Beyond I Do

by Jennifer Slattery

  Ridiculous.

  Ainsley needed him. Deep down, she knew this. Otherwise she’d end up just like her irresponsible, ideological mother, bouncing from job to job and man to man until Social Security kicked in.

  He glanced at the satin box sitting on his desk, her very expensive engagement ring tucked inside.

  Oh, sweet Ainsley, why must you sabotage every good thing that comes your way?

  He tried her phone again. Nothing. He redialed. Two more attempts later, she answered.

  “Richard, you must stop this. You’re becoming obsessive.”

  “Ainsley, please. I’m concerned for you. We really must—”

  “If you don’t stop harassing me, I’ll change my number.”

  He froze, his hand tightening around his phone. A muscle in his jaw cramped, sending a jolt of pain up his temple. He was pushing too hard. Time to soften his approach.

  “I’ve been think—”

  The line went dead. Well, then, if she wouldn’t come to him, he’d have to find a way to get to her.

  Ah! Their online planner. He talked her into using Mitzo, a shared calendar, when they first began planning their wedding. She’d probably forgotten all about it, and that he had it linked to her phone calendar and email accounts.

  He moved to his computer and clicked to the downloaded app, navigating to her daily agenda. She had a few meetings this morning. But that would be too soon. No, he needed to give her time to cool down.

  But by Thursday, she’d be in a much better mood, and she had an appointment near the Plaza that day, at 10:30. Perfect.

  He closed out the window and called to his secretary. “Mrs. Ellis, please contact Panache Chocolatier and instruct them to prepare a large gift pail. Have them charge this to the office Visa. Let them know I’ll pick it up in a few days. Make sure they understand I will be in a hurry and will not want to wait in line.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thursday morning, he parked in front of a glass-walled medical building, Ainsley’s car in sight. Flipping on his radio, he leaned back against the headrest and waited. Gershwin’s piano concerto soothed away his frustrations, ushering forth his analytical side.

  Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes later, she exited the building dressed in a lavender sweater, knee-length skirt, and flats. Soft curls framed her delicate face, her cheeks a delightful pink. She was so incredibly beautiful. She still favored her left ankle, although most of her limp was gone.

  Grabbing the pail of candy, Richard slipped out of his Lexus, easing the door closed. Lengthening his stride, he met her at her car. “Ainsley.”

  Startled, she whirled to face him, her eyes wide. “Richard.” She looked from him to the candy then back to him and crossed her arms. “What are you doing here?”

  He forced what he hoped to be an endearing smile. “I realize you are upset, and I completely understand, but I’m concerned with the way we’ve left things. With where things are going.” He stepped toward her; she stepped back, maintaining the distance between them. “You know as well as I how important it is to discuss these things.”

  “I’m done discussing.”

  “I have something for you.” He held out the pail of chocolate. “Something sweet for my sweet.”

  “Richard, please.” She placed one hand on her car door. The other clutched her computer bag.

  “Can we go for coffee? There’s a wonderful café down the—”

  “Stop.” She raised her voice and her hand. “What part of ‘It is over’ don’t you understand?”

  He tensed, heat shooting through his veins. “There’s no reason to become so emotional.”

  “Then listen to me. Watch my lips.” She pointed to her mouth. “I won’t marry you, Richard. And no amount of phone calls, cards, and presents will change that.”

  “I’m sorry, Richard. I truly am.”

  The ungrateful, inconsiderate—. Nerves in his neck and jaw firing, he narrowed his gaze. “Are you?” He made no attempt to hide the edge in his voice.

  “I am.”

  “Then I suggest you think long and hard about what you’re doing here.” He trembled as he fought to maintain self-control.

  She shook her head. “I wish you the best.” She started to slip inside her car.

  He lunged for her and grabbed her arm. “Wait!”

  She whirled around, her eyes hot. “Let go of me. Now.”

  Blood pulsated in his ears and the tips of his fingers, pressed firmly against Ainsley’s smooth skin. He couldn’t let it end like this. He refused.

