Chapter Three
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Symes,” Gideon called out as he entered the small bungalow on Turcott street.
The only response was a startled “oh dear,” and shuffling from the rear of the house where her bedroom was. He’d been coming for four weeks, and every week it was the same. He arrived at one, and she always seemed surprised. That was just the nature of some people, he supposed.
What would it be like to wander through life always being taken aback? He’d personally find it unsettling, but for people like Mrs. Symes who seemed significantly more easygoing than he was, it might be a stream of delightful turns of events.
While Gideon absolutely trusted in God, he also believed firmly that God had instilled in him his talents of organization—even if he took his inclination to control everything under his purview a tad too far—and that he should make use of them.
Otherwise, he was like the man stranded on the roof during a flood who refused a boat and a helicopter because God would save him and then discovered at the pearly gates that God had done his level best and the man had simply ignored the help he’d sent. Gideon would not make that mistake. He would not, as the kids said, be that guy.
He took in the tidy sitting room with the shag carpeting and floral printed furniture, the myriad tchotchkes and the family photographs on display. Some of his older parishioners had trouble keeping up their homes on their own but Mrs. Symes had a son and son-in-law nearby who helped her out quite a bit. Gideon needn’t fret about her living conditions, though he did worry about her getting around during her recovery.
She was a stubborn and lively woman, though, and he heard her making her way down the hall, the thumps of the walker muffled by the mustard carpeting.
“Come on into the kitchen, Father. I’m decent, I swear.”
She was a character alright.
He made his way into the kitchen—much like the sitting room it was old-fashioned but well-maintained and clean. There was Mrs. Symes in a quilted housecoat with her snow white hair perfectly done and a garish shade of coral on her lips.
“How are you feeling? Stronger I hope? Doing your exercises like you’re supposed to?”
She waved a hand at him dismissively. “Yes, yes, I’m fine and yes I’m doing all those fussy exercises. Takes me half the day and when I’m done I’m starving.”
“Then let’s get you some lunch, shall we?”
Truthfully, he wasn’t much of a cook, but he could make a decent egg salad, toast some sourdough, and add some bacon, lettuce, and tomato. Simple but hearty and delicious, and all things Mrs. Symes had on hand.
They chatted mostly about church goings-on while he cooked in the pleasantly retro kitchen, and when he was finished, they sat in the small dining room with their meal. He set a plate down in front of Mrs. Symes and she beamed at him through her thick bifocals.
“Thank you, Father Gideon. So nice to have a handsome man to help out around the house again.”
Cloris Symes was a flirt and that was fine. He enjoyed her company, she’d never truly been inappropriate with him, and it was nice to feel useful. It was a struggle sometimes, feeling like he couldn’t fix everything. That feeling of a job well done, that he’d actually been of some service, no matter how small, was gratifying.
So he smiled and nodded his gratitude as he picked up his own sandwich. “You’re welcome. You let me know if there’s something else you need help with aside from tidying the kitchen when we’re done. Your son and his husband are still coming to help with the laundry and the shopping?”
“Yes. Charles and Freddy have been so helpful. Of course they both work during the day so I only see them in the evenings, but they’re here most nights. It’s nice of you to come during the day since I don’t get much in the way of company.”
“I can see if other people from the church could come on days I can’t make it. Maybe Helen could come by tomorrow.”
“That old fussbudget? No thank you. I’d rather be alone with my soaps than with that stick-in-the-mud.”
Gideon tried to cover up a snort by turning it into a cough, banging on his chest to complete the act. He was about to turn the conversation to when Mrs. Symes thought she might return to her hostess committee duties when she cut him off.
“Are you dating anyone?”
Startled by her abrupt question, all he could do was answer.
“No.”
“Why not? You’re a handsome, intelligent, employed young fellow. And I know there are some parishioners who wouldn’t mind breaking off a piece of that.”
“Mrs. Symes!”
“Well it’s true,” she sniffed before taking a bite of her sandwich.
She chewed thoughtfully and then looked at him with those shrewd brown eyes. “Or perhaps you’ve got your eye on someone.”