Page 32 of On a Midnight Clear

The buzz of the doorbell pierced Stella’s calm like the sudden sting of a bumblebee. She startled so severely , she nearly dropped the pot roast she was taking out of the oven.

Pull yourself together. Tonight is about Papa , not you.

Stella tightened her grip on the roasting pan and set it on top of the stove. Tossing the pot holders aside, she took a breath and steadied her nerves.

She could do this. Tonight was a work dinner, like any of the dozens of others they had hosted in their home.

She would smile and serve during the meal, then disappear into the kitchen to clean up.

Mr. Stentz need not be under any obligation to converse with her personally.

Discussions would center on the symposium.

She’d make sure of it. There’d be no need for awkwardness between them.

No promises had been made, no expectations expressed.

Frank—no, Mr. Stentz —was simply a friend.

A colleague of her father’s. She’d not embarrass either of them by fawning over him or behaving in any way flirtatious.

Such actions would only paint her a fool.

Besides, she admired him too much to force him into an uncomfortable position.

He’d escape the evening unscathed, and their paths need never cross again.

Papa’s voice boomed through the small house, his excitement adding to his volume as he welcomed the Harvard professors.

Stella ordered her mind to focus on moving the roast and vegetables to the serving platter, but her ears rebelled, straining to pick out the unfamiliar voices so that she might identify which belonged to the man who penned her letters.

She resorted to humming to drown out the foreign sounds and finally managed to get the roast sliced and the potatoes, carrots, and onions arranged in an orderly fashion.

Scientific minds appreciated precision, and she aimed to please.

For her father’s sake. Not because she sought to make a good impression on any particular person.

The same rationale had inspired her choice of attire. She’d selected the pale green dress to reflect well on her father. The fact that the ladies of the literary society had once mentioned that the color complemented her complexion had little to do with it.

“As little as yeast has to do with dough rising,” she muttered as she took the bread bowl from the warmer.

But there was no harm in wanting to look one’s best. Even an unattractive woman could take pride in her appearance.

Tidiness and cleanliness were worthy virtues.

Besides, God had arranged her features the way he’d seen fit, and she’d not argue with the Creator over his artistic inclinations.

He hadn’t given her beauty, but he’d given her other blessings—ones she wouldn’t trade even if offered the choice.

A loving home, a supportive faith community, a passion for learning, and an empathy for others struggling to find their way. Things that carried lasting value.

Still, she dreaded seeing disappointment flash in Mr. Stentz’s eyes. She’d had thirty-six hours to prepare herself for the inevitability of such an occurrence, but knowing what was coming wouldn’t dull the sting.

Squaring her shoulders, Stella picked up the platter and backed through the swinging door that led to the dining room. Might as well get it over with. At least dispose of the dread hanging over her like a cloud.

The drone of male voices dropped away as she entered. She pasted a smile on her face as she turned to face the room.

“Ah, here’s my daughter now.”

She heard her father speaking, but her eyes had yet to find him. They’d snagged on a thin man standing near the hutch that displayed her mother’s china.

He had red hair. She hadn’t expected that.

Red and a bit unruly. Her smile widened at that observation, then froze in place when his gaze met hers from across the table.

Blue eyes. Lovely, intelligent blue eyes—that immediately shuttered as his gaze moved to somewhere in the vicinity of the nearest place setting.

A burning sensation flared in her stomach. At least he’d masked his disappointment by hiding his gaze. She supposed she should be thankful for that small kindness. Yet his rejection still hurt. Thankfully, she had years of practice hiding hurt behind false cheerfulness.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” She held up the platter. “I hope you like pot roast.”

“It smells divine.” The shortest of the visitors smiled at her, his fluffy sideburns making up for the thinning hair on top of his head.

“Stella is a marvelous cook,” Papa bragged as she set the platter in the center of the table. “You’re in for a treat.” He held his arm out to her. “Come, my dear. Let me introduce you to our guests.”

She moved to her father’s side, careful to keep her gaze from straying to the redheaded man with the loose-fitting suit and clean-shaven chin. Gracious. Had she really cataloged that many details about him in the fraction of time she’d allowed herself to look at him?

