Sherri Schoenborn Murray
www.christianromances.com
Sherri’s Christian romances:
Fried Chicken and Gravy – a romance
Available in audio
Sticky Notes – lighthearted romance
Available in audio
The Piano Girl – for ages 7 to 107
Available in audio
A Wife and a River
– audio in the works
This is a work of fiction, all characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead is completely coincidental.
Sticky Notes
Christian Romances – www.christianromances.com
Copyright © 2014 Sherri Schoenborn Murray
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Cover photos by Clari Noel Photography
Copy edit by Pamela Shea Waddell
Final edit by Carolyn Rose Editing
To my dear college friends—
Shelley, Kris, Taryl, Julie and Lia—
and our great memories of the Palouse.
Do everything without finding fault or arguing.
Then you will be pure and without blame.
PHILIPPIANS 2:14.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter One
Moscow, Idaho, 2002
Alone in the dimly lit hallway, Katherine King tried to corral her nerves. She tightened her blonde ponytail and wiped her sweaty palms on the sides of her extra-long jeans. There was nothing to feel anxious about—she’d been a straight-A student throughout high school and her undergraduate years. Most likely this grade was a clerical error.
She recalled her adviser’s counsel: Be confident, diplomatic, and keep it short.
The door creaked open. Her classmate, Angel LeFave, fanned her flushed face, like time alone with Dr. Dreamy had been too much. Upon seeing Katherine, she wrinkled her nose and shrugged.
Not very encouraging.
Katherine’s grip tightened on the strap of her backpack. Maybe she should head home and have lunch with Grandma. Forget her pride.
Professor Benton appeared in the doorway. He was in his mid-thirties with coffee-brown hair, average build, and an above-average face. As the article in the Argonaut—the U of I student paper—had so notably put it, “a bachelor, and reason enough for a girl to change majors.”
“Oh, there’s someone still here?” He gripped both sides of the doorframe and leaned toward her for an awkward, heart-pounding moment.
Harp and string music to the tune of “Somewhere My Love” began to play. Katherine resisted the temptation to melt like a chocolate bar left on the dash.
“I’m the last one.” It was not a time to be coy and rely on her femininity, as Angel had undoubtedly done. She was facing a mental giant—a new professor intent on getting a gold plaque on his door, instead of the yellow paper that presently bore his name.
His desk sat against the wall, his back to the closet-sized room. To his left, numerous sticky notes plastered the side of an upright filing cabinet. She handed him her essay before sitting down in the metal folding chair.
He glanced at her name printed on the front of the light blue booklet before leafing to the final page of her essay, where he’d penned the offensive grade.
There was a hint of dust and peanut butter in the room.
“And the reason for your visit, Miss King?” His Zhivago eyes narrowed. Three of the four female students in the class agreed that his dark granite eyes resembled the famed actor Omar Sharif’s. The reason the girls were gathering for the movie Friday night was because Angel had voted no, which simply meant she’d never seen Doctor Zhivago.
“I’m hoping there’s a chance that the grade you wrote is an error of some type.” Beneath her chin, the pads of her fingertips tapped together in a silent clap. She gripped them tightly in front of her.
He flipped open his grade book and scanned the page. “It’s a B in my book and a B on your paper.”
“Oh, wow . . . um . . .” What he’d written on the last page did apply to her exam. How to proceed? “Uh, in your comments, Dr . . .” For a moment, she simply stared into his deep-set eyes. His surname had completely escaped her. “Benton!” She sat on her hands. “You wrote that you’d like more analysis rather than a neurotic summary of facts.”
“Neurotic?” He chuckled briefly. “I wouldn’t write that.”
“You did . . . it’s in your comments on the last page.”
As he flipped through the booklet again, she recalled Joe’s, her ex-boyfriend’s, sentiments: to change a fellow’s mind, all she had to do with her large baby blues was meet his gaze and blink.
Now was not a time to be coy.
“Hmm . . . I did write—” he cleared his throat—“neurotic.”
Before Professor Benton, she’d always received A's for her neurotic summary of facts.
“Your closing paragraph is weak. In the future, Miss King, I’d like to see more analysis.”
“Pardon me?”
“I’d like to see more analysis instead of a simple summary of facts. And I’d like you to up the size of your cursive.” He turned to regard her. “I have very good eyesight, and I had a difficult time with it.”
He was an excellent lecturer, but speaking to him one-on-one was a Bonnie and Clyde experience. She felt robbed.
