Walls of Jericho. Lynn Bulock
of the space in the Sunday School building, so I wouldn’t even have to take up much room here.”
“Much room? We don’t have any room to run a thrift shop out of the house.”
There was that forehead wrinkle again.
“It’s not a thrift shop. I keep trying to tell you that. It’s a community service. And we wouldn’t do anything but sort a few things here, anyway.”
Ah, Claire and her enthusiasm. “Please, define a few of those terms. Like who ‘we’ would be, and what kind of ‘few things’ you would be sorting, whoever you are.”
She sighed. It was really more of a snort of impatience, but if he pointed that out she’d offer to deck him. Claire saw herself as more genteel than sixteen years of life with the guys had made her.
“I don’t know who everybody will be yet. Whoever else decides that this is the project of their hearts, I guess. And we’d sort things here until we got them in some sort of shape to take to church. And when I say here, I really mean Dad’s apartment. It’s vacant, and nobody needs it for anything.”
“So nice of you to consult me before deciding that.” Now Ben knew he was the one who sounded sharp.
“Well? Do you need it for anything?” Claire challenged.
“I might.” That sounded like the boys arguing. Maybe even less mature. “I guess it would have been nice to be asked before you made up your mind on all this. You didn’t tell them at church that you’d do it, did you?”
There was that snort again.
“I most certainly did not. Am I usually that impulsive?”
Ben shrugged. “Where good works are concerned, I have to say yes, sometimes you are.”
“Not on anything this big. This is a project that won’t be over in six weeks. Just setting it up will take that long or longer. And then whoever commits to leading the group will probably have to commit a year or more to the leadership.”
Ben whistled. “A year? As in twelve months, volunteer, just out of the goodness of your heart?”
“A year. Not full time or anything. Some weeks it would be only a few hours, some more like fifteen or twenty, depending on what stage of things we’re in. And yes, it would be all volunteer. This is a service, a ministry.” Her brow wrinkled again. “Besides, it’s not like anybody’s paying me now to do anything.”
“That’s true. But I thought that was the way you wanted things. The way we both wanted things.” This conversation was changing his whole opinion of his wife.
“It was. And it still is, for the most part. But I believe I can do this. More than that, I want to do this. It sounds like a really good fit for me. I just told Laurel to pray for change. I’m ready for a little change in my life.”
Great. So now this crazy scheme was the answer to a prayer. “So now if I protest I’m keeping you from doing what God wants you to.”
Claire bristled. “I didn’t say that. Is there something else you’d rather see me doing?” She looked so determined. And so appealing, eyes sparkling, lips in a decisive pout.
“Not really. It just seems like they’re taking advantage of your good nature in a big way. I mean, I wouldn’t volunteer to take on a project like this for anything. It would be stupid.”
Her mouth compressed. “Well, maybe that’s just the difference between us, then. I won’t make a decision tonight, anyway. I need to think on it, pray on it.”
“And sleep on it?” Ben tried not to sound suggestive. Claire knew how he felt, anyway. He was as hopeless in his admiration of her as he had been fifteen years ago. Why was he arguing against this crazy scheme? It would probably keep her from being interested in any changes he made at work in the near future. And that would be a very good thing.
“And sleep on it.” Funny, it sounded different when she said it. Like she actually intended to sleep. Ben tried not to sigh or look too wishful. That would just get her more stirred up than she already was.
On Wednesday morning Claire was still thinking and planning. She hadn’t given anybody an answer at church on whether she’d take over The Caring Closet, but she was pretty sure she would. It sounded like a lot of work, but interesting work.
In the long run it would be a project that helped so many people. Women who needed a way to improve their lives, and the lives of their children, would get help in a positive, encouraging way. And at the same time, a lot of people who had closets full of clothes they weren’t using could feel good about clearing those things out.
Claire thought about her own closet. There were several outfits that would be going to this ministry, whether she headed it up or not. That blue blazer she hadn’t worn since she stopped being president of the PTA. And there was that wool dress with the pleated skirt. Ben liked it on her, but she always felt like it made her hips look too wide. Besides, it was wool and it itched. She always felt like fidgeting or running her finger around the inside of her collar about halfway through Sunday School. Since she was always admonishing the boys not to wiggle, she couldn’t very well do the same thing.
She decided to get two things done at once: go through the closets for discards for church, and get a load of laundry done.
She thought best while doing things like that, anyway. Those dozens of little mindless tasks that had to be done around the house kept her hands busy, but not her mind. She could weigh the decision in front of her while she sorted laundry and matched socks.
Her side of the closet was easy. None of her dirty clothes ever got waylaid on the way to the hamper. She found the two things she wanted to set aside and laid them on the bed, then looked around the room.
There weren’t many of Ben’s clothes strewn around, for a change. If she had a nickel for every stray sock she’d picked up in sixteen years, she could probably buy a new washer. One pair of khakis was draped over the chair where he’d left them. Claire picked up the pants, looking them over for odd stains or rips. Ben was as hard on his clothes as were the boys.
The khakis seemed to be in one piece, and there were no obvious ugly stains like machine oil or paint or the other stuff he got into at the hardware store and then forgot to tell her about. Washing clothes was often an adventure around here.
As she put the pants over her arm to take to the basket in the hallway, Claire heard a rustle. She reached into the front pockets, checking for whatever Ben had left in there. There was a piece of paper, folded in quarters. It was nice business letterhead. There was a matching business card folded into the paper. Claire read it, wondering what it was all about. Going to the nightstand, she dialed the phone. Surprisingly enough, Ben answered himself.
“Hey. It’s me.” She balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear. “I’m doing laundry, and I found some papers in your pocket. Who’s Marcy McKinnon?”
“You remember her. From high school. Except she was Marcy Farley then.”
“Oh.” Marcy Farley McKinnon had been the prettiest blond cheerleader at Friedens High when Ben was a senior. She was the one people had always said Ben should have been dating instead of mousy, scholarly sophomore Claire Collins. Even Claire knew folks said that behind her back.
“Has she moved back to town, then?”
“No, still living in St. Louis. But she was my business appointment the other morning, when you ended up taking Laurel and Jeremy to the airport.”
“Oh.” She sounded like a broken record, but she felt stunned. “What kind of business were you discussing with Marcy McKinnon?”
There was a long pause on Ben’s end of the line. She could hear somebody ringing up a sale on the cash register, then the rattle of plastic bags as a purchase was handed over. It seemed like forever, and he still hadn’t answered.
Finally he cleared his