Faithfully Yours

“I already know my future,” Gillian whispered at last, pressing herself away and straightening the hated brown suit. “I’m going to teach, Auntie. I’m going to focus my energies on my students and their needs.” She smiled sadly at her aunt’s worried look. “You and I have a lot in common, you know. We’ve both lost the men we loved—you in the Viet Nam war and me because of some stupid drunk driver.

“I’m sure I couldn’t do better than follow your example. Teaching will be enough for me. It has to be.” Gillian choked back a sob and smiled brightly.

“Sweetheart,” her aunt began slowly. “Don’t use me as a role model for your life.” Her eyes were shadowed, and Gillian saw her aunt’s face grow sad. “I have had opportunities to marry that I sometimes wish I had taken.” She shook her blond head and focused on her niece. “Be very sure of what you ask out of life. You may just get it.”

“Right now,” Gillian said, grimacing. “I’d settle for Mr. Jeremy Nivens moving to another country. At the very least, another school.” She made a face. When Hope chuckled, Gillian jumped up and plucked at the repulsive brown fabric disparagingly. “I’ll just go change and we can go to the fall or ‘fowl’ supper.”

Which was probably how she ended up pouring tea for Jeremy Nivens that evening, she decided later.

“Miss Langford,” he murmured, his gray-blue eyes measuring her in the red-checked shirt she wore tucked into her denim skirt. “You look very, er, country tonight.”

Gillian knew he was staring at the spot of gravy on her shirt, and she would have liked to tell him how it got there, but instead, she swallowed her acid reply with difficulty. After all, this was the church.

“It’s comfortable,” she told him shortly. “Do you take cream or sugar?” She held out the tray, knowing perfectly well that he took neither. When he waved it away she turned to leave.

“The meal was excellent.” His voice was a low murmur that she barely caught. “Is there anything I can do to help out? As a member here, I’d like to do my bit.”

“I didn’t know you went to this church,” Gillian blurted out, staring at him aghast. School was bad enough. A person should have the sanctity of their church respected, she fumed.

“It is somewhat less formal than the English one I’ve attended for years, but I find it compatible with my beliefs. Besides, my great-aunt goes here.” He nodded his head at a woman Gillian identified as Faith Rempel.

Although Gillian certainly knew of Faith from her aunt’s vivid description of one of the two ladies she called her dearest friends, she herself had never actually met the woman formally.

“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “Mrs. Rempel. She’s your aunt?” It was strange to think of such a happy-looking woman as the old grouch’s relation. Gillian watched in interest as a grin creased the principal’s stern countenance.

“Apparently my aunt, your aunt and another lady have been great pals for years. I believe the other lady is Mrs. Flowerday. They seem to get along quite well. It must be nice having friends you’ve known for a long time.” His voice was full of something—yearning?

Gillian stared at him. He’d sounded wistful, just for a moment. “It must? Why?”

“Oh, I suppose because they make allowances for you, afford you a few shortcomings.” He smiled softly, glancing across at his aunt once more.

“Why, Mr. Nivens,” Gillian sputtered, staring at him in shock. “I didn’t know you had any.”

He looked startled at that; sort of stunned that she would dare to tease him. A faint red crept up his neck, past the stiff collar, to suffuse his cheeks.

“There are those,” he muttered snidely, glaring at her, “who say that I have more than my fair share.”

It was Gillian’s turn to blush, and she did, but thankfully the effect was lost in Pastor Dave’s loud cheerful voice. “Just the two folks I was most hoping to corral at this shindig.”

Gillian winced at the stomp of the cowboy boots that missed her bare toes by a scant inch and the thick beefy arm that swung round her shoulder. Pastor Dave was a cowboy wannabe and he strove constantly to perfect his image as a long, tall Texan, even when he remained a short, tubby Dakota preacher.

“What can we do to help you out, Pastor?” Gillian queried in a falsely bright voice. “Another piece of pumpkin pie or a fresh cup of coffee?”

“No sirree, Bob. I’ve eaten a hog’s share tonight.” The short man chuckled appreciatively, patting his basketball stomach happily. “No, I was hoping you and your friend here would consent to helpin’ a busy preacher out with the youth group.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had much opportunity to work with young people,” she heard Jeremy Nivens begin nervously. “And with the Sunday school class you’ve given me, I’m not sure I’ll have enough free time for anything else.”

Gillian peered around Dave’s barrel chest to stare at her boss’s shaking head.

