by Janette Oke
“Oh yes—no. I mean—she’s been very kind to me. I thought I could say a ... a thank-you this way.”
He nodded then, and Christine felt her heart skip. It seemed like her plan would work out. He gave her a lopsided. grin and waved her out. “Check with Miss Stout,” he said. “Any evening will suit me.”
And so things were arranged, and on the following Friday night Christine found herself searching out 716 East Summit Avenue. She had taken the trolley—which was no small feat considering the grocery bags she carried with her.
Mr. Kingsley had given her the address and a general idea of where it was located, but when she found it she felt there must be some mistake. She stood on the sidewalk staring at an enormous house. Surely it was not a single-family dwelling. Christine’s eyes roamed over the impressive structure in disbelief. Checking the address again, she finally made her way along the walk to the back door.
Letting herself in with the key her boss had provided, she discovered the inside was even more breathtaking. Christine had never been in such a house before. Even the Calgary home of Uncle Jon and Aunt Mary could not compare with this one. There were crystal chandeliers, a winding oak staircase, heavy furniture polished to a deep shine, glistening mirrors, and carpets so thick they felt like forest moss. Christine slowly let out her breath.
But she hadn’t come to stare, she reminded herself. She found the massive kitchen and began searching through cupboards for proper utensils. She had planned chicken and dumplings, mashed potatoes and gravy, buttered carrots and creamed turnips. Dessert would be a berry pie. It was not a fancy meal, but with any luck at all, it would be a tasty one. Unless, of course, she had selected a menu not to Mr. Kingsley’s liking. Well, anyway, this was food she knew how to prepare, and she’d just hope for the best.
Christine’s initial nervousness mostly disappeared as she immersed herself in the familiar routine. She almost chuckled aloud as she thought, If Mama could see me now ...
By the time Miss Stout rang the front doorbell, the aromas from the kitchen were penetrating the entire house. The china from the large breakfront was now arranged on the table in the big dining room. Christine thought it looked rather elegant. Much different from the Delaney supper table in the North.
Miss Stout came in rather stiffly, but she looked surprisingly chic in a new floral dress. Her eyes studied everything about her. Christine assumed this was the first time the woman had been in the house.
“I’m sure Mr. Kingsley would want you to make yourself at home,” smiled Christine. “Everything is ready. I’ll just need to dish up when he arrives.”
“He’s not here?” Her disappointment was obvious.
“I’m sure he will be soon. He told me he had a bit of work to finish up.”
“That man. He works far too hard,” murmured Miss Stout.
“I guess he feels he may as well work as to come home to this big empty house,” observed Christine. She excused herself and hurried back to the kitchen to keep an eye on the supper.
It was not long until she heard voices in the living room and smiled softly. Mr. Kingsley was home. He would finally notice Miss Stout as something other than an office fixture. She heard Miss Stout’s nervous, high-pitched titter. I’ll just give them a few more minutes before I serve the food, thought Christine. Her plan seemed to be working very well.
By the time she entered the living room to invite her two guests for supper, Mr. Kingsley seemed to be quite at ease. He sat near the open fire in a huge, well-used chair, legs crossed, fingers thumping out a little rhythm on the arm of the chair. He was even smiling.
“I hate to interrupt,” began Christine, “but supper is served.”
Mr. Kingsley was immediately on his feet. “I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it,” he said in his boisterous manner. “Those fumes—”
“Fumes,” giggled Miss Stout. “Really, Mr. Kingsley. One does not speak of delicious food aromas as fumes.” She giggled again.
He took no offense, and together they moved to the dining room in a jovial mood.
Christine saw them seated, then proceeded to serve up the dishes. She took her own meal in the kitchen, though she ate little because of her tension. Did they like the food? Were they getting on well?
Christine received high praise for the meal, almost to the point she felt embarrassed. She was glad when the last crumb of pie was eaten and her guests pushed back from the table.
