Chapter Two
R icky tucked his crisply ironed shirt into his jeans. Damp hair trickled down his neck into his collar. He wondered if his mom would mind if he mentioned that linen was supposed to look crumpled, and that no one pressed creases in jeans anymore, unless it was in a retro sitcom.
He’d been back home only a few weeks and it still felt odd having his laundry done, though he wasn’t complaining, not really.
Lots of stuff in his life had gone awry since the day he had walked out of the Hammel Buildings, body and brain on autopilot. Normal household chores, once a pleasant distraction from his full-octane job, had become wearisome. Hanging out with the crew after work, debriefing the day, felt like wading through molasses. Even a stiff workout couldn’t budge his restlessness.
His brain felt like a malfunctioning traffic light.
Fine. Not fine. Coping. Not coping.
The shrinks had seen right through him, of course, as soon as they found out that the body in the apartment was more than another tragic discovery. More than a box to be ticked in his report, setting off a cascade of official actions and notifications about some stranger.
Ricky tweaked down the stiff collar of his shirt. It bounced back.
God, had his mom used starch ?
He closed his eyes, opened them. Breathed deeply.
Starch was not a crime against fashion. Not in Temple Mountain. And he really ought to be doing his own laundry. His mom was busy enough.
But today had started well, Ricky reminded himself briskly. The therapist paid for by his city employers would be happy. He had resisted the temptation to roll back under the warm covers instead of taking a bracing Sunday dawn run.
Not so great that he had felt like a blown horse after only a couple of miles, but hey, a man had to start somewhere.
His stomach rumbled gently as the aroma of toast and coffee trickled down the hallway. That would make the therapist happy too. Exercise regime back on track, renewed appetite.
Ricky headed for the kitchen with a spring in his step. Even the small seventies-style kitchen, which still looked much the same as he remembered from his childhood, failed to dull his optimism. The cupboards were painted a disturbingly flesh-colored shade called blush, and the laminate bench was a mottled and slightly darker version of the same color. The chocolate cork floor was streaked and scuffed with wear.
He pulled up. His mom was wearing her church dress, a deep maroon brightened by the simple garnet brooch Ricky had bought her with his first real paycheck, and black heels which had to be hurting.
She smiled at him.
“Just once, sweetie. One time and I’ll never ask again.”
Lottie Sharp was only shoulder height to her tall son, but like most moms in Ricky’s experience she was both literally and figuratively a woman of substance. Her eyes flashed steel behind the lenses of her drugstore spectacles.
Ricky resisted the temptation to pat the curly salt and pepper head.
He could just imagine the comments at church.
There’s Ricky Sharp, come home with his tail between his legs. Bout time, with his dad so poorly. He was pretty quick to shake the dust off his boots and leave town with that girl, and my, wasn’t she a piece of work? Always thought he wouldn’t make it in New York...
He tuned into his mother’s voice.
“The new pastors are just the nicest couple. A husband and wife team, imagine that!” Lottie polished the silver cutlery vigorously, as though amazed at the generosity of the Almighty in providing such largesse. She carefully laid out the place settings, and Ricky bit back a sigh when he saw that there were extra places set for lunch.
He poured coffee into his favorite Star Wars mug, noting that Darth Vader was looking a little faded, and scraped pallid margarine guaranteed to lower cholesterol and taste like nothing onto the toasted supermarket enriched white bread.
This, Ricky reminded himself, was why he had wanted to find his own place when he had made the move back to Temple Mountain. To get just a lick of privacy. Maybe pick up some sourdough and real butter.
He had of course been overruled by a higher power—in this case, his mother.
“Those are the folks coming to lunch? The new pastors?”
His mother laughed, just as his father made his way cautiously into the kitchen, wheezing a little in the cool morning air. Lottie reached out a steadying hand.
“You sound good this morning, hon,” she said cheerfully. “Why, you hardly coughed at all last night.”
Ricky watched, his face set, as his father lowered himself to the table. The towering figure of his boyhood, who could labor over the heavy, hot machinery for ten hours and then come home and take his son down to the basketball court was gone.
His father winced slightly at the limp toast his wife handed him. Ricky didn’t blame him one bit.
