Endless Chain

She shook her head. “You welcome everyone. A thoughtful gesture to put the words in Spanish? But controversial because you’ve targeted the Latino community? There are those who would prefer we go elsewhere?”

“Jesus ran into the same problem,” the man said.

Elisa turned back and addressed the boy. “But you’re sorry, aren’t you? Because I don’t think you really feel that way, do you? You just made a mistake today.” She lifted a brow and cocked her head to prompt his answer.

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and thrust back his shoulders. He looked as if he was going to argue; then he slumped. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Guess?” the man demanded. “Your father’s a deacon in this church, Leon.”

“So? He hates the sign worse than I do.”

“But you’re old enough to begin thinking for yourself.” Like the boy’s, the man’s posture became less defensive. “Shall you tell your father, or shall I?”

“He hates your guts.”

A muscle jumped in the man’s jaw. “If anything happens to that sign, I’ll report this incident to the police. You can tell your friends they’d better stay away, unless they’re here to join in church activities. Then they’ll be welcome. Otherwise, at the first sign of vandalism anywhere on these grounds, I’ll hunt them down and have a little chat with their parents and yours. Understand?”

The boy gave a curt nod.

The man gestured toward the group of women watching on the sidelines. “You’ve got a long walk. I suggest you get started. None of these ladies is planning to give you a ride home.”

The boy took off at a fast clip along the route that Elisa had just traveled.

Only then did the man turn to her. For the first time she had the opportunity to really take stock of him. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was the color of darkly roasted coffee, his angry eyes a blue so intense they were the most arresting feature in an immensely attractive face.

“Thank you.” He held out his hand. “Sam Kinkade. I’m the minister.”

She had already guessed that. She extended her hand. “Elisa Martinez. I hope I’ll be your new sexton.”

They stared at each other longer than politeness called for. In those unexpectedly charged seconds, she warned herself of a hundred different things. The incident with the boys had left her shaken and vulnerable. This man might well be her new employer. She was lonely and worried about getting this job. The talk of police had frightened her. Adrenaline was pumping through her body.

And still, if she subtracted all those things and added in years of hard-earned caution and the fact that she could not afford even the briefest foray into romance, she was still left with a strong attraction to Sam Kinkade.

“Well, go ahead and hire her right now, preacher,” one of the women, the oldest, demanded, moving closer. “What other proof do you need that she can do the job? A signed statement from the Almighty?”

Chapter Two

SAM TURNED TO the old woman and managed a smile. His anger was just beginning to fade. He was not easily provoked, but by the same token, he was not easily placated. “Thank you, Helen. I’ll take your recommendation into consideration.”

“You do that, and don’t you try to humor me. I saw the whole thing. We could use somebody around here who takes matters into her own hands. If she’s not scared of that gang of teenage thugs, she won’t be scared of a little dirt.”

Sam walked over and slung his arm around Helen Henry’s shoulders, steering her back toward the church, which was not an easy job. She was a big-boned woman in her eighties, but she still knew how to do a day’s work. The church had been a far more boring place before she started coming regularly, and before the quilters organized and commandeered the Beehive.

Sometimes he was nostalgic for boredom.

“How’s the quilt coming?” He knew this subject would take them all the way inside.

The other women started heading inside. He walked back to Kate Brogan, who was standing ten yards behind the others, and he scooped the flailing Rory out of his mother’s arms and set him on his hip, leaving Kate with only shy baby Bridget.

Sam paused a moment and turned to Elisa Martinez, who was standing exactly where he had left her. He was struck, as he had been a moment ago, by how gracefully appealing she was. She was average height and slender, wearing a simple white blouse and black pants. She had shining dark hair clipped back in a ponytail that fell past her shoulder blades, creamy toffee-colored skin, and eyes so darkly liquid and expressive that he had felt himself going down for the third time in just the seconds he had stared into them.

He shoved his mind back into gear. “Do you mind following us inside? We’ll do the interview in my study.”

