Читать книгу The Fireman Finds a Wife - Felicia Mason - Страница 13

Chapter Three

The stricken look on his face convicted her.

“You’re married?”

His gaze dipped to her left hand resting on the table. Self-conscious, she put both ringless hands in her lap.

Taking a deep breath, Summer decided that being open and honest about her situation was her best course of action.

“Chief Jackson, I want to explain something to you.”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. But a moment later, he sighed and released the defensive gesture.

Offering a tremulous smile, Summer got her thoughts together. It wasn’t so much that she wanted to open up on this, she needed to. Enough time had passed, and moving home to Cedar Springs was her big step toward reclaiming her life.

“Seeing you and your men on my doorstep,” she began, “was a shock. A bad shock to my system. I’d truly forgotten about the new resident’s home safety check I’d requested.”

She swallowed, took a ragged breath and then offered up a little prayer for strength.

“The last time men in uniform came to my front door, it was to tell me that my husband had been killed.”

His eyes widened and he reached for her hands in a comforting gesture. But before he could offer the obligatory, “I’m sorry” condolences, she rushed on.

“It’s coming on two years,” she said. “I moved home to start a new chapter in my life. I sold our place in Macon and bought the house here, a house where I could make new memories instead of dwelling on the past. Seeing you, the three of you,” she quickly clarified, “standing there looking official, well, it just derailed me a bit.”

She took a deep breath, hoping that he understood, even while she acknowledged to herself that dumping baggage at his feet was not a good way to win friends and influence people.

There was something comforting about this man. Unlike some people who listened long enough to gauge when and where they could break in with their own words and experiences, he seemed to listen to her with his whole body.

That, Summer decided, was both comforting and disconcerting.

* * *

Cameron felt like a heel.

So much made sense now. The protectiveness of her sister at the house. The uncertainty he sensed in Summer. The almost-sadness of her eyes. He had known that she’d moved to North Carolina from Georgia, but had come to the erroneous conclusion that the move home was to be near family, not to escape her grief.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m very sorry for your loss, and for rushing you.”

Summer shook head. “That’s just it, you weren’t rushing me. I should be,” she gave a little shrug, “I guess you’d say, ‘over it’ by now.”

This time he did clasp her hands in his. “You never get over losing someone special,” he said.

She smiled this time. Then extricated her hands from his.

“Thank you for asking me out,” she said. “But the answer is still...”

“Shh,” he said, cutting her off before she could finish. “I know.”

Summer pushed back her chair and rose, the movement graceful.

“I really need to get back to work,” she told him. “We’re shorthanded today. Vanessa and Samantha are the only two volunteers who showed up, and I borrowed Samantha from Mrs. D, who really needs her in the office.”

He rose, as well, and escorted Summer back to the kitchen, where a buzzer was going off and Vanessa was struggling to get a handle on a big pot that seemed to be boiling over.

“Oh, dear. That’s the stock for the chicken soup.”

Cameron rushed forward and gave Vanessa a hand by moving the pot to another burner on the industrial-sized stove. Summer turned off the timer that was set on a continuous buzz, then slipped on a pair of thick pot-holder gloves and went to one of the ovens. As she pulled out a pan, Cameron came forward.

“Is that a turkey?” he asked, amazement in his voice.

He spied some dish towels on the prep counter and used them to safeguard his hands as he took over the lifting for her. “Here, I’ll get that.”

“Thanks,” Summer said, relinquishing the task to him. “And yes, it’s a turkey. There are two more in the bottom ovens. Both are ready to come out, too, if you don’t mind.”

Cameron knew about the soup kitchen: it was one of four ongoing ministries operated by Common Ground, the coalition formed by three congregations in Cedar Springs. As a member of The Fellowship, he regularly contributed to Common Ground. And as fire chief, he knew the buildings where the homeless shelter, the free clinic and the soup kitchen were located, but he’d never actually been to any of them, just the recreation center where he sometimes played baseball with a youth league.

“How many people do you cook for?” Cameron asked.

“We never really know, but on average about ninety to a hundred, sometimes more, especially on Wednesdays, when there’s also the Bible study and snacks afterward.”

