When Grace Sings

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She pushed the screen door open, forcing him to take a sideways step, and moved onto the porch although she remained just over the doorjamb with the screen door braced against her shoulder. Her chin tipped back when she looked into his face, giving him a glimpse of a few light-colored freckles strategically placed on her forehead and cheeks. One larger one—more prominent—decorated the left side of her upper lip. What a perfect location to land a kiss. Maybe he’d find a little nightlife here in Arborville after all.

  “I’m Alexa Zimmerman. I manage Grace Notes B and B.”

  “Really?” He gave her a bold up-and-down look. “You’re too young and pretty to be running a hotel.”

  “It’s a bed-and-breakfast inn, Mr. Forrester, and—”

  “Call me Briley.”

  “—my age and appearance have nothing to do with my ability to run it well.” Looking across the yard, she pointed. “Is that your vehicle?”

  He nodded, anticipating a complimentary comment.

  “Since you’re long-term, feel free to pull it into the barn at night. It will need to stay on the side yard there during the day, though, so my uncle can access his equipment. Do you have luggage?”

  He automatically formed a smart-alecky reply. “Well, I’m here for a long-term stay, so …”

  “If you’d like to get it, I’ll show you to the cottage.”

  He placed his hand on his chest, feigning surprise. “What? No bellhop to assist me?”

  She let the screen door flop into place. Without a word, she stepped past him and trotted down the steps.

  He followed her. “Where are you going?”

  She moved along the steppingstones, her gleaming ponytail swaying between her shoulder blades. “You asked for a bellhop. That would be me.”

  He might be a flirt, even a rogue by some people’s definition, but he wouldn’t let this slip of a girl carry his luggage. He bounded past her and stopped in her pathway. She came to a halt and looked upward. She didn’t even crack a smile. She sure was a serious thing. Too bad. He’d like to have a little fun with her. What would it take to strip away her cloak of indifference?

  He quirked his lips into a grin that usually raised a self-conscious giggle from members of the female population. “Where’s your sense of humor? I was only teasing, Alexa.”

  “You may call me Miss Zimmerman.”

  Wasn’t she something else? Maybe living among people who avoided modern technology made her a throwback to an earlier century. He swallowed a chortle and bowed, affecting a highbrow look. “I beg your humble pardon. Miss Zimmerman, it is.” The hours spent watching black-and-white classic movies with Aunt Myrt weren’t for naught. He could be throwback, too.

  Her brows pinched together, reminding him of his third-grade teacher. She’d never appreciated his shenanigans, either. The same deviltry that had led him to torment Mrs. Burton reared its head and aimed its attack at Miss Alexa Zimmerman.

  “I shall retrieve my luggage forthwith and carry it with all due haste to your establishment. Furthermore, I—”

  “Furthermore”—she folded her arms over her chest in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Burton—“you’ll behave yourself. I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. I might only be a young woman, but I am the manager of Grace Notes B and B, and I would appreciate being treated with respect.”

  His amusement fled. Irritation replaced it. She didn’t need to be so high-and-mighty. Didn’t she know how to have fun? But what did he care? Would he let some unsmiling Mennonite girl make him feel small and insignificant? Absolutely not. He shrugged in well-practiced nonchalance. “Whatever you want, Miss Zimmerman. I’ve had a long drive and I’m tired, so if you’d point me to my room and tell me where I can grab some supper, I’d appreciate it.”

  She finally smiled. Not a flirtatious smile. Not even a friendly smile. More a smile of success that brought a greater stab of aggravation. “Of course, Mr. Forrester. The cottage is ready for you, and as your boss requested, I stocked the minifridge with sodas, sandwich fixings, and fruit so you can prepare your own simple supper. Please grab your luggage and follow me.”

  With a little snort he slung his laptop case over his shoulder and then retrieved his leather rolling suitcase. The case’s wheels bumped across the steppingstones, hindering his progress, but he followed her past the house and then along a narrow gravel path to a small, square building painted in colors similar to the Victorian farmhouse.