Cathy Adams, one of the quilters, waited to walk with Elisa. When he saw they were bringing up the rear, he made his way through the lot and the play yard into the Beehive. He deposited Rory in a corner after a brief man-to-man chat about ninjas and sledgehammers, said a few words to each of the women, genuinely admired the quilt stretched out on the frame, and finally motioned for Elisa to follow him upstairs.

He was in marginally better spirits by the time he closed the Beehive door and they started for the steps. Beside him, Elisa was silent.

They were upstairs and on the way to his study before he spoke. “No sign is worth risking your safety for.”

“I’m not sure what came over me.”

He wondered if that was true, or if she knew very well and wasn’t going to acknowledge it. He unlocked his door and ushered her inside, leaving the door open, as he usually did. He did not like enclosed spaces, and today the church secretary, who was usually at the desk in the next office, was out of town for the rest of the week.

“I’m sorry your first visit to our church started that way.” Sam motioned to the leather sofa that sat in front of two large windows looking out over the rose garden. While she seated herself, he noticed that yesterday he had forgotten to put away the wheelbarrow after he dumped a load of compost to be spread. He made a mental note to do it later, then asked himself why he was avoiding looking at Elisa. He was not a man who was uncomfortable with women. His fiancée, Christine, with her blatant sex appeal and choke hold on femininity, had never intimidated him in the least.

“I’ve encountered prejudice before,” she said.

“I’m sorry for that.” He made himself look down at her. “Under any circumstances there would have been resistance, but as you probably know, there’s some troubling evidence that Hispanic gangs have moved into the area. Peaceful, sleepy Shenandoah County.” He shrugged. “That’s set off a backlash.”

She was smiling softly. “Let’s find a subject that doesn’t make you feel sad. Or guilty.”

He relaxed a fraction. “Iced tea.”

“Iced tea as a subject?”

“Would you like some?”

“Very much, if it’s not too much trouble.”

He was grateful for something to do. He left for the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two glasses. “The staff goes through gallons of this every week. Whoever drinks the last glass has to make a new pitcher.”

She took the glass, then a sip. “I can do that.”

He had debated where to sit. She had left him a full half of the large sofa, and there was a table just in front of it with room for his tea. It was the obvious choice.

He sprawled over his half. “So...” He considered where to start.

She solved the problem. “Elisa Martinez, thirty-three. Like every Spanish-speaking friend I have made here, I am not a gang member. I am well acquainted with cleaning products, mops and brooms, and the need to clean the men’s urinals more often than the ladies’ toilets. I’ve been working the late shift as a nurse’s aide at the Shadyside Home in Woodstock, but last week my shifts were cut to two because the aide I replaced is returning from maternity leave. If you hire me, I promise that won’t interfere with my work at the church. On those mornings I can start here as soon as I’ve finished there.”

He didn’t speak, and she went on. “My supervisor will be glad to write a reference, or she’ll be glad to talk to you.”

He had already noted that her command of the English language was as good as his own, but there was a trace of an accent, a musical elongation of vowels, the slightest flipping of r’s, a trace more formality, that he found charming. As an employer, he had to ask the next question. “Were you born here?”

She shook her head. “Mexico. A little village in the south.”

“Are you a citizen?”

She reached in the front pocket of her black slacks and produced a card with her name and photo for him to examine. “A permanent resident. My not-so-green card.”

He scanned it, then nodded. She slipped it back into her pocket and waited.

“It’s hard work.” He sat forward and reached for the tea. “There’s a lot of lifting and moving. You’d be required to set up and take down tables and chairs for any meetings or events, and this is a busy church. That would be in addition to heavy cleaning and minor repairs. It’s tedious, and the hours are long. The pay isn’t great.”

“I’ll manage just fine. I lift patients in and out of bed, move beds and furniture, push wheelchairs uphill. I’m used to hard work.”

Sam thought she must be made entirely of muscle, then, because there wasn’t much to her other than the gentle swell of breasts and hips.

“Do you have a car, Elisa?”

She straightened a little, and he knew she had been waiting for this. “I don’t own a car, no. But I have two good legs, and friends with cars at the park.”

