I'll Be Home for Christmas and One Golden Christmas: I'll Be Home For Christmas / One Golden Christmas. Lenora Worth
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helping me get them straightened out,” Myla said over the children’s giggles. “She’s been such a help—she’s even looking into low-cost housing in this district, in case I don’t get into Magnolia House.”
“Trust good ol’ Lydia,” Nick replied.
Wondering why he sounded so sarcastic, Myla said, “You don’t share the same strong faith as your sister, do you?”
Shocked by her directness, Nick became defensive. “I’ve learned to rely on myself. I don’t need to turn to a higher being to help me through life.”
Myla leaned forward on her stool, her voice quiet. “Being self-reliant is good. After all, the Lord gave us brains. But sometimes, Nick, we can’t do it all by ourselves. We need His help. And it’s all right to ask for it.”
She could see the anger sparking through his eyes.
“I don’t need His help.” Waving his arms, he spanned the room. “As you can see, I’m doing okay on my own.”
She nodded. “Oh, yes, you’re doing great material-wise. But what about spiritually? You don’t like Christmas. Why is that, Nick?”
“That’s none of your business,” he said, getting up to stomp to the sink. “Your job is to run this house efficiently, not delve into my personal life.”
She followed him. “Of course. You make perfect sense.” She started stacking the dishes he absently handed her. “But then, you’re in charge, right?”
“And what does that mean?” They stood shoulder to shoulder, heads up, eyes flashing.
“I know what’s expected of me here, Nick. I work for you and I intend to do a thorough job. But I can’t help but notice you don’t have a strong sense of faith. That bothers me.”
Wanting to turn the tables on her, he said, “Yeah, well, you need to be more concerned with your own problems. After all, you’re the one without a home!”
Hurt, she said, “I’ll find one. And I’ll find a good job, too.”
He groaned as she almost sliced his palm with a knife in her haste to load the dishwasher. “You’ll barely make ends meet, Myla. It’s going to be a struggle.”
“I’ll manage,” she retorted. “I have a higher help than you’ll ever know.”
“Oh, that’s right. Your faith. Well, faith won’t get you through a cold winter night, now will it?”
“It did,” she replied calmly. “I prayed for help and the Lord sent it.” She gave him a meaningful look.
“Fine,” he said, sighing in defeat. “So, why can’t you just do the job you were hired to do, instead of wasting your time trying to save me?”
“I just thought you could use a friend.”
“I don’t need a friend, and you need to concentrate on getting your own life back in order.”
“I will, but in the meantime, if you need to talk…”
“I don’t need anything, Myla.” Trying to change the focus back to her, he added, “I’m willing to help you in any way I can, though. And I’m worried about you moving into that homeless shelter too soon. Having faith is one thing, but surviving is quite another.”
“I would think you’d want me to move out,” she replied. “You spout all this encouragement, then hand me a few checks to cover your own embarrassment. I’m trying to start over—on my own, and while I appreciate everything you and Lydia and your friends are doing, I have to do this for myself. If that means giving myself over to blind faith, if that means putting my trust in the Lord, then I can do it. I won’t let anyone ever make me question my faith again.” She stopped loading dishes to stare across the room at her two suddenly quiet children.
“What do you mean?” Nick asked, his hand on her arm. “What happened between you and your husband, Myla?”
“I…we’ll talk later, maybe.” Pulling away, she called to the children. “Jesse, Patrick, time for bed.”
Patrick immediately followed Myla to Henny’s room, but Jesse held back. Running up to Nick, she tugged on his jeans. “Daddy wasn’t a bad man, Mr. Nick. Momma told us to always remember that. My Daddy wasn’t a bad man. He just had some problems, is all.”
“Jesse!” Myla’s voice echoed through the house.
The little girl ran away before Nick could question her further. What did all this mean? Up until now, he’d believed Myla to be a grieving widow, but there was obviously more to this.
“Who are you really protecting, Myla?” he whispered. “Yourself and your children? Or your dead husband?”
Chapter Four
The next week passed in a busy rush for Myla. After getting the children back in school, and finding a church nearby to attend while she was working for Nick, she fell into the daily routine of cleaning and cooking, and learning more about Nick’s life. Each detail drew her closer to the man who’d reluctantly saved her from the streets, and each detail showed her that Nick needed to find his own faith again. He’d refused her invitation to attend church.
“I send them a hefty check each month,” he informed her. “I catch up on paperwork on Sundays.”
“You should rest, and spend the day in worship,” she replied. And have some fun, she wanted to add.
He’d shot her one of his famous scowls, but his words hadn’t been as harsh as he’d have her believe. “You should mind your own business.”
“Yes, sir.” She certainly knew her place, and she needed the money. She’d have to be more cautious in her resolve to help him spiritually. And more cautious about her growing feelings for her employer.
But how could she resist being drawn to this intriguing man? She watched him leaving the house in a hurry each morning at the crack of dawn. He hardly bothered to stop and sip the coffee and orange juice she had waiting. She watched him come dragging in at night to wolf down the dinners she prepared before he went straight into his spacious office and clicked on the computer. Nick often worked long into the night. She knew, because she couldn’t sleep very well in her new surroundings and she’d seen the light on in his office many times.
Myla had had an instinctive urge to go and check on Nick in the middle of the night, the way she used to do with her late husband. But that wasn’t part of her official duties. And neither was being so attracted to him.
Her duties this morning involved cleaning the master bedroom. As she stood in the wide upper hallway, she prayed for guidance.
Dear Lord, give me the strength to get my work done, and not think about the man who’s helped me so much.
But the minute she entered the big masculine room decorated with tasteful plaids and subtle stripes, Nick’s presence shouted out at her. His suit from yesterday was draped across the standing valet. Out of habit, she brushed it out and hung it up, so he could wear it once more before she took it to the cleaners.
His shoes were shelved in the long, well-lit closet off the dressing room. He had several pairs, some black and brown leather, some gleaming white athletics, all expensive and classic in design, just like their owner. His shirt, impeccably white, was tossed on a chair, waiting to be laundered and pressed at the cleaners, along with all his other tailored shirts.
So much about Nick’s habits reminded her of Sonny. Sonny had been a perfectionist, almost fanatical in his demands. Nick wasn’t quite that bad, as far as she could tell. He demanded loyalty, hard work, and the best in everything—but he demanded those things in himself first and foremost.
Myla picked up the shirt, catching the scent of his spicy, crisp aftershave. The shirt spoke of the man. Solid, honest, clean. And lost. He was a good man,