Mrs. Miracle (9 page)

I
t was her responsibility as a Christian, Harriett Foster determined. As an upstanding member of the church, it was her duty to talk with Pastor Lovelace about what was happening between Ruth Darling and Lyle Fawcett.

Even though Harriett played the organ for the eleven o’clock worship service, she had eyes in her head. She could see what was happening. Ruth Darling was flirting with sin, and the worst part of it was that she did so right inside the house of God. Why, a blind man could see that Ruth was making eyes at Lyle Fawcett.

Harriett was worried about Ruth. That was it. Worried. She’d start off by telling Pastor Lovelace
how very concerned she was over her dear, dear friend’s recent behavior. Her words couldn’t be misconstrued as gossip in that case. This had been a matter of prayer for a good while, and she’d felt the need to share her burden.

Harriett checked her reflection in the car window to be sure her hat was fastened securely to her head before she approached the church. She had a perfect excuse for being there on a Saturday. Not that she ever really needed a reason.

Not only was she playing the piano for the Christmas program—the children were due to arrive in another hour—but it took an hour or more at the organ to familiarize herself with the music for the Sunday morning worship service.

It did feel as though the church took advantage of her musical talents. When Harriett talked to Pastor Lovelace, she’d be sure to mention how much of her valuable time she sacrificed for the church’s benefit. Subtly, of course. She didn’t want him to think she was overly burdened or that she didn’t enjoy being a slave for God’s work.

Walking in from the parking lot, she clenched her purse against her side and strolled purposely past the pastor’s office. The door was closed, and she sighed with disappointment. She’d hoped that the office door would be open and she could stick her head inside and say hello. She hesitated, wondering if she should knock, then decided against it. She’d much rather that their discussion
appeared spontaneous and nothing that she’d planned beforehand. As it was, she’d carefully gone over exactly what she would say, after which she’d leave the touchy matter in his capable hands. Surely Pastor Lovelace would recognize what was happening and take decisive action. No man of God could allow this kind of behavior to continue within his own church.

Lyle Fawcett was a gentleman, a recent widower himself. He needed gentle concern, someone who could appreciate his grief, a woman who would take it upon herself to see to his comfort.

He needed someone like her, Harriett reasoned.

She’d lost her life’s mate and could well appreciate Lyle’s grief. What he didn’t need was Ruth Darling hovering over him, making a nuisance of herself. As the Bible leader for the Martha and Mary Circle, Ruth had other responsibilities. More important, Ruth had a husband!

Apparently Fred Darling didn’t even see what was going on right under his nose; he would never put up with his wife’s blatant behavior if he did. Harriett would have thought better of the man, but then, as was so often the case, the spouse was the last to know. Men in particular were blind when it suited their purposes. To Harriett’s way of thinking, Fred was acting like an ostrich with his head buried in the sand. She almost felt sorry for the poor soul.

Feeling thwarted and more than a little disappointed, Harriett headed for the sanctuary. She’d
play the organ, and if luck was with her, Pastor Lovelace would hear the soothing sounds of her music and make himself available. It wasn’t uncommon for him to enter the sanctuary when she played or to make last minute changes in the music.

Harriett was just inside the vestibule when she heard Pastor Lovelace’s door open.

She whirled around, delighted. “Pastor,” she greeted him warmly, excitedly. “How are you this fine day?” He was a young man in his early thirties, and wise for his years. Kind-hearted and generous, Pastor Lovelace made himself available to the people of his congregation. A good shepherd.

“Mrs. Foster.” He smiled, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I thought I heard someone.”

“You did,” she said, speaking the obvious. “Me. I’m here to play the piano for practice with the children. The Christmas program is coming along nicely, even if I say so myself.” She was about to remind him that she’d been the one responsible for finding a replacement for Milly Waters. Actually, she’d volunteered Jayne, but her niece had suggested Reba Maxwell, and that had worked out beautifully.

It went without saying that if Harriett hadn’t stepped in when she had, the entire Christmas program might have been canceled. More and more it was becoming clear to her that she was not appreciated the way she should be. If it
wasn’t for her efforts, there was no telling what would happen to the church.

Pastor Lovelace glanced at his watch. “I didn’t think practice with the children was for another hour.”

