A Scarlet Cord

by Deborah Raney

  “Definitely,” she agreed.

  Melanie could read the relief and victory in the two designers’ eyes.

  “Good work, guys.” Jerry looked at his watch. “Whoa! I’d better fly. Till tomorrow.” He saluted them and headed for the wide front doors.

  “Now, don’t forget to bring a certain little someone home tonight,” Melanie called after her father-in-law, only half joking. She missed her daughter terribly during the day and usually looked forward to their reunion each afternoon. But today a few extra hours of peace and quiet did sound pretty good.

  Sighing, she turned to go back up to her office. Rounding the corner of the partition that enclosed Suzanne’s work space, she collided with a man who was headed for the front entrance. His hands flew to her shoulders, steadying her.

  “Oh! Excuse me! I’m so sorry.” Embarrassed, she backed away from the impromptu embrace.

  He smiled broadly and Melanie noticed that a thin scar creased his right cheek just above his jaw line.

  “My fault entirely,” he said, arms still outstretched. “I saw you coming but I couldn’t toot my horn quickly enough to warn you.” He spoke in an accent that Melanie thought had roots somewhere in the East.

  “Well, I should have been watching where I was going,” she told him, clutching a hand to her chest.

  “No harm done,” he assured her, straightening his suit coat.

  They both laughed nervously, and then said farewell. He hurried on through the front lobby. Wondering what had brought this handsome stranger to By Design, she stood and watched his broad back disappear through the door.

  Two

  Jerica LaSalle sat forward on the velvet cushion of the church pew, fidgeting and swinging her white-stockinged legs back and forth in a noisy rhythm. Melanie laid a warning hand on the little girl’s knee, thinking wryly that her almost-five-year-old daughter wasn’t the only restless worshiper. From the kitchen area beyond the sanctuary, mingled savory and sweet aromas wafted over the congregation. Judging by the number of people checking their watches and glancing toward the fellowship hall, the enticing smells threatened to upstage the speaker at the lectern.

  But Joel Ellington had the advantage. Not only was the man a newcomer to the congregation—and a good-looking one at that—but he spoke with such a thick East Coast accent that it required their studied attention to translate his English into something their Midwestern ears could understand. Halfway through his speech, Melanie realized why the new Christian education director seemed so familiar: He was the one she’d almost mowed down at the office last week.

  As Mr. Ellington addressed the congregation, Melanie smiled down at her daughter, who was decorating the bulletin with purple tulips. She retrieved a stray crayon from the pew cushion, handed it to Jerica, and turned her attention back to the front of the church.

  There was no denying that the Lord had put this particular man in an attractive package. Tall and athletic, with an olive complexion and startlingly green eyes, he wore his sandy brown hair cropped close, except at his neck where it sprang into short, unruly curls. The thin two-inch scar that marred his smooth-shaven cheek only served to give a rugged handsomeness and a touch of mystery to his face. His large hands had long tapered fingers. He gestured expressively as he spoke, reminding Melanie of the man who sometimes signed for the deaf in the eight o’clock service.

  She watched those hands with fascination, equally charmed with the rounded As and the slightly nasal intonations of his Eastern brogue.

  Jerica looked up at her mother and wrinkled her nose, apparently amused by the peculiar accent. Melanie put a finger to her lips, suddenly afraid that her daughter would laugh or point.

  Now Joel Ellington stepped from behind the podium and stretched his arms wide. “I look out across this sanctuary, and though I’ve never met most of you before, I feel somehow that I know you because I see God’s love written on your faces.”

  According to a blurb in this morning’s bulletin, Ellington had previously held a teaching position at a small private college in New York. Melanie wondered what had prompted him to this rather drastic change in careers. And why the Midwest? Finding himself so far away from the home and friends he knew must be difficult.

  Melanie forced herself to focus on his speech. He was telling the congregation how it had blessed him to travel a thousand miles across the country and find the same devotion to God among the people here as he had known in his church “back home.”

