When Grace Sings (15 page)

He shrugged into his jacket and left the church, making sure he exited via the same door the other men used, and jogged across the dry grass to Mrs. Zimmerman’s car. She and Alexa were already inside—Mrs. Zimmerman in the back, Alexa behind the wheel—with the engine running. He popped open the passenger door and slid onto the seat. “Sorry I kept you waiting. Lots of people wanted to talk to me.”

“It’s okay.” Even as she assured him, she put the vehicle in Drive and pulled out of the parking area, clearly eager to get going. “The others already left, but if they beat us to the farm, they have a key to get in.”

Briley frowned. “Others?”

Mrs. Zimmerman answered. “My family gathers every Sunday for our noon meal and a time of fellowship. We trade hosting duties. This is our week to host.”

“I see.” Anxiety pinched his gut. He’d envisioned lunch with Alexa and her grandmother, not with a crowd. But he sent a polite smile over his shoulder. “That must be nice, being with family every week.”

“Yes, it is.” The older woman released a contented sigh. “And now that
Alexa is with us, all four of my children are represented around my dining room table. I am very blessed.”

Briley’s reporter nose itched. He propped his arm along the back of the seat and shifted sideways so he could converse with Mrs. Zimmerman. “Hasn’t Alexa always been with you?”

The woman pursed her lips, and Briley wondered if she’d ignore his question. But when she spoke, no reluctance colored her tone. “No, Mr. Forrester, to my great regret I’ve only known Alexa for a few short months. Her mother and I suffered a lengthy separation, all my own fault, which meant I had no contact with my granddaughter. So you might say the two of us are making up for lost time.”

He flicked a glance at Alexa and caught the fond curve of her smile change to an uncertain tremble. He wanted to question the odd expression dancing across her lips, but for some reason the words wouldn’t form. He faced forward and remained quiet the remainder of the distance to the bed-and-breakfast.

The truck Mrs. Zimmerman’s son drove and an unfamiliar car were parked beside the barn. Alexa pulled past them and parked in a graveled patch near the house. She shut off the ignition and pocketed the keys. “Looks like Sandra is the only one not here yet.”

“She’s been slower since little Isabella came along.” Mrs. Zimmerman laughed softly, the sound holding affection. “But she’s worth waiting for.”

Briley and Alexa exited the car at the same time, and he moved to the back door to help Mrs. Zimmerman. But Alexa politely asked him to move aside, claiming it was easier to do the transfer herself than explain the procedure to someone else. He could have told her he knew how to transfer someone into a wheelchair, but it would have created another delay, so he waited until Mrs. Zimmerman was situated in her wheelchair. When Alexa reached for the chair’s handles, he bounded forward.

“I’ll take Mrs. Zimmerman in. I held you up at church, so you probably need to get inside and see to lunch.”

She flashed a quick smile and darted off, leaving him alone with the old
woman. Mrs. Zimmerman sat with her hands resting over her purse and Bible in her lap, seemingly at ease in his presence.

He curled his hands around the rubber grips. A memory surfaced of Jeffrey, a foster brother whose father had shaken him when he was a baby and caused cerebral palsy. Jeffrey always wanted Briley to push his chair because he did wheelies. The boy’s laughter rang in the recesses of his mind, and he came close to pressing down and sending Mrs. Zimmerman’s feet in the air. Fortunately good sense prevailed, and he gave a forward push instead.

“Here we go.”

Alexa had gone around to the back door, so Briley followed her lead. He pushed the wheelchair into a kitchen bursting with wonderful aromas and bustling with activity. The moment the chair cleared the threshold, a blond-haired woman with tense lines marching across her forehead waved her hand at him.

“You’ll be in the way in here. The table’s already set. Take Mother on to the dining room.” She turned to the stove and swirled a wooden spoon through the contents of a kettle.

Mrs. Zimmerman snickered, and Briley hid a smile as he wheeled the chair through the kitchen. When they reached the dining room, where a darkhaired woman also wearing a white cap with black ribbons was setting the table, Mrs. Zimmerman angled a grin at him. “No matter what Shelley told you, I’m not staying in here. Let’s go to the front room instead.” She took control of the chair, and Briley followed her into the large living room.