According to Lottie, the doctor was cautiously optimistic that Herbie’s lungs were finally on the mend. Ricky wasn’t so sure.
“You taking your mom to church?”
Ricky released a silent growl.
He already knew about Hell, didn’t need a lecture on the subject thanks very much.
Sudden, unprovoked rage—which he had been working so hard to control, had thought he had controlled—flooded back.
Hell? Oh yeah.
Try standing helplessly in the fierce, crackling heat of an out-of-control fire, he wanted to shout—knowing that there were people stuck inside the building you couldn’t save. Maybe the guy in there was the buddy who had handed you your coffee a couple of hours ago.
His anger faded as quickly as it had appeared.
He looked down at the open, hopeful faces of his parents. Inwardly sighed. Practiced his deep breathing. An hour of standing and sitting wouldn’t kill him, and he knew that his mom was dying to show him off.
And Jodi Ruskin might be there.
A tingle of anticipation crawled across Ricky’s chest, followed by a rush of pleasurable warmth. Lord knows he wasn’t looking for romance, but he was sure that he hadn’t simply imagined the spark between them.
He smiled. After all, Jodi Ruskin was an important source of local knowledge, perfectly placed to provide insight into who might be the budding arsonist. It was his duty to follow up with an interview, maybe over lunch.
Was it too much to hope that shakshuka might be on the menu in downtown Temple Mountain?
“Sure thing.” Ricky put down the toast thankfully. He wrapped a long arm around his mother’s shoulders and inhaled the familiar scent of laundry soap and hair spray. His mother’s face creased with pleasure, and he felt a surge of pure love and gratitude.
“As long as you promise not to invite any single women back for lunch.” His voice wobbled a tad, and he cleared his throat.
His father’s laugh whistled through cramped lungs. “If you go to church, you at least get to pick.”
Herbie glanced at his old watch, now loose on his bony wrist. No smart phone constantly telling the time in a perky voice and pinging with the latest weather report and stock market update for Herbie Sharp.
“Better get going if you want to catch the early service. Otherwise you get ol’ Bob Ruskin yammering on about the glorious past. I sure don’t remember the past that way.”
This was a long speech. Ricky and his mother turned in surprise.
“I thought you liked Rev. Bob?” said Lottie. “You told me it was a mistake to let that new couple come in and change everything.”
Herbie shook his head. “Maybe I was wrong. Bob Ruskin ought to see the writing on the wall. Take the gold watch and learn golf.”
Lottie huffed. “As if the church can afford to give anyone a gold watch. Have you seen the state of the rectory? It’s a disgrace.”
Herbie’s breath was labored. “That’s my point,” he whispered. “Bob Ruskin had his day. Now it’s time for new folks to come in. Do things differently.”
Ricky rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He pointed to the table, which was all set for five people for the traditional Sunday roast lunch.
“So, the new pastors are coming?” he repeated, steeling himself for the response and mentally farewelling the combined delights of Jodi and shakshuka. It was the last thing he felt like, making polite conversation with not one but two ministers and fending off requests to join the gardening roster or help paint the vestry.
His mother smiled and shook her head. “My goodness me, Ricky Sharp. Don’t you listen to a word I say? Silas and Hattie Beecham have three children, last time I counted. No, wait, they have a new foster child now, bless them. It’s hard to keep track.”
She went on to name a couple of old friends whom she had invited to lunch, but Ricky had heard enough.
The Beecham family had suddenly become a lot more interesting.
“Let’s get going then, Mom. Latecomers have to sit in the front row. See, I do remember.”
This sudden cooperation earned him a sharp look from his mother.
Ricky threw her a fond smile, tamping down the wild optimism that surged through him. After all, Temple Mountain was a small place, the kind of town where everyone knew everyone else’s business.
And he would tell his parents everything, of course he would, once he something to tell. No point getting their hopes up.
His mother bustled off to get her coat, throwing last-minute instructions over her shoulder at her husband about eating a proper breakfast and not to even think about checking the storm windows or going down into basement.
Ricky headed for the front door. He reached for his leather jacket, pausing out of habit to peer at his reflection in the small mirror of the hallstand.
