Soaring (Magdalene #2)(32)

Now I was thinking it was my cleavage and, although they weren’t long, they had been shapely, my legs through the slit in my dress.

We’d dated. We’d become involved. We’d gotten engaged. We’d married. And I’d done what I was supposed to do.

I became the wife of a wealthy man, took care of his home, raised his children, and sat on every board of an appropriate charity that would have me.

In other words, I was good for nothing. I couldn’t find a job outside of entry level even if I tried.

I knew it.

But I couldn’t shop for furniture to fill my eternity. I couldn’t bake because there was no one to eat it but me, and I loved doing it, but didn’t have a taste for eating it. I couldn’t read entire days, weeks, months, years away.

I needed to do something.

On that thought, resolutely, I pushed out of the car and walked to the church.

Once inside, I found being in a church in the middle of the day for no reason was not like it was in the movies. A well-meaning pastor didn’t show up nearly instantly to sit with you in a pew, listen to your worries and share his wisdom.

Although the church was open, no one was around.

I gave it time then went wandering. Down a side hall and back, I found a small sign that said “Office” with an arrow.

I followed the arrow.

At the end of the hall, a door was opened. I turned to it and stopped in its frame.

It was definitely an office, a relatively nice one, not huge, not tiny, an official-looking desk with a small but beautiful stained glass window behind it, a woman at the side of the desk leaning over it, scribbling on a piece of paper.

“Um…excuse me,” I called.

She jerked straight and turned startled eyes to me.

“Sorry to startle you,” I murmured.

She shook her head as if to pull herself together and shifted to face me. “Not at all. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m looking for the pastor,” I told her.

She nodded, her lips curving up slightly. “Reverend Fletcher, my husband, isn’t here.” She suddenly appeared concerned. “Was he expecting you?”

“No, no,” I assured her, shaking my head. “I just popped in. Actually, I’m new to Magdalene and he doesn’t even know me.”

She rested her thigh against the desk, lost the concerned look, her features moving back to friendly and she asked, “Maybe I can help. Or I can leave a message for him or set an appointment, if you need to speak with him.”

I took a step in, looking at the pastor’s wife, knowing the woman behind such a man was probably just as good.

Or better.

“I’m thinking perhaps you can help,” I said.

Her friendly look became friendlier as she invited, “Try me.”

I nodded and strangely found I didn’t know what to do with my hands. It was like I was at a job interview, coming there wanting, being found lacking, and I hadn’t even presented my résumé.

I clasped my hands in front of me.

“Okay, as I mentioned, I just moved here, however, I’m…well…” I licked my lips, pressed them together and rolled them before I admitted, “independently wealthy.”

She nodded, appearing to take that admission in stride, and said, “Welcome to Magdalene.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled, cleared my throat and continued, “I’m here because I thought…well, it’s a church and I figured churches need volunteers and I don’t work, or have to work, or really know…” I trailed off then bucked up and started again, “Anyway, I know my way around a computer and I’m really organized…” Again I had to let that hang because I couldn’t think of any other skills I had. Therefore, I was forced to finish feebly, “Do you need someone to help with things around here?”

She smiled and I knew the careful, gentle way she did it meant she found my résumé seriously lacking.

“We have a small congregation, it being a small town, but we’re lucky because they’re also very generous. We’re covered when it comes to volunteers,” she told me.

I bit my lip and nodded.

“How much time to you have to volunteer?” she asked.

All the time in the world, I thought.

“I’m not really sure,” I said. “Maybe two, three days a week for two or three hours?” I suggested, like she could tell me what I was able to offer.

“Are you good with senior citizens?” she asked and I felt my head twitch with surprise at that question.

“I’m sorry?” I asked back.

She straightened away from the desk and took a step toward me, slightly lifting her hands out to her sides before she grasped her opposite elbows in her fingers loosely in front of her. It was a strange stance. Strange because it wasn’t cold and shut off but somehow welcoming, as if she was folding something lovingly in her arms.

“We have a nursing home run by very kind people. People who are overworked and underpaid. They do the best they can and they do it because they genuinely like their jobs. Or because for them it’s not a job, it’s a calling. But there’s always a good deal of work and they can’t seem to keep some of their staff or volunteers. Probably because they can’t pay much and volunteers find the work difficult, sometimes tedious, at times heart wrenching, but all the time constant. They called a few days ago, saying that a volunteer had quit in order to go back to college and another one simply stopped showing. They asked us to keep a look out. I’m going to help until they find some people to do so and do it regularly. But if you have time and don’t mind hard work, they could use your help.”