‘Marilyn told me. I’m really sorry to bother you. But do you like turkey pie?’
‘Um. Yes.’ Was Dylan asking me to dinner? Slow down, heart and for goodness’ sake, behave!
‘You might have heard we’re cooking our usual New Year’s Day lunch at the chapel. Seventy people who will otherwise be on their own and probably going hungry are coming in for turkey pie and all the trimmings.’
What? He thinks I’m alone! And can’t afford food! I’d be offended if it wasn’t nearly true.
‘Mags and her husband Chris, who run the kitchen, are snowed in on their farm. I’ve managed to round up a couple of other volunteers, but none of them have done anything like this before, and quite frankly it’s going to be a disaster. My culinary expertise reaches its peak at a bacon sandwich. You would be doing me the biggest favour if you came and helped us out. No, scrap that. I mean if you came and took charge. I know you’re probably exhausted and fed up with serving people, and you’re bound to have plans, but these guests are counting on us. It might be the only decent meal they get all month. Even if youcould spare an hour. I’ll come and pick you up in the truck. Please. I’m happy to beg.’
‘Please don’t beg. I’d love to help. What time do you want to pick me up?’
‘How soon can you be ready?’
I glanced down at my far from fresh pyjamas, running a hand through the frizzy nest on my head.
‘Give me forty minutes.’
Three-quarters of an hour later, I stood shivering at the end of my street as Dylan came to a stop. I pulled open the passenger door and climbed in. The navy-blue pick-up suited him perfectly – scruffy, dotted with the odd rust patch. A toolbox, thermos flask, football boots and a worn-looking paperback lay strewn about the floor amongst various random bits and pieces. It smelled of paint, WD40 and other manly smells. This truck had nothing to prove, didn’t care what anybody thought, and may well have run on testosterone. I clicked my seatbelt on and sat back to enjoy the ride.
‘Morning.’
‘Hi.’
‘I would have come to your house. People talk when the minister picks women up from street corners.’
Ouch. Being likened to a street worker, even in jest, rubbed a little too close to the bone. ‘The snow’s a foot deep. I didn’t know if the truck could make it.’
He grinned, and patted his dashboard affectionately. ‘This old girl can make it anywhere.’
‘I don’t think I can say the same about my new car.’
‘You have a car?’
I grimaced. ‘A Christmas present.’
‘Right. Nice present. From Perry?’ He glanced at me, quickly. ‘Yes.’
‘What type is it?’
‘A red one.’
Dylan smiled. ‘Ah. I particularly like the new model of red one. Very fuel efficient. And reliable, so I’ve heard.’
‘Yes. And it’s easy to find in the snow.’
‘A very desirable feature.’ He glanced across at me again, a little longer this time. ‘And red is my favourite colour.’
Well, Pastor Dylan, you can enjoy looking at my face for the rest of this drive then while my treacherously transparent skin tries to out-red my hair.
Grace Chapel was empty when we arrived. Six large slow cookers full of pie filling sat steaming on the work counters, and a pile of individual-sized puff pastry tops were defrosting on plastic trays.
There were three buckets full of new potatoes and two more containing muddy carrots and broccoli. I found shopping bags full of mince pies and chocolate brownies, and a tower of bread rolls. Dylan hovered while I took stock, poking in cupboards and examining the contents of the kitchen drawers. ‘You can phone Mags if you have any questions about what to do.’
‘Nope. It’s fine. How long until the guests arrive?’
‘A couple of hours.’
I whipped open a drawer and tossed him a potato peeler. ‘We’d best get started then.’
