How would you feel about a mural on that south wall? That big one in the atrium between the two big halls. It’s the wall with no windows, the wall behind the one behind the theater’s stage. Pam thinks it could use something.
I swallow hard. Then I slip the phone into my pocket.
When I glance back up, she’s floating down the front walk like an angel swathed in pale blue silk. One Ms. Megan Mason—my dinner date.ThreeLuke
“So there I am. I have absolutely no clue how to speak the language, and I’m on the porch with this woman. She’s smiling hugely, holding out a plate bearing a slipper, looking at me like, ‘Well, are you going to eat it?’”
She laughs, and I find myself grinning with her.
“I had no idea what to do, so I mimed like I wanted salt and pepper. Buy myself some time, you know?”
“Good move.”
“So she disappears and comes back out with some seasonings. I watched her shake them onto the shoe.” Megan mimes that. “And all I’m thinking is how will I chew it? Leather shoe, sort of like a ballet slipper. I raised it to my mouth, and she starts laughing…like, hysterically. That’s when I found out that before she left, my Aunt Louise had told her in incorrect Tamasheght that I should be served a pretty shoe for dinner!”
She throws her head back laughing, her long, wavy brown hair flowing down her shoulders. Her sea green eyes are vibrant, creased at the corners with amusement as they meet mine again.
“So anyway, that was my first time in the field with Wellspring. When I was nineteen.”
Now she’s the chief operating officer of the charitable foundation her grandfather founded. Wellspring digs wells in areas where water is scarce, and while they’re there, they feed and clothe the people, set up aid for other needs, and proselytize.
“That sounds pretty crazy.”
She grins, shaking her head. “It’s always a little like that. Or it was. I haven’t been out in the field the last two years at all.”
I nod. “Too busy?”
She nods around a bite of her hors d’oeuvres, then dabs one corner of her mouth with her cloth napkin. “I’m sure it’s nothing compared to your schedule.”
I give her my pastor smile—the warm, empathetic one. “Pretty sure it’s not nothing.”
“How many hours do you work, like weekly?”
I lift my brows.
She giggles. “C’mon…”
“And expose my workaholism?”
“I’m fifty-five or sixty,” she says, at the same time I lie, “Seventy or eighty.” Which means ninety.
She gives a low whistle, grinning even as she shakes her head. “You must sleep there.”
“At the church?” I laugh.
“Do you?”
“Rarely.”
“Do you work at home, then?”
“There or on a plane.” I waggle my brows.
“That’s incredible.”
“Nah.”
“It really is, though. Do you like it?” Her face pinches comically, and I laugh before serving up my own exaggerated skeptical look. “Are you trying to get me on the record saying I don’t like my job, Ms. Mason?”
Her cheeks color. “Of course not. No. I-I just—you’re so busy, and it seems like—”
I grin, and she covers her mouth with her napkin. I can see her cheeks are a bit flushed. “Don’t be nervous, Megan.”
She lowers the napkin, revealing pursed lips that slowly tip up in a small smile. “I am nervous.”
“Why? Because you’ve seen me on TV?”
“A little bit that.” Her voice is low. Soft.
“Why else?”
A pink hue spreads across her cheeks, and she fans her face. “I’m not usually this awkward.”
“Let me guess: my dazzling smile disarms you. Is that it?”
She holds my gaze, and I’m surprised by the vulnerability in her eyes. The kindness and, strangely, empathy. “Of course,” she whispers.
“You wouldn’t be here if not, is that it?” I’m teasing as she gathers her composure.
“There’s no such thing as a blind date with you, is there?”
For a long second, my pulse loses its rhythm. “It’s very rare.”
“That must be strange.”
“A little. And to answer you from earlier—” I offer her a smile— “I do like the job.”
“If you didn’t, would you still do it?”
I prop my cheek in my hand and decide to answer truthfully. “Yes.”
“Because of obligation?”
“I’m not sure I’d call it that. In fact, I wouldn’t.”
“What would you call it?”
I chew my cheek, thinking carefully about my words. “It’s a calling.”
“Do you really feel that way?”
“Don’t you?” I ask.
She smiles. “Most of the time.”
“I’d say that’s about the same for me.”
She nods. “There must be perks, though.”
“How do you mean?”
Her eyes widen, and she looks like she regrets asking. And I get what she means. Although I’ve never behaved any way except sincerely, and I’ll never take a salary, skepticism of my life abounds.
“You mean this.” I gesture to the space around us. This restaurant is one of the hottest in town right now. “We got in because of the pulpit,” I say. “But the McDowell Family Trust is paying for the meal, I promise.”