Free Echoes of Mercy: A Novel by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page A

scrubbing the spot where the filling from Carrie’s pie had splashed over the edge of her bowl.
    Oliver chuckled. Kesia was the closest thing to a saint he’d ever met. He clarified, “She doesn’t ask a set amount for the food she serves. She lets every person put whatever he can afford into the bucket as payment. And if some can’t afford anything at all, well”—he shrugged—“she feeds ’em anyway.”
    Tears swam in Carrie’s eyes, deepening her irises to a rich, dark chocolate. “That’s so kind of you, Miss Kesia.”
    Kesia grunted, but her cheeks wore bright red banners. “Oh, listen to his ballyhoo. He’s just finaglin’ for another packet o’ ham an’ cheese sandwiches—that’s what he’s doin’.” She shook the rag free of crumbs and jammed it back into her pocket. “If you’re wantin’ more sandwiches for tomorrow’s lunch, Ollie, just say so. No need to carry on like a carpetbagger.”
    He and Carrie exchanged a grin, and awareness of their silent communication filled his chest. He forced his attention back to Kesia. “I do need a box lunch for tomorrow.” He gave Carrie a questioning look. “And Miss Carrie might need one, too. Am I right?”
    Carrie sighed, scrunching her face into an embarrassed grimace. “He’s right, Miss Kesia. I … I don’t cook.”
    Oliver’s curiosity rose another notch. The only women he’d encountered who didn’t cook were women of wealth, who had staff to see to meals.
    “You don’t cook?” Kesia’s graying eyebrows flew high. “But—” She covered her mouth with two fingers. Sympathy softened her expression. “Oh. You were orphaned. I s’pose you didn’t have a mama to teach you, then.” She patted Carrie’s hand. “Well, don’t you worry. I’ll fix you up with a real nice lunch. Ollie here favors my smoked-ham-and-white-cheese sandwiches. Make the cheese myself with milk from a nanny goat. That sound all right to you?”
    Carrie smiled, but Oliver noted that it wavered. “Your ham-and-cheese sandwiches would suit me just fine.”
    “I’ll go put ’em together for you right now. Yours, too, Ollie. An’ I’ll throw in a piece or two of the gingerbread left over from this morning’s breakfast.” Kesia scurried through the kitchen doorway.
    Oliver contemplated Kesia’s comment about Carrie being an orphan. Might it be, following her parents’ demise, someone robbed her of her inheritance? If so, her work at the factory would make sense. He rested his elbow on the counter, leaned in, and asked softly, “Miss Carrie, about you losing your parents … Did—”
    Carrie slid from the stool. “I’ll be sure to reimburse Miss Kesia well for the dinner.” She must have had more bites of the pie than he’d realized, because cinnamon and peaches wafted on her warm breath. She hurried to the bucket, her skirts swirling, and retrieved a little purse from her pocket. She scowled into the purse’s belly. His heart tripped. How much could she afford to pay, considering the small amount a toter earned at the factory?
    He angled his gaze to his plate to allow her privacy. A solid
clunk
sounded. Oliver gave a start. Unless she’d tossed it into the bucket with force to feign a large contribution—and he couldn’t imagine her doing such a thing—she had dropped a heavy coin. He waited until she’d slipped out the door. Then he briefly abandoned his supper to peek into the bucket. On top of the scattered pennies, nickels, and dimes, a silver dollar glinted up at him.
    Oliver stared in amazement at the coin, envisioning the woman who’d paid twice what he’d ever deposited into Kesia’s bucket for a meal. She must be rich. And educated. Yet she worked as a toter in his father’s chocolate factory.
    Kesia stepped from the kitchen, holding a package wrapped in paper and tied with twine. She searched the café, her wrinkled face pursed in confusion. “Where’d Carrie go? I got her sandwiches an’ gingerbread here.”
    Oliver