Beloved Counterfeit (17 page)

While she’d been hard at work taming girls, Micah Tate had turned her dining room into a reading room.
Of all the nerve.

Chapter 20

Emboldened, Ruby stepped into the dining room. “Shouldn’t you be working on a sermon, Mr. Tate?”

Micah let the book fall to the table, where it landed with a thud. Again he made to rise; again the chair wobbled against long legs. This time, however, he caught it before it toppled.

“Yes, well, I was—”

“Reading.” Ruby retrieved the novel. “I know. I am a fan of Mr. Defoe, though I must admit I’ve not found the time to read this book in quite some time. Years, in fact.”

She paused to decide whether to continue.
Oh, why not?

“I’m far too busy with the raising of children and the running of a boardinghouse to take on such a novelty.” She sounded like a shrew, yet the words were out and there was nothing to be done for it.

Ruby returned the book to its place on the shelf nearest the window then slowly turned to face Micah Tate. “If you were waiting for me to come back downstairs before you departed, you needn’t have.”

He looked crestfallen, something that surprised her. Even more of a surprise was the guilt she once again felt at speaking with such a sharp tongue.

An apology rushed to her lips, yet she bit it back as she settled across the table from him once more. What was it about this man that brought out her less-than-nice side?

Ah yes, it was the irritation he caused nearly every time he crossed her threshold.

Yet at this moment, he seemed as nice as could be. Not a bit of irritation about him.

Ruby glanced past the lamp to the pages he’d been so unwilling to share earlier. “Have you finished your sermon, Mr. Tate?”

Micah shrugged. “I’ve done a passable job of putting something together, but I’m not certain I’ll do the opportunity justice.”

Leaning against the back of the chair, Ruby regarded the wrecker across the table. The words tumbled from her mouth even as she wished not to say them. “Perhaps you’d read me what you’ve got.” She paused. She was tired. So very tired. “Try your sermon out on me,” she continued. “If you want,” she hastily added. “You’re certainly under no obligation.”

Gratitude replaced a blank stare. “You’d listen?” He paused. “Surely you’ve other things more pressing than to hear me ramble.”

Here was her chance to plead her cause and remove herself to the soft bed that awaited in her attic room. “No,” she said carefully, “nothing that won’t wait until you’ve read your sermon to me.”

“I go by notes,” he said almost apologetically. “An outline, really. I don’t actually read. And I have to stand. Can’t sit.”

Micah paused, and unless Ruby missed her guess, he seemed a bit flustered. Was it her or the sermon? She’d not ask, though she’d dearly love to know.

“I’m not making a lick of sense, am I?”

“No,” she said, “but I’ve come to understand that’s a part of conversing with you on occasion, Mr. Tate. So please begin doing whatever it is you do.” Ruby gave him a mock-serious look. “Or should I don my Sunday hat and gloves so as to give you more of the atmosphere of church?”

“I believe I can close my eyes and imagine it, but I do thank you all the same,” he said with equal formality and a twinkle in his eye.

“If you’re certain, then,” she teased. “Though I rarely imagine a church smelling of conch chowder and fresh-baked pie.”

“I have it on good authority, Miss O’Shea, that the Lord is fond of those things he’s created, namely conch chowder and fresh-baked pie, so why not scent His churches with such things?”

Ruby giggled like a schoolgirl. “Mr. Tate, I’m no authority on these matters, so I will, of course, defer to you, but I cannot recall ever reading in the Bible that the Lord either created or prefers to smell pie and chowder.”

Micah reached for his Bible and began to thumb through the pages. When he found what he sought, he met Ruby’s gaze and cleared his throat. “I beg to differ,” he said. “Right here in Philippians, chapter 4: ‘But I have all, and abound: I am full, having received of Epaphroditus the things which were sent from you, an odour of a sweet smell, a sacrifice acceptable, wellpleasing to God.’ ”

She leaned forward to try to see what he’d read. “I fail to see where there’s any talk of chowder and pie.”

“Oh, that’s right here,” he said. “Where Paul mentions the sweet smell and a sacrifice acceptable and pleasing to God.”

He turned the Bible around, and Ruby read it. Sure enough, it said what he claimed. “I’m new at this,” she said. “So I’m going to trust your interpretation, though I suspect you’re teasing me just a bit.”

