Книга - Endless Chain

Endless Chain
Emilie Richards


With the warmth and comfort of a handmade quilt, Endless Chain explores the intricate patterns of family and community, and the threads that bind them together.?Sam Kinkade is finally feeling at home as a minister in rural Toms Brook, Virginia, content with his life and Shenandoah Valley congregation. But his plans to welcome the area's growing Hispanic community are being met with resistance. Fortunately, when the church-run community center is threatened, a stranger named Elisa Martinez walks through his door and Sam realizes he has found a woman capable of building bridges.Elisa isn't looking to make connections. She has come to Toms Brook to hide. But despite her fears of discovery she is enchanted by the beautiful work and the friendship offered by the women who invite her to join their quilting circle. And even though she fears the consequences for both of them, she finds herself powerfully drawn to Sam, and to a generations-old love story rooted in the town's past.Will she and Sam repeat the past, or can they find the love and the freedom they seek at last?







With the warmth and comfort of a handmade quilt, Endless Chain explores the intricate patterns of family and community, and the threads that bind them together

Sam Kinkade is finally feeling at home as a minister in rural Toms Brook, Virginia, content with his life and Shenandoah Valley congregation. But his plans to welcome the area’s growing Hispanic community are being met with resistance. Fortunately, when the church-run community center is threatened, a stranger named Elisa Martinez walks through his door and Sam realizes he has found a woman capable of building bridges.

Elisa isn’t looking to make connections. She has come to Toms Brook to hide. But despite her fears of discovery she is enchanted by the beautiful work and the friendship offered by the women who invite her to join their quilting circle. And even though she fears the consequences for both of them, she finds herself powerfully drawn to Sam, and to a generations-old love story rooted in the town’s past.

Will she and Sam repeat the past, or can they find the love and the freedom they seek at last?


Endless Chain

Emilie Richards




www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Contents

Chapter One (#u11dc369e-f104-5406-844f-c3fc3707bd8f)

Chapter Two (#ubbea0d80-6156-54bd-84ea-76e4be6b01f2)

Chapter Three (#uad357741-d950-5c35-8df5-0a8703b7f06a)

Chapter Four (#uf081348d-6f23-5703-a387-9ad4bd3195d4)

Chapter Five (#u4ba6845d-90d8-5964-b33b-39e7410fbb5f)

Chapter Six (#uefcf6615-ef84-5be6-b53c-898d20b97a84)

Chapter Seven (#u48df7e26-8e6b-50c5-af9b-ade861cef450)

Chapter Eight (#u6a862eb9-fc1a-57c7-b09b-bd11282a53a7)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)

EXCERPT FROM LOVER'S KNOT (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One



Shenandoah Community Church Wednesday Morning Quilting

Bee and Social Gathering—August 6th



The meeting was called to order at 9:00 a.m. in the quilters’ beehive. Helen Henry suggested (once again) that we change the name of our group to SCC Bee and be done with it. She insists that reading the heading of the minutes takes most of our business session. To please Helen, who lacks patience, we agreed to drop “Morning” from the written notes, beginning next week.

Cathy Adams brought a quilt top for show-and-tell in the Chinese Coin pattern, using oriental prints. (Peony Greenway noted politely that Cathy paid too much for them.) We will begin quilting the top after Labor Day, when we hope to be finished with a lap quilt of appliqued Autumn Leaves, which will be a gift for Martha Wisner.

Helen agreed to stay after the bee and help Cathy square up her quilt top so that the finished product won’t look like it was quilted by “drunken sailors.” Please note the quotation marks. I am only the scribe.

Kate Brogan brought her two youngest children as guests. After Rory jumped on Cathy’s quilt top, Chinese Coins will need all the help Helen can give it. The meeting was adjourned soon after, and those bag lunches that survived Rory’s karate demonstrations were shared among the quilters who remained.

Sincerely,

Dovey K. Lanning, recording secretary



“SO...” ANNA MAYHEW looked up from one of her tiny, even stitches and wiggled her eyebrows to signal what was to come. “I hear Chris-tine Flet-cher—” she punched all the syllables “—is coming for the fundraiser tonight. What do you suppose she’ll wear to the party?”

“The heck with what she wears,” Dovey Lanning said. “Let’s talk about where she’s going to sleep.”

“There is a child under the quilt frame.” For the life of her, Helen Henry couldn’t figure out why she had to remind the others. At the moment little Rory Brogan was banging the floor at her feet with a picture book of talking bunnies that his mother had given him to read. Kate Brogan was nothing if not an optimist.

“Rory!” Kate, an attractive thirty-something brunette, vacated her chair and dragged her son out from under the frame. “Go outside and play on the slide. Now.”

Rory protested. “I was killing germs. There are a million germs under there!”

“He just learned about germs in preschool camp,” Kate apologized. “Knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

“These were ninja germs!” Rory insisted.

“I believe I saw those very same ninja germs escaping into the play yard,” Anna told him. “And if you don’t stop them there, they might get all the way to the road.”

Rory’s eyes brightened. He had shiny dark hair and eyes that matched. He was a wiry child, one part willfulness, two parts energy, three parts resolve. Today he was wearing a white “gi” and the yellow belt he had earned the previous week in his Tai Kwon Do class.

Helen didn’t like children, of course. But she had to admit that this one had spunk.

The silence thrummed once Rory had left for his search-and-destroy mission, and everyone inhaled it gratefully. In the hour since their short business meeting, there had been precious little silence. The “Beehive” in the walkout basement was cramped. Once it had been the nursery, before the church’s expanding baby population had been moved into a brand-new wing. Several months ago the quilters had commandeered the tiny room for their own use. It was just wide enough for a quilting frame and several comfortable pieces of furniture along the wall, but it was filled with light from windows overlooking a fenced-in play yard and an expansive parking lot. And it was all theirs.

“I could just stay home,” Kate volunteered when they’d all recovered a little. “Until Rory’s in school full-time.”

“Don’t you dare.” Cathy Adams patted Kate’s shoulder. She was a warmhearted grandmotherly woman, a former insurance agent who was now reaping the benefits of an excellent 401K. Cathy was the least accomplished quilter among them, but she was learning fast.

Peony Greenway cleared her throat. Peony’s self-appointed job in the group, and in the church in general, was to smooth out trouble spots. “Rory adds something to the mixture.” She paused for effect. “And by the way, on that ‘other’ subject, I know for a fact Christine will be sleeping at the Inn at Narrow Passage. She has a room reserved through the weekend.”

“You called to check?” Dovey asked.

“Of course not!” Peony realized Dovey was teasing and relaxed her spine a millimeter. “Reverend Kinkade mentioned it, that’s all. He asked if the inn was a good place for Miss Fletcher to stay.”

“So Sam wanted the word to go out that they aren’t sleeping together, in case any of us have narrow little minds,” Cathy said.

Almost nobody but Peony called the Shenandoah Community Church’s present minister Reverend Kinkade. It was hard to imagine their jeans- and T-shirt-clad pastor with a title that formal.

“Narrow minds, Narrow Passage...” Dovey inclined her head toward the door, which was propped open so Rory and his younger sister, Bridget—who was napping in an overstuffed armchair in the corner—could run in and out at will. “Narrowing window of opportunity for gossip.”

In the fenced-in play yard, Rory could be heard screeching. Soon he would be back inside to make a full report.

“Sam and Christine have been engaged for years,” said Anna, ever the amateur psychologist. “To me, this signals major conflicts in their relationship. Why hasn’t he married her?”

Helen thought Anna’s logic was mostly wishful thinking. Sam was a charismatic charmer who attracted females the way the trumpet vine against her barn attracted hummingbirds. At forty-four, Anna was at least ten years too old to be a contender, but she still had a crush on the minister. Sometimes Helen wondered if Sam’s “engagement” was merely a tool to keep young women in the congregation at arm’s length.

“He hasn’t married Christine because she doesn’t like the country, and she doesn’t like us.” Dovey leaned over the quilt, stretched taut on a wooden frame, and squinted at a row of stitches.

Satisfied, she looked up. “Christine Fletcher is a hothouse gardenia, and we’re a wilted bunch of black-eyed Susans. That’s a fact.”

“As if this church isn’t filled with government retirees who have seen most of the world up close and personal.” Cathy fumbled under her chair for the water bottle she always carried and uncapped it for a big swig.

“Maybe so, but those folks came here for the country life and took right to it. Look at you and that husband of yours. Keeping bees, goats...whatever else do you have?”

“Last I heard, Alf was looking for a couple of alpacas.” Cathy capped her water bottle. “Pretty soon I’ll be scared to go out my own door.”

“Was a time not so many years ago in these parts that farming was deadly serious.” Helen looked up from her perfect line of stitches. “And nobody was from anywhere else.”

“Must have been pretty boring,” Cathy said.

Helen humphed, but she supposed not all the changes in Toms Brook, Virginia, were bad ones.

“Back...to...Chris-tine!” Dovey shook her head in disgust. “I swear, this group leaves a subject faster than a hawk swoops off a tree limb.”

Peony glared at her. “What else do you want us to say?”

“Is Sam going to make an honest woman out of Christine or not? And if he ever does, will the two of them be leaving for the big city? Because I don’t think Miss Chris-tine Flet-cher sees herself as a country pastor’s wife.”

“Can you see Miss Christine Fletcher playing the organ or teaching Sunday school?” Anna laughed.

“Well, we need a new sexton,” Dovey said. “There’s dust everywhere. Maybe she scrubs floors?”

Rory chose that moment to streak through the doorway and into the room, skidding to a halt at his mother’s side. The accompanying war whoops woke Bridget, whose whimpers escalated with his shouts.

“Ninjas!” He grabbed Kate’s arm and tugged. “Ninjas! I saw ’em!”

Kate disengaged herself, then turned and put her hands on her son’s shoulders. “You woke up your sister, Rory. How many times have I told you not to shout?”

“Ninjas!” To his credit, the excited little boy tried to lower his voice, but he danced from foot to foot. “A whole truck of ninjas. Two trucks. All dressed in black. They’re coming back!”

“The trucks were dressed in black? Or the ninjas?” Cathy teased.

Rory’s excitement gave way to a frown. “I don’t think I can fight ’em all.”

“Just take them one at a time,” Helen advised. “Tell the others to wait their turn.”

That seemed to make sense to the little boy. He wriggled out of his mother’s grasp and turned back to the play yard. In an instant he had disappeared again.

“When he wins the Academy Award, we’ll all say we knew him when,” Cathy said.

“At least he’s never bored.” Kate got up to rescue Bridget, who stopped whimpering immediately and rested her curly head against her mother’s shoulder. “Maybe I’d better call it a day. I’m not going to get anything else accomplished. Maybe I can get a sitter next week and stay longer.”

Helen rose and stretched a moment. At eighty-three, she was too old to sit in one position for long without turning to stone. “Quilt’s almost done. Martha will like it. Darn shame her mind is going, but at least she still remembers most of us.”

The lap quilt, with appliqued leaves in autumn colors, was to be a gift for Martha Wisner, who had been the church secretary for many years. She had moved into an assisted living facility several years before and was now in the nursing home wing. Martha’s memory was slipping fast, but whatever form of dementia she suffered, she did not seem unhappy. She was always glad to see visitors, whether she remembered them or not. The quilters had chosen the pattern because Martha had loved fall in their Shenandoah Valley. Helen had hand appliqued the top as a reminder of better times.

“If we stay another hour, we can get it finished, then Helen can take it home and bind it,” Anna said. “Unless you want me to do that?”

Helen shook her head. Everybody knew Anna had no color sense. Her stitches were even, points matched perfectly, blocks were square. But Anna’s fabric choices were legendary. Helen was afraid if Anna picked out a binding, the earth-toned leaves would forever be rimmed in shocking pink.

“No, I’ll do it,” she said. “You’re planning to go to that silly Mexican fiesta tonight, aren’t you? I’ve got nothing but time these days.”

“Ninjas!”

This time everybody turned to stare at Rory, who was jumping up and down in the doorway. Before Kate could shush him, there was a crash from the front of the church. The women looked at each other; then, as one, they hurried to the windows overlooking the broad expanse of parking lot that led to Old Miller Road in front of the church.

Teenagers were pouring out of two pickups that were parked within inches of each other. One of the trucks was nose first against an ancient sycamore that anchored the lot. Helen hoped the trucks had collided with each other and not with the tree. As she watched, a group of three boys, dressed in dark jeans and dark T-shirts, started toward the new sign the congregation had erected and blessed that very Sunday, a sign that had already caused its share of controversy within the church community.

One of the boys took a playful swing at the other, dodging and feinting with apparent good spirits. But high spirits or not, Helen didn’t think they were up to any good. They were quickly joined by a fourth boy. That one was carrying a sledgehammer.

“We’d better stop them,” she said. She turned and found her path blocked by a small athletic body.

“Nin-jas!” Rory singsonged. “I—told—you!”

* * *

Elisa Martinez was as accustomed to walking miles every day as she was to the sound of her new name. Weeks passed when the reality of her present life seemed to be the only reality she had ever known. Her legs were strong, and no matter how far she had to walk, she was seldom winded. The name flowed off her tongue, as if she had been born to it.

This morning, though, she was tired and growing discouraged. The Shenandoah Community Church sat on a country road as muddy as it was long. As she had walked Old Miller’s length, she’d skirted so many ditches and puddles she’d probably traveled an extra mile. She had been warned that the previous summer had been dusty and dry, and she should be glad for the rain. She understood rain well enough, but she was learning firsthand the perils of a personal relationship with it.

This morning the air was oppressively humid in preparation for a new storm. The sun was directly overhead, peeking out from coalescing clouds just frequently enough to taunt her. She could see her immediate future. First she would bake, then she would drown. There was little chance she could hike back home from her interview in time to miss the downpour, and she had little protection except a lightweight plastic poncho she carried in a small backpack that doubled as a purse. If the rain started soon, she hoped the church pastor would let her stay inside until the worst of it ended. If it ended.

From the top of the last hill she had glimpsed a steeple, and she knew she was nearly at her destination. She had spent most of the walk trying on “Elisas” for this interview. The stakes were too high to give this less than her best. She needed this job. She could not thank a God she no longer believed in for making it available, but she was grateful that coincidence had gone her way. Now if this brief streak of luck would simply hold.

She reviewed her credentials. She was slight, but she was strong. That would be important to show. She must not appear over- or under-qualified. She must seem accessible, but not chatty. Intelligent and resourceful, but not above menial labor. Interested in the church, but never nosy.

She needed to explain that she would willingly work long or late hours without sounding desperate or pushy.

She needed to tell as much of the truth about herself as she could, so that she would not be tripped up in her own lies.

Old Miller Road curved sharply as she descended the last hill, and when she rounded it she saw the church just a hundred yards in front of her. Like so many of the area churches, it was white, with a tall steeple gracefully in proportion to the building. The roof was dazzling tin; the wings that jutted from either side had been designed to harmonize, not detract. Lovely old trees dotted the grounds; a garden of some sort lay against one side, and as she neared, she saw roses in bloom, despite August’s moist heat. Someone cared about those roses—and cared for them.

She wondered if gardening would be part of the sexton’s job, and she tried to remember when the roses had been pruned at the home she had shared with Gabrio. When had they been fertilized and watered, and how had they been selected? Now she wished she had paid more attention.

She was fifty yards closer before she noticed the two trucks in front of the church, parked beside a white sign. At first she merely noted their presence, but as she drew closer, she saw there was more to note. Much more.

A group of half a dozen boys—high-school age, she thought—were gathering near the sign, which stood about twenty feet to the right of the front door. The boy in the lead, just a few feet ahead of the others, was swinging what looked like an axe. She heard shouts, profanity and forced high-pitched laughter that shattered her preoccupation with the coming interview.

Her pulse sped; her hands grew damp. She stumbled to a stop. This scene was too reminiscent of another in her past, the same high-intensity, testosterone-fueled prequel to violence. For a moment she wondered if she could escape without being seen. Then she read the sign the boys were clearly bent on destroying, and something inside her snapped.

“Stop it!” She was running before she had time to think. Not away, which would have made sense, but directly toward them. “¡Sinvergüenzas! ¿Qué andan haciendo?”

Perhaps the boys weren’t as brave as they’d thought. Perhaps they were only interested in a new and more personal victim. Whatever their reasons, they stopped and turned to watch her approach. She slowed to a halt just in front of the sign, reaching it before they could.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in English. She glared at them, burying all lingering fears where they could not be seen. She knew these boys, had met them a hundred times in a hundred different places. She was too well acquainted with pack mentality, wolves in jeans or soldiers’ uniforms, men and boys who could forget what made them human as long as they stood shoulder to shoulder with others like themselves.

Oh yes, she knew these boys and how dangerous they could be.

The boy in the lead was narrow-shouldered and hipped, with a shock of light brown hair falling over his eyes. He had the soft cheeks of mid-adolescence, a tiny cut on his chin, perhaps from inexperience with shaving. For a moment he looked uncertain, as if he might consider leaving if everyone would just shut their eyes so he could slip away.

Then his expression hardened. “Hey, chica, who do you think you are?”

She wondered what B movie he’d watched for that bit of Spanish.

“Get away from there before you get hurt,” he said when she didn’t move.

“You would hurt me over a sign? A sign in front of God’s house? You’re not afraid He’s watching, waiting for you to make a better choice?”

For a moment fear flickered in his eyes. Her own gaze flicked to the boys behind him, then back to his. “They’re not worth it,” she said in a softer voice. “They want you to take the risk while they watch. What kind of friends are those?”

“Go back to Mexico, cunt!” one of the boys shouted. “We don’t need your kind here.”

“Maybe you do,” she said, not taking her eyes from the boy with the sledgehammer. She was glad it was not an axe, as she’d first feared. “Maybe you need a reminder this is a welcoming country, that your own grandparents or great-grandparents might have come from somewhere else.”

“Just do it!” one of the boys in the back shouted at the leader. “Just smash it and let’s get out of here.”

“I’m not going to let you,” Elisa said, as calmly as she could. “And I’ve seen you, every one of your faces. If you damage this sign, I will remember and describe you, one by one.”

The boy in the lead looked torn. His thoughts were easy to read. If he was arrested, someone in his life would not be happy about it.

She lowered her voice and hoped what she had to say was just for his ears.

“I have a brother. I know it’s hard to stand up for yourself, but you have better instincts than this. I know you do.”

“Yeah, Leon,” one of the closer boys said. “You have girly man instincts. Even the Mex can see it.”

As if propelled by those words, Leon stepped directly in front of her, as if he planned to walk right through her. She put her hands against his shoulders and shoved. He stumbled backward, clearly caught off guard. She took that brief moment to move backward to the sign and stand firmly against it. “You will have to hit me first,” she said. “Are you willing?”

“That’s enough! What is going on here?”

None of them had noticed the approach of a man dressed in a blue polo shirt and khakis. The boys turned as the man bore down on them, and, as one, they stepped backward. Leon moved away so quickly Elisa could feel a breeze.

“Leon Jenkins.” The man moved to stand just in front of the boy and grabbed him by one shoulder. “Let’s hear an explanation.”

“Get your hand off me.”

“When I’m good and ready.” The man reached out, twisted the sledgehammer from Leon’s hand and tossed it on the ground behind him.

Elisa heard voices and turned her head to see a small group of women approaching from the direction of the parking lot. She slumped against the sign, sure now that she was out of danger.

“Just what is going on?” one of the oldest of the women demanded.

