Endless Chain (2 page)

From the top of the last hill she had glimpsed a steeple, and she knew she was nearly at her destination. She had spent most of the walk trying on “Elisas” for this interview. The stakes were too high to give this less than her best. She needed this job. She could not thank a God she no longer believed in for making it available, but she was grateful that coincidence had gone her way. Now if this brief streak of luck would simply hold.

She reviewed her credentials. She was slight, but she was strong. That would be important to show. She must not appear over-or under-qualified. She must seem accessible, but not chatty. Intelligent and resourceful, but not above menial labor. Interested in the church, but never nosy.

She needed to explain that she would willingly work long or late hours without sounding desperate or pushy.

She needed to tell as much of the truth about herself as she could, so that she would not be tripped up in her own lies.

Old Miller Road curved sharply as she descended the last hill, and when she rounded it she saw the church just a hundred yards in front of her. Like so many of the area churches, it was white, with a tall steeple gracefully in proportion to the building. The roof was dazzling tin; the wings that jutted from either side had been designed to harmonize, not detract. Lovely old trees dotted the grounds; a garden of some sort lay against one side, and as she neared, she saw roses in bloom, despite August’s moist heat. Someone cared about those roses—and cared
for
them.

She wondered if gardening would be part of the sexton’s job, and she tried to remember when the roses had been pruned at the home she had shared with Gabrio. When had they been fertilized and watered, and how had they been selected? Now she wished she had paid more attention.

She was fifty yards closer before she noticed the two trucks in front of the church, parked beside a white sign. At first she merely noted their presence, but as she drew closer, she saw there was more to note. Much more.

A group of half a dozen boys—high-school age, she thought—were gathering near the sign, which stood about twenty feet to the right of the front door. The boy in the lead, just a few feet ahead of the others, was swinging what looked like an axe. She heard shouts, profanity and forced high-pitched laughter that shattered her preoccupation with the coming interview.

Her pulse sped; her hands grew damp. She stumbled to a stop. This scene was too reminiscent of another in her past, the same high-intensity, testosterone-fueled prequel to violence. For a moment she wondered if she could escape without being seen. Then she read the sign the boys were clearly bent on destroying, and something inside her snapped.

“Stop it!” She was running before she had time to think. Not away, which would have made sense, but directly toward them.
“¡Sinvergüenzas! ¿Qué andan haciendo?”

Perhaps the boys weren’t as brave as they’d thought. Perhaps they were only interested in a new and more personal victim. Whatever their reasons, they stopped and turned to watch her approach. She slowed to a halt just in front of the sign, reaching it before they could.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in English. She glared at them, burying all lingering fears where they could not be seen. She knew these boys, had met them a hundred times in a hundred different places. She was too well acquainted with pack mentality, wolves in jeans or soldiers’ uniforms, men and boys who could forget what made them human as long as they stood shoulder to shoulder with others like themselves.

Oh yes, she knew these boys and how dangerous they could be.

The boy in the lead was narrow-shouldered and hipped, with a shock of light brown hair falling over his eyes. He had the soft cheeks of mid-adolescence, a tiny cut on his chin, perhaps from inexperience with shaving. For a moment he looked uncertain, as if he might consider leaving if everyone would just shut their eyes so he could slip away.

Then his expression hardened. “Hey,
chica,
who do you think you are?”

She wondered what B movie he’d watched for that bit of Spanish.

“Get away from there before you get hurt,” he said when she didn’t move.

“You would hurt me over a sign? A sign in front of God’s house? You’re not afraid He’s watching, waiting for you to make a better choice?”

For a moment fear flickered in his eyes. Her own gaze flicked to the boys behind him, then back to his. “They’re not worth it,” she said in a softer voice. “They want you to take the risk while they watch. What kind of friends are those?”

“Go back to Mexico, cunt!” one of the boys shouted. “We don’t need your kind here.”

“Maybe you do,” she said, not taking her eyes from the boy with the sledgehammer. She was glad it was not an axe, as she’d first feared. “Maybe you need a reminder this is a welcoming country, that your own grandparents or great-grandparents might have come from somewhere else.”

“Just do it!” one of the boys in the back shouted at the leader. “Just smash it and let’s get out of here.”

“I’m not going to let you,” Elisa said, as calmly as she could. “And I’ve seen you, every one of your faces. If you damage this sign, I will remember and describe you, one by one.”

The boy in the lead looked torn. His thoughts were easy to read. If he was arrested, someone in his life would not be happy about it.

She lowered her voice and hoped what she had to say was just for his ears.

“I have a brother. I know it’s hard to stand up for yourself, but you have better instincts than this. I know you do.”

“Yeah, Leon,” one of the closer boys said. “You have girly man instincts. Even the Mex can see it.”

As if propelled by those words, Leon stepped directly in front of her, as if he planned to walk right through her. She put her hands against his shoulders and shoved. He stumbled backward, clearly caught off guard. She took that brief moment to move backward to the sign and stand firmly against it. “You will have to hit me first,” she said. “Are you willing?”

“That’s enough! What is going on here?”

None of them had noticed the approach of a man dressed in a blue polo shirt and khakis. The boys turned as the man bore down on them, and, as one, they stepped backward. Leon moved away so quickly Elisa could feel a breeze.

“Leon Jenkins.” The man moved to stand just in front of the boy and grabbed him by one shoulder. “Let’s hear an explanation.”

“Get your hand off me.”