“It isn’t. I’m here to rehearse for the worship service.” She looked pointedly at her hands. “With my arthritis as bad as it is, it’s a wonder I can still play at all.”

“We do appreciate your efforts, Mrs. Foster, but if ever you feel that you can’t continue, then—”

“No, no, I’m fine. Of course there’s a bit of pain, but then I’m accustomed to that.” She smiled bravely, and Pastor Lovelace patted her shoulder in that caring, gentle way of his.

He started to retreat back into his office.

“Pastor,” she said quickly, “it’s fortuitous that we should meet like this, since there’s a matter, a rather delicate one, I feel needs discussing. It has to do with one of the women of the church…a married woman,” she added pointedly.

“I’m afraid I have an appointment, Mrs. Foster.”

“This should only take a few moments, and its importance can’t be underrated. I feel terrible to be the one to bring this unfortunate situation to your notice, but someone must.”

“Perhaps we could talk later.”

“If I don’t say this now, I might never have the courage again.” Harriett planted her hand over her heart, as if speaking the words pained her. “It has to do with—”

Ruth Darling’s name never left her lips. Just then, with impeccable timing, the church door opened and the very woman herself strolled inside.

Harriett almost swallowed her tongue.

Ruth hesitated, then smiled and nodded. “Hello, Harriett.”

“Ruth.” The name fell stiffly from her lips.

“Perhaps we could talk another time,” Pastor Lovelace suggested, directing the comment to Harriett.

“Of course,” she murmured, and turned away, but not before she saw Ruth enter Pastor Lovelace’s study. Whatever the other woman had come to discuss required an appointment. The subject was plainly serious.

Harriett had seen it coming. The Darling marriage, after forty years or longer, was in deep trouble. Rightly so, with Ruth making goo-goo eyes at Lyle Fawcett.

H
umming to herself, Sharon Palmer read over the recipe and assembled the necessary ingredients. She was tired of tossing and turning the night away in the guest bedroom, tired of pretending she enjoyed sleeping apart from her husband.

The chocolate-chip cookies, his favorite, were a peace offering, a subtle one. A means of telling him she was sorry. That she regretted this whole business and wanted it to end.

Jerry had left earlier that morning to play a round of golf with his friends, other retirees. The way Sharon figured, the cookies would be warm from the oven by the time he returned.
Warm and gooey, just the way he liked them best.

Then perhaps they could sit down and talk. Really talk. They hadn’t communicated in months. Not the way they should for a couple married close to forty years.

As she added the chocolate chips and walnuts to the dough, she smiled, pleased with this recent decision to work out the bumps in her marriage. They were both strong-willed and stubborn. Both old fools.

Jerry wanted to take a trip through the Panama Canal. There would be other cruises, other vacations, and next time she could choose when and where. It was silly for them both to be so unreasonable with one another.

Perhaps if she gave in on this, Jerry would see his way clear to flying to Seattle with her to visit the grandkids over Christmas. If she showed her willingness to compromise, he would, too. Jerry was a fair man. She hadn’t been married to him all these years without knowing that.

The first sheet of cookies were cooling when her husband walked in the door. If he noticed the scent of freshly baked cookies, he said nothing. It’d been a good long while since she’d last baked. This was a rare treat.

He ignored her and opened the refrigerator door, glaring inside as if seeking buried treasure.

“Do you want a cookie?” she asked, playing it cool.

The last few days the tension between them had been as thick as glue.

“Did you put nuts in them?” he asked.

She nodded. “Walnuts.” His favorite.

“I don’t like walnuts,” he said, bringing out a bowl of leftover spaghetti.

“Since when?” she demanded. He’d been eating her chocolate-chip cookies with walnuts for years and never said a word before now.

“Since I was a kid.” He set the spaghetti on the counter and reached for a plate.

“You always ate walnuts before.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t like it.”

Sharon planted her mitt-covered hand on her hip. “Do you mean to tell me that it took you forty years to tell me you don’t like walnuts?” She didn’t believe it, not for a moment. He was being deliberately argumentative, deliberately unappreciative.

“It took me forty years longer than it should have,” he snapped. He slapped a glob of spaghetti on the plate and stuck it inside the microwave. He punched a few buttons and glared back at her.

