A Scarlet Cord (3 page)

“I’m sure I have, but I confess I’m terrible with names.”

“Me, too,” she admitted. “Oh, there’s Jerry now.” She waved at her father-in-law across the room, and Jerry waved back.

“Oh, sure … I met him during my second interview here. You’ll have to reintroduce me. I’ll be anxious to meet your husband, too. Or maybe I’ve already met him, as well?”

She cringed inwardly. “I’m sorry. I should have explained. Rick—my husband—died several years ago. I’m … I’m still very close to his parents. Jerry owns By Design, and I manage the company.”

“Oh, so it was the boss I ran into the other day?”

“Quite literally,” she laughed, grateful he’d not felt it necessary to express sympathy. “So what brought you to By Design?”

“Don—Pastor Steele—sent me to have business cards made up.”

“Oh, of course. We design all the church’s stationery.”

“Is that right? I’ll have to remember that. Don’s put me in charge of the capital campaign for the new Christian ed wing, and I’ve been thinking about some ideas for a logo … maybe even a newsletter … you know, just to keep people updated on how the fund-raising is going. I’ll talk to Don and see what the budget looks like.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. By Design does all the church’s design work gratis.”

“Really? That’s great. So, do you only handle the business end, or are you a designer as well?”

“I started out as a designer. My degree is actually in commercial graphics. Since I became manager I haven’t had time to do as much design work as I’d like, but I do still take on an occasional project—especially when it’s for Cornerstone.”

“Well, it sounds like a great place to work. The building is certainly impressive. Not at all what I expected to find out here on the frontier.”

She laughed. “That’s Jerry’s creative touch. He’s definitely not a frontier boy.”

His gaze traveled across the room to where Jerry was holding court at a long table. “No. I can see that.”

She tipped her head. “Jerry’s a sweetheart, though. Don’t let that brash exterior fool you. I don’t know what I’d do without him and Erika. And they are wonderful grandparents.”

“Oh, you have children?”

“A daughter. Jerica’s almost five.” She pointed proudly in the direction of the children’s table. “She’s the little brunette in the red polka dots.”

Jerica chose that moment to jump up and let out a loud squeal as an older boy tried to swipe a cookie from her plate.

“She’s the one with the mouth,” Melanie said, hanging her head and shielding her eyes in mock embarrassment.

“She’s cute.”

“She’s my joy,” she said with genuine emotion. “But she is a little
spoiled. She was just four months old when Rick died, and Grandma and Grandpa LaSalle have—” She had been about to blame her in-laws for overindulging Jerica but caught herself midsentence. “Well, we’ve
all
spoiled her a little.”

They had reached the food-laden buffet tables by now, and Joel looked over the spread in front of them. “Wow. So much food, so little time … Any recommendations?”

“Oh, right here,” she said, picking up a serving spoon from a large casserole. “You have to try Margaret Unruh’s vrenika. It’s heavenly.”

“Vrenika? I’ve never heard of it.”

“I hadn’t either until I met Mrs. Unruh. It’s an old Mennonite dish … German, I think … a little like a dumpling but with a cottage-cheese filling and the most wonderful gravy …”

He wrinkled his nose. “Sounds … um, interesting, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Your loss.” She shrugged, and scooped a small serving onto her own plate.

“Cottage cheese has never been a favorite of mine,” he said.

“You can’t even taste it. Honest.”

“Then what’s the point?” His smile was rather smug. “Thanks anyway, but I think I’ll go for something a little more familiar.” He reached for the spatula in a pan of lasagna and dished up a generous serving. “Now, this looks good.”

“Don’t say I didn’t try.” She put another dumpling on her plate.

They moved on to the end of the long stretch of tables where an impressive array of desserts awaited them. She took a small slice of cherry pie and snaked her way through dozens of tables as she looked for an empty place.

As she went by the children’s table, she checked to make sure Jerica was behaving. The Breyer sisters, eleven and thirteen, had unofficially taken charge of the younger children. Jerica was seated between the two adolescent girls, happily licking the frosting from a sugar cookie.

