“Fine.”
One perfect brow raised slightly. “I doubt that.”
Why couldn’t she cut him a little slack? After all, he had just buried his father when they met. But even if the woman came wrapped in a content label, what were the odds it would offer any insight into the secret makeup of her abrasive nature? He’d just have to accept his male limitations when it came to reading this woman.
Ignoring David’s perusal, Amy spoke directly to Momma. “Mrs. Harper, I checked on your mother this morning. I knew this would be a rough day for you, so I ran by the hospital before church.”
Relief erased Momma’s grimace. “That was so thoughtful of you.”
David planted his feet, assuming his most formidable lawyer stance. He towered over those blonde curls that smelled of spring, an amazingly irritating late-November feat. “How was the wicked witch of the west wing?”
“Mean as ever.”
David laughed. “Your bedside manner is so reassuring.”
“You’re the one who called your grandmother a witch.” Amy spun on the heels of classy pumps and disappeared into the pressing crowd.
“She’s incredible, don’t you think, David?” Momma’s eyes suddenly seemed less burdened.
“A real Florence Nightingale.” David placed his hand on the small of his mother’s back, unwilling to concede defeat. “Let’s get this over with, Momma.”
* * * * *
Sandwiched between Momma and Cotton on the Pastor’s Perch, Maddie contemplated the glow on Parker’s face as he held the songbook in one hand and directed the congregation with the other. Praise emanating from someplace deeper than his powerful diaphragm gave the impression he’d been mysteriously transported past the brick walls of the sanctuary and into another realm.
Examining the words on the hymnal page, Maddie searched for clues to Parker’s power source. As a child, she would wedge in between her parents to get a closer look at their same curious luminosity, convinced the radiance came from candles they refused to hide under bushels. For years, Maddie waited for the power to remove her bushel so light would shine from her candle.
And then it happened.
While helping a missionary doctor in the jungles of Guatemala, she stayed with a native family struggling to keep food on the table. Despite the natives’ abject poverty, their tiny home was filled with an abundance of love. On her last night, they prepared every morsel of food they had and served a surprise meal in Maddie’s honor. After the feast, the Guatemalans held her hands and sang “The Lord Bless You and Keep You” in broken English.
For the first time in her life, Maddie felt the spark, the euphoric heat generated by selfless love. She came home aglow with the determination that nothing was impossible with God. But a few months after her return to the States, she learned the Guatemalan mother died of tuberculosis. The bushel of reality fell and snuffed her idealistic light.
What kind of a God allows mothers to be ripped from their children? Fathers to die in the pulpit?
Maddie dropped the hymnal into the wooden rack with a defiant thump.
If Parker leads “It Is Well with My Soul,” I’m out of here
.
Maybe her experience with the light had been a fluke. A fleeting feeling rather than a scientific fact. Not only did people die, but they hurt each other, and more often than not, they inflicted their damage in the name of the Lord. A catty remark here, a slighted invitation there. Those were facts a preacher’s kid could chart. She’d watched her parents endure every form of criticism and snub known to man. How could God allow two devoted servants to suffer such indignities and call himself loving?
Maddie cut her eyes at Momma giving the chorus an added forte it did not deserve, the radiance shining in her eyes. How did she do it? How had the woman withstood years of church work and kept the candle burning?
Parker finished the song, then came down the center steps and took a seat on the front pew. He glanced over his shoulder, flashing a smile in Maddie’s direction. A strange ripple fluttered in her stomach.
Discounting the odd sensation, Maddie wrote it off as a hunger pain. A blinding glare jarred her from her self-examination. She had failed to notice that Howard Davis had taken the stage. The painful beacon originated from the light bouncing off the elder’s bald head.
Cotton draped his arm across the back of the pew and around Maddie’s shoulder. “A united front,” he whispered. “For your momma.”
Maddie nodded.
Howard opened his Bible, then cleared his throat. “Brothers and sisters, hear the Word of the Lord.” The elder reached inside his suit coat and retrieved his glasses. Eyes magnified, it appeared he had headlights. He eyeballed the congregation over the edge of his Bible.
