Faithfully Yours
Lois Richer
TEMPORARILY YOURSTaking a new teaching job wasn't as easy as Gillian Langford had hoped. First she clashed with the school's proper–but very handsome–new principal, Jeremy Nivens. Then her aunt decided Jeremy needed a little matchmaking. Now everyone in town believed Gillian would soon be walking down the aisle, leaving her little choice but to go along with the "engagement."But pretending to be Jeremy's intended wasn't difficult at all–which truly had the unlucky-in-love Gillian frightened. For though she had decided never to risk her heart again, Gillian knew Jeremy could change her mind…if she dared give him the chance.FAITH, HOPE & CHARITY: With a little help from these matchmaking ladies, romance is sure to bloom for three very lucky couples.Welcome to Love Inspired™–stories about life, faith and love that will lift your spirits and gladden your heart. Meet men and women facing the challenges of today's world and learning important lessons about life, faith and love.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#uc645e94f-37c8-55d4-81af-3892743bdd11)
Excerpt (#u62eaa8ce-597d-5929-843f-3bed07ee7d98)
About the Author (#u8b1e7a16-e8b1-5f9b-b3ce-6cd18c76aa7f)
Title Page (#u1b340cd4-0a2e-5862-8894-e976c8d6f1e8)
Epigraph (#uf868b469-feba-537d-a48a-442ec7920134)
Dedication (#ue9954ce9-eac0-5dc3-afb0-d5b88a3cf4b5)
Chapter One (#udb32d538-ce3b-5eaa-9a62-9cb4c1b3a054)
Chapter Two (#u0ebe9b66-4fe0-5d79-95c4-1dc53ce480d3)
Chapter Three (#u5a2c0ec6-8f62-5e2d-b57b-39c493ddaf02)
Chapter Four (#u76fd3882-bf0e-58c1-95fa-14052d1b9cbc)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
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)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Preview (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Well, it’s just a bit late for regrets, Miss Langford,” Jeremy said. “Especially now that the whole town thinks we’re about to be married!”
“Look,” she began, angry at the way he was hinting that this was all her fault, “I was only trying to spare your aunt. She was just a little confused and I didn’t want to make it worse.”
“Well, you’ve made it much worse,” he complained. “Now we’ve got the minister planning our wedding. What are you going to do about this situation now?”
Gillian felt tears press against her eyelids. But there was no way she was giving in to them—not with him standing there watching.
LOIS RICHER
credits her love of writing to a childhood spent in a Sunday school where the King James Version of the Bible was taught. The majesty and clarity of the language in the Old Testament stories allowed her to create pictures in her own mind while growing up in a tiny prairie village where everyone strove to make ends meet. During her school years, she continued to find great solace in those words and in the church family that supported her in local speech festivals, Christmas concerts and little theater productions. Later, in college, her ability with language stood her in good stead as she majored in linguistics, studied the work of William Shakespeare and participated in a small drama group.
Today Lois lives in a tiny Canadian town with her husband, Barry, and two very vocal sons. And still her belief in a strong, vibrant God who cares more than we know predominates her life. “My writing,” she says, “allows me to express just a few of the words God sends bubbling around in my brain. If I convey some of the wonder and amazement I feel when I think of God and His love, I’ve used my words to good effect”
Faithfully Yours
Lois Richer
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
But the Lord said unto Samuel, Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; because I have refused him: for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.
—I Samuel 16:7
To my husband, Barry, on our fifteenth wedding anniversary, with much love and appreciation for your unwavering support.
Chapter One (#ulink_8269e6f9-31c8-5ae0-a18b-2fca51d767e3)
“That man will turn my hair gray,” Gillian Langford sputtered, twisting the emerald engagement band around the ring finger on her right hand in frustration.
“Not yet, I hope,” Mary Teale teased, her eyes flashing. “This is only your third year teaching—your first at JFK Elementary.”
“And it may be my last in the fair town of Mossbank, North Dakota,” Gillian retorted. “I’m not kidding! Mr. Nivens is so strict, I’ve forgotten half of the six thousand rules he’s made in the past five weeks.” There was a sudden silence in the staff room, and Gillian turned around in her chair to see why, her heart sinking as she did.
“That fact is very evident, Miss Langford.” Her nemesis stood behind her, his face hardened into the usual stern lines. “I would like to speak to you privately, please. In my office.”
“Now?” Gillian heard the squeak of surprise in her voice and wished she had been able to control it. He didn’t need to know how badly her feet were aching.
“If you please?”
She forced herself to follow his tall form and noted the short, precise cut of his hair above his stiff white shirt collar. Jeremy Nivens was at all times perfectly groomed with never a hair out of place or a spot on his tie. Gillian hated that. She felt like a grubby child when she stood next to all that neatness.
“Be seated, Miss Langford.” He sat stiffly behind his massive desk, his back ramrod straight, arms resting on the desktop. “I wanted to discuss this afternoon’s unfortunate incident with you.”
Gillian frowned. What in the world was old Jerry talking about now, she fumed, and then corrected herself for using the term bestowed on him by the other teachers. Actually, Jeremy Nivens wasn’t all that old, her aunt Hope had assured her. But you couldn’t tell it from his unyielding demeanor.
Gillian had noticed other aspects about him, too. He was certainly good-looking with that tall, lean, wide-shouldered body under a perfectly tailored suit. He had the long, straight, haughty nose of an aristocrat with the same high cheekbones and patrician features.
As she stared across at him, Gillian almost grinned. This situation reminded her of her own schooldays and the times she had been reprimanded by the principal. Only this time it was more serious; her job was at stake. Mr. Nivens’s chilly blue-gray gaze was focused directly on her. Again.
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow,” she said softly, rubbing her shoeless foot against the carpet on his office floor. “Did something unusual happen today?”
“I’m speaking about that disgraceful display on the playground this afternoon.” His icy stare wiped the smile off her face. “My science students were totally unable to concentrate on their work, with you and your students racing about, shrieking like wild animals.”
“It was phys ed,” she told him shortly. “They’re supposed to run around. Goodness knows, they needed a breath of fresh air after the stuffiness of this school.” She had referred to the current heat wave, but it was obvious from the grim tightening of his face that the principal had taken her reference personally.
“Rules and regulations do not make a school stuffy, Miss Langford. They make it an orderly place where children can learn more easily.” As he spoke, Mr. Nivens flicked a speck of dust off his gleaming oak desk and straightened the already-neat sheaf of papers on top into a military-precise line. “Which is why the children can’t run in the hall, use profanity or chew gum on the school premises. If everyone follows the rules and conforms to what’s expected of them, the school year will progress smoothly. For all of us.”
His eyes narrowed. “Which is why I suggest you get rid of the blue and yellow chalk and use the regulation white in your classroom. Colors are only to be used for special occasions. Now, about your, er, outfit.”
Gillian glanced down at herself worriedly. So far in one month’s teaching at JFK a button on her blouse had come undone in his presence, he’d reprimanded her for wearing sandals and not wearing hose in the classroom, and he’d given her a lecture on the advisability of keeping her hair tied back, after one of her students had inadvertently caught his watch in it. What now?
“My suit?” Gillian stared down at herself.
She’d chosen her current outfit partially because of the dull brown color that couldn’t be easily marked, and partly because it had a lack of buttons, zippers or other fasteners. And she definitely had panty hose on, Gillian grimaced. She’d been sweltering in them all afternoon. His glare was frigid and she bristled under the indignity of it all.
“What’s the matter with my clothes this time, Mr. Nivens?” she demanded, a blaze of indignation lighting up her clear green eyes. All her life her parents had told her to make allowances for people who had beliefs different from her own, but Gillian figured she’d given Jeremy Nivens about as much room as he was going to get.
“Well,” he began solemnly, folding his fingers tepee style on top of the desk. Gillian caught a faint tinge of pink on his cheekbones. “I’m sure it’s a wonderful suit for some things but it does not, er, lend itself to gymnastics.” His eyes followed the smooth, fitted lines of the knit cotton as it hugged her well-shaped form and emphasized her obvious assets. “Your skirt, for instance. It’s far too short.”
“It’s below my knees,” she sputtered angrily.
“Perhaps. But when you bend over to get the ball, it has certain, er, disadvantages. Both front and back.” Jeremy averted his eyes from her angry, red face. “And I can hardly imagine those shoes are meant for football.”
It was the last straw in a long, tiring day and Gillian felt her usual calm demeanor explode. She bent over and retrieved her shoes, barely noticing the way her neckline gaped slightly in the front. She stood, thrusting her long curls behind her ears, and glared at the man behind the desk.
“Why you rude, obnoxious man! I wore these stupid heels because you said we had to be dressed in a businesslike fashion at all times. And I bought this suit because thus far in my employment there has not been one item of my clothing in my wardrobe that you deem suitable for the business of teaching. Well, tough!” Gillian practically bellowed the word.
“From now on I wear what I want, when I want, the way I want. If you have some complaint, I’ll be pleased to take it up with the Human Rights people. Your only business is with my job, and I do that very well.”
“Miss Langford, if you would kindly be seated…”
“No, I won’t. I’ve tried to go along with your silly little regulations and your unceasing demands for weeks now. I’ve taught in other schools and never had anyone question my taste in clothes. And I’m not taking it from you anymore. You’re making my life miserable, and you’re doing it on purpose. You think I’ll quit, don’t you?” She stared at him as the thought dawned. “You think that if you keep at me, I’ll give up and leave. We’ll, I’m not going,” she told him firmly.
“Miss Langford, I am not trying to force your resignation. I merely wanted to advise you that the entire grade-six class was ogling your, er, posterior this afternoon!”
Jeremy Nivens’s generally unmoving face was full of fury. His dark eyebrows drew together as he glared down at her, mouth pursed in a straight, disapproving line. He had surged to his feet and now stood towering over her, even though Gillian stood five feet eight inches in her stocking feet.
“I was trying to spare you some embarrassment,” he offered a moment later, in his normal hard tones.
“You know what? Don’t bother! From now on I’m going to wear exactly what I’ve always worn to teach my classes. I’m sorry you don’t approve of slacks but I like them. And shorts. And jeans. And when the occasion demands, I will wear them.”
“Business attire is the only appropriate apparel in this school,” he began his lecture again. Gillian walked to the door in her stocking feet and pulled it open, ignoring the icy coolness of his words.
“I work with twenty-eight first-graders. I have to be comfortable, to be able to get down on their level when I need to. I certainly don’t need to dress up for some high-powered, executive-type office. If you want to institute a school uniform, fine. But until then, don’t try to force me to conform to your strictures.” Her green eyes glittered with frustration as she thrust the last stab home.
“You know, Mr. Nivens, you could have closed the blinds if the view was so disturbing,” Gillian told him savagely. She tossed him one more angry glance over her shoulder and then strode from the office, high heels dangling from one finger as she left the school, muttering dire epithets all the way home. As she walked, she reviewed her stormy relationship with Jeremy Nivens.
