The Wedding Quilt

Chapter Two

Kirk watched as Rosemary made ham sandwiches with the efficiency of someone who took care of things with automatic precision. She went about her job with quiet dignity, slicing tomatoes to fall into a pretty pattern on an oval platter, then adding lettuce and pickles to finish off her creation. Then she lifted fat, white slices of bread out of a nearby bin and arranged them on another plate, along with the pink country-cured ham she’d already neatly sliced.

“It’s ready,” she announced to her father who sat across from Kirk nursing a tall glass of iced tea. “Do you want anything else with your sandwich—chips or some sliced cucumbers maybe?”

The man she had introduced as Clayton Brinson didn’t immediately answer his waiting daughter. Instead, he frowned while he pieced together a sandwich on his plate. Then he looked up with harsh, deep-set eyes. “Your mother never slapped a sandwich together. She always had fresh cooked vegetables on the table.”

“Mother didn’t work outside the home either, Daddy,” she reminded him patiently. “I do what I can, but you’re right. Tonight at supper, I’ll make sure you have your vegetables.”

Clayton’s look softened to a slight scowl. “Well, some dessert would be nice, too. A peach pie, maybe.”

Rosemary sat down with an abrupt swirl of her skirt, then handed Kirk the fixings for his own sandwich. “I’m sorry, Daddy, but I haven’t had time to do anything with those canned peaches Joe Mason brought us yesterday. I’ll try to get to it later this evening.”

“They’ll rot before you get to ‘em,” Clayton proclaimed before clamping his teeth down on his sandwich.

Rosemary looked down at her plate, then in a surprising move, clasped her hands together and said a quick blessing.

Kirk saw the look of disgust on her father’s stern face, and said his own silent prayer. He didn’t want to slap this man he’d just met, but it was very tempting.

But Rosemary didn’t seem to need his help in defending herself. She fixed her own meal, then looked over at her father with compassionate, if not somewhat impatient, eyes. “I’ll make you a pie, Daddy. I promise. You know I wouldn’t let those peaches go to waste. I love peaches.” Turning to Kirk, she gave him a quick smile. “Georgia peaches, just like Georgia tomatoes, are the best in the world, Kirk.”

“Then I’ll look forward to that pie myself,” he replied, glad that she’d smoothed over the awkward rudeness her father didn’t try to hide. Kirk chewed a big hunk of sandwich, then nodded. “The tomatoes are very good.”

Out of the blue, Clayton spoke directly to Kirk for the first time. “Seems a waste to me—bringing you in special to fix that old steeple. Let the thing crumble, is what I say. A waste of time and money.”

Rosemary shot Kirk an apologetic look. “Actually, Dad was on the board that voted to renovate the church, but that was a couple of years ago. Now…Dad doesn’t support any of our church activities, especially the ones I’m involved in.”

Clayton threw his sandwich down. “And we both know why, don’t we, girl?”

Rosemary’s hiss of breath was the only indication that her father’s sharp words had gotten to her. She remained perfectly calm, keeping her attention on her plate as she toyed with a slice of tomato to hide the apparent shame her father seemed determined to heap upon her.

Wanting to shield her from any further tirades, Kirk looked across at her father. “Mr. Brinson, your church is one of the finest historic buildings I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot of churches and cathedrals both here in America and all across Europe. The people who built your sanctuary did it the right way, it’s as solid now as it was the day it was finished. You don’t see that kind of craftsmanship much anymore. I’ve studied the layout from the pictures your daughter sent me, and I’m amazed.each joint and bent is intricately crafted with mortise and tenon joined together without the benefit of nails.” He paused, then looked thoughtful. “It’s almost as if the church was built on spirit and determination alone. And I intend to make sure that spirit is sound and intact.”

Clayton glared across at the stranger sitting at his table, then huffed a snort. “Foolishness, pure foolishness, to waste over forty thousand dollars on a face-lift for the church. If it was built to last, then leave it alone!”

