A Scarlet Cord

by Deborah Raney

  “Oh, sure … thank you.” He gave the card a quick perusal before tucking it into his breast pocket. “I’ll have to give her a call when I get ready to start house shopping.”

  An awkward silence followed, and Melanie gathered her Bible and purse and started toward the door. But Joel put a tentative hand on her arm. “Hey, Melanie? Um … can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” she said, turning back toward him, her heartbeat quickening at the warmth of his hand on her skin.

  He paused as if he wanted to say something, then his gaze dropped to the floor and he tucked his hands into the pockets of his pants. “I … just wondered if you ever attend the singles class here.”

  She hesitated. Cornerstone had a thriving singles ministry, with its own Christian education class that met during this hour. “Yes … I’ve gone a few times,” she hedged. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m trying to get a feel for where we need to improve in the CE department. I was thinking you might be able to give me the low-down on the singles ministry. I assumed you would attend that class. I was surprised to see you here … that’s all.”

  She hesitated. “Well … to tell you the truth, I’ve always felt a little awkward and out of place there.”

  He flashed a crooked grin and looked around the room. “More awkward and out of place than you feel in this hotbed of marital bliss?”

  She followed his gaze. All around them, little duos and quartets made up of married couples buzzed in easy conversation.

  “You know … I guess in a lot of ways I don’t feel single.” She couldn’t believe she was being so candid with him. “I know this will make me sound like I’m in some kind of delayed denial, but I still feel somehow a part of the couple that was Rick and Melanie LaSalle.”

  “Really?” His gaze was warm, full of genuine interest, and instead of making her feel self-conscious, it comforted her.

  She tried to explain. “It’s just that after Rick’s death, so little changed in the day-to-day pattern of my life. I stayed at the same company, even took over Rick’s position. I still live in the same house, I attend the same church, and I see my husband’s parents almost daily. And, of course, there’s Jerica. It’s almost as if Rick is simply away on an extended business trip or something.” What she told him was true, and yet, didn’t the cold, empty pillow beside her head on the bed each night contradict her comments?

  Suddenly she was desperate to change the subject. “I don’t mean to badmouth the singles class. It really is a good class, Joel. Milt does a wonderful job with the lessons, and I know that a lot of the people who attend wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear. I’ve thought about trying it myself, but for a few months at least, I need to sit in on each of the other classes, so I have an idea of what we have to offer and what we need to add. Actually … I’ve thought about teaching a class myself somewhere down the road.”

  “Really? That would be wonderful. I know they’re always looking for teachers.”

  He started to say something, then paused, clearing his throat and glancing at his watch. “We’d probably better go if we want a seat in the service.”

  She looked around the now-empty classroom, then glanced at her watch. “Oh, my! Jerica’s teachers probably think I’ve abandoned her!”

  “Well …” He put up a hand in farewell. “Have a good morning.”

  She returned his wave, and they hurried in opposite directions down the corridor.

  The alarm clock buzzed annoyingly. Without opening his eyes, Joel reached over and fumbled with the buttons. Tuesday morning was his day off, and he was tempted to sleep in, but he’d planned to finish organizing his apartment today. He forced himself to roll out of bed and pulled on yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt. Sidestepping a stack of half-empty moving boxes, he headed for the kitchen.

  Most of his personal belongings had yet to arrive, but he knew from past moves that it might be weeks before they were shipped. He couldn’t complain. The apartment was furnished, and his clothes, small appliances, and computer and stereo equipment had been delivered Saturday. He had everything he needed. But standing in the tiny kitchen, looking out over the open combination living-dining area, he was struck by how clinical and austere the space was. The only things that set this unit apart from the two hundred other apartments in the complex—that marked this as the home of the man called Joel Ellington—were the small framed snapshots of his family.

  The photographs sat side by side on an end table near the low-slung sofa. The one of his family had been taken the summer before his parents’ plane went down somewhere in Africa. The other one showed him and his brother, Tim, arm in arm on the Foxmoor campus the first year Joel had taught there. He had a smaller copy of that one in his wallet, along with Victoria’s college yearbook photo. They were all he had left to remember his past by—those fragile pieces of paper and colored inks. He had hand-carried the frames all the way to Silver Creek, unwilling to risk having them among his possessions that seemed to mysteriously disappear every time he moved.

  Joel crossed the room and picked up the frame that contained the likeness of his parents, his brother, and himself. They stood arm in arm in a row, Mom and Dad in the middle, he and Tim flanking them, wide smiles on every face. He couldn’t remember now who’d taken the picture. It didn’t matter. As far as he was concerned, it was just the four of them. His world. They’d been so happy then.

  A crushing sense of loneliness came over him, and he replaced the frame carefully on the table and went back to the kitchen. Taking a loaf of raisin bread from the counter, he popped two slices into the toaster and went to the refrigerator for butter and orange juice. Soon the smell of toast filled the kitchen. His mother had baked homemade bread twice a week when he was growing up. The faint aroma of cinnamon offered him a moment of pleasure. Closing his eyes and breathing in the familiar scent, he could almost imagine that he was back home in New York.

