Emilie Richards – The Color Of Light (страница 20)
Shiloh hadn’t known what kind of tree that was and frankly hadn’t cared. But now she trooped along, and more surprisingly, so did her brother, who suddenly seemed interested.
Isaiah lifted a yellowed leaf off the ground beneath the sycamore and gave it to Dougie, talking about the shape, using his hand to explain what
“How do you know so much?” Shiloh asked.
“I spend a lot of time outdoors when I can. Trees interest me.” He inclined his head. “What interests you?”
“A roof over our heads?”
“What else? When you aren’t worrying, which is rare, I know, but what interests you both that has nothing to do with your situation?”
The question was so direct and so, well, interesting, that she couldn’t tell him to shove off. He seemed to really care about her answer.
“I like to run,” Dougie said. “As fast as I can, and I’m fast. I really, really am.”
“I just bet. Do you like sports?”
“He wouldn’t know,” Shiloh said. “Running’s free, and you can do it anywhere.”
“So you can. And it’s good practice for everything else, too.”
“If bad guys come, I can get away,” Dougie said.
Isaiah looked sadder, but he nodded. “Well, I was thinking more of baseball and football. That kind of thing.”
“I like to fish. My dad fishes, and he used to take me with him when I was really little.”
Isaiah nodded again, as if Dougie’s words were somehow profound. “And you, Shiloh?”
The question should have been easy, but it wasn’t. She had packed away everything that interested her, like the boxes from their home that went into a storage unit until they couldn’t afford to pay the rent anymore. Now all those things were probably gone forever, her childhood toys, the quilts her grandmother had made. Gone. And with them anything she had once liked to do.
She could see he understood that she wasn’t just being stubborn. She had given up being interested in anything other than survival.
“I think you like to read,” he said.
“Shiloh gets magazines out of the recycling,” Dougie said. “For her and for me.”
“That’s the best kind of recycling,” Isaiah said. “What magazines do you like?”
“Whatever.”
“Everything, in other words.”
“I guess. I like news. It makes me feel better.”
“Because you realize things could be worse?”
She nodded, just a little. She was surprised how much he understood. “I hate
“You don’t like whining.”
“If I say yes,
He laughed, a deep laugh like his voice, and she knew it was genuine. She liked Isaiah Colburn, although of course, he was a stranger and that meant he was still suspect.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “Are you here to volunteer or something?”
“No, I came to see Reverend Wagner.”
“She won’t be here today. It’s her day off. I have her cell phone number, though. She gave it to me and told me to call anytime.”
“Then she thinks you’re special.”
“She would be wrong about that.”
“Probably not. But you’ve saved me from going inside. I’ll come back another day.”
“Are you her friend? Or do you need counseling or something?”
He took a moment to answer. His expression changed as he seemed to sink somewhere deep inside him. “Both,” he said at last.
“Nobody calls her Reverend Wagner. At least nobody I would like. She’s Reverend Ana.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“I guess she’s a good friend to have. She’s been nice to us.”
“She would be.” He said goodbye and did a fist bump with Dougie, then he extended his hand to her once more.
“Think about school,” he said. “Whether you like it or not, it’s the only way out, Shiloh. And deep inside you’re too smart not to see that.”
They shook. Then he lifted that hand in goodbye and started back to the parking lot.
“I like him. He’s nice,” Dougie said.
“I guess.” Shiloh considered, then said it again with a little more enthusiasm.
“You don’t like most people.”
She wondered when that had become true. Maybe she had packed that box away and it, too, was at the county dump.
That seemed sadder than almost anything else that had happened to them so far.
WHILE ANALIESE HAD inherited most of her staff, she liked to think they had stayed on because they enjoyed working with her. A few had left town or retired over the years, but the present staff was congenial and loyal, necessary traits to run the church successfully. Even Myra, the church administrator, who looked as fierce as a lion, was more or less a pussycat.
On Tuesday morning Myra was more lion, however, as she dropped half a dozen messages on Analiese’s desk. “Betsy
Betsy was the church secretary. The rest of the staff was filling in for her and, among other tasks, taking turns answering phones.
“I’m that popular, huh?” Analiese just stared at the little pile and guessed it would accumulate as the day moved forward. “Anything I need to know about right this minute?”
“Georgia Ferguson is dropping by around noon with wedding plans, and Ethan Martin wants to know if you’d like to have lunch.”
“Thumbs-up to Georgia. And the rest?” Analiese gestured to the messages. The moment everyone arrived she had held a quick staff meeting and explained all the details of what had transpired over the weekend. Everyone was now up to speed and manning the defenses.
“Two who want to help with the Fowler family, two who don’t sound helpful.”
“So no messages from a man named Isaiah Colburn?”
Myra shook her head. Analiese wasn’t surprised. “Well, if he does call, no matter what, put him right through or get a return number, okay?” She glanced at her calendar. “Would you mind calling Ethan? I’ll be free about twelve thirty, but we need to go somewhere close by.”
“Only because your day is going to be worse than mine.” Myra closed the door behind her.
Analiese rested her face in her hands. She’d spent most of the previous day trying to find help for the Fowlers. Not one of her contacts had been able to make a suggestion for housing that didn’t involve a long waiting list. Some of the other services required that the Fowlers be Asheville residents, which was, of course, impossible if they couldn’t find housing. Most residence requirements were longer than the two weeks the Fowlers would be living upstairs.
“I’m like a dog chasing my tail.” Allowing herself one self-pitying sigh she picked up the telephone, the telephone directory and the stack of messages, and got to work.
Hours later when someone knocked, she was on her feet bending over in a yoga posture that Taylor, who owned a health and fitness studio, had taught her. She was hoping to get the kink out of her back and the phone conversations out of her head. Before she could answer Georgia opened the door.
“I have Starbucks.” Georgia held up two paper cups. “Earl Grey latte, the way you like it.”
“You are a saint.” Analiese straightened and smiled as her friend came in. Georgia was a decade older than she was, trim and attractive, with cinnamon-colored hair that fell nearly to her shoulders and perceptive brown eyes. She wasn’t vain, but she took care of herself and, like Analiese, her own latte probably sported nonfat milk.
“How was your holiday?” Georgia asked.
Analiese motioned her toward two armchairs in the corner with an end table between them and tried to remember how Thanksgiving had gone. It seemed like years ago.