by Susan Kirby
Long brown needles shifted underfoot. Thomasina closed her eyes and breathed the scent of pine as the breeze whispered in the branches. “It’s a beautiful place.”
Trace nodded in agreement “I spent a lot of time here as a boy. Milt would put Will and me to work, then go about his business. We’d play at it, then sneak off to fish and swim in the creek or climb trees until Milt came looking for us and sent us back to the field. Don’t know why he put up with it. Together we weren’t worth shooting.”
Enlightened, Thomasina slanted him a smile. “You’re as attached to the place as Milt, aren’t you?”
“You could say that. I still don’t understand why Will isn’t. But he never was. Not even as a boy. He couldn’t wait to get to town, and I couldn’t get enough of the country.”
“So what are you doing still in Liberty Flats?”
“In a factory, no less,” he said, and grimaced as they resumed walking. “Not forever, though. If Milt goes through with the auction, I’m bidding my all.”
“You, too?” blurted Thomasina.
“Milt told you about Jeb Liddle, I guess.” He shrugged and said, “It’s no more than I expected. Jeb and his boys have been farming for Milt since Milt’s health started going downhill. Naturally they have a strong interest.”
Realizing he had not understood her meaning any more than she had anticipated his interest in making the land his, Thomasina picked a pine frond off a low-hanging branch. If the auction came to pass, they would be bidding against one another. “Would you farm it?” she asked.
“I would if I could. But that would mean a big cash outlay for equipment and livestock over and above the land. I couldn’t swing that. Not for a long time,” he said.
“So what would you do?”
“First things first. Milt’s daughters haven’t had their say yet—that could change everything. And even if it doesn’t, I’m not all that confident my pockets are deep enough to make the top bid.”
“But if you do…” Thomasina pressed.
“I’d let Jeb and his boys do the farming, and use the income to put up cabins here and there.”
Thomasina looked at him in surprise. “What kind of cabins?”
“Vacation cabins. City people will put out a chunk of change for a week away from it all.”
“A place to unwind.”
Trace grinned and caught her hand in his. “Close your eyes and use your imagination. See the vacation cabin along the creek. Little kids are playing on a raft while Mom and Pop fish on the bank. And tucked back back in those trees is a honeymoon cottage.”
His callused palm was snug against hers. His eyes glowed with purpose as he spoke of having waited for years for a place like this. His jawline, his long upper lip, even his stride bespoke resolute determination.
“But I never once thought that it could be this place,” Trace finished. He looked at her then away, a telltale shyness crowding out the spontaneity with which he had shared his dream.
She should tell him, avoid misunderstanding later. Yet Thomasina let the moment pass, opting to tell him later, beyond this sanctuary of pine boughs and blue sky.
“To dreams,” she said, and squeezed his hand.
He returned the pressure and smiled.
They walked on. Thomasina shrugged off her overshirt and tied it about her waist. Her bandanna fell from her hair. Trace stepped behind her and picked it up from the bed of pine needles. His fingertips brushed her neck as he retied it for her.
“Thanks.” She reached back to smooth the tickle he’d stirred with his touch. Her fingers tangled briefly with his. He scattered more stardust, brushing a pine needle off the mock turtleneck of her ribbed knit T-shirt.
“Tommy Rose?”
She caught her breath, turned her head and met his eyes over her left shoulder.
“About last night…”
Color rose, flooding her throat, sweeping up her cheeks. “You don’t have to say anything. I was out of line.”
“No you weren’t. Not entirely.” Trace’s hands lighted on her shoulders. He turned her to face him and let his hands fall away. “What I meant to say was that I’d had my share of go-nowhere relationships, and that if you were spoken for, there was no point.”
“I’m not. Are you?”
“Free as a bird.”
Thomasina took him at his word and chased away the specter of Deidre. “A fresh page, then. Okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed, and took her hand again.
