Sealed with a Kiss (12 page)

“It was nice meeting you, Sam.” Claire held out her hand. Sam clasped her palm and cupped her hand between his, glad for her friendship.

“The pleasure was all mine.”

 

The auctioneer's gavel banged to signal that the winning bid on the Cottonwood Estate package was final. For an offer of $175 the winner was entitled to a steak dinner on the back patio of the famous plantation house and a night in the master suite.

“The Sycamore House is our final dinner prize of the night. It was a last-minute entry and, believe it or not, has earned the single biggest payoff with only one bid,” Latimer teased the crowd to stir up attention. He'd been masterful at creating a buzz over each prize to keep the folks excited and make the winners feel special. “Seems this guy wants to sample Tara Elliott's cooking something awful. Let's hope the dinner isn't something awful.” Laughter at the bad pun rippled across the room.

From the moment Sycamore House was mentioned Tara's skin suffused with heat. No deep
breathing could hold the rush of color from her face and there was no way to escape and pray until her pulse slowed.

“For a bid of
one thousand dollars…
” Latimer paused for dramatic effect, “the prize goes to Sam Kennesaw!”

As Sam made his way through the crowd to accept the hastily prepared gift certificate, Tara felt the color drain from her face faster than it had rushed there. Sam didn't have the money for such a foolish gesture. She'd have burned him dinner for free if he'd asked.

He seemed bent on giving away what little money and possessions he had, to prove they meant nothing to him. But Tara suspected there was more to Sam than met the eye. She saw the way he appreciated the fine things in her grandmother's home. She'd seen it all her life. He longed for the treasures he would never have. His Spartan life was a cover and the cover was wearing thin.

“Can I help it if I'd like to have one meal in that house that doesn't take place in the kitchen?” Sam asked as they strolled together toward the outdoor grandstand.

His downcast eyes prevented her from guessing the true meaning behind his question. Was he making light of the exorbitant price that he couldn't afford or was he telling her he'd always felt inferior in her home? Either explanation was an issue that
had to be resolved if there was any chance for their relationship to progress.

The long days of managing Bridges, planning the fund-raiser and then lying awake trying to figure out Sam's motives were exhausting. With her leave from The Heritage coming to an end it was time to “fish or cut bait” as Ward Carlton would say. She couldn't straddle the fence any longer.

Sam had one more week to show his true colors and then she'd decide her future based on facts and not emotions. She trusted God for the strength and peace to face the outcome.

“We could have flown to New York and ordered the finest dinner they have to offer and not spent a thousand dollars,” she admonished. “Sam, what were you thinking? You're trying to get a new business off the ground and you can't afford to donate profits that don't exist. At least that's the way it is for me so I presume you're in the same boat.”

“You don't need to worry about my finances,” he tried to reassure her.

“I can't help it. My grandmother's crazy scheme got you into this and I'll feel partly responsible if you fail and end up worse off than before.”

“You don't have to be afraid I'm going to fail. I have friends—”

“Your
friends
are exactly why I'm scared,” Tara interrupted. She lowered her voice as they approached an area congested with revelers who
waited for the live music to begin. “If they decide to ‘call in their markers,' or however those people put it, you could be in big trouble. Sam, I'm terribly concerned about you,” she poured out her fears.

“Have I told you you're beautiful when you're in a dither?”

The country band kicked off the night's entertainment with a lively duel between fiddle and banjo. Sam captured Tara's hand and pulled her to his side. The twinkle in his eyes implied he had little care at the moment for financial worries. The soft kiss he pressed to the top of her head confirmed it.

“I
spoke to Dad,” Ethan said the next morning over breakfast. “We can wait another week for your decision but you'll have to be back in the office in ten days if you're going to stay with the firm. The fall schedule is locked in and we'll need you to work the estate sales.”

The gray-haired woman who was Ethan's assistant passed him some local honey for his toast as he sweetened the deal. “The commissions on those sales will be huge. You'd have no problem affording a manager to run your little country store and you'd have this home for getaways.”

Tara tried to focus on the serious nature of their conversation, but she couldn't stop the flashbacks to the night before. The happy spark in Sam's eyes, the gleam of white teeth when he smiled, the feel of his hand holding hers possessively.

She wasn't misreading him. He cared. She was certain of it. But she also understood that time and circumstances had him guarding his heart from her.

“Tara?” Ethan tapped his butter knife on the edge of the Wedgwood plate. “Are you listening to me?”

“I'm sorry.” She returned full attention to her guest. “I'm worn out from yesterday, as I'm sure you must be.”

She placed her hand over his wrist and smiled her gratitude. “I can't thank you enough for making this trip and sticking around today for more appraisals.”

He dismissed her comment with a wave. “It's my job and it got me out of that city heat for the weekend.” He looked out the bay window at the backyard, awash with color from hearty summer blossoms. “I see why you love this place. It's a piece of history and your grandmother's things are incredible. I won't mind staying here another night. Besides,” he paused to take a bite from his toast. “I had to stick around to see my bike loaded and on its way to Manhattan.”

“I still can't believe you bid on a motorcycle.” She chuckled behind her hand.

