Where Love Abides

“I don’t know her very well, Jenna. You can’t decide if you like someone until you get to know them.”

“I can tell right away if I like somebody,” his daughter declared.

That might be true, Dale conceded. Children approached strangers with an open mind, while adults’ pasts colored new relationships.

“That’s because you’re such a smart little girl.” Dale leaned over and kissed Jenna’s forehead. Standing, he set the book on her nightstand. “Sleep tight, sweetie.”

“You, too, Daddy. I think I’ll dream about the relucant princess. And the mystery lady.”

“That sounds good. You can tell me all about it at breakfast tomorrow.”

Shutting the door halfway, Dale headed for the kitchen. The two-bedroom bungalow was quiet as he opened the fridge and retrieved a soda, the only sound the hiss of carbonation as he flipped the tab. An odd restlessness plagued him, and he wandered over to the window and stared out into the darkness as he took a long swallow of his drink.

Jenna’s interest in Christine, a woman she’d never met, seemed excessive. But in the past few months, his daughter had been asking more questions about her mother. And on several occasions she’d told him she wished she had a mommy like the other kids at the preschool she attended three mornings a week.

In truth, Dale wished she did, too. A one-parent household wasn’t ideal. His mom did a great job filling in, and Jenna loved her fiercely, but it wasn’t the same as having a mother in the house.

Perhaps Jenna thought Christine might be a candidate for the job. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d broached the subject, Dale mused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. To his embarrassment, she’d begun pointing out potential candidates at church—none of whom were suitable for a variety of reasons.

He’d put Christine in that category as well. She might be single and available, but there was an angst in her eyes, a deep-seated hurt and wariness, that reminded him too much of Linda. He wasn’t about to go there again.

If Jenna wanted to dream about her, that was fine.

But he intended to walk a wide berth around her, both in his dreams and in his life.

The crunch of gravel announced the approach of a visitor, and Christine shaded her eyes and looked down her drive toward the road. An unfamiliar car was closing the distance between them, but at least it was unmarked, she noted in relief. For a second she’d been afraid the sheriff was repeating his visit of the previous day.

Stripping off her gloves, she rose from her kneeling position and removed her hat. As the car came to a stop she headed toward it, passing row after row of healthy herbs. She’d have a good supply for the next farmers’ market, she thought in satisfaction.

As she approached the drive, three women alighted. She recognized Marge at once, in her hot-pink tunic top. Cara Martin’s distinctive red hair glinted in the sun. The third woman was unfamiliar.

“Christine!” The iridescent beading on Marge’s top shimmered as she gave an enthusiastic wave. “I hope you don’t mind some visitors.”

“And I hope you don’t mind a little dirt.” Christine brushed at the knees of her jeans and pushed her hair back from her face, leaving a streak of grime on her cheek.

“The sign of a working farmer,” Marge declared. “Christine, you’ve met Cara. This is Abby Warner-Campbell. Abby used to be the editor of our Gazette. Now she’s the editorial director for Campbell Publishing in Chicago, which acquired the Gazette about a year ago. But she and her husband get back to Oak Hill on a regular basis. She stopped by the inn to visit, and when she heard about our excursion she invited herself along.”

Abby moved forward and extended her hand. “Just a nose for news, I guess. I thought your farm might make a nice feature for the Gazette and I wanted to check it out before passing the idea on to the editor.”

“Some publicity would be great for business. Thanks for your interest.” Christine returned the woman’s firm handshake.

“I brought some homemade oatmeal cookies.” Marge held up a tin. “I was hoping to bribe you for a tour.”

“No bribe necessary. I’ll be glad to show you around.”

“Wonderful! Let me set these cookies on the porch.” Marge trotted across the stone walk toward Christine’s two-story frame farmhouse and deposited the tin on a table.

Once Marge rejoined them, Christine led the way to the gardens. “There’s not a lot to see yet, but I’ll show you what I have and tell you my plans.”

As they strolled between the neat rows, Christine pointed out the sections devoted to oregano, sage, rosemary, basil, thyme, chives and various other herbs.