Thomasina followed Trace back to town a short while later. She watched from the porch as he traded tree cutting tools for building tools, then climbed in his truck and headed across town. She owed him a turnabout for helping her move. But it was roof work he was doing, and she’d be no help up there. Anyway, she needed to call Nathan and Flo.
True to their word, the phone company had turned on her line. The house phone was working. Thomasina doodled on a notepad while the call rang through, then had a nice chat with Flo. Nathan returned from an errand while they were talking. He picked up on an extension, and listened to her description of the farm and what she planned to do if she could make it hers.
“That’s pretty ambitious, Thomasina. I assume you’ve done your homework?” Nathan asked.
“That’s why I’m calling you.”
“I’m not talking about funds. I’ll look into that, and get back with you regarding fair market value and what you can afford to put down on it, should you decide to follow through.”
“It isn’t a matter of deciding,” Thomasina replied. “It’s a matter of winning the bid. God knows what I want to do. If He wants it, too, I’ll get the bid. If I don’t, I’ll know that the time and the place isn’t right.”
“Wait a second, honey. You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Flo inserted gently. “There’s a lot to consider.”
“She’s right, Thomasina. You don’t launch a business without a thorough investigation of all the possible pitfalls along the way,” agreed Nathan. “Networking is a good first step. Who do you know that has experience in this sort of thing?”
“No one. Not yet, anyway,” Thomasina admitted.
“You need to project what your expenses over and beyond the property will be,” said Nathan. “You intend to file for nonprofit status, of course. That means finding a solid base of mission support.”
Flo spoke up again, pointing out Thomasina’s lack of experience in social work or Christian family service. Nathan mentioned permits and regulations and the ever-present red tape of government fingers, small and large. Back and forth it went, like a game of table tennis, until Thomasina felt less like a player, and more like the ball taking the whacks. She was overwhelmed by the time she hung up the phone.
And they were her staunchest supporters! The ones who’d taught her to step out in faith. The ones she owed it to to succeed! Thomasina collapsed on the front porch swing. But before she could sort it all out, Winny trotted up the steps, a baby doll in her arms.
Thomasina made room for her on the swing. “How is your grandpa this morning?”
“Momma says he’s better. She’s lyin’ down now. She has to work later, so we got to be quiet.” Winny sighed. “She always says that.”
Thomasina patted her knee. “Everyone needs a little sleep now and then, Winny. Where’s Pauly?”
“Playing in the rocks.” Winny leaned forward in the swing and pointed to her brother. He was lying on his back on the carriage house driveway sifting a handful of small pebbles over his face.
“Go get him before he sucks a rock up his nose,” said Thomasina.
“Hey, Pauly! Get up out of the rocks,” hollered Winny.
“You’re not my boss!” he called back.
“Why don’t I get the dollhouse and we’ll play,” said Thomasina.
It proved a good distraction. Pauly joined them on the porch. He and Winny gave up their quarrel, as Thomasina played “pretend” with them. Noon came with no sign of Antoinette. The phone rang as Thomasi
na was fixing the children a sandwich. It was Mary calling. With her daughters at home to help, she wanted to see if they could manage on their own without a night nurse.
Thomasina wasn’t surprised. Milt was fragile, yet he was much better than when she had taken the case. She reassured Mary, then fed the children a picnic lunch on the porch. They were still playing when Trace arrived home a while later to get ready for work. He saw the remnants of their lunch, arched a brow and stirred a loose curl spiraling over Thomasina’s ear with a whispered “Didn’t anyone warn you what happens when you feed stray kittens?”
“I’d take them in a heartbeat,” she whispered in return.
“You poor sap,” he teased, and hunkered down to tug Winny’s braid.
“We’re playin’ house, Trace,” said Winny, looking up into his face. “I’m the mommy, Pauly’s the grandpa and Thomasina’s the Avon lady. What do you want to be?”
“Out of here,” he said.
Winny’s face clouded. “That’s what Fred says. Outta here. Beat it.”
“Who’s Fred?”
