by Loree Lough
It was a good chance to put Naomi King’s advice to the test: “You can’t teach the little ones with ordinary lessons. If you follow the teacher’s manual, they’ll be bored and restless.” The art project had worked quite well last week. Why not incorporate more of the same into this Sunday’s lesson?
She’d purchased five jars of peanut butter, a bottle of vanilla, ten boxes of confectioners’ sugar, two rolls of waxed paper, a monumental stack of foam bowls, three rolls of paper towels and a huge can of crushed peanuts at the grocery store yesterday. Dara could hear in their puzzled voices that she’d piqued her students’ curiosity when she called each last evening and asked that they bring one of their fathers’ old shirts to class, but it was nothing compared with the inquisitive looks on their faces when they marched into the room and saw the supplies, standing in a tidy row on her desk.
“I’ll answer all your questions as soon as we’ve said our opening prayer,” she promised. “Who’d like to do the honor?”
At first, Dara thought she might have to do it herself, as she had last week. Then one tiny hand slid hesitantly into the air.
“Thank you for volunteering, Bobby,” she told him. “Now, let’s all close our eyes and bow our heads.”
The children immediately complied.
“Go ahead, Bobby.”
“Dear Lord,” he began in a sweet, angelic voice, “we thank You for getting us here safely. God bless Miss Mackenzie for being our teacher…” He hesitated for a moment before concluding. “And for bringing all the ingredients to make peanut butter balls. Amen.”
“Peanut butter balls. What’re peanut butter balls?”
The question echoed around the room a dozen times before Angie said, “They’re a no-bake dessert that’s very high in fat and—”
“But they’re fun to make and dee-licious!” Bobby tacked on.
“How do you know ‘bout peanut butter balls?” Pete asked.
“Our mother taught us to make them,” was Angie’s straightforward reply.
Dara clapped her hands. “All right, class, let’s get our hands washed so we can dig in.”
In a matter of minutes, they were back in their seats, draped in their fathers’ baggy, cast-off shirts. “We’re going to learn something about creation today,” she said, going from desk to desk, rolling up sleeves. And handing each student a sheet of waxed paper, she added, “God took special ingredients, mixed them and made the world.”
As Dara gave the children their own disposable bowls, she began quoting Genesis in words these first graders would understand. To emphasize the lesson, she doled out peanut butter and sugar, a drop of vanilla, and invited the kids to mix them thoroughly…with their bare hands. When they’d made dough of the mixture, she instructed them to form gumdrop-size balls from it, then instructed them to roll their peanut butter balls in the crushed nuts.
Lisa licked the mixture off her fingers. “Mmm,” she said. “That was good work.”
“And messy work,” Tina agreed.
“But now we can enjoy—and share—what we’ve made,” Dara told them.
“Oh, I get it!” Pete shouted. “Like God enjoyed the world, and shared it with Adam and Eve once he got done makin’ it!”
“Once he had finished it,” Angie corrected, sighing deeply.
“Is God gonna eat the world?” Donny teased, popping a peanut butter ball into his mouth.
“‘Course not, stupid. It’s too big to fit in His mouth,” Pete said around a mouthful of his own sticky treat.
“It isn’t polite to call people ‘stupid,’” Angie scolded.
Dara had spent only two weeks with the class, but her students had spent three months with Angie. They rolled their eyes at her admonition.
Angie could pretend to be older and wiser than the rest of the kids in class, but Dara had seen her eyes light up at the prospect of digging her fingers into the gooey mess that would become the peanut butter balls. And despite her best attempts to appear above it all, her “cookies” were just as lopsided as everyone else’s.
The children left class, chattering happily—around mouthfuls of the treat they’d made with their own two hands—about what they’d do once the snow started. Dara went about the business of cleaning up what Donny had referred to as “Our Genesis Mess.”
