She shook her head. Now there was a pipe dream. All the good men had been taken long before she started looking. She’d wanted to be established in her career before she contemplated marriage, but then…
Feeling suddenly restless, she grabbed her purse from the top of her dresser and left the bedroom. She found her mother dozing in the easy chair in the living room. Not wanting to wake her, she turned to leave.
“What is it, dear?” Francine asked softly.
“Sorry, Mom. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t. I was only resting my eyes. Did you need something?”
“No. I’m going into town to buy some printer paper. Do you want me to pick anything up?”
Francine shook her head as her eyes drifted closed again. “No, thank you, dear.” She drew a deep breath and let it out. “I put the car keys are on the rack beside the back door.”
“I think I’ll walk. I need the exercise.”
“Whatever you like, dear.”
Angie realized suddenly that her mother looked her age. Not old, exactly, but aging. Unlike the sixty-something women of Angie’s acquaintance who had their faces lifted and peeled on a regular basis, Francine Hunter looked…natural. Normal. Comfortable in her own skin.
Peaceful.
Angie felt an odd tug at her heart. For a moment, she was tempted to explore the feeling, to see what had caused it and what it might mean. But she didn’t. Introspection and self-analyzing were for people who had little else to do with their time. Angie was a woman of action, always busy. Always.
She quickly left the house, almost as if pursued.
Angie’s trip to the drugstore—the most likely place in town to find the office supplies she wanted—took her past the elementary school, the Big Burger Drive-In, the Elk’s Lodge, Suds Bar and Grill, Tin Pan Alley Bowling Lanes, Smith’s Market, Hart’s Crossing Community Church, Shepherd of the Valley Lutheran Church, White Cloud Medical Clinic, Sawtooth Dentistry, and both the junior and senior high schools. Angie managed to make it all that way without anyone stopping to say how good it was to see her back in town.
Her luck didn’t last once she was inside Main Street Drug. She turned a corner into an aisle and ran right into Bill Palmer. Literally.
“Whoa!” he said as he grabbed her shoulders to steady her. A moment later, his brown eyes widened. “Angie?”
“Hello, Bill.” She took a step back. “How are you?”
“I’m great.” He looked her up and down, his gaze not discourteous but definitely intent. “No need to ask how you’re doing. You look fabulous.”
A flush warmed her cheeks. “Thanks.”
As a freshman in high school, Angie’d had a bad crush on Bill Palmer, the handsome senior class president. From afar, of course. He hadn’t known she existed.
“So you’re here to look after your mom while she’s recuperating. The surgery’s next Monday, right?”
“Yes.” I guess nothing’s ever private in a place like Hart’s Crossing.
She didn’t know the half of it.
“I heard Brad Wentworth got the city editor position at the Bay City Times.”
Angie felt the color drain from her face. “How did you know that?”
“It’s a small world. E-mails zip across the country in seconds. Editors talk.”
She released a soft groan.
“Yeah. That’s how I feel about Wentworth. I’ve met him several times over the years, and I think he’s kind of a…Well, he’s sort of a…”
“A jerk,” she finished.
Bill laughed so loud everyone in the store turned their heads. “Exactly the word I was looking for,” he said when he brought his mirth under control and could speak again. Then he lowered his voice. “Do you think you’ll be able to work with him, feeling the way you do?”
“No.” She drew a deep breath. “I quit before coming here.”
This was information Bill hadn’t gleaned through his editorial network. His surprised expression told her so. She found some satisfaction in that, at least.
He recovered quickly enough. “Ever think of working for a small town paper?” His mouth curved into a grin. “I could put you to work at the Press.”
Funny. Working for a small town newspaper like the Mountain View Press was the absolute last thing Angie had ever wanted to do. But right then she couldn’t for the life of her remember why.
* * *
Bill Palmer looked into Angie’s gold-flecked hazel eyes and suspected he was a goner. It wasn’t as if he’d never looked into them before. He’d grown up in this town with Angie, had seen her at community functions while they were still in school, and had run into her on her infrequent visits to see her mother after she’d left home. But suddenly, standing there in aisle four of Main Street Drug, Bill really saw her.
For one moment, he thought he detected a glimmer of interest in her eyes, but then she told him she had to hurry back home. Something about lots of work awaiting her. Then she grabbed a ream of paper off a nearby shelf, said good-bye, and hurried away.
Wow! What do you think of that?
Bill’s closest friends knew he was a romantic, and in a town the size of Hart’s Crossing, he doubted there was anyone who didn’t know he’d like to marry and have kids of his own. But even more than that, he wanted to marry the right woman. He wanted a marriage that was blessed by God. So he’d waited.
Something in his heart told him his waiting might be over.
Terri Sampson stood in front of the mirror and stared at her reflection as she swept her curly red hair off her neck. As summer approached, it was tempting to cut it short. But she wouldn’t. Short hair made her resemble a wire brush that had gone to rust.
The bell over the salon door jingled, and Terri released her hair and turned, thinking her next appointment had arrived early. But it was Bill Palmer.
“Hey,” she said in greeting.
“Hey, yourself.”