“Mama’s boyfriend.”
“O-o-h-h-h.” Thomasina wrapped her arms around Winny and drew her in.
Looking on, Trace reasoned that it was not she, rather than Winny, who was breakable. That she had not gone pale, that it was only shadows winking through the carpenter’s lace. But he caught his breath, waiting for her to let Winny go. Her eyes met his over the top of Winny’s head, then shied away again. But not before he saw dampness on her lashes.
Uncertain what to make of a woman that soft, Trace went inside, ate a microwave dinner, showered and donned his work uniform. He picked up his keys and went out again.
Thomasina was alone in the porch swing. She had a Bible in her lap and a soft-drink can in her hand. Her lips were pursed on a plastic straw. She swung one bare foot. The other was tucked beneath her. She didn’t look like she was going anywhere.
“Don’t you work tonight?” Trace asked.
“No. Mary called a while ago. Her daughter, Deanna, is going to be here all week. Her other daughter is coming, too. She thinks it’s a good time to see if Milt can get along without a night nurse.”
“You’re not disappointed?”
“I’ll miss them, of course. But I’m delighted Milt’s doing better.” Thomasina smiled. “I thought I’d run out to the farm in a while, just to say goodbye.”
“Be sure and give Milt a hard time for firing you. He’ll be disappointed if you don’t,” said Trace.
“I thought as much.” Thomasina smiled. “I called my supervisor and got a new patient, starting tomorrow. Tentatively, anyway. Days, no less. The timing is great. Vacation Bible School starts this evening at my home church and here I am, free to help.”
Trace’s eye tracked a bead of sweat as it trickled down her neck. “Help how?”
“Storytelling, I hope.” She unfolded her tucked leg. A paperback book slid out her open Bible and landed on her pink-tipped toes.
Trace stooped, reaching for it.
“I’ll get it,” said Thomasina ducking at the same moment.
Trace beat her to it. He flipped the book over and looked at the cover. It pictured a man and woman embracing. “What’s this?”
“Mine,” she said, and reached for it.
He grinned, holding the book aloft. “My, my. Vacation Bible School curriculum has changed since my day. What happened to Noah and the lions?”
“That was Daniel,” she said, and rose on tiptoe, trying to reach her paperback.
“Doesn’t look like Daniel. David and Jezebel, maybe, but…”
“You’re thinking of Bathsheba. Give me my book.”
“I’m not sure you should be reading it, let alone teaching it to kids.”
“It’s a good story and I’m not teaching it to anyone. Now give it back before I have to call the book police.”
“The book police? They’ll book you for sure.” He laughed and fended off her reaching hand. “Hiding it inside a Bible, no less. Ever hear of brown paper bags?”
“I wasn’t hiding it. I was…Oh, what am I defending myself to you for, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Why are you?” He laughed and gave her her book. “I’ll be expecting a report on it.”
“That’s not likely,” she said.
“Then you’ll be picking up the dinner ticket. Seven Gardens. Saturday night. That’s the deal.”
“You and your deals.” She rolled her brown eyes, a delightful mix of laughter, shine and girlish intrigue.
“Seven good with you?”
“Fine.”
As Trace pulled out of his drive a few minutes later, he turned up the radio on the way to town. A country song was playing, something about thirty-something, single and all the good ones being gone.
A week ago he would have agreed. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Chapter Thirteen
Thomasina phoned the director of Vacation Bible School and offered her help. Then she rang Antoinette and invited the children to go with her that evening. Late in the afternoon, Antoinette showed up at her door with the children.
Thomasina smiled into the children’s eager faces as they talked over one another, eager to tell her they were going to VBS. “How is your father, Antoinette?”
“The doctor plans to run some tests. He’ll be in the hospital a few more days,” said Antoinette. “About tonight—my boyfriend, Fred, says he’ll keep the kids if you don’t mind dropping them off at his place after VBS.”
