Now the worry had returned with a fury. He was still unemployed, and his bride of less than six months was expecting a baby.
A baby!
Andrew wanted children with Helen. He’d imagined the two of them with a houseful of kids. But not yet, and not when he couldn’t provide for them. Not when they were within a few weeks of having to move out of their rental and in with Helen’s parents. The latter option wasn’t appealing, no matter his fondness for them.
Discouragement rolled over him. He couldn’t even get a job in a diner. He’d been willing to bus tables and wash dishes, but it seemed he was overqualified for that position. Funny considering he’d held a similar job while going through school. However, the owner of this diner wouldn’t even consider him.
“You have a college degree,” the man had said a few minutes ago. “You wouldn’t stay. I need someone who will stay.”
But the man was wrong. In the midst of a depression, Andrew would have stayed. Any income was better than none. He was smart enough to know that. But too smart for this guy, it seemed.
Now what?
He thought of his in-laws, Frank and Madge Greyson. Salt-of-the-earth people whose company he enjoyed. He loved them as much as he loved his own parents. But to live with them in their farmhouse near Kuna? His ego felt bruised at the thought of it. And how could he afford the extra gasoline he would need in order to drive into Boise to look for work? He didn’t drive his Ford now as it was. He hadn’t the money. He walked everywhere. The soles of his shoes were proof of that. Even now there was newspaper in the bottom of his right shoe, covering a hole.
His head began to swim, and he moved to a nearby bench and sank onto it. His stomach growled, reminding him how long it had been since he’d eaten his meager breakfast—a slice of toast with strawberry jam and a glass of milk. The previous night’s dinner hadn’t been much more substantial.
He closed his eyes and drew in a slow, deep breath, waiting for the dizziness to pass. It did soon enough. Still, his situation hadn’t changed when he opened his eyes. He remained in serious financial trouble.
Taking another deep breath, he rose from the bench and turned toward home. Home. But it wouldn’t be home for long. A few weeks more. Unless something changed.
“God,” he whispered, “is there no end to this?”
He strained to hear the answer that all would be well, longed to feel some sort of confirmation in his heart. Anything to give him hope and encouragement. But there was only silence.
When he reached the corner, he looked down the street to his right. Two blocks down, a line had formed outside a church. Hungry men and women waiting for a lunch of soup and bread. Andrew’s stomach growled at the thought, but he wouldn’t go eat without Helen, and pride made it hard for him to take her to wait outside a soup kitchen for a meal. He’d never imagined he might need to accept charity from strangers.
The Henning family had never had a lot in the way of money, but they’d never been afraid of hard work either. They’d been farmers, for the most part, usually working someone else’s land as tenants. But when Andrew was a toddler, his father and mother had been able to buy their own acreage. After that, his parents had scrimped and saved in order to pay for a higher education for their only son.
A bad investment, it now seemed to Andrew.
He trudged on, leaning into the March wind while holding the collar of his coat closed at his throat. As he walked, he tried to pray, tried to choose joy over despair. He wasn’t sure he would be any more successful with that than he’d been at finding employment.
Chapter 4
On Thursday, Ridley decided to tackle the kitchen cabinets. His mom wanted the room, including cabinets, painted a buttery shade of yellow. She wanted new hardware, too, and had emailed him examples of her preferences.
Ridley made an early morning trip to the hardware store in Hope Springs. Fortunately, he was able to get everything his mom wanted. If not, he’d have had to wait for the store to order in whatever was missing. No way was he driving down to Boise this soon after his hasty departure.
He’d just pried the lid off a can of paint when the doorbell rang. Kris barked, then watched to see what Ridley would do. He considered ignoring it. He didn’t know anybody in the area, with the exception of his neighbor. Who else could it be?
The bell rang again.
“Coming.” He wiped his hands on a rag as he walked into the living room, Kris beside him, and pulled open the door expecting to see Jessica Mason. Instead, he found a tall, thin man with a broad smile and graying hair at the temples.