  She opened the door and held her hand out in invitation. “Here you are. Your own little home-away-from-home.”

  He crossed the cracked square of concrete serving as a stoop and entered what Alexa—oops, Miss Zimmerman—had called the cottage. The space reminded him of a project from one of the do-it-yourself home improvement magazines Aunt Myrt liked to read. Quite a change from his masculine, streamlined, glass-and-black decor at home. A designer would probably define the cottage as “charmingly eclectic,” and no doubt some would rave about the scattered throw rugs, mismatched furnishings, and high tin ceiling. He felt as though he’d stepped into a time machine and landed somewhere near the turn of the twentieth century. His sense of zipping backward in time increased when his gaze fell on the massive wood-burning stove lurking in the far corner.

  He pointed at the big black hunk of iron. “I’m not expected to cook on that thing, am I?”

  She laughed lightly. If he hadn’t been annoyed with her, he might have enjoyed the trickling sound. “There’s a microwave behind the roll-up door in that green-painted cupboard.”

  He crossed to the cupboard and slid the door upward. A shiny, stainless-steel microwave greeted his eyes. He blew out a relieved breath.

  “You should find everything you need, but if you discover you’re lacking something, please just knock on the back door. I’ll do what I can to make your stay comfortable.”

  He considered voicing a suggestive request but decided against it. Aunt Myrt wouldn’t approve, and Len had warned him about trying to fit in with these people. He made a mental note—no flirting. Besides, she was being pleasant so he’d respond in kind. “Okay, thanks.” He placed his laptop case on the scarred table that held a square red-and-white-checked scarf and a chunky crock overflowing with artificial daisies. How sweet … “Any other regulations besides leaving my car outside the barn during daytime hours?”

  “Grace Notes B and B is a no-smoking, alcohol-free inn. Even though you’re in the cottage rather than in the house, we’d appreciate you honoring our preference.”

  Our? Maybe she was married and that’s why she resisted his flirtations. Then he’d definitely curb it. He might be a lot of things, but a wife-stealer wasn’t one of them. “No problem. Anything else?”

  “On Sunday we attend worship service, so I only serve breakfast at eight o’clock. Every other day, you’re free to choose an earlier or later time that suits your schedule.”

  “Eight is fine every day for me.”

  “All right. Since you’ll be staying for a while, you’re welcome to attend service with us on Sundays.”

  Eventually he’d want to sit in on their worship—Len said he ought to. But tomorrow he intended to kick back and relax, work out the stiffness in his muscles from his long drive from Illinois. “Thanks. I might do that.”

  “All right then.” She’d remained on the stoop. She withdrew a silver-plated keychain shaped like a music note from her pocket and held it across the threshold as if her arm was a bridge. “Here’s the key for the cottage. I unlock the back door of the house by seven if you’d like a cup of coffee before breakfast.” She backed up slowly, her hands clasped loosely against her skirt front.

  He glanced down, but the way she cupped her right hand over her left, he couldn’t tell if she wore a ring or not. Not that it would matter. If he remembered his research correctly, the Old Order groups didn’t wear wedding rings.

  A smile, this one more genuine and definitely more appealing, curved her lips. “Welcome to Grace Notes B and B, Mr. Forrester.
I hope you enjoy your stay.” She turned and scurried off before he could say anything else.

  Alexa Zimmerman

  Alexa slammed the back porch door closed behind her. The solid crack! failed to chase the image of Briley Forrester from her mind. She pulled in a long, slow breath, willing her clamoring pulse to calm. Gracious, it should be illegal for a man to be that handsome. And doubly illegal—if there was such a thing—for him to be so aware of his own virility.

  “Alexa? Are you all right?” Grandmother’s worried voice carried from the dining room.

  Alexa pressed her palms to her chest and blew out air in a whoosh before rejoining her grandmother at the table, where they had been wrapping silverware in cloth napkins before the sound of the car drew Alexa to the front door. She plopped into her chair, feeling as winded as if she’d run a marathon. “Yes. Sorry about that bang. The door got away from me.”