“Daddy!” Embarrassed, Rosemary touched her father on the arm in warning. “Can we talk about something else?”

“I’m through talking,” Clayton replied, then standing, he yanked up his plate and drink. “I’m going to watch television.” With that, he stomped out of the room, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

Kirk realized two things, sitting there at that round little oak table in Rosemary’s clean kitchen. One, he was more determined than ever to get his job done and done right, just to prove her father wrong. He was like that; he’d always risen to a challenge, and winning this man over would be a big one. And two, he did not like this man’s hateful, hostile attitude toward his lovely, angel-faced daughter. In fact, with just a little encouragement, he would gladly be willing to do something about changing it.

Right now, however, the only thing he could do was try to make Rosemary’s beautiful smile return to her pale, drawn face. “Was it something I said?”

She did smile, but it was a self-deprecating tug instead of a real smile, and he didn’t miss the raw pain hidden beneath the effort.

“No, it was something I did.” Sending him a pleading look, she added, “He wasn’t always this bad. It’s just…we lost my mother over a year ago, and he’s still not over her death. I do apologize for the way he’s treated you.”

“I’m sorry…about your mother, and I understand,” he said, but really, he didn’t understand. Losing a loved one was always painful as he well remembered when he’d lost his grandfather a few years ago, but this anguish seemed to run much deeper than normal grief. Most families turned to each other in times of grief and loss. Rosemary’s father obviously hadn’t come to terms with losing his wife, but why was he taking it out on his daughter? Kirk had to wonder what had happened between these two to make one so sad and noble, and the other so bitter and harsh.

But, Kirk reminded himself too late, you can’t get involved in whatever is brewing between them. Just do your work, man, then leave.

When he looked up, Rosemary was watching him with those beautiful blue eyes, her gaze searching for both retribution and condemnation. He gave her neither—her father was doing enough of that. Because Kirk didn’t know what was going on, he smiled at her in an effort to comfort her. And somehow he knew, this time it was going to be different. This time, he just might have to get involved.

“Why didn’t you simply explain things to him?” Melissa asked Rosemary later after she’d told her friend about the whole episode with her father.

They were sitting on a wooden bench out on the playground, watching the children as they scooted and swayed over the various climbing gyms and swings. Nearby, a tulip tree heralded spring with its bright orange and green flowers. The afternoon lifted out before them with a crisp, welcoming breeze that belied the turmoil boiling in Rosemary’s heart.

“I can’t get him involved in all that,” Rosemary said, shaking her head. “He came here to work on the church, not its floundering members.”

“Except your father hasn’t set foot in this place in over a year,” Melissa reminded her in a sympathetic voice. “How can you stand it, Rosemary?”

“Living with him, you mean?” Rosemary sat back on the hand-carved bench, then sighed long and hard. “I still love him. And I know he’s still grieving. I keep thinking one day I’ll wake up and he’ll be the father I always knew and loved…before all of this happened. One day…”

Her voice trailed off as she looked up at the towering steeple a few yards away. Amazed, she grabbed Melissa’s arm, then held her breath. “Look!”

A lone figure moved up the steep side of the church’s wide sloping shingled roofline, loping toward the center of the building.

“The steeplejack,” Melissa said on her own breathless whisper. “He sure didn’t waste any time.”

“No, he didn’t,” Rosemary replied, her eyes taking in the lean lines of Kirk Lawrence’s broad shoulders and athletic body. Not an ounce of fat anywhere on the man. And no wonder. He hopped and jumped over the roof like the superhero Melissa had called him, his long, muscular arms swinging from the rafters, so to speak, as he took his first close-up look at the thing he’d come to wrestle with.