“Of all the nerve,” she grumbled. “For two cents I’d go back to Boston and St. Anne’s without a qualm.”
But she knew it was all talk. She couldn’t go back; not now. Since Michael’s death she hadn’t been able to face living alone in the city, remembering their special haunts, driving past the places they’d gone together, attending the same church they’d attended together and where they had planned to say their vows. The pain of his death was too new, too fresh there. She’d had to get away, and Aunt Hope had been the answer to her prayers. In a lot of ways.
“Hello, dear. Did you have a nice day at school?”
Gillian had been so preoccupied with herself she hadn’t noticed the slim woman busily raking leaves on the front lawn. She studied her tall, blond aunt curiously, noting her ageless, blue eyes that still sparkled and the lean, athletic build Hope worked so hard to retain.
“Nice,” she griped angrily. “No, it was rotten. That Carruthers child is a klutz. She spilled the glue all over me. Again. And the Stephens’s youngest son is deaf—I’m sure of it.” Gillian flopped down on the top step with disgust. “If that weren’t enough, that contemptible man nattered at me about my clothes again—said I shouldn’t wear these shoes for phys ed. Imbecile! As if I didn’t know that.”
“Well then, dear, why did you wear them?” Hope’s voice was quietly curious.
“Because he’s ordered us to wear business dress at all times,” Gillian bellowed and then grinned wryly. “Sorry, Auntie. I’m taking it out on you, and it’s not your fault. But don’t worry. I told him that from now on I’ll wear what I blasted well please.” She spread her arms wide and stared up at the bright sun. “You’d think I looked like a bag lady or something, the way he talks to me.”
Her aunt smiled thoughtfully as she stared at the tattered shreds of her niece’s panty hose. “Well, those stockings would certainly qualify, my dear.” She chuckled.
“Don’t you start now,” Gillian ordered. “I’ve had enough for one day. Petty little man.” She glared at the cement walkway as if it was to blame for her problems.
“My dear, there are bound to be adjustments with a new principal. You may just have to bite your tongue and accept the changes. Not all change is bad, you know. The possibilities that are ahead of you are endless. Open your eyes.”
“I don’t want to. They’re too tired.” Gillian faked a snore. “Thank heavens it’s Friday. I intend to relax tonight.” She sprang to her feet and leaped up the three stairs. Gillian was almost through the door before she remembered her manners and turned back. “Is that OK with you, Hope, or have you something special planned?”
Her aunt swept the rest of the crackling red and gold leaves into the huge black bag and neatly tied the top. Gillian noticed that her aunt’s pale aquamarine pantsuit was as pristine as it had been this morning; her shiny blond hair swaying gently in its neat bob as she lifted the bag and deposited it at the curb.
“Gillian,” her aunt chided her softly. “You don’t have to keep asking me that. I want this to be your home, too. Please don’t feel pressured to involve yourself in my activities. Feel free to go out with people your own age, dear.”
“Then you are going out,” Gillian muttered, dropping her shoes in the hall and curling comfortably on her aunt’s pale floral sofa. “What has bustling Mossbank scheduled for the inmates tonight?”
Hope favored her with a look that spoke volumes about her niece’s attitude, but she answered, anyway.
“The church has a fowl supper on tonight. I offered to help in the kitchen.” As she spoke, she lifted a huge roaster from the oven. Immediately the house was filled with the succulent aroma of roasting bird and tangy sage dressing.
“I always thought it was a ‘fall’ supper. Doesn’t matter, I’m starved,” Gillian breathed, closing her eyes. “Maybe I should go with you. I could help wash up afterward. Who all goes?”
“Almost everyone,” her aunt chuckled. “It’s an annual event. If I were you I’d get there early.” Her astute eyes watched as Gillian twisted the glowing band around her finger. “Please don’t think I’m trying to boss you or anything, dear.”
Gillian felt her body tighten at the sad but serious look in her aunt’s eyes.
“You know you can say anything to me, Hope. I won’t mind.” Gillian examined her aunt’s serious countenance. “What is it?”
“Don’t you think it’s time to put Michael’s ring away, Gilly? He’s gone and he’s not coming back,” she said in a soft but firm tone. “You have to move on.”
“I’m not sure I can.” Gillian stared at the floor, her mind flooded with memories. “We would have been married by now,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
“Oh, darling.” Her aunt rushed over and hugged her. “I’m so sorry. I know it hurts. But, dear—” she brushed Gillian’s burnished curls off her forehead and pressed a kiss there “—Michael loved life. He wanted to experience everything. Now that he’s with God, I don’t think he would want you to stop living. There are marvelous things in store for you. You have to accept the changes and move on…go out and find what God has planned specially for you.”
“I already know my future,” Gillian whispered at last, pressing herself away and straightening the hated brown suit. “I’m going to teach, Auntie. I’m going to focus my energies on my students and their needs.” She smiled sadly at her aunt’s worried look. “You and I have a lot in common, you know. We’ve both lost the men we loved—you in the Viet Nam war and me because of some stupid drunk driver.
“I’m sure I couldn’t do better than follow your example. Teaching will be enough for me. It has to be.” Gillian choked back a sob and smiled brightly.
“Sweetheart,” her aunt began slowly. “Don’t use me as a role model for your life.” Her eyes were shadowed, and Gillian saw her aunt’s face grow sad. “I have had opportunities to marry that I sometimes wish I had taken.” She shook her blond head and focused on her niece. “Be very sure of what you ask out of life. You may just get it.”
“Right now,” Gillian said, grimacing. “I’d settle for Mr. Jeremy Nivens moving to another country. At the very least, another school.” She made a face. When Hope chuckled, Gillian jumped up and plucked at the repulsive brown fabric disparagingly. “I’ll just go change and we can go to the fall or ‘fowl’ supper.”
Which was probably how she ended up pouring tea for Jeremy Nivens that evening, she decided later.
“Miss Langford,” he murmured, his gray-blue eyes measuring her in the red-checked shirt she wore tucked into her denim skirt. “You look very, er, country tonight.”
Gillian knew he was staring at the spot of gravy on her shirt, and she would have liked to tell him how it got there, but instead, she swallowed her acid reply with difficulty. After all, this was the church.
“It’s comfortable,” she told him shortly. “Do you take cream or sugar?” She held out the tray, knowing perfectly well that he took neither. When he waved it away she turned to leave.
“The meal was excellent.” His voice was a low murmur that she barely caught. “Is there anything I can do to help out? As a member here, I’d like to do my bit.”
“I didn’t know you went to this church,” Gillian blurted out, staring at him aghast. School was bad enough. A person should have the sanctity of their church respected, she fumed.
“It is somewhat less formal than the English one I’ve attended for years, but I find it compatible with my beliefs. Besides, my great-aunt goes here.” He nodded his head at a woman Gillian identified as Faith Rempel.
Although Gillian certainly knew of Faith from her aunt’s vivid description of one of the two ladies she called her dearest friends, she herself had never actually met the woman formally.
“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “Mrs. Rempel. She’s your aunt?” It was strange to think of such a happy-looking woman as the old grouch’s relation. Gillian watched in interest as a grin creased the principal’s stern countenance.
“Apparently my aunt, your aunt and another lady have been great pals for years. I believe the other lady is Mrs. Flowerday. They seem to get along quite well. It must be nice having friends you’ve known for a long time.” His voice was full of something—yearning?
Gillian stared at him. He’d sounded wistful, just for a moment. “It must? Why?”
“Oh, I suppose because they make allowances for you, afford you a few shortcomings.” He smiled softly, glancing across at his aunt once more.
“Why, Mr. Nivens,” Gillian sputtered, staring at him in shock. “I didn’t know you had any.”
He looked startled at that; sort of stunned that she would dare to tease him. A faint red crept up his neck, past the stiff collar, to suffuse his cheeks.
“There are those,” he muttered snidely, glaring at her, “who say that I have more than my fair share.”
It was Gillian’s turn to blush, and she did, but thankfully the effect was lost in Pastor Dave’s loud cheerful voice. “Just the two folks I was most hoping to corral at this shindig.”
Gillian winced at the stomp of the cowboy boots that missed her bare toes by a scant inch and the thick beefy arm that swung round her shoulder. Pastor Dave was a cowboy wannabe and he strove constantly to perfect his image as a long, tall Texan, even when he remained a short, tubby Dakota preacher.
“What can we do to help you out, Pastor?” Gillian queried in a falsely bright voice. “Another piece of pumpkin pie or a fresh cup of coffee?”
“No sirree, Bob. I’ve eaten a hog’s share tonight.” The short man chuckled appreciatively, patting his basketball stomach happily. “No, I was hoping you and your friend here would consent to helpin’ a busy preacher out with the youth group.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had much opportunity to work with young people,” she heard Jeremy Nivens begin nervously. “And with the Sunday school class you’ve given me, I’m not sure I’ll have enough free time for anything else.”
Gillian peered around Dave’s barrel chest to stare at her boss’s shaking head.
“I’m afraid I’m in the same boat, Pastor,” she murmured, thankful that she wouldn’t have to work with old, stuffedshirt Nivens. Their contact at school was quite enough for her. She didn’t need more proximity to know that the two of them would never work well together, especially not in the loose, unrestricted world of teenagers.
“Nonsense,” Pastor Dave chortled. “Why, you folks just being here tonight is a good sign that you have Friday evenings free. And I know the young folk would appreciate having you whippersnappers direct their meetin’s more than they would old Brother Dave.” He whacked Jeremy on the back and patted Gillian’s shoulder kindly before moving away. “I’ll be calling y’all about an organizational meeting next week,” he said, grinning happily. “See ya there.”
Gillian stared aghast at the tall, lean man in front of her. It couldn’t be. No way. She wasn’t going to be conned into this. Not with General Jeremy Nivens.
“I don’t think that man listens to what anyone says,” Mr. Nivens muttered in frustration. “He bulldozed me into taking the Sunday school boys class, but I can’t take on a bunch of hormone-crazy teens, too.”
“Well, you don’t have to act as if they’re juvenile delinquents or something,” Gillian said, bristling indignantly. “They’re just kids who don’t have a whole lot to amuse themselves with in a town this size.”
“Hah!” He glared at her, his gray eyes sparkling. “They should be able to make their own fun. Why, these children have every advantage—a lovely countryside, acres of land and rivers and hills. They should be happy to be free of the inner-city ghettos that lots of children are enduring where they don’t get enough to eat and—”
“Please,” Gillian muttered, holding up one hand. “Spare me the sermon. It sounds just like something my grannie used to say.” She shifted to one side as the family behind her moved away from the table, children gaily jumping from bench to bench.
