by Tamara Leigh
“Too long. The facility is scheduled to open in just under four months.”
“And you’re only now lining up an artist?”
His mouth tightens. “An artist was contracted a year ago. Unfortunately, because of a family crisis, he had to pull out last week.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, and I wish I could help, but there’s no way I can fit in a job this size.”
He leans back and begins tapping a pen on his chair arm. “A pity you didn’t mention your previous commitments when we first met.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands. Guard your tongue! Guard your—
“Excuse me? If you recall, though you did ask about my schedule, your girlfriend interrupted before I could answer.”
His pen ceases its tapping. “Girlfriend?”
“Silly me. Colleague.” I look pointedly at his wedding band.
He stares at me. “Yes, colleague.”
No skin off my nose. Well, actually it is, but who am I to set him straight?
A Christian, my conscience kicks in. Set an example. Maybe even witness to him.
Me? Sharing the roof over my head is Maia of Mr. Unhappily Married fame, and I haven’t been able to reach her. How am I supposed to reach a man I don’t even know? “Nuh-uh,” I mutter.
“Yes, Ms. Meadows, a colleague.”
Though Dr. Alexander has misinterpreted my dissension, I squelch the impulse to correct him. “It’s really none of my business.” I retrieve my bag and rise. “I want this job, and I believe I could do something extraordinary, but I have to walk away.”
Surprise leaps in his gray-blue eyes.
“Not only is the timing wrong, but it’s obvious we rub each other wrong.” I thrust a hand at him. “So thank you for the opportunity, and I wish you every success in finding the right artist.”
He ignores my hand. “I have found the right artist.”
Okay. I lower my arm, turn, and walk away. Thankfully, he doesn’t follow. I step into an elevator alongside a man and woman with a young girl between them in a wheelchair.
One look is all it takes to ache, and as the doors close, I offer up a silent prayer for this child touched by fire in the cruelest way—much of the right side of her face pink and puckered.
“Going down?” she chirps, reaching to the lobby button though it’s already lit.
Guessing she’s about eight, I say, “Yes, please.”
She jabs the button despite the elevator having already begun its descent. “My name’s Jessica.”
Friendly little thing. Doesn’t seem the least bit self-conscious, which casts concerns about my own appearance in an entirely shallow light.
I smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“What’s your name?”
Before I can answer, the woman says, “Jess, honey, leave the nice lady alone.”
“Oh, she’s not bothering me.” Still, I’m grateful for the intercession. Not that I don’t like children. I do. But when I get close to a child, my longing for one of my own increases, which makes it hurt all the more to know that I’m being denied what I’ve dreamed of since my world consisted of chubby-cheeked baby dolls.
The irony is that despite my initial attempts to promote my talent in areas other than those that cater to children, it’s what most people want from me. And so, in the interest of making a living, it’s what I do.
I feel a tug on my jacket and look down.
“What’s your name?” Jessica whispers.
“Uh … Kate.” I glance at Mom, who offers an apologetic smile.
The little girl tugs again. “You’re pretty.”
I am unaffected. Forget that she’s sweet and cute and flattering. I feel nothing. “Thank you.”
As the elevator slows, I lift my gaze. Third floor, meaning two more to go.
“I’m having surgery tomorrow,” Jessica says as two men and three women enter.
To make room for them, I step nearer Jessica. “Is that right?”
“Uh-huh. I’ll be pretty again. Like you.”
She’s buttering me up, trying to worm her way into my heart. And as much as I long to remain distant, I’m slipping toward her. Great …
The elevator once more sets to motion, and I glance at her parents. Dad is stiff jawed, but Mom’s eyes are moist.
I struggle for something to say until I notice the cross the woman wears. Though the necklace in no way guarantees she’s a Christian, I hunker down so I’m level with the little girl.
“You are pretty, Jessica, and tomorrow when you have your surgery, Jesus will be standing beside the prettiest little girl in the world.”