  Home. That word and all it had once meant to him had been perverted, changed forever—first with his parents’ deaths, then inexorably sealed the day he’d lost Victoria.

  He took the bread from the toaster, spread a thick layer of butter on each slice, and shook off the memories that encroached. He perched on a barstool at the kitchen counter and, out of habit, bowed his head and gave thanks before he took the first bite.

  When he finished eating, he put his dishes in the dishwasher and went to tackle the boxes in the bedroom. As he put away the rest of his clothes and the few books that had been packed among them, he practiced the new attitude he had determined to embrace. He spoke the words aloud like a mantra: “Thank you, Father, for this place of refuge. Thank you for a new beginning. Thank you.”

  He was grateful for the safe haven Silver Creek provided. He could be going out of his mind in a run-down hotel in some unknown city.

  He could be dead.

  Six

  Melanie went to the drafting table where a dozen miniature logo sketches were neatly aligned on a piece of art board. She straightened the images one last time and smiled to herself. She still had the touch. And even though Cornerstone’s account didn’t add to By Design’s profits, she felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction in having created some attractive and unique designs.

  She went to her desk and dialed the church’s number. Darlene Anthony answered on the second ring. “Hi, Darlene, it’s Melanie LaSalle. Is Joel in the office today?”

  “Oh, hi, Mel. He sure is. Just a minute … I’ll get him.”

  Melanie tapped a pen nervously on her desk while she waited. Her heart lurched when Joel’s voice came on the line.

  “Good mahning, Melanie. What can I do for you?”

  That gorgeous accent again. Good grief, LaSalle. Get a grip! “Hi, Joel.” She inhaled slowly and forced a businesslike tone. “I have some sketches for the CE project ready to look at. I was wondering when might be a good time to get together.”

  “Wow, that was fast. Well, l
et’s see … my schedule is probably more flexible than yours. Why don’t you just name a time?”

  “Does Pastor Steele need to be in on the meeting?” she asked. “Or any of the rest of the committee?”

  “I guess not. Don keeps telling me this is my baby. I’ll want the committee’s input on the final design, of course, but it looks like I’m on my own for the preliminaries.”

  “Okay … I don’t suppose you could come by this morning? I just finished the sketches, so they’re all laid out on my drawing table. I have a meeting later this afternoon, but if you could come in anytime before noon, I’d have time to show them to you. Or we can do it another day this week …”

  “I can be there in fifteen minutes if that works for you.”

  “Oh … great … perfect. I’ll just have the receptionist send you on up when you get here.”

  “Sounds good. I can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with.”

  She hung up the phone and turned to her computer. Opening the art files one by one, she printed them out in a larger size for Joel to take back with him. She examined each one as it came from the printer, and slid the pages into a folder. She realized that her palms were damp. She still got a little nervous before presenting her work to a client, but it wasn’t as if Cornerstone were a make-or-break account.

  She glanced at the clock. Joel would be here any minute. She went into the small rest room off her office, checked her lipstick, and fluffed her hair. Then she went to look over the layouts one more time.

  Joel followed the receptionist to the elevator and thanked her as the doors glided shut. A minute later, he was standing in Melanie LaSalle’s office.

  “Hi, there.” Melanie met him with an outstretched hand and that warm, open smile she always seemed to wear. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

  “Not a problem,” he told her. “I’m anxious to see what you have for us.”

  “They’re right over here.” She started toward the drafting table where they’d sat together the day she gave him a tour of the building. He followed and took a seat at the high stool she indicated. She perched on a stool beside him.

  “Now, on this first row”—she motioned toward the drawings on the table—“I used variations on the lettering … using the initials as a design element; mostly text, very little artwork on these. With the rest, I tried to incorporate some of the architect’s drawings like we talked about.”

  He’d expected to see rough pencil sketches and vague ideas, but the samples she was showing looked like finished artwork to him. Not that he knew much about art, but still he was impressed. He spent several minutes studying the drawings, then looked up to see Melanie watching him. With her hands clutched in front of her and her eyes wide, she reminded him of an anxious child. He smiled at her. “These are beautiful, Melanie. How in the world am I supposed to choose just one?”

  She laughed, relief obvious in her voice. “I’m glad you like them. What I usually suggest is that the client just go with first impressions. Pick out two or three that really grab you. Then we can work from there narrowing it down, incorporate ideas from more than one logo into the final design, even go back to the drawing board …”

  He held up a hand. “I can tell you right now that that won’t be necessary. Every one of these are great.”

  She beamed, then looked almost embarrassed. “Well … I’m glad you think so.” She was silent for a few minutes while he looked over the drawings, then she handed him a folder. “I made some larger copies of the thumbnails if you’d like to take them with you. I can e-mail you digital files, too, if you like. Then we can iron out the comps and start working with layouts.”

  “Whoa!” He held up a hand. “You are speaking a totally foreign language there, but … whatever you say.”

  “I’ll walk you through it,” she laughed. “I promise.” She spent a few minutes explaining the process—this time in layman’s terms.