After Terri’s husband left her and their divorce was final—more than five years ago now—mutual friends had encouraged the never-married Bill to ask Terri out. Of course she’d said yes when he finally did. After all, Bill was funny and thoughtful, not to mention handsome. What woman wouldn’t want to go out with him? But they’d both known on the first date that romance wasn’t in their future. However, they’d found the next best thing—a close friendship.
“How’s the beauty business?” he asked.
“Beautiful. How’s the word business?”
“Wordy.”
Bill made his way to the back room and returned a short while later with an open pop can in hand.
“Help yourself,” Terri said, grinning.
He took a swig. “Don’t mind if I do. Thanks.”
Terri sat in the styling chair and gave it a shove with one foot, spinning it around one time.
“Slow day?” Bill perched on the edge of the dryer chair, forearms resting on his thighs.
“A little. I’ve got about thirty minutes until my next appointment. You?”
“Finished my last article an hour ago.” He took another drink of soda. “Guess who I ran into over at the drugstore earlier today? Angie Hunter.”
Terri cocked an eyebrow.
“Has she always been this pretty? Or have I been comatose for the past two decades?”
Bill…and Angie? Hmm. What could be more perfect than to have her two favorite people in the world find love with each other? Except that Angie hated Hart’s Crossing and Bill loved it. And besides, Bill had a strong Christian faith and Angie…Well, Angie didn’t.
“Did you know she quit her job at the Bay City Times?” Bill asked.
“Yes. She told me.”
“I hinted she might want to come to work for me at the Press. I’d be happy to give her a column or let her cover the news.”
“Bill…that isn’t likely to happen, you know. Angie’s never wanted to move back to a small town.”
“People’s wants can change.”
* * *
Angie had expected, when she finally told her mother about quitting her job, that Francine would pressure her to stay in Hart’s Crossing longer than the agreed-upon eight weeks. She’d also expected, in one way or another, to hear an “I told you so.”
Instead, her mother said, “Well, dear, I’ll ask God to give you a job that you’ll love, one that will bring you pleasure, even more than the old one did.”
“Do you really think God cares what sort of job I have?” She’d meant it to be one of her usual flip responses, the sort she used whenever her mother brought up her religious beliefs. Oddly enough, it didn’t sound or feel flip when it came out of her mouth.
Francine turned from the stove, where she was frying chicken in a large skillet. “Oh, Angie. He cares infinitely more than you could imagine.”
“It seems to me he’s got lots more serious things to worry about. Wars and famine, for instance.”
Her mother set the lid on the frying pan, then joined Angie at the table. Her expression was earnest and tender. “Honey, God knows everything about you. He created you to be just who you are, with all of your unique talents and abilities. He knows the very number of hairs on your head. Of course he cares about the job you’ll have next. He wants to use you in it. He wants you to fulfill your purpose in life.”
Angie felt something heavy pressing upon her lungs. “You believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do believe that. He loves you. He loves you so much he sent his Son to die for you.”
“Greater love hath no man,” Angie whispered, repeating aloud the words from childhood Sunday school classes that popped into her head.
Her mother reached across the tabletop and took hold of Angie’s hand. “Yes.” There were tears brimming in her eyes.
Angie withdrew her hand and rose from the chair. “You know how I feel about organized religion, Mom. It isn’t relevant today. And how could any person know which religion is true, if one even is? There are so many to choose from.”
“When you meet the living Lord, you’ll know what’s true.”
If only Angie could believe like that…
But no. No, she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Religion wasn’t for her. It wasn’t. Her life as a journalist was all about facts and irrefutable proof. How could a person prove God?
With a shake of her head, Angie turned and left the kitchen.
Chapter 5
AS PROMISED, THE INSTALLER from the cable company arrived before nine on Friday morning. The guy was short, cute, young—maybe twenty-five—and had spiky platinum blond hair and startling blue eyes.
“So you’re why Mrs. Hunter’s finally getting cable installed,” he said to Angie as she led the way to her upstairs bedroom. “Never thought I’d see the day there’d be cable in the your mom’s house.” When she glanced over her shoulder, he chuckled. “You don’t remember me, do you, Angie?”
“Sorry. No.”
“I’m Eric Bedford.”
The name didn’t ring a bell.
“You know the summer you lifeguarded at the pool?” As he spoke, he set down the toolbox he carried and opened the lid. “I was always splashing you and pretending to drown.” He grinned. “Angie Pangie.”
“Good grief. You’re one of those bratty runts?”
“Ouch!” His grin didn’t fade. “I remember you calling us that. We deserved it, too.”
Angie sat on the edge of her bed. “What a summer. You and your gang of friends made my job unbearable.”
“Well, we did our best.” Eric pointed toward the desk, where the laptop was in plain sight. “I take it this is where you want the connection.”
“Please.”
“The order says you’re only getting Internet service. You want me to wire for cable TV while I’m at it, just in case? Won’t cost any extra.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
He set to work. “So how long are you back for?”
“A couple of months.” Strange, that didn’t sound as bad as it had a few days ago. “My mom’s having surgery on Monday, and I’m going to look after her while she’s recuperating.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Her knee.”