A stranger stared back. A shaggy-haired stranger with a watchful gaze and faint shadows under his eyes. Ricky raked his fingers through the unfamiliar thatch of thick dark hair. The functional, brutal buzz cut had disappeared, softening the hard angular lines of his face and the blunt, no-bullshit expression.
Now he looked...less like the heroic, larger-than-life firefighter gripping an axe, and more like the nice young man from the council who reminded people to pick up their dog poop.
And that was perfect.
***
A s usual, Jodie only just made it to the early service. She slid into the back row next to Mrs. Bexhall as the congregation launched into the last verse of the jaunty opening song of worship.
Ida Bexhall wasn’t standing on account of needing her wheelie walker. These days she only made the effort of standing for the “Old Hundredth” and maybe the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” on Memorial Day if she was feeling especially spry.
Jodi smiled hello. The diminutive white-haired figure looked up guiltily from thumbing through her battered hymnal. The grey blue cloth-bound hardcover was barely holding together after eighty years, and Jodi knew there was no way that the snappy chorus now winding to a close was anywhere in Ida’s book.
“Couldn’t find the right page,” Ida whispered, flashing a conspiratorial grin.
Jodie winked.
There was a rustle and the soft hum of folks settling in as everyone sat down. Jodie knew for a fact that candy was being distributed amongst the very young and the very old, and that some fingers were itching to get back to the Wordle (which was especially tough today).
She relaxed as much as possible into the old oak pew and gave her attention to the pocket-sized figure of Rev. Hattie Beecham.
It was Hattie who had bounced into the offices of The Temple Mountain Monitor in early January, so bundled up in coat, hat, and scarf that her delicate face was a flash of smooth ebony skin and warm brown eyes.
Jodie had discovered fast that Hattie was a hard woman to say no to; initially for free advertising for a winter community fundraiser for the homeless shelter and later for helping out in person.
“Welcome,” Hattie began in her accented English. Her voice was surprisingly powerful for such a petite frame. She was finishing up with the church notices when a tall figure slid onto the pew next to Jodi, pulling off a FDNY navy beanie.
Ricky.
He threw Jodi a quick grin.
Jodi’s heart began hammering so loudly in her ears that even Ida Bexhall could probably hear it. Being a preacher’s granddaughter, Jodi’s frosty “you’re late” look was second nature.
On cue, Ida quickly abandoned her perusal of hymns ancient and modern. She threw the handsome newcomer what Jodi considered to be a rather saucy wink and nudged Jodi meaningfully.
Jodi closed her eyes briefly. She was guessing that the sight of one of Temple Mountain’s local-boy-made-good heroes (and bachelors) sitting with that sweet-but-prickly Jodi Ruskin was much more interesting than the church cleaning roster and the annual call-out for surplus winter clothing.
The congregation rose for another song, a contemporary re-do of a classic, and Ida perked up. She grabbed her vintage hymnal and joined in, but her eyes kept flicking towards the young couple beside her.
Jodi’s cheeks were burning. She knew from long experience that the grapevine would have the two of them engaged and the bride-to-be checking out wedding magazines before the day was done.
Who needs social media when the old black Bakelite handset still worked, she thought wryly. Had a proper ringtone too, as her grandfather pointed out, easy to hear, and the darn thing never ran out of battery or got lost down the back of the sofa.
Ricky sidled across to whisper in Jodi’s ear. The pleasant soap-and-spice scent of clean male mingled with the familiar church combination of damp wool, cough medicine, and furniture wax.
“Had to drop off Mom first. The parking lot was packed. Did I miss much?”
His warm breath on her neck sent all sorts of signals through her body. None of them felt right in church. She shook her head primly.
“The collection’s still to come, in case you were wondering.”
Ricky snorted with laughter, setting off a cascade of giggles from the teenagers in the pew in front.
Jodi threw them a quelling glance. She hadn’t grown up in the manse without learning a thing or two.
The familiar words swarm on the page as Jodi stumbled through the new musical setting. Half the congregation was still using the traditional tune while the other half gamely attempted to follow the organ.
