extra franks and plopped them onto his plate with a flourish.
“Now you’re talking,” he said. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“First time tonight.” And already her best silver blouse was spattered with sauce, and she’d gladly change her snazzy heeled sandals for a pair of well-worn sneakers. No wonder Ian dressed so casually.
“You a volunteer or an inmate?”
The word inmate jumped out at her. “Volunteer.”
“Glad to see a pretty new face back there. Preacher isn’t much to look at.”
She could argue that, and from the glances Ian was getting, so could a lot of other females. The preacher himself seemed oblivious.
The old man took his plate and said, “Name’s James. Brother James Franklin Bastille.”
He offered his free hand. Gretchen refused to be repelled by the stained and yellowed fingers. She whipped away the plastic glove and stuck her hand across the counter.
“Gretchen Barker. I’m happy to meet you, Brother James. You come here often?”
From the back of the line someone said, “Save the introductions for later. The rest of us are hungry, too.”
Gretchen widened her eyes at Brother James and shrugged. He chuckled. “Come talk to me later. I got something to tell you.”
Leaving her curious, he took his plate and shuffled off to find a table.
For the next hour Gretchen dipped and served and tried hard to remember, as Ian had said, that every person in the place was a human being with a story. The journalist in her found that fascinating. Her fastidious side was horrified.
When the line slowed, she made a point of going to the tables to talk to Brother James and a number of other “guests.” They not only told stories of their own, they had stories about Ian Carpenter. A good reporter knew when to shut up and listen.
By the time the kitchen was closed for the evening, Gretchen’s feet ached and her head swam with information. Even though she’d yet to hear anything too negative on Ian Carpenter, she couldn’t wait to get to her laptop and type up her notes.
Untying her apron, she placed the now-dirty coverup in a bin marked for laundry. Wearily, she ran a forearm over her brow. After a day at the station, an evening here wore thin in a hurry.
Ian came round from the dining room, carrying a filled garbage bag. When he saw her, he stopped and hefted the bag over one shoulder like Santa Claus.
“Tired?”
“A little.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “So, what did you think?”
She shrugged. “Interesting.”
“That’s all you can say? Interesting?” He hefted the other two trash bags and moved to the back door.
Gretchen followed. “Actually, I mean it. Some of these people are fascinating.”
He, on the other hand, remained a virtual mystery. She’d come here to investigate him and so far, she’d learned little that she didn’t already know. But she had learned plenty about the myriad reasons for homelessness, information she could save for a future story.
Ian dropped the garbage bags out the back door into a Dumpster. His voice drifted back to her. “Interesting and hurting.”
Yes, she’d seen that, too. Even the ones who claimed to enjoy their carefree homeless life had come to the streets because of some pivotal, painful event.
Gretchen spotted yet another bag of trash and hurried to reach the back door before Ian could bolt it. Just as she approached, the lock snicked and Ian turned, slamming into her. She stumbled back, flailing for a hand-hold. Before she found purchase, surprisingly strong hands caught her upper arms and steadied her. His grip was sure and solid, a sign that this preacher did a lot more than preach.
“Whoa there. Can’t have a good volunteer falling into the kitchen sink.”
Blue eyes, both hypnotizing and serene, twinkled at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
They stood together, too close, watching each otherin the now too-empty kitchen. Ian smiled a mysterious half smile. Gretchen stared
“Now you’re talking,” he said. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“First time tonight.” And already her best silver blouse was spattered with sauce, and she’d gladly change her snazzy heeled sandals for a pair of well-worn sneakers. No wonder Ian dressed so casually.
“You a volunteer or an inmate?”
The word inmate jumped out at her. “Volunteer.”
“Glad to see a pretty new face back there. Preacher isn’t much to look at.”
She could argue that, and from the glances Ian was getting, so could a lot of other females. The preacher himself seemed oblivious.
The old man took his plate and said, “Name’s James. Brother James Franklin Bastille.”
He offered his free hand. Gretchen refused to be repelled by the stained and yellowed fingers. She whipped away the plastic glove and stuck her hand across the counter.
“Gretchen Barker. I’m happy to meet you, Brother James. You come here often?”
From the back of the line someone said, “Save the introductions for later. The rest of us are hungry, too.”
Gretchen widened her eyes at Brother James and shrugged. He chuckled. “Come talk to me later. I got something to tell you.”
Leaving her curious, he took his plate and shuffled off to find a table.
For the next hour Gretchen dipped and served and tried hard to remember, as Ian had said, that every person in the place was a human being with a story. The journalist in her found that fascinating. Her fastidious side was horrified.
When the line slowed, she made a point of going to the tables to talk to Brother James and a number of other “guests.” They not only told stories of their own, they had stories about Ian Carpenter. A good reporter knew when to shut up and listen.
By the time the kitchen was closed for the evening, Gretchen’s feet ached and her head swam with information. Even though she’d yet to hear anything too negative on Ian Carpenter, she couldn’t wait to get to her laptop and type up her notes.
Untying her apron, she placed the now-dirty coverup in a bin marked for laundry. Wearily, she ran a forearm over her brow. After a day at the station, an evening here wore thin in a hurry.
Ian came round from the dining room, carrying a filled garbage bag. When he saw her, he stopped and hefted the bag over one shoulder like Santa Claus.
“Tired?”
“A little.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “So, what did you think?”
She shrugged. “Interesting.”
“That’s all you can say? Interesting?” He hefted the other two trash bags and moved to the back door.
Gretchen followed. “Actually, I mean it. Some of these people are fascinating.”
He, on the other hand, remained a virtual mystery. She’d come here to investigate him and so far, she’d learned little that she didn’t already know. But she had learned plenty about the myriad reasons for homelessness, information she could save for a future story.
Ian dropped the garbage bags out the back door into a Dumpster. His voice drifted back to her. “Interesting and hurting.”
Yes, she’d seen that, too. Even the ones who claimed to enjoy their carefree homeless life had come to the streets because of some pivotal, painful event.
Gretchen spotted yet another bag of trash and hurried to reach the back door before Ian could bolt it. Just as she approached, the lock snicked and Ian turned, slamming into her. She stumbled back, flailing for a hand-hold. Before she found purchase, surprisingly strong hands caught her upper arms and steadied her. His grip was sure and solid, a sign that this preacher did a lot more than preach.
“Whoa there. Can’t have a good volunteer falling into the kitchen sink.”
Blue eyes, both hypnotizing and serene, twinkled at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
They stood together, too close, watching each otherin the now too-empty kitchen. Ian smiled a mysterious half smile. Gretchen stared
Similar Books