Humming, she dropped sticky bowls and wrinkled sheets of waxed paper into the wastebasket, then began packing up the leftover ingredients and paper products. Dara had but one regret about teaching this class: not one of the students was her son or daughter. She loved everything about children—from cradle to cap and gown—their effervescent exuberance to their brighteyed view of the world was contagious. Someday, she hoped, the Lord would see fit to answer her prayer and send a good Christian man into her life.
One like Dad, she thought, gritting her teeth with grim determination. She would prove he hadn’t committed that awful crime if it was the last thing she ever did!
He’d earned her faith in him, her loyalty, because he’d been a wonderful father, a wonderful husband! Dara recalled how well he’d always taken care of her mother, how much more devoted and compassionate he became when she got sick. Dara wanted a love like that, a man like that, with whom she could build a home, a family, a future—
“May I have a word with you, Miss Mackenzie?”
The suddenness of the deep baritone startled her, and Dara dropped the paper bag she’d been holding.
“Sorry,” he said, a crooked smile slanting his tawny mustache, “didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She stooped to retrieve the paper towels and foam bowls that had rolled under her desk. “No problem. I just didn’t see you there, that’s all.” Dara jammed the articles back into the bag, stood it near the door. “Now then,” she said, dusting her hands in front of her, “what can I do for you, Mr. Lucas?”
He didn’t answer right away, a fact that gave Dara an overall uneasy feeling. She was about to ask what he was looking at when he said, “I’d like to thank you.”
“Thank me?” His intense scrutiny had unnerved her, and a jittery giggle popped from her lips. “Whatever for?”
“For attempting to comfort my daughter last week. Bobby told me what you said…and did.”
Dara frowned, trying to remember specifically what he might be referring to. The hug? That little peck on the temple? She shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t—”
“I’m the one who’s afraid, Miss Mackenzie,” he interrupted. “Since my wife passed away, the children haven’t had much in the way of female nurturing. I try,” he added, shoulders up and palms extended, “but I make a better dad than a mom.”
Dara took note of his broad shoulders, his muscular legs, the big fingers that repeatedly combed through his shining blond hair. I’ll say, she thought, grinning inwardly. “Well, no one expects you to be a superhero,” she said, “least of all, Bobby and Angie.”
“Maybe not,” he said in a quiet voice, “but they deserve the best, and I’m a far cry from it.”
This was a side of Noah Lucas that Dara never would have guessed existed.
“I just wanted to thank you is all, for your kindness.”
Coming from anyone else, the words would have been taken at face value, and she would have said, “Just doin’ my job.” But from a man like Noah Lucas—reserved, private, stoic—they took on a whole new meaning, because Dara had a feeling he didn’t make a practice of saying such things.
“You can be very proud of Bobby and Angie,” she admitted. “They are two of the best-behaved children I’ve ever met” Grinning, she held a finger in the air to add, “And I’ll have you know this isn’t my first encounter with children.”
“So I’ve heard.”
So he had checked her out! The question was, had he done it because of the funny-money business down at Pinnacle? Or because she’d be spending an hour each week with his precious children? It had to be one or the other, because it was a sure bet he wasn’t interested in her as a woman, Dara th
ought. More than likely, he believed that adage that the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree, and intended to keep a very close eye on her for the duration of the Sunday-school class.
People are not what they appear to be.
If her father had said it once, he’d said it a hundred times. Where Noah Lucas was concerned, the statement seemed more prophetic than ever.
Had she misjudged him when she’d jumped to the conclusion that he was cold and heartless? Had she been wrong when she’d assumed Bobby and Angie behaved the way they did because he encouraged it?
“What was that, ah, that stuff they were eating when they walked out of here?” he asked, interrupting her reverie.
“Peanut butter balls.”
“You taught them to make—”
She gave a proud nod. “Yup.”
“How did you know it was safe?”
Dara tucked in one corner of her mouth. “Safe?”
