by Janet Dean
“You’re imagining things.” Callie plopped her hands on her hips. “Probably because Doc couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
Color climbed Elise’s cheeks. She ducked her head and concentrated on her oatmeal.
“You don’t have much to say now.”
“Mama taught me never to talk with my mouth full.” Eyes twinkling, Elise popped the spoon in her mouth.
Callie laughed, relieved that Elise wasn’t fussing about going to church.
A knock at the back door summoned Callie.
Jacob stood on the stoop holding a basket of eggs. At the sight of him, Callie’s traitorous heart stuttered in her chest.
“I thought you might need these.”
“Thank you.” She reached for the basket. “I thought you were sleeping in.”
He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze. “Woke before the sun was up.”
“I told you God might change your mind.”
He harrumphed. “I figured you ladies could use help with chores this morning.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
Obviously, Jacob refused to credit God for anything. Perhaps she could still get him to attend church.
She thumbed toward the kitchen. “I’ve made oatmeal for breakfast, but I could fry a couple of these eggs.”
“Oatmeal’s fine.” Though his tone wasn’t convincing.
“You sure?”
“Positive.” He took off his hat and dropped to the stoop.
Jacob worked like a dog around the place, but that didn’t mean he should be treated like one and continue taking his meals on the stoop. Callie still knew next to nothing about him, but one thing she did know—he wouldn’t do them harm.
“Don’t be silly. Come in and eat at the table.” Callie stepped aside to let him enter. “I won’t apologize for being leery at first. But you’ve proven that you’re trustworthy.”
His eyes leapt to hers then looked away.
As Jacob stepped inside the back hall, Callie realized that, with the exception of her father-in-law, Jacob Smith was the first man she’d had in her home since Martin died. The first man she’d had in her life. In any way.
Could Elise be right? Could he have an interest in her?
No, he was a drifter. Drifters didn’t stay.
Roused by the puzzled expression in Callie’s eyes, Jake kept his mouth shut and crossed the threshold before he blurted out that he didn’t belong there, even though that was the barefaced truth.
At the arched doorway leading from the hall into the kitchen, he removed his hat and held it in both hands, spinning it between his fingers. Tantalizing aromas drifted toward him. The serenity of the room, reflecting Callie’s gentle spirit, wrapped around Jake, tugging him in.
He felt jumpier than a freshly broke bronco. When had he ever been invited inside a home, a real home, where folks shared their meals, their lives, their hopes and dreams? Never. Well, except for hauling in those newspapers for Callie.
He’d slept in the back room at the construction company where he worked, took his meals at a nearby café or carried food in from the neighborhood grocer. Not so different from others he knew. Someday he’d buy a home of his own and put down roots, so why didn’t that prospect hold the appeal of this kitchen?
“Hi, Jake.” Elise’s eyes twinkled as if she found something funny, but he had no idea what.
Callie moved to the stove. “Come to church with us this morning and stay for the potluck. I’ve made plenty of food.”
“Smells great.” He was certain he’d do no such thing.
His gaze roamed the kitchen, took in the cupboards, their patina mellow with age, then the checked green-and-white curtains framing the windows, the soft green walls, the vase of bleeding hearts in the center of the table. Everywhere he looked he saw Callie’s penchant for making a nest. “This is cozy.”
“My aunt always said the kitchen’s the heart of a home.” She motioned to the sink. “Feel free to wash up while I pour your coffee.”
Jake eased past her, keeping his distance. At the washbasin, he scrubbed his hands and dried them on a towel. Not the rough, threadbare towels he’d used in the orphanage and in prison. When had he felt anything softer?
Turning from the sink, unsure where to sit, he glanced at the three empty chairs. Callie handed him a mug. As he took it, his hand brushed hers, sending a jolt to his spine and his feet toward the table. “Thanks for the coffee. Uh, which seat is yours?”
“I sit here.” She pointed to the head of the rectangular table. “Now.”