The steeple was a mixture of several different levels and several different foundations. Set at the front of the broad, rectangular, Gothic church building, it started out with an open square belfry, made from the stone they’d discussed earlier, intertwined with sturdy, arched timber-framed beams that shot up to form a tier, like the bottom layer of a wedding cake, over which sat a smaller section with louvered openings surrounded by stained-glass partitions and a smaller version of the same arched wood pattern. That section lifted toward and supported a spire made of thick iron beams that formed the tall shingle-covered cone. This tier was followed by an ornamental rusty iron cross that extended three feet across and four feet up.

The long front of the church was made of the same stone facing as the belfry tower, mixed with the timber framing that the original congregation had made with heavy columns and beams, the arched pattern of the wood crisscrossing throughout the stones, following the same pattern of the tower’s beams. The church was intact and sturdy; now it mostly needed scraping, painting, restaining and rustproofing. Which was why Rosemary had hired the steeplejack. He’d do most of it from his boatswain chair, inches at a time if necessary.

Kirk hauled himself up over one of the stone belfry walls, clinging precariously for a moment before lifting over into the open belfry room where an aged brass bell hung from a sturdy iron frame. From his vantage point, he looked out over the town, then down at the playground where Rosemary and Melissa, and now the children, watched him in fascinated wonder.

“Hello there,” he called good-naturedly, waving toward them, then holding out both arms as if to say he’d just claimed this spot as his very own. “What a view!”

Rosemary didn’t doubt that the view of the surrounding hills and mountains was impressive. She’d never been up in the belfry, but her brother, Danny, had climbed up there many times, and he’d told her he could see the whole town—indeed, the whole county—from there.

“It’s Spiderman,” a little boy called, jumping up and down in glee. “Miss Ruzmary, Miss Ruzmary, see Spiderman!”

“I see,” Rosemary said, smiling up at Kirk before returning his wave. Why hadn’t he simply taken the narrow stone steps just inside the church narthex that led to the bell tower? “That makes me dizzy,” she whispered to Melissa. “I’ve never been one for heights.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting up there with him,” Melissa said, laughing.

“Melissa Roberts, you have a new boyfriend.”

“Yes, but we’re just good friends—really. And, your steeplejack is sure easy on the eyes. Not at all what we expected.”

Rosemary had to agree with her. Kirk Lawrence was intriguing, good-looking and likable. And discreet. They’d talked at length for most of the afternoon, about his purpose here, about their mutual faith in God, about what the congregation expected from him, and he hadn’t questioned her once about why her father had treated her in such an ugly way during lunch. For that alone, she appreciated him.

She’d expected a middle-aged, leathery, bowlegged monkey of a man to come and do this job. Instead, she’d gotten Tarzan himself, a man who was at once dangerous because of the profession he’d chosen, and noble for the very reasons he’d chosen this timehonored way of doing things. Knowing he didn’t take shortcuts and that he was willing to risk everything for a dying art made her respect him even more.

“He’s not my steeplejack,” she said rather too defensively. “He’ll be gone before we know it and all the excitement will die down.”

“Then we’d better make the most of his visit,” Melissa said, rising to check on a whining toddler.

Rosemary grinned at her blond-haired friend, then looked back up to where Kirk stood surveying the tower and steeple. He was stretched over the short belfry wall, perched with one arm wrapped around a fat stone-and-wood column as he viewed the perilous height of the spire above him. Rosemary wrapped her arms around her chest, fighting the goose bumps that had risen on her skin.

He turned to stare down at her for a long moment, then quickly got back to work, measuring and calculating.

As she just as quickly got back to her own work of watching the children she loved. Only she couldn’t help but do some measuring and calculating of her own, from the corner of her eye—but her assessments had little to do with the wood and stone of the old steeple.

A few hours later, Rosemary walked into the living room of her home to find her father sitting in his usual spot in front of the television. Dan Rather was delivering an update of world events, and Clayton Brinson had the volume at full blast, as if he couldn’t afford to miss a word of what the broadcaster was saying.

