Maybe he’d find his faith again.
Maybe he did feel something for her.
Maybe it didn’t matter if he lived clear across the country and was dedicated to his work.
But then he changed. Subtle, but unmistakable. Like he’d erected a wall between them, right on the dividing line where friendship became something more.
They still got on fine, chatted easily, laughed together. He still sat in on her cooking lessons. He still gave every appearance of enjoying spending time with the girls. The way he did right now, fending off both of them with a noodle as they waved theirs at him in a playful sword battle.
But she felt the wall. Clearly, he regretted giving her encouragement to hope he might be interested in anything more.
So she’d do just what he did. Keep things light and friendly.
Think about him as little as possible.
And ignore those pointless hopes. Apart from hoping he’d find God again. She wouldn’t stop hoping for that one.
Thankfully, she had no time to think once the game started. Claire cleverly eliminated any advantage of the grown-ups’ and older kids’ longer legs by giving them long floppy noodles. Almost impossible to move the ball. Sam spent most of the game collapsing into helpless giggles every time one of her wild swings failed to connect.
Their opponents, Sarah and Leroy Schaefer plus two of their children, friendly and welcoming though they were, played to win. So did Daniel, though he made sure to pass the ball to the girls whenever he could, giving them the opportunity to score the goal rather than him. Or more often, the opportunity to miss the goal.
No wonder she liked him so much.
After ten minutes of fast-and-furious action, the result was a draw.
“Auntie Sam, why didn’t you hit the ball? We could have won if you did.” Emily pouted as they walked to the sidelines, letting two other teams take over the miniature hockey field.
Deciding to save a gentle lecture on enjoying the game being more important than winning till they got home, Sam laughed. “I did try, promise. But I’m sure Claire gave me the floppiest noodle.” As she waved it in front of her, it drooped like a wilted flower. “If this was a real noodle, it would be cooked spaghetti.”
Emily and Rose both rolled their eyes and groaned at her weak joke.
Daniel chuckled. “Don’t worry, girls. You got a goal each — an awesome score in noodle hockey. Next up is the three-legged race. I’ll tell you a secret about how to be faster in that one.”
Giving a conspiratorial glance around them, he bent to put his arms around the girls’ shoulders as if they were in a football huddle and whispered something she couldn’t hear.
Emily giggled. “Okay. We can do that. Are you going to tell Auntie Sam, too? She might not know.”
He straightened to look across to her, smiled, and then shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll tell her right before the race.”
“Okay, so what aren’t you telling me? Something I ought to know?” Sam’s eyebrows rose. “And how do you know all this stuff, anyway?”
Daniel assumed his most guileless expression. “Google. As soon as Claire sent out the event list to everyone, I did an internet search. A good reporter always does his research. Trust me. I’ll make sure you know what you need to when you need to.”
Sam scrunched her nose and swiped at him with her noodle. Whatever it was, he knew she wouldn’t like it. But she’d have to play along or spoil the girls’ fun.
Soon enough, once a smirking Claire bound her left leg and Daniel’s right leg together from calf to thigh with Velcro straps, she found out.
“So, my secret weapon,” Daniel murmured. “The trick is to move our two free legs at precisely the same time, then swing the tied leg through. A bit like someone using crutches. Don’t try to run. Power walking is faster. Making sure to keep our upper bodies moving in synch by putting an arm around each other helps, too. Look at Emily and Rose.”
She glanced ahead to where the younger children waited. Claire’s solution to give everyone a fair chance in the races was to move the starting point based on age. One of the pairs nearest the finish line, Emily and Rose stood facing forward, so closely entwined no light showed between the sides of their bodies.
Okay, they cuddled all the time. But she and Daniel didn’t. This race was way more appropriate for kids and their parents than for them.
Keep reminding me, Lord. It’s for the girls. They’ll be so thrilled if we win.
