The Sweetgum Knit Lit Society (11 page)

“Yes,” she said, opting for the lesser of two evils. Paul Carson sitting across a table from her had to be far less threatening
than Paul Carson standing there holding her hand again after all these years.

“I can’t believe it.” He sank into the chair and kept his eyes on her face. She could feel the flush rising in her cheeks. She who never blushed. Ever. She wouldn’t allow herself to. But now she could do nothing to stop the flood of color or the dizzy feeling that threatened to tip her out of her chair onto the black-and-white tile floor of the café.

He continued to stare at her. She reached for her iced tea and took a sip to calm her nerves. It would take something far stronger than tea to accomplish that task.

“You live in Sweetgum?” he asked, and then he waved a hand as if to dismiss the question. “Sorry. That’s obvious. Of course you do. I just can’t believe it, after all these years.”

“It has been a long time.” She kept her words light, refusing to let him see the pain his presence caused. “I’m surprised you remembered me.” She didn’t mean the self-deprecating words but said them for her own protection.

He frowned. “Remember you? Eugenie, I’ve never for—”

At that moment, Tallulah walked up to the table with another glass of iced tea in hand. “Here you go, preacher. What can I get you for lunch today?”

“Grilled cheese would be fine, Tallulah. And maybe some onion rings?”

“Sure thing.” She turned to Eugenie. “Shall I wait and bring your food out with the preacher’s?”

In her wildest imaginings, Eugenie never would have envisioned sitting down to lunch at Tallulah’s Café with Paul Carson after forty years of separation. Or sitting down with Paul Carson
anytime
, for that matter. She’d so neatly and carefully packed away her memories and her feelings. Now they were spilling out of her like a waterfall, and she had no idea how to contain them again.

Before she could answer Tallulah, Paul responded. “The same time would be great. Thanks. Eugenie and I have a lot to talk about.”

Tallulah’s eyebrows arched like the beams in the church sanctuary, but she simply nodded. “Five minutes or so. Shouldn’t be too long.” And then she walked away, leaving Eugenie at a loss for words.

“How long have you lived in Sweetgum?” Paul asked. He reached for a packet of sugar, ripped it open, and poured it in his tea.

“Over forty years now,” she answered quietly. She was torn between looking into his eyes and avoiding his gaze. “I’m the head librarian.” She stopped. “That sounds more important than it is, since the only other staff are two part-time ladies who help me shelve the books and a janitor who splits his days between the library and the courthouse.”

Paul smiled. “Knowing you, I expect it’s the best-run library in Tennessee. An impeccable collection and nary an overdue book in sight.”

Eugenie stopped herself from wincing at the accuracy of his statement. He hadn’t meant any insult, she was sure, but somehow his words stung.

“I do my best. It’s been a good job.”

“Been? You’re retired?”

“Not yet, although I’m being pushed in that direction.”

Paul chuckled. “I’d like to see the man who’s brave enough to try to force your hand.” And then his smiled faded.

“I’m sorry, Eugenie. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t.”

The whole episode was surreal. Paul. The café. The decades of separation that lay between them on the chipped top of the well-worn table. Eugenie felt like one of those clocks in the Salvador Dali painting, as if she, too, might slide out of her chair and onto the floor. The idea held a certain appeal.

“Is there anyone—” Paul stopped. “I mean—”

“I never married.” She looked at him now, bracing herself for the pity she would see in his eyes. That was the worst part, really, of seeing him again. Knowing that he of all people would see the empty spaces around the shape of her life. “Did you? Marry, I mean?” For the first time, she let her gaze drop to his left hand, where it rested on the table. There was no ring on his finger, but she could see the outline where one had been. Her stomach twisted, and she knew she would never be able to choke down even one bite of her chicken-fried steak.

“Yes. After seminary. Helen and I were married for more than thirty years.”

“Were?”

“She died two years ago.”

“And that’s why you’re in Sweetgum?”

He laughed, but the sound held no joy. With a sigh he leaned back in his chair. “You aren’t the only one who knows what it’s like to be pushed out the door.”

“I can’t imagine a church asking you to leave.” She might have questioned his devotion to her but not to God.

“Really?” He reached for his glass and took a long drink. “Apparently some parishioners prefer that their preacher not engage in anything messy, like a wife fighting a prolonged battle with cancer.” He stopped, set the glass down, and took a deep breath. When he looked up again, Eugenie’s breath froze in her chest. Rarely had she had the occasion to see that kind of pain in another person’s eyes.

“Paul.” Instinctively, she reached out to take his hand, but she saw movement out of the corner of her eye and realized Tallulah was only steps away with their plates of food in hand.

“I’m sorry, Eugenie. Didn’t mean to be maudlin,” he said.

Tallulah slid their plates in front of them. “Here ya go, folks.” There was noise and bustle from the doorway as more customers arrived. “Enjoy.” And then she was gone, leaving Eugenie at a loss as to how to continue.

What did a woman say to the love of her life when he turned up again after a forty-year absence?

“Pass the salt, please,” was all she could think of.

She’d known it would be difficult seeing him again. She just hadn’t realized how fresh that long-buried pain would feel now at its resurrection.

Ruthie stopped to rub her eyes after staring for so long at the computer screen. Sometimes she longed for the old days when she typed up the church newsletter and worship bulletin on an IBM Selectric. True, it hadn’t been nearly as flexible as a computer, but a typewriter also wasn’t as demanding. Back then all she’d needed to know was how to type and how to do it accurately. Now she was faced with a plethora of choices and decisions. Word processing programs. Publishing programs. Design templates. Uploading the newsletter to the church’s Web site. At the end of a long day like today, it made her feel as if her eyes might roll back in her head.

