Hope's Corner

by Chris Keniston

  “Maybe if you… I mean, well…she might listen to you since she hasn’t seen fit to pay any attention to what we think. Something happened that night besides Travis dying, and someone needs to get to the bottom of it.”

  “I see.” Whether he liked it or not, he was in the middle of this situation. And from the looks of it, he was about to dig in even deeper. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You must be the new secretary?” A woman with huge blue eyes and dark brown hair in a short bob, smiled down at Pam.

  “Yes, Pam Dawson.” With a smile Pam pushed from her seat and stuck out her hand as she got to her feet.

  “Sandra Quinn. Is the pastor in? I mean, if he’s not busy or anything.”

  “I’m sure he can spare a few minutes. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll be right back.”

  The intercom portion of the phone system wasn’t working, but it was just as well. Pam had too much energy today to sit still. Despite her fears, she’d slept through the night without even a hint of a bad dream. By morning the sun was shining bright and she felt as though the birds were singing just for her.

  She’d made a decision. One she should have made long ago. It was time to deal with these nightmares and the stifling fear that lingered in their wake. She’d hid her head in the sand long enough. For God’s sakes, last night the irrational fear kept her from climbing a lousy flight of stairs to her room! If she’d listened to the police in the first place and gone to a therapist, or a support group, she wouldn’t have lost the last the two years of her life.

  There was something wonderful about being on the verge of a new beginning. An exciting sense of freedom that reminded her of springtime, fresh flowers, and falling in love.

  “Excuse me.” She tapped on Jeff’s door.

  “Yes?” He glanced up from his desk. A pencil rested behind his ear and the top of a pen peeked out from a clenched fist. The fingers of his other hand raked through his hair, the palm supporting the weight of his head. The way the hair on one side of his head stood straight up, he looked like a punk rocker.

  “Fund-raiser plans?” she asked pointing with her chin at the expanse of papers littering his desk.

  “Hmm,” he mumbled, tossing the pen on the desk and sitting up.

  “You have a visitor. Sandra Quinn.”

  Jeff’s brows rose high on his forehead. She couldn’t quite make out if it was a look of surprise, confusion, anticipation, or dread. But the way he straightened his hair, his shirt, and smiled, she figured it couldn’t have been too unpleasant a surprise.

  Instead of waiting in his office, Jeff sprang from his seat and followed her out to where the attractive woman sat waiting.

  “Miss Quinn.” He extended his hand.

  “Pastor. I’m sorry to just pop in like this.”

  “Not at all. You’re welcome anytime.”

  “Thank you. Recently I signed up for one of those new alternate shift programs at the hospital. For three days I work twelve hours on, twelve hours off, then I have three days off in a row. It’s working out even better than I thought.”

  “I’m very happy to hear that. Is there something you need us to help with?”

  “Actually.” She dipped her chin and a pale pink hue flushed her cheeks as her eyes met his. “I was thinking I could help you.”

  Pam had a great view of the scene playing out before her, and with little effort, she could hear almost every word.

  “You see,” Sandra continued, “I seem to have more time off than I know what to do with. At choir practice I overheard one of the ladies mention the church’s program for visiting the elderly shut-ins was shorthanded. Could you use a nurse?”

  “Could we!” Whatever had been bothering him moments before fell by the wayside. His face beamed as he slipped a hand behind Sandra and guided her toward his office. “Do you have some time this afternoon?”

  Sandra bobbed her head with a little more enthusiasm than Pam would have expected from someone who had just volunteered to spend her free time with the sick and elderly.

  “I’ve been worried about a few of our old folks who don’t have any family,” Jeff explained as he eased Sandra down the hall. “I’m not convinced they’re getting the proper medical care, but one in particular, Mrs. Perkins, has me especially worried at the moment. She’s been losing weight steadily, and yet I know she’s getting enough to eat. The woman in charge of the Meals on Wheels has taken to sitting with Mrs. Perkins while she eats. I’ve been wondering what to do. Let me tell you, you’re an answer to prayer.”

  If the bright grin on Sandra’s face was any indicator, Pam was willing to bet a week’s salary that Jeff was an answer to Sandra’s prayers too.