Two men—Mrs. Zimmerman’s son, Clete, and a man Briley hadn’t met yet—and a cluster of children were already in the room, the kids on the floor and the men on the sofa. The men both stood when Briley came in, and Clete strode over with his hand extended.

“Hello again, Mr. Forrester.”

“Just call me Briley.” He shook the man’s hand. Although Clete didn’t smile, he nodded and repeated Briley’s name. Clete struck Briley as the no-nonsense sort. The second man approached, and Briley shook his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Briley Forrester.”

“I’m Harper Unruh, Shelley’s husband.”

Briley’s eyebrows shot up. He belonged to the bossy woman in the kitchen? Briley had expected someone who looked henpecked, but Harper stood with squared shoulders, and his handshake was firm.

Harper gestured to a pair of look-alike little girls playing with paper dolls in the corner. “Those are our girls, Ruby and Pearl.”

The little girls looked shyly in his direction, so he smiled and winked at them. They put their heads together and giggled. Briley grinned again. “Cute kids.”

“Thanks.” Harper gazed at the girls with fatherly pride.

The front door opened and a little boy burst into the room. With curly blond hair and big blue eyes, he fit in, appearance-wise, with the other children. He darted directly to their circle and plopped down, his jacket still in place. A petite woman and a tall man carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle entered behind the little boy. The woman paused at the wheelchair and placed a kiss on Mrs. Zimmerman’s cheek, then hurried into the kitchen calling, “I’m here! Sorry I’m late!” A flutter of female voices rose.

The man laid the bundle on the sofa and unwound the blanket, revealing a wriggling baby with fuzzy tufts of fine yellow hair. Briley stifled a soft snort—the Zimmerman gene was a strong one. Any fool could pick out the relatives just by looking at their hair color.

The newest arrival settled the baby in the crook of his elbow and joined the men. “Glad to see you aren’t all sitting around the table waiting on us. Sandra was worried we were keeping everyone from eating.”

“We only got home ourselves a few minutes ago.” Mrs. Zimmerman gestured toward Briley. “Derek, have you met Alexa’s long-term guest? This is Briley Forrester from—”

Derek stuck out his free hand. “From Chicago. The reporter, right?”

Briley nodded as he shook the man’s hand.

“I saw you in service this morning, but Isabella here was tuning up to demand her lunch, so Sandra hurried me out before I could greet you.” He
grinned, and Briley could have sworn orneriness glinted in the man’s eyes. “Of course, I wouldn’t have been able to get through the crowd, anyway. You got swarmed.” He leaned in, and this time Briley recognized the twinkle for what it was—pure teasing. “You aren’t carrying one of those little tape recorders to capture our dinner conversation, are you?”

Briley patted his shirt pocket, where the voice recorder he always carried made a slight bulge. “I’ve got it, but it isn’t on. So you’re safe.” Derek pretended great relief, making Briley chuckle. Too bad Derek was Mennonite. And married with a couple of rugrats. He suspected the two of them could’ve ended up being friends if circumstances were different.

Derek moved to his son and tried to help the little boy out of his jacket. One-handed, it proved tricky, and Mrs. Zimmerman rolled closer to help. The other two men faced off, arms folded over their chests in serious poses, and began chatting about farmland available for rent in the county. Briley had nothing to add to the conversation, but he listened intently while pretending not to, hoping for something he could use in his article.

“Okay, everyone.” Alexa stepped into the wide doorway separating the dining room from the front room. “Lunch is ready. Come on in.”

With a collective whoop the children pounded past her and climbed into chairs. Mrs. Zimmerman shook her head. “Goodness sakes, you act as though you’re starving.” She rolled her wheelchair through the doorway and parked at the end of the table in the same spot she ate breakfast each morning. Briley waited until Derek, Harper, and Clete chose chairs before moving around to an empty seat.