“And you’re cooking for a hundred people, just the two of you?”

Summer shrugged. “We do what has to be done. And reinforcements will be in closer to serving time. I came in early to get the turkeys going. They’re actually for sandwiches on Thursday.”

Cameron found himself walloped somewhere between amazed and dismayed. He’d come here on his morning off to see Summer Spencer, taking over the food donation delivery duty because it gave him a legitimate excuse to show up at Manna.

Now he realized that maybe it wasn’t just for his own selfish reasons that he was here at this time and place. He was supposed to be here today.

The Lord worked in mysterious ways.

He got the first large turkey out of the oven and onto a counter where Summer indicated, then he pulled out the others.

As Summer went to work pouring ingredients into a large mixer, Cameron watched her. Every movement was efficient. She worked with a grace that almost seemed like a ballet, reaching for this, adding that. No movement was wasted.

Vanessa was chopping carrots.

Across the room, he spied Common Ground aprons similar to the one Vanessa wore. He claimed one of them and tied it on, then pulled out his cell phone and made a call.

When he finished he pocketed the phone, went to a sink where he washed and dried his hands. Then he came up beside Summer.

“How can I help?”

* * *

“Miss Summer, you make me happy to be homeless,” an elderly black man known only as Sweet Willie said.

“Brother Willie, what a thing to say,” she replied, tucking an extra cookie for him into a small paper bag.

“This the best food I’ve ever eaten. Thank you kindly.”

Summer beamed. “I’m glad you enjoyed the meal, Brother Willie.”

He shuffled out the door, the last of their guests to depart.

For the first time since that morning, she exhaled. Summer had had her doubts about how they were going to pull off the meal. In Summer’s two months with Manna, she’d yet to see the soup kitchen’s director on their busiest day. Ilsa Keller was great at promoting Manna in the community, but that ambassadorship apparently came at the expense of actually managing the day-to-day operation of the place.

If it hadn’t been for Cameron Jackson and the two guys he’d talked into coming over to help, she wasn’t sure if they would have had everything ready by the time people started arriving at four o’clock.

Six Common Ground volunteers had arrived at about three-thirty to act as servers, but they wouldn’t have had anything to serve if Cameron hadn’t pitched in. She still didn’t know who the two guys were—personal friends of his or firefighters he’d ordered to come help. He’d simply introduced them and told them to do whatever Summer said. She’d been too grateful and too busy to inquire.

“That was a nice thing for him to say.”

Summer smiled.

For some reason, she wasn’t at all surprised to find Cameron at her side. They’d worked as a team today, serving and ministering. It gave her a new insight into the fire chief. Most men would have bolted after a woman’s rejection of a dinner date.

She studied him for a moment. Cameron wasn’t just trying to get to know her. She’d seen him talking and then praying with a couple people after the meal began. Many of them knew him and called him Chief Cam, just as Vanessa had done.

Just who was Cameron Jackson?

“He hasn’t been here for a couple of weeks,” she said, telling him about Sweet Willie. “I was starting to worry that something had happened to him. I asked around, but none of our regulars knew where he was.”

“You do good work,” Cameron said. “I’m going to let Pastor Hines—Rick Hines is the lead pastor at my church, The Fellowship,” he said, clarifying for her. “I’m going to let him know that Manna needs some dedicated volunteers in the early part of the day. I’m sure there are folks in the congregation who can help.”

Summer bit her tongue. She would not bad-mouth the program at Manna. Yes, things could be done differently, but it wasn’t her place to harp on all the shortcomings.

“Today was an anomaly,” she said. “I’m glad you and your friends came to the rescue. Thank you.”

They made their way to the kitchen where the cleanup crew was turning the space back into a sparkling setup for the next day’s volunteers and setting out items for the early morning prep.

At some point between serving chicken soup and rolls, Summer had decided that a date with a man who would give the homeless almost seven hours of his day was a date she’d like to go on.

Summer retrieved her handbag, said good-night to those who remained and let Cameron escort her out the back door and toward her car in the parking lot behind Manna at Common Ground.

“If the offer is still open,” she said, “I would like to have dinner with you.”