“Mr. Jenkins, I’m Michael Phelps, the pastor at Hope Springs Community Church.” A twinkle lit his eyes. “And no, I’m not the swimmer.” He chuckled, as if pleased with his own punch line. One he’d doubtlessly used many times.
“And I’m Ridley.” He almost left it there, but finally added, “The last name’s Chesterfield. Not Jenkins.”
“Chesterfield? I must have misunderstood Evie.”
Evie, he assumed, was the police officer he’d spoken to on the phone yesterday. “Jenkins is my stepdad’s last name. He and my mom own the place.”
“Ah. I see. Well, no matter. It was you I came to see.”
Ridley sighed internally before widening the door. “Would you like to come in, Pastor Phelps?”
“Thanks. And call me Mick. Everyone does.” The pastor moved into the living room. “I won’t intrude on your time for long. I simply wanted to welcome you to Hope Springs.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” It was partially true. It was nice to be welcomed, even if he wanted privacy for the time being. On the other hand, Mick hadn’t connected the dots when he’d heard Ridley’s last name. Perhaps others wouldn’t either. Maybe none of them read the Idaho Statesman or watched the network channels located in the Boise area or surfed the internet for news. Or maybe folks up here didn’t take much interest in Boise area politics. It was possible his fifteen minutes of fame—or notoriety—were over already. He could hope that was true.
Mick looked around the living room. “It’s nice to have this place lived in again. It sat empty for too long.”
“It isn’t what I’d call ‘lived in’ exactly. I’m a temporary resident, and my mom and stepdad don’t plan to move here until after they retire, which is still years away. Until then, it’ll be their vacation home.” He motioned to the sofa.
The pastor nodded as he sat. “Must say, that’s disappointing. That no one will be here year round, I mean. How long do you mean to stay?”
Settling onto a chair, Ridley shrugged. “A few months. Maybe into fall. Just depends.”
Depends on what? Mick’s eyes seemed to ask. Then his gaze shifted to Kris. The dog lay on the floor next to Ridley’s chair. “Evie mentioned you’d found a stray.”
“Yeah.”
“Appears that she’s moved in.”
He shrugged again. “I haven’t owned a dog since high school. I kinda like having her around.”
“Pets make a home.” Mick smiled, his eyes still on the dog. “At least that’s true for my family. We have three dogs and two cats at our house.” He put his hands on his knees, prepared to rise. Then he stilled. Chesterfield, he mouthed.
And Ridley knew the man had connected the dots.
But Mick Phelps, to his credit, schooled his expression. “I promised I wouldn’t keep you long. However, I would like to extend an invitation for you to join us for worship on Sundays. It’s a great way to meet your neighbors. Even if your stay is temporary.” He stood. “Think about it. Service begins at ten.”
Ridley stood. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.” He wondered if the man believed him. He wasn’t sure he believed himself.
Jessica hit Send on the email and leaned back in her desk chair with a sigh of satisfaction. Her in-box was empty. It wouldn’t last, which was good news for her business. But it was nice to see it like that for a short while.
She closed the program and stood. A twinge in her
lower back told her she’d sat without moving for much too long. “I need to take a walk.” She grabbed her sweater off the back of her desk chair, knowing the morning air would still be brisk, at least at the start of her walk.
When she pulled open her front door, she nearly collided with a man standing on her stoop. She gasped as she stumbled back.
“Sorry, Jessica.”
Her heart pounded in her ears. “Pastor Mick?”
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay. Was there something you needed?”
“Not really.” Disappointment flickered in his eyes. “I was out this way and thought I would stop by to check on you. It’s been a long time since I saw you.”
“Yes. It has been a while.” Not unexpected, guilt sluiced through her. She detested the feeling.
“We all miss you, Jessica,” the pastor said softly.