The first day of class, when he’d written “Antebellum” on the board and said, “In Latin it means before war,” she’d held so much hope for him. And, if she had to confess or walk the plank, perhaps it had been the start of a slight crush.
“I’m sorry to prove confrontational, sir, but there are four pages of analysis.” Maybe his grading system was the reason his nameplate wasn’t on the door. “The last thing I want to think about during an exam is writing big.”
“Writing legibly.” His chest inflated. “B is above average, Miss King.”
Her mind wandered to her ex-boyfriend’s ace serves. They often whizzed past her, out of reach. The same adrenaline coursed through her veins now. “How can I go about raising my grade?” It was a question she’d never asked before.
“Include more analysis on the next exam.”
She’d graduated with a bachelor of arts in US history with a 4.0, taught at a high school level for four years, and, with a desire for a pay raise, made the difficult decision to return to the U of I for her MA. Now, some newbie professor trying to make his mark and create a reputation was going to make her final semester a nightmare.
She rose to her feet and slung her backpack over one shoulder. If he so much as says another word—
“Miss King . . .” Looking up, he held out her exam.
“I don’t think you’re aware, Professor, of how your grading system affected the class. Your D-day made even top students question if they’re in the right field.” The words tumbled like ice out of a machine. “I stepped over carcasses on my way out. I was nearly one of them.”
Instead of lifting his gaze, he watched her hands. Below her chin, her fingertips did the little tapping thing again. She crossed her arms in front of her, locking them.
“Are you through?” His dark brows gathered.
“Yes.”
“Good day, Miss King.”
The B was permanent.
Chapter Two
“Where is that girl?” Ethel King mumbled as she placed two slices of sourdough bread buttered side down in a preheated skillet. Toasted cheese sandwiches were best straight out of the pan. They were never as good once the cheese firmed back up.
The little wood bird in the clock in the living room cuckooed one time. Katherine was officially forty minutes late. Ethel peered out the picture window above her kitchen table. Her gaze included the freshly mown backyard, the white picket fence that ran the perimeter of her corner lot, and Katherine, strolling into view. Hallelujah. With her long legs, blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, and sporty blue backpack, her granddaughter, a twenty-eight-year-old grad student, looked like a model.
Katherine entered the back room, set her bag in the padded chrome chair at the table, and, without a word of greeting, washed her hands in the kitchen sink.
Hopefully, everything was okay. It wasn’t like Katherine to be late or quiet.
“Fritz got into my baby radishes again.” Ethel sighed and turned over a sandwich. Cheddar cheese oozed out the sides—just the way she liked. “I know it was him because I found a tunnel beneath the fence.”
“Did you speak to Sally about it?” At the table, Katherine flipped through the Scrabble dictionary that they kept wedged in the napkin holder.
“Yes.” Ethel sighed. “Supposedly, Hannah is saving up for a puppy, but they assure me they won’t get another Scottish terrier.” Her dear granddaughter, who was usually so good about showing empathy, flipped deeper into the book. Something was indeed wrong.
“For your sake, Grandma, I hope they don’t get another digger.”
“What are you looking up, honey?”
Katherine paused at a page, a quarter of the way through. “Did you know clemency is a synonym for mercy?”
“Yes, let’s hope Sally forgives me for complaining.”
“She will.” Katherine resumed reading. That’s why her granddaughter was an A student. She couldn’t leave the books alone.
Ethel told herself to wait until after they said prayer to ask who’d died. Sometimes when she heard bad news, she’d feel so appalled she’d forget to pray. She slid the golden sandwiches onto two plates and sat down. Holding hands, they bowed their heads for prayer.
“Dear Heavenly Father, thank You for Your many blessings. Help us to see the good in the bad. Thank You for the sandwiches. Amen.” Ethel unfolded a yellow paper napkin. “Who died, honey?”
“Why’d you ask that?” Katherine sounded a tad breathless.
“You look like you lost your best friend.” Ethel patted her nearest hand. “And you were late.”
“I received a B today on an exam.” Katherine shrugged and bit her lower lip.
Oh, dear, a B. Since she was knee-high spouting the Pledge of Allegiance, Katherine had always been their brilliant wonder.
“Maybe the Lord wanted you to know how everybody else feels. Maybe that’s why your professor gave you a B.”
She shook her head. “This professor has no empathy.”
“Well, then . . .” Ethel nudged her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose. “Maybe he made an honest mistake. When I reconciled my checkbook yesterday, I’d transposed several numbers in my registry. I was so disgusted with myself.”