  “How’d the visit go?” Pam looked up from her desk as Jeff came through the lobby doors.

  “Great. Sandra sat with Mrs. Perkins’s cat on her lap, asked her about her friends, and what Hope’s Corner was like when she was growing up. It was amazing. The woman opened up like a morning glory at sunrise. The conversation shifted to the trials of losing hair and dealing with dry skin. The next thing I knew Sandra was feeling Mrs. Perkins’s throat and suggesting she make an appointment with an endocrinologist she knows at the hospital. Sandra thinks Mrs. Perkins is having thyroid problems.”

  “Looks like you were right.”

  Jeff cocked a brow at her. “About what?”

  “That Miss Quinn’s an answer to prayer.”

  “Oh. Yes. I suppose she is.” In his enthusiasm to resolve his concerns over his parishioner’s failing health, Jeff had bestowed the often-used phrase on Sandra as easily as he might wish someone a good morning. When he’d said she was an answer to prayer, he hadn’t taken the time to remember he’d stopped believing God answered his prayers. Or at least he thought he had.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Pam beamed.

  “Excuse me?”

  “When you don’t know what to do and God drops the answer right on your doorstep.”

  “Sandra?”

  “That’s right. She’s going to help with your visiting the elderly program, she figured out what’s wrong with Mrs. Perkins, and if I’m not overstepping my job description, I think she might be sweet on you.”

  “What?” Surely he didn’t have another meddling female in his life. No, God wouldn’t do that to him.

  “Never mind. Sometimes I let my good mood get the better of me. You go on and get back to the fund-raising budget and forget I said anything.” She waved him off with one hand and, still smiling, turned to the work on her own desk.

  In a few long strides, he was crossing the threshold into his office and sinking into his chair. Mrs. Perkins was taken care of. Sandra offered to call the doctor for her, and even offered to pick her up and drive her to her appointment.

  Whether or not Sandra had any personal interest in him wasn’t even a consideration at the moment. And how to make sure Pam didn’t become a member of his family’s Jeff Needs a Wife Club could also wait for another day.

  What he needed was to stop stalling and find a way to bring up Pam’s need for therapy. But how do you approach a woman who looks to be on top of the world and tell her she needs to seek counseling?

  Last he heard, accusing a woman of being schizophrenic didn’t win a man any brownie points. He didn’t want to scare her off. He needed her. This office had never run so smoothly. Pam had a way of knowing what to do before anyone realized it even needed to be done.

  After talking last night to her brother Jake, Jeff had no doubt someone had to step in and convince her to go to counseling. But Jake had made it clear her family wanted that someone to be him.

  He’d taken the first step and called his friend Caleb in Poplar Springs. Jeff hadn’t wanted to invade Pam’s privacy by revealing too much information. Not that he knew all that much. And Caleb wasn’t willing to say much without seeing Pam first, but he did agree, from the little information Jeff had shared, the lady needed to talk to someone. Soon.


  What neither man had anticipated was that the sullen woman who had spent the better part of yesterday counting the dust bunnies on the floor rather than look Jeff in the eyes would be all sunshine and smiles today. She didn’t seem to have a care in the world. What the heck had happened between yesterday and today?

  Even though he’d seen this abrupt change before on the first day they'd met, for some reason seeing her so happy today caught him off guard.

  Who was he kidding? He simply didn’t want to be the one to rob her of her good mood. There was something about her smile that made him smile too. Even if he’d had the day from hell, her smile touched something deep down inside that made him want to smile back. He’d missed that yesterday. He’d missed her yesterday.

  Maybe Caleb would consider making a house call. A discreet, incognito evaluation. After all, back in college they were pretty good at covering each other’s backs.

  A pale slim hand, Pam’s delicate hand, slid a cup of coffee across his desk. “You look like you just lost your best friend. Is there something wrong with Mrs. Perkins that you’re not telling me?”

  “No, no she’s fine.” But you need professional help. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Then my special blend of vanilla almond coffee should be just what the doctor ordered. Guaranteed to cure whatever ails you.”

