Visions of Ivan’s wife ran through Leona’s mind. Once Hathleen got wind of the embarrassing public tirade, Leona could never face Ladies Bible Class again. Hath was the class secretary, and as such, felt duty bound to report every congregant blunder to the women’s group. Not a single hospitalization, separation, or humiliation got past the church bloodhound. Leona was sure the news of her run-in with the chairman of the board would hit the flock’s communication airwaves faster than news of the pastor’s vacated pulpit had made the brotherhood’s job listings. But it really didn’t matter whether word got around by Howard or Hathleen; truth was, her days in the parsonage were numbered.
Though tempted to climb into a dark hole, Leona knew escape would require more effort than she could muster at this point. She allowed her gaze to come level with the editor’s patient stare. “I don’t know if I’m up to an interview today, Ivan.”
“Why don’t you come in? Have a cup of hot coffee. Then we’ll decide if we should reschedule.”
Ivan’s years of saving ink had condensed his speech to short, concise sentences. But the kindness in his twinkling eyes matched his unabridged heart and generous checkbook. Even the all-knowing Hathleen was unaware of Deacon Tucker’s secret funding of the missionary family’s emergency return to the States last fall. But Leona knew . . . one of the few perks of being on the inside loop. Secret sins often knotted the guts of a church, but once in a while the quiet, unassuming Ivans of the world selflessly loosened Satan’s grip and restored Leona’s faith in mankind. In that respect, she would miss the loop.
Leona heaved a weary sigh. If she went home she’d appear ungrateful. And if she’d learned anything after thirty years in ministry, it was that only a fool refused to accept help on those rare occasions when it was offered. “Let me get my résumé.” Leona reached for the folder lying on the passenger seat. Dipping past the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of her mascara-smudged cheeks and wind-styled hair.
This is not going to be pretty.
Leona buried her face under J.D.’s pillow, praying the Lord would let her drown in the fading trace of bay lime aftershave. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Still breathing. She pulled the pillow tighter. But the lumpy foam failed to suffocate her or muffle the sound of snapping roller shades as her best friend flitted around the room rehashing yesterday’s sordid mess.
Roxie lifted a corner of the worn pillowcase and peered at Leona. “You’re not the first to tongue-lash a temple money changer, and I doubt you’ll be the last.”
“I called Howard a bald buffoon.”
“Fiddle-faddle. I’ve called him worse. One time that skinflint returned a thousand-dollar parts order. Said our merchandise wasn’t up to Cadillac standards. So I told him he could—”
Cringing, Leona cast the barrier from her face and held up her hand to stop the certain flood of profanities perched on her best friend’s lips. “I can’t bear to think of you plummeting toward the eternal inferno because of my deplorable lack of self-control.”
“That’s better.” The gleam of success lighting Roxie’s eyes irked Leona. Where did a person get the guts to plow through life heedless of what anyone thought?
Leona retrieved the pillow and crammed it behind her head. “Okay, I came up for air. Are you happy now?”
“Will be once you’re out of that bed and back on your feet.”
Eyeing the woman whose persistence could drive a nail without a hammer, Leona shook her head. “Ivan must have thought the Lord had called him to tame the shrew by the time he got me out of the van and into the newspaper office. Modyne looked at me like I was something the cat dragged in. But that probably didn’t scare them half as bad as listening to the ugly tale of what transpired in the diner.”
Roxie shrugged. “They’re reporters, Leona.” She wrestled with the stubborn louvered closet door until she wrangled it open. “They’re trained to deal with gore.” Only slightly winded, Roxie took Leona’s robe from the hook and laid it on the bed.
Humiliation weighted Leona’s shoulders. She covered her embarrassed face with her hands. “I won’t be able to show my mug in Ruthie’s establishment again.”
“Who’d want to?”
“She’ll paper those greasy walls with my wanted poster.”
“Probably.”
“I’ll have to take my lunch to work for the rest of my life.”
Roxie pried Leona’s stiffened fingers from her tear-swollen eyes, her grip on Leona’s wrists firm and sure. “Your hard-earned money will spend in the Dirty Spoon good as the next person’s. Ruthie may be hard-nosed, but she won’t turn down an honest nickel.” She snatched the robe and tossed it at Leona. “Besides, I’ve seen your wily charms win over many a tough old bird. Ruthie better
crouch
behind the counter because she wouldn’t know what hit her if Leona Harper unleashed her magic.” Roxie flashed a Cheshire cat grin at her successful manipulation of the restaurant proprietor’s name. “Now, get out of that bed.”