“Some of the local youth were planning to renovate our new sign,” the man said. His voice was low and controlled. He still sounded furious.

The other boys looked at each other, then whirled and took off for the pickups.

“Stay out of their way,” the man told the women. He didn’t take his eyes off Leon, who was squirming and clawing at his hand. Only when the pickups were out of sight did the man’s hand fall to his side.

“Exactly why?” he demanded.

The boy backed away, but he didn’t run. Where could he go now? Clearly he would be caught and humiliated further if he tried.

Elisa saw the boy’s fear and his realization that nothing good could come of this. She was unaccountably moved. Now she saw a boy, just a boy like her brother, and no longer a threat. She stepped forward and rested her fingertips on the man’s arm. “He didn’t hurt me,” she said. “Not even when I pushed him away.”

“He might have tried.”

“No, it was the sign he wanted.” She turned to the sign now and read the words out loud. It was an ordinary church sign, announcing the times of services and the name of the minister. Only the last sentence, in Spanish, was at all unusual. “Todo el Público es Bienvenido a los Servicios de La Iglesia Comunitaria de Shenandoah.” The Shenandoah Community Church welcomes everyone to its services.

She shook her head. “You welcome everyone. A thoughtful gesture to put the words in Spanish? But controversial because you’ve targeted the Latino community? There are those who would prefer we go elsewhere?”

“Jesus ran into the same problem,” the man said.

Elisa turned back and addressed the boy. “But you’re sorry, aren’t you? Because I don’t think you really feel that way, do you? You just made a mistake today.” She lifted a brow and cocked her head to prompt his answer.

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and thrust back his shoulders. He looked as if he was going to argue; then he slumped. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Guess?” the man demanded. “Your father’s a deacon in this church, Leon.”

“So? He hates the sign worse than I do.”

“But you’re old enough to begin thinking for yourself.” Like the boy’s, the man’s posture became less defensive. “Shall you tell your father, or shall I?”

“He hates your guts.”

A muscle jumped in the man’s jaw. “If anything happens to that sign, I’ll report this incident to the police. You can tell your friends they’d better stay away, unless they’re here to join in church activities. Then they’ll be welcome. Otherwise, at the first sign of vandalism anywhere on these grounds, I’ll hunt them down and have a little chat with their parents and yours. Understand?”

The boy gave a curt nod.

The man gestured toward the group of women watching on the sidelines. “You’ve got a long walk. I suggest you get started. None of these ladies is planning to give you a ride home.”

The boy took off at a fast clip along the route that Elisa had just traveled.

Only then did the man turn to her. For the first time she had the opportunity to really take stock of him. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was the color of darkly roasted coffee, his angry eyes a blue so intense they were the most arresting feature in an immensely attractive face.

“Thank you.” He held out his hand. “Sam Kinkade. I’m the minister.”

She had already guessed that. She extended her hand. “Elisa Martinez. I hope I’ll be your new sexton.”

They stared at each other longer than politeness called for. In those unexpectedly charged seconds, she warned herself of a hundred different things. The incident with the boys had left her shaken and vulnerable. This man might well be her new employer. She was lonely and worried about getting this job. The talk of police had frightened her. Adrenaline was pumping through her body.

And still, if she subtracted all those things and added in years of hard-earned caution and the fact that she could not afford even the briefest foray into romance, she was still left with a strong attraction to Sam Kinkade.

“Well, go ahead and hire her right now, preacher,” one of the women, the oldest, demanded, moving closer. “What other proof do you need that she can do the job? A signed statement from the Almighty?”


Chapter Two



SAM TURNED TO the old woman and managed a smile. His anger was just beginning to fade. He was not easily provoked, but by the same token, he was not easily placated. “Thank you, Helen. I’ll take your recommendation into consideration.”

“You do that, and don’t you try to humor me. I saw the whole thing. We could use somebody around here who takes matters into her own hands. If she’s not scared of that gang of teenage thugs, she won’t be scared of a little dirt.”

Sam walked over and slung his arm around Helen Henry’s shoulders, steering her back toward the church, which was not an easy job. She was a big-boned woman in her eighties, but she still knew how to do a day’s work. The church had been a far more boring place before she started coming regularly, and before the quilters organized and commandeered the Beehive.

Sometimes he was nostalgic for boredom.

“How’s the quilt coming?” He knew this subject would take them all the way inside.

The other women started heading inside. He walked back to Kate Brogan, who was standing ten yards behind the others, and he scooped the flailing Rory out of his mother’s arms and set him on his hip, leaving Kate with only shy baby Bridget.

Sam paused a moment and turned to Elisa Martinez, who was standing exactly where he had left her. He was struck, as he had been a moment ago, by how gracefully appealing she was. She was average height and slender, wearing a simple white blouse and black pants. She had shining dark hair clipped back in a ponytail that fell past her shoulder blades, creamy toffee-colored skin, and eyes so darkly liquid and expressive that he had felt himself going down for the third time in just the seconds he had stared into them.

He shoved his mind back into gear. “Do you mind following us inside? We’ll do the interview in my study.”

Cathy Adams, one of the quilters, waited to walk with Elisa. When he saw they were bringing up the rear, he made his way through the lot and the play yard into the Beehive. He deposited Rory in a corner after a brief man-to-man chat about ninjas and sledgehammers, said a few words to each of the women, genuinely admired the quilt stretched out on the frame, and finally motioned for Elisa to follow him upstairs.

He was in marginally better spirits by the time he closed the Beehive door and they started for the steps. Beside him, Elisa was silent.

They were upstairs and on the way to his study before he spoke. “No sign is worth risking your safety for.”

“I’m not sure what came over me.”

He wondered if that was true, or if she knew very well and wasn’t going to acknowledge it. He unlocked his door and ushered her inside, leaving the door open, as he usually did. He did not like enclosed spaces, and today the church secretary, who was usually at the desk in the next office, was out of town for the rest of the week.

“I’m sorry your first visit to our church started that way.” Sam motioned to the leather sofa that sat in front of two large windows looking out over the rose garden. While she seated herself, he noticed that yesterday he had forgotten to put away the wheelbarrow after he dumped a load of compost to be spread. He made a mental note to do it later, then asked himself why he was avoiding looking at Elisa. He was not a man who was uncomfortable with women. His fiancée, Christine, with her blatant sex appeal and choke hold on femininity, had never intimidated him in the least.

“I’ve encountered prejudice before,” she said.

“I’m sorry for that.” He made himself look down at her. “Under any circumstances there would have been resistance, but as you probably know, there’s some troubling evidence that Hispanic gangs have moved into the area. Peaceful, sleepy Shenandoah County.” He shrugged. “That’s set off a backlash.”

She was smiling softly. “Let’s find a subject that doesn’t make you feel sad. Or guilty.”

He relaxed a fraction. “Iced tea.”

“Iced tea as a subject?”

“Would you like some?”

“Very much, if it’s not too much trouble.”

He was grateful for something to do. He left for the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two glasses. “The staff goes through gallons of this every week. Whoever drinks the last glass has to make a new pitcher.”

She took the glass, then a sip. “I can do that.”

He had debated where to sit. She had left him a full half of the large sofa, and there was a table just in front of it with room for his tea. It was the obvious choice.

He sprawled over his half. “So...” He considered where to start.

She solved the problem. “Elisa Martinez, thirty-three. Like every Spanish-speaking friend I have made here, I am not a gang member. I am well acquainted with cleaning products, mops and brooms, and the need to clean the men’s urinals more often than the ladies’ toilets. I’ve been working the late shift as a nurse’s aide at the Shadyside Home in Woodstock, but last week my shifts were cut to two because the aide I replaced is returning from maternity leave. If you hire me, I promise that won’t interfere with my work at the church. On those mornings I can start here as soon as I’ve finished there.”

He didn’t speak, and she went on. “My supervisor will be glad to write a reference, or she’ll be glad to talk to you.”

He had already noted that her command of the English language was as good as his own, but there was a trace of an accent, a musical elongation of vowels, the slightest flipping of r’s, a trace more formality, that he found charming. As an employer, he had to ask the next question. “Were you born here?”

She shook her head. “Mexico. A little village in the south.”

“Are you a citizen?”

She reached in the front pocket of her black slacks and produced a card with her name and photo for him to examine. “A permanent resident. My not-so-green card.”

He scanned it, then nodded. She slipped it back into her pocket and waited.

“It’s hard work.” He sat forward and reached for the tea. “There’s a lot of lifting and moving. You’d be required to set up and take down tables and chairs for any meetings or events, and this is a busy church. That would be in addition to heavy cleaning and minor repairs. It’s tedious, and the hours are long. The pay isn’t great.”

“I’ll manage just fine. I lift patients in and out of bed, move beds and furniture, push wheelchairs uphill. I’m used to hard work.”

Sam thought she must be made entirely of muscle, then, because there wasn’t much to her other than the gentle swell of breasts and hips.

“Do you have a car, Elisa?”

She straightened a little, and he knew she had been waiting for this. “I don’t own a car, no. But I have two good legs, and friends with cars at the park.”

“Park?”

“I live in the Ella Lane Mobile Home Park, near the nursing home. I live with a friend and her two children. Adoncia has a car, and so do others nearby. Much of the time I would have a ride.”

He calculated that distance. At least four miles, probably more. He was about to shake his head when she stopped him by raising a hand.

“I walked here today. There was a storm about to break, but I came anyway. I wasn’t late, and I wasn’t too tired to face down your deacon’s son. Wouldn’t you rather have a sexton with determination and no car than one with a car and no work ethic?”

He sat back. He sipped his tea and watched her.

She fiddled with her glass—still nearly full—then she leaned forward. “I don’t mind long hours, and I don’t mind hard work. I don’t gossip and I don’t complain.” She sat back. “I also know when to stop talking. I’m easy to have around.”

He thought that last part might be the hardest to deal with. He was acutely aware of this woman already, and they had only just met. He was caught between doing what the law required—in this case choosing the best candidate for an advertised position—or following his best instincts, which told him that temptation was best avoided, no matter how strong or sure he was of his own power to resist it.

“I haven’t told you everything,” he said, buying time. “We have a new program here, and it might be what set off those boys. The sign is part of it, and it means more work for the sexton.”

She took a long sip of her tea. Her self-control had already been noted. He imagined she was thirsty after the long, hot walk. “Tell me about it,” she said, when she’d finished.

“I’ll show you.” He turned and peered out the window. “Normally I’d show you the church first, but it’s pretty straightforward. A sanctuary and social hall, classrooms and meeting rooms. We’d better do this now, before the rain begins. Then I’ll find you a ride home.”

“I—”

He didn’t let her finish. “The quilters will be leaving about the time we’re done. Someone will be happy to do it.”

“Reverend Kinkade, it will not be your job to find transportation for me. Managing that is a small thing, but it will be my small thing.”

He rose. “It’s Sam. Finish your tea or bring it along. It’s only a short walk.”

* * *

Elisa felt the first hesitant drops of rain as they exited the building through the rose garden.

“The roses aren’t happy with all this moisture,” Sam said. “I use natural sprays to keep them from succumbing to blackspot, but every time I plan to spray, it rains. And when I do spray, a storm comes up the next day and washes it right off.”

“You take care of the roses?”

He shot her a smile, a friendlier smile than she’d seen, but one that still maintained a certain distance. If he was setting boundaries now—and that was how she interpreted it—then perhaps he was seriously considering her for the job.

“It’s not in my job description, but I promised our building and grounds committee if they would help me prepare the plot and plant the bushes, I’d do the maintenance. We use the garden for weddings. This is a very popular spot in June and September, but mostly they’re there for me to enjoy every day. Just don’t tell anybody I said so.”

She was relieved the sexton was not expected to take care of the roses, but it brought up another subject. “Is the sexton expected to do any work outdoors?”

“Marvin—he’s our present sexton—starts each morning with a cleanup of the grounds, just trash and such. We use professionals for mowing grass and raking leaves. One of our deacons...” He gave a humorless laugh. “Leon Jenkins? The boy with the sledgehammer? His father, George, has a landscaping business and provides services for us at a reduced rate, which probably means that he pays his men less when they’re here, so his own profit isn’t affected. The way his crew changes from week to week, it’s pretty clear he hires whoever he can find that day and pays them under the table.”

“Undocumented workers?”

“That would be my guess. Our board believes it’s up to George to stay abreast of the law, and they accept his assurances he’s in compliance.”

She knew from his tone that he didn’t agree with the board’s choice. Resolutely, she changed the subject. “Do you mind telling me why Marvin is leaving? Unless it has nothing to do with the job, of course.”

“As simple as a better paying job. He’s juggling both right now, but the church is suffering. We need someone who can start training right away.” He glanced at her. “Could you start immediately?”

“I was hoping to.”

She had been paying attention to his words; now she paid attention to their destination and felt excitement build. They were headed toward an old frame farmhouse painted lemon-yellow. It was set back from the church, at least an acre to the northwest. A narrow gravel drive snaked to the front porch from the road, between a grove of oaks and maples that hid the house until visitors were almost on top of it. The house itself sat in a field of Queen Anne’s lace and brilliant blue chicory, black-eyed Susans and puff-ball dandelions. The effect was charming.

She had seen the house before, of course, visited it late one night and stood in front of it to imagine its history and the people who once had lived here. On that night several months ago the house had been a sad gray and far more dilapidated. Now it was a proud buttercup blooming in a field of admirers. In front of it was yet another sign.

“La Casa Amarilla,” she read. “Good choice for a name. Very definitely a yellow house.”

“What do you think? Did we overdo on the paint?”

She stared at the house and thought it was as welcoming as outstretched arms. “It’s a happy house. Is that what you hoped for?”

“Exactly.” He stood beside her, gazing up at it. “It used to be the parsonage. Don’t tell anybody, but I like it better than the one I live in down the road. In the fifties, when the church built mine, a three-bedroom ranch house was every working man’s goal. Farmhouses with history and character fell out of favor, and little brick boxes with narrow windows and air-conditioning fell in.”

“I’m sure somebody would remove your air conditioner if you complained.”

He gave a small laugh. “And I won’t.”

The raindrops, scattered at first, were falling a little faster. He put his hand on her arm to nudge her forward. “Let’s go in.”

The house was narrow, but the porch was deep enough for several old rockers. She imagined former occupants rocking away the twilight here. “You haven’t told me what you use it for now.”

“Besides experimenting with shades of yellow paint?”

“Besides that, yes.”

He pulled a tennis-ball-sized clump of keys from his pocket and used one to open the door, standing back to usher her inside. “Come see.”

She stepped in and waited. He left the door open—for fresh air, she supposed—and flipped a series of switches that filled the house with light. The front room just beyond the tiny entryway where they stood was small, but comfortably furnished with sofas and chairs covered by bright red slipcovers.

There were computer desks lining one wall, three of them, each with what looked like a new computer in place. The old wood floor was covered by a bright circular rag rug. Posters in primary colors filled the walls. She saw that each one was a humorously illustrated vocabulary lesson.

“Weather, flags of Europe, telling time...” She walked along the wall, looking at each. “Colors...seasons, opposites. I like this one.” She pointed to a poster with barnyard animals in funny hats. “But won’t the children think that a cow is only a cow if it’s wearing a baseball cap?”

“I’m hoping that won’t be a problem.”

She smiled back at him. “La Casa Amarilla. You’re teaching English lessons to Spanish-speaking children?”

“It’s more diverse than that. I’ll tell you as we go.”

She followed him into the kitchen. The room was large enough for a round pine table flanked by six mismatched chairs. Bright green cushions unified them. The center of the table was taken up by a plastic caddy filled with art supplies. She picked up a felt-tip marker, one of dozens in a variety of colors. “The art room?”

“Also the snack room and the place where we’ll teach nutrition basics. Come see the dining room.”

The dining room was no longer for dining. Four small tables sat in the middle of the narrow space, and bookshelves lined the walls and stood under two windows. Each table was large enough for four small children. Some of the books looked new; some looked as if they had come from a rummage sale.

Sam stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, as Elisa silently scanned the titles. She chose one to leaf through as he spoke.

“One of our members works as a school administrator here in the county. One day we were talking, and he told me what a disadvantage Spanish-speaking children have when they enter the local schools. There are more of them each year. The schools do what they can, but it’s not enough. He told me that without extra help, the kids just can’t catch up and keep up, and not because they aren’t bright. Because they need an extra boost with the language and the culture.”

“So you decided to start your own program?”

“We’d been debating what to do with this house. Our former church secretary lived here until a few years ago, but no one has lived here since. It needed too much work to continue as a rental. Some people wanted to tear it down and build a four-unit apartment as extra income for the church. Some wanted to sell the house and property. Of course others thought we should preserve history, not sell or destroy it.”

“History?” she asked, curious as to how much he knew.

“It’s a very old house. Pre-Civil War, at least the main portion of it. The original family and their descendants lived here until the 1930s, when they sold their farm, and the church was built on what was once their front cornfield.”

She was glad, very glad, that the developers in the congregation had not won out. “You were one who didn’t want to tear it down?”

“I convinced our lay leaders that using the building as an outreach program for local children would be the best use of the property.”

Judging from the incident with the sign, she was certain that had not been a battle without casualties. But Sam looked like a man strong and determined enough to weather them. “And it has been successful?”

“We open once school opens. We’ve spoken to the authorities, and they’ve promised to put us in touch with the parents of all the children who can use our help. The school will bus them here if the parents sign permission slips. We have two donated vans we’ll use to take them home at the end of the afternoon. We have a dozen tutors who have signed up to take shifts, a Catholic nun who has agreed to supervise, and a retired Presbyterian minister who is coordinating transportation and communications with parents.”

She was impressed. “So many different churches?”

“It’s our building, but it’s the community’s project. You should have seen how many people turned out on the weekend we painted. People on the roof, people clearing away badly overgrown shrubs, people scrubbing floors.” He seemed to think better of his enthusiasm. “I’m sorry. It’s a subject close to my heart.”

“Do the tutors speak Spanish?”

“Unfortunately, no one speaks much. We’re hoping that will change as the community gets more involved. I’m working hard on mine. Right now, if any child needs to know where the bathroom is located, I can direct him in his own language. That’s about it. For good or for bad, I’m afraid it’s an English immersion program.”

She spoke before she had time to think. “Puedo ayudar cuantas veces me necesiten.” She bent and placed the book back on the shelf.

“My Spanish must be better than I thought. You just said you wished I would dye my hair green and hire out my services as a belly dancer.”

She laughed. “I said I could help any time I’m needed. I think that’s a good example. There will be moments when fractured Spanish and good intentions might not be enough. I would be happy to translate.”

“Be careful what you volunteer for. We say yes with alarming frequency.”

She straightened. “So it’s part of the sexton’s job to clean La Casa?”

“Just a lick and a promise once a week, which is all we can afford. The volunteers will do some of it. I suspect I’ll do some of it, too. But even the little the sexton will do extends the job. And you haven’t seen the rest of the church plant. There’s a lot of work here, Elisa.”

She didn’t have the job yet. She knew it and wondered how to convince him. “If I were a man, would you warn me so many times...Sam?”

“No.”

“Then you shouldn’t do it now. I’m capable and willing, and I have excellent references. I hope that’s what you remember when you make your decision.”

He looked at his watch, then back at her. “Let’s go find that ride. In a couple of hours a horde of caterers and volunteers are heading this way. There’s a party tonight, a Mexican fiesta to raise money for La Casa. It’s something of an unfortunate afterthought, which is why it’s on a weeknight, and it’s going to be chaotic, especially if the rain continues. You’ll want to escape all the prep work. I wish I could.”