“When I was a boy, I knew a girl who was allergic to peanuts. One whiff of anything made from them and she’d go into anaphylactic shock. More than once, she was carted off to the hospital in an ambulance, fighting for her life.” He raised a brow. “I admire the extra effort it took on your part to ensure none of your students would have such a reaction.”
Was he…was he smirking?
Well, that sure isn’t a smile on his face!
Noah Lucas had her dead to rights, and he knew it. She had made no such “check” to find out if any of the children might be allergic to peanuts, and the shame of it made her cheeks hot. It had been only by the grace of God that none of her first graders was allergic to peanuts. Later, she’d say a heartfelt prayer of thanks for the Almighty’s protection. Right now, all Dara wanted to do was get rid of Noah Lucas.
She’d been right about him after all. He was a smug, patronizing know-it-all. And more than likely, he had been responsible for the way his children behaved. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Lucas,” she said, clipping her words, “I have…I have a very busy day ahead of me.”
“Of course. Forgive me. It was never my intention to make you late for—” the smirk became a grin “—for your very busy day.”
Somehow, he knew full well that she had no plans for the rest of the day. But how could he have known? Because he’s researched you, that’s how, she reminded herself. She could hardly blame him; Dara had probed into his background, too. Straightening her back, she tilted her head. “‘Know thine enemy,’ eh, Mr. Lucas?”
That seemed to wipe the pompous look from his face!
“I’m sorry?”
Dara had no idea why the confusion that suddenly wrinkled his brow would make her feel the need to comfort and console him. But it did. Sighing with vexation, she put her back to him, pretending to be busy gathering her teacher’s manual, her purse.
Lucas relieved her of the coat, held it out and waited for her to shrug into it. Funny, she thought, but I don’t remember it feeling this heavy befo—Then she realized it had been his hands, resting on her shoulders, that had caused the added weight. Dara wondered how the touch of a man who had riled her temper in her father’s office, who had further fueled her fury by pointing out that her inattentiveness might well have endangered an innocent child, would feel so comforting, so reassuring, so right.
Because, she decided, turning suddenly to face him, you’re losing your mind. Nothing short of insanity, she believed, could explain why such a feeling would come over her.
“Angie and Bobby are waiting in the hall.”
She raised a brow, as if to say, “What does that have to do with me?”
“They have something to ask you,” Lucas said.
Dara glanced toward the door, and saw the children standing side by side. Lucas waved them in. “Go ahead,” he encouraged, “you can ask her now.”
Bobby took a half step forward. “Would you do us the honor of joining us for dinner?”
Chapter Two
Noah watched her face as a myriad of emotions—confusion, surprise, delight—flickered over her lovely features.
“Father is making lasagna,” Bobby announced, nodding and grinning.
It was apparent that Noah’s son wanted her to say yes every bit as much as he did.
Smiling, Dara lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “My goodness! I don’t know what to say.”
“If you’re busy,” Angie said, “say no. If you’re not…” The child held out her hands and lifted her shoulders.
Laughing softly, Dara combed her fingers through Angie’s dark curls. Noah couldn’t help but notice the way his little girl’s too-old stare faded under Dara’s tender touch. The children needed a woman like this…had been needing someone like Dara for nearly four years now.
The idea had begun to formulate last Sunday, when Bobby told him how Dara had hugged Angie in Sunday-school class and called her “sweetie” and referred to Francine as “Mommy.” Since his wife’s death, Noah had felt like a bumbling, stumbling mess when it came to providing affection. Oh, he doled out the occasional hug and kiss and greedily ate them up when the children offered them, but soft touches—like hair tousling and kisses—had not been a spontaneous part of his personality.
He could have blamed it on the fact that he’d been raised in an institutional setting with hundreds of parentless children just like him. He could have said it was because men weren’t born with instinctive nurturing tendencies.
But neither was true, and Noah knew it.
The only person in the world he’d felt free to be completely open and honest with had been Francine. She’d seen the vulnerable, needy side of him—and had loved him in spite of it.
