met

[NorthOfNever]

You go Martha, you spitfire!

That was such an endearing moment between father and son. I loved the "dimestore card" metaphore - just brilliant. And I love the graphic, but I already told you that!

[Smallvillian]

There's a method to my madness, just so you know I actually thought about holding off posting this section until later when I could get into more of another scene. But, ultimately, I decided it stood well on its own. I hope I was right

As always, thanks ever so much for the kindness!

[NorthOfNever]

No thanks necessary! You earn it, every time. But, if you insist on being thankful, I wouldn't mind a post with your comments on Trajectory... over in the Trajectory thread... you know... about Trajectory...

*whistles nonchalantly*

[Smallvillian]

::Jumps over to thread:: Weee!

[NorthOfNever]

Watch your step! That's the thread where I keep my back-up banana peels... 'cause yeah, I'm in to cheap physical comedy. Online. Where... you can't see banana peels...

*has an epiphany*

Oh never mind, it wasn't an epiphany, just the dog sitting on my head. Again. I should stop typing in bed.

[Smallvillian]

I'm not sure what to say to that except that I'm laughing lol

[Renee28]

Oh, good, you put the illustration in. I didn't see it last night, and I was just about to take you to task for not doing that!

[Smallvillian]

There comes a time in a person's life when she has to shed her ill-fitting, sheltered adolescence--much like an old coat that once fit just right and kept you warm and protected against the world's harshest elements but, then, outgrown, became uncomfortably constricting and of little use.

For Martha Clark, that time was now.

It just took walking halfway to her car to realize it.

There she stood, keys in hand, fuming over what her father's wild accusations--and yet she hadn't really tried to change anything, had she? She hadn't told him he was wrong, hadn't told him much at all before storming out. If anything, she was running away--again. The irony of it all. At nineteen, she could argue some of the top minds around into a fix, leaving them bewildered and shuffling their little note cards. Yet here she was, out in the cold, debating with herself about all the things she should have said.

She spent a little longer studying the ground, then shoved her keys back into he coat pocket, and strode hurriedly back toward the house. Her father met her at the door.

"I knew you'd come to your senses," he said confidently. "Now come inside and change so we can get going and forget all of this silly business."

"I'm not forgetting anything, dad. I want you to apologize to Jonathan."

He blinked a few times, more astonished than confused. "I'm sorry...are you...are you giving me a directive?" He adjusted his coat, tugging at the lapels as though it might make him appear more formidable. "I think you must have forgotten to whom you are speaking. The last time I checked, I was the parent here."

"I know who I'm speaking to, and I know that if Jonathan is not welcome in your home then neither am I." The authority she managed probably surprised them both.

His disbelieving laughter might have continued had her stern face not made the lack of humor abundantly clear. "Martha," he gasped. "You're joking. You couldn't possibly mean..."

"Oh, I'm very serious. This isn't just about Jonathan, dad. This is about you trusting my judgment, and if you can't do that, if you plan on controlling every decision I make for the rest my life, then I think I have a few priorities to rearrange."

At his wounded expression, she lowered her eyes. "I love you, dad, but you can't live my life for me. You've lived your life on your own terms. You've made your choices. You can't make mine, too. I have to make my own. Jonathan is a wonderful man. You'd know that if you gave him half a chance."

He considered her words, then nodded. "You're right. I can't make your choices for you, but you are my daughter, and I want what's best for you. Do you honestly believe that this small-town boy with his even smaller future is the best you can do?'

It wasn't exactly water into wine, but at least he was listening. A sudden surge of self-assurance prodded her on. "He's not just 'the best I could do.' You always said you could tell a lot about a man by what he keeps closest to him. Or did you mean how much money? Jonathan works hard, very hard. And he's been there for me when I've needed him. If you expect me to follow the advice you give, maybe you should try following it yourself. I just want you to give him a chance. Is that so much to ask?"

"No, I suppose it isn't," he conceded, with only a small grain of humility. "Look, why don't you tell Jonathan to come by my office for a few minutes tomorrow. Let me get a good look at this young man, all right?"

