“Tell me later. Gotta get our Sunday dinner dished up, and the pastor is waiting in the parlor for you.”
“I don’t suppose you could tell him I’m not feeling well?”
The landlady’s expression sobered. “You’re sick?”
Karen shrugged. “Truthfully, no. Just sick at heart.”
“Did that charming rascal do something untoward?”
“No! No. Nothing like that.” She glanced away, feeling her cheeks warming again. She sighed. She had to face up to what she did and explain what happened.
Mrs. Grady’s eyes widened as Karen told her about the sleeve slipping down Clay’s arm. Then she burst out in a belly laugh.
“It’s not funny.” Karen frowned and crossed her arms. “I’m humiliated.” Tears glistened in the older woman’s eyes. “I’m sorry, but that’s the most amusing tale I’ve heard in a long while.” She patted Karen’s shoulder and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Remind me to tell you about the first shirt I made for Mr. Grady.” She turned and bustled toward the stairs, still chuckling.
Karen hurried over and peered into the mirror, not liking what she saw. Her face was splotchy, her eyes puffy, and her nose red. She didn’t want Clay to see her like this, but there was nothing to be done about it. She could hardly keep him waiting until her complexion returned to normal.
Downstairs she paused at the entrance to the parlor. Clay stood at the window, looking out. He’d changed from her shirt to a plaid one. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to remove that dreadful thing. He must have heard her, because he turned and smiled. “I looked for you after church.”
Karen ducked her head, afraid any sympathy on his part would set her crying again. Why couldn’t he be angry? It would make her feel better.
He crossed the room and stopped in front of her. “Are you all right?”
She shrugged but didn’t look up.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Surely you know. I sat through the whole service, watching your sleeve slide farther and farther down your arm.”
He chuckled. “That was unexpected. I wasn’t quite sure what was happening. I thought maybe I’d torn it off with all of my tugging.”
A ray of hope pushed away her misery. Could his tugging have caused the sleeve to come loose? “Why were you pulling on it?”
His eyes widened, and his ears turned red. “Uh … it’s a very nice shirt.”
“You don’t have to spare my feelings. I know something was wrong.”
“Uh … well … it pinched my underarm a bit.”
“Oh. I should have made it bigger.”
His taut expression eased. “When we’re married, you’ll be able to try things on me before you finish them so you can adjust them if needed.”
Karen snorted and looked away. “You’re such an optimist, Clay. I don’t know as I’ll ever attempt to make you another item of clothing.”
He took her hands. “I hope you do. It’s a fine shirt. It just needs a few adjustments. Even when I buy ready-made shirts, they sometimes need tweaking.”
It was impossible to stay angry in light of his encouragement. “Tweaking—as in needing a new sleeve?”
He grinned. “Well, maybe not a whole sleeve, but sometimes they need to be shortened or the buttons moved.”
“I’m mortified. Everyone must think I’m a buffoon.”
He took hold of her shoulders. “Karen, no one even knows you made the shirt, so how could they think that?”
She shrugged. Perhaps he was right. Once again she was making a mountain out of a molehill.
“Dinner’s ready,” Mrs. Grady called from the dining room.
Footsteps sounded upstairs as the other boarders made their way across the hall and down the stairs.
“Better put on a smile, or those other boarders will be booting me out the door, thinking I did something to upset you.”
In spite of her misery, a smile lifted her lips.
“That’s my girl.” He glanced past her then dipped down, stealing a kiss and setting her heart dancing. “Stop worrying so much. I love the shirt and hope you’ll make the needed adjustments once we’re married.”
“Just don’t blame me if it falls apart again.”
He chuckled. “All right. I’ll lay the blame on Mrs. Willard.”
A giggle bubbled up and spilled out. “Shame on you, Pastor.”
He winked then looped her arm through his and escorted her into the dining room. This was the Clay she remembered—the one who could always make her feel better, no matter the situation. The only man other than her father whom she had ever loved.