  A car door slammed, and heavy footsteps approached, but the sound barely registered. He continued to grip Ainsley’s arm, his vision narrowing on her thin, quivering lips.

  A shadow fell over him. “This guy bothering you, miss?” Outweighing Richard by at least fifty pounds, a bulky man in a camouflaged jacket moved to Ainsley’s side, gaze fixed on Richard.

  He maintained eye contact without wavering. “This does not concern you.”

  “Wrong answer.” The man wedged closer, close enough for Richard to feel his hot breath on his face.

  As the two remained in a nonverbal standoff, another car pulled into the lot. Its owner, a balloon of a man with a shiny bald head and a mustache that curled out at the ends, joined the fray. He stood two feet back to Richard’s right, giving no indication he planned to leave.

  Richard’s grip slackened.

  Ainsley jerked her arm away, staring at him with cold eyes. “Thanks for confirming my decision.” She turned to the man in camouflage. “Thank you for your help,” then eased into the driver’s seat. Her door locks clicked and her engine roared to life. Her car lurched backward, she turned, and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Richard to stare after her.

  Chests puffed and arms bowed in a muscle-man stance, the men continued to stare at him. Smoothing his shirt, he looked from one man to the next. “As entertaining as this rather base display of masculinity is, I have much better ways to spend my time.”

  He turned toward his car, but Mr. Camo stopped him.

  “You’re not going anywhere. Not till that gal you were harassing is long gone.”

  Richard snorted. “Harassing? For your information, that gal is my fiancé.”

  “Whatever you say, buddy. You’re still not going anywhere. Not until I’m sure that woman’s put plenty of distance between you two.”

  Richard fisted his hands, fire raging within. There was nothing he could do but comply.

  For now.

  Chapter 17

  aturday morning, pebbles pelted the sides and undercarriage of Ainsley’s car as she continued down the gravel road she hoped led to Beverly Pugh’s place. She gave up on using her GPS a long time ago. Apparently, satellites grew fuzzy the farther one ventured into cow country. Unfortunately, the directions Mrs. Pugh gave weren’t much better. “When you hit a fork in the road, turn left. Not sure if there’s a street sign there. Nope. I’m sure there’s not. It was knocked down by a drunk driver last year some time. Should be a long, barbed wire fence extending a quarter mile of the way or so.”

  The only highlight of her wasting over an hour driving past one farm after another? it looked like she might be able to avoid her mom after all. If the woman wasn’t equally lost, she’d already given up and returned home. Maybe this obedience thing wasn’t so bad after all.

  Probably not the most Christlike attitude she could have, but at least she was trying. Sort of. Inwardly cringing, she glanced toward the ball of fire hovering in the pale-blue sky. I’m sorry, Lord. Help me be more . . . gracious. Forgiving.

  The word stung.

  Thank goodness Richard hadn’t called. Not since their parking lot fiasco. Maybe he finally accepted the fact their relationship was over. Although as stubborn as he was, she doubted it.

  She looked at the hand-drawn map Deborah had given her for the tenth time. How many gravel roads cutting through cornfields could there be? She surveyed her surroundings, with farmland stretched in ev
ery direction. Apparently a lot. The houses, however, were few and far between.

  Seemed the smartest thing to do at this point was turn around and head home. She reversed her car, heading south on what she assumed to be Old Creek Lane. Less than a mile later, a single-lane dirt road appeared on her right. It was flanked by tall, golden grass, and a rusted metal gate marked the entrance. Three orange balloons and a handwritten sign verified Mrs. Pugh’s residence was but a few more potholes away.

  The road took her to a two-story log cabin centered in an open field. Half a dozen vehicles filled the driveway and adjacent grassy area, Deborah’s twenty-year-old Volvo among them. Ainsley pulled in front of an old red barn and cut the engine.

  Stepping out into the crisp fall air, she inhaled the sweet scent of fresh cut hay and baked apples. Firewood was stacked along the left of the house, a primitive vegetable garden next to that. Behind this stretched a fenced pasture where a carameltoned Pinto and a speckled calf grazed.

