Faithfully Yours Page 2

  “Right now,” Gillian said, grimacing. “I’d settle for Mr. Jeremy Nivens moving to another country. At the very least, another school.” She made a face. When Hope chuckled, Gillian jumped up and plucked at the repulsive brown fabric disparagingly. “I’ll just go change and we can go to the fall or ‘fowl’ supper.”

  Which was probably how she ended up pouring tea for Jeremy Nivens that evening, she decided later.

  “Miss Langford,” he murmured, his gray-blue eyes measuring her in the red-checked shirt she wore tucked into her denim skirt. “You look very, er, country tonight.”

  Gillian knew he was staring at the spot of gravy on her shirt, and she would have liked to tell him how it got there, but instead, she swallowed her acid reply with difficulty. After all, this was the church.

  “It’s comfortable,” she told him shortly. “Do you take cream or sugar?” She held out the tray, knowing perfectly well that he took neither. When he waved it away she turned to leave.

  “The meal was excellent.” His voice was a low murmur that she barely caught. “Is there anything I can do to help out? As a member here, I’d like to do my bit.”

  “I didn’t know you went to this church,” Gillian blurted out, staring at him aghast. School was bad enough. A person should have the sanctity of their church respected, she fumed.

  “It is somewhat less formal than the English one I’ve attended for years, but I find it compatible with my beliefs. Besides, my great-aunt goes here.” He nodded his head at a woman Gillian identified as Faith Rempel.

  Although Gillian certainly knew of Faith from her aunt’s vivid description of one of the two ladies she called her dearest friends, she herself had never actually met the woman formally.

  “Oh, yes,” she murmured. “Mrs. Rempel. She’s your aunt?” It was strange to think of such a happy-looking woman as the old grouch’s relation. Gillian watched in interest as a grin creased the principal’s stern countenance.

  “Apparently my aunt, your aunt and another lady have been great pals for years. I believe the other lady is Mrs. Flowerday. They seem to get along quite well. It must be nice having friends you’ve known for a long time.” His voice was full of something—yearning?

  Gillian stared at him. He’d sounded wistful, just for a moment. “It must? Why?”

  “Oh, I suppose because they make allowances for you, afford you a few shortcomings.” He smiled softly, glancing across at his aunt once more.

  “Why, Mr. Nivens,” Gillian sputtered, staring at him in shock. “I didn’t know you had any.”

  He looked startled at that; sort of stunned that she would dare to tease him. A faint red crept up his neck, past the stiff collar, to suffuse his cheeks.

  “There are those,” he muttered snidely, glaring at her, “who say that I have more than my fair share.”

  It was Gillian’s turn to blush, and she did, but thankfully the effect was lost in Pastor Dave’s loud cheerful voice. “Just the two folks I was most hoping to corral at this shindig.”

  Gillian winced at the stomp of the cowboy boots that missed her bare toes by a scant inch and the thick beefy arm that swung round her shoulder. Pastor Dave was a cowboy wannabe and he strove constantly to perfect his image as a long, tall Texan, even when he remained a short, tubby Dakota preacher.

  “What can we do to help you out, Pastor?” Gillian queried in a falsely bright voice. “Another piece of pumpkin pie or a fresh cup of coffee?”

  “No sirree, Bob. I’ve eaten a hog’s share tonight.” The short man chuckled appreciatively, patting his basketball stomach happily. “No, I was hoping you and your friend here would consent to helpin’ a busy preacher out with the youth group.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t had much opportunity to work with young people,” she heard Jeremy Nivens begin nervously. “And with the Sunday school class you’ve given me, I’m not sure I’ll have enough free time for anything else.”

  Gillian peered around Dave’s barrel chest to stare at her boss’s shaking head.

  “I’m afraid I’m in the same boat, Pastor,” she murmured, thankful that she wouldn’t have to work with old, stuffedshirt Nivens. Their contact at school was quite enough for her. She didn’t need more proximity to know that the two of them would never work well together, especially not in the loose, unrestricted world of teenagers.