"You promise you'll be fair to him?" she asked, suspicious.

"Of course," he said, a little too agreeably, before he took her arm and they started back inside.

----

"He wants me to what?"

Martha made her way to her chair at the other side of the table and set her books down. The library was even more bustling than usual. Students drifted by, bookbags slung over one shoulder, the look of weary dread that always accompanied pre-holiday exams screwed firmly onto their faces. Jonathan wore that same expression, but with different cause. "Come on, Jonathan, he just wants to start over, get to know you better. I think it's a good sign."

"Of the apocalypse, maybe," he replied, his lips set in a grim line as he dropped his books next to hers.

"I know how you feel but-"

"No," he interrupted, drawing out the word for effect. "My father likes you. He's probably already naming his grandchildren as we speak." He took a seat, pulled his glasses from his shirt pocket, and hooked them over his ears.

Martha sat across from him, her long skirt tucked neatly under her legs as she flipped haphazardly through pages of text, not really looking for one in particular. "My father will like you, too, once he knows you the way I do."

Jonathan looked up at her, his incredulous stare saying what he did not.

"All right, maybe not exactly the way I do, but-" There was a but in here somewhere. She just had to find it. "-but he'll see what a great person you are."

He glanced in her direction, adjusted his glasses, and shrugged. "All right," he sighed. "If it's that important to you, I'll go. But if I come back missing an appendage, I hold you responsible."

"Jonathan." The disapproval with which she said his name had become a gauge one could use to judge how well they had negotiated a pressing issue as of late. Last week, bored and looking for any diversion that came into his mind, he'd asked whether, technically, it would be more correct to spell woman with a "b" since it made more sense that they were "man with womb"-- to which she had rolled the name and her eyes, telling him to stop his procrastinating and finish his article summary on women in American history.

"Okay," he sighed heavily, "I'll be good."

-----

The office was purely functional, with very little frill, but neatly kept. Numerous plaques decorated the walls. Three filing cabinets and several book-filled shelves stood to his right. But there were no plants, no touches of home, no ornamental pieces, save for the single family photo that sat cattycorner on the large oak desk at the center of the room.

"Jonathan. Have a seat. I'm glad you could make it on such short notice. I see your attire is, for the most part, unchanged, though. Denim must be the keystone of your wardrobe," the older man observed as he strolled past and sat behind the desk between them.

" I do have to go straight to work after leaving here, and I won't have time to change," Jonathan explained, tugging self-consciously at his shirt-cuffs before sitting in the obscenely over-cushioned business chair to his left. A few quick glances surveyed the room for all possible exits, then darted back to the man in front of him.

"Oh, yes, a working man. Well, that's a start. What exactly do you do?"

"Well, sir, I help to run my family's farm, and when I'm not doing that, I'm at school or my part-time job, which is really just a paycheck at the moment."

"But you still find time to see my daughter."

The comment was more an accusation than a statement. But then, Jonathan was no fool. He knew that whatever the reasons William Clark had given his daughter, this meeting was about more than pleasantries and general social etiquette. He had just hoped to be wrong.

"Yes, sir, I do," he answered evenly and shifted slightly in his seat. "There are things in life you make time for, when they're important enough."

If Mr. Clark was aware of his discomfort, he gave no indication--only sat back in his chair, folded his hands together, and touched them thoughtfully to his chin. "And you plan to continue to do so?"

"Yes, sir."

"I see. Well, I suppose I can't blame you. Martha is a remarkable young lady. Any man would be a fool not to recognize that."

Jonathan nodded and some of the tautness that had crept its way up his spine and across his back began to ease out of his shoulders. For a brief moment, he thought perhaps there was a chance that they could find some common ground.

"But-you would agree that sometimes even the best intentioned individuals aren't always the most compatible people, would you not?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Take Martha and yourself, for example. You seem like a decent enough fellow and yet, where will you be ten years from now? On a farm, working dawn to dusk while she did what? Gardened, barefoot and pregnant?"

"Martha--she--she can-- I would want her to do whatever made her happy."

