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 away? 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...