“In the bookcase, you say?”
“I apologize if I did something I shouldn’t have.” She certainly looked contrite. “I bought the frame the other day. It seems to go rather nicely, don’t you think?”
Seth sighed. He hadn’t meant to make a federal case out of a silly thing like a photograph. Although he’d been in the bookcase himself more times than he could count, he could easily have overlooked the picture. Who was to know how it came to be there in the first place? Perhaps Pamela stuck it there herself. Perhaps he’d been the one to do it. Not that it mattered.
“Mommy had brown eyes like me, too, didn’t she?” Jason asked, looking at him expectantly.
“Yes, partner.”
“Will my new mommy?”
It was all Seth could do to keep from groaning aloud. He looked to Mrs. Merkle to rescue him, but she was back stirring eggs, humming softly to herself.
“Dad?” Judd pulled at his sleeve. “Will she?”
He squatted down so that his gaze was level with that of his children. “There isn’t going to be another mommy, kids.”
They both looked stunned. He might as well have announced there was no such thing as Santa Claus from the shock he read in their expressive faces.
“But—”
“Mrs. Miracle said there would be.”
Irritated, Seth shot a glance toward his housekeeper, but she was busy with breakfast and either didn’t hear or was pretending not to. He wasn’t about to have the woman telling the children something like that. When he had a private moment, he’d mention it to her.
“I even drew my new mommy’s picture,” Judd told him. The lad raced out of the kitchen and was back a few moments later with a crayon drawing. Seth barely glanced at it and wouldn’t have given it a second’s notice if it wasn’t for two small matters. The woman Judd pictured had short curly hair and was wearing a shiny red dress.
Reba’s hair was short and curly and she’d been wearing a bright red dress. Coincidence. Pure coincidence.
“She’s real pretty, isn’t she?” Judd asked, proud of his efforts.
“She sure is,” Seth muttered with no real enthusiasm.
“You like Miss Maxwell, don’t you?” This came from Jason.
“Yes,” he admitted, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to marry her.”
Both of his children had that same woebegone look of bitter disappointment. “You’ll look for a new mommy, won’t you?”
“Look for someone with brown eyes and curly hair and a red dress,” Judd advised, and waved the picture under his nose once more.
Seth was saved from having to answer when the housekeeper called them to the table.
He bided his time and waited until after breakfast before he confronted Mrs. Merkle. It didn’t take a genius to figure out where the children were getting the notion that he was about to remarry, and he wouldn’t have it.
“Do you have a moment?” he asked her as he carried the dirty dishes from the table to the sink.
“Of course.”
Ill at ease, and disliking confrontation, he hesitated. “I was wondering if you’d said anything to the children about me remarrying.”
She didn’t answer him right away, which was an answer in itself. “I don’t mean to complain,” he continued. “The kids call you Mrs. Miracle, and frankly, I’ve come to think of you that way. I don’t know what we would have done without you, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t fill the children’s heads with this talk about another mother.”
“So you don’t plan to remarry?” She looked as disappointed as the children.
“No,” he returned emphatically.
If his words discouraged her, it didn’t last long. Her eyes rounded with a hint of mischief. “Not ever, Mr. Webster? Forever is a long, long time.”
“Not ever,” he assured her, raising his voice slightly.
She laughed once, shortly, as if his answer had amused her and she wasn’t able to contain it. “Time will tell, won’t it?”
“Time most certainly will.” He turned and stalked out of the kitchen and into the garage. He opened his car door before he realized he still had on his pajamas and robe. Not to mention that this was Saturday morning.
Mrs. Merkle left the house an hour later, and Seth was alone with the children. Although he was grateful to have a housekeeper, he couldn’t help being curious about Emily Merkle. She certainly had a way about her. She’d taken his restless, spirited children under her wing and within a matter of days had made a marked difference in their behavior and attitude. Not once since her arrival had he received a call from the school or a note from their teacher.
He found it curious, however, the way she’d arrived, without notice. It was almost as if she’d descended from the clouds, using an umbrella as a parachute. Not that she resembled Mary Poppins. No, he definitely viewed her as a Mother Goose.
Once he’d showered and shaved, Seth moved into his den. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to contact the employment agency and make a few inquiries about her. It wouldn’t hurt to check on her references, either.
Luckily the agency was staffed on Saturdays.
“Hello, this is Seth Webster,” he said when Mrs. Ackerman, the agency owner, answered herself.
“Oh, Mr. Webster, I’m so very sorry. I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”
“Mrs. Ackerman?” Seth couldn’t fathom why she should apologize.
“Yes, yes, I realize that you’ve been waiting several weeks to hear back from me. I can’t imagine how you’ve managed all this time.”
“I don’t believe I understand.”
“A housekeeper. You do still need one, don’t you?”
“Ah…” Seth was too stunned to respond.
“I want you to know that I’ve made inquiries each and every day, but a full-time housekeeper, willing to live in and care for two small children, why, they’re few and far between these days.”
“But—”
“Not to mention the fact that you’ve gone through every domestic I have in short order.”
