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One Harvest Knight

By Delia Latham

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ONE HARVEST KNIGHT
COPYRIGHT 2019
DELIA LATHAM
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This book is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Warning: No part of this book may be copied, scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means without the written permission of the author. Unauthorized duplication and/or distribution is illegal. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Unless otherwise indicated, all scripture references are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version ®, NIV ®, Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.(TM) Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover Art by Heaven’s Touch Designs, Delia Latham
Published by Heaven’s Touch Books
First Edition, 2019
Published in the United States of America
Contact information:
Heaven’s Touch Books
delia@delialatham.net
 


Key Verses
Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature:
old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.
~2 Corinthians 5:17~

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,
“plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future.
~Jeremiah 29:11~
 

Chapter One
SHELL PRENTISS STOPPED OUTSIDE THE gate…as always upon arriving at Grace Kitchen. A smile curved her lips and warmed her heart…as always when she took in the bright yellow house with its royal blue shutters and matching front door.
How could anyone not love this place? Her smile wavered, but held. The soup kitchen sat at the edge of Harvest, Tennessee’s busy town square, which featured beautifully upkept brownstone buildings—some old, others relatively new, but all having undergone facelifts to make them appear “not too old, not too new, but just right.” A perfect Goldilocks situation built right into the business community of the town center. The owners and tenants of these very proper establishments bowed to code. They’d never consider giving a front door a coat of bright paint or—heaven forbid—hanging a crooked sign.
Nor would they invite the segment of society that frequented Grace Kitchen into their lovely brownstone venues. That these “undesirables” congregated so near the square was a sore point for some of the business owners. Only a small percentage of them—Shell liked to give credit where it was due—but enough to create ripples in the otherwise close-knit family of Harvest Square vendors.
That percentage didn’t much appreciate the Tarwater sisters turning the soup kitchen into such a blatantly unprofessional eyesore. Well within sight of the hub of activity within the square, the bright, contrasting colors simply didn’t fit the serene dignity they sought. Fortunately for the sisters, the turn-of-the-century clapboard house was not on the square, with its proper commercial zoning. The boldly colored structure sat far enough outside that zone to make it legally permissible in its current location. The owners had a right to paint their home however, whenever, and in whatever manner they chose…and the Tarwater twins loved color.
So did Shell. One hand on the gate, she drank in the cozy wraparound porch, where a dozen or more high-backed, white wooden rocking chairs held sway. A soft giggle tickled her throat at the unintentional thought-pun, even as her gaze danced over large clay pots of wave petunias. They nestled between chairs and spilled over porch rails in a vibrant, multi-hued display of nature’s glory.
A plethora of bright blooms also lent a massive dose of energy to the small yard, providing an illusionary boost to its size. Flowers of various species lined the walkway to the front door, and circled the bases of two large oak trees. Shell’s vivid imagination supplied much younger versions of Bessie and Cora Tarwater climbing those trees, “once upon a time.” Despite her sometimes-a-bit-crotchety sister’s disapproval, Bessie had shared with Shell that the two of them had done exactly that. They’d also swung from one large branch on a wooden “swing seat” their father had dangled on thick cords of rope for his daughters’ entertainment.
Shell heaved a soft, contented sigh and breathed a prayer of thanks before pushing through the gate. She volunteered at Grace Kitchen two nights a week. Today was Tuesday, and she’d be back again after work on Thursday. These volunteer hours had become increasingly meaningful over time, and not solely because she’d fallen rather deeply in love with Bessie and Cora in the three years since her longtime dream came true—the dream of opening a combination flower and gift shop in Harvest Square.
Shell’s Petals and Pretties was situated in the heart of the busy business district. Unlike certain of the other shop owners, Shell took great delight in Grace Kitchen’s location, well within view of her front door.
She still found herself “on probation” with a few merchants who’d been firmly ensconced in Harvest Square for decades. They were like a tightly knit family, and some didn’t readily open their arms to newcomers. But Shell wasn’t easily put off. She’d dreamt of having a shop on the square for far too long to be discouraged by cliquish neighbors. She was slowly winning them over—with one glaring exception.