She beams. “I know that!” She says it with such enthusiasm that it nearly drowns out the snort of derision above our heads.
Hackles rising, I meet the scornful gaze of a man who entered at the third floor. Fortunately, the elevator stops again, and shaking his head, he and one of the women step from the elevator.
“No, John!” Jessica’s mother’s hand is on her husband’s arm. Guessing it’s all that’s keeping the red-faced man from tackling the heathen—er, naysayer—I attempt to distract his daughter by sweeping the blond hair off her face.
“I’m glad you know Jesus, too,” Jessica says. “It’s sad, but some people don’t.”
Grateful the elevator is on its final leg of the journey, I nod. “It is.”
She brightens further. “We can change that, you know—one person at a time.”
Past emotion I’d do best not to feel for her, I murmur, “One at a time.”
Leaning near, she drops an arm around my shoulder. “I like you, Miss Kate.”
Though I know I should extricate as quickly as possible, my defenses have sustained a major blow. I’m crumbling. Of course, it’s not as if I’ll see her again. “I like you, too, Jessica.”
As the doors at my back open and the others step out, I give her a squeeze. “I’ll be praying for you.”
She loosens her arms and leans back. “Promise you’ll visit?”
What? But I just met her! In an elevator. For all of three minutes.
In the midst of my struggle to find a way out, Jessica’s mother speaks, and I’m relieved—until her words sink in.
“Dr. Alexander, how nice to run into you.”
freeze. Dr. Alexander? No. Must be more than one Dr. Alexander. I glance over my shoulder. It’s him.
Meeting his gaze, I cast about for an explanation as to how he made it to the lobby ahead of me. Of course, the elevator did stop twice on the way down.
He looks up. “Mr. and Mrs. Robbins,” he acknowledges, then turns his attention to the little girl and, in a voice so warm one could almost get a tan from it, says, “Ready for tomorrow, Jessica?”
“You bet.”
Dr. Alexander is operating?
Jessica settles a hand on my arm. “This is Miss Kate.”
What’s he doing here? Did he follow me? Or is this just coincidence, as in he’s on his way somewhere? But then why did he appear before my elevator?
“Miss Kate and I know each other.”
No, we don’t!
“You do?”
“We do.” He shifts back to Jessica. “So you know Miss Kate, too, hmm?”
The little girl bobs her head. “I do now.”
No she doesn’t. All she knows is that we share a belief in Jesus—
Of course, that is pretty major.
Stop! Get out while you can!
I look past Dr. Alexander to an elderly gentleman who’s waiting for us to clear out. “We’re holding up the elevator.”
Dr. Alexander lays a hand on the door pocket and motions for us to exit.
Though I’m tempted to shoot past him, courtesy forces me to pause outside the elevator as the little girl’s father rolls her out. “It was lovely meeting you, Jessica.”
She tilts her head back. “You’ll visit me after my surgery tomorrow?”
Courtesy will get you nowhere, Katherine Mae Meadows!
; “Well, I …”
“Please?”
Groaning inwardly, I nod. “Of course.”
“Great!” She bounces in her chair.
I look to Mom and Dad. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Suuure.”
His wife snaps her head around. “John!”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go for that walk.”
Tempted as I am to take offense, I can’t. After all, he read me right. Visiting a child I hardly know—one capable of plucking heartstrings best left unplucked—is not something for which I would normally volunteer. It’s … complicated.
Jessica waves as her father wheels her away. “Bye, Miss Kate.”
I wave back, and a moment later I’m alone with Dr. Alexander, whose presence over my shoulder I feel sharply.
“So are all children as easily drawn to you?”
I turn and give an uneasy chuckle. “Drawn to me?”
Why the nervous laugh? Nothing to be ashamed of.
No, it’s not, but it’s still a subject I’m hardly comfortable with. I attempt a blasé shrug. “I get along well enough with children.”
“Well enough?” His mouth comes dangerously close to a smile. “I’d say you make friends easily, like it or not.”
