The Wedding Quilt

Rosemary managed a convincing smile. “Ready. I’m going to slice it in just a minute.” Glancing at the clock, she added, “I told Kirk seven. He should be here any minute.”

Nancy looked out the back door, toward the church. “Does your father know you invited him?”

“No,” Rosemary said in a deliberate tone. “Dad isn’t speaking to me very much these days, not that that’s so unusual. But he’s even more angry with me for bringing the steeplejack here. Thinks it’s frivolous and unnecessary.”

Nancy’s smile was indulgent. “Well, you have to admit it’s a bit unusual. I mean, I’d never heard of a steeplejack until you called me all excited about something you’d seen on the Internet, of all places.”

Remembering how she’d sat in Reverend Clancy’s office, fascinated with his state-of-the-art computer system, Rosemary had to laugh out loud. “I got kinda carried away on-line, but hey, I found what I wanted. Which was, someone to do the job right.”

Nancy threw up her hands. “Whatever you say. You know more about this stuff than I ever will. And I don’t care to know. I have enough to occupy me.”

Meaning, little Emily. Rosemary again felt that pang of regret and remorse. Would she ever have children? Or would she have to be content with taking care of other people’s?

“Hey,” Danny said from his perch near the open back door, “your steeplejack is crossing the street. Better let Dad know he’s coming, or he’ll make another scene.”

“He’s not my steeplejack,” Rosemary said. Even so, her heart started racing and her palms grew damp. Danny was right. Why had she invited Kirk to supper?

Kirk strolled along wondering why he’d agreed to go to dinner at Rosemary Brinson’s house. After that fun lunch he’d shared with her father, he’d made a solemn vow to steer clear of Clayton Brinson. Yet here he was, wildflowers in hand, heading for the very spot where he’d been ridiculed and prodded just yesterday.

Had he only been here two days?

This place was so timeless, so quaint and eccentric, that it seemed as if he’d been here forever. Or maybe he’d dreamed about a place like this forever. Quite charming, this Alba Mountain and its eclectic group of inhabitants. Especially one blue-eyed inhabitant.

And that, he told himself with a shrug, was why he was willing to face down Clayton Brinson again. Kirk wanted badly to see Rosemary. Had to see her, in fact. Had to see her up close.

He’d certainly watched her from a distance all day today. Oh, he’d gone about his preliminary work and taken care of what needed to be done. He’d surveyed and measured and analyzed. He’d discussed hiring a local crew with Reverend Clancy—the good reverend was working on that right now. And he’d carefully considered how best to go about renovating and restoring the aging church and its beautiful, inspiring steeple.

All the while, he’d watched the day-care center across the way, hoping to get a glimpse of the angel who’d brought him here. Rosemary. Rosemary with the sweet-smelling, fire-tinged hair. Rosemary with the eyes so blue, they looked like midnight velvet. Rosemary with the guarded looks and the cloak of sorrow. Rosemary with the floral, flowing dresses and the tinkling, musical laughter.

He’d watched her with the children, laughing, singing and smiling. He’d watched her with the townspeople, talking, explaining and sharing. And he’d watched her with her father, hurting, obeying and hoping.

He was intrigued by her. Maybe Aunt Fitz was right. Maybe these mountains did make people long for things they’d never needed to think about before.

And maybe, just maybe, Kirk, old boy, you’re getting caught up in something you have no business being involved in.

He didn’t usually accept invitations so readily. Ordinarily, he worked from dawn to dusk, then slumped back to his trailer to grill a hamburger or a steak before falling into bed. Usually. Ordinarily. But then, there was nothing usual or ordinary about Rosemary Brinson. She was like an angel with a broken wing.

And he wanted to heal her.

Bad decision. Bad. Don’t do it, man. Turn around and go eat that sandwich you lied to her about. Turn around and forget that you saw her heading out the door, and you purposely made it a point that she see you. Turn around and forget how she smiled up at you and lifted those luminous eyes to you and said, “Come over tonight and meet my brother. You can stay for supper.”