Thorne Knight, owner and editor of the Harvest Herald.
The guy disliked her, even though they’d barely come into contact. She couldn’t figure out why, and hadn’t yet found a way to break through his icy reserve. Miss Cora hinted at hard times in the newsman’s past, but refused to go into detail. Shell happened to believe most all of humanity had a little angst in their pasts—but not everyone allowed it to make nasty characters of their future selves. Miss Bessie insisted Thorne Knight had “a heart of gold,” but Shell had yet to see any hint of a heart, and no trace of anything with a golden glow.
Oh, well. As her mother often said, “Sweetie, ya can’t win ’em all.”
She wrapped herself in one of the oversized aprons hanging on hooks in the kitchen, and then made her way into the dining room. The largest room in the house, this was where the homeless and hungry came to fill their tummies. In colder months, they also warmed themselves near the floor-to-ceiling fireplace that filled one entire end-wall.
When the sisters inherited the ancestral home after their father’s death, they had determined to use it to “give back.” While not exactly wealthy, the Tarwater family never lacked for anything they really needed, and truth be told, most of what they wanted was theirs, as well. As different as night and day in personality, the twins’ hearts were as alike as their identical faces. When it came to Grace Kitchen, those two hearts beat almost as one. No one in Harvest, Tennessee needed to be hungry as long as Bess and Cora owned the Tarwater home.
Nor did the sisters expect soup kitchen guests to dine in a cold, austere, utilitarian environment. They deserved a pleasant, comfortable, visually appealing atmosphere, as diners in any fine restaurant might expect. Heaven help any volunteer who used the word “homeless” or “indigent,” within hearing of either twin. Bess and Cora insisted those who came to Grace Kitchen for a meal or for warmth be treated and referred to as “guests” or “diners” while under the Tarwater roof. They ate at round tables covered in pretty linens, and the facility used inexpensive flatware rather than plastic eating utensils, despite the risk of watching it disappear into the pockets and fanny packs of their guests. Strangely enough, not a lot of pilferage occurred, and for that the sisters credited the “soup kitchen angels” they said inhabited the place.
Eight large, round tables occupied the center portion of the dining area, and a half dozen small, square ones lined the walls. At least once every couple of weeks, Shell filled cheap but attractive little vases with whatever flowers she had an excess of and brought them here to grace the tabletops. Blessing others now and then with little gifts of fragrant blooms blessed her, as well. At Grace Kitchen, they also brightened the place. Shell liked to think they might even bring smiles to the sad, worn faces that came to the kitchen for food, warmth, and comfort.
“Hello, Miss Shell.” A soft, timid voice broke into her reverie as she passed through the swinging door into the dining room.
Shell bent to hug a ragged, weary-eyed woman sitting alone at one of the small tables. “Hey, Patty! I hope you’re feeling better today.”
Patty’s smile revealed a missing tooth on one side. “I cain’t believe you remembered my little ol’ cold.”
“Well, of course I did!” Shell patted a bony shoulder. “I’ve been praying for you every day.”
“That’s mighty sweet of ya, honey—and God must listen to your prayin’, ’cause I feel real good today.”
“I’m so glad you do.”
She moved on through the room, stopping at a few tables with words of encouragement, sending bright smiles to those she couldn’t get to right away. Before the night was over, she would make time to greet each guest. Food and warmth wasn’t enough. These people needed friends. A smile. A kind word. They should know someone was aware that they existed, cared for them, prayed for them, and thought of them as individuals. People—not some impersonal, barely noticed group labeled, often derogatorily, as the poor, the misfits, the segment of society known collectively as “the homeless.”
That’s why she made the effort to learn their names, and asked about their interests. Little by little, they came to trust and respect her. Whenever possible, she gathered contact information, so family members could be notified should the need arise.