  Finally, she looked up from the drawings and glanced at the oversized clock on the wall across from the railing.

  “I’ve kept you long enough,” he said, taking the hint.

  “Oh no. No problem. My meeting isn’t until 2:00.”

  “Could I take you to lunch?” The words were out before he could even think through the ramifications.

  To his dismay, she seemed flustered by the invitation.

  “Lunch? Well … I suppose …”

  He thought he understood. Hadn’t she told him just a week ago that she felt out of place in the singles world, that she still felt married? Yet that was exactly why he’d felt comfortable asking her. He wasn’t looking for a relationship either. But she couldn’t know that. She probably had to fend off men all the time, and here he was making her do it again.

  He cleared his throat, feeling compelled to explain himself. “I … I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done …”

  He motioned toward the drafting table and her designs. “For the work on this project, for making me feel so welcome here, all of it.”

  She looked at him as if trying to assess his sincerity. “I’d love to have lunch with you, Joel. Thanks for asking.”

  He tried not to let his relief show. “My car is parked in the front lot,” he said, fishing his keys from his jeans pocket.

  She hesitated. “Just so I’m back by 1:30. I’ll turn into a pumpkin after that.”

  “No problem, Cinderella.”

  She laughed at his joke, and it somehow warmed his heart. That hadn’t happened in a long time.

  Melanie had been thrilled at Joel’s invitation to lunch, but now, after just a few minutes in the car, they’d seemed to run out of things to talk about. Uncomfortable with the silence, she reached up to touch a length of red silk cording that was draped over his rearview mirror. “Ah, you must have been an honor student?”

  He turned to her, his eyes questioning.

  “It looks like the honor cords that graduates wear,” she explained. “You know—on your cap or gown—if you graduated summa cum laude or were valedictorian or whatever? Not that I’ve ever seen one up close.” She laughed nervously, feeling silly now that the words were out.

  He batted at the cord. “No, it’s—” He looked at his lap, seeming embarrassed.

  “Ah, I get it … It’s a souvenir from an old girlfriend?”

  When he didn’t respond, she cringed. “Oh … or maybe a not-so-old girlfriend?”

  At that he laughed and shook his head. “No, nothing like that. It’s just—a reminder … of a Scripture passage, actually. One that … means a lot to me.”

  Curious, she arched a brow in his direction, but he ignored her questioning gaze and changed the subject. “Where would you like to eat?”

  Okay, I can take a hint. “I’m not picky,” she told him. “What sounds good to you?”

  “I really haven’t been here long enough to know what’s available. Why don’t you decide? I’m open for anything.”

  “Okay. How about Larkspur? It’s nice … kind of a bistro atmosphere.”

  He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Spoken like a true woman: Never mind the food, how’s the ambiance?”

  She cocked her head and grinned. “Oh, excuse me, did I mention they have great sandwiches?”

  “No, you didn’t. But don’t mind me. I’m just giving you a hard time. Anything’s fine with me.”

  When they walked into the restaurant’s lobby, the hostess met them with menus in hand.

  “Would you care to sit on the patio?” the model-thin young woman asked. “We have the burners going, so it’s really quite comfortable out there.”

  Joel raised his brows, tacitly leaving the decision with Melanie.

  “It’d be fine with me. I’m dressed plenty warm,” she assured him, rubbing the sleeves of her wool-blend jacket. “And I love dining alfresco.”

  “We’ll take the patio,” Joel told the hostess.

  “Right this way, please.” She led them through the large dining room to the
patio outside. Several other diners had already been seated at the umbrella-canopied tables. With the trees still leafless, they had a clear view of the river and the town’s spare winter skyline. The tall radiant burners on either side of their table kept the air temperature comfortable, and the hostess adjusted the table umbrella so that the sun warmed their shoulders.

  When they were settled and the hostess had gone, Joel turned to Melanie. “So you’ve been at By Design for how many years now?”

  “Going on seven—not counting the months I took off when Jerica was born. It’s the only place I’ve worked since I graduated from college.”

  “That’s kind of unusual.”

  She shrugged. “I guess I don’t know anything else. I take it your work history is a bit more checkered?”

  He appeared startled by her question. Then he smiled and took a sip of his ice water. “Just a bit,” he said.

  “Where did you work before coming to Silver Creek?”

  He took several gulps of water and wiped his lips on the linen napkin before answering. “I … I taught English.” He cleared his throat.

  “Oh yes. I remember reading that.”

  “You read it? Where?”

  “In the church bulletin, I think.”

  “Oh yes … of course.”

  “Where was it you taught?”

  “At a small college. You … probably wouldn’t have heard of it. It was back East.”

  “Ah, back where your English made sense to them?”

  He warmed to her teasing. “Hey! My English is impeccable.”

  “In the East, maybe.” She grinned at him and knew she was flirting again. What was it about Joel Ellington that brought out that annoying coyness in her? She pushed aside the thought that she had business lunches with male clients all the time and never felt the need to flirt as shamelessly as she was doing now.