“Park?”

“I live in the Ella Lane Mobile Home Park, near the nursing home. I live with a friend and her two children. Adoncia has a car, and so do others nearby. Much of the time I would have a ride.”

He calculated that distance. At least four miles, probably more. He was about to shake his head when she stopped him by raising a hand.

“I walked here today. There was a storm about to break, but I came anyway. I wasn’t late, and I wasn’t too tired to face down your deacon’s son. Wouldn’t you rather have a sexton with determination and no car than one with a car and no work ethic?”

He sat back. He sipped his tea and watched her.

She fiddled with her glass—still nearly full—then she leaned forward. “I don’t mind long hours, and I don’t mind hard work. I don’t gossip and I don’t complain.” She sat back. “I also know when to stop talking. I’m easy to have around.”

He thought that last part might be the hardest to deal with. He was acutely aware of this woman already, and they had only just met. He was caught between doing what the law required—in this case choosing the best candidate for an advertised position—or following his best instincts, which told him that temptation was best avoided, no matter how strong or sure he was of his own power to resist it.

“I haven’t told you everything,” he said, buying time. “We have a new program here, and it might be what set off those boys. The sign is part of it, and it means more work for the sexton.”

She took a long sip of her tea. Her self-control had already been noted. He imagined she was thirsty after the long, hot walk. “Tell me about it,” she said, when she’d finished.

“I’ll show you.” He turned and peered out the window. “Normally I’d show you the church first, but it’s pretty straightforward. A sanctuary and social hall, classrooms and meeting rooms. We’d better do this now, before the rain begins. Then I’ll find you a ride home.”

“I—”

He didn’t let her finish. “The quilters will be leaving about the time we’re done. Someone will be happy to do it.”

“Reverend Kinkade, it will not be your job to find transportation for me. Managing that is a small thing, but it will be my small thing.”

He rose. “It’s Sam. Finish your tea or bring it along. It’s only a short walk.”

* * *

Elisa felt the first hesitant drops of rain as they exited the building through the rose garden.

“The roses aren’t happy with all this moisture,” Sam said. “I use natural sprays to keep them from succumbing to blackspot, but every time I plan to spray, it rains. And when I do spray, a storm comes up the next day and washes it right off.”

“You take care of the roses?”

He shot her a smile, a friendlier smile than she’d seen, but one that still maintained a certain distance. If he was setting boundaries now—and that was how she interpreted it—then perhaps he was seriously considering her for the job.

“It’s not in my job description, but I promised our building and grounds committee if they would help me prepare the plot and plant the bushes, I’d do the maintenance. We use the garden for weddings. This is a very popular spot in June and September, but mostly they’re there for me to enjoy every day. Just don’t tell anybody I said so.”

She was relieved the sexton was not expected to take care of the roses, but it brought up another subject. “Is the sexton expected to do any work outdoors?”

“Marvin—he’s our present sexton—starts each morning with a cleanup of the grounds, just trash and such. We use professionals for mowing grass and raking leaves. One of our deacons...” He gave a humorless laugh. “Leon Jenkins? The boy with the sledgehammer? His father, George, has a landscaping business and provides services for us at a reduced rate, which probably means that he pays his men less when they’re here, so his own profit isn’t affected. The way his crew changes from week to week, it’s pretty clear he hires whoever he can find that day and pays them under the table.”

“Undocumented workers?”

“That would be my guess. Our board believes it’s up to George to stay abreast of the law, and they accept his assurances he’s in compliance.”

She knew from his tone that he didn’t agree with the board’s choice. Resolutely, she changed the subject. “Do you mind telling me why Marvin is leaving? Unless it has nothing to do with the job, of course.”

“As simple as a better paying job. He’s juggling both right now, but the church is suffering. We need someone who can start training right away.” He glanced at her. “Could you start immediately?”

“I was hoping to.”