“I’m going to the church dinner now, Dad,” she said as loudly as she could. “I left your supper on the stove—plenty of fresh-cooked vegetables to go with your fried ham. And—” she purposely came to stand in front of him now “—I made two peach pies. I’m taking one with me, and I left the other one for you. There’s coffee on the stove.”

Clayton’s only response was a deep-throated grunt. He still wore his khakis and undershirt. He’d barely left this room all day.

Rosemary leaned down to place a small kiss on her father’s forehead. “I’ll be home early.”

Clayton didn’t move a muscle. He just sat with his gaze fixed on the talking head on the television screen. His daughter walked out of the room and gathered her trays from the kitchen, then left.

Not until he’d heard the back door slam did Clayton turn, and then it was only to lower his head and close his eyes tightly shut. When he raised his head seconds later, his eyes were calm and cold again. He sat silent for a minute, then lifted a hand to touch the spot where his daughter had kissed him so tenderly.

“So you couldn’t get the old rascal to come on over?” Faye Lewis asked Rosemary much later.

“No, of course not.” Rosemary shook out the white cotton tablecloth to cover one of the many portable tables they’d brought out underneath the oaks and pines for a good, old-fashioned dinner on the grounds. “He can hear us from his vantage point—that is, if he turns down that television long enough to listen.”

“I’ll bet he’ll listen,” Faye said as she grasped the other end of the cloth to smooth it out. “He’s been listening all along, he just can’t hear in the same way.”

“He’s lost all hope, Faye,” Rosemary said, her eyes scanning the growing crowd of church members and townspeople who’d turned out to meet the mysterious steeplejack. “And I’m about at the end of my rope.”

“Steadfast, Rosemary,” Faye reminded her. “Remember, ‘for as much as ye know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.’ You’re doing the right thing, the only thing you can for your daddy. You’re standing firm in your faith. Clayton will see that in time, and he’ll come around.”

Rosemary appreciated Faye’s gentle reminder. “I certainly hope so.”

Faye patted the cloth into place then began placing covered casserole dishes full of hot food on top of it. “Your father is a proud, stubborn man. He can’t deal with his grief, but I must say I’m shocked that he’d fight against it this long, and in such an extreme way. Clayton and I were always so close—Eunice was my best friend, after all. I miss her, but my grief is different from your father’s.”

Rosemary glanced toward her house, then quickly began pulling disposable plates out of a large plastic bag. “No, you didn’t turn away from God—or me—when it happened. Poor Dad, he used to be here every time the doors were open. He did it only to please Mother, though. He and Mom, with Danny and me trailing along.”

A commotion toward the edge of the crowd caused her to put away painful thoughts of her now-shattered family. She looked up to see Kirk emerging from his little trailer. He wore a clean white button-down shirt, fresh jeans and brown suede laced boots. His dark hair looked damp from a shower. His smile was fresh and enticing. He was working the crowd.

She lifted an eyebrow when the older woman poked her in the ribs and whispered, “Cute, ain’t he?”

“Yes. And charming. I’ve always heard Irishmen are very charming, and probably dangerous.”

“Well, the insurance adjuster would agree with you there. I hear the hazards of his work make him expensive to underwrite. The steeplejack’s occupation alone makes him dangerous, as far as having to pay out if he falls off that thing.”

“He won’t fall,” Rosemary said, knowing it to be true.

Kirk Lawrence seemed as sure of himself as anyone she’d ever met. He had the grace of an acrobat, and the concentration of a neurosurgeon. She’d watched him working this afternoon, taking measurements, touching the ancient stones and splintered wood, almost cooing to the towering steeple in his efforts to get a handle on his task.

“He might not fall,” Faye cautioned, “but I sure hope he doesn’t fail. We’ve got a lot of donations invested in this renovation.”

Rosemary playfully slapped her friend on the arm. “Ye of little faith! Just look at the man. He’s shaking hands and kissing babies like a politician. Why, he’s even got old Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s undivided attention.”

