Monday Morning Faith (5 page)

It took a few minutes, but I located the material. “Here it is!” I waved the prize.

He moved in closer to look and we smacked heads. Sitting up straight, I saw stars for a few seconds. I rubbed the smarting wound, grinning like an idiot. He was so close I could smell his aftershave, and I assumed I looked as startled as he did. What
was
that heady fragrance he was wearing?

We held the awkward position for a full minute, staring eyeball-to-eyeball. We'd still have been there at closing time if Nelda hadn't turned the corner and slid to a halt.

“Well, well, what have we here?”

I jerked upright, still on my knees. “We're looking for a title.”

The words came out in a guilty stream:
We'relookingforatitle.

She smirked. “Is that what you call it?”

It's a good thing I wasn't on my feet. I might have slugged her. She wiggled her eyebrows — her imitation of Groucho Marx — and walked on. Judging from the wink she gave me, my face must have been a flaming cherry.

Sam got to his feet and helped me up. I accepted his hand; he met my self-conscious expression. “Got time for a cup of coffee?”

I thought of Nelda and her smirk … and realized I didn't care what she thought. A pox on them all! If I wanted a cup of coffee, I'd have one. “Make that green tea and you have a deal.”

“Just let me check out this book.”

“I can take care of that.” He followed me to the desk and I did the work, then walked around the counter. He tucked the book under one arm, linked the other through mine, and winked. “Shall we go, my lady?”

“After you, sir.” I knew Nelda's eyes were falling out of her sockets but I didn't care. A cup of tea.

Big deal.

We swept through the doorway and I didn't look back to see if Nelda's mouth was gaping (it would be). She'd demand to know everything we discussed, and I thought maybe I'd tell her and maybe I wouldn't. It's a wonder the woman's beak wasn't worn off, the way she stuck it in everyone's business.

But I loved her anyway.

Coffee shop business was slow at this hour. The waitress - — different girl from last visit, same reaction to Sam — -waltzed to our table.

My voice was cold as crushed ice. “Hot green tea, please.”

She looked at me.

“And he'll have coffee. Black.”

She nodded and stuck her order pad in her apron pocket. When she walked away Sam grinned. “I like a decisive woman.”

Decisive.

Or big-mouthed?

Ill-mannered seemed more appropriate. My mother did not approve of bad behavior. Shame crept over me. Being so assertive wasn't like me. Sam Littleton brought out an alien side of me — one I wasn't sure I liked.

We lingered over the drinks. Sam leaned across the table and I couldn't pull my eyes off him. He was mesmerizing. “Johanna, I'd like to take you to dinner some night this week. Would you allow me?”

I gulped. Dinner? With him? “Oh, I don't know,” I sputtered, almost rejecting the notion. A cup of tea was innocent enough, but an actual dinner date? Far more intimidating.

He gripped my hand in a firm clasp, as if afraid I'd bolt. His touch was warm and calming. “We'll make it an early evening so you can get home to your parents. We can eat here, if you like. There appears to be a good selection of soup and sandwiches.”

Excuses formed in my head. I couldn't be gone from Mom and Pop …

Didn't hold water. I left Mom and Pop alone every day.

How about I was coming down with a cold?

Nope. Wouldn't fly. I was healthy as a horse and looked it.

Previous commitments? Nah, he'd see through the excuse. Aunt Margaret was my only commitment other than Mom and Pop.

Feet hurt.

Iron-poor blood.

I tried a few others, then decided to go for it. I was forty years old, not a juvenile with a curfew. I could handle a dinner in a bright coffee shop with a very nice library patron. When I looked in his eyes and saw the sincerity, the likability, I knew I was going to accept.

“Thursday night this week would be fine.” That still gave me time to come up with an excuse if I decided to back out.

“Thursday it is. What time do you get off work?”

“Five thirty.”

“I'll be waiting in the outer hallway.” He nodded, placing my hand back down on the table. “I'm looking forward to it.”

To tell the truth, so was I. A thrill — an adolescent thrill — shot clean to my toes.
Sam wants to have dinner with me. In the library coffee shop.

So, okay, I caved. Gave in to an impulse I knew I'd regret.

Again, I didn't care.

Then I made my first serious mistake. “What are you looking for? Maybe I could help?”

He took out a pen and jotted the information on a napkin. “I appreciate this, Johanna. Seems I can't learn enough about the subject.”

What had I gotten myself into? The list would take personal time, but I wasn't here for decoration. My job was to assist patrons whenever I could.

“I'm sure I can find additional helpful information.”

“I'd appreciate anything you come up with. There's so much I don't know. A lot of it will come by experience, but I like to be prepared.”

I could understand that. I liked attentiveness, and organization was my middle name. He walked me back to the library a bit later. The encounter had been pleasant — even more than I expected. Sam was a wonderful conversationalist, and despite my apprehension we had managed to find common topics of interest. He liked my personal favorites, old movies and hot chocolate chip cookies; I shared his love of books and learning.

Nelda was working the checkout desk when I sailed through the arched doorway. “Well, look who's back. Thought you'd gone home for the day.”

“Without my coat and purse?” I tsked. She was dying for information, but for some reason I didn't want to share the past hour. Not yet. Besides, what was there to tell about a cup of tea?

“Notice you left with Sam.” She leaned on the counter, white teeth flashing. “Have a good time?”

