Douglas was breathless. The patient’s infection had been serious, and the consults with the neurologist and cardiologist had taken longer than he’d expected. After the patient had settled, he had left right away, but there was traffic on the bridge. He explained himself to the deaconess, but she didn’t seem to have minded the wait. The house was nearly unrecognizable.
“You did so much work,” he said, amazed by her progress. He removed his overcoat, and Leah took it from him. They were still standing in the foyer.
“I wasn’t saving anyone’s life.” She smiled.
Douglas laughed, privately pleased with what she’d said.
“Is our patient awake?” He addressed her as if she were a nurse.
Leah nodded. She told him how he’d nearly fainted, but he’d managed to drink the orange juice and eat his dinner. There was a lilt of pride in her voice.
Douglas looked up when he heard the footsteps on the staircase. Charles had changed from his sweater into a clean dress shirt. “I didn’t realize I had gotten so disgusting,” he said, holding the old sweater in his hand. “Thank you so much for everything,” he said, looking in Leah’s direction, but she couldn’t look back at him. “I’m sorry about the house.”
“You were sick and alone. There was nothing you could do,” Douglas said, studying the way the choir director was observing the deaconess. He felt oddly possessive of her.
Charles walked down the last few steps, holding on to the wood banister. “Can I offer you anything?” Was there any tea or coffee in the house? He had absolutely no idea.
Leah refused, smiling. She checked her watch and rushed to the laundry room to bring over the basket of folded clothes. “I’ll take these upstairs.”
Charles reached over to take it from her, but Leah wouldn’t let him, worried that he might fall. “It’s all right,” she said. “I like to work, to finish things.” She went to put the clothes away.
“You should go back to sleep,” Douglas said. “And maybe we can pray for you when the deaconess comes back down.”
Charles nodded, thinking he would let them do this.
When Leah returned, they all sat in the living room and prayed for Charles’s health and well-being. Douglas asked God to bring about a rapid recovery to the choir director so the church could soon bring greater praise to Him. “To Him be the glory,” Douglas said, ending his prayer.
“Ah-men,” Leah said, joining the elder’s amen. “Ah-men,” Charles mumbled softly.
The hospitality committee put on their coats and left the choir director’s house. When Charles stood by the open door, Douglas told him to go inside so he wouldn’t get cold. For May, it was a brisk evening.
Charles closed the door, and from his front window, he watched the green station wagon drive away. He’d been rescued, but in Deaconess Cho’s departure, he felt more alone than he had felt in a long time. He noticed that he was still clutching the dingy sweater. He folded it and saw that it needed badly to be cleaned.
3 DESIGN
A FEDERAL EXPRESS PACKAGE WITH SAMPLES from a high-end T-shirt manufacturer in Mississippi had been delivered to the store that morning. Although Sabine usually came by on Saturdays, she’d stayed home because of a migraine. Sabine was calling Casey at the hat counter from her salmon-colored bedroom.
“Can you bring them by? Sweet-ie, please?” Sabine took a sip of her frothy macha.
“How are you feeling?” Casey asked, trying to sound sympathetic. Lately, Sabine was having headaches more frequently. She hadn’t come into the office for two Saturdays in a row.
“Oh, you know. I turn down the shades, and the power naps help. Casey, can’t you bring the box over, baby girl?”
Casey could sense from Sabine’s petulance that she was bored more than anything else. Her boss wanted amusement. That’s why she couldn’t just send a messenger to get the package.
“And it would be so nice to see you. You can have dinner here. And Isaac would love to see you, too. I feel so sorry for him when I get these headaches. I’m no fun to be with.”
Judith was on break, and Casey was alone at her station. In her salesperson voice, low and courteous, she said to no one, “Yes, miss. May I help you?”
Sabine raised her voice a notch. “Honey, do you want me to call you back?”
It had been a stupid idea. Unless Sabine got her answer, she’d definitely call her back in ten minutes flat.
“Hang on, Sabine.” Casey rested the phone on the counter. She leaned her hip against the glass cabinet, her back arching with tension. On the top shelf of the display case, a white camellia hat pin was out of line with its row, and Casey straightened it. Earlier that morning, two English sisters had come by searching for smart New York hats for a wedding in Canterbury. The elder of the two had asked to see the pin. The younger one, about forty years old, had bought a brown cocktail hat with a dotted veil that Casey had made, and her elder sister, the one with a more modern sensibility, picked up a greenish black feathered pillbox. Her commission for the two sales had come to a hundred and eighty dollars. Casey felt guilty at the thought of it, and she put her hand on the phone. If Sabine didn’t let her consign her pieces and allow her to keep the full profits, her normal commission would have been sixty bucks.