Immediately she was accosted by numerous people. “Welcome, Charlotte. We’re so glad you could come today,” and, “Janice told us you’d be coming. Would you like me to show you around?” plus her favorite from a young man: “Gee, I didn’t know romance authors went to church.” By the fifth person, this notoriety was wearing thin. She just wanted to sit down and become anonymous.
Finally battling her way through the crowd, she found a spot in a side pew about halfway back. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Janice on the other side of the church and waved discreetly. She could see a couple of elderly women in front look at her furtively then whisper to each other.
She was saved when a piano and guitar began playing instrumental music, focusing everyone on the front rather than on her. She bowed her head and prayed that they would all be able to worship instead of check each other out. Just when she was feeling that her heart was prepared, the minister stood up to make announcements and she lost her focus. He was about average height, had a deep, strong voice and dark brown eyes that sparkled with excitement. Most people would call him nice looking, but Charlotte thought he was beautiful. She couldn’t help staring at him. After a few minutes, she reined in her wild imaginings and remembered why she was in church. These kinds of mental images couldn’t be good. He gave a good sermon about living as if the invisible kingdom were visible. She liked it a lot.
When church was over, she once again was surrounded by a small fan club, but the minister paid no attention whatsoever to her, which was just as well. Janice left her parents and sister and moseyed her way over to Charlotte. “Well, what do you think?”
“It was great. Even better than I expected. I think I’ve found a church home.”
Janice then leaned in and whispered, “What did you think of Pastor Gordon?”
Charlotte blushed, which annoyed her no end. “I liked his sermon very much.”
“He’s a great teacher,” Janice agreed. “And he’s single, but don’t get any ideas. He’s a confirmed bachelor. Many women around town have already tried.”
Her words made Charlotte almost choke. She had to get out of there. The last thing she wanted was to be seen as the romance writer who was after the pastor. She would avoid the man at all costs. After saying her goodbyes, she escaped out the front doors and almost ran home. She didn’t even wave to Mrs. Bartholomew, who was just arriving home frustrated because everyone at her church already knew about Charlotte.
CHAPTER Three
Pastor Gordon McCrae pulled off his tie and collapsed into his easy chair. He turned on a baseball game and put his feet up. After Sunday morning, he usually popped a dinner in the microwave and fell asleep in his chair, but today his mind wouldn’t stop. He’d been invited over to the Johnsons’ house for Sunday dinner, a frequent event since he was single. Many of his parishioners felt sorry for him and fed him often. They constantly tried to set him up with one of the local girls, or a distant cousin who was visiting from another state, but he fended off their attempts gallantly. In spite of their insistence, he liked being single. He liked being able to come home after church and turn the ball game on, come and go when he pleased, and have plenty of time to study. As attractive as the opposite sex was, the whole prospect of a relationship scared him. Mostly women talked a lot more than he was willing to listen, and the emotions they displayed in his counseling office made him feel like running and hiding. No, he didn’t care how cute the prospects were, he’d rather stay as he was.
But today Charlotte Fyne had showed up in his church. He knew she was coming to town, of course; someone as different as a romance writer coming to Crispens Point would set the tongues wagging for weeks. He’d heard the rumors along with everyone else, but thought he’d be able to avoid her like the plague until he saw her sitting in the side pew. He knew it was her right away, even before all the whispers swirling around him confirmed it. The rumors were that Charlotte was pretty. He’d heard Mrs. Folsom, the realtor, say that she had a dark complexion and hazel eyes, was rather on the small side, and had a habit of twirling her auburn hair with her finger when she was nervous. That’s what had given her away when he glanced at her. She was twirling her hair like crazy.
Normally such an observation would have caused him to chuckle, but wouldn’t catch his attention in any other way. But there was something about Charlotte. After that first glance, he consciously looked away from her. Even when he looked toward that side of his congregation, he purposely fixed his gaze toward the back row so that he wouldn’t see her. He noticed her briefly as she slipped out of the church when it was over. She avoided him as actively as he avoided her, which annoyed him for some reason that he couldn’t explain.