“Never had a better meal,” said Mr. Kingsley, wiping his mouth on the napkin. “Had forgotten what home-cooked food tasted like.” He smacked his lips and tossed his napkin beside his plate.
“Why don’t you have your coffee by the fire while I clean up?” suggested Christine.
“Oh, I must help,” offered Miss Stout.
“I’ll manage just fine,” Christine quickly said, and Miss Stout did seem relieved. “It’s all a part of the thank-you for your kindness.”
Miss Stout beamed. “Well ... if you insist. That’s most kind.” She gave Mr. Kingsley another big smile.
“We’ll have that coffee,” Mr. Kingsley said to Christine. “But you join us. The cleaning lady can take care of things.”
“Oh no. I’d never cook a meal, make a mess, and leave it to someone else. It’ll only take me a few minutes.” She poured the coffee and withdrew, humming to herself as she went.
This was going even better than she had dared hope. Mr. Kingsley had been most amiable at the supper table, and Miss Stout had fairly glowed. Surely with a bit of prompting the two lonely people would realize that they could add much to one another’s world.
CHAPTER Five
“Cupid’s arrows don’t always shoot straight. ” Her father’s words came back to Christine the next morning as she entered the office. Miss Stout sat at her desk, her lips pursed as dourly as ever. But there was a new twinkle in her eyes and a new lacy handkerchief pinned to her normally unadorned navy suit. Christine knew her father’s words meant that one should not attempt to play Cupid. Yet she could not keep from feeling a bit victorious as she hung up her coat and gave the receptionist a good-morning smile.
“Mr. Kingsley wants to see you,” announced Miss Stout. “He said to send you in the moment you arrived.” The twinkle in her eyes deepened. Christine nodded and went for her steno pad.
“Oh, I don’t think you’ll need that,” said Miss Stout lightly.
Christine’s brow knit in puzzlement.
“I think it might be something ... on a more personal basis,” the woman explained, looking flushed.
Christine clung to the steno pad and moved slowly toward the door. She had not felt such nerves since the first time she had stepped inside the big room.
She rapped lightly. “It’s open” came the gruff invitation. She proceeded in, the pad clutched in two hands.
“Miss Stout said—” But she got no further.
“Sit down. Sit down,” he said loudly, waving the stub of a pencil he held between two fingers. A broad grin spread across his face.
She was not used to being greeted by her boss in such fashion. She sat in the chair he had indicated, pencil and pad poised.
“That was a great supper last night. A great supper.”
Christine managed a nod in acknowledgment of his compliment.
“I thought about it all night. Well—most all night.” He chuckled deep in his throat. Christine had not heard him attempt to laugh. “It’s a long time since I’ve had a meal like that. Boyd—he must have missed them too. Says the cafeteria food at the university isn’t any improvement over the local greasy spoon.” He laughed again. Christine decided she preferred his gruff, all-business attitude to this jovial, overly familiar one.
He leaned back and looked at her, his chair squeaking beneath his weight. He grinned again and toyed with the pencil in his fingers.
“Well—I finally got it all figured out. You’re in a little boardinghouse room. Right?”
Christine, perplexed, nodded slowly.
She had no idea where this conversation was heading. She simply stared back at him.
“And you’re a good cook. Great cook.”
She sat, mute, her cheeks warming with embarrassment.
“And I’ve been living on bacon fat and strong coffee.”
He waited expectantly. She had no idea what to say. What to think.
He leaned forward again, the chair groaning in protest.
“Don’t you see? It’s a perfect match.”
Christine shook her head. “I’m ... I’m afraid I don’t ... I’m not following you, sir.”
“Hey—I thought we got rid of that ‘sir’ stuff long ago,” he chided. “Makes me feel as old as Methuselah.” He shifted again and looked over at her. “It’s simple. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. You move in with me.”
Christine was beyond shock. She was sure she had misunderstood.
His beefy hand slapped down on his desk. “As cook,” he said.