“Not just any motorcycle. A hundredth-anniversary
Heritage Springer
. Come on,” he insisted. “That bike was meant for me.”

“What in the world are you going to do with it? If you ride that thing in the city you'll be a statistic inside of a week,” she teased.

“I sold the '55 Bird at a nice profit. That leaves an empty bay in the garage in Westhampton. I may never ride it but it'll be a nice conversation piece while the value appreciates.”

“Is everything about profit with you, Ethan?”

He chewed his last bite of bacon and squinted into the sunshine while he thought it over. “When the family business is all about turning grandma's old trinkets into somebody's new treasure, I suppose everything is about profit.” He peered at her as if for the first time. “Do you suddenly have a problem with that?”

“No.” She shook her head. “And forgive me if I sounded critical. Your family has been incredibly generous to me. I adore the business and, if you'll still have me, I may be back at my desk next month.”

Her gaze fell to the Irish linen tablecloth that had been her grandmother's favorite. She fingered the hand-sewn lace trim. “It's just that since I opened Bridges to help out the community, that's become more important than turning a personal profit. You think that's foolish, don't you?”

He reached across the corner of the table, and raised her chin so their eyes met. “I think you've inherited a philanthropic gene from your grandmother. This town is very fortunate to have you.” He winked. “And so is Sam Kennesaw.”

 

The regulars at Bridges had come to expect an occasional minor explosion from downstairs as
bikes backfired and sputtered through the alley exit. On Thursday Tara's nerves were shot from wondering whether or not Sam would show for the evening's Bible class. With each
bang!
beneath her feet she jumped in agitation. She'd spilled more espresso than she'd sold.

Sam had been extraordinarily busy since Texas Treasure Days, a situation she suspected was by design. She'd made it clear during several conversations that she wanted a Christ-centered relationship one day. If Sam had any expectations of their friendship progressing further, he had to make more of an effort to reconnect with his faith. By dodging her, he was dodging God.

“There's such a nice breeze this evening. Why don't we use the ceiling fans instead of the air-conditioning?” Lacey suggested as they pulled chairs into a circle.

“Great idea,” Tara agreed. “We have frozen yogurt with toppings for dessert to keep us cool. Why don't you prop the door open so latecomers will feel welcome.”

She considered calling downstairs to remind Sam of her invitation, but this had to be his choice.

The study group was a diverse cross section of the small community. Curious students who sought answers and confirmation of their faith brought their friends. Housewives who needed a break from the kids came for an uplifting escape. Ward Carl
ton often dropped by with a truck driver in need of some fellowship.

There was always excited chatter with faith at the center of the discussion. Tonight's gang seemed ready to relate the struggles of Christ and his apostles two thousand years ago to modern experiences.

“We're on page twenty of the workbook. Our study tonight is on Luke, Chapter 5, as Jesus calls Peter to become a fisher of men.” Tara referred to her leader's guide. She'd battled her lifelong fear of speaking before a group and accepted the teaching role. The detailed curriculum made simple work of leading an important discussion.

“I know you've all heard this story since you were little kids.” She glanced pointedly at a couple of college sophomores. “And for some of you that was last week.” They chuckled at her running joke of feeling old at twenty-eight.

“So let's take a snapshot from a different perspective tonight.” She laid aside her workbook, closed her eyes for a moment of silent prayer and then leaned forward with hands clasped on her lap. “Imagine this. Peter fished all night long. He didn't catch a thing, so he won't get paid. He's bone-tired, his bank account is empty and his wife is waiting at home for his check so she can buy school clothes for the kids. But before weary, smelly Peter can go home and break the bad news, he has to clean his nets.

“There's a crowd of people on the shore and, of course, he wonders what's going on. His brother Andrew has been raving about this charismatic teacher named Jesus and it turns out the guy's right there at the dock. While Peter's cleaning up, he can't help overhearing the rabbi who boldly asks if he can sit in one of the fishing boats. For some reason, Peter's moved to stop what he's doing and accommodate the request. When Jesus finishes speaking, he turns to Peter and tells him to drop his nets back into the deep and prepare for a catch.”

Tara glanced around the circle. “If you were Peter, how would you have reacted?”

After several fishing puns they settled into earnest discussion.

“I'd probably have argued with the guy,” one young man admitted. “If my dad asks me to get out of bed early on a Saturday morning when I'm whipped after a long week, there's gonna be a battle.”

“That's understandable,” Tara sympathized. “Peter may have felt the same way. He wanted to go home to bed and here's this stranger telling him what to do.”

“But Peter never argued with Christ,” Lacey reminded. “Why do you think that was?”

“Maybe he was too tired,” another student quipped.

Tara laughed along with the group. “Or maybe
in listening, Peter recognized Christ's authority. Think of this…the minute the boats began to sink under the weight of the catch, Peter fell at Jesus's feet and cried out, ‘Lord, I am a sinful man!'”

“If his boat was sinking why wasn't he crying for help?” A newcomer appeared confused. “That would be the logical thing to do.”

