Irene Hannon - A Family to Call Her Own

“You seem nice,” she hedged.

“‘Seem.’ An interesting choice of words,” he mused. “Do I detect a note of caution in that comment?”

She shrugged. “You know what they say. A woman can’t be too careful these days.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true.” He paused and took a sip of his coffee. He sensed there was more behind Rebecca’s wariness than mere caution, and he was determined to get the whole story before he gave up on her. “Well, we could bring along a chaperone. How about Rose or Frances?”

Rebecca smiled despite herself. “Now that would be something, wouldn’t it?”

“Hey, if it makes you more comfortable, I’m game.”

For a minute she was actually tempted. But the fact remained that soon he would be returning to his life in St. Louis, and while St. Genevieve wasn’t that far away in distance, she suspected that once enmeshed in his life in the city, it would seem like another planet to Zach. He would forget the small town—and the woman named Rebecca who had simply provided a pleasant diversion while he was stuck there.

Regretfully she shook her head. “I don’t think so, Zach.”

He looked at her, letting a few moments of silence pass before he spoke. “I’d still like to keep trying.”

“Why?” she asked curiously. The man certainly didn’t discourage easily, she’d give him that.

“Because I find you attractive. Appealing. Interesting. And very intriguing. And I’d like to get to know you better. So…do you mind if I keep at this for a while?”

Rebecca couldn’t help but be flattered—and a little overwhelmed—by his compliments and his determination. “Does it matter if I do?” she asked faintly.

He looked surprised. “Of course. I’m not into harassing women. If you want me out of your life, I’ll be gone. But I think there’s a spark between us. I sure feel it, and I suspect you do, too, whether you’re willing to admit it or not,” he said frankly. “I’d like to see where it leads. And I’d like to keep trying to convince you to do the same.”

This was her chance. She could just tell him to get lost, and he would. He’d said as much. And she suspected he would honor his promise. She opened her mouth to decline his pursuit, but to her surprise different words came out instead. “I just hope you’re not disappointed.”

Zach smiled, and though his posture had seemed relaxed throughout their conversation, she could feel an almost palpable easing of tension. “I’ll consider that a green light. And as for being disappointed—well, let’s just say I’m not worried.”

“Maybe you should consider it a yellow light,” Rebecca countered, “as in ‘proceed with caution.”’

“Okay, a yellow light then,” he said, laughing.

Rebecca looked into his warm and insightful eyes, and felt her heart stop, then rush on. Zach said he wasn’t worried. And she believed him. She just wished she could say the same about herself.

Zach turned up his collar and took another sip of steaming coffee from the paper cup. The Red Cross tent offered an oasis of light but only marginal protection from the cold drizzle and bone-chilling wind that sliced through the darkness. It had been raining steadily for the past three days, and the river was rising ominously, edging precariously close to danger levels. An urgent call had gone out two days ago for volunteer sandbaggers, and it seemed just about everyone in town had turned out to help with the hard, messy work. Zach had interviewed a number of volunteers as well as National Guard and Red Cross spokespeople, and he was just about to call it a night.

But though he was tired and cold, he was also impressed by the spirit of generosity and selflessness he’d discovered during his ten days in the small community. Having dealt for so long with the selfish, unethical side of human nature, he’d almost forgotten there was a generous, moral side. His experience in St. Genevieve had certainly given his faith in humanity a much-needed boost.

Zach drained his cup, then turned to toss it into a trash container, colliding with a passing volunteer in the process. His hand instinctively shot out to steady the middle-aged man, who was wearing horn-rimmed glasses.

“Sorry about that,” Zach said contritely.

The man waved aside the apology. “I’m sure it was my fault. These glasses are so fogged up and wet I can hardly see where I’m going.” He took them off and carefully wiped them on a handkerchief, then reset them on his nose and grinned at Zach. “That’ll help—for about two minutes.”

Zach’s mouth twisted into a wry smile of acknowledgment. “Nasty night.”

The man looked out into the darkness and nodded. “It sure is. I just hope we can keep up with the river.” He turned back to Zach and held out his hand. “I’m Phil Carr. English teacher at the high school.”

Zach returned the man’s firm grip. “Zach Wright from St. Louis. I’m a reporter, here to cover the flood.”

“Oh, yes, Mark Holt mentioned your name.”

“You know Mark?”

Phil smiled. “This is a small town. I know a lot of people. Besides, Mark lives down the street from me.” He hesitated and looked at Zach earnestly. “I was actually hoping I might run into you.”

Zach’s eyebrows rose quizzically. “Why is that?”

“Well, I hope you won’t think this is too much of an imposition, and I’ll understand if you can’t do it, but I teach composition and it would be a real treat to have a reporter from St. Louis talk to one of the classes. Do you think you might be able to spare an hour or two before you head back?”

Zach considered the unexpected invitation thoughtfully. He hadn’t done anything like that for a long time, and his classroom skills were probably pretty rusty. But it might be fun. “Sure. As a matter of fact, I’ve always been interested in teaching. I even double majored in college—journalism and education. I just couldn’t make up my mind between the two. But I got a good newspaper offer when I graduated, so that sealed my fate. It would actually be nice to get into a classroom again,” he mused, warming to the idea as he spoke.

“Great! I’ll give you a call. Are you staying in town?”

“Yeah. Let me jot down the information for you.” Zach scribbled the name of his motel, as well as his work number on a piece of paper and handed it to Phil. “If I’m not at the motel, just leave me a voice mail at the office.”

“I’ll do that. And thanks again. The kids will really enjoy this.” He tucked the slip of paper carefully into his pocket and rubbed his hands together. “Well, back to the trenches,” he said with a smile.

Zach watched him leave, then turned to survey the scene once more. The ranks were thinning a bit, but it was nine o’clock, after all. Most of these people had put in a full day at work and would have to do the same tomorrow. It was really amazing, he thought. The vast majority of the volunteers weren’t personally threatened by the flood, yet they were still willing to help out, even under these miserable conditions. He almost felt guilty for heading back to his warm, dry motel room. But he did have to put this story together and E-mail it to the paper, so he still had a long night ahead of him.

Zach stepped out from under the tent and slowly made his way past the line of sandbaggers, shivering despite his sheepskin-lined jacket. The cold rain was already working its way insidiously down his neck, and his boots made loud sucking sounds as he trudged through the mud. He glanced again at the tired faces as he passed. Sandbagging was backbreaking work, as he’d come to learn in the past couple of days, yet people of all ages and sexes were here to help, from high-schoolers to grandfathers to—