Cautiously, she lifted her arm and laid it across his back. His strong arm slid around her waist and drew her toward him. Firmly enough for her to feel the steady movement of his chest as he breathed. Unlike hers, rising and falling as fast as if she’d already run the race.
She’d have to hold on tight or risk dragging him back. Or, even worse, they’d both fall flat on their faces. She could just imagine how Emily would react.
“Ready. Set. Go!” Claire shouted.
In a few strides, she picked up his rhythm, stretching her steps to match his longer ones. They moved in unison, soon catching up with the older kids. She sensed rather than consciously felt his nudge to the right and swerved to go around them.
Only when they drew level with Emily and Rose did he slow the pace, making sure not to overtake them. They all crossed the finish line at exactly the same time. The second she and Daniel came to a halt, she snatched her arm away from his waist and bent to fumble with the Velcro ties.
“Let me.”
Annoying man didn’t sound the least bit breathless, while she couldn’t trust her voice not to squeak. Unlike hers, his hands showed no signs of trembling as he efficiently stripped off the ties. Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected.
So their closeness hadn’t affected him. Her heartbeat pounded against her ribs so hard he must surely be able to hear it, and not only because of running.
Ridiculous disappointment rocked her as she rushed to help the excited girls.
“You did good, this time, Auntie Sam. We ran faster than everyone!” Emily crowed, echoed by Rose.
Sam hugged them. “So we did, sweethearts. Good teamwork. I’ll take a photo of your blue ribbons to show your mom and write how well you worked together. She’ll be proud of you.”
What she wouldn’t write was anything about Daniel and how her gaze insisted on clinging to him even after he ambled away to talk to Brad and Ryan and the other guys clustered around the grill performing the manly art of barbecue.
Or that, while the women arranged the homemade desserts and side dishes they’d brought on the long trestle table, she couldn’t help comparing. One by one, other women added their home-prepared food. Liz unpacked her famous pies, Sarah brought out a plate of beautifully decorated cupcakes, and Maddie lifted bowls of luscious-looking salad from her cooler. Her contribution was a few big bags of bread rolls purchased at the store. They’d seemed the safest option. Something even she couldn’t mess up. But so little compared to the perfection around them.
The sole exception was Claire’s plate of deflated muffins, dumped on the table with a cheerful, “I forgot to add the baking soda, but don’t worry, they still taste fine.”
Impossible not to notice that she and Claire, the oldest never-married women here, were also the only two who couldn’t cook.
The 1950s were alive and well and living in Sunset Point.
Her lack of domestic skills didn’t usually bother her so much. Happily single, she’d accepted it as God’s will and trusted that if she never married, He had some other purpose for her. He’d given her other talents, even if homemaking wasn’t one of them.
She knew that. But here, surrounded by wonderful homemakers again, her old teenage insecurities surfaced.
Still, as the others drew her into their conversation, she couldn’t help feeling at home.
Especially when Liz hugged her.
“Thank you for remembering to bring the bread rolls, Sam.” A beaming smile lit her age-worn face. “We’re all so busy cooking our specia
lties, we tend to forget the basics. I’ll miss you and our lessons so much when you leave.”
Sam rolled her eyes, but smiled. “What, miss watching me waste perfectly good ingredients every day? Maybe we should bypass the in-between stage and just have me throw them straight in the trash.”
Liz laughed, but shook her head. “What you make doesn’t go in the trash every day anymore. You’re definitely improving. And yes, I will miss both you and our lessons.”
“I’ll miss you, too. I’ll miss a lot of people and places here when I go back to Seattle.” She meant it. Though she loved her church and her friends there, the thought of returning to gray skies and a cramped apartment sank her spirits almost as much as comparing herself to the far better homemakers.
“So why don’t you stay? You can work here as well as you can in Seattle,” Claire chimed in. “I came for two weeks replacement teaching while Mrs. Parks was ill, and I loved it so much I jumped at the chance to apply for the job when she retired.”
