Rachel's expression fell, and James felt responsible. Rachel had been up before dawn working on dinner, wanting everything to be perfect for her new friend.
"I'm so sorry ..." Rachel, ever the nurturer, touched the side of Molly's cheek. "You do feel a little warm."
Molly offered a noncommittal shrug. "Yes, but I think some extra rest will take care of it:"
Rachel nodded and bowed her head.
Knowing he was to blame for Molly's change of heart, James grew determined to change it back. "Please reconsider, Mrs. Whitcomb. The boys stayed up late last night. They both made something special in your honor. And Rachel's apple crumb cake took the ribbon at this year's spring festival. If you don't get it now"-with work, he managed to get her attention-"you might have to wait `a whole 'nother year, as Kurt says."
Whether it was his persuasiveness or Rachel's obvious disappointment-he wagered it was the latter-he detected Molly wavering. And when Rachel hugged her again and Molly hugged her back, he knew their plans were on again.
Throughout the afternoon, James felt a deepening certainty that Molly's coming to Timber Ridge was by God's design. And was for their benefit as much as hers.
Rachel outdid herself at lunch, and as the boys presented their gifts to their new teacher-excitement flickering in their eyes as he hadn't seen in a long time-he found himself more and more curious about Molly Whitcomb.
"I hope you like it, teacher." Mitchell stood close by her side, rocking from heel to toe, as he did when he was excited. "I made it myself."
Molly removed the brown wrapping paper to reveal a box made from cut branches whittled free of bark and bound tight with string. She turned it in her hands. "Mitchell, this is-" She firmed her lips, her eyes bright with emotion. "This is beautiful, and so thoughtful of you:"
Mitchell beamed. "I made it for your desk at school:'
Molly's lips trembled. `And that's exactly where I'll put it. I'll use it every day and think of you:'
"Now it's my turn!" Kurt edged closer, grinning and holding out his wrapped package. "Be careful. They can break:"
Molly took the package from him, brushing his cheek with her forefinger, her mannerisms reflecting his excitement. She gingerly removed the paper-and gasped. She held the board out as though trying to put distance between it and her. "Oh, Kurt! This is-" She swallowed. "This is w-wonderful."
Kurt leaned closer, pointing to the largest and hairiest bug pinned to the board. "I found this one here in the barn. In one of the stalls. Feel his wings. They're real soft."
James had trouble containing his laughter, and saw Rachel having the same reaction. Apparently Molly Whitcomb did not like bugs, and that was putting it mildly. But recalling the hours Kurt had spent "catching" his present for her, he hoped she would appreciate the offering for what it was.
"Oh, I bet they are soft. But I-" Molly gave a visible shudder. "I'd hate to break them:" She looked closer. "Are they ... all dead?"
Kurt giggled. "These are. But I've got some live ones in my room if you want to-"
"No, no;" she said quickly, smiling. "These are ... amazing specimens." She shot a look in James's direction, seeming to draw a measure of calm. `And I appreciate all the time and effort you took in ... catching them for me:'
Kurt's little chest puffed out.
As the afternoon stretched on, James sensed Molly relaxing, and he got a glimpse of the woman she must have been before her husband died. She was vibrant, quick-witted, and possessed a natural curiosity of life that was engaging. And she was pretty as all get out. Even dressed head to toe in black.
He hadn't felt this depth of an attraction to a woman in-well, forever. And while he felt better knowing that his attraction to her wasn't based solely on the physical, knowing that also bothered him. If she'd been the slightest bit uppity or unkind, or even uninterested in the goings-on of others' lives, he could've more easily dismissed his feelings.
That evening he drove her home in the wagon and she sat quietly beside him, wearing his jacket. She'd said she was chilly, but the cool evening air felt good to him. This was his favorite time of day. When the sky had a golden purple wash to it and the mountains seemed even bigger, all dark and craggy, set up against a waning sun.
He'd kept his promise to himself about not mixing business with personal. They had some things to talk out between them, but he hated to ruin such a nice day. He tugged on the reins and brought the wagon to a stop in front of her cabin.
