minister to sick and needy folk, teach—there are more options than I can list. But along the way you might find out a thing or two about yourself. No harm there.”
In short, Noah was convinced. During his studies, he found out he was meant to try to hold a group of believers together in faith, to lend a hand, to communicate, to educate, to bring hope. To be a friend. There was only one thing that was required of him that he could not do—and that was to forgive his father.
Just last year his mother passed. She had slipped away in the night, having had a stroke at the age of seventy. Noah attended the funeral, even though he hated the idea of seeing his father. But it was the only time in Noah’s life he could remember having the last word with his dad.
Jasper said to him, within the hearing of many others, “Do you see what leaving the family and the faith did? It killed your mother.”
Without missing a beat, Noah replied, “You should be aware that Mother and I have been in touch ever since I left home. She visited twice even though I wouldn’t come back. She was always there for me and we loved one another profoundly. The truth is, I think staying with you was what killed her.”
The shock on his father’s face was priceless; and the insult bit Jasper deep. It had obviously never occurred to Jasper that his wife would keep secrets from him. Maybe it was just that he paid so little attention to her, he was unaware that she kept a close relationship with her son. The reading of the will hammered Jasper with a few more home truths—Inez Kincaid had brought a trust fund to her marriage to a poor preacher who was ten years her junior. Her personal wealth had helped Jasper build a big following, televise his services, evangelize and collect members. She willed half of the fund to Noah. Jasper had expected to receive all of it.
And now Noah was going to run through a great deal of his inheritance fixing up this old church.
He looked in the direction of the kitchen. Another free spirit, he admitted to himself. In a completely different form.
There was a crash, a splash, and Ellie said, “Fuck.”
Lucy came to her feet and Noah looked up. “Very funny,” he said to God. “That kind of thing isn’t going to go over well.” Then he walked to the kitchen, Lucy beside him.
He stood in the doorway and watched as Ellie used the rag mop to try to capture the flood that resulted from a tipped bucket. But that wasn’t where his focus was—he frowned and looked at his watch. The morning had passed without him even realizing it. He’d been completely lost in thought. And while he’d been thinking of his past and patching wall cracks, Ellie had been working like a demon.
The huge, restaurant-size kitchen almost glowed. The floor had been swept, mopped, and was being mopped again. She’d done some things that had made an enormous difference—the high windows were cleaned and spotless, the frames scrubbed of dust, spiderwebs and dirt. The countertops were scoured and disinfected. The cupboards were washed out with their doors standing open. The few remaining kitchenware items that had been abandoned were washed and drying in a dish drain she’d found; all four deep sinks were scrubbed clean, the faucets shining. The room didn’t look like new, but it was clean and fresh and ready for painting and flooring.
She squeezed her mop, straightened and wiped a hand across her forehead, pushing up a curl that just bounced back to hang over one eye. She blew out of her lower lip to cool her face, making that curl flutter in her breath. “Let me guess,” she said. “You heard me say fuck. Sorry. I’ll try not to say it. But I bet if you’d dumped a big pail of nasty mop water on your clean floor, you would have said fuck, too.”
He laughed and just shook his head. “Maybe. It looks good in here, Ellie. Who knew you could do something like this with long, blue, sparkly fingernails.”
“I figured you meant for me to clean it, so I cleaned it.”
“It’s fantastic. I bet you’re hungry. It’s after one.”
She got a very strange look on her face, as though a thought just came to mind or she’d forgotten something. Then she just continued mopping. “Nah, I don’t think I could eat. I really pigged out on pizza last night and I’m still stuffed.”
“I’m going next door for a sandwich. Come with me.”
“Nah, go on. I’ll just finish up here. If I do a good job, maybe you’ll let me out of here early or something. I have to get looking for a new place to live.”
“You can leave whenever you’ve had enough—you’ve done an incredible job. I’ve been chipping away at the dirt in this place for weeks and it looks like you conquered it in no time at all.”
She straightened again. She pushed that curl back. Her neck and chest were damp with perspiration, which made her look even sexier. She smiled almost shyly. “I cleaned office buildings and sometimes houses for cash—under the table. One of my many second jobs. I don’t think it was listed on that sheet of jobs.”
“Résumé,” he corrected, then damned himself for being so uppity. Why couldn’t he just accept her the way she was?
“Résumé,” she agreed. “I got some great tips from the girls who had more experience than me. Clean is good. Fast and clean makes more money.”
He laughed with genuine pleasure. “You’ve been in the trenches,” he said with appreciation. Admiration. “Come on—let me buy you a sandwich. If you’re not real hungry, Preacher will make you half, but it’s your first day working for me. My treat—come on.”
Three
For someone who had stuffed herself on pizza the night before, Ellie seemed to have no trouble packing away a very large chicken-salad sandwich and some of Preacher’s potato salad. Noah doubted the pizza story. He picked up their plates and carried them to the bar, and when he returned he said, “Jack’s bringing chocolate cake.”
Her hands were on her flat belly. “Oh, man, I couldn’t …” “Just a bite or two,” he said. “So—you said you were raised on hymns. Tell me about that. I mean, if you want to.”
“Sure, I’ll tell you. I grew up with my gramma. What a peach—you’d have liked her. My mother wasn’t … isn’t … very stable. When I was born, she was clueless, so my gramma took over and my mother left and I stayed. When I was seven, Gram started teaching me to play the piano. It was a real old piano and about the only thing worth a dime in the house, but we had a neighbor guy who kept it tuned. Gramma hummed gospel tunes all day long and she loved it if I could figure out one of those old-time hymns. ‘The Old Rugged Cross,’ ‘Amazing
Grace,’ ‘Great Is Thy Faithfulness …’ ‘Course, I would have rather played Elton John, John Lennon or Billy Joel, but for her I tried.”
“Where was your mother?” he asked just as the cake arrived.
“Jumping from man to man,” she said, lifting her fork.
“Were there more children?”
“No.” She laughed. “She figured out that much. When I got pregnant in high school, my gramma must have been scared to death that I was just following in her footsteps. I wasn’t really, but it must have looked like I was.”
“Well,” he said patiently, “what were you