  “It’s wonderful to realize that God’s people can feel quite at home even when they are far from home.” He pronounced the words without benefit of the letter R: even when they ah fah from home. “Thank you all for making me feel so welcome. I count it a privilege to serve the needs of this congregation,” he concluded.

  The “amen” of the closing hymn had scarcely died away when the double doors leading into the fellowship hall were opened and there was a small stampede toward the source of the delectable aromas.

  Melanie fell in line with the other young mothers. She helped Jerica get settled at the children’s table, then made her way to the end of the long serving line to fix her own plate.

  Joel Ellington came in from the foyer where he’d been greeting church members and almost timidly took a place behind Melanie.

  “Hello,” he said, a question in his voice. “I think we’ve met, but I can’t quite put my finger on your name.”

  She smiled. “We, um … bumped into each other at my office the other day.”

  His furrowed brow told her he still didn’t remember. “I’m sorry. I’ve met so many new people this week …”

  “You were leaving By Design—the graphic arts firm where I work.”

  He grimaced comically. “Ooh … you meant that ‘bumped into’ literally. I remember now. I’m so sorry. I practically knocked you off your feet.”

  Oh, if you only knew how true that was. She felt her skin flush at the impulsive thought and quickly pushed it from her mind. She held out her hand. “I’m Melanie LaSalle.”

  “Nice to meet you, Melanie.” He let go of her hand and dipped his head sheepishly. “I hope there wasn’t any permanent damage.”

  “I think I’ll live,” she said lightly, still smiling.

  He turned and craned his neck toward the buffet table, looking genuinely worried. “Do you think there’ll be anything left by the time we get up there?”

  “I have never yet gone away from one of these dinners hungry,” she promised. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  As the line crept forward, Melanie struggled to think of something to say. “I enjoyed what you had to say this morning, Mr. Ellington,” she said finally.

  “Well, thank you. I am feeling very welcome here. And please. call me Joel. I’m not one for formalities. Have you attended this church for long?”

  “Since the very first Sunday we held services.”

  “A chahter member, huh?”

  She couldn’t hide a grin.

  “Did I say something funny?” he asked, clearly puzzled.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just … your accent. It’s charming,” she added quickly, “but that East Coast twang is pretty rare in this part of the country.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “And I thought y’all were the ones with the accent,” he said in a bad Southern drawl.

  “Us? Y’all have obviously never been down to Texas—or Alabama, for that matter.” She attempted the Southern belle inflection, painfully aware that she was flirting with him. She cleared her throat and reverted to her normal voice. “To answer your question, yes, I am a charter member. My husband’s parents were good friends of Pastor Black. He’s the one who started Cornerstone. My husband and I followed them here as newlyweds. Maybe you’ve already met my in-laws? Jerry and Erika LaSalle? Jerry is one of the deacons.”

  “I’m sure I have, but I confess I’m terrible with names.”

  “Me, too,” she admitted. “Oh, there’s Jerry now.” She waved at
her father-in-law across the room, and Jerry waved back.

  “Oh, sure … I met him during my second interview here. You’ll have to reintroduce me. I’ll be anxious to meet your husband, too. Or maybe I’ve already met him, as well?”

  She cringed inwardly. “I’m sorry. I should have explained. Rick—my husband—died several years ago. I’m … I’m still very close to his parents. Jerry owns By Design, and I manage the company.”

  “Oh, so it was the boss I ran into the other day?”

  “Quite literally,” she laughed, grateful he’d not felt it necessary to express sympathy. “So what brought you to By Design?”

  “Don—Pastor Steele—sent me to have business cards made up.”

  “Oh, of course. We design all the church’s stationery.”

  “Is that right? I’ll have to remember that. Don’s put me in charge of the capital campaign for the new Christian ed wing, and I’ve been thinking about some ideas for a logo … maybe even a newsletter … you know, just to keep people updated on how the fund-raising is going. I’ll talk to Don and see what the budget looks like.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. By Design does all the church’s design work gratis.”