He set the brake and went around to her side to help her down. When his hands fit about her waist and he lowered her to the ground, James recalled what Brandon Tolliver had said about hidden motives. Molly stood looking up at him, and for all the world, he wanted to kiss her. Slowly, and thoroughly. Thoughts of what kissing her would be like, of what it would feel like to hold her, of the softness of her lips, were vivid inside him.
Desire bolted through him, unexpected and unfettered. And he quickly let her go and stepped back, putting distance between them.
Her brow furrowed. She stared, and James felt as though she'd caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. She'd been a married woman. She was familiar with the desires of a man and had no doubt just glimpsed that desire in his eyes. He felt as though he needed to apologize, yet that didn't seem quite right either.
What if he'd misread her and she hadn't noticed anything? He'd only be drawing attention to something that would bring further discomfort. To them both.
She touched his arm. "James.. "
Whether his reaction was only internal or if she'd noticed too, he couldn't tell. He only knew that it would be best for her not to touch him right now. Yet he did not want her to remove her hand.
Her smile was slow to bloom. "I appreciate your allowing this afternoon to be what it was ... a wonderful time with friends. Rachel is so lovely and kind." She moved her hand away. `And your nephews are endearing:'
"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, and that you changed your mind about coming:" He found it easier to speak when he wasn't looking at her. He motioned to the cabin. "I'll wait here until you're safe inside:"
She didn't move. "I'm sorry for my reaction earlier today ... after church. It was childish and silly, and I apologize:"
The sincerity in her eyes made him swallow. He'd prayed often through the years that God would remove the desire for a woman's touch, since a wife didn't seem to be in his future. And He had-up until now, it seemed.
The life of any sheriff, much less a sheriff in a town like Timber Ridge, didn't leave room for a wife and a family. Having Rachel and the boys in his care was hard enough. Not that he'd shirked his duties in enforcing the law since coming to live with them, but there were times when he'd carried out his responsibilities as sheriff and had worried that the threats made against him would extend to them as well.
Coming after him was one thing. Coming after Rachel and the boysor his family, if he had one-was another.
"You were right, early on:" Molly gave a gentle shrug. "About my not expecting to find things in Timber Ridge to my liking. I wasn't at all excited about the prospects of living here. I imagined the town would be rougher, the aspects of my job less desirable, and the people far less kind:" Her expression grew earnest. "But I was wrong. I'm grateful for the opportunity the town council has given me, Sheriff," she said with a nod. "I want you to know that:'
There it was again. That vulnerability. That briefest glimpse past her confident facade, as though she considered herself unworthy of the teaching position. Her humility only made her more special in his eyes, and increased his determination to keep their relationship on a right footing.
`And you need to know again, Dr. Whitcomb, that we're very pleased you said yes. Now.. " He motioned toward the cabin, then remembered something and turned to reach into the back of the wagon. "Let's not forget these:"
He handed her Mitchell's gift and she gave it a closer look.
"Mitchell said he made this himself." Her tone held a twinge of doubt. "But I'm thi
nking he had help:"
"I showed him what to do, but he insisted on doing all the work himself. He started over three times. You'll find he's a stickler for doing things right, and for wanting to do it that way the very first time. He gets frustrated on occasion and needs to learn to be more patient with himself."
She nodded. "I can relate, and appreciate knowing that about him:' She was slower to accept Kurt's gift and used care to hold the board by the edges. "Thank you"-she frowned-"I think:"
James grinned. "Kurt likes bugs:"
"Yes, I gathered that:"
"And I take it that you don't."
"I'm not overly fond of them, no. But at least it's not a snake:" She eyed the board, which served as the final resting place for ten near-perfect beetles and other insects.
"Kurt's always been interested in anything that creeps or crawls. When he was two, he came to church with a lizard in his pocket:" James laughed remembering Thomas's and Rachel's response. "He took it out during Communion and about scared Lyda Mullins half to death:"
Molly shuddered, barely finding a smile.