"In Smallville? Tell me, what plethora of opportunities have you come across in your quaint little community? Do you really believe she would be happy playing housewife or taking odd jobs here and there? How long do you think it would be before she grew bored and resentful toward the man that brought her there to waste her life? Hypothetically," he quickly amended.

Jonathan straightened and mustered what composure he could manage. "Hypothetically, I think whatever Martha chooses to do with her life, it's her decision to make. And whatever I may or may not be doing, it will be something I'm proud to put my name to. That's something I can promise you."

If looks could freeze, Jonathan would have surely been in serious danger of frostbite just then. William Clark had probably been "put in his place" by very few people, and most likely never by someone who wasn't old enough to order a stiff scotch over legal papers.

"That may be, young man, but it's a funny thing about choices, though. They're not always right." Weighted quiet hung in the air before,"Well, if you will excuse me, I do have business to attend to. It was good to officially meet you--after all this time," he added coolly. He stood and circled to the front of the table, then offered an obligatory hand, which Jonathan viewed with as much enthusiasm as one would a dirtied handkerchief, and reluctantly grasped.

"Thank you for your time."


TBC...

[angelfire east]

Great update! Can't wait for more

[kjournalist]

yes an update, i loved it!

[smlvilleluva]

yay for updates! very good.... definitely worth it!

[VanishingPoint]

Ah, Martha showing more of her strength! Wonderful! You add little details, like Jonathan straightening his shoulders, that really put a reader in the room with the characters.

And you've portrayed William Clark excellently. With him, everything's a battle to be one regardless if it ultimately proves to be a Pyrrhic victory.

Thanks and keep up the good writing!

[Lynxjet]

Awww more great chapters.. Go Martha!! put daddy dearest in his place!! I look forward to more of your wonderful story.

Lynn

[Renee28]

Originally posted by VanishingPoint
And you've portrayed William Clark excellently. With him, everything's a battle to be one regardless if it ultimately proves to be a Pyrrhic victory.

Ooh, nice analysis, VP!

And nice job, Smallvillian. But you knew that.

[Smallvillian]

Eight-thirty. Martha watched the clock more closely, as though that might change the fact, but the evil thing wouldn't compromise an inch. It was eight-thirty, and she hadn't heard from Jonathan or her father. The latter wasn't unusual. Business dinners weren't uncommon. But Jonathan? She'd been certain he would have called by now.

She sat on the sofa in the study, next to the phone, and pretended to be uninterested in the object of her concern. Of course, she could call him, but that might give the wrong impression. Besides, if she didn't talk to him tonight, she would see him tomorrow, and she could survive until then. Right? That theory was well on its way to being tested when she realized she wasn't alone anymore.

"Martha, honey, I'm sure everything is fine." Her mother was standing in the doorway and made her way over to the couch. "Your dad may be stubborn, but he's fair," she said gently, sitting and placing a hand on her daughter's knee. Martha looked down at her mother's hand, but found little comfort in it.

"A few days ago I would have believed that, but I'm not sure anymore, mom."

Sarah Clark looked sympathetically at her daughter. "You know he's always been so protective of you. I'm afraid that comes along with being an only child, but it doesn't mean he's not trying. No father wants to lose his daughter, and no boy is ever good enough. You might as well know that right now, darling."

She shook her head but didn't look up.

"I'll talk to your father. Maybe I can lead him off the war path," her mother said encouragingly. "In the meantime, how about letting this young Mr. Kent show his face around here?"

Martha finally smiled, grateful for the kindness with which her mother spoke of the man she'd never actually met. Her mom had yet to say much else, really, except that she was sure Jonathan must be quite something to have gotten her father so out of sorts. And even though she never said it out loud, Martha suspected that her mother was a true romantic at heart. At least she had one ally she could count on.

"Thanks, mom. I know Jonathan would thank you, too, if he were here."

"You know, you never did mention how the two of you met."

"Well, it wasn't really a big deal. I just asked to borrow his finance notes, and he said 'yes.'"

That was almost the end of that particular avenue of thought until Sarah's eyes narrowed. "Wait. Weren't you the note-taker for that class?"