  “Really? That’s great. So, do you only handle the business end, or are you a designer as well?”

  “I started out as a designer. My degree is actually in commercial graphics. Since I became manager I haven’t had time to do as much design work as I’d like, but I do still take on an occasional project—especially when it’s for Cornerstone.”

  “Well, it sounds like a great place to work. The building is certainly impressive. Not at all what I expected to find out here on the frontier.”

  She laughed. “That’s Jerry’s creative touch. He’s definitely not a frontier boy.”

  His gaze traveled across the room to where Jerry was holding court at a long table. “No. I can see that.”

  She tipped her head. “Jerry’s a sweetheart, though. Don’t let that brash exterior fool you. I don’t know what I’d do without him and Erika. And they are wonderful grandparents.”

  “Oh, you have children?”

  “A daughter. Jerica’s almost five.” She pointed proudly in the direction of the children’s table. “She’s the little brunette in the red polka dots.”

  Jerica chose that moment to jump up and let out a loud squeal as an older boy tried to swipe a cookie from her plate.

  “She’s the one with the mouth,” Melanie said, hanging her head and shielding her eyes in mock embarrassment.

  “She’s cute.”

  “She’s my joy,” she said with genuine emotion. “But she is a little spoiled. She was just four months old when Rick died, and Grandma and Grandpa LaSalle have—” She had been about to blame her in-laws for overindulging Jerica but caught herself midsentence. “Well, we’ve all spoiled her a little.”

  They had reached the food-laden buffet tables by now, and Joel looked over the spread in front of them. “Wow. So much food, so little time … Any recommendations?”

  “Oh, right here,” she said, picking up a serving spoon from a large casserole. “You have to try Margaret Unruh’s vrenika. It’s heavenly.”

  “Vrenika? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “I hadn’t either until I met Mrs. Unruh. It’s an old Mennonite dish … German, I think … a little like a dumpling but with a cottage-cheese filling and the most wonderful gravy …”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Sounds … um, interesting, but I think I’ll pass.”

  “Your loss.” She shrugged, and scooped a small serving onto her own plate.

  “Cottage cheese has never been a favorite of mine,” he said.

  “You can’t even taste it. Honest.”

  “Then what’s the point?” His smile was rather smug. “Thanks anyway, but I think I’ll go for something a little more familiar.” He reached for the spatula in a pan of lasagna and dished up a generous serving. “Now, this looks good.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t try.” She put another dumpling on her plate.

  They moved on to the end of the long stretch of tables where an impressive array of desserts awaited them. She took a small slice of cherry pie and snaked her way through dozens of tables as she looked for an empty place.

  As she went by the children’s table, she checked to make sure Jerica was behaving. The Breyer sisters, eleven and thirteen, had unofficially taken charge of the younger children. Jerica was seated between the two adolescent girls, happily licking the frosting from a sugar cookie.

  Melanie spotted some friends at a table near the double doors, but all the chairs were taken. The only available seats seemed to be at a large table where several young married couples had congregated. She started for the empty seats.

  “Hey, Melanie,” several voices chimed, accompanied by the screech of chair legs as they adjusted to make room for her at the table.

  Reluctantly, she deposited her plate on the table beside Norm Arnett.

  “Hi, Melanie.” Rita Arnett leaned around her husband’s burly form and greeted her with a smile, but Melanie didn’t miss the possessive arm that went around Norm’s shoulder.

  She arranged her Styrofoam cup and plastic utensils near her plate. After four years it was still difficult to watch happily married couples interact. As much as they tried to include her, eventually their conversation would turn to marriage and family life, and she would be left out. It was a painful reminder of all she’d lost.

  With her place saved, she went to check on Jerica again. When she returned, Joel Ellington had taken the seat across the table from her. Introductions were made all around, and the talk turned to Joel’s move to the Midwest.

  “Have you succumbed to culture shock yet?” Marti Stinson asked.

  “Well, I do miss my classical radio station. All I can seem to get around here is country-western.”