It didn’t help that her attention kept wandering to the tall, lanky figure at her side. His freshly shaved skin was pink with cold, and her fingers itched to tuck down his shirt collar, the corners of which were sticking up like gopher ears in a vegetable patch.
Fortunately, Ricky’s eyes were half-closed. He seemed oblivious to Jodi’s sneaky glances and twitching fingers, and to the bustle of children off to Sunday School and the parade of congregation members delivering notices, readings, and prayers.
Hattie’s husband, Rev. Silas, stepped up to preach. Silas was a blond giant who looked more suited to playing quarterback than the former investment banker he had once been or the jeans-wearing preacher he was today.
It was a good sermon, delivered in Silas’ well-modulated, warm voice.
Babies gurgled and cried, people coughed and whispered, and someone snored gently. A snatch of Elvis warning people not to step on his blue suede shoes blared out briefly and was cut off as soon as the guilty cellphone was located.
Situation normal.
Jodi wriggled, as restless as the teenagers in front who were sneaking glances at their social media. She couldn’t tell if Ricky was praying, meditating, or napping.
The sermon finished and the music group dived straight into a catchy Hillsong number. Ricky jerked upright, suddenly alert, watchful. His eyes flicked sideways, and his hands were fisted in his lap. Seconds later his shoulders relaxed.
He threw Jodi a bashful smile as they rose to their feet and he joined in the chorus with a pleasant though untrained tenor.
“Lottie’s boy,” whispered Ida loudly at Jodi’s shoulder. “Handsome, isn’t he?”
Jodi pretended not to hear.
Ida wasn’t finished. “Can’t blame him for being a bit nervy. He’s a firefighter, you know.” Her eyes lit up. “Do you think he’s been in one of those calendars? He’d be perfect. I love those puppies, don’t you?” She looked regretful. “It’s probably too cold to be taking off his shirt at the moment though.”
At Jodi’s side, Ricky gave a muffled snort. Jodi felt her own self-control begin to crack.
“Quiet!” she hissed sideways.
The offender quickly rearranged his features into something approaching piety. But Jodi could almost feel his shoulders shaking with mirth.
She pressed her lips tightly together and stared ahead. Laughing like a maniac in church was exactly the kind of publicity the Acting Editor didn’t need.
Mercifully, the service was winding to a close. A few minutes later Jodi followed close behind as Ricky joined the crowded aisle, nodding and smiling as people recognized him.
It was impossible not to notice his neat backside in the crisp straight-leg jeans, or the shaggy dark locks above the collar of an expensive-looking linen shirt and chocolate leather bomber jacket.
Jodi stared at the faint line on the back of his jeans. Was that an ironing crease? She bit back a smile. That explained the starched collar. The handsome hero was clearly living with his parents.
What a nice man and a good son.
She snickered quietly to herself, watching Ricky as surreptitiously as possible in a tight church community where a returned local hero was the star attraction.
Though to be fair, Jodi added judiciously, there was much to admire about Ricky Sharp. He moved easily, with the grace of a natural athlete and the confidence of a man who knew his own strength, laughing and chatting with old acquaintances as though he had been gone for the summer instead of years.
A citified man, she reminded herself, who was no doubt planning to return to his illustrious career and exciting life in New York City as soon as he had taken care of whatever business had brought him back to Temple Mountain.
The congregation stepped outside to a clear sky and a freezing late morning. The first blast of wintery cold.
Jodi shivered, instantly regretting the vanity which had prompted the choice of her new light wool coat, a delicious teal with a matching paisley lining, instead of the sensible puffer jacket which apparently only came in battleship grey and even straight off the shelf smelled of coffee and donuts.
The season had changed, almost overnight. A light frost that was almost but not quite snow lay on the lower branches of the cluster of old fir trees standing between the church and the rectory. The hard, bare ground was littered with the last of the fall foliage, and the weak and pale sun held no warmth.
It was that time of year when only an optimist could have faith that spring bulbs still lurked beneath the soil, waiting patiently for the spring warmth.
A sudden and unexpected memory caught Jodi by surprise. Her mostly absent mother. Sitting on the window seat of the rectory living room, peering out at the monochrome landscape of early winter.
“There are two sorts of people, darling.”