“But—”
His words spilled over her attempt to protest. “I’ve got all this room. You’re paying room and board. You can take a room upstairs. Any room. You can have your pick of the bunch. There were five of ‘em up there last time I counted. ’Course one is Boyd’s. But you can have any others you want. You get your room and board in exchange for fixing my suppers.”
Christine felt as if her body had turned to ice. What on earth—
“I’ll pay the bills,” he hurried on, as though to assure her that the arrangement would indeed be to her benefit. “All the bills.”
“I ... I don’t ...” she faltered. “It’s ...”
“It makes complete sense,” he argued, sounding frustrated at her hesitance. “Why should you be shelling out money? Why should I be living on bacon and eggs? It’s a perfect solution.”
Christine was relieved she was sitting down. She tried to think. What could she say and not jeopardize her job? She had just been invited to share one of the most beautiful and auspicious dwellings in the entire city of Edmonton. But the circumstances ... She was sure her mother and father would say, “Absolutely not!”
“I’ll ... I’ll have to think about it.” She clamped her lips on the “sir” that nearly slipped out. “What’s to think about? I can send Jesse round to pick up your things this evening. We can get right to it.”
“But ... how will folks ... what will they think?”
He waved the pencil. “Who cares what they think?”
“I care ... sir.”
The man’s face grew serious, as though he was actually trying to look at this through Christine’s eyes. He studied her carefully for a few minutes. “Okay,” he said at last, leaning forward and tapping his pencil on the wooden desk. “I see I went too fast. Let’s go over this again.”
He leaned back.
“I thought you liked to cook.”
Christine nodded. She did enjoy the kitchen.
“You’re paying for your little room.”
She nodded again.
“But you don’t like big houses?”
“Your house is ...” Christine could not think of how to describe such an awesome dwelling. “It’s lovely,” she finally said lamely.
“So it’s not the house?”
“Not at all, I just—”
“Is it me?”
“Sir, young women simply do not move in ... move in with bachelor men,” she managed, her tone growing more determined with each word.
At his frown, she hurried on. “It would be different—quite different if you had a wife.”
“If I had a wife, I wouldn’t need a cook,” he growled.
Christine flushed.
“So what is your solution?” he demanded.
“I ... I’ve no solution. I haven’t even considered—”
“Well, consider it now.”
“I’ll ... I’ll have to think about it—pray about it. Talk to my folks.”
“If it’s just my being alone, Boyd will soon be home.”
Christine shook her head. “I’m sure that would not fix it.”
“Then bring someone with you. What about that ... that Miss Easton? I’ve seen you talking with her. Bring her.” He slapped the desktop and swore. “Bring the whole typing pool.”
Christine rose to her feet on trembling legs and wondered if they would work well enough to take her from the room. “I’ll ... pray about it,” she repeated through stiff lips and turned to go.
“Pray about it,” she heard her boss mumble disgustedly to himself, but she did not turn back.
As she opened the door, Miss Stout looked up. Christine could feel the woman’s eyes on her but refused to look her direction. And you, she fumed inwardly, annoyed, I suppose you thought you’d be invited for supper every day of the week.
Christine did pray about it. Honestly. On the one hand she realized how pleasant it would be to live in such an opulent home with so much room, along with the pleasure of spending time in the kitchen each night. She would be preparing meals for Mr. Kingsley and herself. Then Boyd when he returned home from school. She did not even consider Miss Stout as a dinner guest. As far as Christine was concerned, the woman deserved no more free suppers.
She wrote a letter to her parents telling them of Mr. Kingsley’s proposal. She included the fact that he had said she could bring her friend Miss Easton along with her. That would be fun, she told herself as she penned the words. Built-in companionship in the big house. They could work together in the big kitchen. Read books before the library fire. There was even a player piano in the drawing room.