Had that been Martin’s place at the table? Did she fill it to avoid seeing the seat empty? If so, that proved Callie Mitchell grieved for her husband. As if those widow’s weeds she wore weren’t enough of a reminder.
“I’ve already eaten. Sit wherever you like,” she said.
He dropped to the middle seat. Callie put a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Nothing about this cooked cereal resembled the winter fare he ate every day in the orphanage, either runny as gruel or solid as cement.
Jake added sugar and cream then scooped a spoonful of oatmeal and took his first bite. “Delicious.”
Callie gifted him with a smile. “I’m glad you like it. From your expression earlier, I thought you didn’t.”
“I’ve never had oatmeal that tasted like this.”
Elise rose and took her bowl to the sink. “Please come to church with us, Jake. You’ll be doing me a favor.”
Did she believe his presence would take the focus off her?
“Nothing like a visitor to get folks excited.” Callie met his gaze. “This will be Elise’s first time to attend…in months.”
Jake would prefer taking a thrashing than to darken a church door, but one glance at Elise’s drawn face and he understood. Walking into this home had made him uncomfortable, as if he didn’t belong and had no right to be here. But it was nothing compared to the stares, the whispers, the muttered comments at his trial and upon his release from jail.
No doubt Elise would experience the same thing at church with her pregnancy in full bloom. He’d go if for no other reason than to shield her from that nightmare. And to please Callie. “I suppose you could use reinforcements.”
“We’re all going,” Callie said in a contented tone, then turned to Elise. “If anyone is impolite to you, they’ll answer to me.”
Elise grinned and winked at Jake.
Callie folded her arms across her chest. “Do you doubt I’m a formidable opponent?” She attempted a glower and failed.
“No.” Elise was laughing now.
Jake chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to go up against you, Callie.” Then he thought better of it. Going up against the young widow might just be fun.
Callie grinned. “I’m glad you both see I’m a force to be reckoned with.” The grin faded as she tucked the dishes she’d prepared into a large woven basket. “Some people believe they’re pure as driven snow, but pew sitters are sinners, too. Saved, but not by their goodness.”
From what Jake had seen, people who ranked sin were quick to judge. Innocent or not, he’d been in prison. To most, prison spelled guilty. Callie would probably feel the same way if she knew he’d served time.
“If your father-in-law’s reaction means anything, Callie, my presence at church might make things worse.”
A flash of disquiet crossed Callie’s face. She quickly controlled her expression. “As long as the house is unsafe, Commodore assumes I’ll have to move in with him and Dorothy. He’s upset that you’re thwarting his plan.”
Elise’s brow furrowed. “Can he take your house away?”
“No, it’s mine. I’m staying and you are, too, for as long as you want.” She glanced at Jake. “Once Commodore sees you in church, he’ll have to admit that you’re not the scoundrel he makes you out to be.”
Jake suspected that Mitchell didn’t change his opinions that easily. Still, he’d go. What choice did he have with Elise looking at him
with those soulful eyes of hers? With Callie’s gaze issuing a challenge?
This cozy kitchen and its occupants enveloped him in the warmth of home and family—all the things he’d missed and yearned to have. He wouldn’t let Commodore run him off.
But Jake suspected that his and Elise’s presence in church today would stir up trouble. For years he’d avoided trouble. Now it appeared he’d go looking for it.
Chapter Seven
Callie jabbed a hatpin in the crown of her Sunday best, facing the mirror in the elaborately carved hall tree with more appendages than an octopus—hooks for coats, slots for umbrellas and canes, a shelf for men’s hats or ladies’ gloves and a bench to ease off one’s boots. She’d get far more accomplished if she could handle that many tasks at once. Though, at times like this morning, she felt more octopus than human.
With all she had going on, she’d had little time to consider Jacob’s baffling demeanor in her kitchen earlier. She’d entertained a host of friends and family, but had never witnessed the kind of discomfort he’d exhibited.
