Waiting Out the Storm. Ruth Herne Logan
stabbed her. The look of Rita upstairs, clutching her pillow instead of her faith, seeking total solace. What would be more complete than to end it all, like Tom did? Unsure what to do, Sarah pushed down the frustration, made heavier by the events of the day. Gino’s painful confrontation with a sharp-quilled beast, Craig Macklin’s disdain and Rita’s loss of control.
Shoving it all aside, Sarah drew a deep breath and mustered a smile. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat.”
Chapter Three
The ginormous “Welcome to Doyletown” banner waved in the early spring breeze as Craig angled his SUV into a parking spot at the elementary school. Deceased for nearly a decade, Myra Doyle had created the Doyletown concept when Craig was a boy, and the Potsdam district continued the event in her honor. Children picked a pretend identity and profession, then approached a similar local professional to spend the day and talk about their work. Honored to be chosen by his nephew Kyle, Craig blinked back nostalgia as he approached the entrance.
He remembered his Doyletowns like they were yesterday, and having Kyle request his presence today? Sweet.
He walked into the huge gymnasium and paused, taking in the spectacle of cardboard and balsa wood storefronts, the smell of kid paint and craft glue tunneling him back.
He grinned, caught Kyle’s eye, waved and threaded his way through various exhibits. “Uncle Craig!”
“I’m here, bud.” Craig noogied the boy’s head, laughed at the expected reaction, turned and looked straight into the chocolate-brown eyes of Sarah Slocum.
A waif of a girl clutched Sarah’s fingers. The child eyed Craig, wary, and slid further into Sarah’s side. Her actions went beyond normal shyness, her gaze almost furtive, as if she’d rather be any other place in the world.
“I’ve assigned groups,” the classroom teacher called out, drawing their collective attention. “Our class will do morning exhibit tours first, followed by lunch in the cafeteria, then professional presentations from our invited guests, then play time.”
Talking briskly, she announced each group followed by six names. Kyle Macklin was followed in quick succession by Braden Lassiter, Glynna McGinnis, Jacob Wyatt, Carly Arend and Aleta Slocum.
Kyle groaned. “Not her. She smells.”
“Kyle,” Craig scolded, embarrassed. He turned, wishing he didn’t have to, knowing he had no choice. “Apologize. Now.”
Sarah’s expression appraised him, one hand cradling the girl’s dank hair, cuddling her, trying to assuage the hurt. “Sorry.”
Craig cringed inside. The sad awareness on the little girl’s face broke his heart, regardless of her last name. Determined, he stepped forward and thrust out a hand, wishing he could undo the last three minutes. But if he possessed those powers he’d have hit reverse a long time ago and erased the adolescently stupid financial advice he’d given his grandfather a decade back. Maybe then…
Craig bit back a large ball of angst. There were no do-overs, unfortunately. Not in real life. The best he could do was set a better example for his nephew. He bent to the child’s level. “Nice to meet you, Aleta.”
She shrank back.
Determined, he stood and met Sarah’s gaze. “Sarah.”
“Dr. Macklin.” Cool disdain colored her tone and Craig realized it looked like the apple didn’t fall very far from the family tree, an assessment that bore some accuracy at the moment. Kyle grabbed his hand and tugged.
“It’s almost our turn.”
Chagrined, Craig dropped his gaze. “Kyle, you’re being rude.”
The boy’s face crumpled, but Craig refused to cave. No time like the present to offer a show of good manners. He turned back toward Sarah. “Are you presenting today?”
“Yes.”
“About?”
“Farming.”
Duh.
She offered no help in the conversational court, but he deserved that. And more, no doubt. “Bring any sheep?” He swept the room a searching glance.
A ghost of a smile softened seal-brown eyes, the irises dusk-tinged. No hints of ivory or gold softened the deep tone, but the hinted smile brightened the depths from within.
Tiny laugh lines crinkled, then smoothed as she regained control. “I did.”
Craig let his arched brow note their absence, then he bent low, catching Aleta’s eye. “Do you see any sheep?”
A tiny grin eased the earlier discomfort. “No.”
Craig slanted his gaze up to Sarah. “I think Bo Peep here has got herself a little bitty problem.”
Aleta giggled. The laugh offered a glimpse of the pretty little girl hidden beneath a rumpled surface.
Sarah’s expression softened, noting the girl’s more relaxed countenance, but when she turned his way, her look flattened. “Live exhibits are penned out back.”
“Ah.”
The teacher’s direction interrupted them and for the better part of an hour, Craig found himself on one side of the tour group while Sarah and her niece were on the other. Intentional on her part?
Most assuredly. Somehow he knew Sarah could command a situation as needed. Like any good strategist, she flanked the outer edges, skirting the perimeter, maintaining her distance.
Until lunchtime seating put them side by side.
Resigned, she stared at the small placard as if willing it to read something besides his name.
No such luck.
Craig pulled out her chair for her.
Her immediate reaction was half dismay, half surprise with a sprinkling of pleasure.
A very small sprinkling.
But it was a step in the right direction. After all, this young woman wasn’t responsible for Grams’ current circumstance, despite Sarah’s family ties. And the fact that Tom’s little girl sat alongside them, her innocent face shadowed by affairs beyond her control, piqued Craig’s protective instincts.
“The wolf will live with the lamb, and a little child will lead them…” Snips of Isaiah’s verse nudged Craig’s conscience. No doubt he’d remember them better if he got to church more regularly, but on-call weekends interfered with all kinds of things, including church attendance. Hadn’t his mother tweaked him about that very thing last week?
Aleta eyed the box lunch offered as part of the day’s program. An instant frown morphed to a practiced pout. “I don’t like this, Aunt Sarah.”
“You don’t even know what it is, Skeets,” Sarah replied.
“I only like peanut butter and jelly and apple pancakes,” Aleta whined.
“Have you looked in your box?”
“No.”
“You might be surprised,” Sarah noted. Opening hers, she pulled out a chicken salad sandwich. The little girl pretended to gag.
Sarah frowned. “Open your box and see what you have, please.”
“PBJ” marked the top of Aleta’s box, but Craig appreciated Sarah’s attempt to encourage the child’s independence. Scowling, she lifted the lid and peered inside. “Peanut butter and jelly!”
“Yes.” Sarah pointed to the box top. “Those initials mean peanut butter and jelly.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Aleta demanded.
Zing. Craig’s protective instincts rose, surprising him. Why in the name of all that’s