Loving Thy Neighbor. Ruth Scofield

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      “I’d be glad to pay you for the cherries,” Quincee offered. “If you’ll tell me what they’re worth.”

      “It’s Kyle’s and Kerri’s debt, don’t you think?”

      “But they’re very young. They didn’t intentionally steal the fruit.”

      “They may be young, Miss Davis, but they’re not too young to learn to take responsibility for their actions. As a teacher, I’d think you would agree with that.”

      “Oh, normally, I would. I do. I agree completely,” she was quick to say. “But right at this time it seems…”

      His expression hardened, as though he were reminding her of her own recent irresponsibility. Easy excuses, he seemed to say, wouldn’t stand with him.

      Quincee bit her bottom lip. She couldn’t pour out any of her problems to this man, not a one. This man would see any explanation as simply more excuses.

      “Well, the children don’t have any money.” She wouldn’t tell him they’d spent their allowance on pizza last night to celebrate their new home. The only alternative had been peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Again.

      “I don’t want their money,” Judge Paxton said firmly.

      Lord, “Love thy neighbor” might take a stretch here, Quincee prayed. Want to give me some help?

      “All right,” she conceded. “What will it take to, um, satisfy the debt?”

      She didn’t like being in debt to anyone. Especially, she was discovering, she didn’t want to owe this man anything. It felt too much like the court sentence that hung over her head.

      “An apology will do for a start.”

      “Oh. Of course.” She cleared her throat as she felt color creep up her cheeks. She’d been so put off by the fact of who her neighbor was that she’d been remiss in offering the first common decency of an apology. And after she’d thought to be neighborly and smooth away the problem. “Children?”

      “I’m sorry.” Kerri spoke barely above a whisper.

      “Sorry,” Kyle mumbled.

      “And I apologize, as well, Judge Paxton,” Quincee said. “I’ll make sure the children…” She let her voice trail as an idea sparked her thoughts in a new direction. “Um, perhaps the children could work off their debt.”

      The judge glanced at the children once more, seeming to consider the matter with as much gravity as he carried to his position on the bench. “That’s a concept. What can they do?”

      “Well,” she said, glancing at the open denim collar. A few inches of tanned throat showed her he wasn’t a stranger to the sun. She wondered how many hours he spent puttering in his yard. She’d noted how neat it always appeared.

      She let her gaze drop to the ground. Only the toes of grungy sneakers showed in the hedge’s gap. The man couldn’t be all poker straight and formal if he could let himself go enough to enjoy puttering in the yard.

      “Perhaps they can help you with your yard chores. Say for the rest of this morning?”

      The judge weighed the offer, his dark lashes flickering from her to the children. Then he commanded the children’s attention. “Kyle. Kerri. Do you agree?’

      Kerri nodded eagerly, her face brightening, while Kyle, trying hard not to show any enthusiasm for the idea, spoke for them both. “S’pose so. What do we have ta do?”

      It dawned on Quincee that Kyle may be in need of a man’s company. He’d been very young when his parents split, and the kids’ dad, Mac Stillman, hadn’t been seen since shortly after Kerri was born.

      “I’m pruning rosebushes against my house right now,” the judge said, bringing her thoughts back to the task at hand. “You may gather the clippings for the trash can. After that, I’ll be working in the vegetable garden. You may both help with weeding.”

      Before he’d finished speaking, Kerri was crawling through the gap in the hedge. Kyle scrambled to follow.

      Quincee didn’t know whether to go with the children or not. They needed to learn this valued lesson, to be sure, but she knew very little about Judge Paxton’s personal life. Hamilton Paxton was still practically a stranger, though her real estate woman had told Quincee that her neighbor in the Victorian beauty next to hers lived alone, but was a very respected citizen. The woman hadn’t mentioned his name.

      At the time, who would’ve guessed she’d care?

      Paula hadn’t normally let the children go with someone of whom she knew so little. Neither did Quincee. Yet however much she might think him a stuffed shirt, she instinctively trusted the judge.

      “You may check on the children at any time, Miss Davis,” the judge said, reading her thoughts. “We’ll be right here in plain sight for you to find.”

      Quincee nodded. His unexpected thoughtfulness struck her as unusual; he certainly hadn’t cut her any slack or shown any kindness at court. “Thank you.”

      Through the low woody hedge gaps, she saw their feet turn away.

      “Come home by lunchtime, kids,” she called after them. “And you must follow Judge Paxton’s instructions, but don’t get in his way.”

      “We will, Quincee,” Kerri returned, her voice floating behind her.

      “I don’t suppose either of you have any work gloves, do you?” she heard the judge mutter. “We’ll have to see what I can dig up.”

      Quincee was left to puzzle over the man’s behavior after giving a great imitation of disliking kids. He certainly didn’t have much respect for her. He thought her a fluff.

      Promptly at noon, the kids came through the back door. Kerri carried a brown paper sack. “Look what I have,” she boasted.

      “What’s that?” Quincee asked.

      “Strawberries.” Kerri opened the sack and showed off her prize. “They came out of his garden. He said he didn’t want any more, he’d had enough. And he let me pick ’em ’cause he showed me how. You only pick just the red ones, see?”

      “He gave these to you?” Quincee queried, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sure?”

      “Uh-huh. We earned ’em,” Kyle said. He displayed more dirt than a gopher.

      “And what have you been doing to earn the strawberries?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine what that stiff-necked letter-of-the-law would consider ample work worthy of these lovely strawberries.

      “Chopping up dirt and taking out the rocks so the stuff in the garden can grow better,” the boy replied. “He said we grow more rocks in Missouri than grass.”

      “I suppose that’s true,” she responded with a surprised chuckle. “But I think you both need baths before you grow anything interesting in all that dirt you’re sporting. Quickly now, before lunch.”

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