“I’m afraid the offended woman found my charm harder to swallow than her sour cream pound cake.”
“Let it go, Leona. She asked for it. And Howard deserved every bit, and then some, of what you gave him. The board chairman has suffered a brain sprain if he thinks folks will just stand aside and allow you to be kicked out of your home.” Roxie plopped on J.D.’s side of the bed and crossed her arms. “Now, if you’re not going to get up, then I am going to sit right here until you tell me everything Ivan said.”
When Roxie Brewer got that steely look in her eye, her target might as well roll over and cry uncle. A cornered moan escaped Leona’s lips, snatches of Ivan’s conversation zipping through her mind. The bewildering impact of their meaning seemed far too private to share. Didn’t admitting she enjoyed Ivan’s complimentary remarks about her work border on vanity? J.D. considered the need for flattery a sign of spiritual immaturity. Leona adjusted her pillow, stalling for time. Ivan’s confidence in her abilities had been misplaced. That had to be the only plausible explanation for what happened.
Squirming under Roxie’s determined gaze, Leona knew the sooner she shared every last detail, the sooner she could seek God’s forgiveness for her shallow need to have her ego stroked. Besides, if Roxie could figure out that Leona wore a padded bra and Leona had immediately guessed about Roxie’s liposuction, odds were Roxie already had a pretty good idea what happened at the
Messenger
. Since the moment they met, keeping secrets from one another had been deemed a lost cause.
But laying her feelings bare had never been Leona’s strong suit. People who let it all hang out risked being judged. And the verdict could only go one of two ways: acceptance or rejection. The possibility of rejection was more frightening than getting into an overloaded vehicle crossing a raging river, in her experienced opinion. She’d been raised a Worthington and Worthingtons believed in lawyer-client confidentiality. “Becoming emotionally involved, and then exposing those emotions, is certain to weaken your position” had been a staple of their country club brunch diet.
Who was she kidding? What
position
? Her widowed status, the fact that her kids were scared to death she would become a noose around their necks, or perhaps that she had absolutely no equity, savings, or any sort of financial security in her future. The only position she could claim at this moment was one teetering very close to the edge of a cliff.
Leona took a deep breath, determined to replay the sequence of events, no matter what Roxie thought. She started with the editor lugging her disheveled body inside the newspaper office and Modyne pouring hot coffee down her raw throat.
“Ivan said J.D.’s write-up was the finest obit he’d ever printed. He thinks people will line up to have similar tributes written about their loved ones.” Leona paused, waiting for a flicker of judgment in Roxie’s attentive stare, but true to the record of their eighteen-year friendship, there was none. Relief washed over Leona and loosened her crusted lips. “As you know, the only thing growing in Mt. Hope is the cemetery. Ivan needs help with the brisk rise in the obituary business.”
“When Cadillac sales increase, coffin sales aren’t far behind,” Roxie interjected, her authoritative voice tinged with a wisp of sadness. “Puts a hurt on the replacement parts business.”
Leona hated it when people got so wrapped up in their own fears and problems they couldn’t see the concerns of others, and now she’d done the very thing she despised. That was the trouble with the sea of self-pity—before a person knew what happened they could be adrift on the raft of self-centeredness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even consider Brewer’s Auto.”
Roxie flashed a brave smile and waved away Leona’s guilt. “Don’t you worry a minute about Tom and me. You think we intend to peddle parts forever? No way. Someday we’ll sell the business and retire in Florida. I’ll be so tan you won’t even recognize me.”
Unwilling to imagine another necessary person missing from her life, Leona changed the subject. “Before Modyne retires, Ivan wants me trained to work with Wayne at the funeral home. Once I get my feet wet, Ivan says I might even move to reporting on the school board meetings and the city council.”
“I can’t wait to see Leona Harper’s byline above that cesspool of political intrigue.” Pride beamed from Roxie’s eyes, dissolving the last of Leona’s fears that her best friend would consider her conceited, self-serving, or worse, think less of her.