  Ainsley stepped onto the wraparound porch, the wood creaking beneath her. Laughter poured from the opened windows, Deborah’s among them. Smiling, she opened the screened door and rapped on the wood behind it. It opened with a whoosh, releasing a warm gust of cinnamon-spiced air.

  “Hello!” Mrs. Pugh engulfed Ainsley in a hug then pulled away, looking behind her. “Is your mother coming?”

  She suppressed a frown. “Don’t know.”

  “No matter. Come in, come in.”

  She ushered Ainsley into a room filled with pumpkins, scarecrow statues, and burning candles. Handmade quilts draped over checked furniture and framed embossing hung on the wall. Women of all ages and sizes filled the room, some doing needlework, others peeling apples at a long table pushed near the side wall.

  “Look who finally arrived.” Beverly placed her hands on Ainsley’s shoulders. Heads turned, hands stopped, and smiles grew.

  Deborah rose to greet her. “So glad you could make it. I was starting to get worried.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Do you think your mom will have any trouble?”

  Ainsley tensed, her gaze shooting to one of the open windows framed by floral curtains. She shrugged.

  Deborah rubbed her thumb knuckle under her chin. “Hmm . . . If she doesn’t show within the hour, maybe we should go looking for her.”

  Ainsley turned and approached the women sitting at the table. She knew most of them from her years in Sunday School. There were five in all, each over sixty, and four of them still faithfully serving in the church. The women smiled up at her, their eyes bright in their wrinkled faces.

  Magdaline Armstrong, a hunch-backed woman well into her eighties, scooted over and patted the bench seat beside her. “Haven’t seen you since you were knee-high.” She held an arthritic hand four feet off the ground. “You still hiding candy in your pockets?”

  Sitting, Ainsley shook her head. “Absolutely not. I’ve got a purse now.” She raised her tote.

  This got everyone laughing, which soon set some to coughing and blowing their noses into lace-trimmed handkerchiefs. Once her hacking subsided, Magdaline slipped an arm around Ainsley’s back. “Well, I’ve missed you. Can’t get these old bones to church as often as I’d like. But the ladies here keep me grounded. Ain’t that right, Dottie?”

  The woman across from her nodded. “We visit Magdaline once a week and bring the Good Book with us.” She raised a cracked, leather Bible, and numerous heads nodded. Making eye contact with Ainsley, she pushed a bushel of apples across the table and tossed over a peeler. “Better get working, kiddo. We’ve got a lot of orders to fill this year.”

  Ainsley raised an eyebrow. “Orders?” She grabbed a piece of fruit in one hand, a peeler in the other.

  “Uh-huh.” Deborah lifted a notepad filled with names, addresses, and tally marks. “We’re selling our goods—apple sauce, pie, knitted blankets.” She made a large sweeping motion with her arm. “To earn money for Rachel’s House.”

  Ainsley paused in midpeel. “What’s that?”

  “A ministry for pregnant moms.” Magdaline drew her peeler across her apple with a shaky, contorted hand.

  Ainsley watched her for a long time. She grimaced with each stroke, as if it caused her pain, and yet, she continued. The woman had been through a lot. Battled breast cancer in her thirties, had her gallbladder removed ten years later. Buried her husband a week before their fiftieth anniversary, lost their farm a short time later. Now she lived in a rent-controlled studio apartment. And yet, here she sat, working with her arthritic hands to help someone else. And based on the radiant smile she gave everyone who looked her way, it filled her with immense joy to do so.

  Meanwhile, here was Ainsley, with her rent paid, money in the bank, and a steady job—at least for now. And she was more miserable than ever. What did Magdaline have that Ainsley lacked?

  Turning her apple in her hand, she thought about a memory verse Deborah often recited. Whoever wants to save their life will lose it. But whoever loses their life for me will save it.

  A loud knock jolted her attention to the front door.

  Ainsley’s mother’s bellowing voice followed. “Hello?” She banged again. “Hello? Hello-hello-hello, anyone gonna let me in?”

