Loving Thy Neighbor. Ruth Scofield

      “You.”

      He stiffened. “I prefer to be called by my given name, please.”

      “Those are your given initials. HAP. Hap sure is a sight easier to say than Hamilton Paxton. Surely you don’t expect to be called Judge all the time? By the way, what does the A stand for?”

      “Adam. That’s beside the point, Miss Davis.”

      “It might as well be Quincee. We’re not in the courtroom now, Hap. Er, Hamilton.”

      “Would you please listen?” His exasperation was growing like those dandelions, she mused. She almost chuckled aloud, only surprised he hadn’t ordered her to immediately root them out because they were spreading into his perfectly kept yard.

      “This is a peaceful, quiet neighborhood. A yard sale isn’t what we’re about,” he continued, stepping closer to stand face-to-face.

      Quincee lost her amusement.

      With no hedge between them and no mammoth court furniture to set him apart, he towered over her by a full head. She had to tip hers back to look into his eyes. A tiny scar sat just beneath his left brow, and she spotted a hint of silver threaded with the dark hair at his temples. But more than anything, she noted the animation leaping from those cool depths of gray irises. It excited a tiny kick in response as she realized the vitality of the male she faced.

      My, my, my… Where had the judge gone?

      “Garage sales are a pure nuisance,” he continued his argument. She hadn’t heard much of what he’d said in the last five minutes, but she responded.

      “You don’t have to join us if you don’t wish. No one is forcing you into it.”

      “I don’t plan to.”

      “Fine.” She took a deep breath, feeling as though she had to have a fresh one to clear her thinking. “But a garage sale will benefit the ones who want to do it. Actually, I think we can have a bit of fun with it as well as make a little money.”

      “These folks don’t need the money,” he argued hotly. “They’d be better off following my suggestion of having a reputable dealer come and take care of any items they no longer use. Or give it all to charity.”

      Quincee tipped her head and softened her tone. “Is that your problem, Hap? You’re too used to being the center of attention and having your way on the bench that you can’t stand the thought of your neighbors ignoring your suggestions?”

      Hap stepped back as though she’d hit him. His features seemed to go bland while he retreated behind his cool gaze. “Don’t be offensive, Miss Davis. You’re way over the line.”

      “Sorry about that, Hap.” She did feel sorry to have chased him back into his cold reserve. “But you’re the only one yet who seems to dislike the prospect of a block yard sale. Get used to it. This event is going to happen. And I can use the work.”

      “You’ll have to pay taxes on your fee, you know.”

      “Not if everything is simply an exchange of favors with no money exchanged. I love bartering. It has a set of rules all its own and it answers many problems. Why, we solved our little problem the other day when the children worked off their debt, didn’t we? That’s barter. A bargain for me, as well, Hap. You gave us those beautiful strawberries, which the children and I enjoyed very much. In turn, I shared my labor of making the pie. It’s as simple as that.”

      “Not quite, when taken to a larger scale,” he insisted. “Bartering still demands taxes be paid on the equivalent of what that service is worth.”

      “Fine. I’ll declare it and pay the taxes if I must,” she said, fuming. “But our society loves a bargain. And bartering is based on a long forgotten simpler exchange of goods and services, in my opinion. As I’m a schoolteacher, my salary has to be supplemented some way, and this works for me.” She raised an expressive brow. “Believe me, I’m willing to bargain for anything and everything I can.”

      With that, she turned on her heel and marched toward her front door. Behind her, Hap remained silent. She guessed he wasn’t used to losing the privilege of having the last word on anything. He wouldn’t subject his dignity to calling out to her retreating back.

      By the time she strolled through the door, her smile had stretched into a grin.

      Chapter Three

      “Another fine June morning,” Quincee said to herself not long after dawn on Sunday. She quietly pulled on cut-off denims and a light blue T-shirt printed with her school logo, and headed for the kitchen. The kids weren’t out of bed yet. She didn’t see any rush to wake them.

      She made a cup of instant coffee and took her mug out to the backyard, wishing she had a Sunday newspaper to read. Her folks always had a Sunday paper when she and Paula were growing up. They’d fight over who got the cartoons first while Mom read the ads and Dad read the front page. Later they’d go to church and then spend the afternoon with Mom’s sister, Aunt Beth, or their grandparents.

      That was long ago, she mused. Her parents had died young, leaving Paula and her to cling to each other, and Aunt Beth and her family had moved to Colorado. Life had moved on. But Quincee recalled those days with fond nostalgia, and she intended to give Kyle and Kerri as much home life and stability as she could make for them.

      Strolling over to the old wooden bench under a slender oak tree, she wondered if she’d gain a splinter if she sat on it. But it looked inviting, so she sank down and stretched out her bare legs.

      She lifted her face to the sun. She felt lazy. It was a lovely way to start a Sunday morning, even without a Sunday paper. Sundays should always have a special identity, meaningful and different from other days, she decided.

      She and the children would let any work on the house go for today. They’d find something new to do, something to take them out of the daily routine. Didn’t the Bible say the seventh day should be a day of rest?

      “That’s it,” she murmured. “We’ll go to church. It’s just what we need.”

      Although her faith in God had never waned, she’d been lax in finding a church home these last few years. She and Paula had been raised with church attendance as part of their weekly routine, Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings in prayer service, and she suddenly realized how much she missed it. She certainly could benefit from hearing God’s word spoken aloud, of singing her worship. What did the scripture say? Forsake not the gathering together?

      She’d have to look up the exact Scripture, she supposed, but she understood the gist of it. It was past time to see that the children had biblical studies.

      Quincee wiggled her toes in a clump of dandelions, thinking about it. Could she sneak the car out?

      Nah…she’d better not try to defy her restriction. Surely she could find a church within walking distance.

      Happy with her plan, Quincee sipped her coffee. Still lazily enjoying the early sun rays, she set her cup on the ground beside her, swung her feet up and leaned back on folded arms behind her head. Humming a tune, she stared at the sky for long moments, mentally going over her list of things to do for the coming week.

      Meet with Bette again about the neighborhood yard sale—they’d already sketched out early plans. Call the newspapers about placing an ad. Make flyers to distribute. Talk to Mr. Bader to see if she could inspect the piano he offered her. And finish scraping and sanding her house.

      She’d spent the majority of her week handscraping four layers of old paint from three sides of her house; she had only one side left to complete. Laura promised to run her to the hardware store to buy paint. She’d already done a preliminary pricing by phone and knew just where to shop for the best bargain.

      “Quincee?” She heard Kyle from the open back door.

      The boy was another early riser. She often thought of