But each time Christine’s enthusiasm began to grow, she felt an inner disquiet. Abstain from all appearance of evil came back to her mind as she sealed the envelope. And how would it change things at work? With diligence and care, she had finally earned her spot in the typing pool. She had now been accepted as skilled and hardworking, not “the boss’s favorite.” What if she moved into the boss’s house? Would she be shunned all over again? Christine was certain she did not want that.
But to refuse. How would he take her decision? Would he be miffed? Downright angry? Might he terminate her employment? Christine continued to pray and anxiously checked her mail until the response from her folks arrived.
“This is a most unusual circumstance,” her mother wrote. “We have talked about it at length and prayed about it many times. We have come to the conclusion that not knowing the man, nor the full implications of the situation, we must trust God to lead you to the right decision.”
This was little comfort to Christine. She appreciated her parents’ faith in her, but she wished they had made the decision for her. Mr. Kingsley was waiting for her decision. Boyd was soon due back from the university. She knew she had to decide one way or the other. But what was right? She had not brought it up with Jayne. She did not need the complication of pressure from another source. The week dragged by with Christine’s heart nearly stopping every time Mr. Kingsley’s office door opened. She knew she could not avoid the inevitable forever.
On Monday morning she slipped into her desk as uncertain as ever. Then she noticed Miss Stout grimly cleaning out Jayne’s station.
“What—where’s Jayne?” she asked.
“Foolish girl,” Miss Stout said with tight lips. “She went home for the weekend. Phoned in this morning to say she would not be coming back. She’s getting married to some ... some country yokel. Never even gave proper notice.”
Getting married The words rang in Christine’s ears. Jayne getting married. So her young man had not taken up with Bessie—whoever she was—after all. Jayne would be so happy. Christine could not help but smile.
Then came the realization that Jayne would no longer be available to share the big house. There was no one else in the typing pool she had any interest in asking to share the unusual arrangement. That meant it had been decided for her. Now she must not put it off any longer. She had to talk wit
h Mr. Kingsley. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and picked up her steno pad. She didn’t expect to need it, but it was something to hang on to.
“Come,” called the gruff voice when she rapped on the door.
Christine steeled herself and entered. “Mr. Kingsley?”
He lifted his head. “Ahh,” he said, tossing aside his pencil. “You’ve finally finished praying.”
Christine nodded.
“Didn’t think God was ever going to answer,” he went on with a sly grin.
Christine did not share his amusement.
“Sit down,” he offered, waving toward a chair.
Christine did.
“I take it from your face that the answer is no.”
She nodded dumbly.
He seemed to think about that for some time before he pushed away from his desk and rocked back in his chair.
“Just out of curiosity,” he said, studying her face, “why wouldn’t He let you? I mean—I had no ulterior motive—except a few good meals. You’re young enough to be my daughter—surety He didn’t think I’d have designs on you. If I wanted another wife, there are lots of them out there. So why not?”
“He didn’t say—I mean ... perhaps He did ... in a way. I just couldn’t feel comfortable about it. I know that ... that your house is beautiful and your offer was out of kindness. But it ... it just didn’t feel ... right. I don’t think people would understand, and I didn’t want ... I couldn’t risk possibly damaging the name of my parents—or my God—just to get something better ... for me.”
He seemed to think about what she had said, weighing it carefully. He reached out to pick up his pencil and began to roll it between finger and thumb. “So ... you think my offer would be better for you.”
“Oh yes,” said Christine quickly. “You’ve such a beautiful home, and I could have cooked ... anything. Everything. It would have ...” But she stopped uncertainly. She did not want him to misunderstand. “I’m sorry,” she finally stammered.
“I’m not.” He began to tap the pencil. “I was afraid you scorned my offer. That you felt it insulting. That ... that riled me a bit. But now I see that ... well ... that you made your decision for another reason. I don’t share your views about God. But I can respect you for sticking to what you believe. I’m disappointed ... of course. But ...” He shrugged his massive shoulders and pulled his chair closer to his desk.