  “Nonsense,” Pastor Dave chortled. “Why, you folks just being here tonight is a good sign that you have Friday evenings free. And I know the young folk would appreciate having you whippersnappers direct their meetin’s more than they would old Brother Dave.” He whacked Jeremy on the back and patted Gillian’s shoulder kindly before moving away. “I’ll be calling y’all about an organizational meeting next week,” he said, grinning happily. “See ya there.”

  Gillian stared aghast at the tall, lean man in front of her. It couldn’t be. No way. She wasn’t going to be conned into this. Not with General Jeremy Nivens.

  “I don’t think that man listens to what anyone says,” Mr. Nivens muttered in frustration. “He bulldozed me into taking the Sunday school boys class, but I can’t take on a bunch of hormone-crazy teens, too.”

  “Well, you don’t have to act as if they’re juvenile delinquents or something,” Gillian said, bristling indignantly. “They’re just kids who don’t have a whole lot to amuse themselves with in a town this size.”

  “Hah!” He glared at her, his gray eyes sparkling. “They should be able to make their own fun. Why, these children have every advantage—a lovely countryside, acres of land and rivers and hills. They should be happy to be free of the inner-city ghettos that lots of children are enduring where they don’t get enough to eat and—”

  “Please,” Gillian muttered, holding up one hand. “Spare me the sermon. It sounds just like something my grannie used to say.” She shifted to one side as the family behind her moved away from the table, children gaily jumping from bench to bench.

  “‘When I was a child,’” she said in a scratchy voice meant to copy her grandmother’s thready tones. “‘We never had the advantages you young things have today. Why I walked three miles to and from school every single day, even when it was forty-below. In bare feet. Without a coat.’”

  Mr. Nivens’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline as he listened to her. When at last he moved, it was to brush off the crumbs from his pant leg and remove a blob of cream Gillian had slopped on the toe of his shoe when Pastor Dave had grabbed her.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” he murmured, stepping around her carefully. “No one could walk through forty-below without shoes or a coat and survive.” He started up the basement stairs after tossing one frowning look at her bright curling tendrils of hair where they lay loose against her neck.

  Gillian snapped the tray down on the table and motioned to the folk holding out their cups.

  “Help yourself,” she advised, with a frown on her face. “I’ve got something to say to Mr. Nivens.”

  “Go for it, Missy,” Ned Brown advised, grinning like a Cheshire Cat “That feller needs a bit of loosenin’ up. Seems to me you’re just the girl to do it.”

  As she raced up the stairs, Gillian decided Ned was right. She had a whole year of Mr. Jeremy Nivens to get through. She might as well start off as she meant to go on.

  He was striding across the parking lot when she emerged—huge, measured strides that made her race to catch up. Fortunately, she wore her most comfortable sandals and could easily run to catch up.

  “Just a minute, Mr. Nivens,” she called breathlessly. “I have something I want to say.”

  He stopped and turned to stare at her, the wind ruffling his dark brown hair out of its usual orderly state. One lock of mussed hair tumbled down across his straight forehead, making him seem more human, more approachable, Gillian decided.

  “I was making a joke,” she said finally, aware that his searching gray-blue eyes had noted her flushed face and untucked shirt. “It was supposed to be funny.”

 
“Oh.” He continued to peer at her through the gloom, and Gillian moistened her lips. It was the kind of stare that made her nervous, and she shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. “Was that everything, Miss Langford?”

  “My name is Gillian,” she told him shortly, frustrated by the cool, distant frigidity his arrogant demeanor projected. “Or Gilly if you prefer.”

  “It sounds like a name for a little girl,” he told her solemnly, his dour look suggesting that she take the information to heart. “At any rate, I barely know you. We are co-workers in a strictly professional capacity. I hardly think we should be on a first-name basis.”