“‘When I was a child,’” she said in a scratchy voice meant to copy her grandmother’s thready tones. “‘We never had the advantages you young things have today. Why I walked three miles to and from school every single day, even when it was forty-below. In bare feet. Without a coat.’”
Mr. Nivens’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline as he listened to her. When at last he moved, it was to brush off the crumbs from his pant leg and remove a blob of cream Gillian had slopped on the toe of his shoe when Pastor Dave had grabbed her.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he murmured, stepping around her carefully. “No one could walk through forty-below without shoes or a coat and survive.” He started up the basement stairs after tossing one frowning look at her bright curling tendrils of hair where they lay loose against her neck.
Gillian snapped the tray down on the table and motioned to the folk holding out their cups.
“Help yourself,” she advised, with a frown on her face. “I’ve got something to say to Mr. Nivens.”
“Go for it, Missy,” Ned Brown advised, grinning like a Cheshire Cat “That feller needs a bit of loosenin’ up. Seems to me you’re just the girl to do it.”
As she raced up the stairs, Gillian decided Ned was right. She had a whole year of Mr. Jeremy Nivens to get through. She might as well start off as she meant to go on.
He was striding across the parking lot when she emerged—huge, measured strides that made her race to catch up. Fortunately, she wore her most comfortable sandals and could easily run to catch up.
“Just a minute, Mr. Nivens,” she called breathlessly. “I have something I want to say.”
He stopped and turned to stare at her, the wind ruffling his dark brown hair out of its usual orderly state. One lock of mussed hair tumbled down across his straight forehead, making him seem more human, more approachable, Gillian decided.
“I was making a joke,” she said finally, aware that his searching gray-blue eyes had noted her flushed face and untucked shirt. “It was supposed to be funny.”
“Oh.” He continued to peer at her through the gloom, and Gillian moistened her lips. It was the kind of stare that made her nervous, and she shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. “Was that everything, Miss Langford?”
“My name is Gillian,” she told him shortly, frustrated by the cool, distant frigidity his arrogant demeanor projected. “Or Gilly if you prefer.”
“It sounds like a name for a little girl,” he told her solemnly, his dour look suggesting that she take the information to heart. “At any rate, I barely know you. We are co-workers in a strictly professional capacity. I hardly think we should be on a first-name basis.”
“Look, Mr. Nivens,” she exhorted. “I’m trying to be friendly. That’s the way people in Mossbank are, friendly and on a first-name basis. No one at school uses titles except in front of the children.” She drew a breath of cool, evening air and counted to ten. “If you don’t want to help with the youth group, fine. But don’t pretend it’s because they’re too uncivilized for you to be around.” Her eyes moved over his three-piece suit with derision.
“I doubt you and they would have anything in common, anyway,” she muttered. “You’re far too old for them.”
His stern, rigid face cracked a mirthless smile.
“Not so old,” he said sternly. “I was a teenager once, also, Miss Langford.”
“Really?” Gillian stared at him disbelievingly.
“I’m sure of it.” His eyes sparkled at some inner joke as he watched her.
“Well, anyway—” she shrugged “—if you don’t want to work with them, just say so.”
“I thought I had,” he murmured so softly she barely caught the words. He studied her face. “Are you going to fall in with Pastor Dave’s suggestions?” he demanded.
“I think I might,” she mused, deliberately ignoring that inner voice that quietly but firmly whispered NO. “They really need some direction, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else.” All around them the rustle of wind through the drying leaves and the giggles of children romping in the playground carried in the night air. The musky odor of cranberries decaying in the nearby woods wafted pungently toward them on a light breeze.
“But you’re not that much younger than I am,” he objected.
“In some ways,” she said through gritted teeth. “You and I are light-years apart.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he admitted at last. He turned to leave. “Good night, Miss Lang—Gillian.”
As he walked away into the dusky night, Gillian stood with her mouth hanging open. For the first time in over a month, he’d called her by her first name. How strange! Perhaps the man really wasn’t as stuffy as she’d thought. Maybe, just maybe, he’d unbend with time.
Then she frowned.
He hadn’t outright refused to attend the organizational meeting, had he? Did that mean he intended to show up and offer his staid opinions?
“No way,” she muttered angrily. “I don’t care how much they need helpers. Mr. Jeremy Nivens is not going to work in the youth group, not if I have anything to say about it.”
As she turned to go back inside, Gillian tried to ignore the sight of Jeremy almost lost in the shadows up ahead, children racing along beside him, chattering eagerly as he ignored them.
She had not misread the situation. He wasn’t the youth leader type. Not at all.
Was he?
Chapter Two (#ulink_f912e7c5-5379-5fb2-af84-cd99d6ab71d0)
“Why are there two whole shelves of dog food and only one teensy section with tea?” Charity Flowerday muttered, as she hobbled up and down the aisles of Mossbank’s largest grocery store, searching for the ingredients she needed for lunch with her friends. Although why she should have to search for anything was a mystery. She’d lived in this small farming community for almost seventy years. She should know where every single item was kept, she chuckled to herself.
“Ah, tea.” She ran her finger along the shelf and plucked a package into her cart. “Now, dessert.”
It was impossible to ignore the young tow-headed boy in the junk-food aisle across from frozen foods. He looked much the way her own son had thirty years ago: freckle-faced, grubby, with a tear in both knees of his filthy jeans and his shirttail hanging out.
“School not started yet?” she asked in her usual friendly fashion. It wasn’t that she didn’t know. Why, her friend Hope’s niece had been teaching at the local elementary school for almost a month now, and she was well acquainted with the schedule.
“Buyin’ somethin’ fer my mom,” he muttered, turning his face away and hunching over to peer at the varieties of potato chips currently available. It was obvious that he wasn’t interested in carrying on a conversation. Charity shrugged before turning away to squint at the ice cream labels behind the frosted glass doors.
“Hmm, all pretty high in fat and cholesterol,” she murmured to herself. Heaven knew women of her age couldn’t afford either one, she thought grimly. “Arthur,” she called loudly, hoping the proprietor would hear her above the roar of the semi truck unloading outside.
When Art Johnson didn’t immediately appear, she shuffled over to the counter to wait for him. The grubby little boy was there ahead of her clutching a fistful of penny candy.
“Hello again, young man. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. Has your family just moved to Mossbank?” Any newcomer to their fair town was a source of interest for Charity, and she couldn’t help the bristle of curiosity that ran through her. “What’s your name?”
“Roddy. Roddy Green.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Roddy. My name is Mrs. Flowerday. I live at the end of Maple Street in that red brick house. Perhaps you’ve noticed it?”
“Nope.”
Evidently young Mr. Green didn’t care to know, either, thought Charity with a tiny smile. Kids nowadays were so different. They didn’t bother with all the folderol of petty politeness and such. They just got down to the basics.
“Where’s the old guy that runs this place?” the boy demanded sullenly, tapping his fingers on the counter. “I haven’t got all day.”
“Oh, Mr. Johnson often has to stay at the back while they unload the truck,” she explained to him with a smile. “He counts the pieces as they take them off to be sure he receives everything he should. I’m certain he will be here in a moment.”
“I’m here right now, Charity. Sorry to have kept you waiting. What can I do for you?”
Arthur Johnson smiled at her the same way he had for the past thirty-five years, and Charity smiled back. He had always been a friendly man who took pleasure in meeting the needs of his customers. When he looked at her like that, his face jovial, his balding head burnished in the autumn sun shining through the window, Charity felt her heart give a quick little patter. He was still such a handsome man.
“I was here first,” Roddy piped up belligerently. He smacked the candy on the counter. “How much?”
Charity noticed Art’s eyebrows rise at the obvious discourtesy, but she shook her head slightly.
“Yes, he was here first, Art,” Charity murmured.
“All right, then. Twenty-nine cents, please, young man.”
As Charity watched the child’s hand slip into his pocket for the change, she noticed his other hand snitch a chocolate bar from the stand in front of him and slip it into his other pocket She motioned her head downward as Art glanced at her, but this time it was he who shook his head.
“Thanks, son. Now you’d better get back to school.”
“’Bye Art the fart,” the boy chanted, racing out the door and down the street. They could hear his bellows of laughter ricochet back and forth along the narrow avenue.
“Of all the nerve! Arthur Johnson, you know very well that child stole a chocolate bar from you,” Charity accused, casting the grocer a black look. “Why did you let the little hoodlum get away with it? Didn’t you see it clearly enough?”
“Oh, I saw it, Charity. My eyes are still pretty good, and that mirror really helps,” Art chuckled. “But this isn’t the first time I chose to do nothing about it. Not right now. Anyway, that chocolate bar will eat away at his conscience all afternoon. He’s not getting away with anything.” He pressed her shoulder gently as if to soothe away her indignation. “Now, dear lady, what can I do for my best customer?”
Charity preened a little at the complimentary tone, straightening her shoulders as she blinked up at him girlishly.
“Well, Arthur, I’m having guests for lunch today, and I want to serve ice cream. This may be one of the last really warm days we have this fall, you know.”
“I see.” Art led the way over to the freezers and tugged out a small round tub. “I have your favorite right back here, Charity. Double chocolate fudge pecan.” He beamed down at her
“Why, I can’t believe you remembered. It’s ages since I had this. It won’t do for Hope, though,” Charity said, grimacing. “She’s always watching her fat content, and this is bound to send it over the moon.” A tinge of frustration edged her words as she shoved the container back into the freezer. “Maybe we’d better have sherbet instead. A nice savory lemon.”
“Charity, Hope Langford is so scrawny she could do with a little fattening up. Besides, you know you love chocolate. And this is the light variety with one-third less fat It’s really quite delicious.” Art glanced at his hands self-consciously. “I tried it myself last week.”
“You ate chocolate ice cream, with your cholesterol level?” Charity frowned severely. “You need a woman to look after you, Arthur.”
They spent twenty minutes discussing their various health ailments before Charity strolled out the door carrying the container of chocolate ice cream and grinning from ear to ear.
Two and a half hours later Charity was welcoming her two friends to her cosy home and a scrumptious lunch.
“Isn’t it lovely out today.” That was her friend Faith Rempel who simply never had a bad day. “I can’t imagine more perfect weather for walking.”
“I thought Jeremy didn’t like you walking all over town,” Hope Langford questioned. “Has he changed his mind?” Hope’s voice was soft and shy, much like the woman herself. At fifty-six, she was the youngest in their group and much concerned over her friend’s propensity to accidents. She had, at first, greeted the arrival of Faith’s nephew, Jeremy Nivens, with relief.
“Oh, Jeremy’s far too busy with school just now. He’s trying so hard to make a good impression with this first principalship. The dear boy hasn’t been hovering nearly as much this week.” Faith brushed the permed lock of gray hair off her forehead absently as she stared at the other two. “I haven’t seen him for three days,” she told them cheerfully. “Or was it four? Let’s see now…”
Charity laughed gaily.
