Kathryn Alexander - The Reluctant Bride

“I really wasn't a witness,” she said as she retrieved two glasses from the cupboard. “I saw very little. I told Mrs. Winslow that very thing the night of the accident when she asked for my name and address, and I told the same thing to Mr. Granston this afternoon.” She dropped several ice cubes into each glass.

“Mr. Granston? Come on, Micah. His name is Rob.”

“And her name is Mrs. Winslow, not Old Yeller.” Micah reminded her friend as she handed her a glass of lemonade.

“Don't get self-righteous on me. You've called her Old Yeller plenty of times yourself when you've seen her coming.”

“That was before I found out her name and before she ended up in the hospital with an injured back. She's no longer just the terrible driver of that big yellow car. She's a real person with real aches and pains and real problems—”

“And a real cute lawyer,” Carole added before taking a sip of her drink.

Micah sat down at the kitchen table and tasted the lemonade she had poured for herself. “Anyway, I told Mr. Granston—”

“Rob. His name is Rob.”

“We didn't get that friendly,” Micah insisted. “You're the one who's dated him.”

“A very casual luncheon date. Nothing to be jealous of.”

“Jealous!” Micah exclaimed. “I'm not—”

“Listen, I've gotta go,” Carole interrupted. “I've gotta be back at the shop for a seven-o'clock shampoo and set.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “Thanks for the lemonade. I'm sorry you and Rob didn't get off to a better start.”

“There's nothing to start, Carole. I made an appointment like the letter requested, I answered his questions and left his office. End of story.”

“That's what you think,” Carole responded emphatically as she waved a quick goodbye before adding, “if I have my way, this is only the beginning.”

“Meet me there at noon.”

“Carole, I have a ton of work to do. Are you sure we can be in and out of that place in an hour?” Micah held the telephone receiver between her shoulder and ear, wiping flour-covered hands on a dishcloth as she spoke to her friend.

“Positive,” came Carole's quick response. “It's a good restaurant. Great food, fast service.”

“Okay,” Micah answered. Baking needed to be done and her neglected painting stared at her from the corner of the workshop, but she was getting hungry. “We'll need to hurry.”

“No problem. Everyone in there will probably be in a hurry. Lots of business and professional people from downtown eat their lunches there. Lots of them.”

“You're late,” Carole observed aloud as Micah rushed into the crowded restaurant lobby over an hour later.

“I know, I know.” Micah adjusted her skirt and blouse quickly. “I had to wait for the pies to come out of the oven.”

“Pies?”

“Shepherd?” The hostess summoned them. “Party of two?”

“Yes,” they replied simultaneously.

“You gave my name?” Micah asked.

“I always do when I make reservations for us. Shepherd is easier to spell than Zabotrowski.”

They followed the hostess, weaving their way around tables, small and large, toward a booth along the wall. They slid into their seats and each received a menu.

“Would you like something from the bar?” the hostess inquired.

“No, I don't drink,” Micah answered.

Carole shook her head. She did not care for anything, either.

They were assured their waitress would be along in a moment to take their orders and were left to review the menu.

“All you need to say is, ‘No thanks,’ Micah. You don't need to tell every hostess in central Ohio that you don't drink,” Carole muttered. “Surely God doesn't expect that from you. I mean, it's not even one of the Ten Commandments. Now, tell me, why were you baking pies?”

“For the school bake sale tomorrow. The kids are trying to raise money for a trip to Washington, D.C.”

“Everyone? The whole school?”

“Just the fourth and fifth grades will be going. That is, if they can raise the money.” Micah closed the menu. “I think I'll have a salad and a bowl of vegetable soup.”

“Well, I'm starving so I'm going to have the turkey-bacon club, a side salad and… what kind of pies did you bake?”

“Apple, but they're for the school,” Micah reminded her friend.

“Then I suppose I'll order some dessert.”

“Unless you want to buy one for a donation. Of course, I don't know how good they'll be. I haven't baked since last year—”

“Christmas, maybe? Remember? You baked two pumpkin pies at the cabin that weekend?”

“Oh, those.” Micah covered her face with a hand. “Don't remind me.”

“They weren't that bad. We ate them.”

“We had to. It was either that or no dessert,” Micah recalled.

“Well they might have been better if you had used the frozen crusts like I suggested.” Carole placed her menu on the table.

“I really wanted to bake my own pies, Carole. Taking something out of the freezer and putting it into the oven, it just doesn't seem right calling it your own.”

“Why not? I do it every evening. Out of the freezer and into the microwave. Beef Stroganoff, chipped beef, chicken A la king…”

“That's different.”

“So how much for a pie? I mean, even if it's not great, at least it's a pie. There won't be anything that vaguely resembles one of those coming out of my oven in the foreseeable future. How much do you want?”

“Six dollars?” Micah asked more than stated.

“Sold,” was Carole's reply as the waitress approached the booth.

With their orders placed, Micah glanced at her thin gold wristwatch. Grateful it was Friday and she had no teaching assignment today, Micah planned to spend the afternoon working on the painting she had started months ago: a little church in the country. Her long, slender fingers tucked a stray wisp of auburn hair behind her ear.

“Do you think ‘living right’ has anything to do with having great hair?” Carole asked, her words slicing into Micah's thoughts.

“What are you talking about?”

“You have the natural curls I've always wanted. Is it a gift from God for being good or something like that?”

“If I thought it would get you into church on Sunday, I'd be tempted to say ‘yes.’”

“And tell a lie?” Carole quipped. “Surely not.”

Several people walked past their booth, but Micah paid little attention to them. She had just picked up a bread stick from the basket on the table when she heard Carole's greeting.

“Hello, Rob! What a pleasant surprise!”

Rob. Micah quickly placed the bread stick on a saucer and picked up her napkin to wipe her fingers.

“Carole? It's been a long time since I've seen you,” the distinctly male voice responded.

“Yes, it has. You know Micah Shepherd, don't you?” Carole's words bubbled with enthusiasm as she motioned toward Micah.

“Yes,” he replied, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. She noticed Rob's eyebrows lift as his gaze met and held hers. “We've met. How are you, Miss Shepherd?”

Micah smiled in response. “Fine, thank you.” In some unexplainable way, she was both pleased and not pleased to see him again. So why was her heart pounding so loudly in her ears?

“I didn't realize that you and Miss Shepherd were friends.” He spoke to Miss Zabotrowski, but his eyes remained firmly fixed upon her auburn-haired companion.

“Would you care to join us?” Carole offered.

Rob glanced at a nearby table. “Thank you, but I'm meeting someone for lunch, and I'm running late, as it is.”

Micah exhaled a quiet sigh of relief before asking, “How is Mrs. Winslow?”