“‘Moses my servant is dead. . . . As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you nor forsake you.’”
Jolted by the audacity of Howard’s words, Maddie quickly surveyed her mother. Had Momma caught the billiard ball’s implication that he intended to be the take-charge savior of this tragic situation? That he was the man to fill Daddy’s shoes? If so, what was going to happen to the Harpers? So much for his promise to care for the widowed and orphaned.
Momma’s grip crushed the circulation in Maddie’s hand. A seething darkness roiled behind the sunken sockets where the Tower’s beacon of faith had been moments before. At last, the stalwart bushel had fallen.
Let the holy wars begin.
Leona stared at the haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror. The dark bags under her eyes now resembled the overstuffed suitcases missionary families lugged back to the field after an extended American furlough. Gripping the chipped tile countertop, she inhaled then exhaled slowly. Ever since her grocery store meltdown, she’d struggled to force air around the fear double-parked on her chest.
On Monday David and Maddie had returned to their respective schools. On Tuesday Leona went in search of an over-the-counter sleep aid. In retrospect, she realized her decision to cut through the produce department on her way to the pharmacy had been a terrible mistake. Heads of cabbages were hovering above the bagged lettuce and broccoli crowns like luminous Christmas pageant angels. They swooshed overhead singing, “Ain’t no mountain high enough. Ain’t no valley low enough.”
Bulldozing through the winged heads, Leona located the stock boy, insisting Royce’s Sack-n-Pay cease the garish showcasing of fruits and vegetables. But when the twit implied she was the one with a bulb loose, Leona had no choice but to desert the rusty buggy and flee the market.
She remembered fumbling with the car keys and screeching out of the parking lot, but the escape route was a blur. Next thing Leona knew, she was wrapped in Roxie’s plush Turkish bathrobe, clutching a cup of strong coffee, and sobbing uncontrollably.
“Your shock is wearing off, girlfriend. Good chance reality will hurt like nobody’s business.” Roxie refilled the oversized mug and added two lumps of sugar, but Leona didn’t remember drinking a drop.
Taking a long look at the stranger in the mirror, Leona sighed. She would never eat slaw again. Nor could she imagine being able to show her face in Royce’s any time soon. She had not left the house since Roxie took her home and wouldn’t be going out now, except for Howard’s Wednesday night visit. He and Maxine stopped by the parsonage after she missed prayer meeting to offer a few
suggestions
on how she might deal with her grief in a more productive manner.
Rummaging through the vanity clutter, Leona found the tube of dark-circle concealer. She pumped the wand, then dragged the pale liquid under each swollen eye, effectively creating two lavender half-moons. The cosmetic that could hide the telltale signs of sleepless nights and backstabbing elders had yet to be invented. She jammed the useless stick into the creamy hole and screwed the lid tight. Daubing on buff-colored lipstick, Leona choked back the disappointing way she had yelled at that poor produce guy. The scrawny thing had not deserved what he got, but then neither did she.
What is happening to me? This is no way for a pastor’s wife to behave.
She capped the silver cylinder, then returned it to its proper place in the drawer.
The only thing J.D. Harper despised more than disorder was a prideful, painted woman. However quick she was to sign up for every passing guilt trip, Leona refused to consider her limited pursuit of vanity a fault. Mt. Hope’s congregants may have been rural, but they had appearance expectations for their pastor’s wife. She may not have had the newest clothes, but her makeup could be applied in such a manner that folks would have one less thing to pick at.
Leona took a tissue and blotted the natural-tone lips that were already missing the brush of J.D.’s mustache. Maybe her husband had discontinued his vocal campaign to redirect her efforts, but Leona suspected he never abandoned the prayerful hope that his wife would one day overcome her people-pleasing tendencies.
Considering the ramifications of that last guilty thought, Leona yanked open the vanity drawer. Who was she kidding? She was no longer a pastor’s wife. The only person she had to please was herself. She fished around in the back until her fingers came across an ancient tube of fire engine red lipstick. She popped the cap, then dragged the mummified color across taut lips.
That’ll teach you to drop dead and leave me to my own devices, J.D. Harper.
