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"That sounds like you need a carpenter. Or at least, someone who's willing to go up on that high roof of yours."
Chris took a minute to appreciate the look on her face. She's so pleased, with herself or with him he couldn't say.
"So you understand, then."
"Not really," says he. "I still don't know why you came to me with that information. Couldn't the preacher help you out? Feel like he's probably got a community fund 'n everything."
The look that crossed her face told a very specific story, but it was one that Chris couldn't begin to explain. Schoolteacher like her, she seemed very right and proper. There was no way she wasn't right with the church, so why did she seem so uncomfortable with the idea?
"I thought you might be able to put up a collection. Maybe just a little jar by the counter, with a sign?"
Chris didn't like the way the conversation was going, because he didn't want to have to tell her no. But it wasn't going to happen.
"You want to talk to the boss about something like that. Mr. Davis. He'd probably be at his house, right about now. I could get you an address."
He could see the expression on her face. Deflated. There wasn't much that he could do, though. Stan came in and saw something like that, he'd be pretty unhappy about it, if he wasn't consulted. Nor was Chris in the sort of position to be making suggestions about now. There were a thousand other people who might be able to talk the guy into it. Chris wasn't one of them.
He'd probably be dismissed immediately. 'What, El Bandito is suddenly taking an interest in the children?' He'd bite down on his lip and not make a response. The man had a sharpness to him that cut deeper than Chris liked, and as much as he could deal with it when he had to, the bartender wasn't looking to stick his foot in it on purpose.
The next words out of her mouth were exactly what he'd expected. "Can't you talk to him? He'll listen to you."
She sounded so confident. Was that because she thought she knew something he knew not to be the case? Or because she was just trying to sound convincing? He didn't know, and didn't much care, either way.
"No, he won't," Chris said with a quiet sort of confidence. "You can trust me on that."
Her lips twitched, but she didn't say anything for a long minute. "So you won't, then?"
There was a little twinge of guilt in his chest. No doubt it was exactly the twinge that she'd wanted to give him. It wasn't out of spite that he decided to ignore it.
"I oughtn't. You ought to try, though."
She took a deep breath. "Alright, then. Thank you, Mr. Broadmoor."
"I'm sorry I couldn't be more help," he said, to a retreating woman's back. She didn't turn to respond.
Why did he feel so bad? There was nothing that he could do. If she wanted to take up a collection in the bar, it wasn't going to be good if they did it without talking to the owner. If it were Chris doing it, he'd laugh the idea right out of the room.
It was the best advice he could give, that she should talk to the man herself.
But the way she'd looked at him, the way she seemed so let down… it got to him more than he'd have liked. More than it should have.
He leaned back again, set a glass down and picked up another, working the rag around and through. None of the self-satisfaction he'd felt before.
There had to be something that he could do. If there wasn't, then there was no reason to feel bad. It might just be that he was making himself feel bad for no reason. That was more than possible, it was even likely. He didn't want to accept that logic. If he felt bad, it was probably for some reason. Something that he could be doing, but he wasn't. The only question was what it was.
The idea took a few minutes to occur to him. But once it had, he was moving out the door before he had time to worry about it. Time was limited, and he'd better get to it sooner than later.
Nine
Marie's throat felt tight walking out. She shouldn't have tried this place, and she definitely shouldn't have expected that she'd get any kind of help from Christopher Broadmoor. Nobody had ever said a single thing about him that made the man sound remotely charitable.
He wasn't a church-going type of man, for one thing. Nobody had ever seen him at church, not once. They hadn't seen her, either, but she had a good reason, which was a big difference.
So it made no sense that she'd be surprised that he didn't want to give her the time of day. He had no reason to give her any special attention whatsoever. But somehow, it stung anyways. She closed her eyes and pressed the door open, stepped through into the morning sun.
It was still low on the horizon, angled perfectly to point right at her eyes, somehow magnified by sitting just above the buildings across the wide main road. If she ought to go talk to the owner alone, then she ought to do it now, she supposed. There wasn't going to be a better time, and if she didn't want to do it now, she'd only want to do it less later.
So Marie stood there a moment, gathering up her courage and trying to stifle the slightly sick feeling in her stomach at the thought of having to go in and ask someone for a favor a second time, after being so politely refused.
