Monday Morning Faith (3 page)

Late that afternoon, I drained the last of my green tea and shut off my computer. Sitting in one position for three hours had left me stiff. A glance outside my window revealed a light drizzle icing the trees. Michigan winters could be arduous; the late fall storm system had crept in when we weren't looking. In the two weeks before my birthday we'd enjoyed Indian summer with temperatures in the low seventies. But the cold air this morning foretold change.

The hands of the office clock pointed to five thirty. I collected my purse and coat and exited the side entrance. The ice wasn't thick, just enough of a coating to make walking hazardous and unprotected windshields a real pain. I slipped on my leather gloves, thinking about the ice scraper Pop bought me for Christmas last year. One of those fancy automatic things you plug in the cigarette lighter. Clearing the windshield should be a snap.

The traffic kept the roads clear of ice, so I wouldn't have any trouble getting home once I made it out of the parking lot.

Making my way across the slippery asphalt was a little tricky, but since I wore sensible shoes — not those high-heeled horrors Nelda favored — I made good time. I grabbed the ice scraper out of the trunk, opened the driver's side, and plugged it in the receptacle. Within seconds the gimmick was doing its job.

I moved from the windshield to the side window on the driver's side — and then it happened. My right foot hit a slick spot. I made a grab for the side mirror, missed, and went down hard, ending up flat on my back on the asphalt, my feet and legs halfway underneath the car.

When the jarring pain cleared, I lay there, stunned from the fall. I would have to scoot backwards far enough to get my feet clear of the car to sit up. I placed my hands flat on the pavement.

Lord, if you love me, don't let anyone be watching.

I yelped when strong hands reached under my arms, hoisting me to my feet. I was still standing on ice, so I grabbed the mirror and turned to face my benefactor. My heart dropped to my toes as once again I found myself staring at Sam Littleton. He looked as I remembered. Kind (albeit a little bemused). Picture of health. Handsome.

He stood there on the ice as if he were Superman.

And I had just been caught in another clownish fall. I was
never
this clumsy!

He grinned. “Miss Holland. Enjoying the first bout of bad weather, are you?”

Assessing the physical damage I'd incurred, I decided I was bruised, but not broken. I straightened, shoving my glasses up on my nose. “Mr. Littleton, I've about decided you're detrimental to my health.”

He laughed, a rich warm sound in the cold air. “My apologies.”

I stared at the library's treasured tomes scattered across the icy parking lot and winced. “You dropped your books.”

“I'm sorry. I was afraid you'd broken something.” His eyes focused on the volumes. “They look to be all right.” He bent to pick up the hardbacks, and I recovered enough to help. He dumped the armload in his car with a careless abandon that set my teeth on edge. What was he thinking, treating books like that?

He offered a gloved hand and I accepted it. “You still look shaken. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

The thought of a hot mug of something in the library coffee shop was tempting. Mom and Pop wouldn't wait dinner for me. They ate at six o'clock on the dot regardless of who was there.

“Oh, I mustn't. I …”

His grip tightened on my arm. “I insist. Take a minute to relax, recover from the fall before you drive home.” He propelled me across the parking lot, ignoring my protests in a way that brought about a slow burn. Who did this man think he was? Maybe I didn't
want
coffee.

The cozy coffee shop embraced us. Aromas of fresh-brewed beans and warm spice muffins filled the air. Sam steered me to a table by the window as a young girl approached, eyeing Sam like a dieting woman eyes a supersized cheeseburger. “May I help you?” She didn't look my way.

Apparently the fall had rendered me invisible.

“Two black coffees, please.” Sam lifted a brow. “Cream?”

“No, just coffee.” I wanted a latte or hot tea, but I wouldn't quibble. Mostly because I was afraid my tongue wouldn't work right. Clearly, I was out of my element here. Coffee with a man. Not a common occurrence for me. And with him smiling at me that way, his hand next to mine on the table …

The whole thing seemed almost too intimate.

The waitress smiled at Sam and left while I searched my mind for something to talk about. My love life? Hardly. For one thing, it was nonexistent, unless you counted Harvey, Aunt Margaret's candidate. For another, it wasn't exactly a proper topic of conversation for a man I didn't even know. Maybe sports. Then again, maybe not. Sports had never been a favorite of mine, so if I wanted to sound intelligent, that was out. I steered clear of politics on general principles. People could get too impassioned about their personal choice in candidates.

So what did that leave me? I mustered a smile. “You haven't left for Papua New Guinea yet?”

Well now, that was clever since he was sitting across the table from me, clear brown eyes brimming with interest.

“January 15th.”

Color flooded my cheeks as the date struck a chord. He'd mentioned it at our first meeting. I grappled for an intelligent response. “Why Papua New Guinea?”

He picked up his napkin and polished a spoon. “I'm a retired surgeon. I'll be running a clinic in a remote village, and I'll be working with a couple of missionaries and their wives. We're trying to break the communication barrier with these particular villagers, learn more of their ways, help improve their quality of life.”

“And introduce the gospel?”