And here he was, sitting in his arm chair, thinking about her again. He particularly liked the way her nose turned up at the end, making her look like she was an imp about to get into all sorts of trouble. As soon as that thought went through his mind, it sobered him up. She was a romance writer, for heaven’s sake. He’d given whole sermons about how romance was out of control in society, and about the need to look at each other through God’s eyes rather than our ridiculous notions about knights in shining armor or beautiful princesses about to emerge from the crowd. He’d never read a romance, nor would he consider it. He could hardly stand to sit through a movie where someone kissed somebody. In fact, he’d given a few sermons about that too. Well, there was just one thing to do. Avoid being near that woman as if she had leprosy.
Just as he was getting his thoughts under control by concentrating on the baseball game, the phone rang. It was Mrs. Donahue. “Pastor, I’m sorry to bother you,”—Gordon noticed that everyone said that when they knew perfectly well that they were bothering him and weren’t sorry a bit—“but I’m planning on having some people over for dinner this Friday night. Would you like to come?”
“Sure, Mrs. Donahue, you’re the best cook in town. Would you like me to bring something?”
“Oh no, just yourself. We’ll see you around six o’clock then.”
Gordon hung up the phone with a smile on his face. Mrs. Donahue was like a mother to him and her husband made a great ping pong companion. No one knew from week to week who would win since they were so evenly matched. He relaxed at their house more than any other place.
As soon as she hung up the phone with Pastor Gordon, Mrs. Donahue dialed Charlotte. “Hello, this is Mrs. Donahue. I met you at church this morning. My son was the goofy one that said he didn’t know romance writers went to church.”
“Oh yes, I remember you.” Charlotte smiled as she recollected the boy’s face. She’d liked the woman very much.
“Oh good, I was hoping you would. I was wondering if you would like to come over for dinner this Friday night. We’re having a few people over from church.”
“That sounds lovely. What can I bring?”
“Not a thing.”
“Are you sure? I make a really nice seven layer salad.”
“Okay, if you’d like to bring that, it would be perfect with lasagna. Will six o’clock work for you?”
“That would be fine. Where do you live?”
“Just around the corner from you on Lyon Street, number two fifty-four.”
“Great. See you then.”
Charlotte got off the phone and sat back down at her laptop where she’d been typing furiously. The call was good for her. She’d been losing herself in an imaginary world since she’d gotten home from church. It had forced Pastor Gordon’s brown eyes out of her memory and had given her all sorts of energy to write. Her editor would be thrilled. At this rate, she’d finish before her deadline. But the call reminded her of the real world she lived in and renewed her desire to get to know the people of her new church.
In the meantime, Mrs. Donahue called Janice, since she knew her to be a friend of Charlotte’s, and the Colton family, who had a boy the same age as her son, Mort. After inviting them all, she turned to her husband. “What did you think of Charlotte today?”
&nb
sp; “Can’t really say. Just met her for a minute.” He was annoyed when his wife asked him questions like that. He mostly wanted to get back to the Western he was reading.
She ignored his obvious attempt to shut her out. “What about her and Gordon? What do you think?”
He jerked his head up, “Now Martha. Don’t get any ideas. Gordon’s a big boy and can take care of himself.”
“Well, he’s not doing a very good job at it so far. He’s been here for three years and he hasn’t found anyone. I think he needs my help.”
“Absolutely not. If I hear a word about you pushing those two together, I’ll throw a fit. I mean it.”
She smiled to herself as she turned away. She knew in spite of his threats that he’d not say a thing. He was the mellowest husband this side of the Mississippi, and she loved him for it. She really did feel a responsibility to take care of Gordon. All her own kids were married except for Mort, who wouldn’t be old enough to think of such things for years. Ever since Gordon had come, she’d paired him off with different women in her mind, but nothing had come of it. She knew there wasn’t much she could do other than create an environment for something to happen, so Friday night was a good start.