“Oh, Faith,” she murmured, leading them out to her small patio and the gaily set table. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what day it is again? I declare that memory of yours is—”
“Just fine,” cut in Hope quietly. She frowned at Charity. “I think she does wonderfully well. And if we’re talking about Jeremy, I don’t think Gillian is particularly impressed with him. She says he’s very old-fashioned.”
They sat around the table, munching on the low-fat ham sandwiches and crunchy green salad as they discussed the newest educators at the local elementary school.
“Well,” Charity murmured. “You must admit your niece is very advanced in some of her ideas. Why, just the other day I heard Gillian complaining about the textbooks. Said they were too passé to be any good!” Her white eyebrows rose with indignation. “We’ve had those textbooks for years, as you well know, Hope Langford.”
Hope hid her smile behind her napkin. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was the same soft tones they had come to expect from her. “Yes, I know the age of some of those books very well. I myself tried to have them replaced just before I retired from teaching. Unfortunately, some folk in the community felt they were adequate, so the money was not forthcoming.” Her blue eyes sparkled with mirth at Charity as she smoothed a hand over her blond, chin-length bob. As usual, there wasn’t a hair out of place.
“I can’t imagine why anyone thinks the children of the nineties still need to focus so completely on President Kennedy’s administration,” Hope murmured. “Several things have happened since the early sixties, Charity.”
“Oh, piffle.” Faith stared at them vacantly for several moments, her brow furrowed. Her English accent became more pronounced as she spoke. “I’ve forgotten whatever it was we were going to discuss today.”
“It’s all right, dear,” Hope whispered, squeezing the other woman’s hand gently. “We were going to discuss our Christmas project. Isn’t that right, Charity?” She glanced across the table warningly, her thin body rigid in her chair.
“Yes, indeed,” Charity murmured gaily. “But not before we’ve had my special dessert.” She rose to stand behind Faith’s chair, her tiny frame hidden by the larger woman. “And of course, we’ll have tea. You pour, dear.” She squeezed the rounded shoulders affectionately.
It was difficult to scoop out the ice cream with her arthritic hands, so Charity took the carton and dishes to Hope for help. They both watched as Faith’s faded green eyes lit up with excitement as she tasted her first spoonful.
“Nuts,” she crowed. “This ice cream has nuts.” She sighed with pleasure. “I do love nuts,” she murmured happily.
As they basked in the warm, afternoon sun, sipping tea, chatting desultorily and ignoring the dirty dishes sitting nearby, Charity held her hands out for them to see.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to quilt this year, girls,” she murmured, staring at her gnarled fingers and twisted knuckles. “I just can’t manage the needle anymore.”
They were aghast.
“But, Charity,” Faith exploded. “You’ve always made a special Christmas quilt every year for as long as I’ve known you. It’s a tradition in Mossbank.” Her eyes were huge and filling rapidly with tears. “You can’t just give up.”
“Well, this year I am choosing something else for my Christmas project.” Charity’s brown eyes sparkled with a secret.
Hope cleared her voice, curiosity widening her china blue eyes. “What?” she enquired softly.
“I’ve been praying about it, and this morning I got an answer. I’m going to take on a different kind of project—a person. A little boy named Roddy Green. I watched him steal a chocolate bar at the grocery store this morning when he should have been in school.” Charity shifted her feet to rest on a nearby rock, exposing her puffy, swollen ankles. “And I decided he could use a friend,” she murmured quietly. “Art told me a little about the boy, and I think we could both benefit from the relationship.”
“I don’t like that word,” Faith told them both, absently pulling a weed from the huge pot of yellow begonias that sat nearby. “It’s what Jeremy always talks about when I ask if he has a special girlfriend he’s interested in.”
“What word is that, dear?” Hope asked mildly confused.
“Relationship. My Donald and I never had a relationship, not once in thirty-five years. We had love and friendship and care and concern and sometimes arguments, but we never had anything as cold as a relationship.” Faith spat the word out with disgust.
“Young people today do have a different way of looking at things,” Hope agreed. Her blond brows drew together as she asked curiously, “And does Jeremy have a relationship with someone?”
Charity watched Hope twist her fingers together as she lounged in her chair. It was that unusual activity that gave the younger woman away, she decided. Hope never fidgeted. Charity wondered what her friend was up to.
“No,” Faith answered the question sadly. “Jeremy says he’s far too involved in his career to bother with females right now. He really wants to make a success of this school year.” Her face drooped as she told them about her great-nephew’s visit two or three nights before. “He was most uncomplimentary about my natural garden. Said it resembled a weed patch more than a flower garden. He even pulled up a few of my special species.”
“He would.” Hope’s tones were dry. “He’s got his nose buried so far into his policy-and-procedure manuals he can’t see real people in front of him. Jeremy Nivens needs to realize that life is about more than school and books.”
“He doesn’t like me to have the fireplace going, either,” Faith told them solemnly. “He said I’m liable to kill myself with it.”
“It’s gas,” Hope cried. “It shuts itself off. What in the world is he so concerned about?”
Faith shrugged her shoulders tiredly, a wan smile curving her full lips.
“Jeremy worries about me, my dears. He’s much like his father was, always fussing about things.”
“Well,” Hope drawled, staring thoughtfully up at the deep blue sky, “I think he needs something else to engage his mind. Something slightly more challenging ”
“What are you up to?” Charity demanded finally. “Don’t bother to deny it, I can see that glint sparkling in your eyes.”
“Oh, tell me, too.” Faith clapped her hands in glee. “I love it when you have a plan, Hope. It’s always so wonderfully organized, just like you.”
Hope smiled a peculiarly smug grin as her eyes moved from one to the other.
“You have to promise not to say a word,” she said seriously. “Not a whisper to anyone. If this gets around, he’ll never forgive me.”
“Who?” Charity demanded irritably.
“Jeremy,” Hope told them proudly. “I’ve decided to make Jeremy my Christmas project. I’m going to find him a wife so he’ll be too busy to bother Faith anymore.”
Her two friends sat in their lawn chairs, mouths gaping as they absorbed her news. The birds happily chirped around them as a neighbor’s lawn mower hummed industriously.
“You mean,” Charity asked, “you’re going to throw him and Gillian together? I don’t think—”
“Of course not,” Hope said, cutting her off. “Gillian is a free spirit. She needs a man who can understand that, and not try to fence her in with a lot of silly restrictions. Besides, Jeremy’s too old for her.”
“Oh, piffle. Jeremy’s not that much older than your Gillian,” Faith chided, her eyes sparkling at the thought of her great-nephew married.
“In his approach to life in this century, Jeremy rivals Moses,” Hope muttered dourly. “I was actually thinking of Letitia Chamberlain. She’s a quiet little thing, and she’d do whatever he told her to.”
“Well,” Charity murmured, staring off into space, “I suppose if you’ve made up your mind, there’s no point in me trying to change it. I do think it’s too bad not to continue with your knitting though, Hope. Those mittens you donate are really needed in the cities. Why, I heard the mayor of Minot on the news the other day. He said they would need at least a hundred pairs in the schools this year!”
Hope smiled. “Oh, I’ll still be knitting,” she murmured. “And while I am, I can think of new plans for Jeremy.” Charity watched the glint of mischievousness sparkle in her friend’s eyes and wondered what she was up to.
“It isn’t fair,” Faith wailed sadly. “You have both chosen your projects, and I don’t have one. What shall I choose? I’m not very good at matchmaking but maybe I could try for Gillian.”
Charity met Hope’s wary glance with her own.
“No!” They both said it together.
“What we mean, dear, is that you’re such a good cook and you always do those wonderful dainty trays for the Christmas hampers. Maybe you should do that again.” Charity nodded as Hope’s soft voice soothed their friend.
“Of course I will continue with that,” Faith told them firmly. “But I want a special project. Something really different.” Her green eyes narrowed as she pondered the subject. Finally she stood to her feet.
“After all, I do have a bit of time yet. It is only the first week of October, isn’t it? I shall think and pray about it. Perhaps the good Lord has some special work that I can do.” Faith ambled out the front door, completely forgetting her purse and sweater as she strolled along, mumbling to herself.
“We should have thought of something for her to do, before we announced our ideas,” Charity muttered, gathering up their teacups and setting them on the tray. “It’s not fair to leave her like that.”
Hope carried the dishes back into the house and set about washing them carefully in the old-fashioned sink. She had most of the work done before Charity hobbled in.
“Faith is a strong, competent woman,” she stated firmly. “She’s not senile, just a little confused sometimes. I think it will be good for her to think about a Christmas project rather than Jeremy’s odious meddling, for a while.” Hope shook her head with disgust. “That man would drive a saint up the wall.”
“He’s certainly been hovering around Faith since he came,” Charity agreed. “I heard him telling her not to use the oven unless he was there. You know how she loves to bake. I can’t imagine that she’ll listen to him.”
“It might be best if she did,” Hope muttered finally. “I hate to say it, but her memory is getting worse. I’ve been checking up on her myself lately, just to make sure she gets home safely.”
“Funny,” Charity mused absently, rubbing liniment on the aching joints of her hands. “Arthur mentioned something about seeing her home the other night. Said he found her in the park, gathering leaves for her collection. In the dark.”
“Well, I think we’ll just have to be especially careful to keep track of her with Jeremy around,” Hope said with a frown. “I don’t like the way he keeps telling her not to do this or that, fussing if she goes for a long walk. She’s not in prison, for heaven’s sake.”
“Yes, I’ll watch her, too,” Charity agreed, sinking into her easy chair. “Now about this project of yours? Do you really think you can find someone suitable for him? He’s rather, er, old-fashioned, dear.”
Hope grinned smugly.
“I know. That’s why I’ve decided to hook him up with Flossie Gerbrandt. She’s exactly the same.”
“Flossie?” Charity shuddered. “I hate that name. Can’t understand why Clara called her that. Always reminds me of a rabbit, for some reason.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Hope. I just can’t picture Flossie in her support hose and caftans going to church with the elegantly turned-out likes of him.” She coughed discreetly behind her hand. “Anyway,” she murmured repressively. “The Lord has his own plans for Jeremy Nivens. He doesn’t need you to meddle.”
“I’m just going to give the man a helping hand,” Hope told her, stacking the plates in the cupboard. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
Hope sipped her tea pensively, staring at the embroidered Lord’s Prayer on the wall. She was lost in thought until Charity’s voice called her back to the present.
“Pardon?” she asked softly, enraptured by the picture her mind had drawn.
“I just wondered when you were going to get to work on your new project?”
“Soon, dear. Very soon.” Hope returned her gaze to the figure of Jesus holding a sheep in his strong arms. “The sooner the better—for Faith, for Jeremy and for Gillian.”