  “Look, Mr. Nivens,” she exhorted. “I’m trying to be friendly. That’s the way people in Mossbank are, friendly and on a first-name basis. No one at school uses titles except in front of the children.” She drew a breath of cool, evening air and counted to ten. “If you don’t want to help with the youth group, fine. But don’t pretend it’s because they’re too uncivilized for you to be around.” Her eyes moved over his three-piece suit with derision.

  “I doubt you and they would have anything in common, anyway,” she muttered. “You’re far too old for them.”

  His stern, rigid face cracked a mirthless smile.

  “Not so old,” he said sternly. “I was a teenager once, also, Miss Langford.”

  “Really?” Gillian stared at him disbelievingly.

  “I’m sure of it.” His eyes sparkled at some inner joke as he watched her.

  “Well, anyway—” she shrugged “—if you don’t want to work with them, just say so.”

  “I thought I had,” he murmured so softly she barely caught the words. He studied her face. “Are you going to fall in with Pastor Dave’s suggestions?” he demanded.

  “I think I might,” she mused, deliberately ignoring that inner voice that quietly but firmly whispered NO. “They really need some direction, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else.” All around them the rustle of wind through the drying leaves and the giggles of children romping in the playground carried in the night air. The musky odor of cranberries decaying in the nearby woods wafted pungently toward them on a light breeze.

  “But you’re not that much younger than I am,” he objected.

  “In some ways,” she said through gritted teeth. “You and I are light-years apart.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” he admitted at last. He turned to leave. “Good night, Miss Lang—Gillian.”

  As he walked away into the dusky night, Gillian stood with her mouth hanging open. For the first time in over a month, he’d called her by her first name. How strange! Perhaps the man really wasn’t as stuffy as she’d thought. Maybe, just maybe, he’d unbend with time.

  Then she frowned.

  He hadn’t outright refused to attend the organizational meeting, had he? Did that mean he intended to show up and offer his staid opinions?

  “No way,” she muttered angrily. “I don’t care how much they need helpers. Mr. Jeremy Nivens is not going to work in the youth group, not if I have anything to say about it.”

  As she turned to go back inside, Gillian tried to ignore the sight of Jeremy almost lost in the shadows up ahead, children racing along beside him, chattering eagerly as he ignored them.

  She had not misread the situation. He wasn’t the youth leader type. Not at all.

  Was he?

  Chapter Two

  “Why are there two whole shelves of dog food and only one teensy section with tea?” Charity Flowerday muttered, as she hobbled up and down the aisles of Mossbank’s largest grocery store, searching for the ingredients she needed for lunch with her friends. Although why she should have to search for anything was a mystery. She’d lived in this small farming community for almost seventy years. She should know where every single item was kept, she chuckled to herself.

  “Ah, tea.” She ran her finger along the shelf and plucked a package into her cart. “Now, dessert.”

  It was impossible to ignore the young tow-headed boy in the junk-food aisle across from frozen foods. He looked much the way her own son had thirty years ago: freckle-faced, grubby, with a tear in both knees of his filthy jeans and his shirttail hanging out.

  “School not started yet?” she asked in her usual friendly fashion. It wasn’t that she didn’t know. Why, her friend Hope’s niece had been teaching at the local elementary school for almost a month now, and she was well acquainted with the schedule.

  “Buyin’ somethin’ fer my mom,” he muttered, turning his face away and hunching over to peer at the varieties of potato chips currently available. It was obvious that he wasn’t interested in carrying on a conversation. Charity shrugged before turning away to squint at the ice cream labels behind the frosted glass doors.

  “Hmm, all pretty high in fat and cholesterol,” she murmured to herself. Heaven knew women of her age couldn’t afford either one, she thought grimly. “Arthur,” she called loudly, hoping the proprietor would hear her above the roar of the semi truck unloading outside.

  When Art Johnson didn’t immediately appear, she shuffled over to the counter to wait for him. The grubby little boy was there ahead of her clutching a fistful of penny candy.

  “Hello again, young man. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. Has your family just moved to Mossbank?” Any newcomer to their fair town was a source of interest for Charity, and she couldn’t help the bristle of curiosity that ran through her. “What’s your name?”

