The Wedding Quilt. Lenora Worth
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Out of the blue, Clayton spoke directly to Kirk for the first time. “Seems a waste to me—bringing you in special to fix that old steeple. Let the thing crumble, is what I say. A waste of time and money.”
Rosemary shot Kirk an apologetic look. “Actually, Dad was on the board that voted to renovate the church, but that was a couple of years ago. Now…Dad doesn’t support any of our church activities, especially the ones I’m involved in.”
Clayton threw his sandwich down. “And we both know why, don’t we, girl?”
Rosemary’s hiss of breath was the only indication that her father’s sharp words had gotten to her. She remained perfectly calm, keeping her attention on her plate as she toyed with a slice of tomato to hide the apparent shame her father seemed determined to heap upon her.
Wanting to shield her from any further tirades, Kirk looked across at her father. “Mr. Brinson, your church is one of the finest historic buildings I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot of churches and cathedrals both here in America and all across Europe. The people who built your sanctuary did it the right way, it’s as solid now as it was the day it was finished. You don’t see that kind of craftsmanship much anymore. I’ve studied the layout from the pictures your daughter sent me, and I’m amazed.each joint and bent is intricately crafted with mortise and tenon joined together without the benefit of nails.” He paused, then looked thoughtful. “It’s almost as if the church was built on spirit and determination alone. And I intend to make sure that spirit is sound and intact.”
Clayton glared across at the stranger sitting at his table, then huffed a snort. “Foolishness, pure foolishness, to waste over forty thousand dollars on a face-lift for the church. If it was built to last, then leave it alone!”
“Daddy!” Embarrassed, Rosemary touched her father on the arm in warning. “Can we talk about something else?”
“I’m through talking,” Clayton replied, then standing, he yanked up his plate and drink. “I’m going to watch television.” With that, he stomped out of the room, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.
Kirk realized two things, sitting there at that round little oak table in Rosemary’s clean kitchen. One, he was more determined than ever to get his job done and done right, just to prove her father wrong. He was like that; he’d always risen to a challenge, and winning this man over would be a big one. And two, he did not like this man’s hateful, hostile attitude toward his lovely, angel-faced daughter. In fact, with just a little encouragement, he would gladly be willing to do something about changing it.
Right now, however, the only thing he could do was try to make Rosemary’s beautiful smile return to her pale, drawn face. “Was it something I said?”
She did smile, but it was a self-deprecating tug instead of a real smile, and he didn’t miss the raw pain hidden beneath the effort.
“No, it was something I did.” Sending him a pleading look, she added, “He wasn’t always this bad. It’s just…we lost my mother over a year ago, and he’s still not over her death. I do apologize for the way he’s treated you.”
“I’m sorry…about your mother, and I understand,” he said, but really, he didn’t understand. Losing a loved one was always painful as he well remembered when he’d lost his grandfather a few years ago, but this anguish seemed to run much deeper than normal grief. Most families turned to each other in times of grief and loss. Rosemary’s father obviously hadn’t come to terms with losing his wife, but why was he taking it out on his daughter? Kirk had to wonder what had happened between these two to make one so sad and noble, and the other so bitter and harsh.
But, Kirk reminded himself too late, you can’t get involved in whatever is brewing between them. Just do your work, man, then leave.
When he looked up, Rosemary was watching him with those beautiful blue eyes, her gaze searching for both retribution and condemnation. He gave her neither—her father was doing enough of that. Because Kirk didn’t know what was going on, he smiled at her in an effort to comfort her. And somehow he knew, this time it was going to be different. This time, he just might have to get involved.
“Why didn’t you simply explain things to him?” Melissa asked Rosemary later after she’d told her friend about the whole episode with her father.
They were sitting on a wooden bench out on the playground, watching the children as they scooted and swayed over the various climbing gyms and swings. Nearby, a tulip tree heralded spring with its bright orange and green flowers. The afternoon lifted out before them with a crisp, welcoming breeze that belied the turmoil boiling in Rosemary’s heart.
“I can’t get him involved in all that,” Rosemary said, shaking her head. “He came here to work on the church, not its floundering members.”
“Except your father hasn’t set foot in this place in over a year,” Melissa reminded her in a sympathetic voice. “How can you stand it, Rosemary?”
“Living with him, you mean?” Rosemary sat back on the hand-carved bench, then sighed long and hard. “I still love him. And I know he’s still grieving. I keep thinking one day I’ll wake up and he’ll be the father I always knew and loved…before all of this happened. One day…”
Her voice trailed off as she looked up at the towering steeple a few yards away. Amazed, she grabbed Melissa’s arm, then held her breath. “Look!”
A lone figure moved up the steep side of the church’s wide sloping shingled roofline, loping toward the center of the building.
“The steeplejack,” Melissa said on her own breathless whisper. “He sure didn’t waste any time.”
“No, he didn’t,” Rosemary replied, her eyes taking in the lean lines of Kirk Lawrence’s broad shoulders and athletic body. Not an ounce of fat anywhere on the man. And no wonder. He hopped and jumped over the roof like the superhero Melissa had called him, his long, muscular arms swinging from the rafters, so to speak, as he took his first close-up look at the thing he’d come to wrestle with.
The steeple was a mixture of several different levels and several different foundations. Set at the front of the broad, rectangular, Gothic church building, it started out with an open square belfry, made from the stone they’d discussed earlier, intertwined with sturdy, arched timber-framed beams that shot up to form a tier, like the bottom layer of a wedding cake, over which sat a smaller section with louvered openings surrounded by stained-glass partitions and a smaller version of the same arched wood pattern. That section lifted toward and supported a spire made of thick iron beams that formed the tall shingle-covered cone. This tier was followed by an ornamental rusty iron cross that extended three feet across and four feet up.
The long front of the church was made of the same stone facing as the belfry tower, mixed with the timber framing that the original congregation had made with heavy columns and beams, the arched pattern of the wood crisscrossing throughout the stones, following the same pattern of the tower’s beams. The church was intact and sturdy; now it mostly needed scraping, painting, restaining and rustproofing. Which was why Rosemary had hired the steeplejack. He’d do most of it from his boatswain chair, inches at a time if necessary.
Kirk hauled himself up over one of the stone belfry walls, clinging precariously for a moment before lifting over into the open belfry room where an aged brass bell hung from a sturdy iron frame. From his vantage point, he looked out over the town, then down at the playground where Rosemary and Melissa, and now the children, watched him in fascinated wonder.
“Hello there,” he called good-naturedly, waving toward them, then holding out both arms as if to say he’d just claimed this spot as his very own. “What a view!”
Rosemary didn’t doubt that the view of the surrounding hills and mountains was impressive. She’d never been up in the belfry, but her brother, Danny, had climbed up there many times, and he’d told her he could see the whole town—indeed, the whole county—from there.
“It’s