The sound of the microwave in process whirled through the kitchen as it warmed his lunch. Sharon had purposely waited to eat so that she could sit down and join him, but her appetite had vanished, replaced by a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Is there anything else you don’t like that you haven’t mentioned?” she asked without emotion.

“Plenty. I prefer spaghetti with meatballs instead of the meat all crumbled in with the sauce.”

Sharon had made her spaghetti from the same recipe all these years, and not once had he said one word about preferring meatballs.

He must have seen the stricken look on her face because he added, “You asked, didn’t you?”

The oven timer beeped.

Sharon had no defense, and rather than answer him, she removed the last cookie sheet from the oven. She stared at the perfectly shaped cookies, with the chocolate chips bright and melting. After only a moment’s hesitation she dumped them straight into the garbage.

“What’d you do that for?” Jerry demanded, irritation raising his voice half an octave.

“You don’t like walnuts,” she reminded him, doing her best to keep the hurt out of her voice. “I’d hate to force you to eat something not to your liking.”

The microwave beeped, and Jerry grabbed the plate before she had a chance to take that away from him as well.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. His gaze narrowed as he studied her intently. “Did you take your hormones this morning?”

“Forty years, and not once did you tell me you don’t like walnuts.” The words were an accusation of all that was wrong with their marriage.

“I don’t hate them,” he argued. He walked over to the kitchen cabinet where she kept her medica
tion, removed the bottle, and shook it before putting it back. “Maybe that’s what the problem is.”

“The only problem I have is you, Jerry Palmer.”

His eyes rounded as he slapped his hand over his heart. “You think I’m your problem? Sweetheart, you’d better take a look in the mirror. If there’s problems in this family, I’m not the one—”

“If you don’t like the way I cook, maybe you should do your own cooking,” she challenged.

“Maybe I should,” Jerry countered. “I’ve cooked my own breakfast all week.”

“Great, now you can try your hand at lunch and dinner as well.”

“No problem.”

Sharon slammed the mitt down on the counter. “I’m sure it won’t be.” She stalked past him and made her way into the guest bedroom. Sitting at the end of the twin mattress, she intertwined her fingers in an attempt to still the trembling in her hands.

She wasn’t a woman who often succumbed to tears, but they blurred her eyes now. Tilting her head back, she blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall, refusing to allow her pain to roll free.

She was the emotionally strong one in the family. Not until Pamela’s death did she realize how strong. When they’d heard the terrible news, Jerry had withdrawn behind a brick wall of pain, unwilling and perhaps afraid to reveal his anguish. Seth had been in shock, blinded by grief
and fear of what would happen to him and the children without Pamela.

So everyone had turned to her. She was the one who had made the funeral arrangements. She was the one others had turned to for comfort and help. She was emotionally strong. Calm. A pillar on which others could lean.

The base of that pillar was crumbling now, Sharon realized, and threatening to collapse.

The knot blocking her throat felt as big as a watermelon. She’d started out her day with such good intentions, hoping to bridge the gap between her and Jerry, but he wanted none of it.

She lay down on the bed, pulled a blanket over her shoulders, and stared at the wall.

Forty years and she never knew Jerry didn’t like walnuts.

Forty years was a hell of a long time to live with a man and never know he liked his spaghetti with meatballs.

Some time later Sharon heard a sound, but she didn’t move her gaze away from the wall to investigate.

“Damn it, Sharon, say something.”

She could picture Jerry framed in the doorway, but she hadn’t the strength or the will to pull her attention away from the blank wall.

“I’m talking to you,” he said again.

She’d heard all she wanted to from him. More than she’d needed to know.

“The hell with you, then,” Jerry muttered, and stalked away.

Forty years she’d invested in this marriage, in this man. She’d kept his home, borne him children, molded her life to fit his. Forty years and they could barely tolerate one another.

To hell with her, then, Jerry had said. That was exactly where she felt she was. Hell.

Seth had never intended to stay for the Christmas program practice. He’d thought to drop the boys off at the church and head home to catch up on some job-related reading. Besides, he wanted to be there when Mrs. Merkle returned. They had several matters to discuss.

His head had been spinning ever since his conversation with Mrs. Ackerman. If the employment agency hadn’t sent Mrs. Merkle, who had? He proposed to find out at the earliest opportunity.

