Turnabout's Fair Play (21 page)

A photo of Flannery, Caylor, and Zarah—all looking much younger—pretending to kiss the Blarney Stone hung over the return wing of Flannery’s desk. The closer he looked, the more he noticed Flannery and/or Caylor and Zarah in most of the photos.

So, Ireland wasn’t just a dream for her. She’d actually been—though it appeared it had been quite some time ago.

He sat at her desk and picked up a sticky-note pad. He thought for a moment before writing. What could he say that would truly express his gratefulness?

Seeing a felt-tipped pen in the cup bearing the publishing house’s logo, he pulled it out and wrote the note, which he pulled off and stuck to her computer screen, just to make sure she’d see it when she got back to her office.

He stood to go—and then stopped, one of the hangings on the wall opposite her desk catching his attention.

It looked like something from medieval Ireland—a colorized print of an old woodcut image of a knight kneeling before an old hag under a tree. It blended in quite well with all of the other Irish-themed items with the greens and golds predominant in the coloring. But Jamie recognized it for what it was. And it made him question everything he’d ever thought about Flannery McNeill.

Flannery rubbed her neck and almost lost her balance, catching herself on the doorjamb to keep from stumbling. She dumped the large stack of proposals into her in-basket and dropped into her chair. These meetings should be required to end by five o’clock. She’d only had four new items to pitch to the board today—and they’d wanted to nit-pick the minutia out of every single one. All she wanted to do was go home and sleep. After not sleeping Saturday night, she’d made the mistake of checking her work e-mail account at home last night when she got home from Vespers and All That Jazz at the Scarritt-Bennett Center. It had been after two before she’d finally given up and gone to bed—only to be back up at six to get ready so she could be at work early this morning to try to handle what she hadn’t gotten to last night.

Speaking of e-mail …

She turned toward the computer. Oh, a note. Must be from Britt—but no, that wasn’t Britt’s handwriting. She rubbed her eyes from underneath, careful not to smudge her mascara. She pulled the note off the computer screen:

Thank you
.

Jamie

Smiling for the first time in hours, Flannery bent to put the note in the trash…then changed her mind. She stuck it to the top right corner of her blotter.

Looking up at the wall across from her desk, she froze. Had Jamie been in her office?

Did it matter? She tried to tell herself it didn’t. She once again turned toward the computer to check to see if anything needed to be addressed tonight or if it could all wait until tomorrow.

No—it couldn’t wait. It did matter. She pulled out her cell phone and found Brittany’s home number. She hated bugging the girl at home, but she had to know.

“Hey, Flannery—what’s up? How was the Pub. Co. meeting?”

“Long. I hate to bother you at home, Britt, but I need to ask you something. Did you see a guy come by my office this afternoon while I was in that meeting?”

“Yeah—he was kind of wandering the hall, so I asked him if I could help him. He said he wanted to see you, but I told him you were in a meeting. So he asked if he could write you a note.”

“So…did he write it and give it to you and you’re the one who stuck it on my computer screen?”
Please let that be what happened
.

“No.” Worry crept into Brittany’s voice. “I told him he could go in your office to write the note. Was that wrong?”

She should never have called Brittany just to worry her about nothing. “No, Britt, it’s perfectly okay. I just wondered…never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I have a dentist appointment first thing, so it’ll be nine thirty or ten before I get there.”

Flannery wrote herself a note to that effect and then let the assistant go, guilty over having distressed the girl in her off hours.

She stared at the wall across from her desk, letting her gaze rove over all of the items hanging there. Photos and posters and tourist brochures from the trip she and Zarah had taken to Ireland when Caylor was in graduate school there. That trip had been when Flannery first accepted her overly Irish name and decided to embrace it by displaying the collectibles and souvenirs she’d brought back with her, first in her cubicle and then in the offices she’d had in the ensuing years.

One item, even though it seemed to fit in, was definitely not like the others. Her gaze came to rest on the framed, colorized woodcut print. Ten inches square, it wasn’t easy to miss. But maybe he hadn’t noticed it. Or if he had, maybe he hadn’t realized what it was—that it wasn’t something she’d brought back from Ireland or something someone had given her because it looked Irish.

She’d cling to that hope, but it was a fragile thread. Because if Jamie was enough of a fan of the legend of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle to read the fan fiction, he’d probably seen the few pieces of classic art inspired by the story. And if so, he’d probably recognized the print and its subject matter.

Folding her arms on her desk, she buried her face. After all these years of keeping it secret, was her love of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle about to become fodder for public ridicule once again?

Chapter 15

W
ho are you looking for, Cookie?”

“Who?—I—no one in particular.” Maureen stopped craning her neck to watch the doors at the back of the sanctuary. No sense rousing her grandson’s curiosity further. After all, she’d met Kirby McNeill only four weeks ago. But his absence last week, even though she’d been prepared for it, had made her long to see him even more. How would she explain that to Jamie when she hardly understood how she felt? She was too old to have an infatuation—a crush—on anyone. “Tell me more about this contract work you’re doing for the publishing house.”

Jamie obliged, and Maureen tried to pay attention. But with her lack of knowledge of marketing or publishing and her desire to see Kirby McNeill as soon as he walked in, she only listened with half an ear.

