Throwing the luggage onto the floor, James told himself he’d unpack tomorrow. After a quick, hot shower, turning the thermostat way up to fight the chill, James crawled into bed and slumped against the pillows.
It was super late by now, but he found himself craving to hear Jessica’s voice. He felt like a teenager wanting assurances.
He dialed, knowing she was home and in bed at this time of night. Jess didn’t keep late nights, unless she was reading an engrossing novel. On days when she was yawning every five minutes he teased her about the latest bestseller. “You just don’t realize how good Sandra Brown is!” she’d say with feigned indignation. “I am compelled to turn the page.
After several rings, Jess’s phone went to voicemail again. So he knew the phone wasn’t turned off. Why wouldn’t she be answering? It was disconcerting, especially when he’d received a text from her not more than a couple of hours ago.
Setting the alarm early so he could go over his sermon one more time, James snapped off the light and tried to go to sleep but it soon became impossible. He kept picturing Jessica’s heart-shaped face, her expressive green eyes. The memories of her kisses were a torture.
James pounded the pillows and rolled over onto his back. “Where are you, Jess?” he asked the ceiling. He wondered if she was avoiding him.
And now he finally wondered if, when she gave him back the ring, was that actually her way of saying goodbye?
While the choir sang the next morning, James gazed out over the audience, barely registering the faces. It was Sunday morning. No work or dance practices for Jessica, but she still hadn’t answered her phone.
His eyes passed over the various families in the congregation, the wiggling toddlers, Lydia and Melissa sitting together and trying not to whisper, and the older ranchers trying desperately to keep their eyes open. Aunt Sophie was looking very frail these days, and then James’ gaze finally rested on a strange woman. He stared, trying to recall her name and then it hit him. She was April Murphy.
Mid to late twenties, reddish-auburn hair, hazel eyes with a soft, vulnerable smile. A young girl with shiny black shoes underneath her pale yellow dress was sitting on her mother’s lap, playing with a quiet book.
April’s eyes flickered across his face, pausing to study him. Quickly, James pretended he was just assessing the Sunday morning crowd. But this new woman’s situation tugged at his heart. To lose your husband after only a few short years—in combat overseas no less. Alone, and with a child, starting all over in a new town.
But Snow Valley was the kind of town that welcomed new folks with open arms and lots of baked goods.
It was three weeks before Easter and he and Uncle John had planned sermons for the entire month to focus on forgiveness and unconditional love. Today he talked about the parable of the Prodigal Son.
Even as he spoke, interspersing his comments by quoting the story straight from the book of Luke, he was guilty at the anger rising within him. Jessica was ignoring him. Wouldn’t she have at least sent him a text after seeing that she’d missed several calls from him? He tried not to panic. There had to be a reasonable explanation. If he truly loved her, he wouldn’t get so angry.
If she came back to him like the Prodigal Son, he’d forgive her instantly.
He was pretty sure.
He tried to suppress his crazy thoughts—the image of Jessica running toward him in a meadow of daisies, her hair flying behind her, a beautiful loving smile on her face—and concentrate. The words blurred on the page and he stammered, “And thus we see that, um, that God will—”
The congregation tittered ever so softly. Uncle John sitting behind the podium shifted in his seat. James shuffled his papers and found his place again, banishing the curse word echoing in his mind.
He was a pastor for heaven’s sake. Act like one, he admonished himself. Think like one!
He was sweating by the time he sat down, grateful for the rustling of hymnals as the organ played the introduction for the final hymn.
“You okay, James?” John said under his breath, barely moving his lips.
“Fine,” he said shortly. Surreptitiously he checked his phone. A message from Jess! He’d read it later. He was always chiding the teenagers for holding their phones in their laps during Sunday school and acting the innocent listener. They had the art perfected.
He was grateful Porter was teaching Sunday School. Pastor John could have continued teaching as he had for decades, but the older minister was trying to back away bit by bit and let his nephew have more control over the church so he could retire. He was probably regretting that decision right about now.