The twins were excited about their part in the Christmas pageant and had chatted like magpies during the short drive to the church. When he’d arrived, Seth had impulsively decided to park and go inside. He’d stay just long enough to say hello to Reba, thank her for their dinner date, and be on his way.

That’s what he’d told himself he’d do, but the minute he’d entered the room, he’d felt compelled to sit back and watch Reba manage the
children. For a single woman with limited experience working with kids, she did a masterful job. Two or three other women were there to lend a hand, but it was Reba who was in charge.

The practice started out with all the children grouped together. Mrs. Foster was there as well, tight-lipped and looking miserable as she banged away on the piano keys without much finesse. He grimaced a couple of times at her basic lack of talent.

To the best of his memory, Seth had never seen the older woman smile. Half the time she looked as if she’d been sucking on something bitter.

The children, while familiar with the songs, gave it a halfhearted effort. Their voices blended nicely, but from the back of the room, Seth couldn’t understand the words. Reba’s shoulders sagged, and she said something that made everyone laugh. The next attempt was much better.

A few minutes later she broke the group into three sections to rehearse their individual roles. Seth decided to wait until Judd and Jason came on the scene. Judd may have been assigned the role of an angel, but he burst onto the stage with the shepherds watching over their sheep like Rambo intent on revenge. All he needed was a submachine gun for a prop. Jason followed and growled like a lion.

Reba handled the situation well, reminding his six-year-old sons that they weren’t there to
frighten anyone. Their mission, if they chose to accept it, was to tell the shepherds wonderful, exciting news. Judd and Jason smiled and nodded.

The boys second attempt was much better. Judd’s voice bellowed out loud and clear as he shared the wondrous news.

Before Seth realized it, the hour was gone. The twins raced to his side the minute they’d finished. Seth waited until most of the other kids were gone before he approached Reba. He felt a bit awkward, hiding in the back of the room that way, but had derived a good deal of pleasure just watching her.

He was afraid that he’d built up their date in his mind, made more of it than he should have. But as he moved toward her, he realized if anything, he’d discounted his attraction for her. Reba was patient and kind. Her rapport with the kids had been instantaneous, and he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her for the entire hour. He wasn’t succeeding now, either.

“It looks like everything’s going great,” he commented, understating what should have been obvious.

She sank onto a chair and rubbed her hand along the back of her neck. “You think so?”

“You’ve got the entire program organized.”

“I can’t take the credit for that. Milly Waters worked with me. I’m just following her example.”

Judd sank onto the floor next to her, staring up at her as if memorizing her features. “She looks
like the lady in my picture,” he announced with childlike enthusiasm.

“Judd,” Seth warned in a whisper. If his son embarrassed him by suggesting he marry Reba, he didn’t know what he’d do.

“Not exactly like the lady, but real close,” Jason said before Seth had a chance to quiet him.

“It’s time to go,” he stated with an eagerness that bordered on panic.

The twins and Reba looked saddened and surprised by his abrupt announcement.

“Not so soon, Dad.”

“What picture?” Reba asked, looking from Judd to Jason.

“It’s nothing,” Seth said, wanting to be on his way before the twins embarrassed him further.

“Judd drew a picture of a woman with short hair and a red dress,” Jason explained when it became obvious his father wasn’t going to explain.

“The woman in my drawing looks a lot like you,” Judd said, his eyes bright and eager.

Seth urged both his children toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said, hoping against hope to make a clean getaway.

“Tomorrow?” Jason perked up instantly.

“Ms. Maxwell is coming to the house for dinner,” he explained, and remembered that he hadn’t said anything to Mrs. Merkle about inviting company.

“Good-bye, Ms. Maxwell.”

“Good-bye, everyone.”

Seth heaved a sigh of relief as they headed toward the door. “She does look like the lady in Judd’s picture,” Jason said, and slipped his small hand into his. He seemed to be waiting for Seth to respond.

“A little,” he admitted reluctantly.

Jason looked over his shoulder and sighed expressively before calling out in a loud voice, “I hope you do marry my dad.”

“I beg your pardon?” Reba said.

“My dad,” Judd shouted. “We hope you marry him.”