Safe in Noah's Arms. Mary Sullivan
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the average person’s. Did Monica own anything cheap? Not likely.
At least she smiled at Kayla and said hi.
Despite Kayla’s discomfort—she looked intimidated by Monica—the woman invited them in for coffee. Some people never failed to impress Noah. This was why he raised crops for those less fortunate than himself—because of grace, and because these were good people who deserved a break.
After setting the box of food on the kitchen counter, Monica accepted a cup of coffee. Kayla handed Noah a cup and he sipped. Weak as dishwater.
They all sat at the kitchen table. Conversation was scarce and awkward. Monica gave Kayla surprisingly good ideas for using the garlic scapes, nothing that would cost the family much to implement.
Kayla blurted, “I’ve been looking for work, Noah. Robert and I won’t have to depend on you forever.”
“Hey, that’s great. What kind of job are you looking for?”
Kayla’s fingers worried the hem of her blouse. “Simple things. I was a cashier at the grocery store when I married Robert. I’ve been home with the kids ever since.”
Noah didn’t respond, didn’t want to dash Kayla’s hopes. She’d been out of the market for, at a guess, ten or so years, and her skills were limited.
Monica and Noah rose to leave.
Noah said goodbye and left the house. Monica whispered something to Kayla before she followed him to the car.
Whatever she’d said to Kayla had put a smile on the woman’s face.
In the truck, he asked, “What was that about?”
She fiddled with the air vents to get a breeze blowing her way and flicked on the radio again, with the volume low. “What was what about?”
“What did you whisper to Kayla to make her so happy?”
“I told her I had a dress I didn’t want anymore and I would bring it out to her for her job interviews.” She buckled herself in and they left the property, driving down the highway toward the next delivery. “I’ll bring her some makeup, too.”
“That’s really something.” Noah couldn’t hide his surprise. “That’s really nice of you.”
“I’m not the monster you think I am.”
He tensed. “I never said you were a monster.”
“Oh, please, Noah,” she scoffed. “You think I’m vain and selfish.”
“Yeah. So?”
He expected her to take offense, but she chuffed out a laugh. So, Miss Monica had a certain level of self-awareness of how she was perceived by others. “Honestly, Noah, you’re too blunt. Thanks for the boost to my ego.”
The interior of the truck heated with the goodwill emanating from Monica. She had a sense of humor about herself. Noah would have never guessed. He liked teasing her. “Hey, I believe in being honest.” He softened that with a smile in his voice.
“I like good clothes and nice things, but I’m not selfish.”
“No, I guess not.” Noah smiled at her, momentarily in harmony with a woman who wasn’t as bad as he had assumed.
His perception of Monica shifted.
The next family they visited had had a string of hard-luck events that had left them destitute.
“This damned economy.” Back in the truck after the visit, Noah pounded his fist on the steering wheel. “When will this recession end?”
Monica remained silent, a thoughtful frown furrowing her brow.
They made one more stop, again staying for coffee.
Truck empty and produce gone, they headed home.
Monica stared out the passenger window at the passing scenery.
Noah hoped she’d learned a few good lessons today.
As though she sensed his regard, she met his gaze. “You’re doing this all wrong.”
He choked on his saliva. When he finished coughing, he stared at her. “Wrong? What the hell are you talking about?” Honest to God, he was a peace-loving guy, but she made his blood boil.
Frowning, she admonished, “Watch your language.”
He ignored that, dealing instead with the salient points. “I feed the hungry. I work my fingers to the bone to help the poor. I wear cheap clothes, not designer duds.” His disgusted glance raked her body.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” she said, calm despite his raised voice. “It isn’t safe to look at your passenger while you’re driving.”
“Says Ms. DWAI. Oh, pardon me, Ms. Wet Reckless.”
She pressed her hand against her stomach. “That’s a low blow. I told you I’ve never done it before and I never will again.”
“I don’t care. Why did you say I’m doing this all wrong? What, in your not-so-humble opinion, am I not doing right?”
“First of all, we shouldn’t have had coffee at those houses.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, I’m wired on caffeine, but I don’t want to hurt their feelings by saying no.”
“I don’t mean that.” She flipped hair out of her face with an impatient hand. “Coffee and tea are expensive. If they can’t afford vegetables, they certainly can’t afford to replace whatever meager supplies of coffee they might have. We’re robbing them of a treat for themselves.”
He hadn’t thought of that. She was right. Both were expensive commodities. Suddenly he got a terrible feeling maybe they kept them on hand just for his visits.
“Also...”
“There’s more I’m doing wrong?” He didn’t bother to quell the sarcasm in his voice. He didn’t believe in sarcasm, liked to deal with people honestly, but she’d just blown his decency out of the water. Doing it all wrong, my ass.
“You shouldn’t deliver the groceries to them—”
“Some families are too embarrassed to drive into Denver to the food bank, not to mention using gas.”
“I can imagine. I would be, too. What I meant to say, before you interrupted me so rudely, was that you shouldn’t deliver the groceries when they’re home. Deliver them when they’re sleeping or when they’re at work or church or something.”
She’d snagged his curiosity. “Why?”
“Those visits were brutally difficult. All of that awkward small talk. We’re not meeting them as equals. It’s not a social visit. They were chagrined that we were there delivering charity to them.”
“So?”
“So-o-o...” She exaggerated the word, as though speaking to a child. The woman knew how to get his dander up. “If the visits are hard for us, imagine how hard they are for them. If you’re delivering food once every week or two, then you’re drinking their coffee and embarrassing them on a regular basis.”
Even though it hurt his pride, he admitted she was making sense.
“Plus,” she said with such emphasis he grew wary, “you’re not doing enough.”
“What?” She’d poleaxed him again. Swear words bounced around inside his head like pinballs. “Are you kidding me? How can you say that? I work from dawn ’til midnight every day. I’m doing all I can.”
“I know you work hard.” She patted his arm.
“Don’t condescend to me.” He sounded fierce.
“Sorry. I hate when people do that to me. I won’t do it again.”