Next to him, Uncle John sang “Onward Christian Soldiers” in a hearty voice, not even needing the hymnal to read the words. Moments later, they were at the doors chatting up the members of the congregation as they departed for home.
“Now give me a kiss, you handsome young man,” Aunt Sophie said in a wavering voice, leaning on her cane. James leaned down and the elderly woman pecked him on the cheek.
She smelled like baby powder and chicken feed. An interesting combination, but then Sophie Morris was a dichotomy of elegance and good old-fashioned ranching.
“Have a good Sabbath,” James told her, shaking hands with the stream of worshipers.
Samuel Mason punched him lightly on the arm. “Hey, Pastor, how’s my sister?”
New Orleans suddenly seemed a million miles away. As far as the moon. “Good, good,” James stammered—again.
“She wearing a rock on her finger now?”
Jessica’s younger brother was as incorrigible as she was. “That’s our little secret,” he said vaguely. April Murphy was right behind him. “We’ll get ice cream this week,” he added.
“You buying?” the perpetually hungry seventeen-year-old said with a grin.
James chuckled. “I’ll arm wrestle you for the bill.”
“You know I’ll beat you.”
James shrugged. “This week it’s all gonna change, buddy.”
“I’ll practice on my dad. He’s a weakling. Drilling people’s teeth has made him soft. Same as preaching, I think.”
“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence. Maybe I should just retire now. Move along, move along.” His voice was teasing, but he found himself not wanting the boy to air his relationship with Jessica to the world. Especially within earshot of April Murphy.
The young widow was next.
“Mrs. Murphy,” he said, shaking her hand. “Hope you’re enjoying Snow Valley.”
“I am, actually,” she said in a soft voice. Not that it was quiet and timid, but soft around the edges like a pillow.
“So you’re related to—?”
“Irene Wilkins. She’s my mother’s much younger half-sister actually. Long story. Family scandals and all. Your ears will burn, Pastor James.”
Was she flirting with him? He should never have sat there staring at her. Despite the fact that he’d never intended to stare. Lost in thought while she happened to be in his line of vision. Good grief, he hoped nobody else had noticed it.
“Perhaps the less said the better,” he replied, and inwardly groaned. Now he sounded like he was chiding her! Or, just as bad, an old geezer-type like Buster Write who dressed like Elmer Fudd. “I didn’t mean—that came out badly,” he began, but April Murphy shook her head.
“No worries, I won’t say another word in front of the children,” April added, suppressing a smile at Sam who caught the good-natured insinuation but laughed it off.
“You’re a good sport, Mrs. Murphy.” Could things get any worse today?
“Please call me April. I don’t feel like a Mrs. at all. Not at twenty-five. And especially now that Roy . . .” her voice trailed off and her face flushed.
“My fault.” James quickly took the blame. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. You have my deepest condolences.”
Sudden moisture filled April’s eyes and she blinked hard. “Thank you, Pastor James.”
> The rest of the congregation had now filed out the door to the chilly, gray spring day, giving small waves or shaking his hand and moving on. “Please tell me there’s something I can do for you. Pastor John mentioned that you’re moving into your own place?”
“Irene has been very kind, but after living on my own with—with my husband for five years it’s hard to be under someone else’s roof. I found a small apartment and Daphne and I are moving in this weekend.”
“I’ll round up some of the guys from church and we’ll help you on Friday.”
“That sounds perfect. I have a few pieces of furniture I brought with me and boxes in a storage unit.”
“Sounds pretty straightforward. And don’t worry, Snow Valley has a few pickups around that we can confiscate,” James added.
April smiled, getting his joke. Snow Valley probably had several hundred pickup trucks. Every farmer and rancher had one, even if was just to haul firewood or a Christmas tree. There were probably a couple dozen in the church parking lot right now.
