Faithfully Yours. Lois Richer
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appreciatively, patting his basketball stomach happily. “No, I was hoping you and your friend here would consent to helpin’ a busy preacher out with the youth group.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had much opportunity to work with young people,” she heard Jeremy Nivens begin nervously. “And with the Sunday school class you’ve given me, I’m not sure I’ll have enough free time for anything else.”
Gillian peered around Dave’s barrel chest to stare at her boss’s shaking head.
“I’m afraid I’m in the same boat, Pastor,” she murmured, thankful that she wouldn’t have to work with old, stuffedshirt Nivens. Their contact at school was quite enough for her. She didn’t need more proximity to know that the two of them would never work well together, especially not in the loose, unrestricted world of teenagers.
“Nonsense,” Pastor Dave chortled. “Why, you folks just being here tonight is a good sign that you have Friday evenings free. And I know the young folk would appreciate having you whippersnappers direct their meetin’s more than they would old Brother Dave.” He whacked Jeremy on the back and patted Gillian’s shoulder kindly before moving away. “I’ll be calling y’all about an organizational meeting next week,” he said, grinning happily. “See ya there.”
Gillian stared aghast at the tall, lean man in front of her. It couldn’t be. No way. She wasn’t going to be conned into this. Not with General Jeremy Nivens.
“I don’t think that man listens to what anyone says,” Mr. Nivens muttered in frustration. “He bulldozed me into taking the Sunday school boys class, but I can’t take on a bunch of hormone-crazy teens, too.”
“Well, you don’t have to act as if they’re juvenile delinquents or something,” Gillian said, bristling indignantly. “They’re just kids who don’t have a whole lot to amuse themselves with in a town this size.”
“Hah!” He glared at her, his gray eyes sparkling. “They should be able to make their own fun. Why, these children have every advantage—a lovely countryside, acres of land and rivers and hills. They should be happy to be free of the inner-city ghettos that lots of children are enduring where they don’t get enough to eat and—”
“Please,” Gillian muttered, holding up one hand. “Spare me the sermon. It sounds just like something my grannie used to say.” She shifted to one side as the family behind her moved away from the table, children gaily jumping from bench to bench.
“‘When I was a child,’” she said in a scratchy voice meant to copy her grandmother’s thready tones. “‘We never had the advantages you young things have today. Why I walked three miles to and from school every single day, even when it was forty-below. In bare feet. Without a coat.’”
Mr. Nivens’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline as he listened to her. When at last he moved, it was to brush off the crumbs from his pant leg and remove a blob of cream Gillian had slopped on the toe of his shoe when Pastor Dave had grabbed her.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he murmured, stepping around her carefully. “No one could walk through forty-below without shoes or a coat and survive.” He started up the basement stairs after tossing one frowning look at her bright curling tendrils of hair where they lay loose against her neck.
Gillian snapped the tray down on the table and motioned to the folk holding out their cups.
“Help yourself,” she advised, with a frown on her face. “I’ve got something to say to Mr. Nivens.”
“Go for it, Missy,” Ned Brown advised, grinning like a Cheshire Cat “That feller needs a bit of loosenin’ up. Seems to me you’re just the girl to do it.”
As she raced up the stairs, Gillian decided Ned was right. She had a whole year of Mr. Jeremy Nivens to get through. She might as well start off as she meant to go on.
He was striding across the parking lot when she emerged—huge, measured strides that made her race to catch up. Fortunately, she wore her most comfortable sandals and could easily run to catch up.
“Just a minute, Mr. Nivens,” she called breathlessly. “I have something I want to say.”
He stopped and turned to stare at her, the wind ruffling his dark brown hair out of its usual orderly state. One lock of mussed hair tumbled down across his straight forehead, making him seem more human, more approachable, Gillian decided.
“I was making a joke,” she said finally, aware that his searching gray-blue eyes had noted her flushed face and untucked shirt. “It was supposed to be funny.”
“Oh.” He continued to peer at her through the gloom, and Gillian moistened her lips. It was the kind of stare that made her nervous, and she shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. “Was that everything, Miss Langford?”
“My name is Gillian,” she told him shortly, frustrated by the cool, distant frigidity his arrogant demeanor projected. “Or Gilly if you prefer.”
“It sounds like a name for a little girl,” he told her solemnly, his dour look suggesting that she take the information to heart. “At any rate, I barely know you. We are co-workers in a strictly professional capacity. I hardly think we should be on a first-name basis.”
“Look, Mr. Nivens,” she exhorted. “I’m trying to be friendly. That’s the way people in Mossbank are, friendly and on a first-name basis. No one at school uses titles except in front of the children.” She drew a breath of cool, evening air and counted to ten. “If you don’t want to help with the youth group, fine. But don’t pretend it’s because they’re too uncivilized for you to be around.” Her eyes moved over his three-piece suit with derision.
“I doubt you and they would have anything in common, anyway,” she muttered. “You’re far too old for them.”
His stern, rigid face cracked a mirthless smile.
“Not so old,” he said sternly. “I was a teenager once, also, Miss Langford.”
“Really?” Gillian stared at him disbelievingly.
“I’m sure of it.” His eyes sparkled at some inner joke as he watched her.
“Well, anyway—” she shrugged “—if you don’t want to work with them, just say so.”
“I thought I had,” he murmured so softly she barely caught the words. He studied her face. “Are you going to fall in with Pastor Dave’s suggestions?” he demanded.
“I think I might,” she mused, deliberately ignoring that inner voice that quietly but firmly whispered NO. “They really need some direction, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else.” All around them the rustle of wind through the drying leaves and the giggles of children romping in the playground carried in the night air. The musky odor of cranberries decaying in the nearby woods wafted pungently toward them on a light breeze.
“But you’re not that much younger than I am,” he objected.
“In some ways,” she said through gritted teeth. “You and I are light-years apart.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he admitted at last. He turned to leave. “Good night, Miss Lang—Gillian.”
As he walked away into the dusky night, Gillian stood with her mouth hanging open. For the first time in over a month, he’d called her by her first name. How strange! Perhaps the man really wasn’t as stuffy as she’d thought. Maybe, just maybe, he’d unbend with time.
Then she frowned.
He hadn’t outright refused to attend the organizational meeting, had he? Did that mean he intended to show up and offer his staid opinions?
“No way,” she muttered angrily. “I don’t care how much they need helpers. Mr. Jeremy Nivens is not going to work in the youth group, not if I have anything to say about it.”
As she turned