“Very interesting person.” I marched past her into the office. She followed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as Pop liked to say. All ears. Tongue hanging out.

Well, not really. But as eager as she was, it could have been.

She loomed over my desk. “What were the two of you doing crawling on the floor?”

I thought about telling her we were practicing an aboriginal New Guinean dating ritual but then thought,
Nah, she' d believe me.

“We were looking for a book.”

“Humph. I figured you were looking for a contact, but if that's your story, you stick to it.”

“That's my story.” And she didn't need to know about the dinner date on Thursday, even though I figured it would consist of research talk in the coffee shop. That's why Sam Littleton asked me out. He wanted unlimited access to material, and I held the key to success.

I didn't care. Sam was a great conversationalist. I liked him. I'd enjoy his company while he was here and then, when it came time for him to leave, I'd wave good-bye, grateful for the opportunity I'd had to know him.

“Hey.” Nelda paused in the doorway. “I saw this great pair of heels today — spiky, strappy, outrageous, and overpriced. Want to go try them on before you head home?”

“Sure.” Not that I would buy them; I generally wore flat heels. But looking was fun, and I could always use a new blouse.

“You're on.” She left, and I got my coat and purse and followed on her heel. A good shopping trip was just what I needed to get my mind off Sam … er … my work.

THREE

E
ven a new blouse failed to lift my spirits. My zip had zapped. Thursday arrived, and I was a train wreck!

I'd both dreaded and anticipated the dinner date with Sam. A small part of me still wanted to call him and cancel. Had I lost my mind? Why was I bothering to go to all the trouble to have a manicure, my hair styled by a professional, and, lo and behold, Nelda would not
believe
(if she knew) the
I'm-Not-Really-a-Waitress
red crowning the tips of my pedi-cured toenails. I'd blown more money in the past two hours in preparation for this date than I had spent on clothing in the past six months.

Of course, I wasn't interested in Sam, like romance-novel interested, but I liked him. Maybe too much. I hadn't much practice in matters of the heart, and I wasn't sure if Sam was interested in me as a person or a research source. What if the latter were true, and he was just giving the old-maid librarian a thrill by asking her out to dinner?

The thought sent my blood pressure soaring. Throwing me a bone the way you would a hungry dog, was he? I'd call him right now and cancel, that rotten —

My practical side stopped me. Sam had been every inch the gentleman. He hadn't requested my personal services;
I
had volunteered them. He appeared to enjoy my company, and I enjoyed his. He was a single man; I provided a little company. Yet I couldn't keep my eyes off the clock. I stepped to the window twice to check the weather. Still raining.

Library business was brisk all morning. I kept busy with paperwork. A new shipment of books arrived and had to be processed. Nelda stopped by my desk, hands full of magazines she'd culled from the shelves.

“Want to go to the Burger Barn for lunch? They've got killer salads.”

“Salads? We're dieting today?”

She sighed. “I couldn't button the top of my slacks this morning. South Beach, Atkins, high fat, low fat, you name it. I've tried them all. Nothing works.”

“Hmmm. Tried them all? No cheating?”

She stiffened. “I'm not saying I've been perfect. I had to cheat to survive. Name me the person who can live on what those diet books allow you to eat. Do you know a serving is considered a half cup? Let's see you eat a half cup of mashed potatoes and gravy.”

“What kind of diet allows you to have mashed potatoes and gravy?”

“The Nelda Thomas Diet. I'm thinking of marketing it.”

“I'll buy the first copy. Okay, Burger Barn it is.” I shoved back from the desk and stretched my neck and back. We left the library and took Nelda's car to lunch. The Barn was packed, but we got a waitress's attention.

“Hey, how you all doing today?” Our regular waitress, Sally, grinned at us.

Nelda perused the menu. “Starved, girl. What's good today?”

“The loaded potato soup. Hey! Have I told you I'm leaving?” she asked.

I glanced up. I hoped not before she took our order. “You're quitting?”

“Leaving. My husband and I are going to Kenya. To be missionaries! We've talked about it for years, and we finally made up our minds to go.”

Missionaries. I stared at the woman, trying to decide if she was serious. All of a sudden there seemed to be an epidemic of zealots.

Nelda closed the menu. “When are you leaving?”

“Next week. At first it seemed to take forever to get everything done, but now it's all falling into place. You know, I thought I'd be scared, but I'm not; I'm looking forward to going. If this is what God wants me to do, I'm ready.”

How confident she sounded. Was I ever that certain about anything?

Sally took our orders and left. Nelda and I eyed each other.

“Kenya,” she repeated. “I'd like to visit there someday, but not live there. What gets into people?”

I rearranged the saltshaker a few inches to the right. What indeed — and why the sudden rash of callings? A pang of resentment — or was it guilt? — hit me. Why wasn't I as fired up about God as others seemed to be? Sure, there were times when I sensed something was missing in my spiritual life — when I wanted to be more spiritually tuned in — but somehow I didn't have the hunger the pastor spoke about last Sunday. That limitless drive.

I shook my head. “I don't get these people who leave everything and travel halfway around the world in order to serve God. Can't they find anything here to fulfill their spiritual quest?” Poverty. Injustice. The downtrodden were everywhere you looked. “I bet Sally will be ready to come home after the first week.”