The organist started the prelude. One thing the older members of the church had insisted upon when the plans for the new sanctuary had been drawn up twelve years ago was that the pipe organ from the old sanctuary would be kept and integrated into this modern space with its screens and stage lights and theater-style seats.

She did have to admit that she appreciated the well-cushioned seats over the wooden pews and their thin seat pads that slipped around whenever one sat or stood. But she came to the early service so that she didn’t have to listen to the raucous music they used in the eleven o’clock service, which many of her friends—and most of the young people—attended. But Jamie wouldn’t hear of visiting her church and not attending with her.

She looked around toward the back of the sanctuary again.

“Okay, now I know you’re looking for someone.” Jamie crossed his arms.

“Don’t do that; you’ll crease your suit coat.” She’d tried to tell him that none of the young men wore suits to church. But his argument that if he went to nursing school he might not ever have the opportunity to wear his expensive suits again made sense. Besides, he looked even more handsome than usual in charcoal gray—the same color as his eyes.

Jamie cocked an eyebrow at her but uncrossed his arms. “Who’re you looking for, Cookie?”

“I just want to make sure I don’t miss seeing anyone I should talk to after service, that’s all.” She patted his knee.

She was fairly sure she’d mentioned to Kirby that she attended the early service. But come to think of it, his granddaughter almost certainly attended the late service with the rest of the young people—the young professionals or the singles or whatever they were called. Jamie hadn’t really been able to make sense of it for her after his failed attempt to attend the Bible study last Sunday evening.

Settling into her seat, she turned her attention toward preparing for worship by listening to the classically styled rendition of “Sweet Hour of Prayer” the organist played. If Kirby came to this service, fine. If not, fine. She’d see him in Sunday school in between and would content herself with that.

The choir entered the loft, and the medium-sized crowd quieted. They had just started the call to worship when something brushed against Maureen’s left elbow. She glanced in that direction.

Kirby pushed the seat bottom down and sat. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you,” he whispered.

“Not at all.” Maureen pursed her lips to keep the smile that wanted to escape from exploding on her face.

Jamie leaned forward just a bit and looked around her. With a questioning look at her, he straightened and looked down at his order of service, but not before she caught a hint of a smile.

Let her nosy grandson think what he would.

When the music director turned and enjoined the congregation to stand for the first hymn, Kirby glanced around. “No hymnals?”

Maureen waved toward the front and the large projection screens on either side of the stage area. The organ began the introduction, and the music appeared on the screen—not just the words, as they did in the later service, but the actual staffs with notes on them above and below the words. “It’s something we old-timers insisted on when they told us these seats wouldn’t have anywhere to hold the hymnals.”

“I’ve never seen that before.”

“It took awhile for the music minister to figure it out, but it works wonderfully now. I don’t even have to put my reading glasses on for the singing portion of the service anymore.” Just standing beside Kirby McNeill gave her a thrill. He was so tall and so…sturdy looking. Not heavy, but large, thick. Like the old hickory tree in her backyard. Old Hickory. The epithet seemed to suit Kirby McNeill much better than it did President Andrew Jackson, for whom the Old Hickory suburb of Nashville and many streets in the area were named.

And when he sang…an assured, confident bass. She added her tremulous alto, and he smiled down at her, encouraging her to inject more energy to her singing. To her right, Jamie sang along with the melody, his voice clear and strong.

Joy clogged her throat and made it hard to breathe. She blinked back excess moisture.
Dear Father, if I could have this—standing between these two men, worshipping You—for what few years I have remaining, I will die a very happy woman
.

The sermon, about Esther and the Jewish feast of Purim, was interesting but not moving—especially for someone whose focus flitted between the sermon and everything the men on either side of her did.

Kirby took notes—not writing down everything the pastor said, just a few things here and there. Jamie braced his elbows on the armrests of his seat and leaned forward just a bit, frowning in concentration as if trying to memorize the preacher’s every word.

Even after the invitation and closing hymn, Jamie’s frown remained. But he released it when he turned to greet Kirby.

“Mr. McNeill, it’s nice to see you again.”

“And you, Jamie.”

“Sir, do you have a granddaughter named Flannery?”

Kirby’s gray-green eyes twinkled—making Maureen’s insides quiver, which hadn’t happened since she and James were courting more than sixty-five years ago.

“I can very proudly claim Flannery as my granddaughter. Do you know her?”

An odd expression came over Jamie’s face. “I do—but not as well as I used to think.”

“Will you be okay trying to find your Sunday school class on your own?” Maureen asked, ready to have Kirby to herself, even if just for the few moments it took them to get to the senior adult Sunday school room.

“I’ll be fine, Cookie.” He kissed her on the cheek. “You be good, now,” he whispered in her ear before gracing her with a shameless grin and scooting out of the row.

“May I have the honor of escorting you, ma’am?” Kirby offered his arm.

Even sixty-five years ago, James had never been so chivalrous. She stepped out into the aisle and slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. “You may, sir.”

“I trust you’ve been keeping well since last time I saw you.” He nodded in greeting to people they passed, just as if they were on promenade.