“Ah.” He moved the desk away from the wall and leaned down behind it.
Angie rose from the bed. “I’ll leave you to your work.”
“Any dogs in the backyard?” Eric asked before she reached the bedroom door.
“No.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Angie went downstairs to the kitchen, where she poured herself another cup of coffee, then she sat at the table, her thoughts drifting to the summer she was seventeen. There weren’t many job opportunities for teenagers in a town the size of Hart’s Crossing. Not then, and she supposed not now. She and Terri had considered themselves lucky to get jobs as lifeguards at the public swimming pool.
But Eric and his friends…
She smiled to herself. Maybe it hadn’t been so bad. Those boys had flirted with the female lifeguards in the obnoxious ways only young boys could.
She remembered the hot summer sun baking the concrete, and the glare reflecting off the water’s surface. She remembered the noise of kids at play, splashing and yelling and laughing. She remembered the mothers with their babies, and toddlers in the shallow end of the pool, and the teenage boys, darkly bronzed, showing off for the girls on the high dive.
Simpler times. A time when all her dreams had still seemed possible.
“I don’t think you’ve been truly happy since the day you moved away.”
Was Terri right? Angie wondered. Had true happiness escaped her? She’d been successful in her profession—or at least, had thought she was—but what about other parts of her life? Who were her friends, people she could call and ask to go with her to a movie or a concert or a play? What, as Terri had asked her when they talked last night, did she do for fun?
I like to run.
Running was one of the ways Angie kept fit so she would have enough energy for the long hours she put in at the newspaper. Besides, running gave her time to think about the articles she was working on.
But did running bring her happiness? Did it make her any friends?
Why is it the only real friend I have is in my hometown and not the city where I live?
A frown furrowed her brows.
Terri seems happy. Am I?
Angie’s best friend had so little in terms of career success and financial security. Terri’s deadbeat ex-husband had taken off with another woman and left her to raise their daughter alone. All she had was an ancient car, a small home with a medium-sized mortgage, and her beauty salon. And yet…and yet Terri was happy.
Angie pictured her friend in her mind. She remembered the way Terri smiled as she ran her hand over Lyssa’s strawberry blond hair, a look of motherly pride and unquestionable joy in her eyes.
Terri was more than happy, Angie realized. Terri was content.
A wave of restlessness washed over her. Maybe she needed to go for a run now. She couldn’t say she cared for the direction her thoughts had taken her. Not at all.
The Thimbleberry Quilting Club had been in existence for more than thirty years, and Francine had been a member almost from the beginning. She never missed the weekly meetings if she could help it. She loved to quilt, of course, but mostly she enjoyed the time of fellowship with the other women. Most of the quilts these women made went to people in homeless shelters and other places of need. Francine hoped having something beautiful—as well as warm—to wrap up in at night would bring someone a moment of pleasure in a time of hardship.
She looked up from her needlework to trail her gaze around the long table. There were six of them present today. Francine had invited Angie to join them, but her daughter had declined while rolling her eyes, as if to say, “You’ve got to
be kidding.”
Till Hart sat at her left, wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was easily the most skilled of the all the quilters in the Thimbleberry Quilting Club. Not only were her fingers surprisingly agile for a woman her age, but her mind was equally nimble. She could carry on a detailed discussion on any number of topics and never miss a stitch.
Next to Till was Steph Watson. Last summer, Steph had lost her husband of more than fifty years; she’d had a rough spell of it. Francine remembered only too well what that first year of widowhood was like—but Steph seemed to be doing better now.
In the chair beside Steph was the youngest Thimbleberry, Patti Bedford. A newlywed of six weeks, Patti glowed with marital bliss. To hear her talk, her husband, Al, was perfection personified.
Ah, young love. I remember what that’s like, too.
To Patti’s left sat Mary Benrey, the secretary at Hart’s Crossing Community Church. Mary, God bless her, was all thumbs with a needle and thread, but she remained determined to one day make beautiful quilts, and so she never gave up trying. She had the patience of a saint, even with herself.
Next to Mary was Ethel Jacobsen, the pharmacist who owned Main Street Drug. Ethel, a no-nonsense type, was frustrated beyond words over Mary Benrey’s ineptitude with quilting. Patience was most definitely not Ethel’s forte. So why she always chose to sit next to Mary was a mystery to Francine. Maybe she liked to be frustrated.
Turning her gaze to the quilting piece in her hand, Francine said a silent prayer of thanks to God for each woman in the group.
“Frani,” Till said, breaking into her thoughts, “is Angie planning to stay at a motel near the hospital during your recovery or is she going to return to Hart’s Crossing each night?”
“She hasn’t decided. I don’t think she’s thrilled with the thought of driving my old Buick back and forth every day, but she isn’t keen on staying at a motel either.”
Mary said, “Well, there’ll be plenty of others coming down to see you when you’re ready for visitors. We could bring her if she wanted.”
Francine knew her daughter was too independent for such an arrangement. Angie liked to be in control. Angie needed to be in control.
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