The Heart's Voice

She shivered, as if God Himself had tapped her on the shoulder, and before she could even think to do it, her foot had moved from the gas pedal to the brake. She sat there for a moment, the engine of her battered old car rumbling in competition with a cricket calling for his mate. Then with a sigh she yielded to her initial impulse and turned the vehicle into Dan Holden’s drive. She parked and got out, leaving the keys in the ignition as usual. Reluctantly she let her tired feet take her along the hedged walkway to the front steps and then up those steps to the broad, sheltered porch. From this angle, the light of the TV flickered against the windowpane, but now only that persistent cricket could be heard.

Becca knocked on the door. She thought its berry-red paint made a very pretty display with the pristine white of the siding, new grass-green roof and black shutters. She waited, but the contrary man couldn’t be bothered to answer his door.

She tried again, her irritation growing. No response. Well, that took the proverbial cake. The man obviously didn’t want or need a friend. It must have been a perverse imp who had compelled her to stop, but this time she was going to let Dan Holden know that his rudeness had been noted and marked. In a rare fit of pique she moved to stand directly in front of the window, which she pecked insistently with the tip of one forefinger before turning to stomp across the porch and down the steps on her way back to her car. Her feet had barely hit the paved walk when that red door finally opened.

“Who’s there?”

For an instant she considered giving him a dose of his own medicine, just stomping off into the night without another word, but that was not Becca’s way.

“It’s me,” she said, somewhat grudgingly. “Becca Kinder. I was just—”

The porch light suddenly blazed. “Mrs. Kinder,” he said, surprise evident in his voice. “Is that you?”

Becca frowned. “I just told you so, didn’t I?”

“Come up here into the light,” he dictated, stepping out onto the porch, “and tell me what I can do for you.” His voice had a stilted, uneven quality to it, as if he wasn’t quite sure what tone to use.

Sorry that she’d come at all, Becca climbed the trio of steps again, realizing that she had no idea what she’d meant to say to him in the first place. An honest response was always the best one, so she licked her lips and said, “I was hoping you might be interested in working on my house now.”

He cocked his head, as if he found something odd about that. “Sorry. Not possible.”

“But you’ve done such fine work on this place,” Becca heard herself arguing.

“Thank you,” he said with a small smile. “Now I’m doing the garage apartment out back. Might rent it out.”

Becca nodded, disappointed all over again. At least he had an excuse to offer this time. That was progress. Of a sort. “I see. Well, if that doesn’t pan out and you find yourself needing work…”

He shook his head. “I’m keeping busy.”

That was something with which she could certainly identify. “Just not enough hours in the day, are there?”

“Suppose not.”

She searched for something else to say and finally gestured toward the western end of the south-facing house. “You ought to hang a swing over there.”

He glanced at the end of the porch and back again. “Think so?”

“And paint it red,” she added.

He rubbed his chin, smiling so brightly that she felt a kick in her chest. “Just might do that.”

She felt positively warm all of a sudden, and the thought occurred to her that he was a downright likable man when he wasn’t being standoffish. “You know what else would be pretty?” she asked, basking in that male smile. He shook his head. “Two big white pots right here on either side of the steps, just spilling over with flowers, geraniums maybe, red to match the swing.”

“My grandma used to keep flowerpots there.”

“Well, there you go,” Becca said.

He nodded. “I’ll look into it sometime.”

“Maybe when you’re finished with that garage apartment.”

“Maybe,” he said, making it sound like two words instead of one.

Completely out of topics for discussion now, Becca glanced at the window looking into his living room. “You’re missing your program,” she finally offered lamely, “and morning comes early for me, so I’d best be going.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Holden.” She turned to go, but then a fresh thought hit her. “You know, there’s a Bible study on Wednesday evenings that you might want—” She broke off. He’d already retreated and was closing the door. She brought her hands to her hips. There he went again! The man had practically locked up while she was still talking.

From the corner of her eye she caught sight of him moving back into the living room and reclaiming his seat in the chair. Must be some mighty interesting TV program he was watching. Curious, she stepped to one side and looked at the set. A commercial was playing, but she did note one interesting thing. The television seemed to be displaying closed captions, the words spelling out across the bottom of the screen. She was too far away to read them, and it could have been a disclaimer of some sort for the commercial, but she left wondering if she might not have discovered the clue to Dan Holden’s odd behavior.

Chapter Two

Dan came into the store on Friday morning, a half day for Becca. He smiled and waved as he pulled his cart from the queue, then purchased milk and eggs and a piece of salt pork for “a mess of beans,” as he said at the checkout.

“You must be missing military chow,” she teased.

“Must be,” he agreed shyly.

He turned his attention to a rack of television program guides mounted near the checkout, and Becca deliberately asked, “What sort are you having?”

He made no reply, just as she had expected, so she repeated the question once she had his attention again.

“Navy beans,” he said with a grin. “Called them something else in the Corps.”

“I prefer good old reds myself.”

He chuckled. “Red seems to be a theme with you.”

“I like red,” she admitted. “That’ll be $9.17.”

“Bet it’s a good color on you,” he said, and then ducked his head as that very shade bloomed on the ridges of his cheeks. He dug out a ten-dollar bill and plunked it on the table, mumbling, “You have a good day now.”

“Oh, I will,” she said, purposely not looking at him as she extracted his change from the cash drawer. “I’m expecting John Travolta to pick me up for lunch in his private jet.” She peeked at him to see how he’d taken that, or if he’d even heard it, but he was already making for the door with his groceries. “Hey!” she called out. “Your change!” She wasn’t the least surprised when he just kept on walking.

“What’s the matter, honey?” Abby asked, appearing from the little office blocked off across the aisle from the checkout.

Becca dropped the coins into her apron pocket. “Dan Holden just forgot his change, that’s all.”

“How much?”

“Eighty-three cents.”

“Oh, well, just give it to him next time he comes in.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Becca said with a smile.

Abby nodded and turned back into the office, where she was tabulating invoices for payment. Becca patted the small bulge in her pocket and decided that she was going to pay another call on the handsome ex-marine, and this time they were going to have an honest talk.