“When I’m good and ready.” The man reached out, twisted the sledgehammer from Leon’s hand and tossed it on the ground behind him.

Elisa heard voices and turned her head to see a small group of women approaching from the direction of the parking lot. She slumped against the sign, sure now that she was out of danger.

“Just what is going on?” one of the oldest of the women demanded.

“Some of the local youth were planning to renovate our new sign,” the man said. His voice was low and controlled. He still sounded furious.

The other boys looked at each other, then whirled and took off for the pickups.

“Stay out of their way,” the man told the women. He didn’t take his eyes off Leon, who was squirming and clawing at his hand. Only when the pickups were out of sight did the man’s hand fall to his side.

“Exactly why?” he demanded.

The boy backed away, but he didn’t run. Where could he go now? Clearly he would be caught and humiliated further if he tried.

Elisa saw the boy’s fear and his realization that nothing good could come of this. She was unaccountably moved. Now she saw a boy, just a boy like her brother, and no longer a threat. She stepped forward and rested her fingertips on the man’s arm. “He didn’t hurt me,” she said. “Not even when I pushed him away.”

“He might have tried.”

“No, it was the sign he wanted.” She turned to the sign now and read the words out loud. It was an ordinary church sign, announcing the times of services and the name of the minister. Only the last sentence, in Spanish, was at all unusual.
“Todo el Público es Bienvenido a los Servicios de La Iglesia Comunitaria de Shenandoah.”
The Shenandoah Community Church welcomes everyone to its services.

She shook her head. “You welcome everyone. A thoughtful gesture to put the words in Spanish? But controversial because you’ve targeted the Latino community? There are those who would prefer we go elsewhere?”

“Jesus ran into the same problem,” the man said.

Elisa turned back and addressed the boy. “But you’re sorry, aren’t you? Because I don’t think you really feel that way, do you? You just made a mistake today.” She lifted a brow and cocked her head to prompt his answer.

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and thrust back his shoulders. He looked as if he was going to argue; then he slumped. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Guess?” the man demanded. “Your father’s a deacon in this church, Leon.”

“So? He hates the sign worse than I do.”

“But you’re old enough to begin thinking for yourself.” Like the boy’s, the man’s posture became less defensive. “Shall you tell your father, or shall I?”

“He hates your guts.”

A muscle jumped in the man’s jaw. “If anything happens to that sign, I’ll report this incident to the police. You can tell your friends they’d better stay away, unless they’re here to join in church activities. Then they’ll be welcome. Otherwise, at the first sign of vandalism anywhere on these grounds, I’ll hunt them down and have a little chat with their parents and yours. Understand?”

The boy gave a curt nod.

The man gestured toward the group of women watching on the sidelines. “You’ve got a long walk. I suggest you get started. None of these ladies is planning to give you a ride home.”

The boy took off at a fast clip along the route that Elisa had just traveled.

Only then did the man turn to her. For the first time she had the opportunity to really take stock of him. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was the color of darkly roasted coffee, his angry eyes a blue so intense they were the most arresting feature in an immensely attractive face.

“Thank you.” He held out his hand. “Sam Kinkade. I’m the minister.”

She had already guessed that. She extended her hand. “Elisa Martinez. I hope I’ll be your new sexton.”

They stared at each other longer than politeness called for. In those unexpectedly charged seconds, she warned herself of a hundred different things. The incident with the boys had left her shaken and vulnerable. This man might well be her new employer. She was lonely and worried about getting this job. The talk of police had frightened her. Adrenaline was pumping through her body.

And still, if she subtracted all those things and added in years of hard-earned caution and the fact that she could not afford even the briefest foray into romance, she was still left with a strong attraction to Sam Kinkade.

“Well, go ahead and hire her right now, preacher,” one of the woman, the oldest, demanded, moving closer. “What other proof do you need that she can do the job? A signed statement from the Almighty?”

S
am turned to the old woman and managed a smile. His anger was just beginning to fade. He was not easily provoked, but by the same token, he was not easily placated. “Thank you, Helen. I’ll take your recommendation into consideration.”

“You do that, and don’t you try to humor me. I saw the whole thing. We could use somebody around here who takes matters into her own hands. If she’s not scared of that gang of teenage thugs, she won’t be scared of a little dirt.”

Sam walked over and slung his arm around Helen Henry’s shoulders, steering her back toward the church, which was not an easy job. She was a big-boned woman in her eighties, but she still knew how to do a day’s work. The church had been a far more boring place before she started coming regularly, and before the quilters organized and commandeered the Beehive.

Sometimes he was nostalgic for boredom.

“How’s the quilt coming?” He knew this subject would take them all the way inside.

The other women started heading inside. He walked back to Kate Brogan who was standing ten yards behind the others, and he scooped the flailing Rory out of his mother’s arms and set him on his hip, leaving Kate with only shy baby Bridget.

Sam paused a moment and turned to Elisa Martinez, who was standing exactly where he had left her. He was struck, as he had been a moment ago, by how gracefully appealing she was. She was average height and slender, wearing a simple white blouse and black pants. She had shining dark hair clipped back in 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.”

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.”

“I’m sure somebody would remove your air conditioner if you complained.”

He gave a small laugh. “And I won’t.”

The raindrops, scattered at first, were falling a little faster. He put his hand on her arm to nudge her forward. “Let’s go in.”

The house was narrow, but the porch was deep enough for several old rockers. She imagined former occupants rocking away the twilight here. “You haven’t told me what you use it for now.”