I nodded.
“We can have something like ‘I’m type O’ or ‘I’m type A.’ You know? Maybe next year, so whoever donates this year can buy one.”
And so, we did. The blood drive was her baby, and she worked every year to improve it. Corey and I’d wear those silly t-shirts—which is how Taylor knew what her blood type should be. And this year she would have been able to donate for the first time, but now—
A rap on the door has me reaching for my notes as Dorothy sticks her head inside. “Drew Simpson’s here to see you.”
I bracket my forehead with my hand and rub. Does no one know how to make an appointment? Not a good time. But if I put him off…
“Give me five minutes,” I say. “Tell him I’m on a phone call.” I pick up the phone receiver to make it true. Like God’s not going to see right through that.
Dorothy shuts the door and I give up the subterfuge. What do I know about Simpson? He’s influential. Has at least ten families following in his wake of dissension. Married with three kids—two of them out of the house. Wasn’t there something about his son a few years back? What was it? DUI? College hazing? Mark was supposed to be here for this meeting.
Another rap on the door. Too late. I’m on my own.
“Send him in, Dorothy.” I stand as Drew enters.
His six-two height tops me by an inch. Prematurely white, military-style haircut, white mustache. Looks more like a marine than a junior high school principal. He clears his throat. “Pastor Shaffer.”
“Mr. Simpson.” I extend a hand to offer him a seat in front of my desk.
“Your secretary called, said you wanted to meet.”
Yeah, but an appointment would have been nice. I sit at my desk. “I thought it was time to get whatever issues you have out in the open. I would have appreciated it if you’d come to me before approaching my board.”
“Habit, I’m afraid. I’m used to mediating between my teachers and parents. I thought of your board the same way.”
He’s lying, but it won’t achieve anything to call him on it. “You’ve been a member here longer than I’ve been preaching.”
He nods an acknowledgment.
“This…issue with my son, Michael—that was almost a year ago. Why the sudden interest?”
He looks me in the eye. “Vandalism’s a serious crime.”
“And he’s paying the price. We’re not shirking the consequences.”
“Maybe not, but how can you lead a church if you have trouble with your own kid?”
Drinking and driving. That’s what Simpson’s kid was kicked out of college for. Nearly killed a couple other kids in the car, too. “Some might ask you the same thing.”
His eyes narrow, mouth hardens. “Excuse me?”
“You’re supposed to be a role model at the middle school, yet your kid got kicked out of college and almost faced involuntary manslaughter charges.”
Face reddening, he comes out of his seat. “How dare you—”
“I dare because you dare.” I keep my voice low and stand to face him. No sense in turning this into a shouting match. “Check the plank in your own eye before you come in here throwing around accusations. Neither of us is innocent. I blew it with my kid, you blew it with yours.”
“Except I’m not playing hanky-panky on the side.”
My mind scrambles to make sense of his charge. Is he referring to Corey and her past? No. He can’t know of that yet, and even if he did…the dissension started before Taylor’s accident. “You have me at a disadvantage. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah?” He marches to the door and throws it open. “Tell it to Alexis Andrews.” And he slams out before I can respond.
Chapter 16
Paul
Where’s the peace promised in God’s Word? I’ve served the better part of twenty years in one capacity or another, and now this. Accusations. Dissension. Anger. And it’s not all coming from my congregation. My family’s crumbling around me faster than my church. When others are in difficult circumstances, I tell them to not ask why, but what? What’s God working in and through your life?
But all I can ask is, why?
The office is cloying—responsibilities and discontent closing in on me. I grab my jacket and keys and head out before one more phone call can come in, one more expectation foisted on me. Yeah, I’m feeling sorry for myself, but I can’t seem to get past it.
The air’s brisk as I cross the parking lot, a gust of wind whipping my jacket open, chilling me to the bone. Once in the car, I start the engine, crank the heat. And sit. Where am I going? I’m not ready to face Corey—I have nothing for her. The life’s been sucked out of me and there’s nothing left. But if I sit in the parking lot, the staff will start talking. The last thing I need is more speculation.
I drive with no destination in mind.
Too late to haul down to Roseville to see Taylor. My daughter. But not my daughter. I just can’t wrap my head around this new reality. I don’t want to wrap my head around it. It makes me rethink everything. Every comment made by Corey, every vow, every endearment. Every intimate encounter.
Who is this woman I’ve been married to for eighteen years?
I pull the car into the lot of Main Street Cafe and sit while the engine cools. This’ll have to be my sanctuary. iPad tucked under my arm, I head inside where it’s quiet and point out a back table to the waitress who looks as if she’s been a fixture here since the Reagan era. “Mind if I sit there?”
“Be my guest.” She follows and plops a plastic-covered menu in front of me as I settle into the booth. “Would you like to hear our specials?” Her enthusiasm is underwhelming.
“Nah. Just a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, if you have it.”
She retrieves the menu. “Cherry, apple, or peach?”
“Fresh peach?”
“In February?”
“Apple. A la mode.”
“You got it.”
