Endless Chain. Emilie Richards

a ponytail that fell past her shoulder blades, creamy toffee-colored skin, and eyes so darkly liquid and expressive that he had felt himself going down for the third time in just the seconds he had stared into them.

      He shoved his mind back into gear. “Do you mind following us inside? We’ll do the interview in my study.”

      Cathy Adams, one of the quilters, waited to walk with Elisa. When he saw they were bringing up the rear, he made his way through the lot and the play yard into the Beehive. He deposited Rory in a corner after a brief man-to-man chat about ninjas and sledgehammers, said a few words to each of the women, genuinely admired the quilt stretched out on the frame, and finally motioned for Elisa to follow him upstairs.

      He was in marginally better spirits by the time he closed the Beehive door and they started for the steps. Beside him, Elisa was silent.

      They were upstairs and on the way to his study before he spoke. “No sign is worth risking your safety for.”

      “I’m not sure what came over me.”

      He wondered if that was true, or if she knew very well and wasn’t going to acknowledge it. He unlocked his door and ushered her inside, leaving the door open, as he usually did. He did not like enclosed spaces, and today the church secretary, who was usually at the desk in the next office, was out of town for the rest of the week.

      “I’m sorry your first visit to our church started that way.” Sam motioned to the leather sofa that sat in front of two large windows looking out over the rose garden. While she seated herself, he noticed that yesterday he had forgotten to put away the wheelbarrow after he dumped a load of compost to be spread. He made a mental note to do it later, then asked himself why he was avoiding looking at Elisa. He was not a man who was uncomfortable with women. His fiancée, Christine, with her blatant sex appeal and choke hold on femininity, had never intimidated him in the least.

      “I’ve encountered prejudice before,” she said.

      “I’m sorry for that.” He made himself look down at her. “Under any circumstances there would have been resistance, but as you probably know, there’s some troubling evidence that Hispanic gangs have moved into the area. Peaceful, sleepy Shenandoah County.” He shrugged. “That’s set off a backlash.”

      She was smiling softly. “Let’s find a subject that doesn’t make you feel sad. Or guilty.”

      He relaxed a fraction. “Iced tea.”

      “Iced tea as a subject?”

      “Would you like some?”

      “Very much, if it’s not too much trouble.”

      He was grateful for something to do. He left for the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two glasses. “The staff goes through gallons of this every week. Whoever drinks the last glass has to make a new pitcher.”

      She took the glass, then a sip. “I can do that.”

      He had debated where to sit. She had left him a full half of the large sofa, and there was a table just in front of it with room for his tea. It was the obvious choice.

      He sprawled over his half. “So...” He considered where to start.

      She solved the problem. “Elisa Martinez, thirty-three. Like every Spanish-speaking friend I have made here, I am not a gang member. I am well acquainted with cleaning products, mops and brooms, and the need to clean the men’s urinals more often than the ladies’ toilets. I’ve been working the late shift as a nurse’s aide at the Shadyside Home in Woodstock, but last week my shifts were cut to two because the aide I replaced is returning from maternity leave. If you hire me, I promise that won’t interfere with my work at the church. On those mornings I can start here as soon as I’ve finished there.”

      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.”