Chapter Three (#ulink_61e3f457-a4a3-58bd-afdb-d6fade491ebe)
Gillian stared at the cut on the boy’s knee.
“Jed, I told you to stay with the rest of us. How did you do this, anyway?” She dabbed at the injury carefully, noting the dirt imbedded in the cut.
“I had to go pee” she was told in no uncertain terms. “When I was doing up my pants, I tripped on somethin’. It made me fall.”
Gillian grinned. No responsibility for Jed. If something had cut him, it certainly wasn’t his fault. She grimaced. There was no doubt in her mind that Mr. Nivens would believe that the cut was all her fault.
“Come, children,” she called, ushering them ahead of her onto the path through the woods. “We have to get back to the school now. It’s almost time for the bell. Quietly, Rowena.”
Who are you kidding? she asked herself sourly. Quiet? First-graders? Not likely. As they stumbled and pushed and shoved their way back into the classroom, she glanced round surreptitiously. Her heart fell as she noticed the man in the blue pin-striped suit heading directly for her.
“Come along, children. Let’s get your things together now. Don’t forget to collect as many leaves as you can this weekend.” She handed out knapsacks and lunch bags, just managing to grasp Jed’s arm before he headed out the room as the bell rang. “Just a minute, Jed. We’ll have to see to that knee.”
“Miss Langford? What is the meaning of this bedlam?” Mr. Nivens’s voice was raised to counter the excitement coming from the rest of the children now pouring into the hall.
She ignored him as she drew Jed over to the sink and began dabbing antiseptic from the first aid kit onto the child’s knee. She held one bony little shoulder firmly as the boy wriggled.
“Ow!” His bellow was loud and angry.
“Has this child injured himself on school property, during school hours, Miss Langford?”
Old Jerry was in a cranky mood, she decided glumly. There was no way he would let her off easily for this one.
“We went on a nature hike, and Jed cut his knee,” she told him, still gripping the child’s wriggling shoulder. “If you could assist me with this, I’d appreciate it. I have to cleanse the area.”
“He should be seen by a doctor,” Jeremy Nivens began firmly, but he knelt beside the boy and peered at the affected area. “At least it won’t require stitches,” he muttered, taking the cotton from her hands and briskly wiping the grit and particles of soil away.
“That hurts, ya know,” Jed shrieked. His face was red with anger.
“Nonsense. A great big boy like you wouldn’t feel a little nick like this. You have to be strong when these things happen—stiff upper lip and all that.” His finger slapped a Band-Aid across the knee with surety, and he pulled Jed’s pant leg swiftly down.
“Huh?” Jed sat staring at the older man in perplexity.
Gillian bent down and stared into Jed’s puzzled face. “He means that you were very brave for handling that so well, Jed. Here’s your knapsack now. You’d better run and get that bus.”
As the boy scurried from the room, he cast a suspicious look at Jeremy’s suited figure. “My lip’s not stiff,” he told the older man seriously. “My leg is, though.”
“Have a good weekend,” Gillian called and waved briskly, watching the most daring member of her class dodge the other children in his rush to get to the bus.
“Miss Langford, you and I need to have a discussion.”
She turned back wearily to face her towering boss’s stern face. He had that glint in his eye, she noticed. The one that always spelled trouble. For her.
“Have a seat, Mr. Nivens. I’ll just clean up a bit as we talk.” She avoided his eyes as her hands busily picked up the shuffle of papers on her desk, brushing the bits of twigs and crushed leaves into the garbage.
“I would prefer to speak in my office. In a more formal setting.” He was still standing, Gillian noted.
“Oh, why bother to walk all the way down there?” she murmured airily. “We’re both here now. Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind?” Smoothly, without a pause in action, Gillian slipped the books into order on her shelves, removing a bubble gum paper from Jonah’s reader. When he didn’t speak, she finally glanced up and found his remote stare fixed firmly on her. “Well?”
“Miss Langford, do you ever read the notifications I leave in your mailbox?”
He brushed a hand gingerly over the edge of the table, checking for stickiness before reclining against it. It was the most relaxed she had ever seen him, and the sight was very appealing. As she watched, Jeremy brushed a hand through his hair, destroying the immaculately arranged strands. “Miss Langford?”
She jerked her gaze away from the silky softness of his hair and focused on his frowning face.
“Of course I read them,” she muttered finally. Her thought winged back over the past few weeks, trying to recall which particular missive he could be referring to. If the truth were known, she barely glanced at his memos lately. She had been centering every bit of time and attention on her students.
Jeremy crossed his arms over his chest.
“Then I’m sure you noticed that I asked teachers to be particularly aware of permission notes and the necessity of having parents sign if their child was to be taken off the school property,” he said smugly. “May I have the notes?”
“But we only walked through the land right next door,” she told him wide-eyed. “Surely we don’t need a permission slip for a little nature walk.”
“I take it that you didn’t bother to procure the signatures then,” he bit out, shaking his head angrily. “Miss Langford, you cannot keep ignoring the rules that are part of the function of this school.”
“Oh, but surely for a little nature walk…”
“Your little walk may have engendered a lawsuit,” he rasped, standing straight and tall before her.
“What?” Gillian stared at him, half-amused. “Why would anyone sue the school?”
“What if Jed’s cut becomes infected and requires further treatment? What if one of the children had been badly hurt? What if you were injured and they were without a leader?” His eyes were icy as they glared at her.
Gillian shook her head. “We didn’t go to Siberia,” she said softly, peering up at him in confusion. “We walked not fifty feet beyond the school property. Any one of them could have made it back safely, without trouble.”
“Deidre Hall couldn’t,” he said angrily, standing directly in front of her. “What about her?”
Gillian thought about the young girl in the wheelchair whom she’d pushed through the undergrowth. She shrugged. “All right, Deidre needed my help. And I was there. Nothing happened. No big deal.”
“Not this time, no.” His jacket was unbuttoned, and Gillian could see the missing button on his vest as his hands planted themselves firmly on his hips. For some reason that lost button gave her encouragement; maybe Jeremy Nivens was human after all.
“Fine,” she murmured softly, staring up into his stern face. “I admit I should have checked with you first. I’m sorry I didn’t advise you of my plans or get the childrens’ parents to sign permission slips. I’ll ensure that it doesn’t happen again.” Gillian smiled placatingly. “Is that all right?”
“I don’t think it is. You have perverse ideas on teaching that seem to dictate constantly removing the children from the classroom. I cannot condone that. The classroom is where they should be doing their learning, not in the woods.”
Gillian tried to control the surge of rage that flooded through her at his words. How dare he criticize her efforts! She was a good teacher, darned good. And she focused her attention on teaching children to learn in whatever situation they found themselves.
“My students,” she began angrily, “are learning to be aware of the things around them, whether or not they are in the classroom. Today they experienced all five of the sensory perceptions of fall. They saw things in a different way than they would have looking out the window at the woods.”
“Five senses?” He jumped on her statement immediately, his voice full of dismay. “What did they eat?”
“We peeled the outer shell off acorns and tried to crunch the centers. They tasted the flavor of the woods,” she told him proudly.
If it was possible, Jeremy Nivens’s body grew even tauter as he stood glaring down at her. His hands clenched at his sides, and his jaw tightened.
“They’ll probably all get sick,” he muttered angrily. His voice was cold and hard. “Why can’t you learn to just follow the rules?” he demanded angrily.
“Why can’t you learn to live with a few less rules and a lot more feeling in your life?” she flung at him. “This isn’t a prison. It’s a school—a place of learning and experimentation meant to prepare the children for the future. If you constantly deny them the right to find things out for themselves, how will they solve the problems of their world? You can’t keep them under lock and key.”
He stood there fuming, his anger palpable between them. Gillian could feel the tension crackling in the air and tried not to wince when his hard, bitter, exasperated tones stabbed at her.
“In the future you will okay all field trips with me, whether the students go fifty feet or fifty miles. Do you understand, Miss Langford?”
Gillian stifled the urged to bend over at the waist and salaam to him. He would find nothing funny in such an action, she knew.
“Yes, Mr. Nivens,” she murmured softly. “I understand completely.” Her voice held a nasty undertone that she did not attempt to disguise. “Would you also like to sit in on my classes and make sure I’m not teaching my students political activism or the making of pipe bombs?”
He turned to leave, stopping by the door for a moment His eyes glittered with something strange as he smiled dryly at her. “Thank you, Miss Langford,” he murmured slyly. “I may yet find it necessary to do that.”
She could have kicked herself for offering, and spent the next hour mentally booting herself around the room for falling into his little trap. “Odious manipulator,” she mumbled, checking her daybook for the plans she had made. “As if I’d let him in here to check up on me. No way.” Of course there was really nothing she could do to stop him, Gillian knew. And if he decided she wasn’t doing her job, he could call for a review on her work.
Why did Michael have to die? she asked God for the zillionth time. If he were alive, they would be married, and she would be in her happy, carefree position at St. Anne’s, blissfully oblivious to the presence of Mr. Jeremy Nivens and his immense book of rules.
But there was nothing to be gained by going down that road. She would just have to learn to accept it and get on with living. The past was no place to dwell, and time was flying by.
Gillian laid out the work she had planned for the next day and checked to see there were enough copies of the Thanksgiving turkey she planned to begin in art class next week. At least she had the children, she consoled herself. She would never have Michael’s child, but she had twenty-eight needy ones in her classroom every day, and she intended to see to it that they got the best education she could offer.
Gillian was about two blocks from her aunt’s house and dreaming of relaxing for the weekend when she saw the smoke. Thick, billowing, dark gray clouds of smoke rolling out the window of a house. Gillian raced across the street and dashed inside the open front door. This was Faith Rempel’s home, she was pretty sure. And if she remembered her aunt’s description correctly, Mrs. Rempel lived alone.
Gillian found the woman in her kitchen, slumped over a counter, the smoking remains of a pan with something resembling cherries bubbling blackly on the stove. She snatched a dish towel and grabbed the pan, dumping the entire contents into the sink and pouring water over it. Steam and smoke combined to cover her in a cloud of acrid odors.
“Mrs. Rempel? I’m Hope’s niece. Are you all right?” Gillian checked the elderly woman’s pulse and was relieved to find it seemed strong and healthy. When the green eyes opened, they stared at Gillian blankly. “Come on, Mrs. Rempel. We’ll have to get you out of this smoke.”
“Yes, thank you, dear. That would be lovely. I’m afraid my cherries jubilee didn’t quite turn out. Such a pity.” Faith Rempel’s English accent was pronounced as she rose from the table with alacrity and waved her apron back and forth briskly, whooshing the air as she walked.
“Cherries jubilee?” Gillian couldn’t believe her ears. Who made cherries jubilee at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon, for goodness sake? And wasn’t the sauce supposed to be set on fire when the dish was served, not hours before?
