From Humbug To Holiday Bride. Zena Valentine
he was deeply grateful that she hadn’t wanted to give up and die as her friend Deborah feared, but was determined to make herself whole again. Maybe she could do it. Maybe she could make a liar out of her physician. He willed with all his heart and spirit that she was right.
He felt her frustration and her anger. And her defiance.
He also felt the softness of her breasts beneath the back of his hand as she clutched it hard against her. It was an unconscious gesture on her part, he knew, a matter of hanging on to whatever support was available, of gleaning strength and some tiny measure of comfort from the only source offered.
Still, it had been a long time since he’d felt the softness of a woman’s body, and for a fleeting moment Hamish was aware that he missed the intimacy, and he thought perhaps it was time to open himself to the possibility of finding another wife. In recent months, there had certainly been enough hints from his friends in the congregation that he should be thinking of remarriage.
He would only marry for love, though, in spite of his circumstances, and he dreaded the thought of all the rituals and uncertainties involved in meeting and dating. He still couldn’t imagine being married to anyone but Maralynn, although she had been dead for two years now, and their daughters seemed barely to remember her.
His attention was stirred by the woman on the bed when she released his hand, and reached up to grip the bar. He thought that she was going to try to pull herself up as muscles flexed in her arm, but she abruptly lowered her hand again.
“You can go now,” she announced in her husky whisper, looking up at the ceiling.
“I thought you’d say that,” Hamish replied, letting his elbows rest on his thighs so his hands hung between his knees.
“Your job is done here.”
“You think so?” he asked mildly.
She studied him with eyes narrowed in wariness. “Definitely.”
He couldn’t leave. Nor could he explain the curious compulsion to linger where he wasn’t welcome. “I think I’ll stay awhile.”
“I don’t want visitors.”
“I know.”
Not only wasn’t he inclined to leave, but he actually felt comfortable sitting with this intriguing shrew of a woman.
“I’ll have you removed,” she said.
“Go ahead.”
But she didn’t.
“I don’t know you.” She was frowning now, her eyelids heavy with fatigue.
“That’s changing, though, isn’t it? Even as unpleasant as you are,” he quipped.
“Rude, Preacher. The word is rude,” she corrected, still studying him. “Doesn’t seem to work on you, does it?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, grinning. “If you want me to be impressed that life has been unfair to you, I am. If you want me to pray for your recovery, well, know that I will. If you want to be sure that I know how bitter you are, then rest assured you have persuaded me easily enough.”
She shook her head slightly and almost returned his grin. “You sure you’re a holy man?”
“I don’t think of myself as a holy man and I don’t recall the term in my job description,” he said. “I’m just a man who happens to be employed as a pastor.”
“Where’s your collar?”
“In our church, a pastor isn’t required to wear a collar except during services,” he explained. “They all know who I am, that I serve them, that they hired me and can fire me. There are some in my congregation, in fact, who think I should be replaced.”
She was quiet for several seconds, then asked, “Why?”
“I’m a bargain turned sour,” he said lightly. He certainly hadn’t intended to talk about himself, but he saw that she was interested and thought maybe it wouldn’t hurt to draw attention away from herself for a while.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“They hired my wife and me as a team. Two for the price of one, so to speak. Then we had two children, Emma and Annie, and Maralynn wasn’t able to spend as much time as she originally did on church matters. Soon after, she became ill with a serious heart condition, and we required a housekeeper to help out at an additional expense. Maralynn died two years ago, and now there is only one of us to serve the congregation.” He smiled to encourage the skepticism on her face. “Most of the congregation accepts the circumstances and seems inclined to let things ride, so, you see, I’m not in imminent danger of being discharged.”
“Sorry about your wife,” she said. “But you’re pulling my leg about the rest.”
He laughed without mirth at her directness. “It’s a business proposition, hiring a pastor,” he resumed. “They hired me under advantageous circumstances that are no longer advantageous for them. Why shouldn’t they be concerned that they’re paying for more than they’re getting? They would have a better bargain by replacing me with a married couple.”
“What would you do if that happens?”
“Find another position most likely,” he replied.
“Is that difficult?”
“I don’t know. This is my first position as pastor and I’ve had it for six years. I have no idea what the job market is like.”
“Why aren’t you investigating it? You should prepare for your future.” Her whispery voice was fading.
“If it comes to that, then I will,” he said, shrugging. It wasn’t that he wanted to downplay Maralynn’s tragic death or the vague element of truth in his declaration about his job security. Both were serious issues that affected his and his family’s lives. Still, he had learned to live without Maralynn, and he knew most people in his congregation appreciated him. Hadn’t the board hired him a part-time assistant when Annie was born? And hadn’t they elected to keep Medford Bantz on staff? He could afford to shrug off her concern, although, oddly, it touched him.
“You have one other option,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Get another wife.”
“Marry again? Funny…I’ve been thinking along those same lines.”
“Well, that should be easy for you…what’s your name again?”
Hamish had to remind himself that humility was a virtue. “Hamish Chandler,” he replied.
“Hmm, that’s no name for a pastor.” While he tried to think of how to reply, she continued. “You’re a regular guy, Hamish. You’re the first regular-guy holy man I ever met,” she said, her eyes flickering with what he recognized as fatigue. “But don’t come back, okay? I don’t want any visitors,” she added, barely audible, her eyes closed. “And I don’t tolerate praying.”
Before he realized what he was doing, he had clasped his big hand over her small one and squeezed. “We’ll see,” he said. “Maybe I won’t be able to stay away. I’ve always enjoyed a good time.”
He left his card with his home phone number written in pen and only later asked himself why. Obviously, she would simply discard it.
Hamish was barely out of the car when his two girls came flying across the lawn and threw themselves against him, six-year-old Emma hitting him first because she was older and had longer legs, three-year-old Annie close behind, both of them pressing their faces to his middle and holding on with small arms and dirty hands.
Emma was the first to pull away, her brown hair a windblown frizz of tangles, her thin, delicate face sweetly marred by smudges, her deep brown eyes wide with excitement. “We