“Would it be easier for you if I brought them back to my house?” asked Thomasina. “They’d be welcome to sleep here.”
Looking from the children’s pleading face to Thomasina, Antoinette squared her slim shoulders. “How much do you charge for baby-sitting?”
“It would be fun for me. I don’t want anything.”
Antoinette’s chin came up. Her dangling earrings caught in her tangle of Orphan Annie curls as she shook her head. “I can’t let you do it for nothing.”
“All right then,” said Thomasina, anxious not to offend. “Whatever is customary will be fine.”
Antoinette nodded, then stooped down and kissed both children. “You be good for Thomasina. If I go now, I’ve still got time for a quick visit with Dad at the hospital. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The children enjoyed driving out to the farm with Thomasina. Mary took them under her wing with cookies and milk while Thomasina visited with Deanna, and gave her pointers in case a medical emergency should arise with Milt.
Later, as she was telling Milt goodbye, she urged, “Feel free to call me if you need anything.”
“You’re off the payroll,” he teased. “Hadn’t you heard?”
“I know. You finally got your way, didn’t you?” Smiling, Thomasina hugged him and added, “But you’re still my favorite case.”
“Ditto, Rose Lips,” he growled, and sent her on her way.
The following days were busy. Between a new case, evening VBS and keeping the children nights, Thomasina saw nothing at all of Trace. She spoke to Mary midweek by phone, but the farm wasn’t mentioned and she didn’t ask. Trace didn’t know of her competing interest yet, and she didn’t want him to learn of it through the grapevine. Why hadn’t she told him when they walked in the pine trees? Procrastination, that’s why. And look where it got her. Now she felt guilty, as if she’d deliberately set out to keep it from him. No more hedging. Saturday, at dinner, she would tell him.
On Thursday, Thomasina phoned Ricky to say that her grass needed mowing. He promised to drive down Friday and cut it. That meant making arrangements with Trace, as she had no key to the carriage house. Thomasina slid a note under his door Thursday evening.
The next morning, Antoinette had no more than picked up the children than there was a knock at Thomasina’s door.
Supposing they’d left something behind, Thomasina dashed down the stairs, toothbrush in hand, hot rollers in her hair. Pauly’s tattered blanket was tangled up with
the throw on the sofa. Thomasina grabbed it on her way past. The lock on the front door had been giving her trouble all week. She draped the blanket over her shoulder and jabbed the toothbrush in her mouth, freeing both hands to work the lock.
“This stubborn door! Just a second. I’m getting it.” She slurred words around the toothbrush, then swung the door wide.
Trace stood in his stocking feet, the newspaper in hand. “What’s wrong with the door?”
“Oops! I thought you were Pauly!” Thomasina popped the toothbrush behind her back.
“He’s the blond guy,” said Trace. “About yea tall.”
“It’s coming back now.” She returned Trace’s grin as he measured the distance with his hand, palm down. “And you would be…?”
“The tooth fairy, making house calls. Brushing, eh? You get a gold star.”
“I’ll hang it right next to my security blanket, here.” Flushed with laughter, Thomasina dangled Pauly’s tattered blanket from her closed fist.
Trace resisted the urge to wipe away the toothpaste bubbling at the corner of her mouth. He tucked the paper under his arm, and braced one hand against the doorjamb. “I got your note about Ricky.”
“He’s supposed to come this morning,” said Thomasina, nodding. “Come on in. Would you like some coffee?”
“What have you got to go with it?”
“Nothing chocolate,” she said, and wrinkled her nose. “Sorry.”
She was the chocoholic, not him. Trace refrained from saying so, and trailed her through the living room to the kitchen. Her refrigerator art bore Winny and Pauly’s skygoggle signatures. There were three cereal bowls and three glasses at the table, all of them empty.
“What, no porridge? Did Goldilocks beat me to breakfast?”
“Pauly and Winny.” She swung the cupboard door open and reached for a cup. “I’ve been keeping them nights while Antoinette’s at work.”