"Would you like me to carry this to the door for you?"
She nodded. "Would you, please? I'm not altogether sure that one on the far corner is dead yet:"
He took the board and walked her up to the front porch, feeling at ease again with the woman beside him. His desire to kiss her hadn't lessened, but, with effort, he held it in check. Other than Rachel, he'd never been close to a woman before. This could be good. This being friends with Molly Whitcomb.
He kept telling himself that on the way home, and then again as he lay in bed later that night. The same bed she'd slept in, which-when thinking of that, and imagining the softness of her mouth-only pushed sleep further from his mind.
It was Monday morning and Molly had two overfull weeks of work ahead before school started. And it wasn't getting done with her just standing here, drinking coffee, staring out at the stream behind her cabin. She rinsed out her cup and left it by the washbasin.
Wearing her own black dress, freshly brushed, she grabbed her reticule, along with her teaching satchel packed with lesson samples and books, and checked her image in the mirror hanging by the door one last time.
Propped on a side table, the board containing the still-much-tooalive-looking bugs drew her attention. They were dead-she felt certain. But the way the big black one on the end stared back at her did make her wonder.
But better a collection of bugs than a snake. Her spine crawled just thinking about it.
A neighborhood boy had slipped a snake into her lunch pail once, and she'd nearly fainted when she found it-and she'd been fourteen at the time! From then on, whenever a fellow classmate made fun of her, the others would laugh and make a hissing sound.
Cute little Kurt Boyd had spent no telling how many hours collecting these for her. Still, she didn't like the idea of keeping them in her home.
An idea came. Why hadn't she thought of it before?
She slipped on her gloves and carried the board, along with her reticule and satchel, the short distance to the schoolhouse. She gave the insect collection a prominent place on a shelf and planned to use it for a science lesson the very first week. Surely Kurt Boyd would approve of that. But the best thing was-the bugs were out of her house!
Sunlight filtered through the bank of windows on her left, falling across the rows of desks and illuminating specks of dust in the air that otherwise would have gone unseen. She walked up the aisle to her desk and slowly took a seat in her chair, facing the classroom, memorizing the moment, and imagining the room full of children, all chattering as they bustled to their desks, the noise level rising to a deafening crescendo.
For now, quiet reigned. Everything was pristine. Perfect. Orderly and in its place. But it wouldn't stay that way.
Just as her life wouldn't. Not that her life was perfect. It certainly wasn't. But the imperfections were hidden. Where no one could see. And she wished she could keep them there.
A wave of dread rose fierce from somewhere deep inside her. Her days were numbered in Timber Ridge-she felt it. An ache settled in her chest. Tomorrow marked the first of August-and the third full month of her pregnancy. What was Jeremy Fowler doing this very moment? Did he even give her-or the baby-a passing thought? Especially now, as his marriage to Maria Elena Patterson drew closer.
Fall semester would soon be under way at Franklin College. Professors would return to campus, report for faculty meetings, and share lunch in the college cafeteria. Was the new administration building completed yet? And what of the new Language Arts facility? Where her new office would have been.
She'd known Jeremy for three years. They'd been colleagues, serving on committees together. Then they'd moved to being friends. He'd invited her to lunch, and they gradually began attending faculty gatherings with each other, even going to church together on occasion. But when her father fell ill, their relationship had developed into something ... more.
Jeremy had stayed by her side during those last difficult days, then the ones leading up to the funeral, and after, helping her with details and being there whenever she needed support or someone to talk to. They'd discussed marriage but never made a formal announcement.
Looking back, Molly wondered if she'd inferred more than she should have. Remembering the last time she'd been to his house, she closed her eyes, feeling as if it were three years ago instead of only three months.
"I want you to know how much I appreciate your doing this for me, Molly." Jeremy had led her through the spacious lobby of his home into a front parlor. "You're an expert on grant requests. It won't take long, and your knowledge will benefit the entire college:"
She tried not to be obvious as she took in the elaborate surroundings of his home again. She'd been there before for faculty gatherings and evenings spent with him discussing their shared love of literature. Antiques filled the home, and the plush Persian rug underfoot served to remind her how different his background was from hers.