The clear, confident tones of the woman who had long ago shucked off her small-town ways to embrace New York society had been unusually reflective, even for a woman still learning to be a widow. But then, coming back to Temple Mountain had always had that effect on Lucy-May Ruskin, née Trent.
“The ones whose hearts are energized by the coming of winter, who can’t wait to put on their coats and boots and gloves and run outside and stamp in icy puddles. That’s when they come alive.”
Lucy-May had laid her forehead against the cold glass. Her voice had been muffled.
“The other sort of person...their spirit wilts. They see only the darkness and the long cold months ahead.”
Jodi, a child still grieving for her father, had instantly understood two things. That her father, a merry, perhaps too-easygoing man, had belonged to the first group. And her mom? There was never any doubt to which group she belonged. Not when Lucy-May had taken off for the sunlight just as soon as she could decently leave her fatherless daughters with their grandfather.
Jodi blinked hard. Her cheeks tingled with cold and she shrugged off the slight melancholy that thinking about the past always caused. She was not her mother, not by a long shot.
She stuffed her chilly fingers into her coat pockets, wondering whether to chance the usual intensive interrogation about The Temple Mountain Monitor at the communal morning tea in the heated church hall—or to go directly to the rectory and risk being pressganged by the Beecham’s children into playing hide and seek before lunch.
“Can I interest you in a lovely firefighter calendar?” Ricky appeared at her side. “The puppies are really worth a look.”
Jodie tried to glare. She gave an unladylike hiccup of laughter instead. She quickly pulled him away from the knots of people chatting outside the church and further into the fir trees. Several sets of eyes followed them with interest.
“Thanks for putting me back in the spotlight of the town gossips,” she said lightly. “I don’t think Ida has enjoyed herself so much for ages.”
Ricky laughed. “I didn’t realize that you were a church regular,” he said.
His slow smile sent a shiver that was half excitement and half warning between Jodi’s shoulder blades. They were standing close enough for her to see the faint glint of stubble on his chin, and to get the full effect of those thick eyelashes. His deep-set eyes locked onto hers.
She was suddenly glad that she didn’t look like the Michelin man or smell like Dunkin Donuts.
“I wasn’t,” she admitted. “Not when Gramps was preaching. Sounds horrible, I know, but I got sick of people assuming I was some sort of unpaid lackey who would love to print off the church newsletter and take messages for my grandfather. And tired of hearing about the sins of my sister, ad nauseum .”
Ricky’s eyes drifted around the groups of people heading for the church hall.
She paused. “And I like the Beechams.”
He cocked his head, nodded thoughtfully. He stood quietly, hands in pockets, and Jodi had the sudden thought that Ricky, for all his keen eyes and commanding presence, could be a very...restful kind of person to be with. A man who wouldn’t drown her in words when she needed silence.
“I didn’t set out to get involved, but the Beechams—well, they have a way of drawing folks in from the highways and the byways.” Her smile was wry. “I dropped by one day to pick up some books that Gramps had left in his study—his former study, I mean—and the next thing I know I’m helping one of the twins with his homework while mushing up carrots for the baby.”
Ricky’s laugh was like the rest of him; warm, laid back.
More words came tumbling out. “It’s so simple really,” said Jodi. “They open their hearts, and you just walk straight in.”
She looked away quickly, suddenly embarrassed. Maybe Ricky was too easy to talk to. It wasn’t like her to let down her defenses.
“So.” Jodi took a breath and tried to focus on something less...personal. She pitched her voice to light and conversational.
“So...you catch the firebomber yet?”
He winced. “Arsonist, please. Mischief-maker, perhaps.” He looked unconvinced. “The Chief will have my hide if Homeland Security starts running around Temple Mountain. No, Ms. Acting Editor, that particular crime wave is ongoing.”
His gaze narrowed. “Though I’m surprised that nobody has complained to the acting editor of the local newspaper. Sounds right up your alley.”
Jodi stiffened. She had been wondering the same thing, in fact. Wondering if complaints to the newspaper about smoking trash cans had been dismissed out of hand, especially if they were signed A Concerned Citizen , which everyone knew was old Gerd Schumacher who’d been writing to the newspaper in green pen since the Civil War.