As she came to know them, Shell discovered that not all of the kitchen’s ‘regular’ guests—actually, far fewer than she’d been trained by society to expect—were uneducated, unlearned, lazy or in need of mental care. Patty had lost her only child to a house fire many years ago, and then lost her husband when he blamed her for the tragedy. She’d stumbled off into the dark and, with nowhere else to turn, spent the night on a park bench. She never returned home.
The man all the others called Crazy Kenny had a master’s degree in psychology, but none of that knowledge kept him from breaking under the stress when he lost everything, including a wife and three children, thanks to an out-of-control gambling habit. Wild-haired Ramona, with one eye that seemed unable to focus on anything in particular, had parents and two siblings in a town not over an hour away. But at an age far less than adult, she’d chosen to forfeit the roof over her head rather than take another day of abuse at their hands.
The stories went on and on. In the beginning, they kept Shell awake at night, and brought on horrible nightmares when she did sleep. She questioned whether she was emotionally strong enough to continue helping at the kitchen. But hours, days and weeks of prayer had given her an inexplicable love for these lost, hurting and often helpless people. She enjoyed lending a hand to the Tarwater sisters, but she also treasured her visits with the diners.
On her way to refill a couple of water glasses, Miss Bessie stopped to chat a moment. “Shell, honey, did you see that poor child at table two? Why, the little sweetheart can’t possibly be more than nine or ten, maybe even younger. I don’t think she’s been here before—I’m certain I would have remembered.”
Miss Bessie tended to notice and fret over such things—and not only because her soft heart wept for underprivileged children. If she had reason to believe the girl was not in the care of a parent or other adult family member, she’d be legally bound to report a minor living under homeless conditions.
Shell nibbled at her bottom lip and cast a quick glance toward the table. “Who is she with?”
“I was hoping you could find out—you’re so good at getting our guests to open up a little.” She shook her head, and the perpetual line in her forehead deepened. “She’s sitting between Professor Kenny and a woman I don’t recognize. You think she might be the wee one’s mother?”
“Well, I hope someone here is her mother.” She smiled at the older woman, who grew more frantic by the moment. “Don’t worry, Miss Bessie. I’ll see what I can find out. Have they already been served?”
“Yes, they’re eating now. I thought the poor child was going to put her whole face in that bowl of corn chowder. She must’ve been starving!”
Shell’s heart clenched. “I’m headed there now. Relax, sweetie. I’m sure she’s fine. That’s probably her mother with her. They’re together, and we haven’t seen either of them here before.”
She grabbed the nearest bread bowl and wove her way between tables.
“Another roll, anyone?”
Without a glance in Shell’s direction, a large man with hair like a silver Brillo pad stuck out a hand. The guy beside him did the same—this man sported a wild white beard that hung below the tabletop. How far below was anybody’s guess.
The woman seated next to the child nodded. “Yes, please.”
Shell used a set of pincher tongs to pick up a roll and placed it on the lady’s plate.
“Thank you, dear.” The unexpectedly polite guest smiled, her gaze steady and clear.
Why…she’s lovely!
Dark hair sprinkled with silver framed a heart-shaped face dominated by beautiful gray eyes. She’d clearly tried to make as presentable an appearance as possible, given her circumstances.
And that smile… Do I know her? She’s eerily familiar.
The stranger dropped her gaze to the child. “Have another piece of bread, sweetheart.”
The little girl ducked her head.
“Hi, there.” Shell placed a roll on the child’s plate. “Let me guess…you haven’t been here before, have you? I’d have remembered those pretty eyes. I’m Shell. What’s your name?”
Big, amber orbs widened a little. Fear lurked in their depths. Fear of Shell, or…?
The kid scooted closer to the woman, who slipped an arm around her shoulders. “She’s a little shy, and this is her first time in Grace Kitchen.”
“Yours too, right?” Shell smiled. “I’m glad you’re both here.”
She moved on to the other tables, but in her heart, she prayed for the woman and child.
God, please, please let them come back again! I want to keep an eye on that little girl.
With all the guests gone to wherever they went at night, Shell untied her apron and tossed it into the laundry basket in the utility room.