She followed him out, and he locked up. She had said she knew when to be silent, and she did. She didn’t speak, and neither did he. She hoped he was using the time to favorably consider her application.

When they approached, the quilters were already coming out to the parking lot. Sam stopped just short of the asphalt.

“Are you working at the nursing home tonight? Or would you be free to come back about seven-thirty to talk to Marvin and shadow him for the rest of the evening?”

“I don’t work tonight. But either way, I could be here.”

“We’ll talk again, after you’ve had a chance to see everything the job requires and I’ve had time to organize applications.”

For the first time she felt real hope that she was going to be hired. Only a small part of her found her own reaction ironic. The part that was not Elisa Martinez seemed to shrivel with every decision she was required to make.

Several yards in front of them, a woman in a blue sundress got out of a car parked near the others. Sam saw her and gestured. “That’s Tessa MacRae, Helen’s granddaughter. Helen is the woman who insisted I hire you. I’ll ask Tessa to give you a ride. She won’t mind.”

Elisa had made her statement on the subject. Later they would have to deal with his need to take care of her, but for the moment she was not sad to be offered a ride. The rain had stopped, but she was afraid it had only stopped to gather forces.

Sam started across the lot, and she followed, skirting puddles. They stopped beside Helen and her granddaughter, who was admiring the quilt Elisa had seen earlier on the frame.

Sam greeted both women, kissing Tessa on the cheek before he introduced Elisa. “Elisa walked here, and she insists she doesn’t need a ride out to the trailer park on Ella Lane, but I’m insisting otherwise. Would you mind?”

Elisa spoke up. “Only if it’s no trouble. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

“I’m taking Gram into Woodstock to buy groceries. I’m sure we go right past the turnoff,” Tessa said.

Elisa liked Tessa’s voice, which was modulated and low. She was an attractive woman, with brown hair as long as Elisa’s own and a thin face with wide cheekbones. She looked tired, and as they stood in the lot, she put her palms against her back and swayed, as if to minimize pressure. For the first time Elisa realized she was pregnant. The sundress, which fell from a high yoke, had hidden it.

There was no time to say anything else. A car sped into the parking lot and pulled into a slot several spaces away. Elisa had never been interested in cars, and she was only rarely able to tell one from another. But this was a sports car, low-slung and elegant. The door opened, and a shapely leg appeared, followed by the body to go with it.

The woman who emerged was nearly as tall as Sam, with dark-red curls that fell past her shoulders, a carefully painted megawatt smile, and white shorts that stopped just shy of revealing. As she approached she was preceded by a scent that Elisa could only recognize as expensive. Nothing about the woman was cheap, although the overall effect flirted with it.

“Sam.” She went to him and kissed him. The kiss wasn’t long enough to embarrass anyone, but long enough to stake her claim. “I took a taxi to Chevy Chase and borrowed Jenny’s Viper so I wouldn’t have to rent some old wreck at the airport. You remember Jenny O’Donnell? Senator O’Donnell’s daughter? What do you think?”

She didn’t give him time to answer. She turned to the others. “I’m Christine Fletcher.” She held out her hand to Tessa, then to Helen. “Sam’s fiancée.”

“We’ve met,” Helen said dryly. “I’ve lost count how many times.”

“I am so bad with names and faces,” Christine drawled. She turned and thrust her hand at Elisa. “But I know I haven’t met you. I would remember that lovely hair. I’ve wished for hair like that my whole life.”

“Elisa Martinez.” Elisa put her hand in Christine’s and felt the strength of the other woman’s grip. She also felt something cutting into her fingers. When Christine withdrew her hand, Elisa noted rings, one on each finger except the little one, each with a different flashy gemstone. Her eyes flicked to Christine’s left hand, where a modest diamond resided on the ring finger.

Elisa wondered if the rings were a message of sorts. The English expression “on one hand” seemed to have been coined for the situation. On one hand Christine Fletcher was a woman of obvious wealth. On the other the fiancée of a man of moderate income.

“I’m here for the fiesta.” Christine pressed one hand against her chest and lifted the other in the air as she swivelled her hips. “Let the festivities begin.”

“Me, I’ll be home binding this quilt,” Helen said. “Let’s get to it, Tessa.”

Tessa inclined her head toward Elisa. “Are you ready to go?”

Elisa glanced over to see that Sam was watching her. From the corner of her eye, she noted that Christine was watching him.

Tessa said goodbye for both herself and her grandmother, then took Helen’s arm.

Sam spoke. “Elisa, if you have any questions tonight, just find me and ask away.”

“I will. Thank you.” Elisa followed Tessa and her grandmother, and gratefully escaped.


Chapter Three



“SO WHO’S THE Mayan goddess, Sam?”

Sam helped Christine out of the tricked-out Dodge Viper, the likes of which the simple brick parsonage had never seen. “Elisa has applied to be our new sexton.”

“Sex-ton?” She raised one shapely brow. “Are we getting right to the heart of the matter, honey?”

He pulled her close and kissed her hair. Her body was warm and soft against him, and his reacted accordingly. “It’s not like you to be catty.”

“Hey, I’m just marking my territory like a good pussycat. She’s a head turner. Even the preacher man noticed.”

“The preacher man is not immune to a beautiful woman, but he’s committed to another one.”

Christine lifted her lips for a luxuriant kiss, then she put her arm around his waist, and he led her up the flagstone walk. “She is beautiful, but I’m not worried. She’s not your type.”

“You could have fooled me.” Sam said it as a joke, but he realized he was still annoyed at his attraction to Elisa and concerned it might get in the way of his decision whether to hire her.

She punched him lightly. “You like a woman with education and plenty of style.”

“And you think those are the things that attracted me to you?”

“What else do I have to offer besides sex, and somebody else could deliver that? I’m not good minister’s wife material. You know God and I have an understanding. I don’t pay Him much attention if He promises to return the favor. We get along, but we’re not bosom buddies.”

“You’re a better person than you think you are.”

“And that’s why you want to marry me? The strength of my character?”

He didn’t have to answer. They had been engaged for almost four years, through better and worse times, the latter of which said enough about her character to impress him. She knew it.

He returned to the subject of Elisa, hoping he could talk his way to a decision. “I’ve had four applicants for the sexton’s job, and we’re getting desperate. Two are men with questionable work histories. The other won’t take the job unless we raise the salary substantially. Then there’s Elisa, with good references and a willingness to work hard. She walked to the interview from her mobile home park, and that’s four, maybe even five, miles away. She’s determined.”

“She lives in a trailer?”

He imagined Elisa’s home, even new, had not cost as much as the Viper Christine had borrowed so carelessly.

He tried to tamp down a surge of annoyance. “She’s poor. So what? That means very little, Christine.”

She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “I smell a sermon coming on.”

They had reached the front gate. He had installed a picket fence hoping it would keep Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in check whenever they escaped through the front door. Shad and Shack, canine mixtures that probably included Irish wolfhound and St. Bernard, sailed over it with enthusiasm. Bed, a tiny rat terrier, simply stood at the gate and barked incessantly. Now there was a chain link dog run in the back for those rare moments when the dogs weren’t under his direct control.

“No sermon,” he promised, “and end of subject.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve replaced the dogs with something a shade more refined?”

“Like a porcelain cocker spaniel?”

“You know me so well.”

“Not as well as I hope to again.”

She nudged his hip with hers. “Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder?”

He unlocked the front door. Their sex life, or lack of it, was no longer a subject of real debate. He was a heterosexual male with all the requisite urges. They had been lovers in the days when their wedding date was on the calendar and their invitations at the printer. But now that the date was long past and the invitations interred at a Georgia landfill, they no longer made love.

When he didn’t respond she settled her hip firmly against his, brushing it back and forth. “I’m always ready and willing.”

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, temptation was the only thing on his mind. His body responded exactly the way she had known it would. She was not as convinced of the need for abstinence as he was. “How can I talk to the youth group about controlling their budding sexuality if I’m not controlling my own?”

“You’re an old-fashioned man.”

“Who needs an old-fashioned commitment and a wedding date before he takes his woman to bed. And that’s pushing liberal as it is.”

She moved away, and they were no longer touching. “Just for the record, I wasn’t intending to lecture your youth group about our sex life. Or lack of it.”

It was time to change the subject. “Brace yourself.” He opened the door and stood in the opening to fend off his dogs. He thought they were relatively well-behaved for young, slobbering dogs. He loved the three of them unreservedly.

“Nice dogs,” Christine told them, screwing up her face. “Nice pen outside?” she asked Sam.

Christine’s parents, former Georgia governor and congressman Hiram Fletcher and his wife, Nola, had two spoiled shih tzus that Christine adored. Sam was astute enough to recognize the difference.

“I’ll be back.” He whistled for the dogs, who, having ascertained that Christine did not have food or affection to offer, covered the distance to the kitchen in great leaping strides. Or rather, Shad and Shack did. Bed, who weighed all of thirteen pounds, followed as fast as she could.

He returned a few minutes later to the sound of forlorn howls from the dog pen. The dogs were too well-behaved to continue for long.

Christine had made herself at home in his kitchen, and she flipped on his coffeemaker as he entered. He began to open all the windows. “Have you had lunch?” she asked.

“I’m not even sure I had breakfast.”

“I’m starved. I had to be at the airport at dawn. I’ve been up forever.” She opened the refrigerator. “Want an omelet?”

“That’s a lot of trouble. I have some leftovers. I did a stir-fry last night.”

She peeked over the top of the door. “You made it?”

He tried not to smile. “Uh-huh.”

Her eyes widened. “I’ll do omelets.”

He was perfectly satisfied with his own cooking and never understood why others weren’t. There had been a time in his life when the meals he now prepared for himself would have tasted like five-star cuisine.

“I’ll do toast,” he said.

She considered a moment. He could read her indecision. “Christine, I can toast bread, I promise.”

She shrugged and dove back into the contents of his fridge. Sam hoped she wouldn’t remove everything inside. From experience, he knew he would have to replace anything she took out, as well as wash and dry every plate, cup and frying pan. Christine liked to cook, but she did not clean up after herself. She had never needed to and couldn’t see why she should start now.

He thought of Elisa, who cleaned up after anybody who would let her.

Christine closed the refrigerator door, eggs, milk and cheese cradled in her arms. “I checked in before I came looking for you. I like the inn. Quaint and tasteful. I suppose it will keep people from talking.”

Mostly, as they both knew, Christine sleeping somewhere else would keep Sam from succumbing to his fiancée’s considerable charms.

“I’m glad you decided to come.” He took a loaf of bread from the cupboard, a knife from a drawer and a butter dish from the counter. Then he made himself comfortable at the small kitchen table and started spreading butter from one crust to the other.

“I didn’t want to.” Christine began breaking eggs into a bowl. “But I missed you. I don’t see why you haven’t been able to get away and come home.”

He didn’t remind her that Atlanta was not his home and probably never would be again. He didn’t remind her that he had a job that required his presence on weekends. She knew both and chose to forget them whenever the facts got in the way.

“I’m coming to see you next month,” he reminded her. “For Torey’s wedding.” Against his better instincts, he had agreed to help preside at a ceremony in his former church for one of their friends.

“Well, I’m here now. But the whole time I was packing, I thought about that fundraiser Savior’s Church did in the last year of your ministry there. Do you remember?”

He remembered all too clearly. At the time he had been the assistant minister of The Savior’s Church, one of Atlanta’s oldest and most influential congregations. He had given an invocation that had prompted the wealthiest members to fund a fledgling television ministry. Just two months later, they had begun televising their early-morning service, at which he almost always presided. The church’s membership had increased substantially because of it.

In case he didn’t remember everything, Christine hit the high points. “City Grill catered the dinner. We had Kobe beef and smoked trout. We flew in the Preservation Hall Jazz Band for entertainment.”

He remembered that part too well. The African-American members of the band had been in a distinct minority that night.

She flicked on a burner and reached for his one and only frying pan on a rack above the stove. “I wore an outrageous red dress by Zac Posen. He was brand-new on the runways back then, and I knew he was going places. The air reeked of politics. Daddy introduced you to Sam Nunn during dessert. Daddy told him that one day you would be the next Georgia senator named Sam.”

He waited until she was clearly done, using that time to slip the bread onto the rack of the tabletop toaster oven. “I suppose the point of this trip down memory lane is to draw a contrast between that night and the one to come?”

She faced him, her back against the stove as the pan heated. “A Mexican fiesta, Sam? In some damp field in the middle of nowhere? To raise money for what? Books and crayons for immigrant kids? It’s a noble cause. I hope you get enough money to buy crayons in every color of the rainbow. But this isn’t where you belong, and you know it.”

“Don’t you mean it isn’t where you belong?”

She didn’t deny it. “That, too.”

“You didn’t have to fly in for this. I didn’t expect it.”

“Sometimes I want to shake you silly. Are you trying to misunderstand?”

“Chrissy, I may not have left Savior’s Church of my own accord, but I have a job here, and I’m grateful after everything that I do.”

“And I’m not.” She turned back to the stove and poured the beaten egg mixture into the pan. From this angle her wild red hair hid her shoulders, but he knew they were hunched in frustration.

He rose, went to her and put his arms around her, resting them just below her generous breasts. For a moment all he wanted was for things to be the way they once had been.

* * *

Elisa appreciated honesty, even if she no longer practiced it. Two minutes into the trip back to the trailer park, she knew she liked Helen Henry. Some people decided late in life that pretense was too much work. They simply said whatever they wanted in the short time that was left them. Elisa suspected this was not the case with Helen. Helen had probably been truthful her entire life and scared away a lot of people in the bargain.

They were only half a mile up Old Miller Road when Helen started expounding on Christine. “Maybe that Christine Fletcher is pretty, if you like women who make ‘pretty’ their life work. She dyes her hair, you know. Nobody’s hair is that color.” Helen said the last in a tone that brooked no resistance.

Tessa, who was driving, resisted anyway. “No, her hair is natural, and she’s stunning. And you were not very nice, Gram. Do you really expect her to remember everybody’s name in between trips?”

“I expect her to try. She doesn’t like us, and that’s a fact. I’m not sure I cotton to Sam Kinkade, you understand, but I did expect better from him.”

“You adore Sam, and she seems pleasant enough.”

“I won’t ask Elisa what she thinks. You can hardly say, can you, girl, when you’re hoping to get a job there.”

Elisa tried not to laugh. “I have no opinions about anything.”

Tessa laughed for her. “We’re going to leave poor Elisa out of this.”

Helen shook one finger at her granddaughter. “You just mark my words. Either Christine will take Sam away from us, or he’ll tell her to hit the road. But there won’t be a wife in that parsonage anytime soon, at least not one with dyed red hair.”

Tessa changed the subject. “Elisa, have you been in the area long? Are you from the valley?”

“No, I’ve only been here six months.”

“What brings you here?” Helen asked.

For a moment Elisa was stumped. Clearly a job had not brought her. If it had, it was unlikely she would be looking for another so soon. If she claimed the reason had been family, then someday she might be expected to produce them.

“A friend invited me to share her home while I looked for work. I was ready to leave...Texas.”

“I would imagine so.” Helen sounded as if she could not conceive of anyone who wouldn’t prefer Virginia.

Tessa slowed at a crossroads, then sped up again. “Do you like it here?”

“I like everything but the rain.”

“It’s not usually like this. Last summer was dry. This summer is wet. Maybe next summer will be just right.”

“Too dry, too wet, just right... Sounds like you’ve been practicing your Three Bears,” Helen said. “Getting ready for the baby.”

Elisa wanted to slip out of the spotlight. She leaned forward. “I couldn’t help but notice there’s a baby on the way. Will it be soon?”

“It better not be,” Tessa said. Elisa thought there was a touch of anxiety in the reply.

“She’s due in January,” Helen said. “And she refuses to find out the sex. And she hasn’t chosen names because that’s bad luck.”

“No, we haven’t chosen names because there are too many choices.”

“Because it’s bad luck,” Helen repeated.

Tessa sped up some more, as if she hoped to distract or drop off her grandmother quickly. “Do you have children, Elisa?”

“I’m not married. My roommate has two. I enjoy them.”

“I never did see the point of babies,” Helen said. “Of course, Tessa’s will be different.” She said this as if Tessa had better make sure of it.

Rain began to fall in earnest, not the teasing harbinger of a storm but the real thing at last. Tessa snapped on her windshield wipers and slowed to a crawl. “I’m certainly glad you didn’t try to walk home in this.”

Elisa was glad, too. She was frightened of storms, although she did not let that deter her from going out in them if she had to. She didn’t have the luxury of giving in to haunting memories or of forgetting why she was afraid.

“You don’t even have an umbrella,” Helen chided.

Elisa looked at Helen instead of the storm outside the window. “In a real storm, an umbrella means nothing. And I didn’t want to carry anything I didn’t need to.”

“Well, we’re almost to the park,” Tessa said. “Isn’t that the turnoff just ahead?”

Elisa saw she was right. The trip was so short, so easy, in a car.

Tessa pulled into the drive leading to a village of less than a dozen mobile homes separated by tiny, sloping lots. One home, just off to the side, had a canopy and a sign in front announcing it was the office, although in truth, little business was ever accomplished there. Some of the homes were fronted by awnings adorned with hanging plants; some had storage sheds; some had a rosebush or flower borders. In a field just yards away a chestnut mare grazed on dandelions and crabgrass.

Elisa pointed to the fourth home on the right, which had a metal awning over a small plywood porch. “Right there.”

Tessa pulled alongside it. “Will they mind if I park under the canopy by the office for a minute? I’m going to get out and clean some mud off the windshield. My wipers aren’t getting it.”

“You need new wipers,” Helen said. “And that’s a fact.”

“No one would mind,” Elisa said. She thanked Tessa, who assured her again it had been no trouble; then Elisa said goodbye to Helen. She got out and stayed on the porch to wave goodbye as they turned and started toward the office, just across the gravel road.

The door was locked, which surprised her, since she had expected Adoncia to be home. To the drumming of rain on the metal awning, she slipped off her backpack and fumbled through it for her key.

Once the door was open, she started inside, but something made her turn, perhaps a noise that didn’t seem to be part of the storm, an instinct. She saw Tessa, parked now under the office canopy, slumped against the side of the car. Elisa leapt off the porch and sprinted across the road. Helen had emerged by the time she got there, and the two of them caught Tessa before she slid to the ground.

Between them they managed to get her to the steps leading up to the office. She was semiconscious, although Elisa thought she had passed out completely for at least a few seconds.

Gently she nudged Tessa’s head toward her knees. “Take a deep breath,” she said. “It will pass quickly. Just stay there until you feel better.”

Tessa made a noise one degree from a moan. Helen was wide-eyed with alarm. “She’s as healthy as a horse. Eats right, does everything right. I don’t know what could be wrong with her.”

“Has she been having fainting spells?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t said a thing to me, and if she’d told her mother, I’d have heard about it, believe me.”

“I’m...fine.” Tessa lifted her head, then rested it on her hands.

Elisa sat beside her and rubbed her back. “Has this happened before?”

“No.” Tessa took a deep breath, but she still sounded frightened. “Something is obviously wrong.”

Elisa weighed silence against her own comfort, but she had little choice. “I wouldn’t worry too much, not unless a doctor tells you to. It could be several things, all minor.”

Tessa looked up. “How do you know?”