“I know.” She looked down the road. Anywhere but at him. “I’ve been . . . busy.”
She heard Mick take a long, slow breath. After what seemed an eternity, his hand alighted on her shoulder. “I’ll keep praying for you.”
“Thanks.” She swallowed the unwelcome lump in her throat as she lowered her gaze to the toes of her shoes.
“Call me anytime.”
“Okay.”
She stayed where she was until the crunch of tires on gravel told her that he’d driven away. After a slow, deep breath, she closed the door and began her walk, setting a brisk pace. Unfortunately, she couldn’t outwalk thoughts about her pastor.
My pastor.
Was that even true anymore? If she didn’t attend church, if she rarely saw Mick Phelps, even in passing at the grocery store, could she still consider him her pastor?
There’d been a time when Hope Springs Community had been her second home. She’d been deeply involved in the women’s ministries. She’d helped others cook countless meals in the church’s kitchen off the fellowship hall, and she’d served in the children’s department on many a Sunday. But after the funeral, she’d found it easier to stay at home than to go out. For many weeks, she’d worn her pajamas all day, every day. What had it mattered what she wore or how often she showered and fixed her hair? Her work—when she’d been able to work—was done in the home and on the computer. Her clients never saw her.
Oh, she’d had callers in those first weeks, but she hadn’t cared what her friends thought, seeing her hair disheveled and her eyes puffy from crying. They’d known she was mourning her loss, although they hadn’t known the depth of her despair. But their lives had gone on, and eventually they’d stopped dropping by. She lived far enough out of town that it wasn’t convenient for them, especially when she was less than welcoming when they did make the effort. In time, when she never returned their phone calls, most had stopped calling too. And she couldn’t complain. It was what she’d wanted.
Jessica held her head a little higher and inhaled the crisp, clean air. “At least I’m not still in my pj’s.”
No, but you’re not living either.
She wanted to argue with herself, to deny the truth in her own thoughts. She’d done so often enough in the past. But she couldn’t argue today. It was true. She wasn’t living. Not really.
“Mom’s right,” she whispered. “It isn’t healthy.”
Yet even as she said it, she couldn’t imagine changing the pattern of her solitary life. She didn’t know how to break free. This was her life. It was comfortable, uncomplicated. At least for now. And to enter that church again when her heart remained riddled with anger and doubt and questions? That would make her even more of a hypocrite, wouldn’t it?
She stopped walking. “Hypocrite.” It wasn’t what she wanted to be. It wasn’t what she’d set out to be. And maybe it wasn’t completely true. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in God. It wasn’t that she didn’t remember the day she’d said yes to Jesus. But she couldn’t seem to stop wondering why God had punished her in this way. If He loved her, why had He taken her marriage and her precious daughter from her? Why had He left her so alone?
She knew what Grandma Frani would have said to that. “Look at His word. He’ll tell you what you need to know. You aren’t alone. You’re never alone.”
“It doesn’t feel that way, Grandma,” she whispered. “But I’ll try.”
She sighed and turned around, looking down the curved dirt road toward her home. She would change. She couldn’t change everything at once, but she could change one thing at a time.
Motion caught her attention, and a second later she recognized her neighbor’s dog flying down the road in her direction. At least soapsuds weren’t trailing behind the canine the way they had yesterday.
“No, Kris! No!” She braced herself, expecting to be plowed into a second time, but to her surprise, the dog slowed and then sat a few feet away from her. Jessica grinned. “Good girl.” She stepped forward and stroked the dog’s head.
“Kris!”
Jessica looked up to see Ridley jogging down the road toward them, a leash and empty collar held in one hand.
“Sorry,” he said as he drew near. “She slipped right out of her collar and took off the minute she saw you on the road. She likes you.”
“The collar must be too loose.”
“Obviously.” He unfastened the buckle, leaned down, and secured the collar around the sheltie’s neck.
“Use the two-finger test.”
He looked up, a question in his eyes.