“I also grow organic flowers,” she explained as they looked over row after row of colorful zinnias, wispy cosmos, sturdy snapdragons, spiky salvia and a dozen other varieties. “The bouquets have been big sellers at the farmers’ markets. I’m developing a perennial garden, too—poppies, peonies, coneflowers, coreopsis, daisies.” Christine gestured toward a section that was beginning to fill out. “And over there—” she pointed to a third parcel “—I’ve planted blackberries, strawberries and raspberries. Next year I’ll begin harvesting them.”

“Wow.” Cara scanned the gardens as they completed the tour. “This is impressive, Christine. How much land do you have?”

“About eight acres. But I only cultivate a small portion. I hope to increase the size of the garden each year.”

“It’s pretty large now, if you ask me. How do you manage to tend it all yourself?”

“I spend every minute of daylight out here. But I love it.”

“Is this your first venture into organic gardening?” Abby asked.

“Yes. On this scale, anyway. But I’ve always loved gardening. That and books are my passion.”

“Are you a big reader?” Marge queried, not one to be left out of a conversation for too long.

“Yes. In fact, I was a librarian for many years.”

“Is that right?” Marge’s expression grew thoughtful. “I’ll have to mention that to Eleanor Durham. She’s looking for someone to help out at the library two days a week, now that Sally Boshans and her husband are retiring to Florida.”

“I don’t know, Marge.” Cara looked over the garden again, her expression dubious. “This is more than a full-time job.”

“Well, cooler weather will be here soon. Christine can’t garden then. Maybe she could fill in here and there until Eleanor lines up someone else.” Marge leaned over and patted Chris-tine’s hand. “Think about it, dear. I’ll have Eleanor call you.”

“I, for one, came out here to buy some herbs,” Cara declared. “And I want some flowers for the tables at the restaurant, too. Are you open for business?”

Christine smiled. “I never pass up a sale.”

While the two of them returned to the garden, Marge retreated to the shade of the porch, fanning herself and pilfering a few cookies as she chatted with Abby. After Cara finished shopping, Abby peppered Christine with more questions. Although Christine didn’t reveal anything that wasn’t public knowledge, the three visitors found out more in forty-five minutes than anyone else had learned in almost three months.

“So do you have any family left in Nebraska?” Marge asked as the women stowed Cara’s purchases in the car.

“No. My dad died when I was six, and I didn’t have any siblings. My mom died of Alzheimer’s six months ago.”

“A terrible disease,” Marge sympathized. “And losing your husband a year ago, at such a young age… I had no idea. But you picked a good place to start over. The folks in Oak Hill are the salt of the earth. I came here from Boston a few years back after inheriting the inn, and they welcomed me with open arms. They’ll do the same for you, too, if you give them a chance.”

She tilted her head and regarded Christine. “You know, one good way to meet people is to attend Sunday services. We always have a coffee hour afterward and everyone stays to chat. You’d be welcome to join us. It’s the church with the big white steeple in the middle of town.”

No thank you, Christine thought, suppressing a shudder. It had been almost two years since she’d gone to church by choice. She’d attended her mother’s and Jack’s funerals, of course. And she’d accompanied her husband to services when he’d insisted her presence at his side was necessary for his image. The recollection of standing beside him in the house of God while he pretended to be a Christian still sickened her. Going back would only call up those memories, in all their vivid repugnance.

Besides, God hadn’t been there for her when she’d needed Him most. Why should she visit Him now?

But she didn’t give voice to any of those thoughts. Her relationship with the Lord was her own business. She simply thanked Marge for the invitation, said her goodbyes and went back to work as the car crunched down the driveway toward the main road.

For some reason, though, the older woman’s invitation kept echoing in her mind. Despite the wall she’d built between herself and the Lord, deep inside a part of her missed attending a worship service every week and reading her neglected Bible. For most of her life, she’d found comfort and courage and solace in her faith.

Even while things deteriorated with Jack, she’d maintained her relationship with the Lord, seeking His help and guidance. Trapped in an intolerable situation, she’d prayed for His intervention. Begged for release, for a way out. But months had passed with no response.