Martha blinked a few times and opened her mouth to respond, but at precisely that moment, the phone rang. She grabbed for it--nearly knocking it to the floor.

"Hello?"

Jonathan's "Hey, sweetheart," was audible to both women. She looked back at her mother who mouthed: "I think I'll go," then tiptoed out the door, closing it behind her.

"Hey, I was just thinking about you."

"I'm always thinking about you."

She could almost hear his impish grin as she cradled the phone closer to her ear and settled more contentedly into the sofa, offering her best sultry, "Really?"

His answering light but hearty laughter told her he enjoyed her willingness to play. "Oh yeah, in fact, I'm doing it right now."

She smiled, forgetting for a moment that he couldn't see the reaction, then laughed and added an eager, "So how did everything go?"

"It went fine."

Okay, that might have fooled some people, but her well-trained ear hadn't missed the half-second pause and the tad too-happy pitch in his voice that was a fair indicator that he was hiding something. She sat forward and twirled the phone cord around one finger.

"What did he do?"

The blunt seriousness of her question caught him off guard, and the line went quiet for a few moments. "Nothing. We just discussed some things." His nonchalance only raised her suspicions further.

"Things," she repeated flatly. "What kind of things?"

"You worry too much, you know that?"

Redirection. Ah, she knew it well. What law student didn't? It came right after the sections on jury sympathy and the artful use of reasonable doubt. She herself was a master of the technique. And she was certain that she had detected a hint of tell-tale reluctance from him.

The truth was, he couldn't hide something from her any better than she could from him, but he seemed more or less unscathed by the day's events. She supposed that was enough to be thankful for.

"I'm just making sure all body parts are accounted for--all ten fingers, all ten toes," she said, allowing the levity back into the conversation.

"Oh. Wait. Hold on, let me check." She laughed again at the sound of the phone actually being set down. A few rustling noises later and his voice returned. "All present and accounted for," he reported. "Hey listen, I was um...I was thinking. You know Christmas is next Thursday, and I was thinking maybe Wednesday, you could come over for dinner--if you don't have other plans."

That was a quick change in topic, wasn't it? But she surrendered to it. Christmas was one of her favorite times of the year, ever since she had been a little girl. The lights, the music, the way that for one month everyone was just a little bit nicer to their fellow man. The world seemed just a little more cozy, like sitting around a crackling fire on a cool winter's night. And this year, for her, it could be even better.

"Well, actually, my parents celebrate on Christmas Day so my Christmas Eve is open. But won't your parents mind? I don't want to be an imposition."

There was more soft laughter. "Are you kidding? My mom makes enough food for ten people--besides, I already asked her about it, and she said she'd love for you to come. I'm sure the two of you will find time to sneak off and discuss any number of my embarrassing childhood traumas," he joked. "Then there's Little Joe. He may begin to feel neglected if you're not here, you know. So will you come?"

"Little Joe? Mr. 'Don't call me Jon-boy'? You're nicknaming my poor, innocent calf after a character from Bonanza?"

"You could say that--or you could say: 'Yes, Jonathan, I'd love to come. '"

She giggled helplessly. "Yes, I'd love to come."

***

"Hey, dad? Do we need anything else for Wednesday?"

"No, son, we're set," Hiram answered, weary of the question. "Your ma's already preparing the vegetables. If you really want something to do, you could go on in there and snap some peas to make sure they're all the exact same size," he added drolly.

Jonathan hopped down from the truck and looked back at the farm house, apparently giving the matter some serious thought. Hiram Kent chuckled to himself and rolled his eyes. "We don't need a thing, son. Stop fretting so much and get over here."

He shot his father an annoyed look, sure the man was taking far too much pleasure in his son's personal torture. "I just want everything to be nice," he said crisply, and grabbed a bale of hay from the back.

"It will be. Besides, I hardly think that dinner is the reason she's coming all this way."

Jonathan stopped and took a step back but said nothing. After a moment of thought, he continued toward the barn again. When he returned for another bale, he still had the same pensive expression. All at once, he dropped the bundle and blurted out, "What do you think about Martha and me?"