Broadsided by the realization that Jessica’s father wasn’t the only one who noticed my hesitation over visiting Jessica, I latch on to the best explanation for what Dr. Alexander witnessed. “Where Jesus is present, it’s not difficult to make friends.”
Like a shot of air on a struggling flame, his amusement expires. “Jesus …”
So, another heath—er, naysayer. “Uh-huh.” I slide my bag off one shoulder and onto the other. “Well, I must be going.”
As I turn away, his hand closes over my arm. “Ms. Meadows, it’s not coincidence that I showed up at your elevator.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What did we leave unsaid that transformed you into some sort of Superman capable of speeding down elevator shafts?”
His mouth twitches. “Plenty. As for getting to the lobby ahead of you, I used the elevator reserved for doctors.”
“Then you’re human like the rest of us.”
Another twitch. “Fallibly so.” He nods toward the elevator. “Will you come with me? There’s something I’d like to show you.”
I glance at his hand on me. The contact means nothing. Nada. “I’m sorry, but I start a new project tomorrow and I have to begin preparations.”
“It won’t take long. And it will clear up a misunderstanding that’s obviously rubbing you wrong.”
I give my arm a tug, but he retains his hold with as much persistence as Michael Palmier the day he talked me into the makeover.
Lord, deliver me from manhandling men.
“Dr. Alexander—”
“Please.”
I falter at having reduced him to groveling. Bet it’s a rarity. “All right, but five minutes is all I can spare.”
“It shouldn’t take any longer.” He releases my arm, and I follow him into an elevator.
Shortly, I once more traverse the winding corridor. This time, however, it’s quiet, and when we exit the corridor, the lack of din is explained by the absence of construction workers. Doubtless, they’ve kicked off for the day.
I try to squelch my vision of an outside-in world as I’m led to the center of the domed room, but my longing to be the one to make it happen sharpens.
I really shouldn’t have let him talk me into this. After all, what do I care if he rubs me the wrong way? It’s not as if I’m going to have further dealings with him.
“This is what I want to show you.” He draws back a tarp to reveal a three-by-three-foot bronze plaque set in the concrete floor:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF
Though the raised words are large enough to read, the edges are fuzzy. Thus, I retrieve my specs—no easy feat, as I was in too much of a hurry to keep my appointment to properly store them. Now they’re at the bottom of my bag. And bent, I discover, when I dig them free. Certain they were victimized by those nasty heels, I attempt a quick repair of the frame and briefly consider switching to contacts as Michael suggested.
There. I slide the crooked specs on my nose and peer at the plaque.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF
JILLIAN LOUISE ALEXANDER
AND SAMUEL CLIVE ALEXANDER
BELOVED WIFE AND SON
ABSENT IN ARMS
PRESENT IN SPIRIT
Alexander … wife … son … absent … spirit …
“Oh.” I look to where Dr. Alexander stands, also looking down.
“Though I wear my wedding band, Ms. Meadows, I’m a husband and father without a wife and child.” He meets my gaze. “Does that fix the rub?”
You just had to jump to conclusions!
Of course, it’s not every day one meets a widower who hasn’t shed his wedding ring to begin the quest for the next Mrs.
I read the dates beneath the inscription. Mother and child, aged thirty-six and five, died within days of each other over three years ago.
Mind awhirl with wonder at what took their lives—most likely, fire—and why Dr. Alexander’s pain remains so great that he can’t bear to display pictures of them, I look up. “I’m sorry—and that I misjudged you.”
“I assure you I’m aware of the significance of a wedding band, Ms. Meadows. Thus, I accept responsibility for the misunderstanding.” He flips the tarp over the plaque. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, I’d like to discuss what it’s going to take for you to commit to the burn unit.”
I frown. “As I said, I’m booked for the next four months.”
“You did, and I admire your ethics; however, I believe we can work out something.” He glances at his watch. “I need another hour here. Then perhaps you can join me for dinner?”