  “Roddy. Roddy Green.”

  “Well, nice to meet you, Roddy. My name is Mrs. Flowerday. I live at the end of Maple Street in that red brick house. Perhaps you’ve noticed it?”

  “Nope.”

  Evidently young Mr. Green didn’t care to know, either, thought Charity with a tiny smile. Kids nowadays were so different. They didn’t bother with all the folderol of petty politeness and such. They just got down to the basics.

  “Where’s the old guy that runs this place?” the boy demanded sullenly, tapping his fingers on the counter. “I haven’t got all day.”

  “Oh, Mr. Johnson often has to stay at the back while they unload the truck,” she explained to him with a smile. “He counts the pieces as they take them off to be sure he receives everything he should. I’m certain he will be here in a moment.”

  “I’m here right now, Charity. Sorry to have kept you waiting. What can I do for you?”

  Arthur Johnson smiled at her the same way he had for the past thirty-five years, and Charity smiled back. He had always been a friendly man who took pleasure in meeting the needs of his customers. When he looked at her like that, his face jovial, his balding head burnished in the autumn sun shining through the window, Charity felt her heart give a quick little patter. He was still such a handsome man.

  “I was here first,” Roddy piped up belligerently. He smacked the candy on the counter. “How much?”

  Charity noticed Art’s eyebrows rise at the obvious discourtesy, but she shook her head slightly.

  “Yes, he was here first, Art,” Charity murmured.

  “All right, then. Twenty-nine cents, please, young man.”

  As Charity watched the child’s hand slip into his pocket for the change, she noticed his other hand snitch a chocolate bar from the stand in front of him and slip it into his other pocket She motioned her head downward as Art glanced at her, but this time it was he who shook his head.

  “Thanks, son. Now you’d better get back to school.”

  “’Bye Art the fart,” the boy chanted, racing out the door and down the street. They could hear his bellows of laughter ricochet back and forth along the narrow avenue.

  “Of all the nerve! Arthur Johnson, you know very well that child stole a chocolate bar from you,” Charity accused, casting the grocer a black look. “Why did you let the little hoodlum get away with it? Didn’t you see it clearly enough?”

  “Oh, I saw it, Charity. My eyes are still pretty good, and that mirror really helps,” Art chuckled. “But this isn’t the fir
st time I chose to do nothing about it. Not right now. Anyway, that chocolate bar will eat away at his conscience all afternoon. He’s not getting away with anything.” He pressed her shoulder gently as if to soothe away her indignation. “Now, dear lady, what can I do for my best customer?”

  Charity preened a little at the complimentary tone, straightening her shoulders as she blinked up at him girlishly.

  “Well, Arthur, I’m having guests for lunch today, and I want to serve ice cream. This may be one of the last really warm days we have this fall, you know.”

  “I see.” Art led the way over to the freezers and tugged out a small round tub. “I have your favorite right back here, Charity. Double chocolate fudge pecan.” He beamed down at her

  “Why, I can’t believe you remembered. It’s ages since I had this. It won’t do for Hope, though,” Charity said, grimacing. “She’s always watching her fat content, and this is bound to send it over the moon.” A tinge of frustration edged her words as she shoved the container back into the freezer. “Maybe we’d better have sherbet instead. A nice savory lemon.”

  “Charity, Hope Langford is so scrawny she could do with a little fattening up. Besides, you know you love chocolate. And this is the light variety with one-third less fat It’s really quite delicious.” Art glanced at his hands self-consciously. “I tried it myself last week.”

  “You ate chocolate ice cream, with your cholesterol level?” Charity frowned severely. “You need a woman to look after you, Arthur.”

  They spent twenty minutes discussing their various health ailments before Charity strolled out the door carrying the container of chocolate ice cream and grinning from ear to ear.

  Two and a half hours later Charity was welcoming her two friends to her cosy home and a scrumptious lunch.

  “Isn’t it lovely out today.” That was her friend Faith Rempel who simply never had a bad day. “I can’t imagine more perfect weather for walking.”