A Time of Hope. Terri Reed
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was laboriously working her way through. Over forty years of pastoring was compiled in those journals.
A priceless collection of a man’s life.
Mara heard the clang of the cupboard closing, the clink of a cup being set on the counter-top.
“Do you take cream or sugar?” he asked from the kitchen.
“Black, please,” she called back, feeling awkward to have him waiting on her. How was she going to concentrate with him in the cottage?
She sat and tried to focus on the task in front of her. Going through the routine of turning on the computer, opening the top notebook and finding the place where she’d last left off eased some of the tension that had settled on her shoulders the moment Jacob had answered the door.
The fine hairs on her arm tingled with awareness and the tension tightened in her shoulders again seconds before Jacob stepped into the confining office.
“Here you go,” he said as he set a cup of steaming coffee on the desk beside her.
“Thanks.” She opened the file on the desktop.
“What are you working on?”
He had a right to know. “I’m taking Pastor Anders’s sermons and turning them into a book.”
He arched a brow. “He was that good?”
“Pastor Anders loved the Lord passionately. Yes, he was good.”
“I have a lot to live up to, then.”
Was he being sarcastic? A quick glance showed her there was something in his expression, an uncertainty that tugged at her. Was he nervous about Sunday’s service? “I’ve transcribed more than half of his sermons. You’re welcome to look at them and use one as an example. I’m sure he would have been honored.”
“I might do that. Though they do equip us young pastors with outlines in seminary,” he teased.
She found it impossible not to return his disarming smile. “I’m sure they do. How long ago did you complete seminary?”
His jaw tightened. “Two weeks ago.”
“Oh.” He was brand-new at this. She made a few clicks on the computer and then the printer hummed as it spit out paper. She grabbed the sheets and handed them to him. “Here. Have a look at these.”
“Thanks. I won’t be here very long, you know. A permanent pastor will be found soon.”
A strange sense of disappointment shot through her. “So you said. I’m sure you’ll do fine while you’re here. God wouldn’t have brought you here without a purpose.”
He backed up, an odd expression on his face. “I’ll let you get to work.”
Mara sat there staring at the closed door for several seconds after he left. She shook her head, marveling that God would send such a young man to pastor their community. A man who obviously didn’t want to be here.
Not her concern. She had enough on her plate without worrying about Pastor Jacob Durand.
She turned her mind to the work at hand. Just as she was getting into the words she was typing, a noise caught her attention and she froze.
The lyrical notes of the guitar washed over her. She closed her eyes and let the tune flow through her. She recognized the chords, could visualize the placement of her fingers on the keyboard in accompaniment.
He was very good on the guitar.
Rats! With much effort she pulled herself out of the music. How was she supposed to concentrate when he was playing the guitar so beautifully and everything inside her ached to harmonize to the music filling the air?
For an hour she battled to stay focused on the words her fingers were typing. Finally, silence reigned. Mara breathed a sigh of relief.
Then moments later, music from the CD player invaded the stillness. She recognized the tunes of a popular contemporary Christian rock group.
A smiled tugged at the corners of her mouth. They shared the same taste in music. This she could work to as background noise.
She lost herself in the work at her fingertips. When a loud knock on the door broke her concentration, she was startled to realize it was already noon.
The door popped open and Jacob stuck his head inside. “I’m making myself a ham-and-cheese sandwich. Would you like one?”
“Oh, no. Thank you. That’s not necessary.” She deftly saved her work and shut down the computer.
“Maybe not necessary. But you do schedule yourself a lunch, right?”
“Yes. Of course.” She grimaced at the defensiveness in her tone. She doubted he’d think a ten-minute lunch break would suffice. She wasn’t expected at the Hilty house for another hour.
Usually, she spent the hour between commitments running errands for the church or replenishing her cleaning supplies. Today she didn’t have any errands and she was all stocked up. The slight cramping in her stomach made her hesitate. The bagel and yogurt she’d had for breakfast had filled her at the time. Now she was hungry.
“Come on.” His engaging grin made her pulse jump. “You’ve been working hard for the past three hours. You deserve a break. Let me make you a sandwich.”
She consulted her schedule book as a means to stall. She didn’t have a good excuse not to stay.
“We need to discuss our arrangement,” he said. “Schedule time for you to show me around.”
The coaxing tone in his voice prodded her to accept his invitation. After all she had agreed to his deal. “Okay. But I can make my own sandwich.”
“Not in my kitchen,” he stated, and walked away.
Slowly, Mara left the office, and for some reason resentment simmered low in her belly. This was Pastor Anders’s home, not his. But Pastor Anders was gone. She had to accept that.
“There are casseroles in the freezer,” she said as she took a seat at the round kitchen table.
“I saw that.” He opened a jar of mayonnaise. “Mayo?”
“Sure.”
She liked the way his hands moved with fluid grace. She’d like to watch him play his guitar. She forced that thought away and made herself focus on assisting him instead. “You can help yourself to the casseroles.”
He slapped a pile of ham on the bread. “Did the hospitality crew make them for Pastor Anders?”
“Hospitality crew?”
“That’s what my sister and I call the ladies in the congregation who are generous with their cooking.” He glanced her way as he put the sandwiches onto plates.
Heat blossomed in her cheeks. “No, the ladies of the church didn’t make them. Though I’m sure they would have been happy to.”
“You?” he asked, extending a plate toward her.
She looked away and took the plate in front of her. The sandwich spilled over the sides with ham. She’d be stuffed for days.
“Yes. Pastor Anders wasn’t much of a cook,” she said, hoping Pastor Durand didn’t hear her stomach rumbling with hunger.
He opened the refrigerator. “I have lemon-lime soda or bottled water.”
“Water’s fine.”
He came to the table with his plate and two bottles of cold water. “You sure took good care of him. Were you related?”
“No.” A pang of sadness crimped her heart. “Though I would have liked to have had him as a grandfather.”
He bit into his sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “Grandfathers are pretty special.”
She