“I know you,” she’d said days before her death. “You’ll stick your nose in a ledger book and try to hide from the world.” And grabbing a fistful of his shirt, she’d pulled him nearer with a strength that belied her condition. “The children will need you more than ever after I’m gone,” she’d said. “Promise me you’ll find a good woman who will be there for them. Someone who will make sure they get the guidance and discipline they need to become respectable citizens and obedient followers.” She’d shaken a maternal finger under his nose to add, “She’ll have to be a strongwilled woman who isn’t afraid to speak her mind. You’ll look for a woman like that, won’t you, after I’m gone?”
Of course he’d promised. How could he have denied her at a time like that? It had been an easy enough vow to take; living up to it, he soon discovered, was what had required constant and serious effort.
Because he loved Angie and Bobby more than life itself. They were more than extensions of Francine and him, the children were proof of his love for her and hers for him. That love turned out to be a double-edged sword, for every time he looked into their sweet, angelic faces, he was reminded of that love, and missed it all the more.
They were such well-behaved children—everyone said so—never talking out of turn, always tidy and eager to please. In truth, Noah had no idea why they rarely cried or complained, why they never roughhoused like other children. He’d never asked perfection from them…
Had he?
So it was the most natural thing in the world, he decided, when Bobby told him how Dara had mothered Angie. Was it any surprise that the idea had begun to formulate?
“If you’re busy,” Angie was saying, “say no.” If not, his daughter’s dainty shrug implied, what else was there to say?
Dara met Noah’s eyes, and the questions there made it clear she wasn’t certain he’d approved the invitation.
“I make a mean Caesar salad,” he prompted, “if I do say so myself.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to make a nice salad?” Angie asked, grinning.
“Nice is always better than mean,” Dara teased, winking.
“Does that mean you’re coming to dinner?” Bobby wanted to know.
Dara licked her lips. Swallowed. He could almost see the wheels grinding in her head as she considered all the reasons she should say no. Then she focused a dark-
eyed, loving gaze on his children, and he saw the indecision and apprehension disappear. In place of her wary smile there was a warm grin.
“I’ll come,” she told them, “but on one condition only.”
Angie and Bobby probably didn’t even realize they’d taken a step forward. Noah had felt the pull, too, but they were children, without a lifetime of restraint and self-control under their belts.
“What?” they asked.
“That you’ll let me bring dessert.”
The children exchanged a glance before facing her again. What happened next convinced Noah he’d made the right decision, that God had planted the idea in his head and would continue guiding his actions.
“Well, okay,” Bobby began, slowly, quietly. Blue eyes alight with mischief, he added, “So long as it isn’t…”
A moment of silence ticked by before Angie covered her mouth with both hands and giggled. He couldn’t remember the last time his little girl had acted like a little girl. The sight touched him so much that Noah had to swallow to keep tears of gratitude at bay.
“Peanut butter balls!” she shouted through her fingers.
Dara got onto her knees, making herself child size, and held out her arms to them. The children melted against her like butter on a hot biscuit. That quickly, she’d worked her enchantment on them. “No peanut butter balls,” she promised, smiling. “Now, tell me—what’s your favorite dessert?”
“Brownies!” said Bobby.
“Chocolate cake!” Angie insisted.
Standing, Dara turned to Noah. “What time is dinner?” She spoke with the precise diction of a TV news anchor.
“Five o’clock?”
When she nodded, her shining reddish brown curls bounced. “Is your place easy to find?”
He never went anywhere without his trusty pen and pencil. Can’t tell when you might need to work out a problem, he’d found. He flipped open the pad, quickly jotted down the directions, then placed the small sheet of paper into her palm, closing his large hand around hers. “Route 40 west,” he said, pretending not to notice the slight tremor, “left on Centennial Lane, right at the light at Old Annapolis. We’re the fourth house on the right.” He turned her loose. “You can’t miss us.”
