Free The Carpenter's Daughter by Jennifer Rodewald Page B

spread over his mouth again. “I just don’t want you to think it’s a big deal or anything. My dad was a contractor too, and my mom was a landscape designer. They worked hard their whole lives and were careful about the way they lived. They had a plan, a dream for when they retired. They wanted to be able to travel around doing relief work, using their skills to help people, and they wanted to be able to do it without asking for financial support. So they saved and invested to that end.”
    That was the strangest thing I’d ever heard. “Did they do it?”
    “They retired seven years ago, and yes, they did. They discovered that their ideas and expertise were best suited to Homes For Hope. For two years, they traveled and worked with Homes. One night they were on their way to North Platte for a build, and a truck hit them head on. Both were killed instantly.”
    Unbelievable. Watching Jesse’s face, I found it both amazing and confusing that while he looked as though his parents’ death saddened him, he wasn’t angry. The pleasantness about him never left. I couldn’t reconcile the paradox.
    Jesse took another swallow from his straw. “I was the sole inheritor of their trust.”
    Dumbfounded, I had nothing to say. Who was this guy? Something was wonderfully odd about him. Hunger carved deeper.
    Amazement overrode my hesitancy. Surely I’d misunderstood. “Now you do what they dreamed of?”
    He nodded, and was saved from more explanation by the arrival of our food.
    I continued to stare. “That’s really generous of you.”
    “Don’t pin me as a saint or anything.” His eyes, serious and commanding, caught mine as if it was important I understood. The stiff air held for a moment before the intensity of that look melted back into the easygoing character I’d met. “It’s actually a pretty good gig. I get to travel all over and meet all sorts of people, and they’re almost always glad I’m there.”
    I nodded, but I couldn’t understand. What about his plans? Didn’t he have any of his own dreams to chase? I reached for a fry for something to do as I laid out the pieces of the Jesse puzzle.
    “Do you mind if I pray?” Unashamed, he waited with perfect ease.
    “No.” What else did you say when someone asked that? Religion. So many rituals. So many rules.
    His head dropped forward, and he plunged away. “Lord, thank You for the work You’ve given us today and the ability to do it. I ask that You would bless our food and conversation. In Jesus’s name, amen.”
    Huh. Simple and to the point. Like he was talking to a friend. Not unlike Rick and Darcy. I squirmed. Jesse was not the clean, well-dressed, white-collared kind that couldn’t relate to my world. He worked right alongside me. He swung a hammer, wore a ratty T-shirt, and wasn’t offended by filth.
    He was one of my kind.
    But my kind didn’t need imaginary friends. We lived with grit, worked with our hands, and lived by a code not handed down from heaven.
    And my kind didn’t work for free—not on a regular basis.
    So, he was not my kind. That made more sense. He was, after all, living off a trust. Blue-collar people didn’t have those, let alone survive on one.
    No, that wasn’t right either. He worked like a minimum-wage survivor—I saw him do it. Why would he do that? Easy street was a quick right turn on his life map. He didn’t need to be among the working lower-middle class.
    What was the deal with this guy?
     
    Jesse
    I’d confused her. I wasn’t sure how I’d managed that, but she was sure-as-shootin’ confused. Was it my nomad life or…praying?
    Praying. She’d looked a little befuddled before that—which was a normal response when people drew out my story—befuddled or gushy, the latter of which I found annoying. But Sarah hadn’t been all-out confused until I’d prayed.
    Bummer. That meant more than likely she wasn’t a believer. My chest caved. Hardly seemed fair. Do you know how many women were not like the