The wrecker’s gaze met hers. Again there was amusement in his expression. “I’m not a man given to much speculation about heaven, Miss Ruby, but I suspect what the Lord’s got for us to eat up there, if indeed we’re fed, will be at least as good as your pie and chowder.”

“Oh, now, Micah,” she said then regretted her use of his first name. “Mr. Tate, that is.”

“I prefer Micah.”

Ruby nodded. “Anyway, I don’t see how the Maker of the universe cares for human things like smell and taste. It doesn’t make sense. After all, He’s God.”

“Ah, but it does make sense.” Micah rested both hands on the table and seemed to be daring her to argue the point.

“Show me in there.” She pointed to the Bible. “I want to see where God talks about things like that.”

“Like taste, perhaps?”

“Yes,” she said. “Start with taste.”

Micah seemed to warm to the challenge. His grin broadened then slowly faded until he’d shuffled the pages and found his place. “ ‘O taste and see that the Lord is good.’ ” He looked up. “Psalm 34. Want one more?” When she nodded, he set about finding another. “ ‘As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.’ ” Again he looked up. “Song of Solomon.”

She shook her head. “That makes no sense. Explain what he’s talking about there.”

Micah looked at the page, and by degrees, his face turned nearly as red as his hair. “Actually, I’d really rather try out my sermon on you if that’s agreeable.”

Ruby nodded, although she wondered about the man’s strange reaction. She’d have to go find that book Song of Solomon and see what in the world had the wrecker so embarrassed.

“All right. Let me find my place.” Clearing his throat, Micah Tate set the Bible aside and shuffled through his pile of pages. With a glance in her direction, he stood and began.

“We are,” Micah said, “a people who demand much from God but more from ourselves. When God shows Himself to be God and ignores our demands, we are surprised, angry even. When we prove human and fail, we have the same reaction only directed at ourselves.”

As he spoke, she listened as much to his voice as to the words he said. His accent, touched at the edges with a slow drawl, was familiar. Texas, perhaps. Or possibly some other state nearby.

No, she decided, he was a Texan. She knew from her days in Galveston what a man from Texas sounded like.

And what he was capable of.

This much she shook off with a roll of her shoulders as she returned her concentration to his words rather than his voice. His oversized feet wearing a rut in the floor, Micah began to speak of God’s ability to cast our past behind us and see only our future. Would that she could depend on this.

Somehow Ruby never could quite feel washed clean. Perhaps it was the continuing specter of Papa, of Thomas Hawkins, and of men like Jean Luc Rabelais and nameless others, even the passing thought of Remy Dumont, that kept her past from being past.

Or perhaps the problem lay with her inability to forgive herself. This much Micah discussed at length, not as it related specifically to her, of course, but as a generality.

Then he said something completely outlandish, and Ruby held up her hand to stop him. “One minute, please. I’m willing to believe God cares about human things like taste and smell, but I fail to see how He can just wipe the slate clean and declare that none of those bad things I’ve done count anymore.”

Micah stopped his pacing but said nothing for what seemed like a full minute, maybe more. “That’s a tough one.” He set the papers on the table and rested both hands on the back of the chair. “I know what the Bible says, but I have to admit I don’t always feel like it applies to me.”

“A fine preacher you’ll be, then.” Soon as the words were out, she clamped her hands over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said through her fingers. “That was awful.”

His shoulders slumped. “No, it’s the truth.”

Shaking her head, Ruby stumbled from her chair. “Really, no,” she said. “Your sermon, it was very good.”

Micah seemed doubtful, though he remained silent.

“Truly good,” she said. “Why, I was, well, I was. . .”

“Speechless?” he asked.

“Yes, well, no, actually.” She pressed her palms on the table and leaned toward him. “Honestly, Micah, I think you’re trying too hard. The things you said, they were really good. You speak from your heart. It’s just that, well. . .”

“Go on.”

She lowered her gaze. “I liked it better when you were explaining things to me.”

“Better?”

Ruby braved a look and saw he seemed neither displeased nor particularly happy. “Yes, when you preach, you’re different. But when you’re answering my questions, oh, Micah, I mean Mr. Tate, you make me understand.”

