The Carpenter's Daughter (9 page)

Jesse

Anticipation was almost foreign to me. Not that I didn’t look forward to a new day, but eagerness didn’t usually smack against a wall of impatience the way it did that week. I liked to live each moment—take every day and savor whatever came at me. Those six days? Not so much.

I had a Polaroid of Sapphira’s face, not only those amazing eyes, burned in my mind. The image made the hours tick by like a worm crossing a dry gravel road. Slow. Unbelievably slow.

Owning a distinct attraction to this odd little carpenter girl wasn’t going to make pursuing a friendship simple. Black-and-white judgment would have probably said to lose her phone number and continue on down our divergent life courses. But wisdom wasn’t always black and white, and I was convinced that our paths intersected by design.

Wednesday night finally rolled around. When it came to punching her number into my phone, I’d forced restraint since the night after she left. There was nothing wrong with calling to make sure she’d made it to Kearney okay on Saturday night, but the more cautious, and probably reasonable, side of me said to practice a little self-possession. Didn’t need to give Sarah the wrong impression. But it was Wednesday, and reasonable to make contact to make sure she’d be coming sometime in the near future. Thank goodness.

I tugged a clean white T-shirt over my wet hair and walked barefooted across the Super 8 room I would call home for the week. Snagging my work jeans, my truck keys jangled from the right pocket. A pungent mix of sweat and roofing tar wafted to my nose. Penance for disrupting the stack of filth that needed a visit with the local Laundromat. Dang. Was this what I smelled like on a regular basis?

Skip it. I fished in the pool of stench and dropped the offensive apparel after I had my keys in my grasp.

The scrap of siding, trimmed into a smooth rectangle and with a hole punched through one side, hung on the loop with my keys—308-564-8258. Ten numbers.

I stared at my phone. Ten numbers and then Call, and I could talk to her. Uh, what was I going to say?
Me again, that super-forward guy who probably scared you away from Homes For Hope for life. Just checking to see if you were coming despite my freakishly forward demeanor.

My high school speech coach would be proud.

What was I—eighteen? She was a colleague. Another master I needed to touch base with.

Right. Dial the number.

Oh no. I dialed the number. The ringtone buzzed its foreboding little tune, and I wondered if women knew what guys went through when they actually called them. Not that this was that.

“Sharpe Contracting.”

Oh heavens. She answered. “Uh—”

“Hello?”

I swallowed. What the heck had possessed me? I wasn’t shy. Scared. Whatever. “Sapphira?”

A small breath crossed the airwaves—her tiny laugh. I exhaled, which apparently I hadn’t in the previous forty seconds.

“This must be Jesse.” Her voice smoothed my anxiety. Hesitant but not edgy. More shy than anything.

I could picture her sitting across from me at JJ’s. Showered, and her head no longer covered by a ball cap, her dark hair had gleamed with almost a blue hue under the florescent lights. She’d been reserved at first, like she was pushing me to a safe distance, which for her seemed to be on the other side of the room. But she’d warmed up. She really was extraordinarily shy.

And lost.

That was where I came in. I thought. Not that I knew everything. But I did know purpose, and I had the impression that was what she was looking for. I knew the God who forged our beginnings and wrote our ends, the God who could breathe purpose into her life.

“Yeah, it’s me.” I sank onto my king bed, stacking the pillows against the headboard for a backrest. “I told you I’d call.”

A beat of silence allowed doubt to poke around where confidence had risen moments before.

“I didn’t think you would,” she finally said.

Confidence restored, and fed. “Here’s what you should know about me, Sapphira. I don’t get drunk, I don’t gamble, and I never lie. I’m a God-fearing kind of guy, and I try to live by His standards.”

Again, quiet on the airwaves. I thought I heard her swallow. “Okay…”

“So, you said you’d help us this weekend.” I moved forward quickly. On the chance that I’d totally freaked her out, I didn’t want to risk talking to a dial tone.