CHAPTER Four
After the phone call, Charlotte looked out her front window and noticed Mrs. Bartholomew working in her garden. She felt a sudden compulsion to go help her. The woman looked lonely. She put on her old shoes and dug out some worn gloves and went across the street to join her.
Custer ran up to her as soon as she set foot in the yard, meowing a greeting, or maybe a warning; Charlotte wasn’t sure which. “Hello, Mrs. Bartholomew! Could you use some help?”
Mrs. Bartholomew straightened her back and squinted into the sun as Charlotte approached. All the enthusiasm she’d felt yesterday had disintegrated when she realized everyone in the town knew more about Charlotte than she did. “Oh, hello. I’m just pulling weeds.” She didn’t even smile. Why bother?
“I’d love to pull weeds. I actually know a bit about plants. My mother is an avid gardener. And it’s such a beautiful day. I need an excuse to be outside.”
Mrs. Bartholomew looked her over as if seeing her through new eyes. After a moment of silence, she said, “Very well, why don’t you work on the beans over there? They have lots of thistles growing by them.”
Charlotte looked at the prickly plants and was glad she’d thought to bring her gloves. She set to work, trying to visit as she pulled. “So, tell me about yourself. Have you lived in Crispens Point your whole life?”
Mrs. Bartholomew straightened her back and pulled a sleeve across her brow. “Yes, I have. My husband was a farmer, but after he died I sold the farm and bought this little place. The proceeds from the sale gave me enough to live on. Never had any kids, so I had to let the old place go. It’d been in my husband’s family for years.” After saying this, she looked off into the distance as if seeing another place and time.
“That must have been awful.”
Mrs. Bartholomew snapped back to the present with a look of disgust. “No more awful than most people. I’ve had a good life. Nothing to complain about.” She went back to work and the conversation lagged. Charlotte wondered why she was so silent today compared to yesterday.
“Is gardening your main hobby?”
“I don’t know if you’d call it a hobby. More like a necessity. I like to eat fresh foods but don’t like to pay grocery store prices.”
“So what do you like to do?”
“I don’t know.” She looked annoyed at having to answer such a question and they fell silent again. After a few minutes, she added, “I like to paint.”
Charlotte looked up with interest. “What kind of painting?”
“Oils.”
“When we’re done here, will you show me some of them?”
Mrs. Bartholomew nodded and they continued on with a smattering of conversation as they worked. Custer romped between them, batting the weeds around when they threw them. He seemed pleased about all the activity around him. At long last, Mrs. Bartholomew stood up and pulled off her gloves. “Well, let’s go inside then.”
Charlotte gladly stood up and brushed herself off, following Mrs. Bartholomew into the house. As soon as she stepped through the door, she blinked in astonishment. There were paintings everywhere. On the walls, displayed on easels, tiny ones on tables; it looked like an art gallery. She was immediately drawn to a large one over the fireplace of a garden scene with brightly colored blooms bursting out at every angle. It reminded her of the book The Secret Garden, which she’d read as a child. “This is extraordinary. Where is this?”
Mrs. Bartholomew walked up next to her and smiled. “That’s my wildflower garden I had at the farm. I could see it out of my kitchen window when I did dishes. It looked just like that, framed in my window. I painted it when I knew I’d have to sell the farm.”
“Oh, that makes me even sadder about you having to leave, but what a wonderful way to preserve the memory.” Charlotte then turned her attention to the other works of art around her. All of them were country scenes, from rickety old bridges to broken down sheds. She loved them all, but after a while she noticed that none of them contained a human. There was something rather sad about that.
“Would you like a glass of iced tea?”
“I’d love one.”
Mrs. Bartholomew disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two tall glasses. They settled onto her living room sofa, which looked as if it had been purchased at least twenty-five years ago. It was still in perfect shape in spite of the outdated design. Charlotte sipped her tea and asked, “Have you been painting all your life?”
“No.” She shook her head as if it were a silly question. “I used to doodle all the time, but didn’t know I could paint. It wasn’t until after Harold died that I started. Took an art class offered at the community center, taught by a professor from the university in Carlston. Then I started painting as if my life depended on it.”