A few minutes later, James was in his office making calls and rounding up some extra hands. A half day sounded like it would be enough time. Sam Mason was quick to agree along with a few other boys and their dads after school the following Friday.
Finally, James pulled his personal cell phone out of his pocket, anticipation—and dread—tugging at his gut.
Jessica had texted, Sorry for the radio silence. Had to go pick up a new phone battery this morning. And yes, I missed church, bad me. I’ll do ten extra pirouettes to make up for it. Sorts of like saying rosary. Glad you’re home okay. Talk soon.
What did that mean? A combination of friendly, flippant, and distant.
Somehow James had blown it with her. And he had no idea how to fix it.
Chapter 4
I had to admit that my friendship/flirtation thing—I had no idea what to call it—with Alonso Bellomini wasn’t near as annoying as Zach Howard’s attentions had been the previous year. I was grateful when Zach had left the company to go study tap-dancing in New York. The man had never taken a hint. Never backed off even when I made it very clear and in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t interested and, in fact, had a boyfriend!
Alonso was a better dancer than Zach, too. Sometimes I’d pause my own routine just to watch when he was executing grand jete’s or practicing lifts with Sierra Armstrong.
Alonso was also handsome and charming, but I had a hard time trusting him when he flirted with anyone in a skirt and then turned around to ardently confess his devotion to me.
“You’re such a playboy,” I stated a week later when he was leaning over to watch me tie up my toe shoes with pink ribbon.
He ignored my accusation. “You have such beautiful feet,” he said instead, his accent suddenly thicker than usual.
“Blisters and band-aids are not beautiful,” I countered.
“The female foot is magnificent! A work of art.”
“A dancer’s feet are a mess. Everyone knows that. Especially a ballerina. It’s a wonder we’re not all crippled by the time we’re forty.”
“But the broken toenails and calluses are a sign of love for one’s art! The soul knows no bounds when it comes to passion for one’s life’s work.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And you are too perfect for words. Marry me, amore mia.”
“Um, you do remember meeting James last week, didn’t you?”
Alonso waved a hand, dismissing the whole idea of another man. “But you turned him down. Which gives me hope!”
“What in the world are you talking about?” I demanded. How did he know that? I suddenly wondered if he had my apartment bugged.
“I could see it in your eyes.”
“See what?”
“That man from the boonies of Snowy Crevice—”
“Snow Valley,” I corrected.
He shrugged as if it were no matter, although he’d never find it on a map and couldn’t care less anyway. “The boyfriend proposed and you turned him down, ma cherie. That speaks volumes.”
Now he was mixing Italian and French. I ignored the last bit of commentary. It was mere opinion.
“A man of god, too! He probably prayed about it and you ignored god’s answer. Which means you’re not in love with him.”
“Shut up, Alonso, you know nothing.”
I felt like I was seventeen again telling him to stuff it, but honestly, the man was incurable in his ardor. Goosebumps broke out along my arms. How did Alonso know about James proposing to me? Uncanny.
He chuckled, trailing a finger along my ankle to grasp the wayward ribbon. I jerked my foot from his hand and my toe shoe clattered to the floor.
“Now you’re wondering if I’m talking to God. Right?” Alonso waggled his eyebrows, knowing he had me. “Am I right?”
“No!” I said sharply. “It just means you’ve been spying on me or—or something.”
“You keep things close to your heart, sweet Jess, but the emotions come out in your eyes and in your dance. I see it. I see the real you, my bella girl. More than that boyfriend of yours.”
Good grief! I’d tried to be careful not to come into work red-eyed from crying into my pillow. I’d tried to pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary as I woodenly went through the motions of warm-up and barre work.
But I’d catch myself daydreaming about James’ kisses. And that ring! It was so beautiful I coveted it. I knew Jamie tolerated my moods and high-strung personality like nobody else had. The quips and sarcasm when I was afraid I was getting too close to someone. He understood me and I didn’t appreciate it very well. Now I’d brushed him off and hurt him all over again.
