Page 15 of Playing With Fire

There was a crunch of boots behind them, and a slim figure joined them.

“There you both are.”

Hattie, swathed in a heavy cape, beamed with pleasure. It looked as though Jodi wouldn’t need to make any introductions.

Ricky looked briefly taken aback. He recovered, squeezing the small hand in the massive glove and throwing the minister what Jodi recognized as his full-wattage smile.

“You must be Ricky,” Hattie continued, keeping a hold of his hand. She had to tilt her chin up to look into his face. “I’ve set a place for you for lunch.”

***

Lottie Sharp didn’t turn a hair when her son explained that he was joining the Beechams for lunch. In fact, Jodi caught a distinctly conspiratorial gleam in his mother’s eye.

“Don’t you worry about me at all, I can get a lift home,” Lottie said crisply.

Jodi smiled fondly at the cheerful figure. Lottie’s eyes were a pale, watery hazel. The faint crow’s feet and lines around her mouth betrayed the stress of the last few years.

Lottie trotted off with an older couple, and Jodi and Ricky turned back towards the rectory in companionable silence.

“So, the Beechams,” Ricky said suddenly. “How and why did they get all these kids?”

“They’re registered foster parents, that’s the how. As for the why...”

A young girl with smooth golden skin and almond-shaped eyes skipped past, hauling a smaller figure in a pale blue hooded snowsuit who could have been either male or female. The faux fur hood fell back when the toddler reached the rectory and put out her hands to be helped up the wide steps. They caught a glimpse of brown curls and smooth downy cheeks flushed with color.

Jodi felt the rush of warmth that visiting the Beecham family always engendered. “That’s Alma, she’s eight, and the little one is Jaime. Jaime’s only been with the Beechams for maybe six months. Her mom and dad both died in a car wreck.”

Ricky’s murmur of sympathy turned into a yelp of surprise. Jodi whipped out an arm, grabbing him just as the smooth soles of his thin leather ankle boots slipped on a clump of damp leaves. He clutched her, his hands strong and urgent, and she found herself crushed against a hard chest and enveloped in soft leather and linen.

A silent growl of pure longing rumbled in her chest. That toe-curling thing was back with a vengeance.

Jodi cleared her throat. She could feel the fascinated gaze of almost every adult still standing around outside church.

Nothing to see here folks.

She carefully disengaged, aware of her flushed cheeks. At least half of her hair pins had escaped to that black hole in the universe which is the final destination of every hair pin, hair clip, and hair tie ever made.

Her hand shook slightly as she tucked a long strand of honey gold hair behind her ear.

He grimaced. “Thanks. Looks like I am a city slicker these days,” he said ruefully. “You’d better see me safely to the door.”

He tucked his arm into the crook of her elbow, and Jodi felt the warm strength of his grip. A tiny spark of heat glowed in her chest, and she relaxed slightly against him.

Couldn’t let the poor guy fall over. Ruin his leather jacket and destroy those ironing creases. Duty of care and all that.

The front door was open, of course. Jodie released her arm and hustled them both inside quickly, closing the door behind them. It wasn’t much warmer inside, and she remembered that the furnace had broken down, again, and that there was no money in the budget until the regular spring servicing.

“I know...keep the door closed! Don’t waste the heat!” Hattie’s voice travelled down the hall, and the petite figure appeared from the kitchen wearing an oversized apron with the slogan Never trust a skinny cook. “Come in, come in. I think everyone else is here.”

Jodi’s cheeks were still glowing as she scraped her boots clean and slipped off her coat. She could still smell the chill, pine-scented outdoors, still feel the imprint of Ricky’s arm.

And for a wild moment—a very un-Jodi Ruskin, sensible adult and acting editor moment—she wished that they were still walking, leaning into each other with the easy affection of lovers. Past the rectory, down the wide street, crunching skittering golden leaves underfoot and laughing as icy water dripped down from the laden boughs.

Perhaps she was a winter person after all.

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