When Ruby attempted a grab for the notes, Micah swiped them away. “Go on,” he said as he straightened and crossed his hands over his chest. “You don’t need these to tell me how you feel.”

“No, I suppose not.”

She walked around the table to pick up Mrs. Campbell’s copy of
Robinson Crusoe
. “Do you ever feel like this man, Mr. Tate? Like the whole world is going on somewhere beyond your horizon and you’ve no way to leave the place you find yourself in order to join them?”

Micah’s nod was barely discernible in the dim lamplight.

“Well, that’s what I feel most Sundays when I listen to people who understand the ways of the Lord much better than I do. I feel like I’ve landed myself on this island where I’m stuck with my sinful self, and meanwhile there are all these good people who have something I’m missing out on.” She sighed. “I’m not making a bit of sense, am I?”

Micah’s eyes widened, and he sank into the nearest chair. For a moment she thought she might lose him to apoplexy or some other aptly named condition. He certainly appeared unable to breathe, to speak, or to do anything but stare at her as if she’d grown a second nose.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice sounding more like the squeak of a mouse than that of a woman with an opinion. “Oh, I’ve really done it, haven’t I? Please don’t listen to me.”

While the wrecker seemed powerless to stop her, Ruby snapped up the sermon notes and shook them. “This, Mr. Tate, is a good sermon. I’m a silly fool who’s only just learning who this God is I promised to serve.” She paused. “Seven weeks now,” she said. “No, wait, it’s eight now, isn’t it? Yes, it’s eight. Oh, I’m rambling.”

Setting the notes back on the table, Ruby turned to take a walk of shame toward the stairs.
Leave it to me to chase a future preacher away from the ministry.

“I’ve done enough damage here, Mr. Tate,” she said over her shoulder as she reached the stairs. “Please promise me you’ll do two things: Forget you were ever here, and let yourself out when you’re finished using the dining room.”

Ruby got three steps up the stairs when she heard the familiar squeak behind her. She froze. “Mr. Tate, is that you standing on my squeaky step?”

Chapter 21

“It is,” Micah said.

Ruby gripped the handrail to steady herself. “I distinctly requested that you do two things. Following me up the stairs was neither.”

“Turn around, Miss O’Shea. Ruby.” His voice was low but firm. “I refuse to talk to your back,” he added in an even softer tone.

“No,” she said.

“I’d like very much to continue this conversation.” Again the stair squeaked, giving her hope he’d stepped backward. “Please,” he added, and she knew he’d only moved closer.

Close enough to cause her to look toward the top of the stairs and wonder if she might be better off racing toward her room than remaining in this ridiculous predicament. Yet something kept her rooted in place.

Shame—yes, that’s what it was. Her old familiar friend.

“Look,” she said slowly. “I’ve done you a terrible disservice, Mr. Tate, and while there’s no way to make up for it, I’d like to—”

“Ruby.” His hand touched her shoulder, and she resisted the urge to shrug it off. “Please.” Gently he turned her until she faced him. “Stop talking.”

What happened next was unclear, for Ruby found her feet no longer touching the ground while the room spun around her. She regained her senses as Micah Tate deposited her in a chair just inside the circle of lamplight.

His hand cupped her jaw while his face wore a strange expression. “You,” he said, “are a source of continual amazement.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but the wrecker placed his finger across her lips. “My turn to talk,” he said. “Though I need a minute to decide what to say.”

“All right.”

He gave her a look of mock irritation then stood to take up his pacing, stepping in then out of the light until she grew weary of watching. Her eyes grew heavy, and she quickly blinked to keep them from closing altogether.

When Micah snapped his fingers, Ruby’s eyes flew open. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “I’m just—”

“Tired? Yes, I can see that.” He disappeared behind her then returned holding the novel that had started all this trouble. “Have you read this book?”

Nodding, Ruby watched him retrieve his Bible. “And this one? Have you read it?”

Ruby shook her head. “I intend to, but all I’ve seen of it is parts.”

“Parts.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was contemplating her answer or making jest of it. “Yes, you know. Whatever parts Rev. Carter talks about in church, I read. Then when I get a spare minute—which isn’t nearly as often as I’d like, I’m afraid—I go back and read it again, starting where I left off and going until something makes me stop. Most times I’ll lose all track of time reading. It’s a fascinating book.”