Emilie Richards – Endless Chain (страница 5)

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.”