“But there was nothing logical about that day or that situation for Peter. Just as the thief on the cross recognized the divinity of Christ, Peter had the same revelation. And at the moment of knowing he was in the presence of perfection, he realized his own sinful nature.”

Tara paused, allowing time for the words to sink in, to let Peter's experience become real and not just a story from a child's picture book.

“Why would the Son of God reveal himself to a fisherman?” a young girl named Sandy asked.

“Good question. You'd think Jesus would go to the politicians and high priests who could accomplish something with the news that the promised Messiah had finally come. Instead, He chose to reveal Himself to tax collectors, servants, prostitutes and thieves. Common people. Sinners. And He continued to choose common men to be His apostles and carry His mission throughout the world.

“It's no different today,” Tara continued. “He comes to common people, even in our sin, asking us to work with Him to continue His mission.”

“It's hard to get your arms around that concept,” Lacey said. “But the fact is that each of us means so much to God that He will never give up on us. And when we seek God's kingdom we witness His response to us in so many obvious ways that we wonder how we missed it for so long.”

“Or why we tried to ignore it.” Sara, a mother of three preschoolers admitted as she dabbed at the corner of her eye.

“What do you mean, Sara?” Lacey encouraged.

“I knew from the day my first son was born that God was calling me closer. Jim didn't want to go to church so I stayed away, too. By the time all three kids were here, God's voice was so loud and so constant I couldn't escape it. As blessed as I was there was a hole in my life and only He could fill it,” she spoke through her tears. “I want my kids to experience God's love the same way I do. I want them to grow up in that love and my constant prayer is that one day Jim will know it, too.”

“It would be nice if God would snap His fingers and make everybody obey Him,” Sandy said.

Many of the older people in the group smiled at the notion they'd all shared in their lives. Ward spoke up. “Maybe so, but God doesn't work that way. He's a gentleman. He wants us of our own free will and no other way. If Peter had decided to go on to the house that morning, Jesus probably would have let him go. But Peter answered the call and his
work to carry out Christ's mission has lasted for two thousand years. That's quite a legacy for a fisherman when most of us just want a ten-pound bass to hang on the wall.”

Over laughter and more fishing puns the young mother dried her eyes and encouraged the college students to seek Christian partners
before
marriage. The topic splintered into several conversations as the room fell into its usual practice of breaking into small groups for more intense discussion.

Tara stepped behind the counter where she emptied small baskets of pungent grounds and refilled them. Soon the aroma of fresh espresso wafted through the store. Lacey rounded the bar with a spark of excitement in her eyes.

“What are you up to?” Tara quizzed her friend.

“You mean, what is Sam up to?” Lacey smiled.

Tara lowered her voice and grasped Lacey's hand. “Don't play games. What are you talking about?”

Lacey angled her head toward the door, still standing wide to allow the night breeze inside. “It's getting dark so I was going to close the door to keep the mosquitoes out. Sam is sitting on the landing in one of your Adirondack chairs.”

 

He leaned back against the cushions striped in Bridges' trademark green and sucked in a deep breath. Sam was glad he'd paused outside the door before taking the plunge into the Bible study group.

A half hour earlier, he'd climbed the steps in his sneakers, intentionally keeping his presence unknown since he still wasn't sure he'd go inside. He wasn't sure he belonged in there. What if God had given up on him?

His heart pounded harder with each step closer to the top. He wasn't winded from the climb, that wasn't it. He was growing accustomed to the way his pulse raced when he was around Tara and that wasn't it, either. This peculiar heartbeat was more like anxiety over being confronted with something he'd rather not face.

The inviting Adirondack was all the distraction he'd needed. He'd eased down into the comfortable chair, where he was able to overhear the conversation flowing through the open door. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop for so long, but once they got started he found himself caught between a rock and a hard place, scared to go inside and join in, but afraid to walk back down the steps and miss something important.

To his very core he felt he was meant to be in that chair at that moment hearing those words. It was creepy to admit, but there was no getting around it. The discussion of God's calling being something you can't ignore, no matter how many distractions or blessings there are in life, had hit home.

The small voice Sam thought of as his conscience had been silent for years. It wasn't that he'd
done anything to be ashamed of, in fact, he was quite proud of his life. But he wasn't doing the things he knew in his heart that he should. Being back in Beardsly was an awakening for the voice. It pestered him during solitary times in the shop and it nagged him at night in his tiny apartment when he tried to sleep. It even attacked him on the bike when the rumble of the engine should be loud enough to cover a small voice.

And right now the only thing louder than the voice was the pounding of his heart. In Ward's easy way of breaking things down to the basics, he had put it simply. God is a gentleman who wants us of our own free will and no other way. Until Sam reaffirmed that decision for his life, the voice was going to give him a fit.

For the first time in many years, he closed his eyes to send up a brief prayer for guidance.

“Would you prefer cookie sprinkles or candy-bar crumbles on your frozen yogurt?”

A slow smile spread across his face at the sound of Tara's voice. The curious mixture of Southern drawl and New York insistence had become his favorite interruption. He lifted his eyelids to see her hands outstretched, offering two cups of yogurt with sweet toppings.