Endless Chain Read Online Free PDF Page A

it’s pretty clear he hires whoever he can find that day and pays them under the table.”
    “Undocumented workers?”
    “That would be my guess. Our board believes it’s up to George to stay abreast of the law, and they accept his assurances he’s in compliance.”
    She knew from his tone that he didn’t agree with the board’s choice. Resolutely, she changed the subject. “Do you mind telling me why Marvin is leaving? Unless it has nothing to do with the job, of course.”
    “As simple as a better paying job. He’s juggling both right now, but the church is suffering. We need someone who can start training right away.” He glanced at her. “Could you start immediately?”
    “I was hoping to.”
    She had been paying attention to his words; now she paid attention to their destination and felt excitement build. They were headed toward an old frame farmhouse painted lemon-yellow. It was set back from the church, at least an acre to the northwest. A narrow gravel drive snaked to the front porch from the road, between a grove of oaks and maples that hid the house until visitors were almost on top of it. The house itself sat in a field of Queen Anne’s lace and brilliant blue chicory, black-eyed Susans and puff-ball dandelions. The effect was charming.
    She had seen the house before, of course, visited it late one night and stood in front of it to imagine its history and the people who once had lived here. On that night several months ago the house had been a sad gray and far more dilapidated. Now it was a proud buttercup blooming in a field of admirers. In front of it was yet another sign.
    “ La Casa Amarilla, ” she read. “Good choice for a name. Very definitely a yellow house.”
    “What do you think? Did we overdo on the paint?”
    She stared at the house and thought it was as welcoming as outstretched arms. “It’s a happy house. Is that what you hoped for?”
    “Exactly.” He stood beside her, gazing up at it. “It used to be the parsonage. Don’t tell anybody, but I like it better than the one I live in down the road. In the fifties, when the church built mine, a three-bedroom ranch house was every working man’s goal. Farmhouses with history and character fell out of favor, and little brick boxes with narrow windows and air-conditioning fell in.”
    “I’m sure somebody would remove your air conditioner if you complained.”
    He gave a small laugh. “And I won’t.”
    The raindrops, scattered at first, were falling a little faster. He put his hand on her arm to nudge her forward. “Let’s go in.”
    The house was narrow, but the porch was deep enough for several old rockers. She imagined former occupants rocking away the twilight here. “You haven’t told me what you use it for now.”
    “Besides experimenting with shades of yellow paint?”
    “Besides that, yes.”
    He pulled a tennis-ball-sized clump of keys from his pocket and used one to open the door, standing back to usher her inside. “Come see.”
    She stepped in and waited. He left the door open—for fresh air, she supposed—and flipped a series of switches that filled the house with light. The front room just beyond the tiny entryway where they stood was small, but comfortably furnished with sofas and chairs covered by bright red slipcovers.
    There were computer desks lining one wall, three of them, each with what looked like a new computer in place. The old wood floor was covered by a bright circular rag rug. Posters in primary colors filled the walls. She saw that each one was a humorously illustrated vocabulary lesson.
    “Weather, flags of Europe, telling time…” She walked along the wall, looking at each. “Colors…seasons, opposites. I like this one.” She pointed to a poster with barnyard animals in funny hats. “But won’t the children think that a cow is only a cow if it’s wearing a baseball cap?”
    “I’m hoping that won’t be a problem.”
    She smiled back at him. “ La Casa Amarilla. You’re