“I—I have a sister who had the same thing happen to her.” Elisa smiled her reassurance. “She told me exactly what her doctor said. Iron deficiencies or infections of the inner ear may cause fainting in pregnancy, but most likely the baby is just pressing against a nerve or a blood vessel. None of those things are serious. There’s no danger to you or the baby, but of course you must go in to be checked as soon as possible.”

Tessa looked somewhat relieved. “I thought...”

“She thought she was going into labor and losing the baby,” Helen said bluntly. “And so did I.”

Elisa squeezed Tessa’s hand. “Most likely your doctor will tell you to be sure you change positions often when you’re sitting. Perhaps he’ll point out that since you’ve had this episode, you shouldn’t drive or sit in a car more than necessary.”

“It was a long drive from Fairfax, and I came right over to get Gram.”

“And you weren’t out of the car for more than five minutes when you got to the church,” Helen said. “That’s probably it.”

“See?” Elisa stood. In the moment it had taken her to reach Tessa’s side, she had gotten soaked. Her shirt clung to her chest. “How do you feel now?”

“Fine. I think.”

“Forget the groceries. We’ll go straight home, and I’ll drive,” Helen said. “I still have my license.”

“No, I’m fine now. I’ll be fine,” Tessa said. She stood, as if testing her words. “But I will check with my doctor. Right away.”

Elisa nodded. “Stretch and move around a little before you get back in the car. If you feel even the slightest bit dizzy afterward, let your grandmother drive you home.”

Tessa turned to her. “You’ve been very kind.”

Elisa considered Tessa’s words and the real truth, that this had been more than kindness. She touched Tessa’s arm. “I’m glad I could help. At least a little.”


Chapter Four



THE RAIN STOPPED by three, and the fund-raiser committee went to work mowing the wet grass in front of La Casa Amarilla and raking it into steaming clumps. A crew came to string colorful plastic lanterns from the aging oaks and maples, none of which had ever seen this kind of festivity in their century or more of life in Virginia. Another crew set up tables and covered them with red-and-blue plastic. Yet another set up a temporary platform for a mariachi band they had hired at a discount.

There was little call for mariachi bands in Shenandoah County.

Christine had promised to find her way to the church about dinnertime, when the fiesta would just be getting into swing. At four Sam rolled up his sleeves, and by six he stepped back and took a long look at what they had accomplished. He loved being outdoors, having open space around him, the fresh breeze tickling his skin. He was going to enjoy the evening.

“I’m impressed,” he told the president of his board of deacons, Gayle Fortman, an attractive single mother of three teenaged boys. “Now if the rain just holds off...”

“It’s supposed to.” Gayle’s short blond hair stuck out in a hundred directions, and she had a streak of dirt on one cheek. She had been on ladders for hours stringing lights. Two of her sons had helped and were now wheeling clumps of grass to the church compost bin.

“People will have a good time,” he promised. “Even if we don’t raise a lot of money, this gives everyone a look at what we’ve done to the house. Good feelings will be worth a lot down the line.”

“Not everyone’s happy with this project.”

He knew she wasn’t talking about tonight’s fundraiser. “You’ve been getting calls?”

“Sam, everything you do pisses off somebody. I need a hotline.”

Sam supposed three rambunctious boys taught a mother not to beat around the bush.

“Most of the calls are from perpetual malcontents who weren’t happy we hired you in the first place,” she continued, when he didn’t defend himself. “I suppose they would call if Jesus was the pastor, too.”

“Probably more often. At least I don’t turn water into wine.”

She had a deep, satisfying laugh. “A lot of people are coming tonight. The summer’s ending. This is the final social event before Labor Day. For a last-minute, middle-of-the-week celebration, we did good, huh?”

“It’s a testament to the church’s well-being that when we decided to hold a fundraiser, there were few dates not booked for something else.”

“You do keep things moving. I’ll give you that.”

He took that as a compliment, although it was questionable. “I’ve had four interviews for a new sexton. I’ll be choosing by the end of the week.”

“Good. Marie Watson called to tell me the women’s bathroom was not clean enough to suit her. Twice.”

“She’s only been to church twice all summer.”

“Well, we know where she spent her time when she was here.”

One of Gayle’s sons called her away, and she lifted a hand in farewell. “I’m going home for a shower, but I’ll be back in half an hour. If the caterer doesn’t show up in fifteen minutes, call me?”

He watched her go and wished he had four dozen more just like her in the congregation.

The caterers did arrive, and competently erected grills and serving tables before they began to set out covered bowls of salsas, guacamole and sour cream. The Sunday school superintendent arrived with the largest donkey piñata Sam had ever seen and strung it from an appropriate tree limb far away from where the food would be served.

He slipped home for a quick shower, too, and changed into a colorful shirt and dark pants.

He beat Christine to the party by close to an hour. The mariachi band, dressed in full black-and-gold regalia, was playing a lively version of “La Bamba” when she arrived in an off-the-shoulder white dress cinched at the waist with a wide silver belt.

“The fiesta has begun,” she said, kissing his cheek, then wiping off her lipstick. “And they’re actually in tune.”

She sounded surprised, and he couldn’t chide her. Considering what the committee was paying the band, he had expected the men to take turns strumming one guitar. Instead, seven members had arrived, complete with elaborate costumes and expensive instruments.

“They’re great,” Sam said. “You ought to hear them sing ‘Malaguena Salerosa.’” He hummed a few bars.

“Better them than you.”

People began to come forward to be introduced to Christine. He did his part, and watched her chat with his parishioners and those of the surrounding churches who were helping with La Casa. He had seen Christine in action a thousand times and knew how much more energy she was capable of expending, if she thought it mattered. She was polite tonight, even friendly, but he knew—even if no one else did—that her heart wasn’t in it.

“Fajitas, Sam?” she said, when they were temporarily alone again. “They’re serving fajitas?” She gave a low laugh.

“I’ve eaten four. Come on, I’ll load up your plate.”

“I’ll just take a pass. That’s a week’s worth of calories on a tortilla. Cheese, sour cream, guacamole.” She rolled her lovely green eyes.

“It’s a party, Chrissy. Worth a few fat grams.”

“Plastic lanterns and piñatas do not a party make, sweetie. There’s nothing to drink, is there?”

“Not with children present.” He felt a flash of annoyance that she would make a point of that. They had never served liquor at family functions at The Savior’s Church, either, a fact she was well aware of, since she was the headmistress of the private school associated with that congregation.

She made a face. “I’ll just go see what I can find that’s safe to swallow. I’ll catch you later.”

He didn’t volunteer to go with her. Instead, he wandered over to the tree where the donkey piñata hung. Two dozen children stood in a wide circle watching a blindfolded second-grader swing a plastic bat in the donkey’s general direction.

He was squatting on the ground, surrounded by four elementary schoolgirls who had just finished explaining what they would do with the bounty if they opened the piñata, when someone spoke above him.

“We can safely say it will take dynamite to crack that facade.”

Sam stood to find a cleaner, happier Gayle. “We’re preparing them for a life of frustration.”

“In ten minutes someone will take a chain saw to that thing and be done with it. The kids won’t care, as long as they get the candy and toys.”

“I’ve had a load of compliments on what we’ve done with the house, and a good number of checks accompanied them.”

“Terrific.”

“Sam!”

Over the strains of “Cielito Lindo,” Sam looked for the source of the shout and finally spied one of the deacons, a man in his late seventies named Early Meeks, coming from the direction of the church. Early was tall and completely bald. He drew attention away from the hair he lacked with brightly colored neckties and suspenders. He was a favorite of the Sunday school children, who appreciated his flair for comedy.

Early looked anything but comic now. Sam excused himself and went to meet him halfway.

“What’s up?” Sam asked.

“We have a situation in the social hall.”

“Situation?”

“George Jenkins is here.”

George’s presence surprised Sam. Jenkins was the member of the board of deacons least likely to go along with any good idea. He had opposed La Casa Amarilla from the first, expounding on the need to “pull together” as a congregation, which was George’s own code for “keeping outsiders away.” He had been overruled on La Casa, as he was usually overruled, a fact that made him even more determined to make trouble for Sam. Sam gave silent thanks every time he remembered that George was serving his final months of a five-year term.

“His son was here earlier today,” Sam said. “There was another situation during that little visit.”

“Leon never really struck me as a chip off the old block.” Early nodded toward the church. “But you’d better come quick. George is making threats. We’re trying to keep him out of sight.”

“We?”

As they strode toward the church, Early explained that several partygoers had removed George to the social hall. “I was coming for the party, too. I heard a commotion just inside the front door and went to check. Apparently George doesn’t know the party is elsewhere.” He hesitated. “Actually, George probably doesn’t know much of anything right now. He’s had more than a few drinks tonight.”

Sam was grateful the men had stopped George before he destroyed the good spirit at the fiesta and made more of a fool of himself in the process.

“Maybe if he has a chance to insult me he’ll calm down and we can get him home. How did he get here?”

“His car’s in the lot.”

“He’s lucky he didn’t kill somebody on the way over. They’re lucky.”

“We won’t let him drive home.”

Sam briefly considered calling the sheriff and having George removed from the premises, but the temptation passed quickly. There were better ways to deal with George, both for his sake and that of the church.

They reached the building and entered through a side door. When it closed behind him, Sam could no longer hear the band or the happy squeals of children. They turned down several corridors, ending up in the large room where most social events were held. Sam saw George in the corner by the door, flanked by the other men Early had mentioned. George, in his forties, was not aging well. He had coarse, bulldog features, a perpetual scowl, and a physique that was more out-of-shape wrestler than boxer.

Everyone but George looked uncomfortable. George looked furious.

Sam wasted no time reaching the others. The other men stepped away, leaving him to face the angry man.

“What’s going on, George?” Sam kept his tone carefully neutral.

“You’re...what’s goin’ on, preacher.”

Early had been right. Jenkins was clearly drunk. His words were slurred, his face flushed, and his eyes were not quite focused.

With effort, Sam remained polite. “There’s probably a better time and place to explore our differences. Why don’t I come to your house tomorrow, and we can talk about this all you want?”

“You...’umiliated my boy! Right in front of...of his frien’s...and those damn quilters....”

Sam had guessed this visit was about Leon. He wondered how much of the story the boy had told his father and what his version had sounded like.

Sam explained. “Leon tried to take a sledgehammer to the new sign. I stopped him and sent him home. That’s about it for the facts.”

George took a step closer and stuck his finger in the air near Sam’s nose. “You had no right!”

“George, I was trying to keep the sheriff out of it.”

“I’m gonna get you fired. You see...if I don’t.”

Sam hoped that was all the man needed to say. He saw no point in listening to more. “Why don’t you go home now? One of your friends will drive you. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Sam started to turn away, a mistake he only realized when he heard George’s angry grunt. He whirled back just in time to see a fist coming directly at his face.

Sam was a coal miner’s son. He had spent his childhood years in a Pennsylvania coal patch defending a skinny younger brother from the sons of other coal miners. He did what came naturally. Lifting one arm, he blocked George’s punch, stepping sideways as he did. George, off balance to begin with, stumbled forward and fell to the floor at Sam’s feet.

Everyone stared. George lay as still as a corpse.

“He’s breathing,” Early said at last.

Sam felt only a touch of remorse. He had not punched Jenkins, only blocked his poorly aimed attack. He squatted and put his hand on the man’s neck. Jenkins’s pulse was strong and steady.

“Would that be a new version of turning the other cheek, pastor?” Early asked.

* * *

Elisa waved goodbye to the neighbor who had dropped her off at the church for the evening. She had promised to return when Elisa finished, despite Elisa’s assurances it wasn’t necessary. The Latino families at the park watched out for each other. During her months in residence, Elisa had done her share of favors for some of the young mothers, and the favors had been returned in a number of ways.

The night had turned cooler, and despite the afternoon storm, the humidity seemed to be dropping. She could hear music playing and wondered if her ears deceived her. Someone was singing in Spanish.

“Miss?”

Her head shot up, and she gazed in the direction the voice had come from. A young man—all too familiar—materialized from the deepening shadows at the front of the church.

She took a step backward. “What do you want?”

“Please...” He put his hands out, palms up, in supplication. “I—I’m sorry about, you know, that thing with the sign.”

“Were you waiting here just to tell me that?”

Leon Jenkins—now she remembered his name—shoved his hands in the pockets of baggy jeans. “I—you’ve got to help me.”

“I doubt I have to do anything.” She stepped forward to make up for the ground she’d lost. Anger shot through her as she remembered how vulnerable she’d felt when he’d stood in front of her with a sledgehammer. “And unless you’re really not very smart, you realize there are people nearby, yes? People who will come if I scream.”

“Don’t scream!” He looked around. “I mean, there’s no reason to scream. God, that will make things a whole lot worse.”

“I doubt your God has a thing to do with this. Maybe you ought to leave.”

“But I can’t! It’s my dad. He’s inside. And, well, somebody’s got to help me get him outside so I can take him home.”

She had no idea what he was talking about, and her expression must have said so.

“My dad, he’s, you know, mad at Reverend Sam. Real mad. Furious. I came home all wet and, like, soaked from that walk. And I had to tell him what happened. And I didn’t blame anybody. I told him it was just me being stupid.”

For the first time she noticed a bruise on his cheek. “He hit you?”

“He never hits me. I...tripped.”

She would just bet he’d tripped. Right into his father’s fist. She was beginning to feel sorry for the boy, and sorrier for falling prey to pity.

“Why does somebody need to get your dad and bring him outside?”

“Because he’s drunk, that’s why! And if I go in there by myself...”

Good old dad would hit him again. She saw the fear, and, worse, she saw the love. The boy was worried about his father’s safety.

“Leon—that’s your name, yes?”

He nodded.

“I don’t see what I can do about this.”

“Somebody’s got to do something.”

“I can go find the minister. Maybe Sam will know what to do.”

“No, he hates Reverend Sam. He really hates him. That’s why he came. He says he’s going to find him and show him what he thinks of him, once and for all.”

She wondered if the boy dealt with this problem often. It explained a lot about the way he had behaved that morning.

She debated her role. She had no reason to get involved except one. She liked teenaged boys, understood them as well as any parent, and unfortunately, this one was tugging at her heartstrings.

“¡No cabe duda que jamás cambiaré! Por mucho que juré no volver a arriesgarme el pellejo por desconocidos. ¡Ahí voy de nuevo!”

“What?”

“Short version? I said I’m a fool. But I’ll go in with you and look for your father. What should we say to get him outside?”

“He won’t hit a woman. He never did, not even when my mom said she was going to leave him.”

“Did she leave?”

He nodded. “A long time ago.”

The heartstrings were twanging. Mama had left the young boy to the mercies of an abusive father, and Leon had watched her leave. Considering all this, he was a model of deportment.

“What will he say if I ask him to come outside to look at something in front of the church?” she asked.

“He might come.”

“If he does, will you be able to get him in...” She stopped. “Do you drive? Are you old enough?”

“I drive. I followed him here in the pickup.” He waited. She didn’t answer, just lifted a brow expectantly. “I’m fifteen,” he admitted. “I just have a learner’s permit, but better me driving home than him, right?”

She supposed so. “You’ll come with me?”

“If we get him outside, I can get him in the truck.”

She muttered in Spanish as she opened the front door. She didn’t ask what the boy’s father looked like. She hoped there weren’t too many angry men in the building to choose from. She wandered a minute or two with Leon just behind her until she heard voices. Following the sound, she stepped into a large room and examined a group standing around a man who was passed out cold in the corner.

“Increible...” They were clearly too late, but she started toward the men anyway. Behind her, she could hear Leon breathing hard, as if he was trying not to cry.

* * *

For just a moment, Sam watched Elisa and Leon approach; then he turned to the others. “I think it would be best if you left. He’s going to wake up in a minute, and it’s going to be worse if he has an audience.”

“You’re sure?” Early asked. “I mean, we don’t want him to take another swing at you.” He paused. “Or you at him.”

Sam stared at him without comment, and Early finally stepped back. “We’ll wait nearby. Just in case.”

“It’s taken care of,” Sam assured him. “But thank you just the same.”

The men left by the side door. Sam was fairly sure they would continue to hover there.

Elisa and Leon reached him. Sam spoke before they could. “He took a swing at me, stumbled and fell.”

Elisa stooped and put her fingertips against George’s throat. Then gently—and what looked like thoroughly—she probed the back of his head, his neck and shoulders, running her hands down his arms, then over his back and legs, in a manner he could only term professional. For a moment Sam had the oddest desire to be George, passed out cold on the social hall floor.

She got to her feet. “No obvious injuries. How hard did he hit his head when he fell?”

“He stumbled and pitched forward. He wasn’t standing tall. I think he more or less caught himself. Then he just...dissolved.” He paused. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“What?”

“That kind of examination.”

“I worked at a bar in El Paso. There were a lot of fights.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Leon asked.

“I think he’s going to have un grandísimo dolor de cabeza.” She sighed. “One big headache. Mostly from the liquor.”

George punctuated her words with a groan. He stirred, and in a moment he tried to push himself off the floor. Elisa bent over him. “Mr. Jenkins, are you all right?”

“What happened?”

She looked up at Sam and motioned for him to step away. He was only too aware that his presence would not be appreciated.

“You poor thing,” she said in her musical voice. “You fell and hit your head. But I think you’re going to be okay. Let me help you sit up.”

“Where the hell...am I?”

“Not where you should be,” she soothed him. “You need fresh air for that poor head of yours. I bet it hurts, doesn’t it?” She smoothed her hand over his cheek.

“It hurts...like hell.”

“I am sure it does.”

He rolled to his side, and she positioned herself to help him sit up. With a minimum of fuss, he was soon sitting with his head in his hands.

“You aren’t going to feel any better until we get you some fresh air.” She sounded concerned. “It’s hot in here, not comfortable at all. You need to be comfortable. You deserve it. Let me help you stand.”

He looked up at that point and saw Leon standing a few feet away. Jenkins squinted. “Lee?”

Leon approached tentatively. “Right here, Dad. I’ll help you up.”

“What...r’you doing here?”

“I asked him to help me get you outside where you’ll feel better,” Elisa said in a voice like gentle rain. “He is a good son. He is right here waiting to help you.”

“Always been a good son.”

Sam watched as Leon and Elisa positioned themselves on either side of the man and lifted him as if they had always worked together. He felt helpless, but he knew better than to assist. One glance at him and the fight would all come flooding back.

George hobbled toward the door, stopping once, as if nausea was building. Luckily he seemed to recover. They got him through the door and out into the fresh air. Sam followed at a distance. In only minutes they had George inside an old truck with Leon at the wheel.

“You’ll be okay?” he heard Elisa ask Leon. “You can drive this home?”

“I drive all the time.”

“And you can get him to bed?”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Watch for signs of concussion. Wake him up a few times through the night to be sure. But I think he’s going to be fine.”

She stepped back and slapped the passenger door in signal. Leon gunned the engine, and in a moment, the pickup was gone.

She was still staring at the road when Sam came to stand beside her. “You seem to know how to defuse every situation,” he said.

She faced him. “What is it about this church that there are so many situations to defuse?”

She said it with good humor. He smiled at her, not quite sure how to thank her, not quite sure exactly what he was feeling at that moment.

He didn’t have time to worry about either. Early and the others approached and congratulated them both on their handling of the incident. Sam was sure he would hear more about this—and not necessarily congratulations—in the weeks to come.