Jeremy tossed his jacket over a wingback chair. "I'll make us some coffee before we get started. Mrs. Fulton's already left for the day, so I'm afraid you'll have to suffer through my sorely unrefined culinary skills:"
Molly hesitated. Mrs. Fulton isn't here? The housekeeper had always been present in the home when she'd visited before. The elderly woman never joined them but could always be heard in the kitchen or upstairs in one of the bedrooms. "Perhaps I should leave, Jeremy. I didn't realize that-"
"Don't be silly." He tossed her a look that said she was being foolish. "You and I have been alone before. In my office. In your office. In our classrooms. We're mature adults, Molly. Not schoolchildren who need constant supervision:"
When he put it that way, she felt as if she'd overreacted. Her father's passing had left a gaping hole in her life, in her heart, and Jeremy's companionship had served to fill part of that void. She laid aside her wrap and headed toward the kitchen. "I'll make the coffee, then. Just show me where everything is:"
He caught up with her in the hallway and grabbed her hand. "You're a jewel, Molly Whitcomb:" He brushed a kiss to her knuckles. "And for what it's worth, I think you should have gotten that promotion rather than Alex Hollister."
Molly bowed her head. Appreciating his reassurance, she was sorry he'd brought up the topic again. She'd managed to set aside her disappointment for a few moments.
Jeremy brushed the hair back from her temple. "I doubt President Northrop sees his mistake right now. But he will, in time. You're a gifted teacher, Molly. You'll do well here at Franklin. Just give it time" He quirked a brow. "You'll shake up this old men's fraternity yet:'
She laughed at that, and when he kissed her cheek-once, twice-she couldn't decide whether it was pleasure she felt, or discomfort. They'd kissed before, and she remembered each one vividly. But she was also aware of how alone they were.
He moved closer, but she laid a hand to his chest. "You mentioned coffee?"
He smiled, gi
ving a quick nod. "That I did:" Taking her hand, he led her into the kitchen.
The creak of the schoolhouse door opening brought Molly's head up and swept aside the thick cobweb of memories.
A black man stood in the entryway, toolbox in hand. "I's sorry, Dr. Whitcomb, ma'am. Didn't know you was here. I come back directly."
"No, please:" Molly rose from her desk. "You're not bothering me. In fact, I was just leaving" She gathered her teaching satchel and reticule, thankful for the interruption. "I'm on my way to visit the students and their parents:" She paused by the door, smiling up at him. "But I'm afraid you have the advantage, sir. You know my name, but I don't know yours.
He dipped his head. "The name's Josiah Birch, ma'am. I just come by to finish hookin' up that stovepipe over yonder. The air in these mountains gets bone chillin' come fall, and I don't want these young'uns to be comin' down sick:'
Molly quickly put two and two together. "You're Elijah's father?" As soon as she said it, she recalled the mossy green of Elijah's eyes and wished she could take back the question.
But the smile stretching Josiah's deep mahogany features bespoke nothing less than a father's heartfelt pride. "Yes, ma'am. Elijah's my son. He told me he done met you. Belle said she did too. We're sure glad to have you here, ma'am. Havin' us a school like this with a real teacher means a lot to this town:'
What a gracious statement for this man to make, considering his son wasn't allowed to be a student in this school. Molly chose her words carefully. "I was planning on stopping by to visit with you and your wife this week:'
His brow rose. "You comin' to our house?" He let out a soft whoop. "I best give Belle some warnin. She'll be wantin' to fix up things, for „ sure.
The way he said it led her to think he was only kidding, but still Molly shook her head. "There's no need to do that. I just wanted an opportunity to speak with you both about-" she offered up a hasty prayer-"Elijah ... and his education."
The man's smile faded. "His education?" Deep creases furrowed his brow. "I don't rightly follow your meanin; ma'am."
Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 02] Page 14