Hiram stared back at his son, slightly confused. "I told you, I think she's a very nice girl."

Jonathan frowned. "No, that's not what I mean. I mean--" He struggled, searching for what it was he wanted to say-- "I mean, do you believe two people who come from different backgrounds can still be happy together? Or would their differences eventually get in the way?"

The older man put his hands on his hips and studied his boy. "Well now, I suppose that depends on the people," he began cautiously. "For some, they don't like change and can't ever get past it. For others, change is a street to be traveled like any other road in life. If you're asking me which one of those people I think Martha is, well, I'd guess her to be a traveler. But then, you would know better than I would, I suspect."

Jonathan took the information and examined it carefully, turning it over in his mind, this way and that. "So you think we could make it work."

Hiram nodded. "If you have a mind to. Every relationship has its challenges. Nobody's life is perfect, Jon-boy, but if you work at it, if you're sure of what you want, nine times out of ten you can work things out."

That received a lopsided half smile. "I think so, too." Surprisingly, when the two weren't in the heat of a bitter argument about school, football, or the farm, his father could actually offer valuable insight. A bale of hay gripped in both hands, the younger man hesitated a second, then two, and dropped it to the ground. "Thanks, dad," he said hurriedly, followed by a quick pat on the back and grip around the shoulders-- a reaction which obviously surprised his father.

"Oh, go on." Hiram shrugged off the affection with a self-conscious grunt. "It's about time you realized I've got more between my ears than the wind. Why don't you go on in the house. I'll finish this up. I wouldn't want anything to be out of place when your lady friend gets here. It's a whole two days away, after all. Go tell your ma I'll be in shortly."

Jonathan grinned and yanked off his work gloves, shoving them in his back pocket. He sprinted toward the house, leaving a smiling Hiram looking proudly after him.

***


"Drop that cookie." His mother spoke firmly, pointing a commanding finger at her son. Jonathan, who had been moments away from sinking his teeth into the peanut butter snack he held in his hand, dropped it back onto the plate with a disappointed face that could have given any three year old a run for his money.

"Just one?"

"No, sir. Where's your dad?"

"He's finishing up outside. He should be in soon." He sat himself at the kitchen table and rested his chin in one hand while absently tracing imaginary designs on the wood with the other. "Do you need any help?"

Jessica Kent didn't looked up from the bowl she stood over, slicing celery with a deft hand. "I'm doing just fine, thank you," she said happily. Jonathan had thought that would be her only comment until she added, "Have you spoken to Martha today?" Her attempt at seemingly completely casual conversation might have been successful, except that he could see the slight upward turn of her lips.

Mothers. Always so enamored of their boys' love lives-- or maybe that was just his mother.

"Yeah, I'm gonna pick her up Wednesday afternoon."

"Any special plans?" she asked, trying to sound just as uninterested as before and only managing to be less convincing.

Jonathan, whose gaze had drifted while he thought of the days to come, turned his head in her direction, and watched as she pretended to be more interested in celery than his response. "I suppose so," he said, sounding just as distant.

For the first time since the start of their conversation, Jessica looked up at her son. "All right. I can take a hint. I'm not one to pry," she replied innocently.

"You, mother? Of course not." That got him a well directed scruff of the hair as she passed by. He chuckled and leaned backward in his chair, setting it on its back legs.

"Oh, you. Go hurry your father along, smarty pants," she scolded teasingly and returned to her work. He smiled again, with a mischievous glint, and snatched a cookie from the plate on the table before he left.



It was almost dark. With one hand, he guided the screen door open and stepped outside. "Dad?"

The only sounds to answer him were the beginning chirps of the night creatures and the call of the many farm animals in the distance. "Dad, are you out here?" He ventured further out toward the barn but stopped when he saw the truck--only the truck, with one bale of hay still sitting in the back. An uneasy twinge pricked the edge of his consciousness. His father would never leave a job undone...

"Dad?"

His steps quickened, then stopped short when a prone form became visible just beside the vehicle. "Dad!"

Suddenly his feet couldn't carry him fast enough.