“This is Professor Goldstein.”

Stella focused on the jovial man in front of her and offered a smile. “Welcome to our home, Professor.”

“It’s an honor, Miss Barrington.”

“And this fellow is Professor Muir, our physics expert.” Papa directed her attention to a man with a long face hemmed by a well-trimmed, dark gray beard. He didn’t exactly frown at her, but his smile resembled more of a straight line than an arc.

“Miss Barrington.” He spoke with the cultured tones of one long acquainted with the stature of elite academia.

“Professor Muir.” She dipped her chin in deference, sensing that would curry more favor than a pleasant grin.

“And this young rapscallion is Professor Stentz.”

Courage , Stella.

Locking her hostess smile in place, she turned her gaze to Mr. Stentz, who seemed to be looking everywhere except at her.

A touch of sympathy rose within her. She understood all too well how it felt to have one’s dreams dashed.

And if he had harbored any romantic notions toward her at all, he was likely at a loss over how to pick up the scattered pieces without looking like he was picking up pieces.

Perhaps she could relieve him of some of that burden.

“Welcome, Professor Stentz. My father has spoken of you often over the last year. The two of you have planned a remarkable symposium. I have no doubt that Baylor students will talk of it for years to come. I only wish I had time to sit in on some of the lectures, but I’m afraid that other responsibilities demand my attention during the Christmas season.

I’ll have to settle for hearing Papa recount the details to me. ”

Her father gave her an odd look, but she barely noticed, for Mr. Stentz chose that moment to finally meet her gaze.

And heavens, what an impact. Reverberations quaked in her chest. She’d expected relief, possibly even gratitude, to reflect in those keen blue eyes, not a soulful penetration that searched her depths for an answer to a complicated equation.

“I’m ... ah ... sorry to hear that, Miss Barrington.” His gaze dropped to somewhere around her extra-large shoes, and his fingers subtly churned at the air. “I had hoped to d-deepen our acquaintance while in town.”

Goodness. Had he just ... ? No, surely she’d misheard. Even a true suitor wouldn’t just blurt out his intentions while in the presence of others at a dinner party.

“Stella manages my correspondence,” her father inserted into the charged silence, “and has exchanged a few letters with Stentz on my behalf regarding symposium business.”

“Of course,” Mr. Goldstein interjected with a wink. “Only natural for two people who have corresponded to wish to meet. Scientific minds are ripe with curiosity, and Frank is nothing if not scientific.”

Mr. Goldstein chuckled, and Papa joined in at a heartier level than the comment warranted. Stella smiled, thankful to have a distraction to cover her retreat to the kitchen. She needed to collect the rolls—and her wits.

Because if Frank Stentz had meant what he said, she might have to recalibrate her expectations.

Frank wasn’t precisely sure where he’d stepped wrong, but if Muir’s eye roll was any indication, he’d managed to plant his foot in a knee-deep manure pile. He bit back a groan.

Why must social interaction be so nuanced?

Why couldn’t a man just state what he was thinking without worrying about how it might be construed?

This was why he preferred numbers to people.

Numbers were exactly as they appeared to be.

One didn’t have to guess at their meaning.

They spoke plainly and acted in a predictable manner.

One needn’t fret over inadvertently causing them offense or making them uncomfortable.

His shoulders sagged as he took his place at the table.

He’d made Stella uncomfortable. Probably even embarrassed her.

Two outcomes that would complicate his courtship calculations.

Of course, there might not even be a courtship at this rate.

Not if she didn’t want to see him. Her statement, if taken at face value, seemed to indicate as much.

But her letters had revealed a different woman—one willing to share things with him.

When she wrote of books she’d read or concerts she’d attended or of something she’d seen while walking along the river, she mentioned a wish that he’d been there to experience whatever had brought her delight.

That woman had been eager for his company.

So which version more accurately portrayed the woman before him? The Stella who’d captured his heart with her letters? Or the Miss Barrington who couldn’t rid herself of him fast enough?