Melanie spotted some friends at a table near the double doors, but all the chairs were taken. The only available seats seemed to be at a large table where several young married couples had congregated. She started for the empty seats.

“Hey, Melanie,” several voices chimed, accompanied by the screech of chair legs as they adjusted to make room for her at the table.

Reluctantly, she deposited her plate on the table beside Norm Arnett.

“Hi, Melanie.” Rita Arnett leaned around her husband’s burly form and greeted her with a smile, but Melanie didn’t miss the possessive arm that went around Norm’s shoulder.

She arranged her Styrofoam cup and plastic utensils near her plate. After four years it was still difficult to watch happily married couples interact. As much as they tried to include her, eventually their conversation would turn to marriage and family life, and she would be left out. It was a painful reminder of all she’d lost.

With her place saved, she went to check on Jerica again. When she returned, Joel Ellington had taken the seat across the table from her. Introductions were made all around, and the talk turned to Joel’s move to the Midwest.

“Have you succumbed to culture shock yet?” Marti Stinson asked.

“Well, I do miss my classical radio station. All I can seem to get around here is country-western.”

“Kinda hard to sing about pickup trucks and hound dogs with an East Coast accent, huh?” Norm joked.

“Not to mention gee-tar pickin’,” Joel laughed good-naturedly.

By the time they got to dessert, it was obvious that Joel Ellington was going to fit in well here. Melanie relaxed a little, enjoying the amiable give and take and feeling happy that Joel was being made welcome. He was warm and personable, and she found herself more than a little attracted to him.

She shook her head as if to chase the thought away.
This is ridiculous. Why am I thinking such things? I don’t even know the man
. She forced her attention back to the conversation.

When she pushed away from the table and excused herself a few minutes later, Joel looked up and gave her a smile that caused her heart to beat an erratic rhythm. “It was nice to meet you, Melanie. I’ll be calling you about that logo.”

“Oh, sure … that’d be great.” Feeling uncharacteristically shy, she gave him an awkward wave and went to collect Jerica and gather the now-empty pie plate and casserole dish she’d brought.

The following Thursday evening, Melanie was putting the last of the day’s dishes into the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. Drying her hands, she went into the foyer and looked through the peephole. One large, heavily-lashed dark brown eye stared back at her. If the familiar lilting laughter of her daughter on the other side of the door hadn’t given them away, the friendly yapping of Biscuit, the LaSalles’ little bichon frise, would have.

Melanie opened the door to find Jerica sitting atop her grandfather’s shoulders. He was loaded down with shopping bags like a packhorse. Erika cradled the small dog in her arms.

“Hi, sweetie!” Melanie reached up to catch the kiss her daughter blew her.

“Hi, Mommy. Did you see my eye?”

“Is that what that was? I thought it was a big black spider. I was almost too scared to open the door.”

Jerica giggled, and Melanie closed the door behind them.

“Did she wear you out?” she asked Jerry and Erika as she led the way through the foyer to the living room.

“No more than usual,” Erika said, depositing the little dog on the floor. “We can’t stay long, but I do want to see the fashion show.”

Melanie clapped her hands. “Oh, you must have found the dress.” Jerica and her grandmother had been shopping since after Christmas for the perfect Easter dress.

“Finally. It was worth waiting for, though. Just wait till you see.” Erika pointed an impeccably manicured nail toward Jerica’s bedroom. “Run and try on your new dress for Mommy, sweetie. And don’t forget—”

“I know … I know, Grammy,” Jerica interrupted. “The tag goes in the back!” She lugged the largest shopping bag down the hallway, singsonging all the way. “The tag goes in the ba-ack. The tag goes in the ba-ack …”

Biscuit pattered behind her, his dog tags jangling. Jerica turned and, backing down the hall, shook a pudgy finger at the dog, a nervous waver in her voice. “No, Biscuit! Stay! Bad dog. Stay.” Her voice climbed an octave. “Mommy?”