  Grandmother raised one eyebrow in silent query. She placed the last bundle of silverware with the others on the table and leaned back in her wheelchair. “That should be enough to carry you through the next two weeks. Unless you get more calls. I presume, since you didn’t bring anyone inside, your long-term guest just arrived?”

  Funny how Grandmother always used your rather than our when referring to guests or anything else related to operating the inn. Even though the house belonged to her, she saw the business as Alexa’s. Grandmother placing the responsibility firmly on Alexa’s shoulders made her all the more determined to make this business work. Thank goodness Mr. Forrester—Briley—had stopped acting like a wolf on the prowl so she didn’t have to send him elsewhere. She needed the money from his stay.

  “Yes. I hope he’s comfortable in the cottage.” She’d hated to give up what she’d intended to claim as her own little house, but when the newspaper man in Chicago had indicated he’d be sending a male reporter for an up to three-month stay in Arborville, it had made sense to put him out there rather than have a single man staying in the house with Grandmother. As Uncle Clete said, the people in town might raise their eyebrows. And she wouldn’t do anything to cause a stir. Well, at least not more than her arrival in town already had.

  “What’s he like?” Grandmother asked.

  Alexa busied herself stacking the rolls of silverware in a little wicker basket. “Nice, I guess. Definitely big city.” She pictured his black-with-white-pinstripes button-up shirt, open at the collar and rolled back at the cuffs yet neatly tucked into what were obviously designer blue jeans. Instead of wearing tennis shoes or boots, like the majority of the men in Arborville, he wore tasseled loafers. With jeans!

  She shook her head. “He’ll stick out like a sore thumb around here, and at the same time I imagine he’ll turn a few heads. He’s quite the looker.” She waggled her eyebrows and fanned herself, partly for show, partly because her face was heating. She’d never encountered a man as blatantly sensual as Briley Forrester.

  Grandmother frowned. “You be careful, Alexa Joy Zimmerman.”

  Alexa drew back. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Sometimes you don’t have to. With some men, just being a female is enough.”

  She remembered his flirtatious behavior when she’d opened the door. If Grandmother had been the one to greet him, he probably would have behaved the same way. Flattery rolled too easily from that man’s tongue. “I already set him straight. He tried coming on to me, but I let him know it wasn’t appropriate.”

  “Good for you.” Grandmother gave a firm nod. Then she sighed. “I’m glad there are other guests staying this weekend. I’ll feel a little safer knowing Mr. Brungardt and his son will be here, too, with a stranger from Chicago out in the summer kitchen.”

  “The cottage,” Alexa corrected with a smile.

  Grandmother rolled her eyes but she grinned. “I suppose considering all the work you and Paul did out there to turn that sorry little building into a pleasant getaway, I should stop referring to it as ‘the summer kitchen.’ You really did a wonderful job with it.”

  Pride swelled at Grandmother’s compliment, but Alexa formed a modest rejoinder. “Without Mr. Aldrich’s know-how, I would never have been able to transform the old summer kitchen into a guest cottage. I’m glad he had time in his schedule to get it done for me.”

  “Amazing how much things have changed in such a short amount of time.” Grandmother’s tone turned reflective. “Six months ago my house wasn’t handicap accessible, I was living here alone, you were living in Indiana, and I didn’t even know I had a granddaughter named Alexa.” A smile trembled on her lips. She reached across the table, took Alexa’s hands, and squeezed tight. “You’re such a blessing to me.”

  “You are my gift.” Mom’s voice echoed in Alexa’s memory. Tears stung. She missed Mom so much. All her childhood, it was just her and Mom. How strange to be so far away from her, yet Alexa knew she was where she was supposed to be. Even so, she couldn’t wait until Thanksgiving when Mom would visit and see everything Alexa had accomplished in the past few months.

  “And I think having a long-term guest is a blessing, too.” Grandmother released Alexa’s hands to scoop up the last rolls of silverware and plop them into the basket. “I wondered if you’d have any business at all in the fall and winter months.”

