A Quarter for a Kiss Read online

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  The author is represented by MacGregor Literary.

  Cover by Dugan Design Group, Bloomington, Minnesota

  Cover photo © Guido ClaBen / Fotolia

  Lyrics from “A Quarter for a Kiss,” words and music by David Starns, © Copyright 2003 by David Starns, are used herein with all rights reserved and by permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  A QUARTER FOR A KISS

  Copyright © 2004 by Mindy Starns Clark

  Published 2011 by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  ISBN 978-0-7369-2959-2 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-4170-9 (eBook)

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the edition as follows:

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Clark, Mindy Starns.

  A quarter for a kiss / Mindy Starns Clark.

  p. cm.—(Million dollar mysteries ; bk. 4)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-1293-8 (pbk.)

  1. Nonprofit organizations—Fiction. 2. Saint John (V.I.)—Fiction. 3. Widows—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.L366Q37 2004

  813'.54—dc22

  2003020826

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 / LB-CF / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  About the Author

  The Buck Stops Here

  Whispers of the Bayou

  Under the Cajun Moon

  Shadows of Lancaster County

  Secrets of Harmony Grove

  Other Books by Mindy Starns Clark

  About the Publisher

  For my mother,

  Jacquelyn Dickerson Starns.

  You are my rock,

  my friend,

  and my inspiration.

  I love you!

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you so much:

  John Clark, J.D., C.P.A., for everything. Your generosity of time, resources, and love never ceases to amaze me.

  Kim Moore, for being the best (and the sweetest) editor on the planet.

  David Starns, my wonderful brother, for penning the song “A Quarter for a Kiss” and then bringing it to life in the studio. You are the single most amazing musician I have ever known.

  Steve Laube and Frank Weimann, for your representation. What a pair!

  Daniel Scannell, for outstanding research assistance.

  Kay Justus, for brainstorming, researching, and providing invaluable contacts.

  Jackie Starns and Shari Weber, for reading and proofing.

  Shana Smith, for “coining” the right phrase to give the book its title.

  Ken Weber, for creating and maintaining my website.

  Janet White, for gracious hospitality.

  The brilliant minds at Chi Libris, MMA, Dorothy L, and Sisters in Crime, for tremendous advice and support.

  And a big thanks to those who have answered questions and expanded the base of my knowledge in the course of writing this book: Daniel Bailey, Tim Barker, Bob and Sue Butler, Alice Clark, Emily and Lauren Clark, Jeff Cohen, Kathy Coon, Jonathan King, Craig Kozan, R. Troyan Krause, Warren Levicoff, Jack Liddy, Dave Redinger, Douglas T. Reindl, Robert M. Starns, M.D., Corinne Weaber, and the helpful staff of Northeast Scuba Supply of Trooper, PA.

  There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed,

  or hidden that will not be made known.

  MATTHEW 10:26

  One

  “Come on, Callie,” Tom urged. “You can do it. You know how.”

  Ignoring the burning in my calves, I kept my gaze on Tom, who had reached the top of the wall almost effortlessly and now waited there for me to join him.

  “There’s a grip at two o’clock, up from your right hand about six inches,” he guided, speaking in the low, soothing tones I teasingly called his “rock climbing” voice. Glad for that voice now, I released my handhold and reached upward, my fingers easily finding and grasping the tiny ledge. “Now your foot,” he said. “Slow and easy. You’re almost there.”

  As I went I concentrated on all I had learned about rock climbing in the last few weeks. It was Tom’s passion, and we had spent a number of hours practicing on a real rock face while he taught me the basic tricks and techniques. Now we were in an indoor gym, on a simulated rock wall, climbing much higher than we had ever gone in our practice runs. And though I was wearing a safety harness that was roped to the ceiling, that didn’t make it any easier or any less scary—particularly where the wall actually bent outward, pitching me at a difficult angle.

  “You are one step away, Cal,” he said, excitement evident in his voice. “Most of the people won’t make it half this far.”

  With a final burst of daring, I slid my toes against the next hold and straightened my knees, rising high enough to touch the ceiling at the top of the wall.

  “You did it!” Tom cried, and only then did I allow myself to smile and then to laugh.

  “I did do it!” I echoed, slapping a high five with Tom and feeling the rush of pleasure and relief he said he experienced every time he finished a challenging climb. Of course, to him “challenging” meant the Red Rocks of Nevada or Half Dome in Yosemite. For me, a big wall in a rock-climbing gym was a pretty good start.

  We repelled down together, my legs still feeling shaky once I was on solid ground.

