Emilie Richards - Endless Chain

He didn’t speak, and she went on. “My supervisor will be glad to write a reference, or she’ll be glad to talk to you.”

He had already noted that her command of the English language was as good as his own, but there was a trace of an accent, a musical elongation of vowels, the slightest flipping of r’s, a trace more formality, that he found charming. As an employer, he had to ask the next question. “Were you born here?”

She shook her head. “Mexico. A little village in the south.”

“Are you a citizen?”

She reached in the front pocket of her black slacks and produced a card with her name and photo for him to examine. “A permanent resident. My not-so-green card.”

He scanned it, then nodded. She slipped it back into her pocket and waited.

“It’s hard work.” He sat forward and reached for the tea. “There’s a lot of lifting and moving. You’d be required to set up and take down tables and chairs for any meetings or events, and this is a busy church. That would be in addition to heavy cleaning and minor repairs. It’s tedious, and the hours are long. The pay isn’t great.”

“I’ll manage just fine. I lift patients in and out of bed, move beds and furniture, push wheelchairs uphill. I’m used to hard work.”

Sam thought she must be made entirely of muscle, then, because there wasn’t much to her other than the gentle swell of breasts and hips.

“Do you have a car, Elisa?”

She straightened a little, and he knew she had been waiting for this. “I don’t own a car, no. But I have two good legs, and friends with cars at the park.”

“Park?”

“I live in the Ella Lane Mobile Home Park, near the nursing home. I live with a friend and her two children. Adoncia has a car, and so do others nearby. Much of the time I would have a ride.”

He calculated that distance. At least four miles, probably more. He was about to shake his head when she stopped him by raising a hand.

“I walked here today. There was a storm about to break, but I came anyway. I wasn’t late, and I wasn’t too tired to face down your deacon’s son. Wouldn’t you rather have a sexton with determination and no car than one with a car and no work ethic?”

He sat back. He sipped his tea and watched her.

She fiddled with her glass—still nearly full—then she leaned forward. “I don’t mind long hours, and I don’t mind hard work. I don’t gossip and I don’t complain.” She sat back. “I also know when to stop talking. I’m easy to have around.”

He thought that last part might be the hardest to deal with. He was acutely aware of this woman already, and they had only just met. He was caught between doing what the law required—in this case choosing the best candidate for an advertised position—or following his best instincts, which told him that temptation was best avoided, no matter how strong or sure he was of his own power to resist it.

“I haven’t told you everything,” he said, buying time. “We have a new program here, and it might be what set off those boys. The sign is part of it, and it means more work for the sexton.”

She took a long sip of her tea. Her self-control had already been noted. He imagined she was thirsty after the long, hot walk. “Tell me about it,” she said, when she’d finished.

“I’ll show you.” He turned and peered out the window. “Normally I’d show you the church first, but it’s pretty straightforward. A sanctuary and social hall, classrooms and meeting rooms. We’d better do this now, before the rain begins. Then I’ll find you a ride home.”

“I—”

He didn’t let her finish. “The quilters will be leaving about the time we’re done. Someone will be happy to do it.”

“Reverend Kinkade, it will not be your job to find transportation for me. Managing that is a small thing, but it will be my small thing.”

He rose. “It’s Sam. Finish your tea or bring it along. It’s only a short walk.”

* * *

Elisa felt the first hesitant drops of rain as they exited the building through the rose garden.

“The roses aren’t happy with all this moisture,” Sam said. “I use natural sprays to keep them from succumbing to blackspot, but every time I plan to spray, it rains. And when I do spray, a storm comes up the next day and washes it right off.”

“You take care of the roses?”

He shot her a smile, a friendlier smile than she’d seen, but one that still maintained a certain distance. If he was setting boundaries now—and that was how she interpreted it—then perhaps he was seriously considering her for the job.

“It’s not in my job description, but I promised our building and grounds committee if they would help me prepare the plot and plant the bushes, I’d do the maintenance. We use the garden for weddings. This is a very popular spot in June and September, but mostly they’re there for me to enjoy every day. Just don’t tell anybody I said so.”

She was relieved the sexton was not expected to take care of the roses, but it brought up another subject. “Is the sexton expected to do any work outdoors?”

“Marvin—he’s our present sexton—starts each morning with a cleanup of the grounds, just trash and such. We use professionals for mowing grass and raking leaves. One of our deacons...” He gave a humorless laugh. “Leon Jenkins? The boy with the sledgehammer? His father, George, has a landscaping business and provides services for us at a reduced rate, which probably means that he pays his men less when they’re here, so his own profit isn’t affected. The way his crew changes from week to week, it’s pretty clear he hires whoever he can find that day and pays them under the table.”

“Undocumented workers?”

“That would be my guess. Our board believes it’s up to George to stay abreast of the law, and they accept his assurances he’s in compliance.”

She knew from his tone that he didn’t agree with the board’s choice. Resolutely, she changed the subject. “Do you mind telling me why Marvin is leaving? Unless it has nothing to do with the job, of course.”

“As simple as a better paying job. He’s juggling both right now, but the church is suffering. We need someone who can start training right away.” He glanced at her. “Could you start immediately?”

“I was hoping to.”

She had been paying attention to his words; now she paid attention to their destination and felt excitement build. They were headed toward an old frame farmhouse painted lemon-yellow. It was set back from the church, at least an acre to the northwest. A narrow gravel drive snaked to the front porch from the road, between a grove of oaks and maples that hid the house until visitors were almost on top of it. The house itself sat in a field of Queen Anne’s lace and brilliant blue chicory, black-eyed Susans and puff-ball dandelions. The effect was charming.

She had seen the house before, of course, visited it late one night and stood in front of it to imagine its history and the people who once had lived here. On that night several months ago the house had been a sad gray and far more dilapidated. Now it was a proud buttercup blooming in a field of admirers. In front of it was yet another sign.

“La Casa Amarilla,” she read. “Good choice for a name. Very definitely a yellow house.”

“What do you think? Did we overdo on the paint?”

She stared at the house and thought it was as welcoming as outstretched arms. “It’s a happy house. Is that what you hoped for?”

“Exactly.” He stood beside her, gazing up at it. “It used to be the parsonage. Don’t tell anybody, but I like it better than the one I live in down the road. In the fifties, when the church built mine, a three-bedroom ranch house was every working man’s goal. Farmhouses with history and character fell out of favor, and little brick boxes with narrow windows and air-conditioning fell in.”