The Wedding Quilt. Lenora Worth

a new beginning on these rugged foothills and mountains. This would be interesting, to say the least.

      Kirk loved to wander around almost as much as he loved his work. The work he could trace back to his great-grandfather, Ian Dempsey, on his mother’s side, in his native Ireland. The wanderlust…well, he supposed he’d gotten that from some nomadic ancestor, or from his American father who’d come to Ireland for a vacation more than twenty-five years ago, and stayed to marry a local lass. Or maybe the need to keep moving was all Kirk’s alone, since he’d grown up in a small village in county Cork. It really didn’t matter. He liked his life and he liked his work, and all was right with his world.

      A voice echoed in his head as he searched the street names for Crape Myrtle Avenue.

      “And you’re sure you don’t need a place to stay?”

      Rosemary Brinson. Rosemary. Pretty name. It meant unspoiled in Latin, but it could mean several different things in modern society. This particular Rosemary had a slow, soft southern accent that flowed through the telephone like a warm summer rain. Kirk was anxious to put a face to that voice, anxious to meet the woman who’d fought a whole congregation to get him here, because she believed in doing things the right way.

      “Well, Rosemary, me darlin’, so do I.”

      That much they had in common. And that would be all, as far as Kirk was concerned. No, Rosemary, he didn’t need a place to stay, because no one ever really expected him to stay. Kirk had just enough singleminded intent to know that he’d come here with one purpose, and one purpose only. He was a steeplejack. He repaired steeples, working quickly, accurately and artistically, to make something lasting and beautiful out of wood and mortar and stained glass and stone.

      God had given him the talent, and his grandfather had given him the technique, or so his mother still reminded him. He didn’t take either for granted.

      And he had one very important rule. Never get involved with the townspeople, or their problems or their plans. He wasn’t a healer, after all. Just a fixer. He simply liked to restore things to their proper beauty.

      To Kirk, that made all the difference.

      But then, Kirk had never heard a voice quite like Rosemary Brinson’s.

      And, he’d never ventured this far south before.

      In spite of himself, he couldn’t wait to meet her.

      Rosemary’s voice grew lower with each beat of the favorite children’s story she read to the preschoolers. All around the darkened room, small bodies stretched out on colorful mats, their little stockinged feet resting after a morning of running at full throttle on nursery rhymes and building blocks. As Rosemary finished the story, a collective sigh seemed to waft out over the long, cool, colorful nursery.

      “I think you’ve sent them off to dreamland,” her aide, Melissa Roberts, whispered softly as she sat down to take over so Rosemary could take a much-needed lunch hour.

      Rosemary’s own sigh followed that of the steadily breathing children. “Whew, I’m tired! They were in rare form this morning. Must be spring, giving them so much energy.”

      “Or maybe they’ve picked up on all the talk,” Melissa said, her eyes wide and sincere. “You know…about the steeplejack.”

      “Could be,” Rosemary said, rising quietly to tiptoe to the door. “I’ve tried to explain exactly what a steeplejack is, but they can’t seem to grasp it.”

      “Just tell them he’s a superhero who climbs church steeples,” Melissa suggested, laughing as she waved Rosemary out the door. “Go on home and try to rest.”

      Rosemary wished she could rest, but home wasn’t the place for that precious commodity. Bracing herself for her father’s cold reception, she started out the door of the educational building, only to be waylaid by the church secretary, Faye Lewis.

      “He’s here,” Faye, a petite, gray-haired woman with big brown eyes, hissed as she hurried toward Rosemary as fast as her sneakers could carry her. “You’ve got to come and see to him, Rosemary. Reverend Clancy’s already gone home for his nap.”

      “See to who?” Rosemary asked, then her heart stopped. “The steeplejack? Is he here already?”

      “Oh, yes,” Faye said, her smile slicing through her wrinkled face. “And quite a handsome. devil…excuse the expression.”

      Rosemary groaned, then looked down the street toward the rambling white house she shared with her father. “Why’d he have to show up just at lunchtime? Dad will be furious if I’m late.”

      Faye gave Rosemary an exasperated look. “Well, just tell Clayton that you had something important to tend to. Surely the man can fix himself a sandwich this once.”

      “Yes, but you know he expects me to be there right at noon,” Rosemary replied, already headed toward the main office, which, along with the educational building, was set apart from the original old church.

      “Do you want me to call your father and explain?” Faye asked, a look of understanding moving across her features.

      “Would you?” Rosemary hated having someone run interference with her father, but Faye was one of the few people Clayton respected and treated with a fair amount of decency. “Tell him I’ll be a few minutes late, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

      Faye nodded, then shoved Rosemary into the plush office reception room where a tall, blue-jeans-clad man stood looking out the wide arched window that faced the church.

      Taking a quiet, calming breath, Rosemary said, “Mr. Lawrence?”

      Kirk Lawrence turned around to find the source of that soft whispery voice and was at once hit with a current so strong, he wondered if there was a kinetic energy moving through the room. He didn’t need to know her name to know this was Rosemary Brinson.

      Long swirls of chestnut-hued hair, curly to the point of being unruly, caught up with twin pearl-encrusted clips in a sensible yet attractive style, off a face that was oval in shape. Her face was youthful, yet aged, touched by the sun, yet fresh and new-blooming, with eyes that darkened to a deep blue underneath arched eyebrows the exact color of her hair. Her smile was demure, while her expression was…hopeful and hesitant all at the same time.

      She was lovely.

      “You must be Rosemary,” he managed to say as he held out a hand to take the one she offered him.

      She wore a bright pink cotton top with a long, flowing floral skirt that swirled around her legs as she stepped forward. A cloud of perfume as delicate as the scent of honeysuckle preceded her touch on his hand.

      “That’s me,” she managed to say through a shy smile. “It’s good to finally meet you, Mr. Lawrence.”

      Rosemary gave him a direct look, all the while thinking that Faye had been right. He was handsome, all right. Dark swirling hair, as close to black as she’d ever seen. When he smiled, his thick eyebrows jutted up like wings, giving him that certain appeal Faye had mentioned. But his eyes, they held Rosemary, causing her to stare at him. Their bright, clear color sharply contrasted with his tanned skin. She couldn’t decide if they were green or blue, but whatever color they might be called, his eyes were deep and luminous and…knowing. He had the eyes of an old soul, as her mother used to say.

      Realizing that she was staring, Rosemary let go of the warm hand holding hers. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

      “No, none at all,” he said, wrapping his arms across his chest in a defensive manner. “I just followed the steeple.”

      That brought her attention back to the task he’d come here for. “Yes, it’s hard to miss, isn’t it?”

      Together, they both looked out the window, up at the stark brown and gray stone of the rising bell tower that heralded the church from miles around.

      “It’s beautiful,” Kirk said, meaning