The new preacher had already left. True, he didn’t keep overly long office hours, but Ruthie didn’t mind. He’d said she could leave as well when her work was done. In his opinion, that’s why God made voice mail.

Ruthie heartily agreed.

But Mondays were her long days because the newsletter had to be ready to copy first thing Tuesday morning. The Folding Fiends, as the group of elderly volunteers called themselves, would arrive around nine o’clock tomorrow ready to get to work. By eleven, they would have folded, sealed, and sorted all four hundred newsletters, and Ruthie would take them to the post office on the way to lunch.

No one had experienced true pressure until they’d been under a deadline for the Folding Fiends.

Ruthie’s office had two windows—one to the outside and another that was really a glass partition between the church offices and the foyer. Dusk was falling earlier each day. In another hour it would be dark. Ruthie sighed and stretched, arching her back before settling back in to finish the last page of the newsletter. She was typing in the latest additions to the prayer concerns list when she heard the outside door open.

She looked up and saw Esther walking into the church foyer. Ruthie suppressed a sound that vacillated between a sigh and a groan. Why now? Esther had a knack for coming to call at the exact moment Ruthie needed to focus all her attention and energy on something else.

Esther opened the swinging glass door and entered the office area. “Afternoon, Ruthie.”

“Hello, Esther.” They never called each other “sis” or any easy nickname. No, for as long as she could remember, they’d
used their first names and first names only. “What brings you here today?” Normally Esther only came to the church on Sundays for worship or when she had a bee in her bonnet about some church matter. “I’m afraid Rev. Carson has left for the day.”

“I’m here to see you, Ruthie.” She glanced around. “May I sit down for a minute?”

“Sure.” Ruthie got up and went around the desk to pull a chair over from the little sitting area outside the pastor’s study. She never kept chairs in front of her desk because she didn’t want to give church members a comfortable spot to linger. People liked to talk to the church secretary, and she had difficulty enough managing her time when they had to stand. Imagine how long they’d stay if they got comfortable in one of those chairs.

Esther didn’t sit in the chair so much as perch on the edge of it. Ruthie slid behind her desk again. “What’s on your mind?”

Esther pursed her La Prairie–coated lips. “I need your help.”

Finally. Relief ran through her. She’d been wondering when her sister would come clean about her inability to knit, and watching her subterfuge at the Knit Lit Society meetings had been excruciating. Ruthie often wondered who her sister was paying to complete the projects for her.

“I’d be happy to help you,” Ruthie said.

“You don’t know what I’m asking yet.” Esther’s lips pursed more tightly.

“It’s not about your knitting?” The moment she’d said the words Ruthie saw that she’d offended her sister.

“My knitting? Why would I need help with that?”

“It just seemed as if …” Her voice trailed off. Few people dared to point out any shortcomings to Esther. The last one who had was the former pastor—emphasis on the word
former
.

“Then what do you need my help with?”
Please, Lord, don’t let it be another luncheon
. She’d spent hours crafting the centerpieces for the last one she hadn’t attended. Of course she would help if her sister asked, but—

Esther sniffed. “Rev. Carson doesn’t keep very long hours, does he?”

“I believe he mentioned stopping by the nursing home to visit Gladys Pippen.” That quieted her sister for a moment.

“So we can talk then? Privately?”

Ruthie cast a nervous eye at the screen of her computer monitor and then looked at the clock. Esther couldn’t have picked a worse time if she’d tried.

“It’s about Frank,” Esther said. “I need your help with him.”

Ruthie kept her expression carefully bland. Esther had told her about his cardiology appointment, but she knew more than her sister had told her. Far more, obviously.

“What’s the matter?”

“You know he’s refused the bypass surgery.” At Ruthie’s nod, she continued. “I need your help to convince him to change his mind.”

Ruthie picked up a paper clip from the desktop and twisted it between her fingers. “I don’t know how I could persuade him if you can’t.” She’d spent half her lifetime engaging in this kind of duplicity. No wonder she’d gotten so good at it.

Esther set her designer handbag on the floor and then laid her hands, palm up, in her lap in an expression of supplication. Ruthie couldn’t tell if the gesture was intentional or accidental.

“Ruthie, you can change his mind.” Esther was looking at her with an uncomfortable degree of intensity. “I know that you can.”

What could she say in response to that? Ruthie sat, twisting the paper clip, while the silence grew longer and deeper. Her lack of response was an indictment, but at that moment she couldn’t bring herself to mouth any of the false platitudes that had been her life’s work when it came to her sister. She suddenly wished for her knitting needles instead of the paper clip she was mangling between her fingers. Their comforting feel, the soothing repetitive motion of stitching, would settle her, guide her.

“Esther, if Frank doesn’t want to have the surgery, I doubt there’s anything any of us can do to talk him into it.”

“I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t sure.” Her sister’s
hands now flexed with anxiety, but Ruthie doubted she was wishing for a pair of knitting needles. Unless, of course, she wanted to stab Ruthie through the heart with one of them.

“Have you asked Alex to talk to him?”

“He said to leave Frank alone because he’d always done as he pleased anyway.”

Which wasn’t true. Ruthie of all people knew just how false that statement was.

“Then I don’t think there’s any more you can do.”

Esther, to her credit, didn’t waver. “Of course there’s not. But there’s something you don’t know, Ruthie. Something that makes a difference.”

By now the paper clip held no resemblance whatsoever to any form of office supply. “Esther—”

“Don’t.” She held up an impeccably manicured hand as if she were a school crossing guard stopping traffic. Then she lowered her hand, but this time her fingers were clenched into a fist. “I need Frank to live,” Esther said. Though the statement was obvious, Ruthie could hear the desperation threaded through her sister’s words. “We haven’t … That is, we’ve always had numerous expenses. The house. Alex’s college. And we have a certain standing in the community to maintain.”