Beside her, Miss Cora did the same, revealing today’s version of her standard prim outfit—a knee-length black skirt with simple lines and a silky, pale green top. In a nod to the warm season, she’d foregone the suit jacket for a matching black vest. Low-heeled pumps and a single strand of luminous beads completed her outfit—a direct contrast to her sister’s.
Miss Bessie’s apron covered a pair of black palazzo pants with embroidered flowers around the hem. Her short-sleeved peasant top in a wild, bright floral print coincided with the embroidery on the pants. Strappy flats covered her feet, and a simple chain with a pretty cross pendant hung around her neck.
“Ladies, I know you’re both tired.” Shell leaned against a worktable. Exhaustion didn’t confine itself to the elderly. “But I have something I’d like you to help me pray about, if you have a moment to talk.”
“We’re never too tired for you, Shell.” Miss Cora gave her a quick hug. While the gesture wasn’t exactly cold, it lacked the generous warmth her sister’s tight embraces imparted. Nevertheless, the fact that she hugged at all said a lot, and Shell appreciated the gesture. “Do come upstairs and have a cup of hot tea.”
Moments later, tea cups in hand, the three women settled themselves comfortably into cushy easy chairs in the living room. The upper floor had become a cozy two-bedroom apartment for the sisters when the lower level was renovated to accommodate the soup kitchen.
Miss Cora carefully removed her shoes and meticulously aligned them, side by side, on the floor next to her chair. She lifted her feet onto a soft ottoman and sighed. “Oh, it feels good to be off my feet.”
“Sure does!” Miss Bessie coaxed each shoe off with the opposite foot and let them fall haphazardly to the floor. She drew a happy breath. “Now, Shell, what is it you wanted to talk about?”
“Well…” She hesitated. Maybe she should’ve waited a little longer before mentioning what was happening at her store. But it had been going on for a good couple of weeks. Most people would have called the police already, but for some reason, she hadn’t—and still didn’t want to, although she had no idea why not. “Things are going missing in my shop.”
“Missing?” Miss Cora’s sharp features darkened ever so slightly. “Are you saying someone is stealing from your store?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Oh, Shell, dear…I’m so sorry.” Concern shadowed Miss Bessie’s sky blue eyes. “When did this start? And what is being taken…flowers?”
“No, it’s items from the gift section. Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve lost several things—none of them terribly expensive, but still. It worries me because…well, what if it escalates? I can’t afford to keep losing inventory.”
“What kind of things are going missing?”
“A little stuffed kitten was the first thing I noticed. I kept him on a shelf, completely separate from the other stuffed animals because he was so different—the only one of that style that came in this particular lot. A few days later, a music box disappeared. Nothing elaborate—one of those small, pink boxes you see everywhere. When the lid is raised, a little ballerina is lifted up with it. When you wind it up, she dances to the music.”
“Yes, of course, they’re very familiar.” Miss Cora nodded.
“Since then…” Shell lifted a finger as she verbally ticked off items. “A picture frame. A gift pack of toiletry products—scented bath soap, bubble bath, shampoo and conditioner. Last Friday, an adorable little throw cushion with “Jesus loves me, this I know” embroidered on the front. This morning when I arrived at the store, the first thing I noticed was a blank place on a shelf that, yesterday, held a pretty purple throw. And as I was closing tonight, I noticed—”
“Wait.” Miss Cora broke in, one finger in the air. “Did you say the throw that was missing this morning was there yesterday?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“When, yesterday? Early in the day? Or late in the afternoon?”
Shell drew a deep breath. This was where things got sticky. “The throw was there when I left last night.”
“And gone when you arrived today?”
She nodded.
Miss Cora lifted one eyebrow. Her lips parted, but Miss Bessie broke in, clearly trying to prevent whatever her sister might have said next.
She said it herself, but probably in a much kinder tone than Miss Cora would have used. “Shell, that’s pretty scary. It means someone has access to your shop after you leave at night. Have you given anyone else a key?”
“No, ma’am, I have not. And I didn’t forget to lock up, either.”
Silence.
Shell heaved a silent sigh. They weren’t going to believe her.

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