“Probably not. We don't speak their language or understand more than just a few basics of their culture. What we want to do is provide friendship, medicine, and health care in hopes that the people will begin to trust us. The gospel is still many years away for this tribe.”

He bent forward, dark eyes intent. “What about you? Do you have a church affiliation?” Our coffee arrived. Sam thanked the waitress, then awaited my response.

“I accepted Christ at an early age, but I've never felt led to the mission field.”

He reached for the sugar. “Not everyone is. I'm sure you do your share of God's work.”

“I like to think so.” Often my work with the children at the library was a ministry of its own. In addition to my other duties, I took time to oversee story hour every afternoon. That was a library tech's job, but I enjoyed watching those eager young faces come alive when I read stories of faraway, exciting places. I went on to explain that my actual “calling” was the care of my aging parents. Mom and Pop needed me, and I had dedicated my life to meeting their needs. “And I spend one Saturday a month at the hospital doing volunteer work.”

Sam stirred sugar into his coffee and tested the temperature. “I'm a member of Sandstone. You might be familiar with the church?”

“I know where it is.” Everyone knew Sandstone, the largest nondenominational congregation in Saginaw. I'd always thought they were flamboyant and somewhat flaunty with their work. They had a three-hundred-and-fifty-voice choir, the biggest fleet of buses in the area, and well over five thousand members — three thousand of whom came every Sunday.

He picked up the thread of conversation in a nice, easy-to-listen-to baritone. “I'd been peripherally involved in mission work for years, but when I lost my wife a couple of years ago I plunged in headfirst.”

I studied the rugged planes of Sam's face, the crisp wave of graying hair across his tanned forehead, the well-muscled forearms, the all-around American male good looks, and tried to imagine him in a jungle living in a mud hut — or whatever missionaries lived in. The picture didn't fit.

“Belinda died of leukemia. She was a nurse — we married in our early twenties and worked side by side all our married life.”

I offered the trite. “I'm so sorry. That must have been a terrible ordeal for both of you.”

He nodded, eyes distant. “Watching someone you love die is difficult.”

I resisted the impulse to reach out and lay my hand across his. After all, I didn't know this man. He would think I was being forward. “You mentioned you're involved in missions. Have you made trips before?”

“Short-term ones. Honduras. Guatemala. Mexico —Papua New Guinea a couple of times. New Guinea is a far deeper commitment. I'll be spending much of my time there the next few years — or those are my immediate plans.” He smiled. “God could change them anytime.”

I stared deep into my cup. “It would be difficult for me to leave the familiar behind.”

He fell silent for a moment. Then, “A wise man once said that everything he gave up was worthless compared to what he gained from serving God. Since Belinda's death I've developed a real heart for missions. I believe this is my purpose in life.”

“And that wise man was?”

“The apostle Paul.”

“Yes, of course.” Clearly I needed to devote more time to my Bible reading. “So you're going to save the natives?” I regretted the nerves-generated, flippant remark the minute it came out of my mouth. A slow heat stained my cheeks. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

He didn't appear offended. “I understand. At this point, I don't know the exact nature of my work other than to conduct a free medical clinic. One couple that I will work with has been on the field for twelve years and has yet to have any real progress with the language. It takes time — incredible amounts of time and patience — to reach these people.”

Somewhere over our second cup of coffee we became Sam and Johanna. I sat back and pondered my good fortune.
Dr.
Sam Littleton. He'd had a large practice but retired when Belinda fell ill. He'd assumed her full care in their home for the duration of her illness.

“What do you do in your spare time?” He sounded interested, not just polite.

I laughed. “Spare time? What's that?”

When he lifted a brow I elaborated. “I work full time, and my parents are in poor health. Taking care of them can be time-consuming.”

“Social life?”

“Nonexistent.”

“What if I invited you to a church concert? Would you come?”

For the oddest reason I wanted to say yes, but I'd avoided dating — or developing friendships at all — for too many years. My parents came first.

“That's very nice, but I can't.”

His eyes held mine. What did he see? A middle-aged librarian? Graying hair, large glasses (that could use a good tightening), and rather plain features? I'd been told that my eyes were my unique feature — hazel-colored with black spiky lashes. A man as handsome as Sam Littleton could have his pick of ladies. The coffee shop waitress had made that clear. Sam wasn't really interested in me. He was just being nice.

He smiled. “Maybe another time.”

“Maybe.” I didn't want to close the door, though I knew the chances of seeing him other than in the library were slim to none.

He walked me to my car and I drove home, my mood as treacherous as the icy highways. I seldom wasted time wondering if I was missing out on life, but tonight the thought entered my head. I was forty. Single. Mom and Pop wouldn't live forever, and when they were gone I would have no close family other than Aunt Margaret, if she was still alive. I shivered in the car's interior
. Aunt Margaret.

Images of the shoe cake made me queasy.

Nelda phoned around nine. “I saw you walking across the parking lot with that good-looking man who's been checking out all the books on Papua New Guinea.”

“You've seen Sam in the library? Why haven't I noticed him before?”

“If you'd come up for air once in a while, not be so buried in your computer, you might see what's going on around you. Half the females at the library are in love with that man. The other half haven't noticed him yet.”