Whispers of the Heart by Ruth Scofield Page A

request, you have to admit. And what have crowds to do with it?”
    She turned to face him, her back against the table. Only her fingers showed a tightness, curved around the table edge. “Churches have crowds. They’re made for bunches of people. Mobs of ’em. Their intention, their very purpose is to draw humanity together.” She pursed her mouth. “Uh-uh. I don’t think so.”
    â€œAutumn…” He leaned a hip against the table at her side, watching her fold her hands tightly in front of her. Her objection struck him as nonsense, but he kept his irritation wrapped tightly and hidden from view by lowering his voice to a persuasive tone.
    She couldn’t possibly be serious. Surely she exaggerated her antipathy toward crowds simply as an excuse to say no.
    However, he was practiced in dealing with opposite views and stubborn people, having earned that hard-won skill during many a civic meeting. One of his strengths lay in presenting any given scenario or argument in a positive light.
    â€œDon’t say no just yet, please. You haven’t even seen it. This church hasn’t yet regained its crowds, even though that’s what the new minister is hoping to find.
    â€œAnd you wouldn’t be doing the work during the worship hours, now would you? The church is empty ninety percent of the time except for the buildingcrew, who won’t even be in that part of the building. And David, of course, and a part-time secretary.
    â€œThe section you’d be working in was built sometime in the sixties and its structure is fine, so you wouldn’t likely run into the labor crew. But it does need something to make it attractive and David and I discussed using that long hall for a Biblical mural of some kind.”
    â€œI don’t know much about the Bible.”
    â€œWell, that shouldn’t stop you from researching it. And I’m sure David will consult with you.”
    He paused long enough to take a breath and deepen his plea. “Autumn, if you could capture Timmy from memory like you did, I know you’d be perfect to do this hall. Why don’t you at least come see what I’m talking about?”
    â€œWell…”
    â€œIf not now, then one morning later this week?”
    A long moment of silence fell between them before she said, very tentatively, “Early? Before there’s likely to be a lot of people about?”
    â€œAs early as you want. At first light, even.”
    â€œAll right. I’ll come see the site, but I’m making no promises.”
    â€œIt’s a deal,” Brent said, offering his hand. He liked shaking hands on a deal. He felt the old-fashioned way of doing business, the way his grandfather had conducted his own, held a code of honor that covered more than sometimes appeared in mere printed contracts.
    Slowly, she placed her hand in his; she had long fingers, which felt softer against his palm than he’d anticipated. He held it a moment before letting go,giving her hand a firm clasp. He had to force himself to let go—he’d wanted to hold on, to brush his thumb across the silky texture. Instead, he briskly set a time for later in the week.
    Then, already certain of her answer, said, “Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. Want to come with Tim and me to celebrate?”
    â€œOh, I…I have plans.”
    â€œAll right.” At least he’d tried. “Okay, Timmy, time to say goodbye.”
    â€œBut we haven’t named the puppy, yet,” Timmy protested.
    â€œOh, so we haven’t. Well, what did you want to call her?” Autumn asked.
    â€œI guess…Lady.”
    â€œThere’s a lot of Ladys around,” Brent pointed out.
    â€œOkay, then…” Timmy’s gaze roved around the room as he thought hard. “How about Paint.”
    â€œThat sounds like a pony to me,” his dad murmured, hiding his grin, but exchanging amused glances with Autumn.
    â€œWhy did