He glanced at the pans of lasagna, bowls of green beans—whole, not cut up like he found in the cans he bought at the grocery store—and tossed salad, and baskets of crusty rolls crowding the center of the table. He almost licked his lips. Everything looked and smelled great.

The women filled the chairs between their husbands and children, leaving the lone chair at the head of the table open for Alexa. As she slid into the seat, she held her hands to those beside her. Everyone around the table joined hands,
and Briley caught hold, too. Aunt Myrt always prayed before meals—he expected someone to give a blessing—but she’d always linked her hands beneath her chin to pray. Holding hands with one of Harper’s twins on his left and Mrs. Zimmerman on his right made his stomach feel funny. And he was pretty sure the feeling wasn’t the result of hunger.

Mrs. Zimmerman nodded at her son. “Clete, ask the blessing.”

Every head bowed and every pair of eyes closed, except Briley’s. While Clete prayed, Briley took a slow look around the table, examining the shining blond heads of the children, the men’s short-cropped haircuts, the mesh caps covering the women’s hair. Only one female head remained free of a cap—Alexa’s. He realized with a start that she was the only one of the Zimmerman females to sport dark rather than blond tresses. Somehow that strong Zimmerman gene must have skipped her. And why wasn’t she wearing a Mennonite-style dress and cap?

“Amen.” Clete finished, and everyone’s heads lifted in one wave.

They passed the food, and chatter filled the room—happy chatter, something alien to the majority of Briley’s mealtime experiences. He wished he could push the button on his recorder so he could listen to the sound again later, process it, isolate each voice, turn it into a story. By the time Alexa carried in the dessert—some sort of gooey, chocolaty, pudding-filled cake shaped like an inner tube and topped with drizzly icing, toasted coconut, and chopped walnuts—he’d relaxed enough to tease some with the kids, answer a few questions about life in Chicago, and ask a few questions about Arborville.

But he didn’t ask about Alexa’s dark hair or mode of dress even though curiosity burned in his chest. His reporter’s instinct told him the answer to those questions could very well lead to another story entirely. And he wasn’t quite ready to pursue it. Yet.

Alexa

Watching her family devour the mousse-filled double-chocolate cake made Alexa smile. Even Shelley, who often resisted dessert, ate her entire piece and complimented Alexa on its rich flavor and moist texture. Although her aunt had slowly warmed up to her over the past weeks, compliments were still rare, and she savored this one. She swallowed a giggle when Briley tamped the back of his fork’s tines against the crumbs to capture every tiny bit of his serving.

He popped the remaining crumbs in his mouth, sighed, and aimed a grin in Alexa’s direction. “Best cake I’ve ever eaten.” He swiped his mouth with his napkin, then patted his taut belly. “Worth the five-mile run it’ll take to work off the calories.”

Everyone, including Aunt Shelley, laughed. Their response warmed Alexa in ways she didn’t understand. She hugged herself, holding in the good feeling, while Briley pushed back his chair and rose.

“Thank you again for the dinner, the dessert, and the company. I enjoyed all three equally.”

Alexa remained quiet, but everyone else voiced various responses to Briley’s statement, assuring him they’d enjoyed visiting with him, thanking him for his kind words, reminding him he was always welcome at the table. Listening to those she’d claimed as her family draw Briley into their fold, she
experienced a jolt of jumbled emotions that confused her even more than the warmth that had enveloped her only moments ago. She tamped the feelings down as firmly as Briley had tamped the cake crumbs as he spoke again.

“I made arrangements to join a certain little fisherman at the Heidebrechts’ pond, so I need to change my clothes and get going. Thank you again for a very pleasant dinner.” He strode around the table and disappeared through the little hallway that led to the kitchen. Moments later, the slam of the screen door announced his departure.

Alexa stared after him. The “little fisherman” he mentioned was certainly Danny Aldrich, the boy she’d mistakenly assumed was her younger half brother. Although Danny’s father, Paul Aldrich, wasn’t her biological father, they became good friends while renovating the summer kitchen, and she experienced a twinge of jealousy thinking about Briley growing close to the man and his son the way she’d grown close to them. Did the Aldriches have to accept Briley as readily as they’d accepted her?