Kathryn Alexander - The Reluctant Bride

“About the same.” Rob's piercing blue gaze burned through her as though silently questioning the motive for her inquiry and forcing Micah to look away. “It was nice to see you again, Carole, and you, too, Miss Shepherd.”

Miss Shepherd. His formality iritated her, exactly the way he'd meant it to. Micah watched him turn and walk away, but not too far. He sat down at a table close by with an attractive brunette. Micah crunched into the bread stick.

“What's with you two? Just because you're not a good witness for Old Yeller doesn't mean you and Rob can't be friendly,” Carole snapped.

“We're not friends,” Micah replied, staring into the bowl of soup that the waitress set before her. “Mr. Granston is an attorney, I was a witness—a poor one—and that is the sum of our relationship.”

Carole poured extra dressing over her salad. “Are you kidding? Did you see the way he looked at you? He couldn't take his eyes off you.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“It's true.” Carole lowered her voice to a healthy whisper. “It was absolutely intense.”

“Eat your salad and mind your own business, Carole,” Micah warned softly before taking a drink from her water glass. He had looked surprised to see her again. Surprised, that was all. Wasn't it? She glanced toward the nearby table. The brunette was involved in some animated conversation, and Rob was being appropriately attentive.

“I'm just glad he's here today, even if he is with that dark-haired beauty. When I made the reservations, I was afraid I might have been wasting my time.”

“This was intentional?” Micah placed her spoon on the table. “You assumed Rob would be here?”

“Rob?” Carole smiled. “I thought it was Mr. Granston?”

“Don't change the subject. You did this on purpose.” Suddenly the meal didn't seem quite so inviting. “What if he knows why we're here?”

“Now you're the one who's being ridiculous. He's a lawyer, Micah, not a psychic. How could he possibly know my reason for inviting you here?”

Carole was right. He really couldn't know, Micah reasoned. “Is this where you had lunch with him?”

“Yes, but it was a business luncheon. I've told you that—”

“I'd really like to go home, Carole. My appetite seems to have disappeared.”

“Leave without eating? What would he think if he saw us running out of here without having our lunch?”

Micah hesitated. “All right, you win. Let's eat and then go right away.”

They gradually worked their way through their meals, Carole a little more happily than Micah because Micah had trouble keeping her eyes from straying to the table that Rob and the brunette occupied. The last time she glanced up, the woman had disappeared—to the ladies’ room, Micah supposed—and Rob's eyes rested directly on her. She smiled, a feeble little smile, in response, and looked back into her half-empty salad plate. The sooner she could get out of here, the better.

“I'm finished,” Carole finally announced as she placed her napkin on the table, pulled her wallet from her purse and summoned their waitress to the table. “We'd like our checks now, please.”

“They have already been taken care of, miss,” the waitress stated.

“But we haven't seen them yet,” Micah interjected.

Carole added, “There must be some mistake.”

“There's no mistake. The gentleman you spoke with earlier paid the bills.”

They both turned, but Rob was gone.

“Well, well, well,” Carole mused aloud as they walked out of the dimly lit restaurant into the sunshine, warm and bright. “So that's the sum of your relationship.”

“He obviously bought lunch for you,” Micah insisted while walking toward Carole's car. “You know him and—”

“And I think he was buying for the pretty redhead seated at my table.” Carole pulled open her car door, laughing. “If he caught a glimpse of your car on the way into the restaurant, he probably took pity on you, assuming that you couldn't afford to eat in a place this nice.”

Micah shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun with one hand. “There's nothing wrong with my old station wagon,” Micah replied, though she knew only too well that there was plenty wrong with it

“No, nothing other than the fact that it's old and it's a station wagon.” Carole glanced around the parking lot. “Where did you leave it?”

“I had trouble trying to start it,” Micah admitted, “and I decided to walk. So Rob couldn't see my car even if he wanted to. Obviously, the lunch was for you.”

“Do you want a ride home, or do you prefer standing in this hot sun arguing?”

The air felt sticky, and Micah was anxious to get home. The ride sounded good.

“I have a pie to pick up, remember?” Carole added.

The bake sale and the entire weekend flew by in a blur. So much so that Micah barely thought of her encounter with Rob Granston. Except for once or twice, late at night, just before she fell asleep. Deciding against calling to thank him for lunch, she left that task to Carole. After all, he was Carole's friend. Calling would seem presumptuous, as if she was assuming he'd picked up the check with her in mind when, certainly, that had not been the case, she reminded herself.

Micah ran a brush slowly through her long curls and applied a touch of peach lipstick to finish her morning routine. Another rainy Monday. What an unpredictable spring, rainy sometimes, hot and humid others. But today Micah returned to a familiar school, and that brightened her spirits regardless of the weather. When two years of substitute teaching wore thin, she had gladly agreed to finish out the school year at Wellspring Elementary as a replacement for a teacher on maternity leave. It surprised Micah to discover how much she enjoyed greeting the same young faces each day. Maybe she would consider looking for a full-time position soon. Maybe something permanent was what she needed in her life. She had already lived here for two years, longer than she had stayed in any other city since her eighteenth birthday. Columbus suited her, especially the German Village location of her apartment with its brick-lined streets and quaint buildings, and as long as the thought of leaving saddened her, she stayed.

Meow…meow…. Micah laughed lightly as she hurried toward the door and the pitiful noise.

“Poor baby.” She opened the door a few inches, enough to allow a multicolored cat to enter. “Mrs. Poe puts you outside every morning, rain or shine, doesn't she, Patches? How about some milk?”

Micah poured the liquid into a saucer, and then set it on the kitchen floor. Stroking the cat's damp fur, she heard that familiar purring begin. “There you go, babe. That should make you a little happier, but you're going to get fat having two breakfasts every morning. I know Mrs. Poe feeds you well.”

The morning paper cluttered the table where Micah had been reading it and eating toast, but one glance at the clock told her that the mess would have to wait to be straightened up until evening.

“Hurry, Patches.” Gathering her umbrella and books, Micah started for the door with her landlady's cat scurrying after her. It paused to rub against Micah's ankles and nearly knocked her down in the process. “Out the door, Patches.” She gave the cat a gentle shove with her foot, forcing the feline into the steady spring shower. “Sorry to rush you, but I've got to go,” she said and turned the key in the lock, twisting the knob to be certain it had locked securely.

“See you later, kitty.” Unexpected sadness rained down on her as surely as the light drops. She was twenty-eight years old, and all she had to come home to every evening was Patches…a cat that didn't even belong to her. Surely there must be something, someone more for her out there. Why didn't the Lord show her His plan for her life? she wondered again as she had done many times. She already knew what she couldn't do, but the whole city wasn't filled with attorneys, was it? Why couldn't she meet a pastor, a math teacher or a truck driver…?