  “And that would be my mom. Excuse me.” She and Deborah exchanged glances and the two of them rose and crossed the room. Deborah opened the door to find Ainsley’s mom on the stoop dressed in leggings, black leather boots, and a glittery sweater dress. She smelled as if she’d been dunked in a perfume factory distiller. A large, zebra print purse hung from one arm, a tote tilled with fake flowers and scraps of tissue from the other.

  She stepped inside and smoothed a stray lock of hair from her face. “Talk about the middle of nowhere! What do the people in this town have against street signs? I thought I’d never find this place.”

  Now wouldn’t that have been nice? Forcing a smile, Ainsley allowed her mother to hug her before moving aside. “You remember Deborah Eldridge?”

  Her mother eyed the woman then nodded. “Yes, of course. Your old third-grade teacher. How nice to see you.” She surveyed the area, her gaze lingering on two baskets, one filled with gourds, the other with giant pine cones, placed on the brick mantel. “Now isn’t this quaint?” She took Ainsley’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “This will be fun.”

  Ainsley tried to return her mother’s smile, but her cheeks were beginning to ache and her stomach felt as if it’d been tossed in a blender. Please don’t do anything to embarrass me. Or offend these sweet ladies. Hands clasped in front of her, she led her mother to the long table covered in fruit bowls, apple peelings, and cinnamon sticks. A stack of sticky labels and permanent markers were spread out at each end of the table.

  Small talk followed as the ladies introduced themselves, sharing where they lived and how long they’d been participating in the fall event. Then, they talked about the various projects they were doing, inviting Ainsley’s mom to join them.

  “So many wonderful endeavors to choose from.” Dropping her belongings on the floor, her mom fingered a lace doily. “But since I came to spend time with my wonderful daughter,” she flashed Ainsley a smile, “I’ll do whatever she chooses. What are you working on, darling?”

  Ainsley shrugged. “Peeling apples, I guess.”

  She and her mother sat, and the women handed them each a peeler and pushed a fruit bowl between them. Her mother grabbed an apple and rolled it around in her hand. She looked at the stack of labels. “I love how you all work together. Support one another. I for one am thrilled I could help out. You know, I’m something of an entrepreneur myself.”

  The women stopped working and stared at her. Ainsley and Deborah exchanged glanced.

  Ainsley almost hated to ask. “What are you talking about, Mother?”

  She laughed. “Oh, you know, dear. I’ve participated in numerous business ventures over the years. Surely you remember my catering business.”

  “Not really.” Unless she was ref
erring to the time when she printed off a bunch of hand-typed menus and delivered them to all the neighbors. Or maybe when she sold sandwiches at a garage sale.

  “I hit a few hurdles and setbacks. Tried a few things, tweaked some others. But I’ve always felt if only I had more support . . . She looked at Ainsley and shrugged. “Anyway, I hope you ladies have more luck than I did. It’s sad but true, this economy is a bear for the small business owner.”

  “This isn’t a business, Mother. These ladies are going to sell their wares to help raise money for a ministry our church supports.”

  “Oh.” Her mother’s eyes widened. “What a thoughtful gesture.”

  Magdaline nodded. “We do this twice a year, once in the fall and again in the spring, same ministry each time.” She went on to explain what the Rachel House did, who they helped, and why they needed financial support. “It’s a community affair. We do the baking and making, others do the purchasing, often donating well over the suggested prices.” She smiled. “It’s wonderful to know our baked goods can help bring hope to those young women.”

  “And tangible things like food and clothes.” Deborah grabbed a bowl full of peeled apples. “You’d be surprised how many of those ladies don’t have coats to get them through the winter.”

  Ainsley immediately thought of William and his mother, living who knew where. Hopefully they’d found somewhere else to stay. But what if they hadn’t? The winters in Kansas City could be so brutal. “What a wonderful thing you all are doing.” Her mom wiggled off the bench and moved to a central location where she could see the kitchen, dining table, and living room. “I’d love to order a few pies.” She glanced at a stack of quilts draped over a standing towel rack. “And some blankets as well.” Sweeping through the room, she hit shopping mode and had soon gathered a large number of items.

  Ainsley quickly drew to her side. “Mom, you really can’t afford this right now.”