Karen deposited the last of the half-dozen fruitcakes she’d made for the auction on the crowded table, feeling a bit proud of how nicely they’d turned out. At least her cooking skills couldn’t be questioned.
“Those turned out lovely. After smelling them baking all afternoon, I just might have to purchase one.” Mrs. Grady leaned over and sniffed. “Mmm …”
Karen lifted her hand to her mouth. “Oh my, I should have thought to make you one. It was so kind of you to allow me to use your kitchen and some of your supplies.”
Mrs. Grady swatted her hand in the air. “You saved me some extra work. I always attend the auction and donate something. It’s for a worthy cause. And my donating supplies while you did the baking worked out well.”
Clay walked up to them. “I sure hope you made one of those for me. How long has it been since I tasted your scrumptious fruitcake?”
Karen smiled, inwardly delighted. “Probably the Christmas before last. But if you want one now, you’ll have to buy it. This is all I baked.”
Clay stroked his chin, a mischievous expression on his handsome face. “I just might have to do that.” He glanced around the crowded room. “Although, with all the people here, the competition should be quite stiff.”
Karen patted his arm. “Have no fear. If you don’t get one today, I’ll make a special one for you after we’re married.”
“I’ll look forward to that.”
Mrs. Willard and two other women halted on the opposite side of the table, followed by Prudy, who looked as if she’d been chewing on fresh rhubarb. Karen couldn’t help admiring her lovely, dark green velvet dress.
“Looks like we’ll be making another fine donation to the Buckner Orphans Home this year.” Helen Willard’s gaze swung along the four tables filled with sweet-smelling baked goods. “It was kind of you to donate six fruitcakes, Mrs. Grady.”
“Oh, they’re mostly from Miss Briggs. I just provided some of the supplies and my kitchen. Karen did the baking.”
Helen lifted her chin but managed a somewhat grateful look. “How kind of you, Miss Briggs, with you so new to town and all.” Her gaze swiveled away. “Pastor, did you happen to see that Prudence baked eight rhubarb pies?”
Rue-barb was more like it. Karen crossed her arms, feeling the poke of the woman’s barb and her pride that her daughter had donated more than Karen had.
“They look mighty tasty, Mrs. Willard, but I have to say, I prefer cake to pies.”
Karen straightened. Bless Clay’s heart.
Mrs. Willard harrumphed then moved down the table, most likely searching for other victims to lord her daughter’s efforts over.
Prudy stared down at the fruitcakes. “They look absolutely delicious. What all do you put in them?”
Karen relaxed. Had Prudy finally decided to be civil? “Um … well, besides the basics like flour and sugar, I add raisins, currants, mace, nutmeg, and candied lemons and cherries.”
Prudy’s brow dipped, and she tapped one finger against her mouth. “You don’t use brandy in it? I was certain I spied you buying a bottle at the mercantile. Surely you don’t drink the stuff.”
“Of course she doesn’t.” Clay straightened, obviously upset by Prudy’s accusation. “How could you ask such a thing?”
Mrs. Willard and her cronies moved back toward Karen and Clay. Karen’s face flamed. Som
e women took offense to brandy being used in fruitcakes, so she’d refrained from mentioning it. “I do use it, because the brandy keeps the cakes from molding and prolongs their life. But I merely soak the raisins in it. The potency cooks out, so you can’t even tell it’s there.”
Gasps surrounded her. Prudy glowed proud, but her mother’s face paled. “You put liquor in your fruitcakes?” Lois Clemmons fanned her face with her hand.
Karen stared at the floor, wishing she was an insect and could crawl under the table. She’d tried to do something nice—something to support the church’s event—but once again she failed.
“Now, Lois, don’t make such a stink. Using brandy for baking is quite common.” Mrs. Grady sent Karen a smile.
Karen backed away from the table, fearing she may well have cost Clay his job. All around her, the crowd pressed in and people grumbled. She spun. “Excuse me, please. I need some air.”