Turn around, Kirk.

He knocked on the open door and waited, the sounds of domestication echoing through his wayfarer’s logic. A child’s laughter. Warm, home-cooked food. Fellowship. Rosemary.

He knocked, and waited, and wondered how he’d ever be able to distance himself from her so he could do his job and move on.

Then he looked up and saw Clayton Brinson’s furious expression, and decided it might not be too hard, after all. Not if her overbearing father had anything to do with it.

In order to protect Rosemary from her father’s wrath, Kirk decided he would have to force himself to stay away from her.

Somehow.

* * *

“Kirk, come on in,” Rosemary said, moving in front of Clayton in an almost protective stance to open the screen door. “Supper is just about ready. In fact, I was just telling Daddy that I’d invited you.”

Clayton’s scowl deepened. By way of greeting, he grunted then turned to head toward the formal dining room. “Hurry it up, girl. I’m hungry.”

Kirk followed Rosemary through the house to the kitchen. He looked around the small room, his gaze falling across the little group of people staring at him. “Hello,” he said to Nancy a moment before shoving the wildflowers into Rosemary’s hand.

She rewarded him with that little smile, then turned away, clearly flustered in a most becoming way, to put them in water.

“Hi, I’m Nancy Brinson, Rosemary’s sister-in-law,” Nancy said, taking matters into her own hands. “And this is my husband, Rosemary’s brother, Danny. Sorry we missed you at the celebration last night.” She patted little Emily on the head. “This one was teething and wasn’t up to socializing, so we stayed home to take turns walking the floor with her.”

Rosemary regained her composure enough to take one of Emily’s fat hands into her own so she could kiss it and squeeze it softly. “This is our Emily, ten months old and full of energy.”

Kirk nodded to Nancy, then shook Danny’s hand while the other man sized him up. “Nice to meet all of you.” He grinned and cooed at Emily.

Spellbound, the baby batted her long lashes and let out a squeal of delight.

“She never meets a stranger,” Danny said proudly. “Hey, want a glass of tea?”

“Sure,” Kirk said. “I’m learning to like it with ice. You know, my mother taught me to drink it hot.”

“Not me,” Danny said, grimacing. “I know it’s a tradition over where you come from, and up North. But, man, once I was on a business trip in Detroit and ordered tea, and they brought it to me hot and in a cup—”

Nancy interrupted, a teasing smile on her face, “And he was so embarrassed, instead of ordering iced tea, he sat right there and sipped it hot, as if he were at a tea party or something.”

Kirk laughed. “I bet you looked extremely dainty.”

“I tried,” Danny said, guiding Kirk into the dining room. “Have a seat.”

Nancy put the baby down in her nearby crib and helped Rosemary carry in the food and drink. Clayton sat stone-silent at the head of the table.

Kirk looked around the long room. It was a lovely setting for a meal, complete with lacy white curtains at the tall windows and a matching lace tablecloth on the spacious mahogany table. Everything gleamed in the rays of the overhanging light fixture, while the scent of something fresh-baked set out on a matching buffet lifted out on the gentle breeze teasing through the open windows.

Noticing the formal settings at the table, he said, “I hope you didn’t go to any extra trouble for me.”

Before Rosemary could answer, Danny said, “Oh, no. It’s a tradition in our house—having all the family together for a meal at least once a week. We usually do it on Sunday nights, but this week Emily was sick, so we put it off a couple of days.”

“And used to, your mother would be here,” Clayton said in a quiet voice, his stern look intact.

For just a minute, Kirk saw the raw pain and grief in the older man’s eyes, and regretted his bad feelings regarding Rosemary’s father. He didn’t really have any right to judge the man. He’d known grief when he’d lost his beloved grandfather. Still, losing a wife had to be different. And maybe he would never know that kind of loss.

Because you never stay in one spot long enough to get that close to someone.

He glanced up at Rosemary, who stood just inside the wide archway, her gaze searching her father’s face, her stance hesitant and unsure. The same pain he’d seen in Clayton’s eyes was now reflected in her own.