  “That was great,” the teenage staffer said as he helped unhook me from the harness. “And to think you were worried. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

  “Not that high and not indoors,” I said.

  “Well, you’re a natural.”

  “I had a good teacher,” I replied, glancing at Tom, who was busy
removing his own harness. He and I had spent the last three weeks together vacationing in the North Carolina mountains. During that time, we had enjoyed teaching each other our favorite sports—climbing and canoeing—though I liked to tease him that my hobby was the superior one, because one false move with a canoe paddle wouldn’t exactly plunge a person hundreds of feet to their death. Tom had replied that if one were canoeing above Niagara Falls, that wouldn’t exactly be true, now would it?

  As the teenager moved on to help the next set of climbers, Tom gave me an encouraging smile.

  “Hey, what did you say this is called?” I asked him, pointing at my visibly wobbling knees. “Sewing legs?”

  “Sewing-machine legs,” Tom replied. “A common climbing malady. Come on. You need to rest for a bit.”

  He bought us two bottles of water from the snack bar, and then we found a quiet corner and sat on a bench there, leaning back against the wall. I felt thoroughly spent, as if I had pushed every single muscle in my body to its very limit.

  I sipped on my water, feeling my pulse slowly return to normal, looking around at the activity that surrounded us. Across the giant room, a new group of climbers was being instructed by a guide while about ten more people waited in line for their turn. In the front window was a giant banner that said “Climb for KFK,” and beside the cash register was a table where pledges and donations were being accepted for “Kamps for Kids,” a charity that provided summer camp scholarships to impoverished children. Instead of a walkathon, they were calling this event a “climbathon.” I liked the idea as well as the whole atmosphere of the place, from the easy joviality of the people waiting in line to the upbeat encouragement of the instructors who were manning the ropes and providing assistance as needed.

  “So what’s up, Callie?” Tom asked. “You haven’t been yourself all morning.”

  I shrugged.

  “Sorry,” I said. “This is my work mode, I guess. You have to remember, we’re not just here to have fun. We’re on the job, so to speak.”

  Tom nodded knowingly and then leaned closer and lowered his voice.

  “So how does this happen, exactly?” he asked. “Do you just walk up to the people and say, ‘Hi, here’s a big whopping check’?”

  I smiled.

  “Oh, sure, that’s usually how it goes. I call that my Big Whopping Check speech.”

  “Don’t be hard on me,” he said, grinning. “I’ve never done this before.”

  I leaned toward him, speaking softly.

  “Well, first of all, you have to wait for the proper moment,” I said. “Like just before you’re about to leave.”

  “Okay.”

  “Second,” I continued, “you have to have the full attention of the correct person. You don’t want to give that whopping check to just anybody.”

  “Get the big wig. Got it.”

  “Finally, the act of presentation takes a little bit of flair. It’s a huge moment for them. You want to help them enjoy it.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “You also want to bring them back down to earth a little. I actually do have a short speech I give every time I hand over a grant. I remind the recipient where the money’s coming from and what it’s for. That seems to go over well.”

  I felt funny explaining how I did my job to Tom, because he wasn’t just my boyfriend, he was also technically my boss. Though he lived and worked on the other side of the country, far from our actual office, Tom was the kind and generous philanthropist behind the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation. I worked for the foundation as the director of research, and basically my job was to investigate nonprofits Tom was interested in and analyze their suitability for grants. If they checked out okay, I then had the pleasure of awarding them grant money. That’s what we were doing here today. For the first time ever, Tom was joining me as I gave a little bit of his money away.

  “Hey, Tom! Tom Bennett!” a man cried, interrupting my thoughts.

  The fellow bounded toward us, grinning widely. He was tall and wiry, with deep laugh lines in a tanned face, and when he reached us, we stood and the two men shook hands warmly. “You said you might come, but I didn’t believe you.”

  “I’m glad I was able to work it out,” Tom replied, smiling.

  He introduced his friend as Mitch Heckman, owner of the gym and co-organizer of the event. I told Mitch how impressed I was with the gym and with the climbathon concept.

  “Most of the credit goes to my wife,” Mitch said, shaking my hand. “I’m just glad we could use the gym to help out a good cause.”

  “Have you raised much?” Tom asked.

  “Our goal for today was twenty-five thousand dollars,” Mitch said. “You can see how we’re doing on that poster over there.”

  He pointed to a drawing of a mountain with a zero at the bottom, amounts written up the side, and $25,000 at the top. Sadly, it had only been colored in about half of the way up—and the event would be over in another hour or two.