“Karen. Wait!” Clay called out, but she continued squeezing through the throng.
She pushed her way outside then ran all the way back to the boardinghouse. It was no use. She was the wrong bride for Clay, and it was time he faced the facts.
Chapter 7
Clay longed to go after Karen—to soothe the wounds the church ladies had carelessly inflicted—but he had responsibilities here. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. He lifted two fingers to his mouth and whistled. The noise quieted instantly, and everyone looked at him. “Let’s not forget this is a church event, even if we are not in the church. Please quiet down, and we’ll begin the auction. Where’s Elmer?”
“Back here, Parson Parsons. Let me through, folks. I’m the auctioneer.”
“Everyone knows that, Elmer.” Fred Smith chuckled, as did half the crowd.
Clay relaxed as the tension of the crowd eased, but there was still one person he had to confront. He searched for Prudy and was not surprised to see her making her way toward him, smiling like a child who’d stolen a pie from a windowsill.
She batted her long lashes at him. “I’m so sorry, Clay. I had no idea that the mention of brandy would upset everyone.”
He crossed his arms, fighting hard not to lose control. “Lying doesn’t become you, Miss Willard. I know exactly what you were doing. And it won’t work.”
She pouted and swirled her skirts, obviously struggling to maintain an innocent gaze. “What won’t work?”
“Trying to chase Karen away. She’s the woman I intend to marry, and if it means leaving my church to do so, I will.”
She paled. “Why would you want that mouse when you could have me? I’ve practically thrown myself at you. Any other man would have married me months ago.”
Clay shook his head, feeling sorry for the woman. “You don’t understand. Karen has owned my heart for more than a decade. There is no other woman for me.”
She ducked her head. He hated hurting her, but she had to stop chasing after him and pestering Karen.
A ruckus behind him drew his attention. Bart Tremble waved a dollar in the air. “Start with them fruitcakes. I want one.”
“Me, too.” Silas Hightower stepped in front of Bart. “I’ll bid two dollars.”
“Three!”
Clay looked up front at Mrs. Willard’s stunned face and smiled. It looked as if Karen’s fruitcakes were a winner—at least with the men. He turned back, and Prudy was gone. Good. He needed to find Karen and tell her the good news.
What a mess she’d made of things. Karen slapped a blouse into her satchel but then jumped at a knock on her bedroom door. As far as she knew, she was alone in the house.
“Open the door, Karen.”
Clay. She didn’t want to see him—to break his heart. “Go away.”
“I’m not leaving, so you might as well open the door.”
Sighing, she did as ordered. “You shouldn’t be here. If anyone found out—”
“I don’t care what anyone thinks.” He stepped into her room, eyes beseeching her to believe him. “I love you. I should have told you years ago, but I wanted to get settled—to have a home for us first.”
Karen shook her head. “It’s too late. I can’t be the wife you need. I’m leaving, Clay.”
“Leaving! You don’t mean that. Where will you go?”
She shrugged and turned back to the open satchel on her bed. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be the cause of you losing your church.”
“I can get another church, but you’re the only woman for me. Can’t you see that? I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”
She shook her head. She loved him too much to bring about his demise. “I’m sorry. But it won’t work.”
He stepped closer. “Karen—”
Steeling herself, she spun around. Better to hurt him now than later. She held up her hand. “I’m not changing my mind.”
His deep sigh and sad eyes were almost her undoing.
“Fine. I won’t force you to marry me.” He spun around and was gone.
Clay walked down Main Street, confusion warring within him. He thought marrying Karen was God’s will, but had his love for her overruled his ability to hear God on the subject?
Silas Hightower moseyed toward him, holding one of Karen’s fruitcakes and chewing. He slowed as he neared Clay. “This is the best stuff I’ve ever eaten. You’d be a fool, Pastor, not to marry a woman who can cook like her.”
