deliberately downplayed his good side, the side she’d seen firsthand. You’re wrong, Mr. Rudolph. You have scruples—you just haven’t used them in a while.
Again, she had to wonder what had caused Nick to turn into himself. As she watched him, his eyes touched on her and she saw the warmth shining there. She said a silent prayer. Dear Father, help Nick to find his way back to you. And thank you for leading me to him.
The next night when Nick came home from work, he found a freshly baked pound cake sitting on the counter, its buttery aroma filling the house. The kitchen sparkled and gleamed. Holly branches from the garden decorated the counters, giving the room a homey effect.
The back door opened and Myla, Patrick and Jesse all rushed into the room, giggling and chattering. All three held arms full of firewood. Myla looked up, a hesitant smile cresting her lips.
Patrick said, “Hey, Mr. Nick. We’re gonna start a fire.”
“So I see.”
He nodded toward the boy’s mother, noticing the way the December wind had brightened her cheeks and pinkened her lips, giving her fair skin a perfect contrast to her fiery wind-tossed copper-colored hair. As was his nature, Nick watched and waited as she ordered the children to place the wood in the den.
“And don’t try to light a fire. I wouldn’t want you two to burn down the Christmas tree.” Turning back to Nick, she said, “Dinner will be ready in an hour.”
“That’s fine.” He gazed at the fat cake sitting on the counter. “That smells wonderful.”
“Want a slice?” She headed toward the refrigerator to pull out the milk. “Milk or coffee?”
“Milk.” Nick slid out of his khaki trench coat. “This looks good.”
“Well, it’s not coconut cake, but I wanted to make up for last night. I hate seeing grown men cry.”
He chuckled, then took the glass of milk and a generous slice of the still-warm cake, his eyes following her as he bit into the flaky lemon-flavored mound. Myla waited as he chewed it with glee, a little moan of appreciation escaping as he swallowed.
“I think I’m in love,” he murmured as he closed his eyes. After another hefty bite, he said, “Oh, you wouldn’t believe the phone calls I’ve been getting all day.”
Concerned, she asked, “About what?”
“About you. About the pizza party. We really impressed the stockholders. They’re throwing their support toward Rudolph Oil, and you.”
“Me?”
“They want to help you out.”
Myla had to turn away to keep him from seeing the tears welling in her eyes. Maybe there was hope, after all. Of course, these people didn’t know her background. She wondered how they’d feel about her if they knew the whole story. “I can’t take any charity, Nick,” she said to hide her fears.
“Of course you can,” he reasoned. “They admire your strength, Myla. Last night, you showed them something they’ve taken for granted.”
She shrugged, her back still turned away. “I only told the truth according to my beliefs. It’s what I live by.”
Thinking she was about to launch into another sermon, Nick cleared his throat. “I have some checks here. Will you take them? You can use the money after…after you leave here.”
“Charity,” she said, dreading the thought of not being self-reliant.
Nick came to stand beside her. “Yes, charity, but given with the best of intentions. And besides, they can write it off on their income tax, so take the money, Myla.”
She stopped stirring the steaming pot of vegetables. “The Lord loves a cheerful giver.”
“That’s the spirit. You can always pay them back.”
She smiled then. “Did they write checks?”
“Yes, why?”
“I’ll record their names and addresses and offer them my services. I want to start my own catering business.”
He stared over at her. “Catering…you’d be good at that.” Shaking his head, he added, “I admire your ingenuity. You’ll do just fine in life, Myla.” With that declaration, he finished the last bite of his cake.
Myla turned back to her cooking. She had to stop watching this man eat. She wanted to cook him hearty meals and take care of him. He needed more than a housekeeper; he needed a spiritual partner. And after ten years of marriage to Sonny Howell, she wasn’t sure she was ready for that yet.
Answering him finally, she said, “I have to do this, Nick. I have to provide for my children.”
Nick put his empty plate and glass in the sink. “I believe you will. Patrick was right. You are a good cook.”
“Thank you. Cooking’s about all I have to offer.” She faced him at last. “I need to tell you—the other job I came here to see about—it was a cook in a restaurant. I called today…and they’ve already hired someone.”
Nick put a hand on her shoulder. “You found this job, Myla. Maybe…maybe you’ll be better off here, for now.” Not sure how to comfort her, he added, “And hey, if you keep this up, I’ll be as fat as Santa by Christmas.”
She laughed then. “You can work it off by starting that fire Patrick and Jesse want.”
“Good idea. I rarely build a fire for just myself.” He headed toward the swinging doors, then whirled. “By the way, how’s Shredder doing?”
“He won’t come out of Henny’s apartment.”
She waited, but when he just stood staring over at her, she asked, “Is there anything else, Nick?”
“Yes,” he said, lowering his head a bit. “You’re wrong, you know.”
“About what?”
“Cooking isn’t the only thing you have to offer, Myla.”
He turned to go, leaving her to wonder what he’d meant by that statement. Careful, Myla, an inner voice warned. Nick was just being polite, trying to boost her ego. He didn’t know anything about her, and right now, she didn’t have the nerve to tell him the truth.
An hour later, Nick looked at the place set for one in the formal dining room. In spite of the Christmas centerpiece sitting in the middle of the long, shining Queen Anne table, the room still seemed empty and vast. In spite of the plate of steaming vegetables and hot-buttered noodles, the baked chicken and delicate dinner rolls, he couldn’t seem to get excited about eating.
Too much cake, he reasoned, plopping down on an antique chair to try to enjoy Myla’s marvelous efforts. “At last, peace and quiet.”
With his first bite, he heard Myla’s soft voice lifted