“What about Emily Merkle?” he asked. “Didn’t you send her?”
“Emily Merkle.”
He could hear the rustle of papers in the background. “We don’t have anyone by that name listed here. Let me check the computer data file.”
He waited a moment. The sound of fingers typing against the computer keys echoed over the telephone line.
“I’m afraid we don’t have anyone by that name listed with the agency. Are you sure her name is Merkle?”
“Yes.” All of a sudden Seth was sure of nothing.
Exactly who was this woman who’d insinuated herself into his and the children’s lives?
Chapter 13
It isn’t difficult to make a mountain out of a molehill. Just add a little dirt.
—Mrs. Miracle
It was her responsibility as a Christian, Harriett Foster determined. As an upstanding member of the church, it was her duty to talk with Pastor Lovelace about what was happening between Ruth Darling and Lyle Fawcett.
Even though Harriett played the organ for the eleven o’clock worship service, she had eyes in her head. She could see what was happening. Ruth Darling was flirting with sin, and the worst part of it was that she did so right inside the house of God. Why, a blind man could see that Ruth was making eyes at Lyle Fawcett.
Harriett was worried about Ruth. That was it. Worried. She’d start off by telling Pastor Lovelace how very concerned she was over her dear, dear friend’s recent behavior. Her words couldn’t be misconstrued as gossip in that case. This had been a matter of prayer for a good while, and she’d felt the need to share her burden.
Harriett checked her reflection in the car window to be sure her hat was fastened securely to her head before she approached the church. She had a perfect excuse for being there on a Saturday. Not that she ever really needed a reason.
Not only was she playing the piano for the Christmas program—the childr
en were due to arrive in another hour—but it took an hour or more at the organ to familiarize herself with the music for the Sunday morning worship service.
It did feel as though the church took advantage of her musical talents. When Harriett talked to Pastor Lovelace, she’d be sure to mention how much of her valuable time she sacrificed for the church’s benefit. Subtly, of course. She didn’t want him to think she was overly burdened or that she didn’t enjoy being a slave for God’s work.
Walking in from the parking lot, she clenched her purse against her side and strolled purposely past the pastor’s office. The door was closed, and she sighed with disappointment. She’d hoped that the office door would be open and she could stick her head inside and say hello. She hesitated, wondering if she should knock, then decided against it. She’d much rather that their discussion appeared spontaneous and nothing that she’d planned beforehand. As it was, she’d carefully gone over exactly what she would say, after which she’d leave the touchy matter in his capable hands. Surely Pastor Lovelace would recognize what was happening and take decisive action. No man of God could allow this kind of behavior to continue within his own church.
Lyle Fawcett was a gentleman, a recent widower himself. He needed gentle concern, someone who could appreciate his grief, a woman who would take it upon herself to see to his comfort.
He needed someone like her, Harriett reasoned.
She’d lost her life’s mate and could well appreciate Lyle’s grief. What he didn’t need was Ruth Darling hovering over him, making a nuisance of herself. As the Bible leader for the Martha and Mary Circle, Ruth had other responsibilities. More important, Ruth had a husband!
Apparently Fred Darling didn’t even see what was going on right under his nose; he would never put up with his wife’s blatant behavior if he did. Harriett would have thought better of the man, but then, as was so often the case, the spouse was the last to know. Men in particular were blind when it suited their purposes. To Harriett’s way of thinking, Fred was acting like an ostrich with his head buried in the sand. She almost felt sorry for the poor soul.
Feeling thwarted and more than a little disappointed, Harriett headed for the sanctuary. She’d play the organ, and if luck was with her, Pastor Lovelace would hear the soothing sounds of her music and make himself available. It wasn’t uncommon for him to enter the sanctuary when she played or to make last minute changes in the music.
Harriett was just inside the vestibule when she heard Pastor Lovelace’s door open.
She whirled around, delighted. “Pastor,” she greeted him warmly, excitedly. “How are you this fine day?” He was a young man in his early thirties, and wise for his years. Kind-hearted and generous, Pastor Lovelace made himself available to the people of his congregation. A good shepherd.
“Mrs. Foster.” He smiled, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I thought I heard someone.”
“You did,” she said, speaking the obvious. “Me. I’m here to play the piano for practice with the children. The Christmas program is coming along nicely, even if I say so myself.” She was about to remind him that she’d been the one responsible for finding a replacement for Milly Waters. Actually, she’d volunteered Jayne, but her niece had suggested Reba Maxwell, and that had worked out beautifully.
It went without saying that if Harriett hadn’t stepped in when she had, the entire Christmas program might have been canceled. More and more it was becoming clear to her that she was not appreciated the way she should be. If it wasn’t for her efforts, there was no telling what would happen to the church.
Pastor Lovelace glanced at his watch. “I didn’t think practice with the children was for another hour.”
“It isn’t. I’m here to rehearse for the worship service.” She looked pointedly at her hands. “With my arthritis as bad as it is, it’s a wonder I can still play at all.”