“Sam?” Christine joined the growing group at the front of the church.

“You’re okay?” he asked Elisa, before he faced Christine.

“I’m fine. Now I’ll go find Marvin and see what else a good sexton has to do.”

“Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

She nodded.

As Sam whisked Christine off to the side, the others were already embellishing the story beyond recognition.

Christine spoke first. “You punched somebody?”

He wasn’t sure if she was pleased or embarrassed. He suspected she was just sad she had missed the excitement.

“I didn’t punch anybody. I dodged a punch.”

“And Miss Mexican Working Girl helped you?”

He told the story quickly. “Elisa managed to convince him to go home. It’s not as exciting as it sounds.” He changed the subject. “What are you doing out here?”

“I decided to go back to the inn. I’m tired.”

“I need to stay around for a while.”

“By yourself, I’m afraid. I’ve done all the good I can here.”

He was sorry she wasn’t enjoying herself, but what exactly had he expected? That she would fall in love with these people tonight when she hadn’t fallen in love with them in the years of his ministry here? That she would fall in love with the valley and the green hills of Virginia when he wasn’t certain he had?

“Would you like me to go with you to make sure you get back all right?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine.” She touched his cheek, and her eyes sparkled. “After tonight, you’re definitely going to hire that woman, aren’t you?”

“Apparently she can handle anything we throw at her.”

“I guess she’ll be another of your do-gooder projects.” She gave an intimate laugh. “That’s one of those things I love about you. The way you take little wounded birds under your wing and make them all better.”

“Elisa is nobody’s wounded bird.”

“Of course you look for the best in every person and situation. I love that about you, too.”

Sam had known for a long time that Christine did not look for the best. She looked for the most comfortable, the most familiar, the most expedient. Most of the time he was glad of it. She was practical. She kept him on track when he lost his focus.

Still, he knew his intended well. Tonight she was also pointing him along the highway she intended them to travel together and warning against detours into the unfamiliar forests of the soul.

Christine might not see herself as ideal minister’s wife material, but she was reminding Sam that someone like Elisa Martinez was even less so.


Chapter Five



SAM DID NOT believe in putting on a show on Sunday mornings, nor did he believe boredom was conducive to spiritual growth. His worship services were high-energy affairs that made use of the arts to emphasize the simple message that God asked us to love our neighbors and treat them the way we wanted to be treated ourselves.

This was at the core of every one of his sermons. He was less interested in proclaiming ironclad answers to life’s questions and narrowly interpreting scripture. Those who needed a longer list of dos and don’ts, or weekly promises that their way was the only way, had moved on to other churches. For every family he lost, he gained several more.

On the Sunday after the fiesta, he was donning a colorful liturgical stole woven in Guatemala to brighten his somber black robe. His early service had been well attended for one so late in the summer, and a peek into the sanctuary a few minutes ago had confirmed that this one would have respectable attendance, too.

He was wiggling the stole into place and matching the edges when Andy, the choir director, stomped in. He was a young man, flamboyant and outspoken, who, despite impressive credentials, had not been able to find a position in a church near his Strasburg home until Sam hired him.

“They’re murdering the Spanish on the processional! I’ve never heard anything like it.” He flopped down on Sam’s sofa, mock outrage distorting his face. He was a lanky six feet, with a collar-length Prince Valiant haircut colored a stunning orange, and large teeth with a pronounced overbite that made for a spectacular smile. “You’re sure you want us to process to that...that song again?”

Sam was used to Andy’s tirades. “‘Des Colores’ is the official song of the United Farm Workers. Did I tell you that?”

“About a million times. You’d better hope there aren’t any union members at this next service, or they’ll come after you with shovels and hoes. Oh, I got some more rhythm instruments after the last service. Somebody donated them. We’ll march with maracas this time.”

“Good, that will drown out the bad Spanish. God works in mysterious ways.”

“I just can’t believe you keep this job!” Andy got to his feet. “Off to see who shows up to sing. You know, I could have gotten a gig in D.C. They wanted me at the Cathedral.”

“We’d miss you, Andy.”

Andy grinned.

Out in the hallway, Sam was greeted by the dance director in leotards and a tunic adorned with a wide swath of brightly colored fabric. Liturgical dancers were an innovation he had encouraged, and as they headed for the sanctuary, he agreed to smooth out a transition between his sermon and the dancers’ entrance to a recording of “Amazing Grace” played on marimbas. The theme of the day was clear. The celebration of La Casa Amarilla was still in progress.

At the wide double doors leading into the sanctuary, he stood at his place in front of the choir. The sanctuary was nearly full.

As always, he said a short prayer as the organist concluded the prelude. Then he lifted his head and waited for the opening bars of the processional. He felt his traditional mixture of elation that he’d been blessed to stand in front of these good people and fear that he wasn’t worthy.

He realized, as the processional began, that today he didn’t feel sadness that he was not walking down a longer and wider center aisle to the music of the one-hundred-voice chancel choir of Savior’s Church.

* * *

Adoncia Garcia’s home was crowded with toys and furniture her mother-in-law had given her. The mother-in-law, and Adoncia’s two children, Maria, age three, and Fernando, eighteen months, were the only good things to come from her marriage to Fernando Garcia the first, who now rested permanently under a headstone on which his mother was still making payments.

Fernando had been a bad choice for both Adoncia and the woman in whose bed he’d been shot by a jealous boyfriend. Adoncia, who had been courted by half a dozen faithful, hardworking men in her home city of Guanajuato, had been blinded by Fernando’s smile and promises of a better life in the United States. Both the smile and the promises had been lies. Now she was in Virginia, and her family was in central Mexico. For better or worse, her children were U.S. citizens and her home was here.

“Maria, you put away your toys now, so we can get ready to go.” Adoncia demonstrated by dropping Maria’s favorite teddy bear in one of three bright plastic tubs along one wall. “You do it like this.”

Maria complied. She had her father’s smile and her mother’s energy. Elisa was certain the little girl would go far.

“Today is an English day,” Adoncia told Elisa, who had the day off and was letting it unfold slowly for a change. “Today we speak to the children in English only. Tomorrow, Spanish.”

“Does Diego agree to this system?” Diego was Adoncia’s boyfriend, a good-natured, intelligent man who was determined to get ahead in the world. He was the polar opposite of Fernando the former.

“Diego will do anything I say.” Adoncia made a face. “Almost anything. But he will speak English today, or I will not speak to him.”

Elisa dusted the few vacant surfaces as Adoncia moved into the connecting kitchen to do dishes from their late breakfast. She and the children had an outing planned with Diego, something she had looked forward to for days. Adoncia worked five difficult shifts each week at the chicken plant south of Woodstock in Edinburg, while the children stayed with their grandmother. The overly attentive Mrs. Garcia spoiled her grandchildren as badly as she had spoiled her son, but Adoncia made sure they obeyed the rules at home.

Fernando toddled over and raised his arms to be lifted up. Elisa settled the little boy on one hip and finished dusting with the other hand.

“The good thing about a small house is that it takes no time to clean.” Adoncia pulled the plug in the sink and let the dishwater drain out. “I should be grateful for poverty, huh?”

“After Diego moves in, you can save enough to buy a little house of your own. As hard as you both work, it shouldn’t take too long.”

“That’s what he says, only he says big house. He wants a big house for all the children.”

Wisely, Elisa said nothing.

“Many children.” Adoncia began to rinse and dry the dishes she’d washed. “A hundred children.”

“Probably only ninety-five.”

Adoncia laughed. Whenever she did, the responsibilities that weighed so heavily on her twenty-four-year-old shoulders seemed to disappear. Elisa thought her friend was beautiful. She was too plump by this country’s anorexic standards, but she had black hair that curved around her face in shining layers, and warm brown skin she enhanced with bright cosmetics and clothing. It was no surprise to Elisa that Diego Moreno had fallen in love with Adoncia the first time he’d set eyes on her.

“He would keep me pregnant until I’m an old woman, if he had his way. I tell him ‘one baby will show the world what a big man you are, Diego,’ but he doesn’t see it that way.”

“You think he’s trying to prove his manhood?”

“You know a man who isn’t?”

Elisa thought about Sam Kinkade, who twice last Wednesday had been forced to prove his. She doubted he had wanted or relished either experience.

“No,” Adoncia continued, “Diego is determined to show everyone he is a big man. In every way,” she added slyly.

Elisa laughed. “And you’ll be a big woman if you have all those children.”

“Bigger.” Adoncia pulled the elastic band of her pants away from her waist to illustrate. “Much, much bigger.”

Elisa genuinely liked Diego, who often complained of missing his extended family in Mexico, just as Adoncia missed hers. “I don’t really think he wants a large family to prove anything. I think he wants a family to love.”

“The effect is the same. Me, pregnant. Over and over. And he wants it to happen soon.”

This was new information for Elisa. Adoncia had enough stress in her life, and although she was an exemplary mother most of the time, her temper was already too short by the end of the day. “Soon?”

“Marry him, have his baby the next year. No compromise.”

“But you have your hands full, Donchita,” Elisa said, using her pet name for her friend. “He doesn’t see that? Working, taking care of two small children?”

“He says once we’re married I can quit my job, that he makes enough money to keep us happy. But I know better. We will struggle. We need a year, two, maybe even three, to make things right, to save for a house, to get Nando out of diapers. Then maybe we could have a baby of our own, even two. But no more.”

Elisa was sorry to hear that her friends were locked in disagreement about something so fundamental. “Is birth control the problem, do you think? Because there are ways that the church approves of. Not perfect ways, but better than nothing.”

“One of the problems, yes.”

“I hope you and Diego can agree about this.”

“So do I. He wants to marry just as soon as—” Adoncia stopped. “As soon as we’re able,” she finished after a moment.

Elisa realized what her friend hadn’t said. Until Elisa moved out of the mobile home, there was no room for Diego here. Right now Adoncia shared the master bedroom with her children, while Elisa slept in the tiny second bedroom.

“I’m going to look harder for another place to stay,” Elisa promised.

“You are a good friend, and I am in no hurry.”

The debate was interrupted by a crash, then a wail, from the corner by the toy baskets. Elisa spun around to see Maria surrounded by shards of the ceramic lamp that had once resided on an end table.

“Don’t move, Maria,” Elisa commanded, reaching her in three strides. She scooped the little girl against her vacant hip and away from the broken lamp.

“I’m...I’m bleebing!” Maria looked down at her hand.

Elisa whisked her to one of two old armchairs crowded in the corner. Adoncia had reached them, but instead of taking Maria, she lifted Fernando into her arms so that Maria had Elisa all to herself.

“Let me see now.” Elisa gently pried the little girl’s fingers away from her wounded palm. “Oh, it’s not so bad. Just a little scratch.”

“It hurts!”

“Well, yes, that’s good. If it didn’t hurt you might not know you had scratched yourself.”

Adoncia had turned her back on them, supposedly to jiggle the whimpering Fernando, but in actuality Elisa knew her friend got queasy at any sign of injury. Once they had seen a dying robin by the roadside, and Adoncia had nearly passed out.

“Let me get the first-aid kit,” Elisa told Maria. “Then you can help me clean the cut and put on the Band-Aid.”

“I’ll get it,” Adoncia said. She returned from the bedroom she shared with her children and presented it to Elisa, turning her eyes to her daughter’s face. “Ah, Maria, you are very brave. A good brave girl.”

Maria stopped sniffling.

“How did you break the lamp?” Adoncia asked.

“Don’t...know.”

“I bet she got her foot tangled in the cord,” Elisa said. “It would have been easy to do.”

Adoncia addressed her daughter. “I will make you an ice cream cone. Would you like that?”

“Choc-late,” Maria said.

“And one for Nando, too.” Adoncia headed back to the kitchen.

Elisa had the kit open now. She lifted Maria in her arms and carried her to the bathroom to wash her hand with cool running water. Then, back in the living room, she let the little girl guide her as she put antibiotic ointment on the shallow cut and covered it with a glow-in-the-dark SpongeBob Squarepants Band-Aid.

She finished just as Adoncia returned with an ice cream cone in each hand and the broom tucked under her arm. “I will just clean up the mess now.”

Someone knocked on the front door before Adoncia could begin. Elisa got to her feet and swung Fernando into the chair beside his sister. Then she went to answer the door, expecting to find Diego.

Sam Kinkade was standing on the porch. He wore dark pants and a gray T-shirt bearing three monkeys and the words: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for enough good people to do nothing.”

“Amnesty International,” he said, as she silently read the words. “Once I join enough organizations and buy enough T-shirts, I won’t have to give sermons.”

For a moment she didn’t know what to say, but his warm smile—all too rare when last she’d seen him—made him more approachable. “I like it.” She stepped away from the door and motioned him inside. “Please come in.”

“I don’t want to bother you. I just thought—”

“No, please come in and meet my roommate and her children.”

As he stepped inside, she saw the trailer through his eyes. It seemed more cramped, dilapidated, even more crowded with furniture Adoncia thought she could not afford to throw away. The last occupants had knocked a hole in the paneling, which Adoncia had covered with festive strips of adhesive-backed paper. The curtains had been intended for different sized windows and pinned to fit, since Adoncia had no sewing machine.

Elisa made the introductions and explanations, and Sam gravely examined Maria’s hand, despite the fact that it was now sticky with melting ice cream.

“You were obviously a very brave girl,” he said.

She thrust out her cone, to give him a friendly lick.

Adoncia blocked the thrust. “Father Kinkade will not want a bite,” she told Maria.

“Just call me Sam,” he said.

Another knock sounded, and this time Adoncia went to answer it. Diego stepped inside, sweeping Adoncia close for a kiss. He was medium height, with a wide-shouldered square body and muscular arms. His round face was brightened by a shy smile, and his short black hair stood out from his head like burrs on a chestnut.

He released Adoncia and grabbed Fernando, who had run straight for him. He lifted the little boy off his feet, tossing him in the air to the sound of frantic giggles. Rapid-fire Spanish ensued.

“I should go,” Sam said. He looked uncomfortable. Elisa wondered what made him feel most out of place. The obvious poverty here? The crowded room? The people who were now chattering eagerly in a language he did not understand?

“I’ll introduce you to Diego first.” She waited for a break and made the introduction. The two men shook hands; then Sam said goodbye to everyone and started for the door.

Elisa went with him, stepping over the threshold and closing the door behind her. Outside, where it was a little quieter, she let out the breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.

“You must have come for a reason,” she said. “Your Sundays are busy. You must have finished with church only a short time ago.”

“I wanted to talk to you, but I should have called first. I was just heading back from the nursing home and thought I might find you here.”

“Nursing home?”

“I went after church to check your references. I’ve been too busy to do it before.”

“We can talk right here if you’d like.” Happy shrieks from inside drowned out the last word.

“Have you had lunch?” he asked.

“No, but we ate a late breakfast.”

“Do you have time to get some coffee, then?”

“Plenty of time.”

“I can wait if you need to do anything first.”

“I’ll just tell Adoncia. I won’t be a moment.”

“They seem very happy together. Already a family.”

Elisa thought he sounded wistful, and that surprised her. She thought of the struggles Adoncia and Diego faced, and Sam’s words surprised her even more.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

He nodded and started toward a mud-splattered SUV parked just in front.

* * *

Elisa had expected coffee at Arby’s or McDonald’s on West Reservoir Road, where nearly all Woodstock’s fast food restaurants congregated. Instead, they started back toward the church in Toms Brook.

“I can’t think of any place where we won’t be constantly interrupted except my house.” He glanced at her. “Do you mind? The choir is practicing for a concert, and there are at least three rental groups using the building, or I’d take you to my office.”

“You live near the church?” She thought he’d told her as much.

“Just far enough away that people have to think twice before dropping by for keys or casual conversation. The minister they built the house for made sure of that.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. He pulled up in front of a neat brick house with gray shutters and a matching wooden fence enclosing a shallow front yard. A felt banner in brilliant jewel tones hung from the front door.

“Peace,” she read out loud.

“The junior high school group made it for me last Christmas, and I can’t bear to take it down.”

The front porch was a mass of blooms in different sized and colored pots. “You like to garden.”

“Plants don’t talk back to me.” He got out and came around to open her door, but she had already let herself out.

Sam unlatched the gate and waited for her to precede him. “I’ll warn you about my dogs.”

She stopped, and he nearly ran into her. “You have dogs?”

He skirted her so he was in front. “A problem?”

“It’s just...” Her heart was pounding too hard. She took a deep breath. “No, it’s just...”

“You don’t like them.”

“No. I—” She shrugged. “I’m a little...I was attacked in...in my hometown. I had a full course of rabies shots.” She made a face. “I’m a little dog shy.”

“I would imagine you are.” Sympathy was clear in both his face and words. “I can promise these dogs won’t attack. They’re not exactly well mannered, but they would only love you to death.”

“Well, good.” She stood a little straighter. “I’ll be fine.”

“I can put them in the dog run, if you’ll just wait here.”

“No. I’d like to meet them.”

He searched her face, then nodded. “Let me go first, so I can calm them a bit.”

She did, waiting until he had unlocked the door and disappeared inside for a minute before she opened the door to join him.

She was met with a blaze of color. She hadn’t known what to expect, but she certainly hadn’t expected this. The foyer was an extension of a dining area in the middle of the house, with walls painted a warm gold. The living room on her left—a nook more than a room—was a deep sage green. Beyond the dining area was a family room painted a stormy blue. Every wall was covered with photographs, posters and paintings. The mantel on the brick fireplace was crowded with keepsakes.

Sam was kneeling on the floor just in front of a small dining-room table, his arms around two huge dogs. If the breed had a name, the name was mutt. Both dogs had patchy fur, misshapen ears, long pointed snouts. A dog about one-tenth their size was leaping up and down, trying to lick Sam’s face.

“I’ve got the big guys, but you’re on your own with the little one. That’s Abednego, Bed, for short.”

Bed spied her at that moment and ran to greet her. Heart still pounding, Elisa stooped to pet the dog. Bed was white, with large black spots, a stump of a tail and a grin. Elisa fondled her ears, and the dog wagged her entire body in response. “Abednego?”

“From the Old Testament. The Book of Daniel. Shadrach—that’s this one. Meshach—this one—and Abednego.”

“My Bible skills are rusty.”

“They were three Jews who refused to worship the golden idols of King Nebuchadnezzar, so the king had them thrown into a fiery furnace. Later, when he looked into the flames he saw four shapes there. Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego and a mysterious figure. Some say it was their guardian angel, and some say God himself. When the three men emerged, not a hair on their heads had been singed.”

“Long important names for dogs. Even large dogs.”

He turned his face from a long, licking tongue. “Shad and Shack are brothers. They barely escaped alive from a burning house and were badly singed, unlike their biblical predecessors. I took them when the owners said they couldn’t care for them or pay the vet bills, and planned to have them put down. Bed was abused by local boys who had nothing better to do last summer. I barely rescued her in time.”

“Lucky dogs, then.” She looked up from petting Bed. “Do you rescue everything?”

“It’s gotten me in trouble.”

She wondered what kind of trouble. She got to her feet, and so did he. One by one he let the dogs go, and they came to her to be petted, too. She ruffled their ears, not even needing to stoop.

“You’re okay?” he asked.

“I’m okay.” And she was. The dogs were no longer strangers.

“I’ll just get coffee going.”

She’d had two cups already that morning. She shouldn’t have more, but she ignored her own silent advice. “Do you need help?”

“You can keep me company if you’d like.”