“They say you should be able to put two fingers under the collar. That’ll keep it from being too tight or too loose.”
“Thanks.” He slid his whole hand beneath the collar. “I see your point.” He adjusted it. “I guess I was fooled by all that hair.” He straightened and met Jessica’s gaze again. After a moment, he smiled.
Warmth whirled in her chest.
Ridley motioned toward the road behind her. “I was going to take Kris for a walk. Care to join us?”
Yes. The silent desire to be with him caught her unawares.
“Come on. It won’t be a long walk. I’ve got to get back to the painting.”
“Painting?”
“I’m starting in the kitchen.”
Somehow she fell into step beside him, once more walking away from her house. It surprised her, how natural it felt to do so. Especially after trying to convince herself she didn’t mind being alone because it was uncomplicated.
“I admit,” he said, “I don’t like house painting, but I do like helping my mom.” He shrugged. “So it balances out.”
“What color are you painting it? The kitchen, I mean.” Again she was surprised by the ease of talking to him. Perhaps because he was a stranger. She didn’t have to pretend with him as she had to with those who knew her well.
“Yellow. Mom loves her yellow kitchens. No matter where we lived when I was a kid, the kitchen was always the same color.”
“Did you move a lot?”
“It felt like a lot.”
“Military brat?”
“No, but Dad’s work transferred him every two or three years.” He was silent awhile, then asked, “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Did you move around much when you were growing up?”
She shook her head. “No. I grew up in Boise. Lived there my whole life. Until I . . . until I married Joe. Then we moved to Hope Springs.” She hadn’t meant to mention Joe. She rarely said his name aloud. Who would she say it to?
“I didn’t know if you were married or not.” He hesitated. “I didn’t see a ring.”
She took a slow breath. “I’m not married. Anymore. I’m a widow.” She took another breath before adding, “My husband and our daughter, Angela, died in a car accident last winter.” Her heart squeezed as she pictured her daughter’s bright smile on that last morning, and it surprised her that she was able to continue in a soft but steady voice. “She was only six years old.”
It was his turn to be silent. Finally, he said, “I’m so
rry, Jessica. Really sorry.”
She stopped walking and looked at him. “Thank you.”
“When—” He paused, as if reconsidering what he was about to say, then continued, “When’s your baby due?”
“End of August or early September.” Tears stung her eyes, and her hand went protectively to her stomach. She rarely had cause to talk to anyone about her baby either.
Ridley seemed to understand. “Want to keep walking?” Then he jerked his head, indicating the other direction. “Or would you like to go home?”
“Let’s walk,” she answered, unwilling to be alone with her own thoughts just yet.
KUNA, IDAHO
Monday, May 10, 1930
At the sound of Helen’s sigh, Andrew turned in the doorway. His wife stood near the bedroom window, looking over the fields of her parents’ farm. Still wearing her nightgown, her long dark hair disheveled, she stood with her hands folded over the gentle swell of her belly. There was a sadness in her expression that caused his gut to tighten and his heart to ache.
They’d argued again last night, and later each had lain on their side in the bed, back to the other. He didn’t know if Helen had slept, but he knew for certain he had not. This morning, although he’d done his best to get her to look at him, to give him a chance to say he was sorry, she’d stood at that blasted window, her back stiff, her gaze averted.
Stubborn woman. She was the one in the wrong.
He turned on his heel and left the bedroom. Rather than risk running into either or both of his in-laws in the kitchen, he went out the front door and circled round to the barn. There he began to milk the first of the three dairy cows. When that chore was done, he entered the chicken coop to gather the eggs.
Despite the depression that gripped the country, no one living on the Greyson farm would starve. Andrew’s father-in-law was a prudent man, never spending carelessly, never allowing others in his family to do so either. Nor was he a man with great trust in banks, so when those institutions had begun to fail, he hadn’t had to worry about losing everything.
Who I Am with You Page 4
