“You take care of the roses?”
He shot her a smile, a friendlier smile than she’d seen, but one that still maintained a certain distance. If he was setting boundaries now—and that was how she interpreted it—then perhaps he was seriously considering her for the job.
“It’s not in my job description, but I promised our building and grounds committee if they would help me prepare the plot and plant the bushes, I’d do the maintenance. We use the garden for weddings. This is a very popular spot in June and September, but mostly they’re there for me to enjoy every day. Just don’t tell anybody I said so.”
She was relieved the sexton was not expected to take care of the roses, but it brought up another subject. “Is the sexton expected to do any work outdoors?”
“Marvin—he’s our present sexton—starts each morning with a cleanup of the grounds, just trash and such. We use professionals for mowing grass and raking leaves. One of our deacons...” He gave a humorless laugh. “Leon Jenkins? The boy with the sledgehammer? His father, George, has a landscaping business and provides services for us at a reduced rate, which probably means that he pays his men less when they’re here, so his own profit isn’t affected. The way his crew changes from week to week, it’s pretty clear he hires whoever he can find that day and pays them under the table.”
“Undocumented workers?”
“That would be my guess. Our board believes it’s up to George to stay abreast of the law, and they accept his assurances he’s in compliance.”
She knew from his tone that he didn’t agree with the board’s choice. Resolutely, she changed the subject. “Do you mind telling me why Marvin is leaving? Unless it has nothing to do with the job, of course.”
“As simple as a better paying job. He’s juggling both right now, but the church is suffering. We need someone who can start training right away.” He glanced at her. “Could you start immediately?”
“I was hoping to.”
She had been paying attention to his words; now she paid attention to their destination and felt excitement build. They were headed toward an old frame farmhouse painted lemon-yellow. It was set back from the church, at least an acre to the northwest. A narrow gravel drive snaked to the front porch from the road, between a grove of oaks and maples that hid the house until visitors were almost on top of it. The house itself sat in a field of Queen Anne’s lace and brilliant blue chicory, black-eyed Susans and puff-ball dandelions. The effect was charming.
She had seen the house before, of course, visited it late one night and stood in front of it to imagine its history and the people who once had lived here. On that night several months ago the house had been a sad gray and far more dilapidated. Now it was a proud buttercup blooming in a field of admirers. In front of it was yet another sign.
“La Casa Amarilla,” she read. “Good choice for a name. Very definitely a yellow house.”
“What do you think? Did we overdo on the paint?”
She stared at the house and thought it was as welcoming as outstretched arms. “It’s a happy house. Is that what you hoped for?”
“Exactly.” He stood beside her, gazing up at it. “It used to be the parsonage. Don’t tell anybody, but I like it better than the one I live in down the road. In the fifties, when the church built mine, a three-bedroom ranch house was every working man’s goal. Farmhouses with history and character fell out of favor, and little brick boxes with narrow windows and air-conditioning fell in.”
“I’m sure somebody would remove your air conditioner if you complained.”
He gave a small laugh. “And I won’t.”
The raindrops, scattered at first, were falling a little faster. He put his hand on her arm to nudge her forward. “Let’s go in.”
The house was narrow, but the porch was deep enough for several old rockers. She imagined former occupants rocking away the twilight here. “You haven’t told me what you use it for now.”
“Besides experimenting with shades of yellow paint?”
“Besides that, yes.”
He pulled a tennis-ball-sized clump of keys from his pocket and used one to open the door, standing back to usher her inside. “Come see.”
She stepped in and waited. He left the door open—for fresh air, she supposed—and flipped a series of switches that filled the house with light. The front room just beyond the tiny entryway where they stood was small, but comfortably furnished with sofas and chairs covered by bright red slipcovers.
There were computer desks lining one wall, three of them, each with what looked like a new computer in place. The old wood floor was covered by a bright circular rag rug. Posters in primary colors filled the walls. She saw that each one was a humorously illustrated vocabulary lesson.
“Weather, flags of Europe, telling time...” She walked along the wall, looking at each. “Colors...seasons, opposites. I like this one.” She pointed to a poster with barnyard animals in funny hats. “But won’t the children think that a cow is only a cow if it’s wearing a baseball cap?”
“I’m hoping that won’t be a problem.”
She smiled back at him. “La Casa Amarilla. You’re teaching English lessons to Spanish-speaking children?”
“It’s more diverse than that. I’ll tell you as we go.”
She followed him into the kitchen. The room was large enough for a round pine table flanked by six mismatched chairs. Bright green cushions unified them. The center of the table was taken up by a plastic caddy filled with art supplies. She picked up a felt-tip marker, one of dozens in a variety of colors. “The art room?”
“Also the snack room and the place where we’ll teach nutrition basics. Come see the dining room.”
The dining room was no longer for dining. Four small tables sat in the middle of the narrow space, and bookshelves lined the walls and stood under two windows. Each table was large enough for four small children. Some of the books looked new; some looked as if they had come from a rummage sale.
Sam stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, as Elisa silently scanned the titles. She chose one to leaf through as he spoke.
“One of our members works as a school administrator here in the county. One day we were talking, and he told me what a disadvantage Spanish-speaking children have when they enter the local schools. There are more of them each year. The schools do what they can, but it’s not enough. He told me that without extra help, the kids just can’t catch up and keep up, and not because they aren’t bright. Because they need an extra boost with the language and the culture.”
“So you decided to start your own program?”
“We’d been debating what to do with this house. Our former church secretary lived here until a few years ago, but no one has lived here since. It needed too much work to continue as a rental. Some people wanted to tear it down and build a four-unit apartment as extra income for the church. Some wanted to sell the house and property. Of course others thought we should preserve history, not sell or destroy it.”
“History?” she asked, curious as to how much he knew.
“It’s a very old house. Pre-Civil War, at least the main portion of it. The original family and their descendants lived here until the 1930s, when they sold their farm, and the church was built on what was once their front cornfield.”
She was glad, very glad, that the developers in the congregation had not won out. “You were one who didn’t want to tear it down?”
“I