Faye squinted toward the spot where Kirk had stopped to bend over an aged woman sitting in a wheelchair, her tiny body covered from the waist down in an even more aged quilt. “Sure does. Let’s go see what he’s saying to her.”

“More, what’s she saying to him.” Unable to stop her curiosity, Rosemary followed Faye across the grounds to where Kirk had stopped in front of the old woman. She watched as white-haired Mrs. Fitzpatrick lifted a bony, wrinkled hand to clasp Kirk’s lean, tanned fingers.

“I knowed you was coming when I woke this morning,” she said, her wise eyes appraising him with sharp precision. “It was such a strong morning, all bright and crisp. The Lord saves special days like this one for special happenings. I knowed something was a’brewin’, but I jist thought it wuz something in the air.”

“I got here a little early,” he explained.

She wheezed a crusty chuckle. “Yep, and so did spring.”

Kirk grinned at that, then waited patiently for her to continue talking.

“I’m the oldest member of the church,” the woman told him in a whispery, leathery voice as she held up her tiny bun-crowned head with pride. “Eighty-nine. Emma Fitzpatrick’s my name, but they call me Aunt Fitz. You can call me that if you’d like.”

“I’d like, indeed,” Kirk replied, a twinkle in his eyes. “And I just might need your expert advice on how to go about working on this magnificent church and steeple. I’m sure you have lots of fond memories of this church.”

The old woman lifted her chin. “Was christened here, got hitched here, bore seven children, all christened and raised in the Lord’s good name here, buried my husband and now two of those children in the cemetery up yonder on that hill. Got twenty-two grandchildren, most of them running around somewhere here tonight.” She patted his hand. “Ask me anything you might want to know, son.”

“I might need your opinion on the stained glass,” Kirk replied. “But not tonight. We’ll work on it later.”

“Boy, he’s good,” Faye whispered. “Buttering up old Miss Fitz right off the bat.”

Rosemary whispered back, “Well, she did give a thousand-dollar check to the cause.”

“Does he know that?”

“Of course not. He’s just being kind to an elderly woman. I told you how polite he is.”

“Oh, I see,” Faye replied, tongue in cheek.

Ignoring her, Rosemary listened to the rest of the conversation. Mrs. Fitzpatrick seemed intent on telling him something.

“You’ve the look of a hunter,” the old woman said, her rheumy eyes washing over Kirk’s features in a bold squint. “Are you searching for something, child?”

Surprised, Kirk laughed. “Not that I know of.”

Aunt Fitz moved her head in a shaking nod. “Sometimes we wander around looking, even though we don’t realize we’ve been searching until we’ve found something to hold on to.”

“Oh, here she goes, talking her riddles,” Rosemary said beneath her breath. “Kirk will probably get a kick out of that.”

Kirk’s next words surprised Rosemary. “You might be right, Aunt Fitz. I was born in Ireland, but I know some of my ancestors and kinsmen came to the Appalachians to settle the new land long ago. Maybe I’ll find a connection here. I’ve already fallen in love with the beauty of this place.”

His eyes touched on Rosemary then moved back to the old woman still holding his hand. Aunt Fitz, her vision weakened by age and cataracts, still didn’t miss the slight shifting of his gaze. She looked hard at Rosemary, then lifted her head back to Kirk.

“The mountains will touch your heart, boy,” she said solemnly. “You might leave, but you’ll be back here again.”

Kirk looked uncomfortable at her prediction, but he quickly covered it by laughing down at her. “Thank you for speaking with me. Are you ready to eat?”

Apparently taking that as a sign that she’d best let go of his hand, Aunt Fitz dropped her hand to her lap to gather her tattered, brightly patterned quilt over her little legs.

“Starving,” she said, motioning for her granddaughter to push her to a nearby table. Waving a hand at Kirk, she said, “I’ll be seeing you, I ‘magine.” As she passed Rosemary, she smiled then winked. “A fine choice, Rosemary. Your steeplejack will do us proud.”