Forcing air into her constricted chest, Leona felt a heady rush of oxygen. She tossed the lipstick on the counter, then flipped off the bathroom light.
“Ready or not, world, here I come.” She crossed the small master bedroom, stopping to grab the navy sweater flung across the king-size bed. “Tater, get off there.” Leona nudged the dog from the bed that now seemed way too large for the room.
Tater jumped to the floor and stretched at Leona’s feet, gratefully diverting her gaze from J.D.’s untouched pillow. If she dwelt on the overwhelming uncertainty his death had introduced into a once secure world, the extra coat of mascara would run.
Can’t have raccoon eyes on the first day of the rest of my life.
Stuffing heavy arms inside pilled sleeves, Leona focused on the framed cross-stitch hanging over the oak headboard. She repeated the verse, the sounds barely brushing past her lips. “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Hoping the inspired words would bolster her spirits, she waited for a miraculous infusion of strength.
But as she looked around the lifeless room, she knew . . . nothing had changed.
Leona blinked back tears, the word
joy
echoing in her head.
Joy?
Recalling the feeling the word was supposed to evoke seemed impossible. Feeling nothing served her right. She’d been a fool to believe that older pastor’s wife she’d heard speak at a conference. The gal claimed she waded through the muck of ministry subsisting on the tiniest morsel of joy. For years, Leona clung to that hope and made it her own, allowing her ability to find happiness in nearly any situation to become a source of pride.
But now, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember how the pleasure felt. Years of contentment had vanished in an instant. Even more disconcerting, the taste of J.D.’s kiss and the intimate touch of his hands when they caressed the nape of her neck were becoming hazy memories as well. Death had come like a thief in the night and stripped every aspect of joy from her life.
Leona ran her fingertips over the embroidered blocks of the quilted bedspread, but the bumpy stitches failed to jar her senses. J.D.’s death must have severed every nerve in her body because she felt nothing as she picked up the navy handbag. She hefted the strap over her shoulder, then trudged toward the blaring sound of the house and garden TV channel dispensing create-the-perfect-home advice, Tater Tot’s nails faithfully clicking on the wooden floor behind her.
Stepping into the den, Leona forced a smile. “How do I look, Roxie?”
Her best friend pressed the mute button on the TV remote. “A real looker.”
What else could Roxie say?
After all, what were best friends for if they could not deny right along with you that your barrel had just rolled over Niagara Falls?
No matter how she tried to spin it, the lashing storm of J.D.’s death, her mother’s accident, and now Howard’s
suggestion
would have been a rough ride alone.
“I guess we better be going then. How responsible would I appear if I was late to my job interview?”
Roxie’s brows furrowed over stormy eyes, causing Tater to seek cover behind Leona’s legs. “Okay, that’s it, girlfriend. I can’t lie to you.”
“You’d unleash your true opinion while I’m in my darkest hour of need?”
“Especially now.” Roxie came and put her arm around Leona. “I’d be doing you a great disservice if I didn’t say you look just like poor Billy Downey.”
Visions of the town’s mentally challenged, overall-clad, nearly toothless treasure waving papers at passing motorists danced in her head. Bristling, Leona pulled away. “I want to
write
for the newspaper, not sell them on street corners.”
Roxie’s melodious laughter filled the room with a warm normalcy, wrapping Leona like the wooly couch throw the Storys knitted last Christmas. She’d never forget the first time she heard that contagious cackle. Both women had gotten stuck scraping dried pancake batter off the griddles at the PTA fund-raiser, but Roxie’s unassailable sparkle turned a sour situation into a sweet friendship. A skill Leona wished she possessed then . . . and now.
“Remember the lost look on Backward Billy’s face when Howard Davis told him he could no longer sell his little stack of newspapers in front of the Cadillac dealership?”
“I remember.”
“Well, that’s you.”
“Toothless?”
“You know what I mean.”
“For your information, I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know.” Roxie took Leona’s hand and led her to the couch. “But ragtag plain Janes don’t get the job. You’re gonna have to break down and buy an outfit manufactured in this century. And it wouldn’t hurt to spend a couple of hours at the Fake Bake. Tan some color into those pale cheeks.”