Powering up my iPad, I start to check my email. But what’s the point? There must be two hundred unread messages, each more pressing than the one before. I’m drowning here. Instead, I click on the Bible app to begin preparation for Sunday’s message.
“Cream?” Little Miss Sunshine slides a thick ceramic mug toward me. By some miracle, the coffee doesn’t slosh over the edge.
“Black’s good.”
“Apple pie, a la mode.” She slaps the plate down, along with the check. “Anything else I can get you?”
If life could be that simple. “I’m good. Thanks.”
Coffee’s hot, pie’s sweet, and I take a moment to appreciate both before getting back to work.
“Hiding out?”
The question’s so reflective of my thoughts, it takes me a second to realize it’s not God asking. Instead, Kent Richardson stands over me—my easy-going, mild-mannered competition. The epitome of grace.
“I could ask the same of you.”
“You’d be right. Cheryl has me on another diet. Thought I’d come in and snag a snack before dinner.” He pats his paunchy midsection.
“Want to join me?”
“Sure, I’m not interrupting?” He slides in across from me before I can answer. I guess it was a rhetorical question. “How’s Taylor doing? I heard she’s been moved to a rehab facility.”
I nod. “You heard right. It’s a slow process, but we’re grateful she’s going to make a full recovery. God willing. I got your messages at the office, just haven’t had a chance to call you back.”
“No problem.”
Little Miss Sunshine reappears. “What can I get for you, pastor?” Her enthusiasm’s gone up several notches.
“Hey June. You got any of that cherry pie left?”
She smiles. “Yup. Coffee and cream?”
“Perfect. How’s your husband doing? His surgery go okay?”
Hand on cocked hip, she shakes her head. “Stubborn old goat. It’s like pulling teeth to get him to do his physical therapy
exercises.”
Kent grimaces. “We men aren’t good patients. You keep on him, you hear?”
“You betcha. I’ll be right back with that pie and coffee.”
I watch her rush off to do Kent’s bidding. “Church member?”
“No. Not that I haven’t tried. I’ve been coming here for years.”
“Is Cheryl aware that June’s sabotaging her dietary efforts?”
“They balance each other out.” He folds his arms onto the table and leans forward. “How’re you doing?”
“Well, Taylor—”
“I’m not talking about Taylor, although God knows that’s gotta be difficult.”
Small town gossip strikes again. I take a sip of coffee. A stalling technique. “You ever think about chucking the whole thing? Just walking away from preaching altogether?”
Clenching a fist, he raps his knuckles on the table. “Only about once or twice a year. This job isn’t for wimps.”
“It’s like I’m on a sinking boat, and every time I get one hole plugged—”
“Another springs a leak. I know.” He scratches his thinning blond hair. “But there’s always someone out there working on the side of the devil.”
“What happens when there’s just too much stacked against you?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Something the gossip mill hasn’t got hold of yet?”
The truth’s almost too ugly to say out loud.
“I—”
“Here’s your pie and coffee, pastor.” June slips his order on the table along with his check. “Coffee’s on the house.”
“Thanks, June. Appreciate it,” he says to her retreating back, then looks at me. “You were saying?”
“For one, accusations have been made.” I look him in the eye. “Untrue accusations.”
“Then you bring them out into the light.”
“But—” How much do I tell him? To say it out loud makes it true. And once it’s out there, I can’t take it back. “Pastoral confidentiality?”
“You have to ask?”
I push my pie aside and fold my arms on the table. “Exposing them will pose another threat.” Could I sound anymore cloak and daggerish?
“Lay it on me.”
* * *
Corey
A lone 60-watt bulb looming from the low asbestos-covered ceiling of the basement is poor light for the claustrophobic space. I retrieve a musty cardboard box from the corner and, toeing a stack of dirty laundry aside, place it in front of the washer. Then I return to the corner for two more.
My collection of teacher books.
All of them outdated by now, I’m sure. But each of the volumes packed within were gifts—the bearer’s belief that I would one day step in front of a classroom of youngsters. I flip through pages, some moldy with age. How could it be otherwise in this dank basement? I should have taken more care when storing them.
I close my eyes and picture Tess’s classroom and the freshman kids that were my charge the last time I subbed for her. Is it wrong for me to feel more fulfilled when working with kids than I do facilitating a ladies’ Bible study? Why would God put the desire in my heart if He didn’t intend for me to follow it? Of course, I followed another desire eighteen years ago and look how that ended.
“What’re you doing?”
Michael’s voice startles me, and the book flies out of my hands, landing on the concrete floor with a thwap. “Do you have to sneak up like that?” I shoot him a glare as I retrieve the book.
“I didn’t sneak.” He drops an armful of clothes onto the already insurmountable pile.
“Didn’t you say you were going to start helping out around here?” I nod at the pile. “Maybe it’s time you learned how to do laundry.”
He shrugs. “Sure. How hard can it be? You just throw it in the washer with soap, right?”
Leave it to a teenager to trivialize a never-ending chore. “There’s a little more to it than that, but I think you’ve got the smarts to learn.”
He points to the boxes. “So, what’s all this?”
I kneel down in front of an open box and search through it. “Outdated books.”