“I’m afraid I’m in the same boat, Pastor,” she murmured, thankful that she wouldn’t have to work with old, stuffedshirt Nivens. Their contact at school was quite enough for her. She didn’t need more proximity to know that the two of them would never work well together, especially not in the loose, unrestricted world of teenagers.

“Nonsense,” Pastor Dave chortled. “Why, you folks just being here tonight is a good sign that you have Friday evenings free. And I know the young folk would appreciate having you whippersnappers direct their meetin’s more than they would old Brother Dave.” He whacked Jeremy on the back and patted Gillian’s shoulder kindly before moving away. “I’ll be calling y’all about an organizational meeting next week,” he said, grinning happily. “See ya there.”

Gillian stared aghast at the tall, lean man in front of her. It couldn’t be. No way. She wasn’t going to be conned into this. Not with General Jeremy Nivens.

“I don’t think that man listens to what anyone says,” Mr. Nivens muttered in frustration. “He bulldozed me into taking the Sunday school boys class, but I can’t take on a bunch of hormone-crazy teens, too.”

“Well, you don’t have to act as if they’re juvenile delinquents or something,” Gillian said, bristling indignantly. “They’re just kids who don’t have a whole lot to amuse themselves with in a town this size.”

“Hah!” He glared at her, his gray eyes sparkling. “They should be able to make their own fun. Why, these children have every advantage—a lovely countryside, acres of land and rivers and hills. They should be happy to be free of the inner-city ghettos that lots of children are enduring where they don’t get enough to eat and—”

“Please,” Gillian muttered, holding up one hand. “Spare me the sermon. It sounds just like something my grannie used to say.” She shifted to one side as the family behind her moved away from the table, children gaily jumping from bench to bench.

“‘When I was a child,’” she said in a scratchy voice meant to copy her grandmother’s thready tones. “‘We never had the advantages you young things have today. Why I walked three miles to and from school every single day, even when it was forty-below. In bare feet. Without a coat.’”

Mr. Nivens’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline as he listened to her. When at last he moved, it was to brush off the crumbs from his pant leg and remove a blob of cream Gillian had slopped on the toe of his shoe when Pastor Dave had grabbed her.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he murmured, stepping around her carefully. “No one could walk through forty-below without shoes or a coat and survive.” He started up the basement stairs after tossing one frowning look at her bright curling tendrils of hair where they lay loose against her neck.

Gillian snapped the tray down on the table and motioned to the folk holding out their cups.

“Help yourself,” she advised, with a frown on her face. “I’ve got something to say to Mr. Nivens.”

“Go for it, Missy,” Ned Brown advised, grinning like a Cheshire Cat “That feller needs a bit of loosenin’ up. Seems to me you’re just the girl to do it.”

As she raced up the stairs, Gillian decided Ned was right. She had a whole year of Mr. Jeremy Nivens to get through. She might as well start off as she meant to go on.

He was striding across the parking lot when she emerged—huge, measured strides that made her race to catch up. Fortunately, she wore her most comfortable sandals and could easily run to catch up.

“Just a minute, Mr. Nivens,” she called breathlessly. “I have something I want to say.”

He stopped and turned to stare at her, the wind ruffling his dark brown hair out of its usual orderly state. One lock of mussed hair tumbled down across his straight forehead, making him seem more human, more approachable, Gillian decided.

“I was making a joke,” she said finally, aware that his searching gray-blue eyes had noted her flushed face and untucked shirt. “It was supposed to be funny.”

“Oh.” He continued to peer at her through the gloom, and Gillian moistened her lips. It was the kind of stare that made her nervous, and she shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. “Was that everything, Miss Langford?”

“My name is Gillian,” she told him shortly, frustrated by the cool, distant frigidity his arrogant demeanor projected. “Or Gilly if you prefer.”

“It sounds like a name for a little girl,” he told her solemnly, his dour look suggesting that she take the information to heart. “At any rate, I barely know you. We are co-workers in a strictly professional capacity. I hardly think we should be on a first-name basis.”

“Look, Mr. Nivens,” she exhorted. “I’m trying to be friendly. That’s the way people in Mossbank are, friendly and on a first-name basis. No one at school uses titles except in front of the children.” She drew a breath of cool, evening air and counted to ten. “If you don’t want to help with the youth group, fine. But don’t pretend it’s because they’re too uncivilized for you to be around.” Her eyes moved over his three-piece suit with derision.

“I doubt you and they would have anything in common, anyway,” she muttered. “You’re far too old for them.”

His stern, rigid face cracked a mirthless smile.

“Not so old,” he said sternly. “I was a teenager once, also, Miss Langford.”