She had been paying attention to his words; now she paid attention to their destination and felt excitement build. They were headed toward an old frame farmhouse painted lemon-yellow. It was set back from the church, at least an acre to the northwest. A narrow gravel drive snaked to the front porch from the road, between a grove of oaks and maples that hid the house until visitors were almost on top of it. The house itself sat in a field of Queen Anne’s lace and brilliant blue chicory, black-eyed Susans and puff-ball dandelions. The effect was charming.

She had seen the house before, of course, visited it late one night and stood in front of it to imagine its history and the people who once had lived here. On that night several months ago the house had been a sad gray and far more dilapidated. Now it was a proud buttercup blooming in a field of admirers. In front of it was yet another sign.

“La Casa Amarilla,” she read. “Good choice for a name. Very definitely a yellow house.”

“What do you think? Did we overdo on the paint?”

She stared at the house and thought it was as welcoming as outstretched arms. “It’s a happy house. Is that what you hoped for?”

“Exactly.” He stood beside her, gazing up at it. “It used to be the parsonage. Don’t tell anybody, but I like it better than the one I live in down the road. In the fifties, when the church built mine, a three-bedroom ranch house was every working man’s goal. Farmhouses with history and character fell out of favor, and little brick boxes with narrow windows and air-conditioning fell in.”

“I’m sure somebody would remove your air conditioner if you complained.”

He gave a small laugh. “And I won’t.”

The raindrops, scattered at first, were falling a little faster. He put his hand on her arm to nudge her forward. “Let’s go in.”

The house was narrow, but the porch was deep enough for several old rockers. She imagined former occupants rocking away the twilight here. “You haven’t told me what you use it for now.”

“Besides experimenting with shades of yellow paint?”

“Besides that, yes.”

He pulled a tennis-ball-sized clump of keys from his pocket and used one to open the door, standing back to usher her inside. “Come see.”

She stepped in and waited. He left the door open—for fresh air, she supposed—and flipped a series of switches that filled the house with light. The front room just beyond the tiny entryway where they stood was small, but comfortably furnished with sofas and chairs covered by bright red slipcovers.

There were computer desks lining one wall, three of them, each with what looked like a new computer in place. The old wood floor was covered by a bright circular rag rug. Posters in primary colors filled the walls. She saw that each one was a humorously illustrated vocabulary lesson.

“Weather, flags of Europe, telling time...” She walked along the wall, looking at each. “Colors...seasons, opposites. I like this one.” She pointed to a poster with barnyard animals in funny hats. “But won’t the children think that a cow is only a cow if it’s wearing a baseball cap?”

“I’m hoping that won’t be a problem.”

She smiled back at him. “La Casa Amarilla. You’re teaching English lessons to Spanish-speaking children?”

“It’s more diverse than that. I’ll tell you as we go.”

She followed him into the kitchen. The room was large enough for a round pine table flanked by six mismatched chairs. Bright green cushions unified them. The center of the table was taken up by a plastic caddy filled with art supplies. She picked up a felt-tip marker, one of dozens in a variety of colors. “The art room?”

“Also the snack room and the place where we’ll teach nutrition basics. Come see the dining room.”

The dining room was no longer for dining. Four small tables sat in the middle of the narrow space, and bookshelves lined the walls and stood under two windows. Each table was large enough for four small children. Some of the books looked new; some looked as if they had come from a rummage sale.

Sam stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, as Elisa silently scanned the titles. She chose one to leaf through as he spoke.

“One of our members works as a school administrator here in the county. One day we were talking, and he told me what a disadvantage Spanish-speaking children have when they enter the local schools. There are more of them each year. The schools do what they can, but it’s not enough. He told me that without extra help, the kids just can’t catch up and keep up, and not because they aren’t bright. Because they need an extra boost with the language and the culture.”

“So you decided to start your own program?”

“We’d been debating what to do with this house. Our former church secretary lived here until a few years ago, but no one has lived here since. It needed too much work to continue as a rental. Some people wanted to tear it down and build a four-unit apartment as extra income for the church. Some wanted to sell the house and property. Of course others thought we should preserve history, not sell or destroy it.”