Dinner? With Clive Alexander who is unattached? Available. Single. Well … except for the wedding band. And that Adelphia woman.
“What kind of food do you like?”
My smile is apologetic. “I already have a dinner date.”
Which is so surreal. But then, it’s not really a date. Michael Palmier can’t possibly be interested in me. By the end of the photo shoot, one would have had to be blind not to realize that, despite his initial lack of response to Maia, he’d warmed to her. Thus, I’ve narrowed his motivation for asking me to dinner to two things: Either this is a Maia fact-finding date, or the invite—made in front of her—was intended to incite jealousy. Regardless, it makes my matchmaking that much easier.
“How about tomorrow morning over coffee?”
“Sorry, but I start work bright and early.”
Annoyance flickers in his eyes, but in the two strides it takes to close the gap between us, he gains control of it. “Ms. Meadows, this project is important to me.”
“I don’t question that, however—”
“You’re the one.”
The One? For one cockamamie, out-of-my-mind moment, I apply my definition of “The One” to his words and start to blush.
“I knew it the moment I walked into the children’s shop.”
Oh yeah, it’s my artistic ability he’s interested in. “I’m flattered, but—”
“At least think about it.”
Wishing there were some way I could take on his project, I stare at him as the attraction felt the night we met returns en force. “Okay.” I hold up a finger. “Better yet, I’ll pray about it.”
As when I earlier mentioned Jesus, his lids narrow and I feel him take a giant, emotional step back. “Whatever it takes, Ms. Meadows. Just get back to me by the beginning of next week.”
Reality check, Kate. Not only is your attraction not reciprocated, but he’s too far from God for you to get involved.
But what if he does know Jesus? What if this is just a case of deep loss causing a believer to turn away? What if—
Stop it!
I give a tight nod. “I’ll do that.”
I’m halfway acros
s the room when he calls, “Ms. Meadows?”
I peer over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“Don’t forget your promise to visit Jessica tomorrow.”
“Of course not.”
He fits his hands in his pockets. “She should be able to receive visitors by late afternoon.”
“Anything else?”
“Actually, there is. I apologize for not recognizing you when I first saw you in the lobby. You look … different.” He sweeps his gaze down me, and on the return to my face there’s that gleam to which I’ve become partial. “Very nice.”
Down, attraction! Down!
“Thanks, I didn’t think you noticed.”
His eyebrows rise. “Was I supposed to?”
Ugh. “Of course not. It’s just nice that you did. I’m … uh … undertaking a bit of self-improvement.”
His mouth curves. “Well, I approve.”
“Oh? And am I supposed to want your approval?”
Not that I don’t …
His smile surpasses the one he gave me when we first met. Then he laughs—not as deep and full as the laugh he shared with Beau, but warm enough to jump-start the humming at my center. Were I still in heels, I’d fall right off those silly little pegs.
He settles back into his smile. “Enjoy your date, Ms. Meadows.”
My …? Oh. Right. My date. Which is really for Maia. Which I’m tempted to cancel. Which would free me to have dinner with Dr. Alexander. Which—
Would lead to nothing. His interest in you is purely business.
But he said I looked nice.
Flattery, aimed at getting what he wants. And didn’t you just swear off men?
Too bad.
I force a smile. “I’ll call you next week.”
“Fine.”
I turn and, conscious of him watching me, concentrate on putting one Birkenstock-clad foot in front of the other. When I finally hit the first curve of the winding corridor and go from sight, I breathe a sigh of relief that momentarily fogs my specs. Specs that are still sitting askew on my nose, as they were when Clive Alexander said I looked nice. Right …
Glad I didn’t bend to his flattery and cancel my matchmaking dinner date. I pull off my specs and attempt to straighten the bent frames only to yelp when the metal snaps.
Wonderful. Another trip to the optometrist. Of course, I was wanting to give contacts a try. Or was that Michael Palmier? Oh, yeah—Michael.