  “Of course, we had a pretty big learning curve in putting the whole thing together,” Mitch said. “I’m sure we can make up the difference with some bake sales or car washes or something. We’ll get there eventually. Mai pen rai, huh?”

  “Yeah, mai pen rai.”

  They chatted for a few minutes more, and then Mitch was called up to the front. After he was gone, Tom explained to me their acquaintance, that they had met a few months ago while mountain climbing—specifically, while scaling the limestone cliffs off of Rai Ley Beach in the Krabi Province of Thailand. Tom had been working hard in Singapore and had taken a weekend off to visit the nearby mountain-climbers’ mecca, where he met Mitch atop one of the peaks after a particularly challenging climb. As the two men rested, they talked, and it turned out that they were both avid climbers and eager to explore an unfrequented jungle crag nearby. Together they had hired a guide and ended up having an incredible day of climbing. Though the two men hadn’t seen each other since, they had been in touch off and on ever since via e-mail.

  “What were you saying to each other just now? My pen…”

  “Mai pen rai,” Tom replied. “That’s Thai for ‘no problem’ or ‘never mind.’ The guides say it to encourage you while you’re climbing, kind of like ‘you can do it.’ ‘Don’t worry.’ Mai pen rai.”

  “Does Mitch know about the foundation?”

  “Nope. He thinks I’m just another rock jock.”

  “He’s in for a nice surprise, then,” I said. “This is fun, giving a grant to someone who never even applied for one.”

  This wasn’t our usual mode for doing business, that was for sure. But this particular charity was so new—and the amount we were donating so relatively small—that the investigation hadn’t been all that complicated. Since KFK had never applied for a grant from us, I hadn’t really had the authority to go in and do an extensive investigation. But they did belong to several good nonprofit watchdog groups, so I had felt confident doing the research from our vacation home in North Carolina, mostly over the internet and on the phone with the foundation’s accounting whiz, Harriet, the day before.

  “Anyway, now you’ll finally have the pleasure of making a donation live and in person,” I added. “Something I’ve only been bugging you to do for two years.”

  “Almost three years now,” he corrected. “And, yes, I’m hoping this might shut you up for good.”

  “Oh, you want me to shut up, do you?” I asked. “What about—”

  He silenced me with a finger against my lips, which he allowed to linger there.

  “No,” he whispered, gazing a moment at my mouth. “Don’t ever stop talking to me. I want to listen to you forever.”

  We looked into each other’s eyes as everything else in the room blurred into the background. My legs shivered again, but not from climbing this time.

  “We need to get going,” Tom said gruffly, standing and then helping me to my feet. I squeezed his hand, and then we separated into the men’s and women’s locker areas to get
cleaned up.

  After a shower I dressed quickly in a pair of black slacks and a soft blue knit shirt. I towel-dried my short hair, combed it out, and took a moment to put on some lipstick and a touch of mascara.

  As I looked in the mirror, ready to leave, I was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. In a few short hours Tom and I would go our separate ways, boarding two different flights to head toward our homes on opposite coasts—him to California and me to Maryland. For three glorious weeks we had done nothing more than shut out the rest of the world and spend time together, but we couldn’t hide out and play forever. Our work and other responsibilities awaited us, and as one week had turned into two and then to three, we had already stretched the length of our available time to the very max. Soon our idyllic vacation together would officially be over, and Tom and I would be back to our long-distance romance as usual.

  Slinging my bag onto my shoulder, I decided to take this day moment-by-moment. Despite the difficulty of parting, we still had a job to do. We still had a grant to give out.

  I emerged from the locker room to find Tom also showered and dressed, standing nearby and squinting toward the front of the room. He had in his hand a check from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation, dated today and made out to the charity, though the amount had been left blank.

  “Callie, can you read that figure?” he asked. “I need the exact amount they’ve raised so far.”

  I walked a little closer and then came back to report that they were up to $11,043. Quick with numbers, Tom didn’t even hesitate before he filled out the check for $23,957.

  “That’s ten thousand more than they need to bring them to their goal,” I said after doing the math in my head, not surprised one bit by his generosity.

  “Yeah, but it’s the least we can do, don’t you think?”

  He tried to put the check in my hand, but I pushed it back.

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “Enjoy the moment.”

  Carrying our bags, Tom and I walked to the front of the gym, where his friend Mitch was chatting with a woman that I assumed was his wife. We were introduced, and I liked her firm handshake and the way she looked me directly in the eye. She thanked us for coming and then moved on to speak with someone else.