“The taxpayers of Temple Mountain are more concerned about taxes and jobs and recovering from the pandemic than burning pizza boxes,” she said frostily. “We get a lot of letters. Can’t print them all. The newspaper owners are planning a complete revamp of the website. Soon as all the content is available online it will be different.”
Don’t hold your breath, buddy , she silently added. Not while most of the editorial board still liked to do the crossword on the back page of the paper. And what would folks use to light their barbecues and line their birdcages?
Ricky nodded.
Jodi unbent a little. “Though you do have a point. A minor point. As soon as I’m done with reporting council debate over new speed limits for RVs, the appalling state of the children’s playground equipment in local parks, and why the mask mandate has been dropped for postal workers but not librarians, I’ll have a look.”
The awkward silence which followed was broken by high, excited voices. A split second later a crowd of youngsters erupted through the door of the church hall. Ricky turned to watch children leaping and running in the cool crisp air while their parents tried to herd them into some sort of order.
“Can you introduce me?” he said suddenly. Jodi looked at him in surprise.
“Who to, Hattie and Silas? You don’t need me. Just walk up, or believe me, they’ll find you if you hang around looking lost for thirty seconds.”
Ricky grabbed her elbow an instant before a youngster who looked to be in his early teens came tearing past, closely followed by another boy who could have been his double.
“Josh and Judah, slow down!” Silas Beecham’s voice, mellifluent in church, was loud and commanding. The two teenagers instantly put on the brakes. They began whooping loudly instead as they tramped noisily through the undergrowth.
“Twins?”
“Indeed,” said Jodi dryly. “Foster kids. They grew up—well, brought themselves up is more like it—in the city for their first five years before Children and Family Services finally removed them. They’ve been through a succession of foster homes in the city. All this—”
She waved her arm around at the huge open sky, the wide and pleasant streets still glowing with the last rich shades of fall in Upstate New York. “— it still amazes them. Hattie says sometimes the boys just take off down the street, running full pelt, until they run out of breath.”
They watched the boys in silence. Squarish faces, thick, springy brown hair, the coltish movements of youngsters whose height has suddenly soared. One of the twins was a little more thickset, though both were sturdy and full of energy. They stamped through the damp mulch and leaped up to twang the lowest limbs of the fir trees, laughing at the rain of ice and twigs on their heads and shoulders.
Ricky looked thoughtful. “Then they’re lucky to land here. Temple Mountain is a good place to grow up,” he said quietly. A shadow crossed his face and was gone. “But about the Beechams, I’d like it if you could introduce me. Just so they know I’m not another shallow city slicker.”
He eased closer, and Jodi had to stop herself from brushing away the grit which had fallen from the branches and settled onto the broad shoulders of his jacket.
City slicker? You think?
That butter-soft leather looked more suitable for brunch in Greenwich Village than tramping through the back streets of Temple Mountain to impress Ida Bexhill at church.
Perhaps that old girlfriend of Ricky’s had morphed into a willowy influencer who abhorred sensible puffer jackets and flannel shirts and used her credit card points to buy Ricky male moisturizer and eye masks. Insisted on that particular shade of brown leather because it highlighted his eyes and matched the carefully aged denim jeans.
Stop. Just stop .
It wasn’t Ricky Sharp’s fault that Jodi had chosen to stay in Temple Mountain.
She realised that Ricky was watching her expectantly, even anxiously.
“Sorry?” Jodi mustered a bright smile. “I was um...thinking about work.”
“I said, maybe we could have coffee afterwards. After I meet the Beechams.”
She stared back, inhaling the subtle scent of smoke and wool from his jacket and something musky that made her toes curl even in her sensible boots.
“I need to pick your brains about local hooligans and potential pyromaniacs. The acting editor is sure to have her finger on the pulse of the town.”
Jodi felt an unwelcome sensation akin to having snow drop down the collar of her coat. Work stuff. Of course, that was what he was thinking.
Disconcertingly, Ricky appeared to read her mind. He drew fractionally closer, dropping his voice, and she wondered if he could hear the hammering of her heart.
