He’d commented on that last night during supper. Maisey’s response hadn’t been particularly illuminating.
“I’ve always loved having company, you know that,” she’d told him.
“But I get the feeling there’s a special bond between you and Anna Louise,” he’d prodded. “Is it because she’s your pastor?”
“There is that,” Maisey admitted. “But mostly I just enjoy her company. She’s always cheerful. She has a way of looking at life that brightens my day. I can’t tell you how much better I feel after we’ve had a laugh or two.”
Richard had retreated into disgruntled silence after that. He could only recall laughing with Anna Louise on one occasion, when he’d told her about stealing Mabel Hartley’s girdle. Most of the time they got off onto some serious self-examination that cut too damn close to the bone.
When he’d realized that he was envious of his own grandmother’s easy, comfortable relationship with Anna Louise, he’d completely lost patience with himself and stalked off to bed. But even with his head buried under a pillow, he hadn’t been able to keep out the troublesome images of a redheaded woman who could tempt even a saint to sin—and he was definitely no saint.
Now that he thought back to that instant of self-disgust over supper the previous night, he couldn’t help remembering something else, as well. Maisey had watched him leave the table with an irritating expression of satisfaction written all over her face. Now, what the heck had that been about?
* * *
On the first Friday morning in October, Maisey didn’t get out of bed. When Richard went into the kitchen, he found the shades still drawn from the night before and the stove cold. His heart slamming against his chest, he forced himself to walk slowly down the hall to her bedroom.
“Maisey,” he called softly as he opened the door.
She was huddled under the blankets, looking lost and even more frail than she had the day before. Her gaze was as sharp as ever, though.
“What’s got you in such a tizzy?” she asked irritably.
“Who says I’m in a tizzy?”
“You just busted into my bedroom. Doesn’t a woman have the right to sleep a little late once in a while?”
“You never do.”
“How would you know?”
The comment stopped him cold. An ache formed in the region of his heart as guilt sliced through him. The ache was all the more painful because Anna Louise had already opened that particular wound.
“You’re right. I guess I don’t know your habits after all this time.” He sat down on the bed and took her hand in his. “I’m sorry. I never meant to stay away so long.”
She sighed heavily. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. Just because I’m a mite more tuckered out than usual, I don’t have any right to be making you feel guilty for going off and doing what you had to do. I know how you felt about living here in Kiley. From the time your mama and daddy died, you were determined to get out. I could never blame you for that.”
Richard missed most of the apology and ignored the reference to his parents’ death because his brain had focused almost entirely on Maisey’s open admission that she was “tuckered out.” It wasn’t a phrase she or anyone else had ever used about her as far back as he could recall. Most people commented on her astonishing energy.
He looked her over, searching for some indication that she was pale or feverish. But other than looking a little tired, she didn’t seem any worse off than she had since he’d come home. Still, he didn’t want to take chances. “Maybe I should get Doc Benson over here.”
Maisey immediately looked alarmed. “Why on earth would you want to call him? So he can tell me I’m old? Don’t waste the man’s time. I’ll be fine. I just need to rest a bit. The excitement of the past few weeks is wearing on me. Having you home again has been wonderful, but I’ve been missing my afternoon catnaps.”
Richard wasn’t entirely convinced by the explanation, but he decided to give in for now. He’d just keep a very close eye on her for the rest of the day. “Why don’t I fix you breakfast and bring it to you in bed?” he suggested.
“The way you used to on special occasions when you were a boy?” she asked, chuckling.
Richard winced at the memory of those mostly disastrous attempts to please her. “Actually you’ll have to take my word that my cooking skills have improved considerably since then. So, how about it?”
She drew the old-fashioned quilt up and settled back against the pillows, clearly pleased by the offer. “Maybe a soft-boiled egg and some toast. Can you manage that?”
“I was hoping for a real challenge, but if an egg and toast are what you want, then that’s what you’ll have.”
He was in the kitchen half an hour later, trying for the third time not to burn the bread in the old manual toaster that Maisey had refused to trade in on a newer pop-up model, when Anna Louise rapped on the screen door and strolled in. She eyed the tray with its bouquet of just-picked marigolds in a jelly jar, the runny egg, which was probably like ice by now, and the nearby discarded pieces of burned toast.
“Looks appetizing,” she commented.
“Go to—” he began, and stopped himself just in time.
She grinned and picked up the carton of remaining eggs. “Here, you do another egg and I’ll make the toast. I gather Maisey’s not feeling well.”
“She says she’s just tired.”
“I suppose she is. First she built up all that anticipation over you