For the first time, Sam seriously considered the possibility, without dismissing it as no more than an if only. She loved the small lakeside community. If she lived here, Steph and the twins could come for vacations. The only thing she’d miss was her church and her friends there.
They could always Facebook. The church livestreamed the Sunday services. And amazingly, she’d learned there was life without pizza.
Brow creased, she turned to Maddie. “What would the rental be on the cottage for a year-round lease, not just the summer?”
Grinning, Maddie named a figure far lower than Sam expected. Slightly less than she paid for the tiny Seattle apartment.
“I’d consider selling to the right person, too.” Her friend nudged her shoulder. “And of course, you’re exactly the right person.”
Sam smiled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but my business needs to boom a lot more before buying would be an option.”
Especially if she couldn’t cook her pie before Daniel left. Creating templates and web designs for mommy bloggers was her bread and butter, but what blogger would want her designing their site once the truth came out?
“Wiser to rent for a time, anyway,” Liz put in. “Wait till you’ve survived a whole year here. Get through your first snow and mud seasons. I’ve seen too many newcomers change their minds after our tough seasons.”
“I didn’t!” Claire put in. “But then, everyone knows I’m weird.”
A chorus of laughing agreement echoed round the group.
“Hey,” she protested, “you weren’t supposed to agree!”
Sam chuckled. “Well, maybe I’m weird, too. Much as I love Seattle, snow and mud here might suit me better than constant drizzle.” She loosed a long thoughtful breath. “The lease on my apartment ends soon. I’ll need to pray about this.”
“Do,” Maddie said. “It’s a big decision, but God will guide you to whatever choice is right for you.”
I hope You do, Lord. Um, sorry. I mean I trust You will.
She peeked across at Daniel, through the haze of cooking smoke from the grill.
For a moment, a sweet fantasy occupied her mind. Her and Daniel, married and living in Maddie’s cottage, with a blue-eyed baby on the way. Of course, she cooked just as well as Maddie, too, producing a perfect pie from the oven.
In real life, that was about as likely as Daniel wanting to marry her.
Besides, even if she could somehow stretch her imagination far enough to imagine he might fall in love with her, a city boy like him wouldn’t consider moving here. Or abandoning his career. His crusade for truth and justice meant too much to him. And he’d made it clear — his work left no time for a wife.
She needed to seek God’s guidance on this decision. And only that.
Her hopes and dreams about Daniel mustn’t affect her choice.
Not too much, anyway.
Chapter 8
Daniel sat in the cottage kitchen observing Samantha Rose using her hands to mix butter into flour under Liz’s careful tutelage. This time, perhaps she’d finally get pastry right. Despite the irrefutable evidence of her other failed attempts, today might be the day.
If he still talked to God, he’d be praying for her.
And not just because he’d have to try to eat whatever she cooked up on Sunday.
Publishing the truth about her kitchen skills would hurt her and probably the twins, too. For the first time in a journalistic career packed with hard-won scoops and exposés, he wanted to write something different. A heartwarming human-interest story.
But first, she had to show she could live up to her blog.
His renewed determination to stay professional and treat her like any other subject under investigation hadn’t lasted long. About a nanosecond after he’d slipped his arm around her at the sports evening and pulled her against him. It evaporated as soon as he heard her quick intake of breath, saw her startled eyes widen, and realized the contact affected her as much as it did him.
Somehow, he had to forget that moment’s unexpected sweetness. Forget the fork in the road Meg talked about. He’d already made his choice. Back to New York on Monday and business as usual on Tuesday.
Nothing could change that.
But for the rest of his life, Samantha Rose would be his “what if”.
“That’s right, Sam. You’re doing great.” Liz’s patient encouragement never faltered. “Keep going till it gets crumbly. If you feel your hands are too warm and you’re melting the butter instead of rubbing it in, stop and run them under the cold tap. You don’t need to rush it.”