“Therapy.” Charlotte said, nodding her head.
“What?”
“The painting was therapy since you’d lost your husband.”
Mrs. Bartholomew wrinkled up her nose as if she smelled a skunk. “I don’t know about that nonsense, but I know I liked doing it. It was a way to preserve everything I loved. I don’t know what will happen to it all when I’m gone.”
“Have you ever tried selling any of it?”
“No! That would be like selling my babies. I painted them for me. No one else would give a hoot about them.”
“I don’t know. I think they’re quite good.”
“Well, I’m not selling them.” Her expression looked as steely as if Charlotte had suggested selling Custer.
Charlotte smiled to try to ease the tension. “Of course not. I don’t blame you.”
Mrs. Bartholomew visibly relaxed and decided she liked this new neighbor. “What did you think of Community Church?”
“I liked it. The people were friendly and the music and sermon were good.”
A thought seemed to occur to Mrs. Bartholomew. “Nice looking pastor too.”
Charlotte blushed as if she’d been accused of adultery and choked on her sip of iced tea. “I guess so,” she responded as casually as she possibly could, but Mrs. Bartholomew smiled broadly. She finally knew something no one else in town knew yet. Charlotte was sweet on the pastor.
CHAPTER Five
Monday morning arrived overcast and misty. Charlotte reluctantly put aside her novel for a few hours to accomplish all the necessary things involved in a move. She put on her yellow slicker with matching yellow boots and set out into the dreary day, doing her best to brighten it. Her first stop was First National Bank, since that’s where Janice worked. She ran inside and pulled off her hood, noticing Janice right away. “Hi. How are you?”
Janice had been punching numbers madly, and she looked up with a frown at Charlotte’s greeting. But as soon as she saw who it was, she grinned. “Hello, Cha
rlotte. I’m fine. I just can’t get this balance figured out. What’s up?”
“I’m here to open an account. Can you help me?”
“No, I’m just a teller. But Barbara will be glad to fix you up. She’s over there.” Janice pointed to a woman talking on the phone at a nearby desk. “Just sit down and wait until she hangs up.”
Charlotte nodded and sat down on the green vinyl chair just as Barbara hung up the phone. “Well, hello. How can I help you?”
“I need to open a couple of accounts.”
“Okay. What’s your name?”
“Charlotte Fyne.”
The woman looked up sharply and glanced at Janice, who smiled back at her. “Ohhh,” she said, as if a great mystery had been solved. “You’re the romance writer.”
Charlotte nodded, annoyed at this label being slapped on her again. One of these days she was going to figure out a witty response.
“I’ve never read any of your books. Are they pretty steamy?”
Charlotte felt every bone in her body sag. She was so tired of this question. Somehow she pulled herself together to answer cheerfully, “Not at all. They’re what you would call sweet romances.” She smiled a particularly sweet smile as if to demonstrate, which seemed to cause Barbara to lose all interest in her or her books. From that point on, it was all business.
Finishing with that, Charlotte stopped back by the counter to see Janice. “Are you doing anything for lunch today? My treat if you’d like to eat out.”
“That would be great. I brought my lunch, but it’s only peanut butter and jelly. It’ll keep until tomorrow.”
“Where do you suggest?”
“How about the Junction? It’s an old railway station that’s been done over. They have great sandwiches.”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll see you there at noon?”
“I’ll be there.” She bobbed her curls and showed her dimples. Her dress had bright flowers spattered all over it, making her look like a blossom unfolding in the middle of the somber bank. Charlotte liked her a lot.
Next on her stop was the hardware store to pick up odds and ends for a few small repairs and some paint for the bedroom. Charlotte was pleased with herself that she could manage pretty well with most of her household projects. Unless it involved plumbing or carpentry, she did all her own work on the house. She enjoyed picking out a sky blue for her bedroom. It was presently a dirty shade of cream. Evidently Mr. Fowler hadn’t spent any time on redecorating. She’d decided to do a room a month and her bedroom was first on the list.