I brushed off Alonso, too, but he took it all in stride, never one to be deterred by a reluctant girl he was determined to catch. In fact, I suspected he loved the challenge—and that was the only reason he was interested.
“Oh, Alonso, we are so not suited to each other.”
“But you’ve never given me a chance. A drink after work tonight. Just one. I promise I won’t make a pass at you.”
I gave a small laugh. “You do know that I didn’t break up with James, right?”
“But when you sent him away with a broken heart and an expensive ring, it’s the same thing isn’t it?”
Annoyingly, he had a point.
“Oh, come out with me. Just for fun. A chance to relax which you badly need. A few other dancers are coming, too, so no pressure. We won’t call it a date. It’s only Wednesday, and there’s a good band playing somewhere near Chartres Street.”
“My mood is terrible,” I began. “I’ll just depress everyone.”
“Listen, chica,” Alonso said sternly. “You need to get out and take your mind off work and men—and spend it with someone who knows how to dance the rumba right.”
He held out his hand in a Latin flourish.
“Alright, already,” I finally said. “One drink—a soda—and one dance. Just so nobody can say I’m a party-pooper.”
Alonso took my hand as I rose from the floor, but I hastily dropped it before he could get any ideas. I didn’t want everyone else in the studio to think we were starting up a relationship.
Even if James and I were over—and that was still debatable—I didn’t have the time or emotional strength to put into a new relationship so soon. My passion for dance demanded hard work, my heart and soul. That I could commit to.
Men could be so difficult. They wanted to change things up when life was perfectly content. Why couldn’t James relax? We were still so young, not even close to thirty yet. I had my best dancing years ahead of me.
I drove home, trying to shove James out of my mind and determined to forget our heartache. Including the unanswered questions that went along with him.
I showered, dressed in tights, a skirt, and a pair of good black heels for dancing. A red blouse, loose black jacket with a scarf finished off my outfit.
A few others from the company were a
lready at The Blue Nile when I arrived. It was a small place with shadowy wall sconces, dark wooden tables flickering with candles, and a tiny dance floor. A small crowd gathered around the bar ordering drinks and talking. Most of them from the dance company.
I was surprised to see Sierra Armstrong there—our principal ballerina. “I didn’t think you went slumming,” I said, trying to turn it into a cute quip, but it came out strained and petulant.
“You’re just too much for words, aren’t you, Jessica?” she murmured coolly. “Just because I’m Principal doesn’t mean I can’t be friends with the other dancers.”
“Don’t be a snob,” Alonso murmured into my ear as he passed me a glass of red wine.
I glared at him, pushing it away. I hadn’t taken a drink since Michael was killed in the car accident after drinking and he knew it. The trauma and grief had left me scarred for years.
I supposed I was being snobby but I just clenched my teeth. No need to bring more attention to a stupid remark. Besides the din of conversation and music covered up my faux pas.
I was upset with Sierra and upset at myself, but I couldn’t pinpoint why I felt irritated. Sierra and her boyfriend, Justin Erwin, on vacation from his position at the Martha Graham Dance Company in New York were too perfect for the lower-class rungs of the dancer hierarchy the rest of us clung to.
Sierra and Justin outclassed us in looks and talent. Just being in a social setting with Sierra was like having my nose rubbed in it. I got enough of it at work watching her perfect figure and long neck and perfectly precise moves. Why would I socialize with a girl I was insanely jealous of?
Sierra might be a perfectly nice person, but my envy got the better of me. I didn’t know how to act around her. She represented all the dreams I’d probably never achieve.
I was sour grapes. And jealousy made me ungrateful for my talents, as well as rude. Perhaps I’d been away from church too long. It was making me an angry, frustrated person.
Maybe that was a reason James and I were having trouble. He was too good for me by far.
Spring in Snow Valley: A Snow Valley Anthology Page 42
