“Where are we going?” Dixon asked.
“On a pastoral visit to Nancy Jenkins.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t tag along then. She might want to talk to you in private, something just for your ears and God’s.”
“Gandy said she wanted to talk about their house. You probably know more about it than I do.”
“We can ride in my pickup,” Dixon offered. “If she doesn’t want me around, I’ll take a little crop tour and come back for you. She’s brought up the subject of the house a lot lately. Since she found out she’s having twins, she’s decided that her grandparents’ home might not be such a bad place to live after all—if they can just figure out how to afford it.”
Not bad at all. The Hubbard house was one of the finest homes Alex had ever seen—from its expansive porches and multiple bedrooms to a vast ballroom on the third floor. It had, however, turned into a liability for the young couple who had inherited it. Heating the place in winter was, according to Nancy, like heating a barn. This spring the Jenkins had almost decided to tear the place down and build something smaller in its place. Alex hoped that wasn’t what Nancy had called to tell him.
They drove north past Mike and Lauren Carlson’s tree-lined driveway and Mattie Olsen’s tidy white house. The Olsen house was close enough to the road to see sheets drying on the line in the back yard.
“I hung my wash outside too,” Alex said. “It’s a sturdy setup. The line hangs between two metal poles sunk into the ground in concrete.”
“Stoddard Bloch put that one up.”
“It figures. That man would hang a picture with an iron stake. Overkill.”
“Stoddard likes things well built.”
When Alex had been interviewed for his position as pastor, Stoddard, a member of the call committee, had spoken in terms of hammering things out and welding things into place. Stoddard built things to last, like the clothesline.
“How’d you like air-dried laundry?” Dixon looked amused by Alex’s efforts.
“The sheets were wonderful. They smelled like fresh air and sunshine. The towels were something else, stiff as plywood and scratchy as sandpaper.”
“You’re really getting into this lifestyle, aren’t you?”
“I enjoy it. My mother never hung out clothes. Of course, we lived in an apartment building in Chicago. I suppose she could have draped them over the fire escape.”
Alex rolled down his window and stuck out his head as they drove into Ben and Nancy’s yard. The Hubbard house was more impressive every time he saw it. He’d grown to appreciate the finely done dentil crown molding near the eaves, the foundation made of prairie stone picked on the property, and old-fashioned wicker rockers that Nancy said had been with the house for over sixty years. There were uniquely shaped windows in every peak and horizontal stained-glass windows with a myriad of colorful designs topping each of the picture windows on the first floor. Alex and Dixon pulled into the U-shaped driveway that ran beneath the porte cochere. Even before they could exit their vehicles, Nancy Jenkins burst through the door to wave them in.
Nancy, into her fifth month of pregnancy, glowed with a striking inner light. Her dark hair was thick and lustrous, and her brown eyes bright and clear. All the tension Alex had seen in her in recent weeks seemed to have evaporated. What had happened in less than ten days’ time to change her so?
Dixon reached Nancy first. “Tell me if you want to talk to Alex alone; I’ll go for a drive,” he said cheerily. “I just came because Gandy kicked us out of the church office.”
“I’m delighted you’re here, Dixon. I want to talk to you as well. Come inside.”
She led them through the front door, past the formal sitting room and vast dining room filled with the heavy nineteenth- and early twentieth-century furniture her grandparents had owned and into the large, cozy kitchen. The glass-fronted cupboards were original, well maintained and painted bright white. A teakettle began to whistle. “Have a seat while I finish the tea.”
She poured out the hot water with which she’d been warming the teapot and carefully placed a mesh tea infuser filled with loose tea leaves in the pot. Then she poured the barely boiling water into the vessel. “If you over-boil the water for tea it loses oxygen and tastes flat,” she said conversationally. “And when the tea and the water meet, the leaves open and reveal their flavor.” She smiled a little. “I’ve heard this referred to as ‘the Agony of the Leaves.’”
“Ouch!” Dixon said, grimacing. “Do I want to drink anything that suffers that much?”
She ignored him and glanced at the clock. “It’s important to time the infusion, usually three to five minutes.”
Nancy ceremoniously removed the mesh infuser at the allotted time and covered the pot with a knitted tea cozy. A tray with a sugar dish full of sugar cubes, tongs and a small pitcher of milk were already on the table. Nancy uncovered the plates already on the table to reveal scones, fluffy cream, strawberry jam, a warm fruit compote and a bowl of pink, white, lavender and green Swedish mints. She straightened the vase of fresh-cut flowers at the center of the table.