She followed him into the kitchen, where a gentle breeze rattled the plantation shutters on double windows. The walls were a rich terra-cotta color, but the items on the walls were most interesting. “Lunch boxes?”

He turned from retrieving the coffeemaker from a cabinet. Clearly his addiction to caffeine was not as pronounced as hers. “What lunch boxes?” he asked with a smile.

The one wall in the room that didn’t hold cabinets had been covered with shelves. She estimated fifty lunch boxes were on display. “There are more lunch boxes here than in a school cafeteria.”

“I have even more.”

“More?”

He opened a new can of coffee. She recognized the familiar figures of Juan Valdez and his faithful mule. Even if Sam wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, at least he bought Colombian.

“I probably have a hundred lunch boxes.” He glanced at her, possibly to see if she was laughing yet.

“It’s a slice of popular culture.” She walked closer to examine some of the collection. “The Flintstones. Scooby Doo. Superman.” She leaned closer to the familiar caped figure. “That one is older than the others.”

“One of my favorites.”

“They make your kitchen come alive.”

“Thank you. I was waiting for you to ask me why I have them.”

She cocked her head. “I can only assume you eat lunch often.”

He fished through several drawers before he came up with a measuring spoon and began to scoop grounds into the filter.

“My mother and father worked hard for everything they had. There were three children, me, and my brother and sister, Mark and Rachel. We had everything we needed, but if we wanted something our parents saw as a luxury, we never got it. Lunch boxes were a luxury.”

He was telling the story without a trace of self-pity. She realized she was smiling.

He went on. “One day, when we were all grown up, Mark, Rachel and I were sitting in a restaurant trying to top each other with terrible stories of our childhood.” He went to the sink to fill the pot with water. “There were no terrible stories, but there were two empty bottles of good Merlot on the table, which made the exercise worthy. I told them my worst memory was the year I had to take my lunch to school wrapped in newspaper, because Mom decided newspaper was cheaper than buying lunch bags.”

“And this reminded you to go out and buy a hundred lunch boxes?”

“No, but for Christmas Mark and Rachel each bought me one. In one fell swoop I got Pac-Man and The Empire Strikes Back.” He glanced at her and smiled a little. “You have no idea how badly I wanted Pac-Man when I was in first grade.”

He poured the water into the coffeemaker and replaced the pot before he turned it on. “The joke spread. Pretty soon everybody was giving me lunch boxes. I still get them. I’d be buried in them, except that I use them as prizes in Sunday school.”

She was entranced. “Prizes?”

“Every year we have a lunch contest on the last Sunday in June. All the children bring the strangest lunch they can think of. But it has to be something they’ll eat. Six winners get their choice of lunch boxes, at least the ones I have on display. Pac-Man’s off limits.”

Elisa laughed. “This is a church school?”

He lounged against the counter as the coffee began to brew. “Actually, I tell them the lunch box story, pretty much the way I told it to you. Then I tell them how much sweeter it is for me to have these lunch boxes now, that waiting for them made them that much more special. The kids get the message. Sometimes you can’t have everything you want the minute you want it, so you have to wait. And when you do?” He shrugged. “It means more.”

She wondered if, when the kids became teenagers, Sam’s story made them pause in the race to explore their sexuality. If so, it was certainly a novel approach to sex education.

“I use a different box every day,” he finished. “In case one of the kids happens to be around.” He allowed himself a grin. “Actually, I’m lying. I use them because they’re fun. And Mom would not approve of me having anything I don’t use.”

She liked his memories. She liked his parents and his sister and brother. She was increasingly sure she liked Sam. She was just as sure that she needed to keep her distance. He would be an easy man to confide in.

“Cream? Sugar?” he asked.

“Nothing. The darker the better.”

“I’ve never quite acquired the taste.”

“That’s probably because what passes for coffee in this country is the cheapest beans badly roasted and stored too long.”

“You’re lucky. I thought about serving you instant.”

She watched as he reached for mugs and poured milk from the refrigerator in his. Then he added coffee and took the mugs into the family room.

The walls here, as in the other rooms, were covered. But here the artwork was clearly that of children, fastened on the walls with plastic pushpins. She suspected the Sunday school children again, or perhaps nieces and nephews. This was a man, like Diego, who loved kids.

Sam set the coffee on the low table in front of a comfortable-looking ultrasuede sofa. “I’ve told you about me. Why don’t you tell me a little about you?”

She joined him and lifted her mug for a sip while she settled on a story. “My father was a teacher. In fact, he taught English, but there was illness and bad luck.” She shrugged. “I set off to find my own way in the world to relieve my parents of their burdens.”

“Wednesday night you mentioned El Paso?”

She was surprised that with everything else that had been going on, Sam had caught, much less remembered, that. She had nearly forgotten it herself. She would need to be careful. “I have covered a lot of ground.”

“I gather you’re not married?”

She paused to consider what else to say. She decided not to elaborate. “No.”

He went on. “We give two weeks paid vacation, hopefully to be taken when the schedule’s not too busy. You would have enough time to fly home and be with your family.”

She sipped her coffee and nodded.

“I’m offering you the job,” he said.

She set her mug on the table, relieved. “Thank you.” She started to say he wouldn’t be sorry, but she knew that might well be a lie. When she left without a word, he would feel betrayed.

“There’s one condition,” he said.

When a woman was poor and clearly in need of a job, there usually was. At least this time she doubted she would be asked to sleep with her boss. “If I can meet your condition,” she said carefully, “I will.”

“Good. Because I want to throw a car into the bargain.”

This was so different from anything she’d expected that she didn’t know what to say.

He filled the silence. “I have two cars. The SUV I drove this morning, and a Honda Civic with about 80,000 miles. I didn’t want to buy the SUV, but the roads around here can be pretty grim. Last winter I got stuck twice trying to visit shut-ins. And one Sunday I had to walk to church for services because the snow was so deep. I don’t need two cars, but I’m sentimentally attached to the Honda, and I couldn’t make myself get rid of it. So I want you to use it while you’re working at Community Church. Consider it a bonus, because we’re not paying as much as we should.”

“I don’t see how I can accept that. It’s too generous.”

“Elisa, you can’t do the sexton’s job without a car, even if you make a superhuman effort. This makes it feasible, and it also relieves me of the guilt of owning two vehicles.”

When he needed it, he had the most disarming grin. Judging by the warmth and goodwill in his eyes, she could almost believe she would be doing him a favor. She considered a moment, but the possibilities were too tempting. This was a huge gift, much more than he could possibly know.

“Yes, all right,” she said at last. “But I have a condition, too. I’ll clean La Casa thoroughly for you each week. That will be my job, not yours. The car will be payment.”

“You’ll have time?”

“In the time it would take me to walk back and forth to the church, I could clean it from roof to cellar.”

“Excellent.” He picked up his mug and swung it in toast. “Then it’s all set.”

Elisa clanked mugs, then peeked at her watch. “I’m sure you’re tired. If you’re going to drive me back—”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll give you the keys to the Civic now, and you can take possession. It’s nothing fancy, but it will get you anywhere you need to go.”

She needed to go many places. She was thrilled.

She got to her feet, and he followed. The dogs, who were now taking up most of the floor between the family room and kitchen, wagged their tails but didn’t rise. She stepped carefully around them and followed Sam—who had taken a better route—to the door, dropping off her mug in the kitchen first.

The car was parked at the side of the house. It was a white hatchback, and it looked to be in good condition for all the miles it had traveled. Sam opened the door and fished under the seat. He got out and held up a keychain with matching keys, and handed it to her. “Most of my neighbors leave their keys in the ignition. You have a license?”

“Yes. Sometimes I drive Adoncia’s car. Will I need insurance?”

“I called my agent. We discussed it. I’ll call her tomorrow and tell her to be sure everything’s in place. You probably shouldn’t go far tonight, just in case.”

“You’re very kind.” She couldn’t help the next words. “And trusting. I’m really just a stranger to you.”

“I’m a good judge of character.”

She didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t as good as he thought.

“Is there a place at your house for another car?” he asked.

“On the side, yes. Diego always parks there. But I won’t be living with Adoncia much longer. Diego wants to move in, and he can’t as long as I’m there. So I’m looking for something else.” She held up the keys. “Now I can look a little farther away.”

“How soon do you want to move?”

“Yesterday?”

“Helen Henry needs somebody to stay with her. She’s had a young couple with a baby living in her house, but they’re moving to Phoenix for several months. Zeke is going to school, and Cissy and Reese are going, too.”

Elisa had only needed minutes to see that Helen Henry was not a woman to be railroaded. “Helen wants somebody to move in?”

“Well, so far she’s said no to every plan, but Tessa and her mother are convinced somebody needs to be there in case of emergency. So there’s a stalemate. I’ll warn you. Helen might say no to you, as well, but it’s worth a try. I’m sure your room would be rent free.”

Elisa had not been able to save more than a few hundred dollars. Now she saw the possibilities. Two jobs, a car and a house she didn’t have to pay for. She would have money to make discreet inquiries by telephone, to follow new leads if any came her way.

“You’re interested?” Sam asked.

“Yes, if she wants me. Adoncia needs the bedroom for her children.”

“Then I’ll check. We can go out there tomorrow afternoon if you have the time? It’s my day off, and I can pick you up.”

“Right now I have nothing but time, Sam.”

“I sense that.”

The conversation had gone from impersonal to personal in the space of seconds. They weren’t touching. Indeed she thought that if one of them had brushed the other accidentally, they would have jumped apart. But Sam’s gaze was concerned, and very intimate.

“You’ve only told me the barest bones about your life,” he said. “And I suspect you didn’t want to say that much. I’m not going to press you, Elisa. But if you ever need to talk, I’ll be here waiting.”

She couldn’t tell him that talk might bring her world crashing around her ears, or that talk might leave him with a moral dilemma even a man of God would find troubling.

“You’re very kind,” she murmured. “But you’ve already done too much for me.”

They could not seem to look away from each other. Seconds passed. She was the one who managed it first. She gazed down at the key in her hand. “Thank you.”

“Drive safely.” He was gone before she unlocked the car door.


Chapter Six



AT FIRST GLANCE Helen Henry’s farmhouse seemed to bask contentedly in the sleepy late summer sun. But that peaceful snapshot was only a ruse.

“She don’t normally take to strangers,” Cissy Claiborne told Elisa after Elisa scooped Cissy’s baby daughter into her arms and settled her on one hip.

Chubby Teresa Nancy Helen Claiborne was just one year old, with a full head of pale cotton-candy hair. In the space of moments, Elisa had already learned this rosy-cheeked cherub went by two nicknames, Reese on good days, Hellion on not-so-good. With the encroaching move and changes to her schedule, these days she was answering to Hellion.

The baby had toddled down Helen Henry’s walkway directly to Elisa and lifted her arms, the way Fernando always did. She smelled like baby shampoo and powder, and immediately nestled in Elisa’s arms as if being there was part of her daily routine. Elisa felt a surge of maternal affection.

She saw from Cissy’s expression that there was no rivalry here, that, in fact, Cissy was grateful someone else was holding the little girl for a change. “I’m not sure why, but I seem to attract babies.”

“Babies know who to trust,” Sam said.

“Maybe they just know how much I like them.”

“She fussed all day from the minute she got up. This is the first time she’s taken a break.” Cissy held out her hand. “Cissy Claiborne, Reese’s mama.”

“Elisa Martinez, Reese’s nanny—as long as she’ll let me hold her.”

“You ever try to pack up just about everything you own with a baby in your arms?” Cissy was young, younger than Elisa had been prepared for, but she said the words with good humor. She had a pretty face, pale golden hair and peach-toned skin, topped off with a friendly smile.

“I can only imagine,” Elisa said. “I’m sure she knows something is changing.”

“She’ll like it in Phoenix. Zeke says our apartment has a baby playground just down the street. And just as soon as it cools off a little there, we can go for walks.”

Elisa had met Sam in the church parking lot so they could drive together. On the trip over, she had learned that Zeke was studying the construction and repair of guitars and other stringed instruments, with the ultimate goal of opening his own shop one day. She could hear all the questions in the young mother’s voice. Surely a move this far away was going to be stressful for everybody, not just the baby.

“You’re worried about Helen, aren’t you?” Sam asked.

Cissy lowered her voice. “Well, you know, Ms. Henry shouldn’t really be alone. She thinks she’s taking care of us and all, but truth is, Reverend Sam, she needs some looking after. I do the cooking most of the time and keep up with the housework, but most of all I keep her company. She just plain gets lonely.”

“I’m going to try to talk her into letting Elisa stay here while you’re away. Nancy and Tessa are all for it. Elisa’s working at the church now.” He turned to Elisa. “Nancy is Helen’s daughter, Tessa’s mother.”

“That’s great,” Cissy told Elisa. “Reverend Sam’s the kind of boss everybody wants.”

“Don’t tell her that. I won’t get a lick of work out of her,” Sam said.

Cissy sobered quickly. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I don’t think Ms. Henry’s going to agree. Doesn’t matter how nice you are, she’s just a stubborn woman. Nancy’s brought half a dozen ladies by in the last two months, and Ms. Henry’s sent every one of them back out the door faster than a jackrabbit.”

“Well, we’ll give it a try.” Sam put his hand on Elisa’s back to urge her toward the front door. For a moment she was all too aware how long it had been since a man had touched her. She and Sam had not said one personal word to each other since he’d ushered her into his car fifteen minutes ago, but she had been only too aware of him.

Cissy led them inside. No one was downstairs, but judging from the sound of voices, the second floor was occupied.

“She’ll cry when I leave to get Ms. Henry,” Cissy warned.

“I’ll come and find you if it gets too bad,” Elisa promised.

Cissy took off as if she couldn’t get away fast enough.

“She’s a good mother,” Sam said in a low voice. “Conscientious, thoughtful, patient. But this is a lot for a young woman her age to handle. I hope she finds friends in Phoenix to make her feel at home. Reese isn’t much for conversation yet.”

Elisa murmured endearments to the little girl in Spanish. Reese cooed right back. “See?” Elisa said. “No one’s spoken to her in the right language. She just told me she prefers enchiladas to mashed peas.”

She smiled at Sam when he laughed. His eyes were warm, and he reached out to fluff Reese’s hair.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Could you live here comfortably?”

She’d only had a chance to glance around, but she nodded. “It’s a lovely house, filled with character.”

“At one time it was filled with trash. That’s one of the things you’ll have to watch out for if you move in. Helen has a fondness for collecting. It took Nancy and Tessa a whole summer to get the house in shape.”

“They did a good job.” The living room where they stood was tastefully decorated in an uncluttered country style. She had not lived anywhere so inviting in many years.

A woman with short blond hair appeared on the stairs. “Sam?”

“Come down and meet Elisa.”

She came down the steps at a fast clip. She was dressed casually, but Elisa recognized good quality clothing. She was moving through middle age, but she was a woman who clearly took care of herself.

“Nancy Whitlock,” she said, thrusting out her hand in greeting. “Helen’s daughter.” They exchanged the requisite remarks before Nancy turned to Sam and spoke in low tones.

“I’m sorry we weren’t in church yesterday, but you can see what we’re up against here. I hope you explained to Elisa that Mama probably isn’t going to go for this?”

“I did.”

“I’m sorry,” Nancy told Elisa. “They invented ‘stubborn old coot’ to describe my mother.”

Sam defended Helen. “She just wants a say in her life. I think she might consider Elisa. She practically ordered me to hire her at the church.”

“Good thing you did, then, or you’d never hear the end of it.”

Elisa brought them back to the real point. “I like your mother, but if she doesn’t want me here, I don’t want to be here.”

“That’s a good start. As long as she thinks you’re listening to her, she’ll be a lot more cooperative.”

A noise on the stairs announced Helen’s arrival. She was not spry, but she managed the steps with little difficulty. “Nobody told me we had company.”

“I was just coming to get you,” Nancy said. “Did you finish packing the baby’s things?”

“I did, but I can’t say I’m happy about it.”

“They’ll be back.”

“Well, at least it’ll be quiet here for a change.” Helen nodded at Elisa, then at Sam. “You two here for a reason?”

“Do I need one? Couldn’t you use a good minister every now and then?”

“If we had one in the vicinity.”

Nancy poked her mother in the arm. “I can hear the devil stoking up his bonfires, Mama. For heaven’s sake!”

“She doesn’t like a thing I say,” Helen told Elisa.

“Maybe not, but I think she likes you.”

Helen’s lips twitched. “Nancy’ll go back to Richmond soon enough, I guess. We can get along until then if we have to.”

“Helen, I wanted you to know I hired Elisa the way you told me to,” Sam said.

“What are you all standing around for? Sit down and I’ll get coffee. There’s a pot warming in the kitchen.” Helen gestured to Reese, still contented on Elisa’s hip. “You’re spoiling her.”

“I hope so.”

The corners of Helen’s mouth twitched again.

Once she’d gone, Nancy’s shoulders slumped. “Well, she likes you,” she whispered. “I can’t tell you how much better we’d all feel if you were here. Sam says you work at Shadyside, too?”

Elisa nodded.

“Mostly Mama just needs company and somebody to bar the door if she tries to start a recycling center in the living room.”

Helen returned with a tray of mugs, and a pot of coffee with cream and sugar, which she set on the table. “Nobody’s sitting down!”

Taking a seat, Elisa tried to pull Reese up on her lap. The baby decided she’d had enough togetherness and wriggled free, sliding off the sofa and starting toward the stairs. Helen reached her before Elisa could even stand.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, scooping the baby into her arms. “Cissy!”

Cissy appeared at the head. “Well, I got a break. It was nice, too. Unusual.”

“Oh, stop complaining. We can keep her down here, but you’ll need to bring the baby gate down.”

“No thanks, I’ll just bring her up with me. Tessa says she’ll hold her while I finish packing my clothes.” By the time the speech was finished, Cissy had arrived to whisk the baby away.

Helen made herself at home in a flowered armchair. “So you just came to tell me you got smart and hired Elisa? Or maybe you have another idea in that holy head of yours?”

“We won’t ask you to spell holy.” Sam poured coffee for Elisa and passed it to her. He held out the pot toward Nancy, who shook her head, as did Helen.

Without fanfare, he moved on to the reason for their visit. “Elisa is looking for a place to live. It’s that simple, Helen. Her roommate’s getting married and needs Elisa’s room. You know how little rental housing there is in the area.”

“I know all about your plan. You people think I’m deaf and don’t know what all this whispering on the phone’s been about?”

One look at Helen’s expression and Elisa dismissed the possibility that she would be moving here. She could see that the family had made too much out of hiring a companion and completely antagonized the old woman in the process. Helen had no choice now but to assert her independence and refuse Sam’s request.

Elisa stood before Helen could deliver the bad news. Setting her mug on the table, she wandered over to a quilt rack in the corner. “I’m sure you don’t want a stranger in your house. I don’t want to trouble you about this. I’ll find another place, but I’m glad I had a chance to visit. Is this one of your quilts?”

Helen was silent a moment, as if she had to reorient herself before she answered. “Just something to take off the chill. I never got cold in the summer before Nancy went and put in an air conditioner.”

The quilt was red and yellow, with bright splashes of blue in some of the symmetrical blocks. Elisa discovered several more quilts underneath.

“Oh, they’re all beautiful. Such fine workmanship.”

“I’ll show you more.” Nancy got up.

“You don’t have to bother the girl none.” Helen sounded flustered. “It was a simple compliment, not a request for one of your quilt shows.”