She left Mrs. Rempel sitting on a patio chair outside and checked for further damage in the kitchen before opening all the windows and doors. Thankfully the light, afternoon breeze soon whisked the smelly fumes and billows of blue-black smoke away.
“I’ve brought you a glass of water, Mrs. Rempel. Are you sure you’re all right?” The puffy lines in the woman’s face had been there before, Gillian decided, checking her patient once more.
“Of course, dear. I’m perfectly fine.” Faith’s green eyes stared into hers. “Do I know you?” she asked curiously.
She grinned. “I’m Hope’s niece, Gillian. I’m here teaching school.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Rempel smiled brightly. “You’re Jeremy’s new girlfriend. You two make the sweetest couple.” She stood suddenly and moved briskly to the back door. “I’ll have to clean this mess up before he gets here. Jeremy hates a mess.”
“I’ll help you,” Gillian offered, remembering that this woman, according to her aunt, had slight lapses in memory. That would account for her erroneous linking of their names. How strange that such a lovely woman should be old sourpuss’s aunt.
“Does he come every day?” she asked curiously. It seemed odd to think of her boss checking up on his aunt. More likely he came for a free meal so he wouldn’t have to dirty his own kitchen, she decided, still fuming at his biting remarks.
“Almost every evening. We have dinner together. I was hoping to surprise him with a new dessert Piffle,” she grunted, glaring at the charred remains of the cherries. “Should have turned the heat down sooner.”
Gillian grinned. So Jeremy Nivens came for a free dinner every night. Somehow she had known human kindness wasn’t the reason for Jerry’s visits. She wondered what he’d think of his aunt’s messy kitchen right now.
“You know,” she told Faith, smiling as she wiped down the counters and stove. “In our family we had a standing joke whenever Mom burned something. We always said she thought we must be little gods because she was serving us burnt offerings.”
Faith giggled appreciatively.
“Underneath all this smoke, something sure smells good,” Gillian told her seriously. She opened the oven door and sniffed appreciatively. “What is that?”
The older woman blushed, her salt-and-pepper head bending forward shyly.
“Oh, just a little rouladin. Jeremy loves beef, you know. I imagine you’ll be cooking it often after you’re married, dear.” She scurried about, putting the last of the now-dry dishes away. “I just need to get a salad together and check the potatoes.”
“Uh, Mrs. Rempel, Jeremy and I aren’t getting…”
“Oh, silly me. Of course you aren’t announcing it right away. I can understand that. You both being so new to the community and all,” Faith twittered happily as she rinsed the lettuce and set it carefully in a colander to dry. She grasped Gillian’s hand in her own and glanced at her finger. “Oh, you haven’t found a ring yet?”
“No, we haven’t,” Gillian searched for the right words, but she needn’t have bothered. Jeremy Nivens’s aunt was lost in a world of her own, green eyes sparkling with happiness as she stared at her own rings.
“It seems just last week when Donald and I became engaged. He insisted that I choose my own ring, said it was going to have to last a good long time and he didn’t want me wearing something I didn’t like. It has lasted, too.” She didn’t say it, but Gillian could almost hear her thinking that the rings had outlasted the husband.
“He gave me that cabinet over there,” Faith pointed to the corner china cabinet in the next room. “For our anniversary it was.” Her green eyes grew cloudy. “I forget which one, but I remember Donald saying it was my special place for my little china dolls. He sent them to me from overseas during the war.”
“Auntie Fay? Are you all right?”
The anxious tones of her authoritative boss jerked Gillian from her happy daydream of the past. It was strange to hear that note of concern in his voice, but moments later she decided she must have imagined it as he glared across the room at them.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, staring at Gillian. “Oh, never mind right now. Auntie Fay, the neighbors phoned me to say that there was smoke coming from the house. Are you all right?”
“Oh, I’m just fine, thank you, dear. A wee bit early for dinner, aren’t you?” Faith blinked up at him innocently as her hands tore the lettuce apart and placed it in a crystal bowl. “I’m afraid I haven’t got the table set yet.”
“There’s no rush,” he told her softly, his gray eyes gentle. “As you say, I am early. I’ll talk to her while I wait.” His head nodded at Gillian, who felt an immediate prickling of anger.
“Yes, I suppose you two lovebirds do have some catching up to do. Go ahead out on the balcony and relax. I remember young love. Why, your fiancée and I were just talking about it.” Her benign smile left Gillian smiling back, until Jeremy’s rough voice roused her.
“Yes,” he agreed, frowning severely as he grasped Gillian’s arm in his firm fingers and tugged her from the room. “I think Miss Langford and I definitely need to have a discussion.”
Obediently Gillian preceded him out the back door and sank onto one of the wicker chairs Faith had placed under the awning. She slipped off her new, black patent shoes and wiggled her feet in the fresh air as she summoned enough nerve up to glance at his forbidding face.
“Would you mind very much telling what in the dickens is going on in this nuthouse now? I mean since you are my fiancee and everything!”
His scathing tone rasped over her nerves, but there was no way he was intimidating her, Gillian decided. Once today was enough. She glared back at him, daring him to holler at her again.
“Well? Exactly when did we become engaged, Miss Langford?”
Gillian couldn’t help it, the grin popped to her mouth, splitting it wide with mirth. “Since I’m your fiancee and everything,” she murmured slyly, “don’t you think it’s about time you started calling me Gillian?” Laughter burst out of her at the stupefied stare on his face. “Well? Jeremy?” It was the first time she’d seen him dumbfounded, and it was very refreshing. “Honey?” She shook his arm teasingly.
A second later the grin was gone from her mouth as he tugged her into his arms and kissed her on the mouth. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, or even a very practiced one. In fact, Gillian suspected it had more to do with anger than anything.
Still and all, it shook her. She liked the feel of his firm lips against hers, she decided dazedly. And his arms were strong, but gentle, around her.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she stammered at last, staring up into his glittery blue eyes. They had a wariness about them that added to the unreality of the situation.
“Kissing my fiancée. Surely that’s allowed?”
Gillian stared at the transformation taking place in front of her. For once, the stern, haughty face had been replaced with a handsome, smiling countenance that drew her like a magnet. It was disconcerting to find that he affected her so. Clearly he wasn’t nearly so bothered by that kiss. His entire demeanor was calm, cool and collected. Carefully she extricated herself from his embrace and stepped back.
“Not this early in the relationship,” she murmured, peering up at him from between her lashes. When he said nothing, she pressed on. “Your aunt is a little confused,” she told him quietly. “I don’t know where she got the idea that we are a couple. Maybe it’s due to the fire.”
His face blanched.
“Then there really was a fire.” He smacked his hand on his pant leg. “Darn. I was afraid of that.” His eyes had dimmed to cool gray again. “What happened?”
“She was flambéing cherries jubilee, and I think they caught on fire, which in turn started the pot holder smoking. She had everything well under control when I arrived,” Gillian lied. “I merely opened the doors and windows to let the smoke out. No damage done.”
“No damage done?” Jeremy stared at her as if she’d grown two heads. “Miss Langford, really! My aunt almost burns her house down. While she’s inside, incidentally. She decides to cook cherries jubilee in the middle of the afternoon, and then, out of the blue, decides you’re my fiancée.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at her calmly nodding head. “I don’t think you are a very good influence on my aunt.” He shook his dark head vehemently. “Not at all.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Gillian said, chuckling at his stern look. “I got her uppity nephew engaged to me without even trying. I must be doing something right.”
The whole town was loony, Jeremy decided, staring at the vibrant young woman in front of him. Absently he noted the way her freckles drifted across her nose and cheeks.
It was her eyes that really got to him, though. They were like jade daggers, stabbing at him in angry little jabs as she bristled up in her chair.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” she complained at last. “Can’t you tell that your aunt’s a little confused? Cut her some slack, would you?”
Jeremy stared. “I beg your pardon?” he murmured, trying to figure out what she was talking about. “Cut some slacks?”
Gillian Langford sighed, pleating her trousers between her fingers as she stared back at him.
“How old are you, Mr. Nivens?”
“Thirty.” Jeremy was too shocked to stop his immediate response. “Why?”
“Don’t take this personally,” she told him with a teasing little grin that reinforced how beautiful Gillian Langford really was, “but you act like you’re from another planet. Where have you been for the past thirty years?”
“England,” he murmured at last. “At least for twenty-eight of them. I was raised in Oxford and attended school there. I was headmaster at a school nearby until this summer, when I returned to the States.” His brow creased. “Why?”
Gillian’s narrow shoulders shrugged. “Doesn’t matter,” she murmured, tugging her mane of reddish gold off her face. “Anyway, the point is, your aunt is a little mixed-up. For some reason she’s decided that you and I are engaged.”
He laughed harshly.
“My aunt is a lot more than slightly confused. She is forgetful, absentminded, preoccupied and inattentive when she is cooking. That’s why I’m trying to persuade her to sell this house and go into a nursing home.”
“What?”
Jeremy winced at the shrill shriek of her voice. He would have pointed out that the whole affair was none of her business, but he didn’t have time. Miss Langford advanced upon him like a Mack truck, letting nothing stop her surge of fury until she stood directly in front of his chair, green eyes glittering.
“You can’t! No way. She loves this house and the memories that are hidden away in every nook and corner. You can’t expect her to just give it all up. What about getting someone to live in?”
Jeremy snorted. She might be beautiful, this new teacher on his staff, but she wasn’t in the least practical.
“In Mossbank? Population five thousand, and that’s a high estimate?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“But a nursing home? She doesn’t need it. She’s perfectly self-reliant.” Her lips had carried an angry tilt to them. “She just forgets things once in a while.”
“I know,” he nodded. “Like the fireplace going or the stove or the kettle. One day it will cause a fire. Like today?” He peered at her with one eyebrow raised inquiringly. “What aren’t you telling me that she forgot today?”
“Nothing,” Gillian answered stoically. “She just let the liqueur get a little too hot when she was flambéing the cherries jubilee. It was out before I got here. I told you that.”
“Yes,” he nodded slowly. “I heard exactly what you said. It’s what you didn’t say that has me worried.” He studied the flaming sparks that reflected off her hair in the late-afternoon sun. “And it’s knowing that my aunt is a loose cannon, waiting to go off, that is forcing me to consider a facility that can care for her.”
“But you can’t!” Gillian was aghast that he would consider such a drastic action. “She loves the freedom of cooking and cleaning in her own home. I can’t believe that she’s in danger. Not really.” She glared at him through the fringe of bangs that fell across her forehead. “Anyway, Mrs. Flowerday and my aunt Hope will be watching out for her. And I certainly will. Among the three of us, she’ll be well cared for.”
Jeremy was shaking his head.
“But you can’t be here all the time, and neither can I. There will be those occasions when she will decide to cook some elaborate dish at five in the morning and no one will be able to stop her. Next time she may well set herself on fire.” His face glanced down at Gillian sadly. “I don’t like it any more than you, but I simply will not take the risk of her hurting herself.”