“Waders are required gear for church workers, so I’m set.”
“But it wouldn’t hurt to make sure those rubbers haven’t sprung a leak.”
Roxie and Leona giggled at the allusion to the unplanned conception of Roxie’s fourth child. A pinprick of light breached the darkness of Leona’s tunnel as a surge of energy, a tiny spark of hope, rode the sunbeams warming the room.
Leona blinked away the moisture forming in her eyes. “I have to confess.”
“Of course you do.”
“When I walked into the
Messenger
, the smell of newsprint tickled my nostrils and the sound of ink hitting recycled paper made my heart pound.” She pushed herself up and leaned against the headboard. “I’ve never told anyone this, Roxie, but . . .”
Roxie scooted close, poised for the divulgence of every last shred of the deep, dark truth.
“I’ve always wondered what it would have been like if I had continued my journalism career. Who knows what amazing news stories I might have uncovered. I could have been the next Woodward or Bernstein.”
“You would have been a lot cuter than Dustin Hoffman, but Robert Redford would be hard to beat.”
“They weren’t the real Woodward and Bernstein.”
“Don’t burst my bubble, girlfriend.”
The unrestrained laughter worked better than any painkillers, relieving the tension at the base of Leona’s skull. The phone rang, interrupting her emotionally induced high.
Roxie glanced at the caller ID on the nightstand. “It’s Maddie.” She picked up the phone. “Hey, baby . . . Yes, your momma is feeling much better. She’s getting some color in her cheeks. . . . Why don’t you ask her yourself?” She handed the receiver to Leona, patted her leg, then slid off the bed. “I’ll let you tell your daughter the good news of your gainful employment. Then I’ll expect you downstairs for coffee.” She tiptoed across the bedroom and eased out the door.
Leona held her hand over the mouthpiece, allowing herself a moment to marvel. The door of opportunity had not been slammed shut, despite her pitiful attempt to faithfully walk through it. She felt as if her feet had come in contact with solid ground, and she was only a few steps from the shore.
Thank you, Lord.
If her new job wasn’t an example of the unmerited favor J.D. preached, she didn’t know what was, because she certainly had not earned this second chance. Truth be known—and she was sure both God and Roxie already knew—imagining herself at a desk and working on a computer sent waves of panic rippling across her stomach.
What if I can’t hold up under the weight of the gift, God?
* * * * *
Maddie snapped her cell phone off. A strange mixture of relief and loss tumbled around inside her head. Momma would be self-supporting, which was good. Real good. Piling more debt atop of her outstanding med school loans had been a paralyzing thought. Now she could breathe easy. Right? Then why wasn’t she? Why did she feel her breath was trapped in her chest? Why did she have this nagging feeling that having Momma busy starting a new life was . . .
bad
?
I don’t want Momma to have a new life
.
Shame drooped Maddie’s head over the kitchen sink. Had she almost said those appalling, selfish words out loud? Did she really think her mother didn’t deserve a chance to pursue her own dreams? How self-absorbed had she become to think Momma must focus all her attention on two grown kids consumed with establishing their own lives? But for years Momma had hovered over them like a helicopter. She couldn’t imagine her life without the whir of those rotor blades able to take a head off at the shoulders.
A gnawing hunger pressed Maddie toward the cabinets. Dried-out turkey pepperoni, stale crackers, one small can of tuna. She closed the particle board door and opened the fridge. The lone bulb spotlighted a stalk of shriveled celery, a half gallon of expired milk, and a slice of apple browning on the barren shelves.
“An empty fridge equals an empty head, demonstrating a complete lack of forethought and planning for the emergencies that aim their assault upon those striving to do the Lord’s work.”
Momma’s platitude ricocheted around the cold interior, lodging its accusation deep in Maddie’s conscience. She slammed the door. Putting her back to the laminated vinyl surface, she slumped against the front of the appliance, then slid onto the floor. Pulling her knees to her chest, Maddie wrapped both arms around her bent legs. Maybe her lack of preparation for losing her father and the changes his death put in motion explained why she felt a kindred spirit with the virgins in the Bible story who had failed to fill their lamps with oil. The poor things had totally missed the bridegroom’s arrival because they were out hunting more.
In my quest for something better than life in a parsonage, did I let the Lord’s blessings slip through my clenched fists?