“Just go, Jerica. He won’t hurt you,” Melanie said, shaking her head in exasperation.

“Biscuit! Come,” Erika scolded, clicking her tongue. Biscuit complied, and Jerica ran back to her room and slammed the door against the tiny dog. Since she had been a toddler, Jerica had feared canines of all breeds. She tolerated Biscuit—all three and a half pounds of him—only when he was under the watchful eye of an adult.

“Come here, baby,” Erika cooed, scooping up the dog, then slumping onto the sofa with an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, for half the energy of your little dynamo! She’s a treasure, Mel. A real treasure.”

“And you’re not one bit prejudiced, Erika,” Melanie teased.

The elder Mrs. LaSalle laughed, looking at least a decade younger than her fifty-eight years. Her smooth platinum-blond hair was styled in a chic, short pageboy, and her olive skin bore only faint crow’s-feet. She had a dancer’s build and wore her extensive wardrobe beautifully.

Jerry LaSalle plopped onto the sofa beside his wife, feigning exhaustion. She put a hand on his knee. “One quick glimpse of the
little princess in her new duds, and then we’d better get you home to bed, Grampa.”

“Well, you’d better hurry, or you may have to carry me.”

“Poor baby.” Erika patted her husband’s cheek affectionately.

They made a handsome couple, and Melanie knew that theirs was a happy and satisfying marriage—one that had been strong enough to weather the tragic death of their only child. Though at times Melanie felt smothered by their acute interest in her life—and Jerica’s—she also felt blessed that she’d been able to offer them the gift of Rick’s child. Jerica was a precious antidote to their loss. And Melanie knew as well that they had come to love
her
as their own daughter.

Now Jerica skipped back down the hallway and turned a pirouette in front of the fireplace. The frilly hem of her new tangerine-colored dress swirled about her thin legs, and she curtsied before them.

“Ooh, don’t you look pretty,” Melanie said. “I hope you remembered to tell Grammy thank you.”

“Did I, Grammy?”

“Of course you did, pumpkin.”

“Looks pretty sharp, squirt,” Jerry said. “You’ll have to beat the little boys off with a stick.”

“Grampa! Don’t!” Jerica stamped a tiny foot and furrowed her brow in irritation.

“Oops, sorry. I forgot.” He turned to Melanie. “I was informed this afternoon that Miss Jerica is not, has never been, nor will ever be interested in B-O-Y-S.”

“I see,” Melanie said with mock seriousness. “Well, maybe I’d better get that in writing. It could come in
very
handy about ten years from now. Do you think this aversion could possibly last until she’s out of college?”

“Don’t count on it, Mommy … don’t count on it,” Jerry sighed. “It will probably—” The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted him. “Go ahead and get that, Mel.” He motioned toward the phone. “We need to be going anyway.”

She went to the table in the hallway and lifted the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Melanie?”

“Yes?”

“This is Joel Ellington, the new CE director …”

“Oh, hi, Joel. How are you?” From the corner of her eye she saw Jerry and Erika exchange glances. Aware that they were listening intently to her end of the conversation, and acutely conscious of the heat that suddenly rose to her cheeks, Melanie turned her back to them.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Joel said. “Listen, I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home. I wondered if we could set up a time to visit about the logo for the capital campaign.”

“Oh, sure. When would be a good time for you?”

“Well, I assume beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll make time whenever it’s convenient for you.”

“We’re kind of swamped right now. Do you mind working on Saturdays?”

“Not at all. Do you mean this coming Saturday?”

“I think that would work. Hang on, let me check my calendar.” She carried the cordless phone to her desk and flipped through her Day-Timer. “Yes, I think that would be fine. Why don’t you meet me at the studio around 10:30? Does that work for you?”

“You bet. Is the office open on Saturday?”

“Well, not officially, but there’s usually somebody in the building. I’ll wait in the lobby for you and make sure you can get in.”

“Great. I’ll see you Saturday, then.”