“Yeah?” He moves beside me and peers over my shoulder. “Teacher books?”
“Maybe I’ll take them to the thrift store on Saturday when I drop you off. You are going in, right?”
“Last ten hours of community service.”
I scrape my hair back and look up at him. “They’re not open ten hours.”
“I start at six.”
“Six? A.M?”
He nods.
“I didn’t know you were aware there’s such an hour.”
“I wanna get done so I can start my new job next week. They said if I’m willing to come in and sort out the donations, I can. If you don’t want to take me in—”
“No. I’ll take you. Maybe you can haul these boxes up and put them in the back of the Honda.”
He lifts a box and rests it on the washer. “Hey, did you ever talk to Dad about summer camp?”
I knew this was coming, but I hate to disappoint him. “I did.” Folding my arms, I rest a hip against the dryer. “Look, Michael, I want you to know that I see how hard you’re working. Not just at school, but with the community service and getting a job and—”
“He said no. I get it.” He hugs the box and hefts it from the washer. And although he shrugs it off, I hear the hurt in his voice.
“Wait, sweetheart.” I touch his arm before he can leave. “Let’s talk about this.”
“Nothin’ to talk about, Mom. Dad’s not going to let me go. He’s still ticked. I get it.”
I wish I did. “Don’t give up.”
He drops the box back on the washer and looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Dad doesn’t change his mind.”
I pray he’s wrong. “Don’t give up, Michael. Your dad…he’s going through a rough spell right now. It’s not you.”
He snorts and rolls his eyes.
“I swear it’s not. Let’s take it one step at a time. I’m sure if you get your grades up he’ll be more open to talking about it.”
Resting his arm on the box, he drops his eyes. “He didn’t come home last night, did he?”
It would be easy to lie, to say he came in after Michael went to sleep, but how can I expect him to trust me to tell him the truth if I’m not honest about everything? “No, he didn’t. He’s…he’s dealing with something. That’s all I can tell you.”
He shakes his head and says something I can’t hear.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. I’ll get these boxes in the car.”
We’re halfway up the stairs when the doorbell peals and Rambo goes into guard dog mode. Michael drops the box in the hallway at the top of the stairs and reaches the front door before I do.
I grab Rambo’s collar and pull him from the door as Michael opens it.
“Grandpa. Grandma. Hey, I didn’t know you guys were coming.”
Am I lightheaded because I’m bending over the dog, or is it the knowing look in my father’s eyes when they latch onto mine?
“This is a surprise,” I manage. Lovely. I have a husband who won’t speak to me, a daughter who can’t speak to me, and I’m now faced with a father I’ve been avoiding for weeks.
Isn’t life just grand?
Chapter 17
Paul
The glow of a streetlamp spotlights an unfamiliar car smack in the middle of my driveway. I can’t pull into the garage, but I’m more irritated that I don’t know who it belongs to. Simpson? Or worse, Alexis? Maybe I should have stayed at the church office again, but Kent…well, it’s not smart to ignore wise counsel.
“You can’t fix it if you can’t face it,” he’d said after I vomited my problems all over him.
I’m not ready to fix it, but avoiding it isn’t a solution, either.
I park at the curb, gather my things, along with a little fortitude, and head up the walk. The car’s a rental—Hertz—which provide
s no clue. Corey had turned on the exterior lights —for me or our guest? — and it takes some of the edge off. Not much, but some. No idea what I’m facing. There were no text messages or voicemails from Corey, so I’m going in blind. I toss up a quick prayer and push through the front door.
“There you are.” Corey crosses the family room, smile strained, face pale, to greet me. “Just in time for dinner.” Eyes pleading, hands wringing, she reaches my side and escorts me to my in-laws, Richard and Marlene, sitting together on the couch.
I’d rather deal with Simpson or take my chances in the lion’s den.
“Marlene, Richard. This is a…surprise.” I bend down to kiss Marlene’s cheek, and she gives me a warm smile. How such a gentle soul ended up with Richard Carroll is one of life’s mysteries.
Richard stands, unfurling his imposing stature, and offers a hand. His grip is firm and quick. “We were a little surprised ourselves to find out Taylor’s accident isn’t the triviality Coraline made it out to be when she called a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, well—” I glance at Corey, who’s now perched on the edge of the love seat. Angry or not, I’m not about to throw her under the bus. “That’s my fault. I didn’t think it would do any good to worry you. Certainly didn’t expect you to fly out here from Indiana. At least, not without calling first.”
“What good would calling do?” Richard shakes his head. “You might just have lied to us again.”
Jaw clenched, I move next to Corey and squeeze her shoulder. “What can I do to help get dinner on?”
“Oh.” She pops up from her seat. “Why don’t you get Michael? He’s in his bedroom doing homework.”
Thrilled to escape the room, even if only for a moment, I comply. Richard’s overbearing tone follows me down the hallway. Ticked with Corey or not, I’m grateful she got her mother’s genes.
Rapping on Michael’s door, I push it open. He sits at his desk, hunched over a textbook, under the glow of a desk lamp. Rambo, lying on the bed, sits up and yips a greeting.
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