In his realm, making repairs to the house, he appeared totally at ease. So why would a take-charge man who handled one chore after another with confidence become hesitant, look as if he didn’t know whether to sit or stand or run?
Tucking a wisp of hair in place, her hand stilled, as an idea took hold in her mind. That first day, Jacob told her he’d grown up in an orphanage. Was it possible he’d always lived in an institution or rented a room somewhere, taken his meals in cafés and never stepped foot inside a private residence?
That didn’t make sense. Perhaps the reason for his uneasiness had more to do with attending church. No doubt the reason his lack of faith. Yet, he’d agreed for Elise’s sake, almost as if he felt a kinship with her, and then gulped his breakfast and left, supposedly to change for services.
Would he reconsider? No, he’d said he would attend. One thing Callie believed—Jacob kept his word.
The grandfather clock chimed the half hour. While the clock ticked away, she’d been dillydallying, trying to decipher Jacob Smith, a puzzle she couldn’t solve. “Elise, are you ready?” she called up the stairs, tugging on her gloves.
Her young charge appeared on the landing, her hair corralled in a tight bun, her cheeks pale, her gaze tethered to Callie’s like a lifeline. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, but her voice wobbled.
Smiling to impart courage to Elise, even as a lump rose in Callie’s throat, she motioned her down. “We don’t want to be late.”
As Callie stepped onto the porch, the odor of pine wafted from the newly laid boards. Her mind flew to long ago Christmases. Freshly cut tabletop trees, the branches adorned with strings of popcorn and her paper ornaments. Ornaments, pictures, keepsakes, all swept away in the churning water. Along with her parents, baby brother and three others who drowned that tragic day. With trembling hands, she took Elise’s elbow and they descended the sturdy steps.
“Is Jake planning to paint the porch boards?”
The odor of pine couldn’t be obscured fast enough to suit Callie. “Yes, once he gets the railings fixed.” Callie’s gaze roamed the yard, but she saw no sign of the carpenter. “I hope Jacob didn’t change his mind about going.”
The words had no more left her mouth than he appeared, his raven hair damp and glistening, his jaw clean-shaven, his rangy frame sporting creased pants and a starched white shirt.
Callie’s breath caught and held as she drank him in. Not his usual denims, but no matter what he wore, clothes draped on his lean muscular build with an elegance that made him stand out in a crowd. Something told Callie he’d prefer to blend in.
He greeted Elise, then turned to her. “I bought these clothes in town yesterday for that dinner you invited me to. Didn’t expect to need them this soon.”
“You look very handsome,” she said, pleased that he’d wanted to make a good appearance for her.
His gaze traveled her purple dress, the snowy-white high neck and wide lapels covering her shoulders, then slid down her length to the hem. “You look beautiful. Like violets in bloom.”
Their eyes locked and something significant passed between them, deepening the connection Callie didn’t want but couldn’t resist. “Thank you,” she managed, trying not to let him know his compliment had melted her insides into a puddle.
“You look pretty, Elise.”
With downcast eyes, Elise gathered her shawl more tightly around her bulging middle. “Your mother raised a polite son.”
The light in Jacob’s eyes dimmed. Elise had forgotten he’d never had the comforting presence of a mother. Callie had a crazy notion to pull him into a hug, to try to make amends for the years he’d spent in an orphanage. But, of course, she wouldn’t.
“Where’s your basket?” he asked.
Callie motioned to the porch, trying to turn her wayward thoughts to the task at hand. Jacob bounded up the steps, lifting the heavy load with ease. He was considerate. Considerate and reliable, a combination Callie respected. Yet without a family, life had left him wounded. Something Callie understood all too well. Her heart went out to this loner, yet his lack of openness warned her to keep their relationship impersonal. Or was it already too late for that?
Returning to their sides, he swept a hand up the walk. “After you, ladies.”
With Elise all but dragging her feet, the four-block walk to Peaceful Christian Church took far longer than it should have. At the entrance, Elise froze.
“Be brave,” Callie whispered. “We’re marching, remember?”
