With Christmas in His Heart. Gail Martin Gaymer

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      “Nice smile.”

      Christine’s heart jolted, and she swung toward the window seat that looked out to the garden. She poked her index finger into her chest. “Me?” she whispered, not wanting to wake her grandmother.

      He gave a quiet chuckle and tilted his head toward the sleeping form. “She’s not smiling so it must be you.” His voice was hushed, and he glanced toward her grandmother as if to make sure he hadn’t awakened her.

      Christine tiptoed across the carpet and settled onto the next window seat. “Why are you sitting in here?”

      “Waiting for you.”

      “Me?”

      Will tilted his head. “She’s sleeping so I’m not—”

      “Waiting for her, I know.” The man confounded her. “Why are you waiting, and where’s your horse?”

      His eyebrows raised, and she realized she’d given herself away.

      “You were watching me?”

      “No. I happened to look out the window.”

      He flashed her a teasing smile. “Daisy’s tied up outside ready to go. I thought you might need something in town.”

      She frowned, looking for his motive.

      Will rose, his grin fading to match her scowl. “I’m trying to be nice. I want you to feel welcome.”

      “I always feel welcome at my grandmother’s.”

      “But I’ve never seen you here in the past year and a half. Maybe since you’ve visited last, she’s moved the silverware to a different drawer.”

      His barb added another notch to her guilt. “I can find the silverware. Thank you.”

      He shook his head and strutted to the doorway. “Have a nice day.”

      “You too,” she said, thinking hers would be nicer with him gone, but the thought gave her a kick. She was being so unfair. Jealousy? Was that it? Was she being that childish about ownership of her grandmother? The idea hounded her as she hurried from the room.

      “Will,” she called, having distanced herself from the living room doorway. She headed in the direction she suspected he’d gone. “Will.”

      He didn’t respond, and she dropped her arms to her sides.

      “You called?”

      Her neck jerked upward, and she looked at him near the back hallway. Now facing him, her apology knotted in her throat. “Look, I’m—I’m sorry. It’s not your fault that I’m here. It’s no one’s fault. My parents planned their trip, and my grandmother didn’t know she was having a stroke. I—” She stopped not knowing what else to say.

      He looked at her questioningly. “It’s okay. Sometimes things happen that we don’t expect, and it’s difficult to adjust plans. My parents like planning everything to the letter. My father wishes I would, but I don’t. As he would say in the words of Shakespeare, ‘Ay, there’s the rub.’”

      “You’re quoting Shakespeare?”

      He laughed, and the look in his eyes unsettled her. His rich smile reflected in the sparkling blue of his iris. “Like everyone, I took English lit at university.”

      “You were a college man?”

      His smile faded. She studied him, curious why her question had triggered the negative look.

      He seemed to regroup. “For nearly three years.”

      No degree? “What was your major? Art?” she asked.

      “Business.”

      Business. She drew back, startled by the new information. “So where does the art come in?”

      His eyes drifted, and she could see he was uncomfortable with the probing.

      “I left U of M and went to Creative Studies in Detroit, then to Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburgh.”

      Now that really knocked her off guard. “I’m impressed.”

      “Don’t be,” he said.

      His comment was so abrupt Christine didn’t understand what happened. “I don’t mean to keep you.”

      “I’m on my way.” He took a step backward. “Drop by the studio sometime.”

      “If I have time. My grandmother’s my priority.”

      He gave a quick nod and headed out the front door. She followed and watched him through the Victorian glass window. He put his foot into the stirrup, flung his trim leg over the saddle and snapped the reins. The horse took off at a good gait and, before long, he’d vanished around the bend.

      She let out a sigh. The conversation had been strange. Strange and strained. Something bothered Will, and she wondered if her grandmother knew his problem.

      With her grandmother in mind, Christine returned to the living room, and when she came through the doorway, her grandmother opened her eyes. “I guess I caught a little catnap.”

      “Naps are good for you. I unpacked and talked with Will a few minutes.”

      Her grandmother straightened. “Why don’t you like Will, Christine?”

      “Why don’t I what?”

      “I can see you don’t like Will, and I can’t understand why. I’m sure Will sees it too.”

      “I apologized to him before he left. I know I was a little abrupt.”

      “But why, dear?”

      Christine wandered deeper into the room and sank into a nearby chair. “I—I keep thinking he must have an ulterior motive.”

      “Will? He’s as gentle as a lamb and so kindhearted.”

      She ached watching her grandmother try to gesture again. “But why is he so thoughtful? You’re his landlady.”

      Her grandmother straightened in the chair. “Because he follows God’s Word. He clothes himself with compassion and kindness. You’re a Christian. You should understand that.”

      “I—” She felt her heel tapping against the carpet and tried to stop herself before her grandmother noticed. Christine knew she would disappoint her if she admitted her faith had paled from the actions of her youth.

      “What motive do you think he has?” Her grandmother’s sentence came out disjointed.

      “I don’t know.” She wanted to end the direction of the conversation. “I just think a mature male would have better things to do than to be a nursemaid to—”

      “An old lady.”

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