“I don’t think you have the right to make such a decision,” Gillian sputtered angrily. “You’ve only just arrived on the scene. Faith has been managing alone for years now. You can’t just waltz in here and uproot her from everything that’s familiar. It will only confuse her more.”
“Oh, I won’t do it right away. I’ll talk to her, give her time to get used to the idea first.” He stared out across Faith’s ramshackle garden with its wild assortment of plants. “Look at her garden,” he muttered, thrusting out one hand. “She’s forgotten all about it.”
“She hasn’t forgotten it,” Gillian denied, glaring at him. “She probably hasn’t had time to get to it. Especially when she’s fixing your meals all the time. That must be quite a burden for her.” Her eyes sparkled angrily at him. “Can’t you learn to cook, Mr. Nivens?”
Jeremy felt his eyes open wide, startled at the anger in her tones.
“Surely you don’t think I come over for dinner just to get a free meal?” he said, furious at her categorization of his motives. “There are any number of restaurants in the town. I can certainly afford to eat regularly at most of them.”
“Then why are you here?” Gillian Langford looked down her nose at him disdainfully, daring him to deny her conclusions.
“To make sure Aunt Faith eats at least one decent meal a day. If she thinks I’m coming, she makes a full meal. And eats it.” He met her stare head-on. “Otherwise she would make do on tea and toast, and that’s not very healthy.”
Jeremy watched the dull flush of red suffuse her pronounced cheekbones, making the light sprinkling of freckles across her nose stand out. The reddish strands in her shining hair glittered. Lord, Gillian Langford was a beautiful woman.
He wondered why she wasn’t married and how she’d come to live in Mossbank. His eyes swept down to the beautiful ring she always wore on her right hand. He’d noticed it before; many times. It looked like an engagement ring, but even he knew they were worn on the left hand. And no young man came by to claim her after school.
Which no doubt meant that the lady wasn’t interested in men. Good! He didn’t want to have to deal with overeager suitors hanging around the school, and he felt fairly certain than any suitor of Gillian Langford would be eager.
He glanced up and found her gaze fixed on him: dark, turbulent shadows clouding the green clarity of her eyes.
“My aunt must be about ready by now,” he murmured. “Perhaps we had better go in.” As he followed her into the house, Jeremy was forced to admit that today her choice of clothing was both suitable for school and extremely attractive.
She wore the long, slim slacks comfortably on her leggy frame, a matching teal silk shirt hanging loosely to her hips. The color was very flattering to her. A short, knitted black vest made the outfit complete and rendered it less casual looking. With her hair on the top of her head, Gillian looked coolly professional, and the picture irked him immeasurably. Why, he wasn’t sure.
“Well, I’d better be getting home to Hope’s,” Gillian told the older woman cheerfully. “She’s sure to have dinner ready.”
“Yes, Hope is a good cook,” Faith enthused. Her forehead pleated in a frown. “Although she does have a tight fist with the butter. Now, dear,” she turned to Jeremy. “You are eating with Gillian tonight, aren’t you? I would have made more if I’d known you were coming, but when I thought there would be just Art and me…” Her voice trailed away as she gestured to the smiling man seated on the other side of the kitchen table.
Jeremy stared at her in perplexity, wondering what was going on now. A sharp jab in the ribs brought him back to reality immediately, and he glared down at Gillian in frustration.
“Well, the truth is, Auntie Fay,” he began, and then swallowed the rest of the sentence as Gillian cut him off.
“Of course he can eat with us. Hope is sure to have plenty. And if he doesn’t like her cooking, I’m sure Jeremy can get something for himself.”
Her eyes opened innocently to stare at him, and Jeremy smiled at the idea of cooking anything in his poorly stocked apartment. “You know me, Auntie Fay,” he murmured, just under his breath. His eyes met Gillian’s startled ones, and he grinned. “I’ll do anything for a free meal.”
He could see that she felt embarrassed at her previous assumptions about his motives for going to his aunt’s, and he would have chortled with delight at the sight of it if the others hadn’t been there.
“I just hope Hope isn’t serving tofu,” Gillian whispered in his ear, her shoulder pressing against his chest for just a moment. “My aunt is really into eating healthy, you know.”
Jeremy felt his stomach lurch strangely. Tofu? As in that curdled white stuff?
“Well, I hope you and your girl have a real nice evening,” Art said, smiling benignly. “Faith was telling me about your engagement. Congratulations to you both.”
“But there is nothing to—” Jeremy gave up trying to explain as the willow wisp of a girl next to him tugged his arm none too gently.
“Thank you very much,” he heard her say with a laugh. “I hope the two of you enjoy your dinner. Come on, honey,” Gillian said, wrapping her arm through his.
Before his wits returned, Jeremy found himself standing on the sidewalk in front of his aunt’s house next to the beautiful woman who taught first grade in his school. She had removed her arm and he was thankful for that. It wouldn’t do for the rest of the town to hear of their bogus engagement. Anyway, even that slight touch bothered him. A lot.
He felt the poke in his side and chanced a look down. She stood there, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well,” she charged. “Aren’t you going to offer me a ride to Hope’s?”
Without conscious thought he opened the passenger side door and waited for her to slip inside his shiny black Mustang convertible. Her hand slid longingly over the leather-covered dashboard as he watched her snuggle into the fawn-colored bucket seat.
“Is that why you wanted to be engaged to me?” he asked solemnly, shifting gears before pulling away from the curb. “So you could ride in my new car?” He glanced at her and surprised a calculating look in her green eyes.
“Oh, that’s just one of the many reasons,” she murmured softly, sliding her shoes off and squishing her toes in the plush beige carpeting. “I’ll tell you the rest of them over dinner.”
As he negotiated the streets to her aunt’s house, Jeremy frowned. Gillian Langford had arranged this, this misunderstanding, he felt sure. And it was because she had some ulterior motive.
Why then did he feel anticipation instead of fear at finding out just what the gorgeous redhead had in mind? he asked himself.
Chapter Four (#ulink_cf97de85-05a7-590c-921b-28b49e3cfbca)
“Where did you get this car?” Gillian demanded, breaking the tense silence that hung between them. She brushed her hand over the cool, smooth leather. “It’s fabulous. And it doesn’t seem like the type of car you’d drive at all,” she blurted out. “I mean…” Her voice trailed away in dismay.
Jeremy chuckled. “What did you think I’d drive? Some staid, old family sedan, I’d wager.” He laughed out loud at the abashed look on her expressive face. “Don’t ever lie,” he advised. “You can’t hide your true feelings worth a plugged nickel.”
She bristled immediately, which was exactly what Jeremy had expected.
“I make it a habit never to lie about anything,” she told him pertly. “I learned that in the Sunday school right there.” Gillian pointed to the old church as they passed it.
“Did you grow up here?” he asked, suddenly curious about her childhood.
“No.” She shook her head. “But I came to visit Hope quite a lot when my parents wanted their own holiday. It was great fun for me, coming from Boston to the freedom of this little town.” Gillian pointed to the lovely park with its huge trees and carragana hedge. “We used to pretend there were little caves in that hedge,” she told him. “We could hide or have tea parties or lunch and never worry anybody.”
“It sounds like you had a happy childhood,” he murmured softly.
“Oh, I did,” she enthused, grinning as the memories surfaced from long ago. “Whenever I visited Hope’s, I was the queen of the castle. She’d let me stay up as long as I wanted. Or at least as long as I could without nodding off.” Her thoughts drifted to the times she and Hope had slept outside under the stars.
“I believe children need a regular bedtime.” Jeremy’s quiet voice interrupted her musings. “It’s important for their health and their growth that a regular schedule is maintained.”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Gillian snapped, glaring at him angrily. “There you go again with those silly rules. Why do you always do that?” She watched him blink in confusion.
“Do what?” he asked, frowning. “I never did anything. I merely said…”
“I know what you said. It’s what you always say. For every situation in life you need a rule.” She scowled at him with disgust. “Don’t you ever just relax and enjoy the world around you without worrying if it’s the right thing to do?”
“It’s not a matter of relaxing,” he muttered at last, gliding to a stop in front of Hope’s compact two-story. “It’s a matter of planning things out to get the optimal benefit out of life.”
“But I did get the optimal benefit,” she argued, sliding out of the seat as his hand went under her elbow. “If I’d been sleeping in my bed, Hope and I wouldn’t have been able to discuss the constellations or where God lives, or how the angels come to earth. Those things were just as important to me as a few extra minutes of sleep.”
She stared into his handsome face seriously. “My mom always told us that life is made up of little shining moments like stones in a necklace. They’re what make the everyday routine things bearable, because we can take out those stones and remember them with pleasure during the bad times.” She beckoned him up the stairs. “Come on in. Hope will have started something.”
But unfortunately Hope hadn’t. There was a note tacked to the phone informing Gillian that her aunt had gone shopping with Charity Flowerday.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, frowning up at Jeremy, who towered over her, now that she had removed her shoes. “I guess we’ll have to find something for ourselves. Do you like tacos?”
His face was a study in contradictions. Gillian would have teased him about it except that he looked so unsure of himself.
“I—I don’t know.” His eyes met hers, and she was surprised to see uncertainty in their depths. “What is a taco?”
“Well,” Gillian began, matter-of-factly arranging the ingredients she would need on the countertop and trying to ignore the spark of electricity she felt fluttering down her sensitive skin whenever Jeremy Nivens came near. “There are two kinds—soft and hard. I like the hard ones, although they’re messy to eat.”
He watched her defrost a package of meat in the microwave and then dump it into a frying pan. His forehead furrowed.
“Ground beef,” he murmured.
“Hamburger, yes. With seasoning and spices. You put it into the shell and add vegetables and cheese to it.” She watched his long patrician nose twitch as he caught a hint of the savory cooking odors.
“I’m not sure if I can eat such food,” he told her seriously. “It smells as if it’s spicy and my stomach is rather queasy about those things.”
Gillian grinned at him, enjoying the look of uncertainty on his handsome face. For once Mr. Jeremy Nivens was not in control. She was going to enjoy this.
As the meat cooked, she shredded lettuce and minced tomatoes. She put Jeremy to work grating cheese. As they toiled side by side, she chattered a mile a minute, hoping to put him at his ease.
“I love tacos. Especially with hot sauce. It just makes your mouth come alive. Michael used to…” Her voice trailed away as she realized what she’d said.
“Michael was your fiancé?” Jeremy’s matter-of-fact voice inquired, eyes intent on the cheese as he carefully rubbed the slab of cheddar against her aunt’s grater.
Gillian realized that she had been talking about Michael naturally for once, and although the pain was still there, it had diminished to the point where she could talk about him with fondness.