Chewing on her lower lip, her student frowned as she silently concentrated for another minute or two. Then she looked up with an uncertain arch of her delicate brow. “I think I’ve done it. Is this right?”
Liz examined the contents of the bowl, lifted a pinch of the mixture between two fingers, and grinned. “Perfect. So, you tell me, what comes next?”
“The water.” The lovely woman he had to try harder to think of as no more than his current subject twisted her lips in a resigned smile. “I could recite the recipe in my sleep, we’ve tried this so many times now. I just can’t seem to make it.”
He could recite it, too, after sitting in on several pastry-making lessons. And he doubted he could make it, either. The difference was, he’d never implied to his readership he could.
“You will. Just take it slowly.” Liz handed her a jug and a large spoon. “Start with two tablespoons, mix them in, and only add more if it’s too dry.”
She took the proffered items from the older woman. Holding the spoon over the bowl, she tipped the jug.
“No!” Liz’s warning came too late.
Water gushed from the jug and cascaded over the spoon and into the bowl.
“Oh…” Lips wobbling as though ready to cry, Samantha Rose’s face crumpled. The glance she threw him begged him not to notice her mistake. Then squaring her slumped shoulders, she turned to her teacher. “Sorry. I rushed it again. Could I add more flour?”
Liz grimaced apologetically. “That won’t work. Not for pastry. Next time, spoon the water up. Don’t pour it in. Maybe we can salvage it and make something else instead. Add eggs and milk, it might work as pancakes. Or we could try savory muffins.”
“Or how about I don’t waste any more ingredients. Throwing food away feels wicked, but the best place for this is the trash.” Grabbing the bowl, she flounced to the trash can and dumped the contents in, before setting the bowl on the table with a definite thump. “I’ll never get this right, no matter how much I pray or how patiently you repeat things. I should accept the fact and give up trying.” Flopping into a seat, she sat slumped, head in her hands, eyes closed.
He wanted to hug her, offer what comfort he could. But it looked like she prayed, and the God she had such faith in surely offered her more comfort.
Instead, he waited till she opened her eyes again, and then did what he did best. Asked a question.
“This is your last
lesson before Sunday, when you cook for me?”
An exaggerated shudder shook her as she turned toward him. “It is. There’s no way I’ll manage a pie on my own. Here’s a line for your article: if the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, Samantha Rose is an old maid for sure.”
“Surely not every man expects a perfect homemaker.” He’d never thought about it too much. It wasn’t as if he had a perfect homemaking mom to compare other women to.
“You think not?” Her lips twisted, and her eyes rolled skyward. “So write that in your article, too, and see what response you get.”
Maybe he’d have to. If concern for her prevented him revealing she’d faked her blog, he’d be betraying all that gave purpose to his life.
Doing that meant losing himself. If he turned his back on everything he’d dedicated the last fourteen years to, what did he have?
At least she had her faith to sustain her. He had nothing but the knowledge he did what he could to stop other people being conned the way the donors to Dad’s charity were. Small though her deception was, the principle remained the same.
Besides, after her new laptop arrived earlier in the week and she’d mentioned it in a blog post, her claims not to profit from the blog appeared less convincing.
New Macs didn’t come cheap.
That delivery, and the pretty, new, brand-name clothes she’d photographed the twins wearing weren’t proof. Not to the level he needed before he wrote anything. But they reinforced his suspicions. Reminded him to stay watchful and not let his feelings for her prejudice his article.
“Don’t give up. You must at least try.” Liz, calm and reassuring as always, patted her shoulder.
Samantha Rose raised her hands in surrender. “Don’t worry. I’ll still try to cook a meal on Sunday. And the pie.”
“I’ll gladly give you an extra session tomorrow, if you like.”
Lifting her gaze from the table, she offered a regretful smile. “Thanks for offering, Liz. But even if I get it right with you, I have to repeat it on my own. Using pastry you helped me make is cheating.”
Come to the Lake Page 19