“Yeah, I was planning on it.” She paused. “If you called.”

I grinned wide. “Well, this is your confirmation call. Do you need directions?”

Her breathy chuckle surfed into my ear. “No. Just an address. I know Holdrege pretty well.”

I relaxed against the pillows. She was coming.

She’d be there. Day after tomorrow.

Sarah

Why did my stomach have to bind itself into cords of pain? I wasn’t going to the moon—just Holdrege. It was only a job. Everything was fine.

Dad wasn’t so fine. He’d been, uh, not right. Used to be I could do nothing wrong in his eyes. Now he was looking for me to mess up at every turn. He’d drilled me about this trip—clearly didn’t want me to go. I was all grown up. Why was he freaking out?

“Did you meet someone?” he’d asked the night before. Actually, it wasn’t really a question. More like a demand for a confession.

I didn’t know how to answer. Yes, I did, but not the way he meant. And even if I had, why would that be a bad thing? He’d said for years that he wanted me to be happy, to have a life I enjoy. Used that line to push me to K-State, and only backed off because I’d nearly cried, which was something I didn’t do. Except that one time a few weeks back.

“I met several people, Dad.” I didn’t want to get into it. Jesse was a friend. I was certain that was all this was ever going be. Why would a guy like him—outgoing, charming, and oh yeah, handsome—ever be interested in me? I was sure he had a long list of female admirers, and when he was ready to end his days as the traveling philanthropist roofer, he’d have no trouble securing himself a beautiful woman.

I could picture her. Long blond hair, doe eyes, camera-ready makeup, and probably wearing a dress and those girly flat shoes everywhere she went. The kind of woman who would make the guys on the crew stop their work to gawk and drool. She’d slither her arm around his and lean against his muscled shoulder, a petite princess draped on her knight’s proud arm.

My stomach hurt.

“You’re keeping something from me, Sarah.” Dad kindly punctured the image and brought me back to his dark scowl.

Part of me wanted to thank him for rescuing me from an idea that inexplicably made me nauseous. But I couldn’t wrap my mind around what had wound him so tight. “I’m not.”

“Why are you going back?”

I sighed. Because Jesse asked me to. Wait, that wasn’t the whole of it. Going back and helping Homes For Hope had become part of my quest. I needed to see who I was beyond Dad’s supervision. I needed to know what I had inside.

“I liked helping.”

Dad frowned. “How is it any different than what you do every day?”

Please, Daddy, please understand. You want me to be happy, right?
I stared at him while the words swirled a new storm inside of me. So, this had become a choice. I could continue pursuing a new identity, which apparently was irritating Dad, or I could stay here and never know who I was. How was I supposed to make that kind of decision?

“Dad…”

His shoulders drooped, and he leaned back against the counter. “Forget it, Sarah. You’re a grown woman, and you can do what you want.”

His concession did nothing to calm my turmoil. I had Jesse’s number on my call log. I could have canceled.

I didn’t.

Did you meet someone?
As the road slipped by beneath my tires that morning, Dad’s question continued to knot my gut, pulling the loops tighter with every mile closer to the job site.

What would my dad think of Jesse Chapman?

Lining him up with the important people in my life, I saw him strikingly similar to Rick and Darcy. His cloak of kindness resembled theirs. I could picture Jesse beside them, blending in with natural ease as they went to church.

The image unsettled me. Dad didn’t take to that kind. The only reason he tolerated Darcy was because she was his sister. First time Jesse would ask to pray, Dad would spear him with a
you’re pathetic
look, and that would be that. If they ever happened to meet, that was. Which they wouldn’t. So, that was irrelevant. Besides, why would I assume that Jesse openly wore his religion everywhere he went?

Because he did. I’d only spent two days with the guy, but I was certain that the God thing wasn’t something that Jesse Chapman hid from anyone. Ever.

Coming into Holdrege, I continued on Highway 34 until I passed the heart of old town. After a quick check with Siri, I made a right and then a left. An empty lot surrounded by trucks appeared on the right side of the residential street.
You have arrived at your destination.