“Yes. He died in a car crash. Anyway, he used to tease me for being a wimp.” Her mouth curved in remembrance. “He would load on the hot sauce until my eyes watered and I was coughing like crazy. Michael never even needed a drink of water. You know—” her eyes flashed to him and then looked away in embarrassment at the scrutiny she found there “—the Thai people clench their teeth together and then spread their mouth wide so they can suck air into their mouths, not blow it out. They claim it’s the best way to cool your palate.”
Jeremy was silent, steadily building the tower of cheese curls on the plate she’d given him. When he finally spoke, it was in a soft, careful voice that was totally unlike his usually brusque tone.
“It must have been very difficult for you,” he offered. “Was that why you decided to move here?” His blue-gray eyes met hers steadily, his face set in its usual stern lines.
“Partially.” She set the table quickly and scooped the browned meat into a bowl. “I just couldn’t stay in Boston anymore. It reminded me too much of him and of what I’d lost.” Carefully she removed the warmed tacos from the oven and placed them on the table beside the tomatoes and lettuce. A huge pitcher of lemonade and two large glasses completed the job.
“Ok, everything’s ready,” she grinned at him. As he gingerly set the cheese on the table, Gillian lifted a bottle from the fridge. “Now, for your first taste of tacos. Don’t forget the sauce.”
She murmured a short grace for both of them and then showed him how to assemble the items and bite off the end carefully so that the whole thing didn’t crumble in his hand.
“It is rather good,” he murmured, a surprised look on his face. “And not really hot at all.”
“That’s because you haven’t used this yet.” Carefully she spooned a small teaspoonful onto his taco. “Now try.”
He gasped, and Gillian giggled as his eyes grew round with surprise. Seconds later he was glugging down a huge glass of lemonade.
“Good heavens,” he whispered. “That was like fire.” His eyes were huge as he watched her slather on the sauce and then chew the mouthful with alacrity. “How can you do that?”
“Practice.” Gillian giggled. “Plus the fact that this is extra mild.” He raised one eyebrow skeptically. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”
Jeremy finished his first taco and started gingerly on a second, carefully avoiding her jar of sauce.
“You reminded me of a visit I once made to my aunt here,” he told her as they sat companionably sipping the icy lemonade. “She invited me to stay while my parents attended some teaching sessions at the college. They were anthropologists, you see, and in order to maintain their grant status, they had to return to the States every so often for a report.”
“Was that why you went to boarding school?” she inquired quietly. “Because they were so busy?”
He smiled, but his gaze was far away. Gillian wondered idly what kind of a childhood he’d had.
“Not exactly. They spent a lot of time on a dig in Egypt and then Israel. They wanted to make sure my schooling was uninterrupted.” He smoothed the tablecloth idly, his voice low. “Anyway, every summer I came to spend several weeks with Auntie Fay. It was like a whole different world for me. The food, the clothes. Even the children were different.”
Jeremy glanced up at her and grimaced.
“I’m afraid I didn’t blend in very well, and I must have been an awful nuisance to have around. My aunt took me to the county fair and let me ride on the Ferris wheel until I was sick. I think I must have tasted every flavor and color of cotton candy and sugar cone there was, but it was the candy apple that finally did me in.” His face had a wistful quality about it that tugged on her heart.
“I’ve never forgotten the pleasure she gave me in those days. Or the way she would tuck me in at night and kiss me.” Jeremy glanced at her apologetically. “There aren’t many people who will kiss anyone good-night in boarding school,” he muttered quietly, his eyes downcast.
“But what about during the summers,” Gillian demanded angrily. “Surely you lived with your parents then?”
She couldn’t believe it when he shook his head, his sharp gray glance telling her that he thought she should know better than to ask such a silly question. Her tender heart ached at the words.
“Gillian, an archaeological dig is no place for a child. There are valuable artifacts lying about and open pits around which it would be dangerous for a child to play. Not that there was much to play with, anyway. Besides, it was far too hot, as I found out the one summer I insisted on visiting them. I spent most of my time cataloguing their finds. A layer of sand covered everything.”
Gillian stacked the dishes into her aunt’s dishwasher with a snap to her wrist that boded ill for the stoneware.
“I happen to feel that real, live children are more valuable than any old artifact from the past” She watched as he meticulously wrapped the leftovers and placed them neatly in the fridge. “It doesn’t sound like much of a life for a child,” she added finally.
He looked surprised.
“Actually it was a very good life. I was able to spend much of the summer studying for the next term. My grades were very good, and I finished my O levels a year ahead of schedule.”
Gillian set the coffee to perk and waved him into the living room. She wanted to tell him that his rigid life-style had robbed him of the carefree play of a child, but who was she to judge. She could only sympathize with the little boy who had spent his time working on the Dewey decimal system for artifacts.
She had just poured them each a cup of the fragrant, steaming coffee when Hope’s doorbell rang. It was Pastor Dave, in his usual jovial mood.
“I knew you two would be here,” he said happily, his booted feet thumping heavily across the floor. “Heard about your good news, too. Congratulations.” His round shiny face beamed down at them both.
Gillian could feel the tide of red suffusing her cheeks, as she realized from his sparkling glance that he’d heard about their supposed engagement from Faith.
“Well, thanks anyway, Pastor,” she murmured, glancing at Jeremy’s gaping mouth. “But we’re not engaged. Mr. Nivens and I are merely colleagues.”
“Oh, I remember. Faith did say you and your beau were trying to keep things quiet. I’ll respect your privacy, Gilly, girl. Don’t you worry. At least for a while.” He winked and patted her shoulder, then whooshed down onto the sofa.
Gillian gritted her teeth and willed him to listen.
“You don’t understand, Pastor. Jeremy and I aren’t engaged. Not at all.” She glanced at her supposed intended for confirmation and saw a glimmer of mirth deep in his eyes. He couldn’t be enjoying this, could he?
“Oh, you’ve had a little tiff, I suppose. Everybody has them, sweetie. You just have to work through your problems. And at least you’re doing that now before you’re married.” Dave patted her hand consolingly. “That’s a good sign that you two are adults, willing to compromise and accommodate the other’s point of view. Now about the youth group,” he winked at them both as they sat on either side of him, mouths hanging open in consternation.
“I just know you and your honey here will make good team leaders for the kids. I’ve arranged for them to go to Tyndale’s farm on Friday night and play Capture the Flag, and I thought you two might like to come along and watch.” He beamed down on them happily. “Next week you’re on your own.”
As the hefty minister lunged to his feet, Gillian glared at Jeremy. Do something, she telegraphed, and breathed a sigh of relief as he, also, stood up.
“I don’t think Gillian, er, that is, Miss Langford and I, well, we don’t exactly know just how to, well, deal with…”
He stopped abruptly when the reverend slapped him soundly on the back and bubbled with laughter.
“Course you don’t, son,” Dave chortled happily. “But you’re smart young folk with lots of schoolin’. I have every faith that God will lead you in your dealings with these young people. Anyway, it will be good practice for when your own come, eh!” He chuckled with glee at their surprised faces.
“Meet you at the church in half an hour,” his jovial voice chided them. “Don’t be late.” He surged through the room toward the front door, sniggering to himself as he went. “Well, well. A wedding. Haven’t done one of those in a while.”
Gillian sank onto the sofa, her knees buckling under the strain as she stared up at her intended. “Could you please stop this freight train?” she asked helplessly. “I think I want to get off.”
She heard his hiss of disgust as Jeremy moved in front of her. The silver in his eyes glittered at her like steel, and his mouth was pursed in a hard, straight line of blame.
“Well, it’s just a bit late for that, Miss Langford,” he accused. “Especially now that the whole town thinks we’re about to be married, honey!”
“Look,” she began, anger poking at the way he was hinting that this was all her fault. “I was only trying to spare your aunt. She was just a little confused, and I didn’t want to make it worse.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and glared furiously at her, his mouth grim.
“Well, you’ve made it much worse,” he complained bitterly. “Now we’ve got the minister planning our wedding.”
Gillian felt the chill of those cold gray eyes move over her with disgust as he said, “I don’t want to get married. And especially not to a woman who is so obviously the opposite of everything I could want in my wife.” His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “If I wanted one, that is. Which I don’t”
Gillian felt tears of anger press against her eyelids, but there was no way she was giving in. Not with him standing there watching.
“Believe me,” she enunciated clearly, determined that he would hear every word. “If I ever chose to be engaged again, which I won’t, it certainly wouldn’t be to some old-fashioned, stuffed shirt from the middle ages.”
He glared at her for so long Gillian thought his eyebrows would be completely lost in his dark mussed-up hair. His words when they came, were soft and menacing.
“Better to be old-fashioned than an airhead with no sense of responsibility. Good night!”
“Good night!”
He turned without a second look and stomped his way to the front door, collecting his suit jacket on the way. Gillian was smugly amused to see that somehow during the evening his tie had loosened and several shirt buttons had come undone. Jeremy Nivens also had taco sauce on his pristine vest, she noticed with satisfaction. Some of the superiority disappeared as she glanced in Hope’s mirror and noted the state of her own disheveled appearance.
“Just a minute,” she cried as he strode down the steps. At her words he stopped dead in his place and waited for her to catch up.
“What are we going to do about the youth group? Pastor Dave is expecting us to take over next week. We’re supposed to be there tonight.”
When he looked at her, Gillian flinched at the anger emanating from his frosty gaze.
“Just another situation you’ve entangled us in, Miss Langford.” His face was carved in those hard, bitter lines that had been missing for a while tonight.
“Well,” she murmured quietly, “are you going to tell him that you can’t do it?” She waited expectantly for his answer.
“No,” he bellowed, sending her reeling in shock. “I let him go away believing I would help, and I will. I’ll set up a six-week Bible study for them.”
Gillian stared at him, frowning.
“A Bible study,” she murmured quizzically. “They usually do something fun on weekends. The Bible studies are on Wednesday evenings.” She peered up at him curiously.
“Very well, then.” Jeremy jumped over the side of the car and vaulted into the seat with a move Gillian had only seen in the movies. It was proof positive that there was a lot more to the man than she had suspected, when he could make a move like that so easily.
“You plan their events,” he muttered angrily. “I’ll plan the food.” He drove away without a single grinding of gears while she stood there staring after him. Jeremy Nivens was going to provide the food? As she walked back into the house, Gillian grimaced. What would the youth of Mossbank have to eat at their weekly get-togethers? she asked herself. Toast and jam? Or his American version of tea and crumpets? She dismissed the thought as uncharitable and not worthy of her and raced upstairs to change into her jeans and sneakers. If she was going to do this, and it looked like she was, she couldn’t afford to be late for the first night.
To say that the youth group meeting that evening was a success would have been an overstatement of the facts. Two boys got into a disagreement after one of them twisted his ankle racing around in the bush behind the house, searching for the flag.
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