Biting her lip, Elise straightened her spine. Jacob held the door and they walked into the vestibule, Elise with her head held high. Callie had never felt prouder of anyone. Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Callie got her bearings. Most folks sat in the pews or were moving in that direction.
“Jacob, would you please put the basket over there with the others?” She pointed to a bounty-filled bench.
He did as she asked, jaw rigid, eyes straight ahead. The look of a man prepared for trouble. When he returned to her side, Callie, her heels clacking on the wooden floor, led the troop toward the last pew on the right. Every head turned in their direction, eyes focusing on Elise. From some of the startled, then stern expressions, not everyone rejoiced that Elise had returned to services.
Behind the altar the stained-glass window sparkled, radiating the joy and peace of the Lord. Or so Callie saw it. How she loved this beautiful church with its dark woodwork and whitewashed walls. She hoped nothing would happen to bring ugliness to this house of worship.
“Please stand. Open your hymnals to page 37, ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus.’”
Sandwiched between Jacob and Elise, Callie flipped to the hymn and held the book for her companions as the song leader signaled the organist, then led the singing.
Callie glanced to the right, to Elise’s trembling lips and wondered what thoughts filled her mind—guilt, humiliation or elation to worship once again in God’s house? She put an arm around her and squeezed. Elise’s lips turned up in weak smile.
To her left, Jacob’s tight-lipped profile looked rigid, as if chiseled from marble. Was he angry at their reception or merely loath to be in church? Perhaps years in an orphanage had erected stumbling blocks between him and God. Stumbling blocks he needed to demolish, as he had the rotten boards of her porch, before he could find peace.
As she turned the pages to the next song, Callie prayed that after the service, congregation members would welcome Elise and Jacob. Whether they intended it or not, their behavior would send a message—censure refuted a loving God. Mercy revealed God’s love.
Jacob had said the church wanted their pew sitters clean. She’d argued the point then, but now…
Now she wondered if he’d been right.
Callie took a shaky breath. She’d come this morning to worship and worship she would. And perhaps, just perhaps, God would soften hearts and transform what looked like trouble into harmony.
>
Please, Lord, help everything that’s done and said this morning be in accordance with Your will.
Having laid it before the throne, Callie released the weight of her concerns and sang with abandon, filled with expectation that God would bless Elise and Jacob for setting aside their qualms and attending church.
Just as He’d blessed her when she’d come to Peaceful, a frightened little girl. This church family had opened their arms to her, giving her guidance, love and support.
Surely two hurting people would be welcomed with the same love as a grieving child.
Wouldn’t they?
Jake half listened to the sermon on harvesting the sheaves, guessing that most folks sitting in the pews didn’t care to save every soul, and considered some not worth saving.
After the sermon, a ruddy-faced gentleman read a list of the sick and announced the potluck to follow. The preacher gave the benediction and the congregation spilled into the aisles, hauled by their noses toward the tantalizing aroma of food.
Jake rose from the pew and stepped aside, letting Callie and Elise lead the way. As in jail and the towns he’d stopped in since his release, he felt eyes on his back. A stranger would naturally arouse curiosity. How long before those stares turned hostile? And curiosity became judgment?
Why he’d agreed to stay for the meal baffled him. With an instinct that rarely failed him, Jake sensed that few would welcome Elise or him into the fold. Fine. He’d never seen anyone until Callie do more than mouth their faith anyway.
When Gerald Swartz had picked him out from the lineup of orphans, right after Jake’s sixteenth birthday and taken him home, Jake had believed he’d attained his childhood dream. As long as he could remember, his fantasies had centered on having a family, a home, perhaps sharing a room with a brother or two. At last, someone wanted him.
They’d wanted him all right.
To work from sunup to sunset, handling every imaginable chore they threw at him. Eager to please, he’d slept in the barn, bathed in the creek, worn hand-me-down clothes, done exactly as he was told without complaint, certain he’d earn their trust and prove he wouldn’t be a burden.
