Wise Moves. Mary Burton

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      “Oh, hey, are you still looking for a receptionist?” Pete said.

      Sheridan’s eyes brightened. “Yes.”

      “Well, that gal over there is new in town and looking for work.”

      It took a second for Kristen to realize Pete was talking about her. Immediately, she tensed.

      Sheridan settled her gaze on Kristen. Shrewd eyes studied her before she strolled toward Kristen’s table.

      “So, is my young friend correct?” Sheridan said. “Are you looking for a job?”

      Rising, Kristen cleared her throat. Sheridan stood a good five inches taller than her own five-foot-two inches, but Kristen kept her chin high and her gaze direct. “I am.”

      “My name is Sheridan Young.”

      “Kristen Rodale.”

      “Mind if I sit down?”

      “Sure.” As the two sat, she reminded herself that she had no reason to be nervous. She’d had a dozen jobs in the past nine months. Besides, she’d survived hell and lived to tell the tale.

      “What brings you to Lancaster Springs?”

      “I like to travel.”

      “So you won’t be staying long.”

      Kristen heard the apprehension in the woman’s voice. “I like this town. I could easily stay here.” That was the truth. If she could stay, she would.

      Sheridan dumped raw sugar into her coffee and stirred it. “Your breathing is shallow.”

      “What?”

      “Shallow. You don’t take deep breaths. Is it habit or stress?”

      Behind the easygoing appearance was a shrewd woman. “Habit, I suppose.”

      “I’d vote stress.”

      Kristen picked up her coffee and sipped as her thoughts stumbled. Sheridan didn’t know her from Adam. And there were millions of reasons why people got stressed out. “Why do you say that?”

      “The breathing and your eyes give it away.”

      Kristen blinked. Maybe this wasn’t the town for her.

      As if reading her mind, Sheridan smiled. “Don’t look so nervous. I’m not going to dig too deep.”

      Kristen nodded and, more to change the subject, said, “You said something about a job?”

      “As a matter of fact I did. I own the Yoga Studio. Up until now I’ve been all the help I could afford, but the studio is doing well and I’m looking to hire a receptionist. I pay seven dollars an hour.”

      “It sounds great,” Kristen said honestly.

      “But…”

      Kristen managed to keep her face blank. “What makes you think there is a but?”

      Sheridan rose. “Pete, mind if I take this mug? I’ll bring it back in a couple of hours.”

      Pete raised his hand. “No problemo.”

      Sheridan hitched her head toward the door. “Get your cup. Walk with me.”

      Kristen wasn’t sure what to say but picked up her cup, hoisted her backpack on her shoulder and followed Sheridan down the tree-lined street.

      They walked several blocks north of the historical district into a neighborhood that hadn’t been renovated yet. In the center of the aging buildings was a tall house made of gray stone. It had a red front door flanked by large pots filled with purple and yellow winter pansies. A sign painted in a breezy style hung above the door. It read: Yoga Studio. The building had a warm, calming quality.

      “This is your place?”

      “Yes.” Pride was evident.

      “It’s lovely.”

      “I’ve worked hard to fix her up. She was a mess and marked for demolition when I bought her three years ago. But I could see there was still a good bit of life here. There’s more work to be done, but I’m making progress.”

      “You like to rescue things,” Kristen said as she stared at ivy trailing out of the window boxes.

      A smile tugged at Sheridan’s full mouth. “And you are good at sizing people up.”

      A necessary skill. “Yes.”

      Sheridan studied her. “There’s sadness in your soul, Kristen Rodale.”

      Kristen felt the blood drain from her face. “Sadness isn’t a crime is it?”

      Sheridan sipped her coffee. “No, it’s not. But someone as young as you shouldn’t be so sad.”

      “No one ever said life was supposed to be happy.”

      A cloud passed in front of Sheridan’s eyes. Kristen had hit a nerve. But just as soon as the sorrow appeared, it vanished. “Like I said, I pay seven dollars an hour and I also have a room above the studio, which you can use. I lived in the apartment until a couple of months ago. Now I live down the street in the youth shelter.”

      “Why the shelter?”

      “The old director quit unexpectedly and they needed someone to run the place. I like the kids so for now it’s my home.”

      “More people to save?”

      “I suppose.” Sheridan broke Kristen’s gaze and let it travel over her building. “The apartment is yours if you want it, though I’ll expect you to open the shop each morning by eight. That’ll save me from having to arrive much before the 9:00 a.m. class. The shelter has a 10:00 p.m. curfew, but I never seem to get to bed before midnight.”

      Life had made Kristen cautious, skeptical of lucky breaks. Sheridan just seemed too good to be true. “Why me?”

      She lifted a brow. “Why hire you? Can’t say. A gut feeling. Sometimes you have to be willing to take a chance on the unknown.”

      Sheridan was offering a job and a place to stay—a rare and wonderful combination. Kristen had purchased a social security number in Atlanta two months ago, so the paperwork wouldn’t be an issue. It would be nice to call one place home for a while. And Lancaster Springs seemed like the last place Antonio would ever look for her.

      Sheridan seemed to sense she’d not quite convinced Kristen. “Oh, did I mention the apartment has a microwave and small fridge?”

      Here she could save more money. If she were careful she could save up enough for a car in a matter of months. “Sounds like heaven.”

      “It’s nothing fancy, but it is clean and safe.”

      Safe.

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