The man’s comment didn’t help his crumpled emotions. As much as he wanted to head home, hide out, and nurse his wounded heart, he needed to check on things—and the Christmas sing-along was to start soon. He was expected to get it going, but then maybe he could sneak out after that.
Clay returned to the building where the auction was being held and scanned the table. Most of the items had already been claimed. Mrs. Willard spied him and moved in his direction. She was the next-to-last person he wanted to talk with now. He backed out the door, ready to tuck tail and run.
“Pastor, wait. Please.”
Her contrite tone slowed his steps, and he turned. Helen approached, along with her sister and Lois Clemmons. Helen cleared her throat. “We’d like to apologize.”
“It’s my fault.” Lois ducked her head. “My father was a drunkard, and I can’t abide alcohol. But I do feel we overreacted and owe Miss Briggs an apology.”
“I agree. You’ll find her at the boardinghouse.”
Lois nodded, and she and Loraine turned that way.
Helen moved closer. “Pastor, I do hope you won’t hold any hard feelings against Prudence. She’s a woman scorned and was desperate to gain your attention.”
Clay crossed his arms. “Your daughter’s games hurt a good woman and may have jeopardized our marriage. I forgive her, but I also made it clear that I am not now, nor have I ever been, interested in her as a potential wife. Karen is the only woman for me.”
Helen ducked her head and nodded. “I understand. She won’t bother you again.”
Clay watched her hurry to catch up with the other two women, feeling only marginally better. It was good the women were on their way to apologize. He probably ought to be there—just in case. First, he had to get something from his home—one last gift.
Persistent knocking at the front door drew Karen from her room. She didn’t want to answer, but it might be a prospective boarder, and she wouldn’t be the cause of Mrs. Grady losing business.
She opened the door, stunned to see the trio responsible for her latest woes.
Lois quickly explained and apologized.
“And we want you to know we’re sincerely happy to have you here in Bakerstown,” Mrs. Willard said.
Loraine nodded. “You make Pastor Clay happy.”
Karen’s chilled heart began to thaw. “Thank you so much for coming. You can’t know how much it means.”
The women left as quickly as they came, but a foot slid into the opening before she could close the door. She stepped back, and Clay pushed into the room.
She crossed her arms. “Why are you back?”
“Clay …”
“Please. Just open it.”
Even though she knew she shouldn’t, Karen unwrapped the paper and opened the tiny box. She gasped. A beautiful ring with a blue sapphire gleamed in the light shining through the door. “Oh, Clay. It’s lovely.”
He stepped forward. “I love you, Karen. Please don’t go. Stay and be my wife.”
Leaving him was wrong. She knew it. All it would create was misery for them both. She loved this man and didn’t want to live without him. Tears coursing down her face, she nodded.
Clay smiled and took her into his arms. “Oh sweetheart, you don’t know how happy that makes me. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, and I promise never to make another fruitcake.”
Clay threw back his head and laughed. When he finally stopped, he captured her gaze. “I certainly hope that’s one promise you don’t keep.”
Late Christmas Eve, Clay lifted Karen off the porch and carried her through the door of the parsonage—their home. He kicked the door shut then claimed her lips, kissing her as he’d longed to do for years.
After a while, Karen pulled back, gleaming in the love of a newly married woman. “I have a gift for you.”
“Oh you do?” He grinned.
“It’s not what you’re thinking. Please put me down.”
Reluctantly, he set her on her feet. She opened the satchel he’d placed on the table earlier and pulled out a box and handed it to him.
Curious, he lifted the lid, delighted at the fruity aroma that greeted him. “A fruitcake!”
Karen smiled.
He set the cake on the table then waggled his brows. “I’d love some later, but right now, I prefer to enjoy my wife—and she’s much sweeter than fruitcake.”
Fruitcake by Measure
2 scant teacupfuls butter
3 cupfuls dark brown sugar
The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection Page 48