“Think of it as an act of charity. You could help me to...hmmm...reintegrate into Temple Mountain. Otherwise, people might simply dismiss me as a lightweight, a male sex object who takes off his shirt and cuddles dogs in front of the camera.”
Jodi couldn’t help smiling. “Well, when you put it that way...”
There was a crunch of boots behind them, and a slim figure joined them.
“There you both are.”
Hattie, swathed in a heavy cape, beamed with pleasure. It looked as though Jodi wouldn’t need to make any introductions.
Ricky looked briefly taken aback. He recovered, squeezing the small hand in the massive glove and throwing the minister what Jodi recognized as his full-wattage smile.
“You must be Ricky,” Hattie continued, keeping a hold of his hand. She had to tilt her chin up to look into his face. “I’ve set a place for you for lunch.”
***
L ottie Sharp didn’t turn a hair when her son explained that he was joining the Beechams for lunch. In fact, Jodi caught a distinctly conspiratorial gleam in his mother’s eye.
“Don’t you worry about me at all, I can get a lift home,” Lottie said crisply.
Jodi smiled fondly at the cheerful figure. Lottie’s eyes were a pale, watery hazel. The faint crow’s feet and lines around her mouth betrayed the stress of the last few years.
Lottie trotted off with an older couple, and Jodi and Ricky turned back towards the rectory in companionable silence.
“So, the Beechams,” Ricky said suddenly. “How and why did they get all these kids?”
“They’re registered foster parents, that’s the how. As for the why...”
A young girl with smooth golden skin and almond-shaped eyes skipped past, hauling a smaller figure in a pale blue hooded snowsuit who could have been either male or female. The faux fur hood fell back when the toddler reached the rectory and put out her hands to be helped up the wide steps. They caught a glimpse of brown curls and smooth downy cheeks flushed with color.
Jodi felt the rush of warmth that visiting the Beecham family always engendered. “That’s Alma, she’s eight, and the little one is Jaime. Jaime’s only been with the Beechams for maybe six months. Her mom and dad both died in a car wreck.”
Ricky’s murmur of sympathy turned into a yelp of surprise. Jodi whipped out an arm, grabbing him just as the smooth soles of his thin leather ankle boots slipped on a clump of damp leaves. He clutched her, his hands strong and urgent, and she found herself crushed against a hard chest and enveloped in soft leather and linen.
A silent growl of pure longing rumbled in her chest. That toe-curling thing was back with a vengeance.
Jodi cleared her throat. She could feel the fascinated gaze of almost every adult still standing around outside church.
Nothing to see here folks.
She carefully disengaged, aware of her flushed cheeks. At least half of her hair pins had escaped to that black hole in the universe which is the final destination of every hair pin, hair clip, and hair tie ever made.
Her hand shook slightly as she tucked a long strand of honey gold hair behind her ear.
He grimaced. “Thanks. Looks like I am a city slicker these days,” he said ruefully. “You’d better see me safely to the door.”
He tucked his arm into the crook of her elbow, and Jodi felt the warm strength of his grip. A tiny spark of heat glowed in her chest, and she relaxed slightly against him.
Couldn’t let the poor guy fall over. Ruin his leather jacket and destroy those ironing creases. Duty of care and all that.
The front door was open, of course. Jodie released her arm and hustled them both inside quickly, closing the door behind them. It wasn’t much warmer inside, and she remembered that the furnace had broken down, again, and that there was no money in the budget until the regular spring servicing.
“I know...keep the door closed! Don’t waste the heat!” Hattie’s voice travelled down the hall, and the petite figure appeared from the kitchen wearing an oversized apron with the slogan Never trust a skinny cook . “Come in, come in. I think everyone else is here.”
Jodi’s cheeks were still glowing as she scraped her boots clean and slipped off her coat. She could still smell the chill, pine-scented outdoors, still feel the imprint of Ricky’s arm.
And for a wild moment—a very un-Jodi Ruskin, sensible adult and acting editor moment—she wished that they were still walking, leaning into each other with the easy affection of lovers. Past the rectory, down the wide street, crunching skittering golden leaves underfoot and laughing as icy water dripped down from the laden boughs.
Perhaps she was a winter person after all.