“It was also a B in his grade book. He checked.” Red crept up from Katherine’s neck into her cheeks. “When I was in Professor B.’s office, I felt all keyed up. I was not diplomatic.”
“Professor B.?”
“Yes, Professor Benton has been renamed.”
“Wow.” Here it was Katherine’s final semester, and she’d never had a B before in her life. “You need to show him the old King fortitude. Get back on your horse and...”
“Grandma, he gave me a B.” Katherine’s voice reminded Ethel of her own mother’s when President Truman had won office. Their fate had felt so final.
“Maybe the B was for beauty.” Ethel patted her nearest hand.
“I knew the material. My essay flowed. I felt so good about it.” Her large blue eyes searched Ethel’s. “He wants me to be more analytical. The next paper, I’ll be so analytical he won’t know what hit him. The dummy.”
Even though Katherine said dummy under her breath, Ethel had heard it loud and clear. “Now, honey…”
“I was not diplomatic.” Tears moistened her long lashes.
“Well . . . the words I’m sorry are seven letters, and seven is the Lord’s number. I don’t think it’s purely coincidence, do you?”
“I need to figure out a strategy. He’s not a normal individual. He’s—”
“Just like you did today, you march into his office, and instead of complaining you apologize. It’s that easy.” Ethel took a bite of sandwich. Shoot! The cheese was already rubbery.
“You don’t understand, Grandma. I was a poor sport.”
Why was she being so vague? Ethel adjusted her glasses. She sure hoped Katherine wasn’t dating Joe, the tennis player, again.
“Did you play tennis with Professor B.?”
“No, Grandma.” Finally, a smile tugged at the corners of Katherine’s mouth.
“I know . . . we can make him cinnamon rolls.” Ethel clapped her hands together. Cinnamon rolls were the family cure-all. The smell of them baking made everyone feel better.
Katherine shook her head. “That’s called brownnosing! Absolutely not.”
“Hmmph . . .” She’d start a batch when Katherine went upstairs to study. Ethel glanced over her shoulder at the coffee maker. Later this afternoon, she’d make a fresh pot of decaf to go with the rolls. Good thing she’d saved that shoebox. She could put half a dozen rolls in it for Katherine to take to—
“Grandma, why did you just glance at the coffeepot?”
“No reason.” Ethel swallowed.
“Your mind is not hard to read. Never in a million years would I deliver Professor B. cinnamon rolls. Grandma . . .” Katherine waited for her to look directly into her eyes. Pursing her lips, Ethel eventually did. “Don’t get the idea into
your head. It’s called brownnosing, and very frowned upon by my generation.”
“What is it with you kids?” Ethel brushed toasted crumbs off her fingers and onto her plate. “When I was growing up, we used to have teachers over for dinner all the time. Once when your Uncle Stan was having problems in math, my daddy, your great-grandfather, invited the—”
“Grandma! I know the story. And times have changed.”
Ethel took a bite of sandwich and chewed on the fact that her granddaughter was one of the most stubborn people she’d ever known. Hmmm… to make the frosting, she’d need powdered sugar, vanilla… was she out of powdered sugar? She looked toward the cupboard above Katherine’s head.
“Grandma!”
Ж
Ethel opened the door downstairs. “Katherine?” Her voice cracked a little as she called up the steep stairwell. “I’m making the sweet dough. Can you help me knead it?”
“Grandma, I’m not giving rolls to Professor Benton.”
“I need your help. You know what kneading does to my arthritis.” Ethel suppressed a giggle. Whenever she wanted something done, the old arthritis excuse worked like a charm.
She heard footsteps overhead before Katherine marched down the stairs.
“Oh, good,” Ethel said as she entered the kitchen. “We’ll be able to enjoy a roll after supper.”
“Who are the rest for?” Katherine washed her hands at the sink.
“I lined a shoebox with foil.” She nodded to a bright pink-and-white Naturalizer shoebox on the counter. “Remember the tan church shoes I bought last week? I couldn’t bring myself to throw out the box. I knew it would come in handy for something.”
“Who are you going to give the cinnamon rolls to?”
Ethel set her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. “You’re giving them to Professor B.”
“I’ll only give the rolls to Professor B. if you douse them with cayenne pepper instead of cinnamon.”
“They’d be awful. You’re awful!”
“I won’t give him the rolls.” Katherine pulled the wood cutting board a foot and a half out of the cabinetry and sprinkled flour over it. She muscled the palms of her hands into the yeast-scented dough.
Sticky Notes - A clean romance (Ethel King Series Book 1) Page 1