Yep, there it was—but it wasn’t empty. A slab foundation had been poured, and in front of it, circled in the dirt, stood a ring of people. Not working. Listening. To Jesse Chapman.

I cut the engine and slid from my truck. With a tentative step, I moved toward the gathering.

“And this same God who takes care of me will supply all your needs from his glorious riches, which have been given to us in Christ Jesus.” Jesse read aloud from a small book in his palm. He smiled as he looked back up to the group. “Let’s pray.”

See? What’d I say? He’d parade his religion in front of everyone, all the time. Dad would have groaned, stomped back to the truck, and pointed it back toward home.

I stood, chewing on my lip and wondering why I was captivated by this odd, good-looking man.

Wait, captivated?

“Sapphira.” Jesse left the ring of his followers, striding my direction. Had he prayed already? He held a hand out toward me like I was to shake it.

I did. He pulled me into a
hey, buddy
kind of hug. “Had some foolish fear that you weren’t going to come after all. I’m relieved to see you.”

“Why?” Oh dear. I said that out loud.

“We need you. See.” He gestured to the blank canvas of a foundation. “No walls.”

I surveyed the site as if I hadn’t noticed the lack of framing and then looked to him. “Why are you here already? No walls, no roof. No need for a roofer yet.”

His grin poked a dimple on the right side of his mouth. “I’m part of your crew today. You can be a part of mine in a couple of days.”

The man wore audacious like a pro ballplayer would wear a jersey.

“What makes you think I’ll stay that long?”

Chuckling, he put a hand to my elbow and started forward. “That’s a negotiation we’ll work on later. Come on. Meet your workers.”

Panic seized my whole body, and I froze. Jesse stopped a step ahead of me, and his smile faltered. “What’s wrong?”

“
My
crew?” My heart banged hard against my ribs. I led my dad’s framing crew all the time—but I knew them, and they knew me. Remembering what happened with the guy up in Valentine made my chest hurt—not to mention adding pain to my already yucky stomach.

“Yes. You’re the master framer. They’ll be working under you.”

“Where’s Mack?”

Jesse shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “In town—at the church they’ve appointed as headquarters. He had some stuff to iron out with the plumber.”

He looked at me. I tried to smile. It came across more like paralyzed fear, I was sure.

“Well, don’t worry.” He chuckled. “I’m compliant. Haven’t you ever seen
The Princess Bride
?”

“Uh, yeah?” I cocked an eyebrow, failing to see what the late-eighties flick had to do with framing.

“Consider yourself the newly appointed Dread Pirate Roberts.” He nudged me forward. “I’ll be your first mate. Everyone else will follow.”

Peachy. Now I was a pirate. That helped answer the whole
who the heck am I
question.

Jesse introduced me around. I’d never remember their names. Just impressions.

Middle-aged lady with a pink Under Armour cap. Looked like a runner. Worked like maybe she’d done something like this before. Younger guy, a little on the heavy side, but still capable. Talked like he knew what he was doing. Worked like he didn’t. Older man with silver-speckled hair. Quiet, but did exactly what needed to be done. Friendly gentleman, late forties. Reminded me of Jesse, except he told more jokes than he sank nails. That was okay—he was entertaining.

And Laine. I’d remember her name. Distinctly. Younger than me, but not much, I’d guess. Blond hair swept back into a glossy ponytail, bright-blue eyes, and pink lips that smiled the whole day through. Dressed in a tank top and cutoff shorts, she still looked like she belonged on one of those fashion posters I’d seen at the mall.

Her face had been perfectly made up at the beginning of the day, eyes highlighted with a brown pencil, smudged a little—exactly the way Darcy and her beauty-shop buddy had shown me. Contrary to my expectation, by the end of the day she didn’t look any worse for the work. No smeared makeup. No sagging disposition. Speckled with a small amount of sweat, her flushed face only added to her youthful appeal.