“Elisa, would you like to see a few more quilts?” Nancy asked.

“I really would.”

Nancy opened a wooden trunk beside a comfortable armchair. “I keep some of my favorites down here. If Mama had her way, she’d pile them in a corner upstairs, where nobody could look at them.”

“I sure didn’t teach you enough about vanity, did I?” Helen demanded.

“There’s vanity,” Sam said, “and then there’s good old-fashioned self-respect.”

Nancy pulled out a quilt and held it in front of her. “This is a new one. Mama calls it ‘Oklahoma Made a Monkey Out of Me.’”

Elisa stepped closer to admire the quilt. Helen had used a number of fabrics, mostly greens and browns, like the colors in a forest.

“This is a Monkey Wrench pattern,” Nancy explained. “And this is the Road to Oklahoma block. See the unique way she combined them? And if you look carefully, you’ll see monkeys in lots of the prints.”

Elisa smiled, delighted. “I do. Look at that.”

“It’s just a silly quilt,” Helen said. “Nothing to fuss over. Reese likes monkeys, that’s all.”

Nancy pulled out several others, each completely different from the last. Obviously Helen enjoyed variety.

Elisa touched the last one Nancy took out and felt as if she had come home.

“This one is...” For a moment English failed her. She thought in English as often and fluently as she thought in Spanish, but sometimes the right word was in the wrong tongue. “You did this by hand? All by hand? And the colors? This is a rainbow.”

“So you like quilts?”

“I know very little about them.” As always, she paused, then decided to go ahead. “In the place where I grew up, there were weavers who made beautiful cloth in every color. This reminds me of that.” She fingered the quilt. Tiny vertical strips in bright colors met horizontal strips in a variety of lengths and widths. “This quilt would keep anybody warm, wouldn’t it? Like sunbeams.”

“I just tried something new, one of those art quilts, only I didn’t see any reason not to make it big enough to use. I take my art on the bed, and that’s the only way I want it.”

“Utility and beauty. That’s what the weavers believe. And each piece is part of who they are and where they come from.” She turned. “The way your quilts are.”

“Nancy told you to say all this, didn’t she?”

Nancy sputtered. “I didn’t tell Elisa to say a blessed thing.”

Elisa laughed. “I’ve been in trouble a time or two for not doing what I’m told, but never the reverse.” She glanced at her watch. “We’re keeping you too long.”

“Did you ever learn to weave?” Helen asked.

“It’s like so many things. I thought the chance would be there forever, and now I’m here and the chance is gone.”

“You could quilt.”

“I have never sewed much,” Elisa said doubtfully. “I don’t have a machine.”

“I have three. You’ll be living right here. You can have your choice, and I’ll teach you.”

Surprised, Elisa heard the offer and everything that came with it. She had a home if she wanted one. She also had a responsibility to this woman if she accepted the offer. This would not be as simple as she had hoped. If she packed and left in the middle of the night, Helen would be alone. And Helen would not take in another companion.

Yet what could she do? She was certain that if she refused, Helen would not offer this invitation to anyone else. And living here would solve Adoncia’s problem, as well as Elisa’s own.

“I would like to try,” she said carefully.

“Just so everybody in the room knows it,” Helen said. “I like Miss Martinez, and that’s the only reason she has been invited to stay here.”

“Mama, there’s not a person in this room dumb enough to think you’d do anything just because we wanted you to,” Nancy said. “You can count on that.”

* * *

Elisa was surprised at the way the remainder of the afternoon developed. Instead of going home, she and Sam stayed at Helen’s house to help. Assuming that his fiancée was still in town, she had expected Sam to make their visit short so he could spend the rest of his day off with her, but he had explained—too casually, she thought—that Christine had driven to Washington on Saturday to spend some time with old friends before she returned to Georgia.

Sam’s personal life was none of her business, but she wondered about his engagement. She knew from the little she had picked up that Sam and Christine rarely saw each other. If Sam were her fiancé, she would not be inclined to spend so much time with other people.

As the others packed, Elisa was pressed into service as Reese’s nanny, while Sam helped Zeke Claiborne pack the old minivan he had bought for the trip. Zeke was a young man still growing into a lanky physique, but Elisa could see how seriously he took his responsibilities.

Manual labor agreed with Sam. He seemed to relish physical activity, running up and down the stairs with boundless energy. For someone who spent so much of his life in spiritual and intellectual pursuits, he had the body of an athlete. Ten minutes into multiple trips outside, he had changed from khakis and a sport shirt into shorts and a T-shirt he kept in a gym bag in his car. He had muscular calves and thighs, and arms strong enough to have lifted George Jenkins off the ground Wednesday night and held him there until he sobered up.

Tessa came downstairs and showed Elisa where to put the baby, who had finally fallen asleep in her arms. Tessa had managed a brief hello earlier, but there hadn’t been time for more.

“Gram tells me you’re moving in?” she said when Reese was safely tucked into a port-a-crib in the back of the house.

“You approve?”

“You’ll be great for her. We’re all so relieved.”

“I’ll enjoy living here.”

“How would you like a tour? Outside, I mean. It’s a little chaotic to show you much about the house, but I need to stretch my legs. Mom and Cissy will keep an eye on Reese, but I can guarantee she’ll sleep at least an hour.”

Evening was on its way, but the temperature was in the high eighties, at least, and Elisa needed to stretch. She followed Tessa outside, taking a quick breath when the wall of heat and humidity hit her on the third step of the porch. “Your family has lived here a long time?”

“For generations. There were Stoneburners and Lichliters all over the area until World War II. Gram lost nearly everybody to the fighting or the aftermath or the economy. Her husband was killed at Pearl Harbor. He was a distant cousin of the Claibornes, so he had roots here, too. Gram raised my mother alone.”

Elisa was never surprised at the sadness people could recount. “It must have been hard to keep the farm.”

“That’s why she’s so stubborn, and why she doesn’t waste time on tact. She never had time for anything but plain speaking and doing what she knew was right. Whether it was or not.”

Elisa laughed softly. “We’ll get along. Most of my life I’ve been surrounded by people who were sure they were right.”

“Were they? Right?”

Elisa sobered. “Too often for their own good.”

Tessa remained silent, as if inviting Elisa to share. But she had already shared more than she was comfortable with. She changed the conversation’s direction. “All this land belongs to Helen?”

“Yes. She leases chunks to local farmers, some for corn, some for cattle.” Tessa pointed out boundaries in the distance and the locations of fields. “There are more farms to the west and south of us, and about fifty acres of woods and fields over toward the river that someone’s bound to build on someday. Let’s go this way and I’ll show you the pond. Last summer we were afraid it would dry up, but all the rain this year has filled it again.”

They passed a fenced-in area with something that looked a little like a gypsy’s wagon. It was surrounded by chickens pecking in the grass, chickens of different colors and sizes.

“The chickens are Gram’s weakness,” Tessa said. “And that’s a portable chicken coop in the center. When they’ve pecked up every weed and bug inside the fence, we hitch it up to the tractor and move it to another spot, stake out the fence again and let them have at it.”

“Ingenious.”

“Gram never kept a pet. But you’ll find she comes out here and talks to the chickens two or three times a day, then makes sure all the barn cats are fed. You won’t have to do a thing for any of them. And you’ll have all the eggs you can possibly eat. I don’t seem to be able to get enough of them now that I’m pregnant.”

Elisa had been looking for an opening and jumped right in. “How are you feeling? Have you had any more dizziness?”

“No, and I wanted to thank you again for all your help the other day.”

“I did very little.”

“I called my doctor and made an appointment for tomorrow. But he said exactly what you did. Since I don’t have any other symptoms, it doesn’t sound like there’s much to worry about. And my husband’s getting a ride up here tonight to drive me home, so I won’t have to sit behind the steering wheel for any length of time.”

“Good. You’ll feel better when you know for certain. There are enough things to worry about, yes?”

They had reached a pond, perhaps half an acre in size. Reeds grew at the edges, and Canada geese patrolled the opposite shore under giant weeping willows.

“Oh, isn’t this lovely?” Elisa was entranced. “I can see where I’ll be spending time every day.”

“I lived with Gram last summer, and I came out to the pond whenever I needed time to think. I also picked a million blackberries. There’s a creek in that direction with blackberries and wine berries all along the edges.” She pointed. “But it’s late in the season. You won’t find too many now. You can wade, though. Just watch out for snakes.”

“Sam said you and your mother were here to fix up the house?”

“We carried out tons of Gram’s ‘collectibles.’ Like newspapers and rags and bottles. She’s pretty good these days, but you’ll need to watch her.”

“I’ve been warned.”

“It was a good summer. We’re closer. We met Cissy for the first time and got to know her, too.”

“She’s a lovely girl. Young to have a baby, at least in this country.”

“Not in yours?”

“We have many young women marrying and giving birth well before they should. Our maternal health statistics are not good.”

“I’m on the other end of the spectrum.”

“For a first baby, yes.”

“This isn’t my first.”

From Tessa’s tone, Elisa realized there was more to that simple statement than Tessa was saying. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure why I assumed that. You have other children?”

Tessa didn’t answer right away. Elisa was sure now that she had walked into something without knowing it.

“I had a daughter,” Tessa said at last. “Kayley. She would have been nine this year. She was killed by a drunk driver.”

Elisa didn’t know what to say. She just put a hand on Tessa’s shoulder.

Tessa seemed to welcome her touch. “I was sure I’d never want another child.”

“But you decided to take a chance.”

“I have to thank Reese. When Cissy brought her home from the hospital, I looked into that tiny face, and Reese stared right back at me. It’s a long story how I got there, but I realized I was ready to try again, and I needed to do it soon. I was lucky. I got pregnant two months later.”

Elisa squeezed Tessa’s shoulder before she dropped her hand. “I know it must have taken courage.”

“For the most part I’m doing okay. I think most of us are blissfully ignorant about what can happen when we decide to have a child. On some level we understand risk. We just never think those things will happen to us. But since I know they can and do, I’m too aware of every little thing.”

“Like the dizziness? That wasn’t a little thing. It was something I—” Elisa changed direction. “Something I’m sure your doctor wanted you to report. I’ll bet he told you that when you called. Yes?”

“He did.”

“Of course, it won’t be the same for you as it might be for a young woman with no experience. But maybe you also realize how...” Elisa paused to think of the right expression. “How random the universe is. Maybe you will appreciate what you have even more, because you understand it can be taken away. Through no fault of your own.”

“You’re speaking from experience.”

“I understand the way life can change in an instant.”

Tessa waited again, as if she were encouraging Elisa to say more. When she didn’t, Tessa went on. “Thank you for listening to me. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

Elisa liked Tessa. By the same token, she was afraid she might have found a friend with more insight than Elisa could afford.

They heard footsteps, and Sam approached from the direction they had taken. “Helen said I’d find you here.”

He had changed back into long pants and a sport shirt, and looked like a man with a mission. Elisa was contrite. “I’m sorry, do you need to leave?”

“I didn’t, but I do now. One of our parishioners was taken to the hospital in Winchester. He’s not expected to make it through the night. I need to get over there. I can take you back to the church if we leave right now.”

“I’ll take her back.” Tessa thought better of that. “No, Mom will take her. She won’t mind a bit, and that will keep me out from behind the wheel.”

“That would be a big help,” Sam said. “Shall I wait while you ask?”

“No. If Mom can’t, Zeke or Cissy will. You go on. Elisa’s one of the gang now. We’ll take care of her.”

Sam turned to Elisa. “I hate to abandon you this way.”

For a moment she thought there was more to his statement than simple good manners. His gaze was warm. She felt her cheeks warm in response.

“You go,” she said. “I’ll be at the church at eight tomorrow morning to start my training.”

“Goodbye, then.” He glanced at Tessa. “Thanks again.”

They watched him disappear down the path.

“Sam’s wonderful at what he does, although not everyone thinks so,” Tessa said when he was gone. “He’s definitely controversial.”

“He has many problems in the church?” Elisa thought of George and Leon Jenkins, and wondered what was behind the controversy.

“He has more supporters than enemies. As long as the balance remains that way, he’ll remain as minister. But I wonder sometimes if he’s really happy here. It’s a small country church, and he’s a man with obvious talents. Plus he goes home every night to an empty house, and I think he’s a man with a lot of love to give.”

Elisa wondered why Tessa had chosen to confide that.

She knew better than to ask.


Chapter Seven



SAM’S PARENTS HAD hoped he would become a doctor. He often thought of that when he walked through a hospital doorway. No one knew how he had to steel himself to cross the threshold. He hated nearly everything inside. The institutional feel, the smell, the unrelenting clatter, the reminders of his own mortality. He wanted to lay hands on every patient and send them home. He hated suffering and disease, but his was not a healing ministry. He could only comfort with his belief that God was a constant presence. He was always moved when that turned out to be enough.

Dinnertime was near when he arrived at the hospital in Winchester where Newt Rafferty had been taken to die. Newt, a widower, was a former Community Church deacon who had resigned from the board eight months ago when his health took a turn for the worse. Claiming the grandchildren would keep him young, he had moved to Winchester to spend his final months with his oldest daughter and her family. But every time Sam made the trip north to visit, he had seen that Newt was failing.

The call to Newt’s bedside wasn’t a surprise, but Sam was sorry it had come so swiftly. He had prayed that Newt would have more years. Like so many of his prayers, this one hadn’t been answered the way he hoped.

He found his way to the appropriate floor and through the rabbit warren of corridors to Newt’s room. Several people stood outside. He recognized Newt’s daughter Gloria and her husband, and greeted them before he shook hands with some of Newt’s more distant relatives. Newt’s youngest daughter and only son were inside with their father.

Gloria, whose thin face was streaked with tears, looked shaken but resolute. “Last week he refused further treatment. He says he’s ready to die.”

Sam took her hand. “How do you feel about this?”

“He knows what he wants. It would be different if the doctors could really help him. But he’s in pain, and anything else they can do will just prolong it. It’s only...it’s hard to let him go.”

“Newt’s always had good judgment. I think he must have passed that on to you.”

Gloria reached for a tissue in her pocket. She was a striking brunette, but the past months had added worry lines where none had been before. “I know letting him go is the right thing, but it’s good to hear it from an impartial observer.”

“I’m not impartial. I count him among my friends.”

“He feels the same way. I’m so glad you could get here. The hospital chaplain prayed with him, but I know Daddy wanted to see you one more time.”

“He wants to be buried in the church cemetery. Did he tell you?”

She wiped her eyes. “We’ll do the funeral there.”

The door opened, and Newt’s other children came into the hallway. Both were obviously exhausted.

Newt’s son looked much as his father probably had at the same age, tall and scholarly. He shook Sam’s hand. “He’s resting, but you go in and wait until he opens his eyes. He asked if you were here.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“That we should say our goodbyes while we can.”

“Has everyone had a chance to see him?”

“A few old friends are on their way.”

“Then I’ll wait inside.” Sam gave Newt’s youngest daughter a quick hug. Of all his children, she looked the most upset.

Inside, Sam saw that Newt’s bed was one of two, but the other was empty. He hoped it remained that way until Newt was gone. He was relieved to see there were no machines regulating the last hours of his friend’s life. Newt had an IV in his right arm and nothing more. He was not thrashing or moaning. Sam thought he was probably deeply sedated.

He perched on the chair at Newt’s bedside and took his hand. Then he prayed silently that Newt’s death would be easy and his family comforted by the knowledge he was a good man who had led a good life.

Ten minutes passed before Newt opened his eyes. At first he seemed confused, but after Sam spoke to him a while, he focused.

“Sam?”

“I’m here. I’ve been praying for you.”

“You’re putting in a good word...or two?”

Sam managed a little laugh. “Not much need for it, but every little bit helps.”

“I had...a good run.”

“So you did. A very good one. Fine man, fine family, upstanding member of the church and community. I guess your work is finished.”

“You’ll check on my kids? Give them a call down the road...a piece?”

“I’ll tell them you insisted.”

“I’m not dying right yet. Not quite.”

“You’ve got it planned?”

“I...” Newt was silent for a little while, and Sam thought he might have drifted off again, but when he tried to release Newt’s hand, the old man opened his eyes.

“Jenkins...causing trouble.”

Sam couldn’t have been more surprised if Newt had just come back with eyewitness reports of heavenly hosts. “George? Why are you thinking about him?”

“Called last week. Calling all over.” Newt licked his lips. “Wants you fired. Trying his darnedest.”

“This is not something you should be worried about now.”

“You’ll watch out?”

“I promise.” Sam was deeply touched that in the last hours of his life, Newt was concerned for him. “It’s a good church with good people, Newt. You helped make it that way. That doesn’t mean there’s not an occasional snake in the grass, but I promise I’ll be careful where I step. Maybe I can sit down with George and have a real dialogue.”

“I didn’t know you believed...in miracles.”

Sam squeezed Newt’s hand. “What can I do for you, friend?”

“Will you say a prayer while I’m awake? I want to hear this one.”

* * *

On the way back to Adoncia’s house, Elisa took several detours. Having a car again was a heady experience. She hadn’t been able to fully explore the area where she lived and worked, but now that the opportunity had presented itself, she took full advantage. Like one of the many sightseers who came through on their way to and from Skyline Drive, she turned down unfamiliar roads, examining farms and the occasional family business that lay off the beaten path. Kennels and country veterinarians, eggs and handicrafts for sale, vineyards and nurseries.

The vineyards and nurseries interested her most. She knew men from Ella Lane often did day work in the surrounding area. They lined up early in the morning at certain locations, where they were chosen for assignments based on previous work they’d done, the breadth of their shoulders or simply their place in line. Sometimes they were paid under the table; sometimes checks were cut. Some employers paid fairly; some took advantage of the slow economy. Although the system was flawed and sometimes illegal, men who would not work otherwise were in no position to complain.

Near Woodstock, on a scenic side road, she slowed at the sign for Jenkins Landscaping. Diego had mentioned this as one of the places men often went to be hired by the hour. Now she realized the business belonged to George Jenkins, the man she had poured into the front seat of a pickup with this same logo so his son could take him home.

Diego himself had often worked here until he found a steadier job waterproofing basements. In the winter, Jenkins Landscaping employees plowed and removed snow and took down or pruned trees; in the summer, they mowed lawns and planted trees and shrubs. The amount of temporary help Jenkins needed each day depended on the weather and the demand for his services.

Since it was Sunday, no one was working or waiting outside, although several small dump trucks piled high with mulch waited in the driveway. She wondered how badly Jenkins’s head had ached Thursday morning, and if Leon had been forced to bear the brunt of his father’s bad temper.

She stopped once at a service station just outside Woodstock and parked beside a telephone booth she had used before. No one was nearby, exactly the condition she’d hoped for. She inserted the coins she’d gathered for the phone call and dialed a familiar number. When a woman answered, she spoke without preamble.

“It’s Elisa.”

She waited, swallowed disappointment, nodded as if the woman at the other end could see her. “Okay. I’ll talk to you again.” She hung up and stood a while staring across the street at a cow in a field who seemed to feel the phone booth needed to be watched.

She hoped only the cow found it so promising.

By the time she got to Adoncia’s, she was ready to rest, although with Fernando and Maria at home, that was probably not an option. She had not seen Adoncia since leaving with Sam yesterday. The family had gone on their outing with Diego and returned late, and they were already gone when Elisa, who tried to stay out of their way as they prepared for the day, got out of bed.

Now, as expected, when she walked through the door, she was tackled by both children.