“History?” she asked, curious as to how much he knew.

“It’s a very old house. Pre-Civil War, at least the main portion of it. The original family and their descendants lived here until the 1930s, when they sold their farm, and the church was built on what was once their front cornfield.”

She was glad, very glad, that the developers in the congregation had not won out. “You were one who didn’t want to tear it down?”

“I convinced our lay leaders that using the building as an outreach program for local children would be the best use of the property.”

Judging from the incident with the sign, she was certain that had not been a battle without casualties. But Sam looked like a man strong and determined enough to weather them. “And it has been successful?”

“We open once school opens. We’ve spoken to the authorities, and they’ve promised to put us in touch with the parents of all the children who can use our help. The school will bus them here if the parents sign permission slips. We have two donated vans we’ll use to take them home at the end of the afternoon. We have a dozen tutors who have signed up to take shifts, a Catholic nun who has agreed to supervise, and a retired Presbyterian minister who is coordinating transportation and communications with parents.”

She was impressed. “So many different churches?”

“It’s our building, but it’s the community’s project. You should have seen how many people turned out on the weekend we painted. People on the roof, people clearing away badly overgrown shrubs, people scrubbing floors.” He seemed to think better of his enthusiasm. “I’m sorry. It’s a subject close to my heart.”

“Do the tutors speak Spanish?”

“Unfortunately, no one speaks much. We’re hoping that will change as the community gets more involved. I’m working hard on mine. Right now, if any child needs to know where the bathroom is located, I can direct him in his own language. That’s about it. For good or for bad, I’m afraid it’s an English immersion program.”

She spoke before she had time to think. “Puedo ayudar cuantas veces me necesiten.” She bent and placed the book back on the shelf.

“My Spanish must be better than I thought. You just said you wished I would dye my hair green and hire out my services as a belly dancer.”

She laughed. “I said I could help any time I’m needed. I think that’s a good example. There will be moments when fractured Spanish and good intentions might not be enough. I would be happy to translate.”

“Be careful what you volunteer for. We say yes with alarming frequency.”

She straightened. “So it’s part of the sexton’s job to clean La Casa?”

“Just a lick and a promise once a week, which is all we can afford. The volunteers will do some of it. I suspect I’ll do some of it, too. But even the little the sexton will do extends the job. And you haven’t seen the rest of the church plant. There’s a lot of work here, Elisa.”

She didn’t have the job yet. She knew it and wondered how to convince him. “If I were a man, would you warn me so many times...Sam?”

“No.”

“Then you shouldn’t do it now. I’m capable and willing, and I have excellent references. I hope that’s what you remember when you make your decision.”

He looked at his watch, then back at her. “Let’s go find that ride. In a couple of hours a horde of caterers and volunteers are heading this way. There’s a party tonight, a Mexican fiesta to raise money for La Casa. It’s something of an unfortunate afterthought, which is why it’s on a weeknight, and it’s going to be chaotic, especially if the rain continues. You’ll want to escape all the prep work. I wish I could.”

She followed him out, and he locked up. She had said she knew when to be silent, and she did. She didn’t speak, and neither did he. She hoped he was using the time to favorably consider her application.

When they approached, the quilters were already coming out to the parking lot. Sam stopped just short of the asphalt.

“Are you working at the nursing home tonight? Or would you be free to come back about seven-thirty to talk to Marvin and shadow him for the rest of the evening?”

“I don’t work tonight. But either way, I could be here.”

“We’ll talk again, after you’ve had a chance to see everything the job requires and I’ve had time to organize applications.”

For the first time she felt real hope that she was going to be hired. Only a small part of her found her own reaction ironic. The part that was not Elisa Martinez seemed to shrivel with every decision she was required to make.

Several yards in front of them, a woman in a blue sundress got out of a car parked near the others. Sam saw her and gestured. “That’s Tessa MacRae, Helen’s granddaughter. Helen is the woman who insisted I hire you. I’ll ask Tessa to give you a ride. She won’t mind.”