  “Kinda hard to sing about pickup trucks and hound dogs with an East Coast accent, huh?” Norm joked.

  “Not to mention gee-tar pickin’,” Joel laughed good-naturedly.

  By the time they got to dessert, it was obvious that Joel Ellington was going to fit in well here. Melanie relaxed a little, enjoying the amiable give and take and feeling happy that Joel was being made welcome. He was warm and personable, and she found herself more than a little attracted to him.

  She shook her head as if to chase the thought away. This is ridiculous. Why am I thinking such things? I don’t even know the man. She forced her attention back to the conversation.

  When she pushed away from the table and excused herself a few minutes later, Joel looked up and gave her a smile that caused her heart to beat an erratic rhythm. “It was nice to meet you, Melanie. I’ll be calling you about that logo.”

  “Oh, sure … that’d be great.” Feeling uncharacteristically shy, she gave him an awkward wave and went to collect Jerica and gather the now-empty pie plate and casserole dish she’d brought.

  The following Thursday evening, Melanie was putting the last of the day’s dishes into the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. Drying her hands, she went into the foyer and looked through the peephole. One large, heavily-lashed dark brown eye stared back at her. If the familiar lilting laughter of her daughter on the other side of the door hadn’t given them away, the friendly yapping of Biscuit, the LaSalles’ little bichon frise, would have.

  Melanie opened the door to find Jerica sitting atop her grandfather’s shoulders. He was loaded down with shopping bags like a packhorse. Erika cradled the small dog in her arms.

  “Hi, sweetie!” Melanie reached up to catch the kiss her daughter blew her.

  “Hi, Mommy. Did you see my eye?”

  “Is that what that was? I thought it was a big black spider. I was almost too scared to open the door.”

  Jerica giggled, and Melanie closed the door behind them.

  “Did she wear you out?” she asked Jerry and Erika as she led the way through the foyer to the living room.

  �
��No more than usual,” Erika said, depositing the little dog on the floor. “We can’t stay long, but I do want to see the fashion show.”

  Melanie clapped her hands. “Oh, you must have found the dress.” Jerica and her grandmother had been shopping since after Christmas for the perfect Easter dress.

  “Finally. It was worth waiting for, though. Just wait till you see.” Erika pointed an impeccably manicured nail toward Jerica’s bedroom. “Run and try on your new dress for Mommy, sweetie. And don’t forget—”

  “I know … I know, Grammy,” Jerica interrupted. “The tag goes in the back!” She lugged the largest shopping bag down the hallway, singsonging all the way. “The tag goes in the ba-ack. The tag goes in the ba-ack …”

  Biscuit pattered behind her, his dog tags jangling. Jerica turned and, backing down the hall, shook a pudgy finger at the dog, a nervous waver in her voice. “No, Biscuit! Stay! Bad dog. Stay.” Her voice climbed an octave. “Mommy?”

  “Just go, Jerica. He won’t hurt you,” Melanie said, shaking her head in exasperation.

  “Biscuit! Come,” Erika scolded, clicking her tongue. Biscuit complied, and Jerica ran back to her room and slammed the door against the tiny dog. Since she had been a toddler, Jerica had feared canines of all breeds. She tolerated Biscuit—all three and a half pounds of him—only when he was under the watchful eye of an adult.

  “Come here, baby,” Erika cooed, scooping up the dog, then slumping onto the sofa with an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, for half the energy of your little dynamo! She’s a treasure, Mel. A real treasure.”

  “And you’re not one bit prejudiced, Erika,” Melanie teased.

  The elder Mrs. LaSalle laughed, looking at least a decade younger than her fifty-eight years. Her smooth platinum-blond hair was styled in a chic, short pageboy, and her olive skin bore only faint crow’s-feet. She had a dancer’s build and wore her extensive wardrobe beautifully.

  Jerry LaSalle plopped onto the sofa beside his wife, feigning exhaustion. She put a hand on his knee. “One quick glimpse of the little princess in her new duds, and then we’d better get you home to bed, Grampa.”