“We do appreciate your efforts, Mrs. Foster, but if ever you feel that you can’t continue, then—”
“No, no, I’m fine. Of course there’s a bit of pain, but then I’m accustomed to that.” She smiled bravely, and Pastor Lovelace patted her shoulder in that caring, gentle way of his.
He started to retreat back into his office.
“Pastor,” she said quickly, “it’s fortuitous that we should meet like this, since there’s a matter, a rather delicate one, I feel needs discussing. It has to do with one of the women of the church…a married woman,” she added pointedly.
“I’m afraid I have an appointment, Mrs. Foster.”
“This should only take a few moments, and its importance can’t be underrated. I feel terrible to be the one to bring this unfortunate situation to your notice, but someone must.”
“Perhaps we could talk later.”
“If I don’t say this now, I might never have the courage again.” Harriett planted her hand over her heart, as if speaking the words pained her. “It has to do with—”
Ruth Darling’s name never left her lips. Just then, with impeccable timing, the church door opened and the very woman herself strolled inside.
Harriett almost swallowed her tongue.
Ruth hesitated, then smiled and nodded. “Hello, Harriett.”
“Ruth.” The name fell stiffly from her lips.
“Perhaps we could talk another time,” Pastor Lovelace suggested, directing the comment to Harriett.
“Of course,” she murmured, and turned away, but not before she saw Ruth enter Pastor Lovelace’s study. Whatever the other woman had come to discuss required an appointment. The subject was plainly serious.
Harriett had seen it coming. The Darling marriage, after forty years or longer, was in deep trouble. Rightly so, with Ruth making goo-goo eyes at Lyle Fawcett.
Chapter 14
A successful marriage isn’t finding the right person, it’s being the right person.
—Mrs. Miracle
Humming to herself, Sharon Palmer read over the recipe and assembled the necessary ingredients. She was tired of tossing and turning the night away in the guest bedroom, tired of pretending she enjoyed sleeping apart from her husband.
The chocolate-chip cookies, his favorite, were a peace offering, a subtle one. A means of telling him she was sorry. That she regretted this whole business and wanted it to end.
Jerry had left earlier that morning to play a round of golf with his friends, other retirees. The way Sharon figured, the cookies would be warm from the oven by the time he returned. Warm and gooey, just the way he liked them best.
Then perhaps they could sit down and talk. Really talk. They hadn’t communicated in months. Not the way they should for a couple married close to forty years.
As she added the chocolate chips and walnuts to the dough, she smiled, pleased with this recent decision to work out the bumps in her marriage. They were both strong-willed and stubborn. Both old fools.
Jerry wanted to take a trip through the Panama Canal. There would be other cruises, other vacations, and next time she could choose when and where. It was silly for them both to be so unreasonable with one another.
Perhaps if she gave in on this, Jerry would see his way clear to flying to Seattle with her to visit the grandkids over Christmas. If she showed her willingness to compromise, he would, too. Jerry was a fair man. She hadn’t been married to him all these years without knowing that.
The first sheet of cookies were cooling when her husband walked in the door. If he noticed the scent of freshly baked cookies, he said nothing. It’d been a good long while since she’d last baked. This was a rare treat.
He ignored her and opened the refrigerator door, glaring inside as if seeking buried treasure.
“Do you want a cookie?” she asked, playing it cool.
The last few days the tension between them had been as thick as glue.
“Did you put nuts in them?” he asked.
She nodded. “Walnuts.” His favorite.
“I don’t like walnuts,” he said, bringing out a bowl of leftover spaghetti.
“Since when?” she demanded. He’d been eating her chocolate-chip cookies with walnuts for years and never said a word before now.
“Since I was a kid.” He set the spaghetti on the counter and reached for a plate.
“You always ate walnuts before.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t like it.”
Sharon planted her mitt-covered hand on her hip. “Do you mean to tell me that it took you forty years to tell me you don’t like walnuts?” She didn’t believe it, not for a moment. He was being deliberately argumentative, deliberately unappreciative.
“It took me forty years longer than it should have,” he snapped. He slapped a glob of spaghetti on the plate and stuck it inside the microwave. He punched a few buttons and glared back at her.
The sound of the microwave in process whirled through the kitchen as it warmed his lunch. Sharon had purposely waited to eat so that she could sit down and join him, but her appetite had vanished, replaced by a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Is there anything else you don’t like that you haven’t mentioned?” she asked without emotion.
“Plenty. I prefer spaghetti with meatballs instead of the meat all crumbled in with the sauce.”
Sharon had made her spaghetti from the same recipe all these years, and not once had he said one word about preferring meatballs.
He must have seen the stricken look on her face because he added, “You asked, didn’t you?”
The oven timer beeped.
Sharon had no defense, and rather than answer him, she removed the last cookie sheet from the oven. She stared at the perfectly shaped cookies, with the chocolate chips bright and melting. After only a moment’s hesitation she dumped them straight into the garbage.
“What’d you do that for?” Jerry demanded, irritation raising his voice half an octave.
“You don’t like walnuts,” she reminded him, doing her best to keep the hurt out of her voice. “I’d hate to force you to eat something not to your liking.”
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