of soul winner.
Lord, I’m trying but I could use a little help. There’s some serious healing to be done between these two, not to mention a crime to solve. Of course, You know that. I’m a bucket of problems with my own crime to solve, so if You’d bring them across the path of someone who can help them sort things out, I’d be grateful... Oh, and thank You for this food. Amen.
Silence rang in his ears. Weren’t the ladies going to eat? He opened his eyes a sliver, then widened them all the way. His guests sat with heads bowed over their plates. Laurel’s lips moved without sound. Caroline’s head came up, and a smile flickered at him as she reached for the stroganoff. Her mother’s gaze lifted slowly, no smile, but she helped herself to the mixed green salad.
Were these two fellow Christians? Maybe his after supper plans would help clarify the matter. His gaze traveled to the baby grand as he reached for the biscuits.
“Caroline, I noticed you play the piano.”
“A little bit,” she said. “I’ve only had a couple years of lessons.”
“Do you like playing?”
The girl pursed her lips. “I love music. I’m just not sure if I can play well enough to make it worth the cost of the lessons.”
“Honey, cut yourself some slack,” Laurel said. “You’ve come a long way, but you can hardly expect to be a professional yet. Mastering an instrument takes time and effort.”
“More effort than I’ve been putting in, you mean.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Let’s tickle a few ivories after supper,” David put in quickly. “Just for fun. No Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony or anything. But first—” he wagged his fork at Caroline “—you and your mom put the dishes in the dishwasher. Cleaning up is the part of cooking I don’t like.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Caroline giggled.
“You’re on, Mr. Greene. I’d do dishes every night to eat like this. Mom tries, but cooking isn’t her thing. It’s lucky that I like bake-at-home pizza, sub sandwich delivery and Chinese takeout.” She gave a brief lift of her shoulders, laughed and then stuffed a bite of stroganoff into her mouth. Her eyes drifted closed as she chewed, and a soft hum purred from her throat.
David grinned and then the smile faded as Laurel laid her fork aside and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. Had Caroline’s offhand remark about her mom’s cooking brought that expression to her face as if she’d tasted something nasty? The sorrow that darkened those honey-rich eyes seemed deeper than a simple lack of culinary skills might cause. There were undercurrents here that he didn’t understand and wasn’t sure he wanted to navigate.
Small talk continued over the meal. David’s effort to remain upbeat flagged as shadows settled over his guest’s expressions. Clearing up time couldn’t come fast enough. While Laurel and Caroline saw to the dishes, David tended the blaze in the fireplace.
“Are you up for ‘Chopsticks’ then?” He waved a hand toward the piano.
Caroline backed away a step. “Seriously?”
“Go for it. I promise you it will turn out better than you think. I’ll help you.”
“You play?”
He grinned. “I didn’t truck this piano up here just to look at it.”
Caroline’s cheeks pinked but she spurted a brief chuckle. “I suppose not.” She took a seat on the polished mahogany bench and placed her fingers on the keyboard.
Notes emerged hesitantly and then picked up speed. About the time Caroline hit a good cadence David slid onto the bench beside her and began to play a high counterpoint melody. She shot him a startled glance and stumbled over a few notes, then resumed her tune in earnest.
Laurel, who had come to stand to one side of the piano, rewarded him with a smile and a nod. David almost botched his next note.
The woman was lovely. Not in an exotic way—a hothouse flower like Alicia had been. Or in a delicate and fleeting sort of way like a rose. But with the graceful purity of the calla lily. He should know. On his Texas ranch, he grew plots of the stunning flowers that had been his mother’s favorite. But now he was likely doomed to see another face in his mind’s eye whenever he tended his plants.
Get a grip, dude. He turned his attention on Caroline. “What else do you know?”
“Not much, but here goes.” Caroline moved into a rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells.”
Chuckling, David switched positions to her other side and began a bass note accompaniment. The girl’s sunny grin turned his insides to mush. He’d be nothing but pleased if he could be 100 percent certain the two of them had nothing to do with the demise of the woman in their car trunk.
“That’s it. I’m done.” Caroline slid off the bench. “Now let’s hear what you can do.”
“Yes, please.” Laurel seconded the invitation. “Though that was really nice, honey. I’m proud of you.” She slid an arm around her daughter, and Caroline didn’t pull away.
“You asked for it.” David moved to the center of the bench.
The keys were cool velvet beneath his fingertips. If anything other than gardening had saved his sanity these past few years, it was his music—another legacy from his mother. He transitioned into an airy rendition of “My Favorite Things” and then toned it down with Für Elise.
“Hey, I recognize that one,” Caroline said. “It’s Beethoven. I’ll bet you could play his Fifth Symphony, no problem.”
“I can, but I’m not going to. How about this one?” He began “Morning Has Broken.” A few chords into the song a clear, strong voice took up the words. A heartbeat later, a more youthful voice joined Laurel’s.
“You two can sing.” David smiled big. “This is going to be fun.”
Time drifted as they moved from one familiar favorite to the next—a few pop songs to please the teenager, but mostly praise choruses or old-fashioned hymns. At last, David pulled his hands from the keyboard and let out a slow breath. His guests echoed the soft sigh. Calm and peace enveloped the room. Rare commodities, especially under current circumstances.
“I think,” Laurel said quietly, “this would be a good note on which to say good-night.” She nudged her daughter. “Good night, David. And thank you.”
The gentle light in Laurel’s eyes played a tune on David’s insides.
“Thanks, Mr. Greene,” Caroline said as she allowed herself to be guided away.
The mild flurry of them changing the bedding and him lending them T-shirts and drawstring bottoms for sleepwear did little to disrupt the precious serenity.
“Your peace in the midst of trouble is such a gift, God,” David said as he pulled the covers over himself in the cook’s bed.
The mattress was harder than he liked and the pillow too thin, but he wasn’t about to complain. To God or to himself. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift.
He’d