“They are spinning like pinwheels,” Adoncia said. “We just got home. Nana Garcia fed them nothing but sugar all day.”

Elisa stooped and hugged them both. “Did you have a good day at work?” she asked her friend.

“If hacking chickens in pieces can be good work.” Adoncia, who looked exhausted, motioned toward the bathroom. “Will you watch them while I shower?”

“Of course.” Adoncia always took a shower when she got home to scrub away the smell of the poultry factory. The job was tiring and dangerous. The fast-moving line, sharp instruments and repetitive motion meant that many careers in poultry processing were short-lived.

Elisa played with the children until her friend came out of the bathroom looking a bit more refreshed. Adoncia fell to the sofa and towel-dried her hair. Fernando crawled up on her lap and laid his head against her chest.

“You had fun with Diego yesterday?” Elisa asked.

“We ate at a restaurant, went to a movie. The children were very good. Now, did you get the job? Is that why the minister was here yesterday? ¡Qué cuero de hombre!”

Elisa smiled at the description. Sam was remarkably easy to look at, and of course Adoncia had not failed to notice. “I’ll start training in the morning.”

“But you work at Shadyside tonight, don’t you? When will you sleep?”

“I won’t. But most of the time that won’t be a problem. Once I’m trained, I’ll have Mondays and Tuesdays off at the church, so my Monday night shift at the home won’t compete. And I’ll just have to sleep Friday afternoon after I’ve done whatever is needed at the church.”

“You think you can sleep here, with the children screaming?”

The lead-in was too good to waste. “Donchita, I’ve found a new place to live, with a woman in the church who needs a companion. She needs me; you need my room.” She held back her friend’s interruption with her hands. “It’s perfect. And now I have a car to drive, part of my pay for the job at the church.”

“You don’t have to leave. You know you don’t.”

“It’s time I did. Diego wants to move in. You want to marry him.” She watched Adoncia’s expression change. “Don’t you?”

“No, I decided today. He can move in, yes. That I want. But until we can agree about children, I won’t marry him. We’ll live in sin.” She said the last without concern.

“And you’ll practice birth control?”

Adoncia grimaced. “No pills. I won’t take them.”

Elisa knew that Adoncia’s chances of getting Diego to use a condom were about the same as getting him to run for president. “You know, not marrying him isn’t going to keep his sperm from having their own little party.”

“There are other ways.”

Elisa wondered how much reliable information Adoncia knew. This was the friend, after all, who had once rubbed Fernando with an egg to protect him from the mal de ojo, or evil eye, of a neighbor. Adoncia was extremely bright, but she covered her bases.

“I won’t have another baby so soon after Nando,” Adoncia said, almost as if she were practicing what she would say to Diego.

Elisa tried to sound casual. “My sister protects herself the way the church suggests. She has only the two children she wanted.”

“Do you know what she does?”

“Her husband wouldn’t approve, although he’s happy enough to have only two children to provide for. So she finds an excuse each month not to make love when she’s fertile.”

“And her husband agrees?”

“It’s always a very good excuse.”

Adoncia laughed. “And how does she know when to be careful?”

“Her periods are regular.” Elisa paused. “Are yours?”

“Like the sun and the moon.”

“Good. Here’s what she told me.” Elisa gave a short explanation of cycles, temperature and ovulation prediction kits. “And once you’ve calculated when you are most likely to be fertile, you don’t have sex five days before and five days afterward.”

“Ten days? Ten whole days?”

“If you want to be very careful and not take chances.”

“Diego will know.”

“I think my sister’s husband knows, as well. But he doesn’t mind.” Unfortunately, Elisa was afraid that Diego was going to mind very much, even if he and Adoncia weren’t yet married.

Adoncia sounded worried. “It will take work.”

“It would be less work to use another more reliable method.”

“No,” Adoncia said firmly.

Elisa knew that without Diego’s cooperation, this plan was flawed, at best. But she respected Adoncia’s views. This was her body, her religion, her right.

“Diego will be a guest in my house,” Adoncia said. “If I tell him we don’t make love, then we don’t. If he questions me, I will send him to sleep on the sofa.”

Elisa knew how much Diego loved her friend, and how badly he wanted children. She hoped Adoncia could keep him at arm’s length when needed.

She made supper, and afterward Adoncia cleaned the kitchen. The children fell asleep early, and Elisa managed to take an evening nap before it was time to dress for her drive to the nursing home.

When Adoncia’s thirteen-year-old minivan had been available, Elisa had also driven, since her friend was not in need of her car at that late hour. But more often the minivan rested on blocks on the side of the trailer, with some part removed by Diego for repair, and Elisa had been on her own and on foot.

The late shift began at eleven, and the roads were always eerily silent. She had never relished this walk in the darkness, although it could be accomplished in fifteen minutes. The area was still rural enough that wildlife abounded. She had seen raccoons and foxes, and once a family of white-tailed deer crossed her path, never once glancing at the odd two-legged creature trudging to work. Unfortunately, she had never shaken the unlikely notion there might be bears watching, as well. Or men with evil intentions.

Tonight she parked in the employees’ section of the lot, and enjoyed every moment of locking up and pocketing her own keys. She reminded herself not to get used to this luxury, that the car was a loan that could be taken back at any time. If nothing else, the past three years had taught her to appreciate what she had, but not to hang on to it tightly.

Inside she punched the time clock and put her purse in her locker. On her way to the central nurses’ desk she greeted staff, admiring one aide’s new haircut and accepting a cup of coffee from another who was just leaving the break room. At the desk she greeted the nurse on duty and chatted a few minutes before tackling the day log. She caught up on her unit, scanning notes from all shifts since her last and initialing the notes to show she had read them.

On her own unit, she and Kathy, the aide she was replacing, did a crossover, making sure Elisa knew everything she needed to about what had gone on before, who to watch out for and special problems she might encounter. Kathy, middle-aged and exhausted, already had her keys out. She was looking forward to a glass of wine and the several hours of reality shows she had videotaped.

“Did anyone have visitors?” Elisa asked. Visitors were never an issue on her shift, but sometimes the previous shift experienced problems settling residents after family left for the night.

“Mrs. Lovett’s daughter came, but Mrs. L. was glad to see her go, and so was I. There were a couple of others, but no problems afterward.”

Elisa didn’t look up from the small spiral notebook where she kept her own notes. “How about Martha Wisner? I saw she had visitors day before yesterday. People from her church?”

“Nobody today. I don’t think she has any family. At least no one she’s close to. But the church people come regularly.”

“I’m working at her church now, too,” Elisa said. “They showed me a quilt they’re making for her. Maybe they already gave it to her?”

“The one with the leaves? It’s really something. The ladies signed their names on the back. It’s a good way to help her stay in touch with her memories. If you get the chance and she’s up, you could ask her about it.”

“I’ll do that.” Elisa finished her notes, then said goodbye to Kathy, who couldn’t get out quickly enough. The aide liked her job, but by shift’s end she was always ready to head home.

Kathy had done rounds as her shift came to a close, but as she always did, Elisa went from room to room checking on the residents and making sure they were asleep, or at least contented. The unit was a transitional one. None of the residents here suffered from serious dementia, but none fit into the assisted living wing, either. They needed a secure unit and regular supervision. Some were returning from hospital stays and needed daily nursing care. Sadly, some were headed toward the Alzheimer’s unit, where the care was more specialized and controlled. For now, though, they were able to live with less care and fewer restrictions.

One resident was awake and insisted on a shower. Elisa helped her in and out, and laid out a fresh nightgown. Another couldn’t find a book. Elisa found it and helped her get comfortable in bed, making a mental note to come back in a little while to put the book away and turn out the light.

She was not surprised to find so many residents awake. “Sundowning” was a common enough occurrence here and nearly universal on the Alzheimer’s unit. The internal clock of many of the residents was turned around, and they preferred to sleep during the day and be active at night. Although the staff tried hard to readjust the residents’ sense of time, they were often not successful.

Halfway down the hall, she peeked into Martha Wisner’s room, but the old woman was fast asleep and everything was in order. She passed on.

Hours later, when she returned to do Martha’s vitals, she found her sitting up, staring out the window into the darkness.

Martha was a short woman, with a thick head of permed white hair, and a round face with smooth pink cheeks and furrowed brow. She was dressed in a long cotton gown, which fell straight from her shoulders and outlined neither breasts nor hips.

“Martha? You’re up awfully early,” Elisa told her. “It’s not even five a.m.”

“Is it time for dinner?”

Elisa had sometimes awakened from a nap unsure where she had fallen asleep or what time of day it was. She imagined this was the way many of the residents on this unit felt, only for them, a little light through a windowpane, a glance at the clock, didn’t solve the mystery. She could relate to the confusion and empathize.

“It’s not quite time for breakfast,” Elisa told her. “The sun will be up very soon though. It’s early morning.”

“Didn’t I just have lunch?”

“No. You had dinner about twelve hours ago. That’s why you’re hungry.”

“I want to eat now.”

Although it was best to keep the residents on schedule for meals, Elisa was also allowed to bend the rules. She was sure Martha would not go back to sleep.

“I’ll bring you cereal. Then you can eat a hot breakfast with the others later.” There was a small dining area where the residents could eat their meals together if they chose. Some enjoyed the company.

“And juice?”

“And juice. I’ll be right back.”

Elisa returned a few minutes later with a tray. She wondered if Martha would remember asking for it and was pleased to find that she did. She settled the old woman in a chair and set the tray on a table in front of her.

“Let me check your vitals first,” she told her. She used the wrist meter that measured temperature, blood pressure, pulse and respiration, and recorded the data. Then she took the cover off the tray.

“Orange juice. Good. And I like this cereal.” Martha looked pleased.

Elisa watched her pour milk from the small carton and mix it into her Special K. “How do you feel? Did you sleep well?”

“Are you new?”

“No. But I’m not here as often as some of the others. I’m Elisa Martinez.”

Martha paused, as if searching her memory. Then she shook her head. “I haven’t met you before.”

Martha’s lack of recognition wasn’t a good sign. She and Martha had spoken many times. “Well, I’ll be working at the Shenandoah Community Church when I’m not working here. I’ve just been hired to be the new sexton. You remember the church?”

Martha frowned. For a moment Elisa was afraid she had forgotten that, too; then Martha nodded her head. “Of course, and do you think I can’t remember my own name?”

Elisa smiled. “People there care very much about you.”

“They gave me something.” Martha added new furrows to her brow. “Just lately.” The furrows smoothed. “A quilt. In the dresser over there. Will you get it for me?”

Elisa found the quilt folded neatly in the bottom drawer. She shook it out and took it back to Martha. “It’s lovely. Look at the colors.” She turned it over. “And look, here are the names of the women who made it for you.” She read them out loud, coming to Helen Henry at the end. “Helen Henry. I’m going to be living with her for a while. Her quilts are beautiful.”

“I never cared for doing hand work. My mother despaired of me. But I could cook. How I loved to cook.”

Elisa tucked the quilt over Martha’s lap. “This will keep you warm.”

Martha looked up at her. “Maybe we did meet before. Or maybe you just look like somebody....”

Elisa touched her hair. “You eat your breakfast, Miss Wisner. I’ll be back in a little while to get the tray. Can I get you anything else?”

“People here are nice.” Martha went back to eating.

Elisa was glad the woman was happy.


Chapter Eight



SAM WAITED UNTIL the day after Newt Rafferty’s funeral for his visit to George Jenkins. More than a week had passed since he stood by Newt’s bedside with the Rafferty family and watched his friend pass peacefully away. The funeral had been attended by more than a hundred people, and more than a dozen of them participated in the service.

Unless he turned his life around, George’s funeral would be a different occasion entirely.

The late August sun was high overhead when Sam pulled into the parking lot of Jenkins Landscaping. Enough time had passed since the fiesta that Sam hoped George would be well into contrition. He wasn’t expecting it, though.

At his best, George was a gadfly who saw the world’s myriad faults and made sure they were fixed. George had orchestrated a capital fund drive to replace the church roof. George made sure the trees and shrubs were pruned and fertilized, and the grass cut properly.

Unfortunately, at his worst George was a bully who wanted complete control over the way problems were solved. No one on the board of deacons had been able to convince him that the cheaper brand of shingles he’d insisted on was inferior. A year into Sam’s ministry, the roof began to leak again. And even though the grounds were tidy and attractive now, Sam was still concerned George was exploiting the men who did the work.

So Sam didn’t expect today’s visit to go well. In fact, in comparison, that morning’s session with the church finance committee to trim next year’s budget had been pure pleasure.

He parked just a few feet from Jenkins’s office, a small prefab building across the lot from a sizeable greenhouse. A modest beige brick home with a narrow front porch stood back from both, on the side of a low hill. Sam didn’t have to knock on doors to find George. He was standing to one side at the front of a group of men, and before Sam even turned off the engine, he could hear him shouting.

“You don’t like what I’m paying, you go work for somebody else. You think there aren’t a million more just like you who’ll do the work cheaper? You think you’ve got real skills you can sell? Go be a doctor or a lawyer if you want more money!”

Sam got out of his car, but only after struggling with himself. Trying to talk to George was the right choice. But the other possibility, going behind his back to neutralize him—much the same as George was doing—was far more appealing.

George turned his head to see Sam approaching. For the briefest moment he looked embarrassed, like a boy caught bullying the new kid; then the moment ended and his scowl returned. He waved the men away, making it clear he was finished with them. They had started off toward the greenhouse before he stalked over to Sam.

“These people! You think we’d put out a red carpet from here to Mexico, the way they act. Doesn’t matter what I give them, what I do, it’s not enough. I tell them they start getting paid the minute they start working, but no, that’s not good enough. They want to be paid for the hour they stood around waiting to see if I was going to hire them this morning. They can go back to Tijuana for all I care.”

Sam took time for a deep breath before he thrust out his hand. “Good morning, George.”

George’s hesitation was noticeable, but grudgingly he accepted Sam’s hand for the briefest of shakes. “I know you and your kind, too. You think I’m not being fair, don’t you?”

“I just got here. I wasn’t privy to your conversation with those men.”

“I know what you think. Treat every one of them like they’re good hard workers, even if they aren’t. Oh, some are, I’ll give you that. I’ve had a few men I could trust to do exactly what I was paying them to. But most of ’em?” He made a derisive sound deep in his throat. “They’d lie in the sun and drink tequila all day if they had their way.”

Sam tried to speak gently, as if he could remember at that moment why he had chosen ministry as his life’s work. “For that matter, I’d lie in the sun all day if I could, George. So would you. But that doesn’t mean any of us will actually do it. You and I know we have responsibilities, and these men are no different. That’s why they’re here looking for work at minimal pay instead of hawking drugs in the barrio.”

“Hell, these people aren’t anything like you or me, and that’s what you don’t get. That’s why all this do-gooder stuff you’re forcing down our throats is just a big waste of time. These people don’t belong here. Not here at my place, not here at the church, not here in this country. And now I’m forced to hire a Spanish-speaking foreman just to stay on top of them. You know what that’s going to cost me?”

About half what it should, but Sam knew better than to say so.

“I ought to send them all packing,” George said.

Sam attempted to reason. “Just out of curiosity, if these men weren’t here, who would do your work? I don’t see any born-and-bred Shenandoah boys lined up at your gate. How many of Leon’s friends applied for jobs working outside in the hot summer sun?”

“That’s not what you came about, is it?”

“I’m afraid it’s an example. It’s clear you and I don’t see eye to eye on a number of things, and even clearer that you’d like to see me disappear so you can find a minister who’s more your style.”

“That about sums it up. You sure came with three strikes against you, didn’t you? I don’t know how many more the board thought they needed not to hire you.”

Sam ignored George’s speech. “The problem is, there may not be any ministers you’d find agreeable. We ministers are supposed to challenge you. We all need to be challenged or we’ll never change. If the next minister didn’t challenge you, he wouldn’t be earning his pay, and we know how you’d feel about that.”

George shoved his hands in the pockets of baggy pants. “You think I need changing? I’m raising a son by myself. You don’t have kids. You probably never worked a full day at a real job. You don’t know what it’s like to run a business or do the things I do.”

There was no point in explaining that a church was like a business, and that nothing was more real—or exhausting—than the mission each good minister or rabbi, priest or mullah, embarked on: to open hearts and minds to the love of God.

“I’ve got a story about this,” Sam said instead.

George sniffed. “I don’t have time for your stories.”

“Humor me.” Sam heard the edge creeping into his own voice.

For a moment he thought George would leave him standing there, but the other man shrugged. “Make it short.”

“Your situation here is what reminded me,” Sam began. “Only the man in my story owned a vineyard, not a landscaping business. One morning this man needed some extra laborers, so he went to the market where they congregated and hired the number he thought he’d need. Then, later in the day when he went back to the market, he saw a few more men who needed work and thought, ‘Maybe I’ll just hire them, too, and get things finished quicker.’”

“Are you finished yet?”

“Given the chance, I’ll be finished in a minute.”

George narrowed already narrow eyes.

Sam continued, trying to tamp down his anger. “So the vineyard owner hired the extra men. Fortunately, he was a man who could change his mind, and as the day progressed, he hired more and more workers as he saw there was more to be done.”

“What in the hell are you getting at?” George demanded.

“Let me cut to the chase. When the workday was finished, there were a number of men waiting to be paid. But when the foreman paid them, the men discovered every one had gotten the same amount of money, no matter when they started.”

“Then either the foreman or the owner of your vineyard was a fool.”

“Maybe not,” Sam said. “You see, right at the beginning the owner told the first men what he would pay them, so that’s what he paid. It was his decision to pay the other men just as much. In fact he said, ‘So the last shall be first, and the first last.’”

“You’re speaking in a bunch of damned riddles.”

“You’ll find that particular riddle in the book of Matthew. It’s one of the parables of Jesus. He didn’t want His words to be easy. We’re supposed to think hard about their meaning before we apply them to our lives. I think the point is that God is merciful and His grace is given through mercy, not through a calculation of the hours we’ve put into doing the right thing or working hard. Likewise—and no less important—it’s our job to be as merciful in our dealings as God is in His.”

“You think this means something to me?”

“I think it could, if you let it. There’s nothing to be gained by working as hard as you do, George, unless you’re doing it with a merciful heart. And there’s nothing to be gained by putting ourselves above anybody else. The last shall be first and the first last. We’re all God’s children, and He doesn’t care if we start life with a vineyard or as the laborer pruning the grapes. The reward’s the same.”

“You think I should lie down and roll over, let these men—let you, of all people—walk over me?”

Whatever patience Sam had snapped. “I think you need to take a deep breath and ask yourself any number of questions, starting with whether you could better serve the Lord by being kinder and more understanding.”

George tried to interrupt, but Sam cut him off with an angry swipe of his hand. “You have a job to do here. You can encourage these men, help them find a place in the community and your company, and pay them fairly. You can practice mercy at every turn. We’re all better for making the attempt, even when we don’t feel like it.”

“Get off my property.”

Nothing would have pleased him more, but Sam didn’t move. He took a moment to calm himself, to ask what he wanted to accomplish before he spoke again. And in those quiet seconds, he realized where he had failed.

“No matter how badly I tell it, it’s a good story. We’re all tempted to feel superior to other people. Maybe I’ve been guilty of that myself. I came here to understand you better, and I haven’t asked you how you’re feeling, or what’s going on with you to make you so angry at everybody and everything. I’ve just been preaching at you, because you make me angry, too.”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/emilie-richards/endless-chain/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.