The Guest Book by Marybeth Whalen Page B

second time, but she looked away, hiding behind her mother in line as if she were a little girl again, embarrassed to think he knew what she’d been looking for. She watched as he took her mother’s hand, smiling so hard his dimples looked like they might crack. She sighed. Did he have to have dimples? He turned from her mother to her.
    “I’m Nate Wagner,” he said. “And you are?”
    She extended her hand because her mother was watching. “Macy,” she said.
    She shook his hand, then quickly pulled away. His hands were warm and like a surgeon’s, soft and gentle. Her mind flashed to Buzz’s son, Wyatt, and she imagined what his hands felt like: rough and calloused, but certain. She blinked her eyes—Wyatt’s face disappearing—idly wondering why she’d thought of him. She forced a smile at the pastor and wondered what in the world was wrong with her. She was acting like a boy-crazy middle schooler.
    “Nice to meet you, Macy,” he said, giving a little wink so fleeting Macy wondered if she’d imagined it.
    “Nice to meet you,” she mumbled, and made a right down the corridor that led to Emma’s class. Her mind was racing asshe tried to figure out why she was suddenly thinking about other men when it was Chase who’d monopolized her thoughts for so long. Was this a sign of strength, of forward progress? Or did just being at the beach fuel these thoughts? Then she had another thought: Maybe her prayer was being answered.
    She walked into the classroom to retrieve Emma, grateful for the distraction the little girl brought her. The same little girl who’d pleaded not to be left in the classroom now frowned when she saw Macy.
    “I haven’t finished my cookie.” She pouted.
    Macy wanted to get out of the church. “We’ll take it with us!” she said brightly as the teacher smiled at them.
    Macy wondered if somewhere in this town there was a home filled with Sunday school teachers so sweet and kind they glowed. Hers, as she recalled, had looked much the same. Maybe they were related. Macy took Emma’s hand and tried to lead her out, wrapping the half-eaten cookie in a napkin decorated with pink crosses.
    Emma pulled her hand away. “My pot! It’s drying in the next room!” she exclaimed.
    “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Macy grumbled, following Emma as she beelined for the adjoining classroom, where terra-cotta pots bearing the children’s paint jobs were lined up on a counter.
    Emma took her sweet time going down the line, inspecting each one. “Not this one,” she mumbled to herself. “Oh, this one’s pretty! See, Mommy?”
    Macy nodded absently and made a hurry-up motion, herhand circling in the air as Emma looked back at the pots, ignoring her.
    “She’s got to find the right one,” a voice behind her said.
    Macy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She turned to face the handsome pastor, now missing his robe and wearing — surprisingly—jeans and a T-shirt, leaning in the doorway. He smiled.
    “It always surprises people what I’m really wearing under that robe.” It seemed he had a knack for reading her thoughts.
    He grinned at her as color crept up her cheeks a second time. He’d noticed her surprise, had read her just like he’d read the Bible on the pulpit.
    “I guess I was expecting a suit,” she managed.
    “Not here in OIB,” he said. “We’re much more relaxed around these parts.” He smiled. “That’s why I like it so much.”
    She nodded for lack of a better response. “It’s nice,” she agreed.
    He turned to Emma, who’d found her pot at last. It boasted hearts and flowers and rainbows, as Macy expected. She was positive Emma would insist they plant something in it when they got home. But Macy lacked a green thumb, and she was already anticipating the plant dying shortly after its planting. “Did you have a good time today, young lady?” he asked.
    Emma rewarded him with a big smile. “Yes,” she said. She held up her pot. “I painted this