  Alexa had wondered the same thing, especially since the representative from the Kansas Bed-and-Breakfast Inns Association had indicated many inns closed during the winter. But she’d gone ahead and spent the money to advertise anyway, wanting to get her B and B listed on Internet search engines. And that’s how the newspaper man from Chicago had found her. So it all worked out well in spite of Uncle Clete and Aunt Shelley’s dismal predictions. She wanted to succeed. Not to prove Clete and Shelley wrong, but to prove to them she could do something worthwhile. She needed their approval. Maybe too much.

  Rising, she grabbed the basket of silverware and then carried it to the antique sideboard where she stored the plates, mugs, and glassware for guests. She wasn’t allowed to keep the guests’ dishes in the kitchen with those she and Grandmother used. Being an innkeeper required her to know and follow state guidelines as well as be a good cook, a maid, a greeter, and a bookkeeper. What a challenge! But she could handle it. Her mother had taught her she could do anything through Christ, who gave her strength.

  Grandmother rolled her wheelchair around the end of the table toward the living room. “If you need to prepare anything for tomorrow’s breakfast, I’ll be happy to watch the road for the next arrivals.”

  “I don’t really have anything to do tonight, but thanks.” Alexa intended to stir up a sausage-and-hash-brown casserole and bake cranberry-and-walnut-filled apples for breakfast. With all male guests expected, she decided she should avoid making strawberry crepes or miniature spinach-mushroom quiches. She looked forward to preparing the fun dishes for couples next spring and summer.

  She helped her grandmother transfer from her wheelchair to the sofa, then retrieved her basket of crocheting hooks and yarn. Once Grandmother was occupied, Alexa crossed to the window and looked out. The bright-red sports car—an unusual sight in little Arborville—caught her eye. Such a pretentious vehicle, one guaranteed to garner attention. The same way Briley Forrester’s movie-star appearance captured attention. Alexa folded her arms across her waist as fingers of awareness tiptoed up her spine. As Grandmother had said, she’d need to watch herself. Given his unbelievable good looks and easy means of flattery, the man had probably left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. She didn’t want to add hers to the number.

  She turned and sent a slight frown toward her grandmother. “The man who’s coming with his son … the Brungardts? Did you say they have ties to Arborville?”

  Grandmother lowered the hall-finished doily. “That’s right. Mr. Brungardt’s wife, Claudia, was a Meiers. She grew up on the farm next to ours. My Cecil started renting their land when old Mr. Meiers passed away, then Clete took up farming the acreage after Cecil died.” Her brows pulled low. “Cle
te said the Brungardts asked to meet him at the farmstead tomorrow afternoon. I hope there isn’t a problem.”

  “I guess we’ll know when—” The sound of a car’s approach pulled Alexa’s attention to the window again. A solid gray sedan with black spray-painted bumpers, obviously a vehicle driven by a member of an Old Order sect, inched up the lane. She shrugged. “I was going to say ‘when they get here.’ And I’m pretty sure that’s now.”

  Steven

  “Whew.” Steven shook his head and stared at the house through the car’s windshield. Dusk was falling, but there was enough remaining light to see that the farmhouse was painted like a circus tent. “Anna—Grace told me her great-aunt’s house had a new paint job, but I didn’t expect anything so …” He wasn’t sure how to describe it.

  Dad pulled his sedan next to a red sports car and turned off the engine. He frowned first at the car and then at the house. “I don’t know what to think. A fancy car beside the barn. A fancy house. Your mother would be shocked. It wasn’t like this when she lived next door.”

  Steven wasn’t shocked. He was intrigued. But he wouldn’t say so.

  Dad went on, his expression dour and tone forbidding. “It must be the influence of that granddaughter of Abigail Zimmerman’s. She was raised in the world, you know.”

  Steven vaguely recalled the Brauns talking at a Sunday fellowship dinner about the return of one of the Zimmerman daughters, who brought a grownup daughter home with her. Mom had been encouraged by the story, saying it meant there was hope Kevin would come back, too, someday, but Steven hadn’t paid much attention. What did he care about some family he’d never met? Now he wished he’d listened more closely.