The Sweetgum Ladies Knit for Love - By Beth Pattillo Page 0,42

even had more than one project ready to display.

“Time seems to have gotten away from me this month,” the librarian said, not quite looking any of them in the eye. Merry looked around the group and realized she wasn’t the only one holding back a smile.

“After all the times the rest of us haven’t finished by the meeting,” Merry said, hoping to relieve Eugenie’s embarrassment, “I’m sure you’re due a free pass.”

Eugenie flashed Merry a grateful look. “Now, for next month, I thought I’d be a bit more specific about the project.” She laid both hands on the table in front of her. “For the Song of Solomon, I thought we’d use the purl stitch to make something for someone we love.” She paused. “Not necessarily love in a romantic way, of course.”

Merry heard more than one sigh of relief. While she and Eugenie, as the married ladies in the group, should theoretically have their love lives sorted out, the rest of the group was definitely in flux.

“Is that agreeable?” Eugenie asked, but Merry knew that none of the others would take exception to her assignment. “Good, then. Very well done, everyone.”

As they gathered up their things and made their way out of the church, Merry paused by the hallway that led to the children’s education wing where the Mother’s Day Out program was housed. She stared down the darkened hallway, worry and fear fighting for equal share of her attention.

Hunter was so small and defenseless. But this was their church, and if she was going to trust anyone to care for him, it would be the people that gathered here.

With a small sigh, Merry hoisted her tote bag higher on her shoulder and headed out into the night.

Early in November, Eugenie opened the Bible that lay on the counter in front of her. From her position behind the high-fronted checkout desk, she could keep an eye on the entire library. At the moment, the only patrons were the ever-present Hornbuckles, an elderly couple who were deaf as posts. Taking advantage of the rare moment of inactivity, Eugenie flipped through the Bibles pages until she found what she was looking for. The Song of Solomon.

The selection had seemed obvious when she’d been making her book list for the year. It was perhaps the oldest love story in Western literature. And although in the Christian tradition the book had mostly been interpreted as an allegory for the relationship of Christ to the church, Eugenie took the older perspective and viewed it as a celebration of Gods gift of romantic love. At least, she did since Paul had come back into her life.

Eugenie skimmed the lines of ancient poetry she hadn’t read in years, but as she progressed through the book, her cheeks began to suffuse with color.

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!

For your love is better than wine.

Had Song of Solomon always been this sensuous? She shifted uncomfortably on the stool and then glanced up and over each shoulder. Those authors of bodice-ripping romance novels had nothing on King Solomon.

Ah, you are beautiful, my beloved, truly lovely.

Our couch is green.

As she continued to read, embarrassment gave way to bemusement and then, quite suddenly, she was mesmerized. What she felt for Paul was nothing new. The relationship between a man and a woman was a wonderful, amazing thing, celebrated throughout the centuries. But to see that sensual, almost mystical connection here, between the covers of her Bible, was unexpected. And disturbing. And exhilarating.

She was so lost in her reading that she barely registered the whoosh of the library’s front door opening to admit a patron. She looked up to see Hazel Emerson marching toward her. Eugenie forced a smile.

“Good morning, Hazel.” Whatever Hazel wanted, it had nothing to do with broadening her mind. Sharpening her claws, more like. Eugenie had spent the past six weeks bending over backward to please Hazel and her ilk. Standing beside Paul in the receiving line after church. Visiting shut-ins. Even volunteering to serve on the board of the Mothers Day Out program. The requests for her participation, though, rather than slacking off, had actually picked up. The more she did, the more people found for her to do.

“Eugenie. I was hoping I’d find you here,” Hazel said. She wore a fur jacket that was too heavy for the mild November day.

Eugenie swallowed the urge to make a sarcastic reply. Instead, she spread her hands to indicate her surroundings. “My natural habitat. What