Alex’s mouth began to water.
“It’s Devonshire, not clotted, cream, but it’s a pleasant second. Cream cheese, sour cream, powdered sugar…you know.”
No, Alex didn’t know, but he’d get the recipe from her and show off when his sister Carol came for a visit. She’d accused him of being “uncivilized” in the kitchen—eating only things that could be purchased in cardboard. That would teach her a thing or two.
He reddened slightly, not sure if he should be asking for recipes in front of Dixon, who might never let him hear the end of it, but he forged on. “Nancy, my sister says I’m unsophisticated in the kitchen. When she comes, I’d like to show her how refined I’ve become. Maybe I could show off by making this for her….”
“I’ll jot down the recipe,” Nancy said amiably. “Everyone asks for it. In fact, I have an extra copy on the counter that I was going to give to Inga Sorenson. I’ll make her another.”
Before he knew it, Alex was holding the instructions in his hands.
• 3 oz. cream cheese
• 1 tablespoon sugar (white)
• 1 pinch salt
• 1 cup heavy cream (use store-bought whipped topping only if you are desperate and don’t have cream on hand!)
Cream first three ingredients in bowl, then beat in cream until stiff peaks form. Chill. (For clotted cream, omit salt and cream cheese and add 1/3 cup sour cream instead. Use confectioners’ sugar rather than white granulated.)
To Alex’s relief, Dixon didn’t make a comment. Maybe he would start by trying it out on his friend. Dixon looked like he’d eat just about anything.
“Surely you didn’t go to such trouble for a pastoral visit,” Alex said.
“I love to do this sort of thing,” Nancy said. “This is why I’m glad to see you, Dixon. As usual, I prepared too much food. My husband Ben complains about gaining weight. He told me to find someone else to feed.” She frowned. “Can I help it that I love to cook?”
“Glad to be of service,” Dixon said cheerfully. “Call me any time you have leftovers. My bachelor meals leave something to be desired.”
“Good to know. Now help yourselves.” Nancy fluttered around them like a perfect tearoom hostess.
After one bite into the scone, Alex closed his eyes blissfully. “Just like my mother used to make.”
“The highest compliment.” Nancy smiled broadly.
“Unless your mother was a cook like my aunt Alice,” Dixon offered. “The woman could ruin Jell-O. Don’t even get me started on the chicken she cooked. There should have been a law against it. After dinner at her house we played twenty questions to figure out what kind of meat she’d served. Sometimes we’d throw it back and forth like a Frisbee until the dog got it.” He tucked into the scones.
“I’m curious to know what this visit is about, Nancy,” Alex said. “The last time I saw you both, you and Ben were bemoaning the cost of insulating this house for winter. And now…”
Nancy flushed and looked a little embarrassed. “I finally did what you’ve been telling me to do all along, Pastor Alex. I got down on my knees and prayed. Funny, isn’t it, how what should be so obvious—like prayer—is always a last resort when it should be the first. It finally sank in that the only way to know what to do with the house was to ask God to guide us. I’d been asking, of course, but, I have to admit, not really listening for an answer. About three days ago I woke up with my answer.”
“God does speak through dreams sometimes. Joseph, for example…”
“I woke up from a dream in which I was serving tea just like I am today—only to a group of strangers.” Nancy smiled at Alex and Dixon’s confused expressions. “Not just any strangers—guests at my bed-and-breakfast. Hubbard House B&B. The idea has come up before, but never so clearly as this. I saw the entire thing in my dream.” She clasped her hands together and put them to her lips, looking excited.
“You’d turn Hubbard House into a B&B?”
“If we had income from the house, it would be easier to justify fixing it up and living in it. We’ve already closed off the third-floor ballroom and the two draftiest bedrooms on the north side of the house. I can use my homemade quilts to warm the rooms. Yesterday I designed quilted window dressings. Cozy and pretty—and when you pull the quilted curtains closed, no draft would dare try to get in.”
“Very clever,” Alex said, catching her excitement.
“I’ve been sewing quilts for years. I have enough to put a theme quilt in every room and decorate around it. The breakfast part is no problem. I love to cook. Since there aren’t many restaurants around here, I might offer dinner to my guests as well.”
“Dinner too?” Dixon brightened, obviously thinking his bachelor meals could soon be over.
She looked at Alex. “What do you think? Are we too out of the way for a harebrained scheme like this? Would anybody come?”
Alex nodded. He had followed a harebrained impulse of his own this morning. Who knew what the results might be?