And then Derick had wasted what meager savings I’d collected and tossed me out, taking my job and my home in the avalanche of his betrayal. The thought of him left a bitter taste in my mouth. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the sensation. His memory didn’t belong here at Ida’s house. I swept him and the rest of my past back into a dark corner of my mind where tear-stained sludge belonged.
This place was meant for sunshine, roses, and painted-on smiles. For baking and unwinding. Which I intended to do. Starting with indulging in Nancy’s bread. The fragrant scent of the dough exploded on my senses the moment I pulled back the foil. I pinched off a piece and popped it in my mouth, immediately closing my eyes. Still warm, the fluffy bread coated my taste buds with sweetness and buttery temptation. So good it didn’t even need jam. I cut off a thick slice, dropped the knife in the sink, and let myself ponder my new possibilities.
I could live here with minimal expenses for the summer. Without rent. I’d have to figure out what the bills for a place like this would cost me. And somehow I’d have to find a way to buy groceries until I had access to Ida’s accounts. Staying here for a few months would be better than going back to Atlanta. Give me a chance to get my feet under me before I needed to find a new apartment.
I could finish Ida’s puzzle, sell the house at the end of the summer, and use the money to pay for a nice place in a good neighborhood by the school. I paced around the island, my feet slapping on the cold tile.
As soon as everything cleared probate, I’d have choices. Thanks to Ida. She’d given me more than a house and some old stories. She’d given me a chance for a new life. Hope. But first I had to finish the quilt.
I snatched another hunk of bread, wrapped the rest back in the foil, and scrambled into the foyer. Chewing on carbs I didn’t even care would settle on my hips, I plopped down on the hardwood and spread the mismatched fabric across the floor. Ranging from thick flannel to shiny silk and polyester, none of Ida’s remnants went together.
The drawers on the sewing machine had contained little triangle pieces that matched the family quilt upstairs. I pulled one out and rubbed it between my fingers, then put it back. I wouldn’t be making a family quilt. I didn’t have a family.
Simple would be better. I jumped up again, rummaged through the drawers in the kitchen, and finally came back with a set of scissors. I laid the largest pieces of cloth on top of one another, lined them up as best I could, and started cutting.
After some hacking and straining against scissors not sharp enough for the task, I had four big blocks of fabric about a foot square each. Mostly. They weren’t exactly square. And the one on the bottom must have slipped while I cut, because it angled sharply on one edge. Oh well. It didn’t matter.
I laid them out next to one another, creating a line. There. That would be long enough to make the top of the quilt. I eyed the ancient sewing machine. How would I ever get that thing working enough to tackle this project? Ida hadn’t left me any instructions. Ryan might have some, but no way was I asking him. If he doubted my ability to complete the quilt, he might hold back the next clues. I needed to get this done as quickly and painlessly as possible.
A knock at the door startled a ragged-edged piece of flannel out of my fingers. Now what? I brushed off the seat of my jeans, noting the floor needed sweeping. How had I let myself tolerate this mess? Ida would be ashamed.
I peeked through the window and onto the front porch dappled with merry sunshine. Ryan. Who else? Served me right for thinking about him. Irony, my old friend. I flung open the door and gestured at the heap behind me. “I’m doing it. See?”
Ryan tilted his head to look past me at the mess on the floor, his brown eyes sparking humor. “So I see.”
Was he mocking me? “You’ve got the next letter for me?”
His eyes darted back to mine, clearly confused. “You’re not finished.”
Worth a try. I lifted my shoulders. Waited. He stared at me. Great. Another round of who’s going to speak first. I lost. “So…can I help you with something, or…?”
He rocked back on his heels. “I came to invite you to church.”
“No, thanks.” I swung the door inward. “Have a good day.”
“Wait!” He stuck out a calloused hand.
I paused. Here it came. A lecture about how I should go to church. How it would be good for me. Ida had tried that. Didn’t work for her, and it certainly wouldn’t work for him.
“I’ll admit. I have an ulterior motive.” He offered a sheepish grin that created soft lines around his eyes. “Something beyond you enjoying a good sermon.”
The honesty stalled me. “What motive?”
He ran his hand across the back of his neck and looked at his boots. “Remember when I said I didn’t work on Tuesdays?”
“Yeah?” He looked awkward, which I found strangely charming. It was kind of nice to see a guy fumble for what to say. “Why don’t you spit it out? I favor bluntness.”
His eyes jumped to mine. Uh oh. Too much honesty. He smiled again, and my nerves settled.
“Oh, good.” He pulled his shoulders back, suddenly seeming much more relaxed. “That sure makes life easier.”
Easier? Not in my experience.
“I’m the youth pastor at First Baptist. I’ve been looking for a woman to help me with some of the teen girls.”
I gaped at him. “And no one in your church is up for that job?” How bad were those kids?
“I have a few up for it.” He quirked his mouth to one side. “But…” He shrugged. “Bluntness, right?”
I nodded, intrigued.
“Most of the help I can get is from the kids’ parents, which means the kids won’t open up. And parents completely suck the…”—he made air quotes—“‘cool factor’ out of what I’m trying to do.”
I withheld a smile. Pretty sure this dude with his flannel and air quotes did that already. And did kids even call things cool anymore?
“Or,” he said, “I get offers from blue-haired ladies who want to take the students back to the fifties.” His face tightened in a funny way, as though the thought both amused and annoyed him in equal measure.
I laughed. He nailed bluntness. “You don’t have any younger women in your church?”
“Only a few who don’t have small children they need to tend. And some of them are more interested in finding a date than connecting with the kids.” His earnest eyes searched my face.
Worried he might see something there he didn’t like, though not really sure why I cared, I looked away. “And you figure since I won’t be here long, and I’m not looking for a date, that I would be a good person to help you babysit?”
Wind stirred up the smells of gardenia and roses, perfuming the air. It ruffled his hair as Ryan watched me. I shifted my feet. Too blunt in return?
“It’s not babysitting. They’re teens. They want someone who’ll take an interest in them, and be real. From what Ida told me, and from what I’ve gathered in our conversations, you’d be great at that.”
Ha. Shows how much either of them knew. No one wanted real. People wanted a mask reflecting who they wanted to see. But what did that matter here? I wasn’t staying long. Might actually be a good time to test out different versions of myself with teens before starting my job at the school. I picked at my nails, considering. Out of my comfort zone by a mile, but it could have some good test-kitchen-type benefits.