Page 66 of Shades of Mercy
“The walls,” she replied smartly.
“Yeah, I figured that, but which walls?”
“These walls,” she indicated with a sweeping gesture of her hand. “They’re in dire need.”
“Are you aware that I don’t care about that?” he grumbled.
“Something told me you wouldn’t, but the ghastly green color reminds me of vomit.”
“Don’t hold back. Tell me exactly what you think.” He spun on his heels, surveying the wall color. She did have a very valid point.
“I hope you didn’t have plans,” she said lightly.
“I do.” He noticed a hint of disappointment. “I planned for us to go somewhere together. I thought you might like to get away from the ranch for a bit.”
“Where to?”
“You’ll see.” He liked putting a smile on her face.
*****
They pulled into the former greenhouse, now overgrown with weeds and bushes, with sections of glass missing or broken in the structure.
“That’s sad,” Mercy said.
“I’m sure the condition is sad for the owner, too. After her partner died, Isla Barnes sold off a hundred acres, which included the greenhouse. So, she has to see the tragedy every day.” He killed the engine of the truck.
“Did she run the greenhouse?”
“No, her wife, Abigail, did.” He slid out.
Mercy jumped out and caught up to him. “Why are we here exactly?”
“Have you ever been told that you’re impatient?”
“Once or twice.” She crossed her arms over her waist.
“There’s a community board located near the fountain in town. Townsfolk make a list—kind of like a wish list. You place someone’s name who needs a certain task done, such as lawn care for Isla, and someone chooses the chore. It’s like a Christmas gift exchange all year long. It helps those in the community who are facing challenges or difficulties.”
Mercy’s heart swelled. “That’s very kind. Of you, and the community.”
He shrugged. “It’s important to give back when we can. But I’m not a saint. Every time I come here, Isla has a homemade pie waiting for me. Fair trade.”
The house had a lot of character, especially the decor. It reminded her of stepping inside a time machine and going back to the 1950s. A painting occupied every space on the wall. Each room was stuffed with antique furnishings. The drapes were heavy and velvet. Isla, a vivacious, beautiful elderly lady who wore bright pink lipstick, seemed to have the energy of a woman much younger. Her bright purple muumuu gave insight into her character. After she gave Jag a hug in greeting, she turned to Mercy and beamed. “Who is this lovely young woman? Is she your wife?”
Jag smiled. “No, she’s not my wife.”
“She should be. You’re not working your magic, Jag. Look at those radiant eyes. You two would make beautiful babies.”
Mercy contained a chuckle at the deer-in-headlights look on Jag’s face.
Isla leaned in, as if she were about to reveal government top secrets. “Did Jag tell you what I do?”
“No.” Mercy was very curious.
“No, I didn’t tell her that you’re a psychic,” he said.
“Not a psychic, young man,” she chastised. “A medium. There’s a difference. You’re a skeptic, aren’t you, dear?”