  He hadn’t lied. Her sweet smile made him want to smile back, but it was going to take a lot more than a cup of coffee to cure what ailed either of them.

  “Psychoanalysis.” Pam ran her finger down the page. “Stress, love, marriage. I don’t know, Travis. Sounds more like a fortune teller.”

  As soon as she’d gotten home from work, Pam had pulled out the phone directory, reading each and every name, carefully noting every little advertisement. "Now here’s something a little different. Play therapy. What do you suppose that means?”

  She was pretty sure, whatever it was, she was better off moving down the page. “Sexual addiction. Spiritual wellness. You’d think there’d be at least one ordinary old counselor who treats ordinary old nightmares.”

  All right. So her nightmares probably weren’t ordinary, and she definitely needed a specialist, but a specialist in what? Certainly not play therapy.

  Slamming the yellow pages closed, she drummed her fingers against the thick book and stared out the kitchen window. Etta Mae was baking again. Of all the women she’d known growing up, none had an affinity for baking like Etta Mae Parker. “The woman should go into business.”

  Peaches hopped from the floor, to the chair, to the tabletop and sauntered over to Pam, nuzzling her hand before gracefully sprawling across the closed book.

  “What? You didn’t want to be here in time to lay across the open book?” Pam scratched behind the cat’s ears.

  “Okay, so, if I don’t pick a counselor from the book—where do I go?”

  Still petting the cat, Pam stared at the ceiling, almost as though waiting for the heavens to open up, and Travis to come take a seat next to her at the table and answer her question.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Ask the church. Jeff could probably recommend someone.”

  Peaches stretched herself taut, pressing her exposed chin even closer to Pam’s moving fingers.

  “I don’t think I can do that.” Jeff probably already thought she was crazy. She couldn’t bring herself to come straight out and ask him to recommend a therapist, and prove him right. No. There had to be someone else who could help her. But who?

  “Two nights in a row. Got another hankering for my pie?” Redding grinned at Jeff.

  “Maybe I do.” Jeff smiled and followed behind Redding to the same table he’d occupied the night before.

  Normally he loved the peace and quiet of his small apartment, but lately the walls seemed more like a prison than a refuge. Usually when he felt the need for company, he’d find his way to his mom and dad’s house, but tonight, much like another night not so long ago, he wasn’t ready to bare his soul to his all-too-intuitive parents.

  Growing up, Jeff never could simply hang around and sulk. Whether it was a bad test grade, a rejection from a pretty girl, or one of those baseball games when what should have been an easy out for him turned into a winning clip for America’s Funniest Home Videos, going home always meant facing Pastor Harlon Parker and his wife.

  Sure, when he was four years old with a freshly skinned knee, curled up on his mother’s lap, all he knew was Mom made the hurt feel better. But by the time he was close to ten, he’d come to understand Etta Mae Parker had a different way of mothering than his friends’ moms. By high school he'd realized that Etta Mae was first and foremost a pastor’s wife. When all he needed was first aid for his physical ailments, Etta Mae was sure to add first aid for the injured soul.

  Chatting with his dad wasn’t much different. Somehow Jeff always felt like he was on the wrong end of a counseling session. The senior pastor had an easy way of making you re-examine your goals and motives, and the next thing you knew, you’d walk away with more questions than answers.

  Tonight he didn’t want to face his motives and goals. He wasn’t ready to let his parents know just how badly he had failed, and there would be no way to bring up his doubts and struggles with how best to help Pam, without exposing how he’d failed the parishioners, his father, and most of all, Jenny Buckner.

  The day the congregation voted unanimously not to hire a temporary pastor to replace Harlon in his absence, but to let Jeff step up to the role, Jeff thought his dad’s face would freeze in a permanent smile.

  Not even when he’d told his father that he’d decided to give up his career with the bank to attend divinity school did Harlon Parker beam so proudly. And he’d glowed and grinned pretty good for weeks after that particular announcement. Seemed he’d always known his son had the calling to follow in his footsteps. He’d only been waiting for Jeff to stop sowing his oats and figure it out for himself. It had taken Jeff a few years longer than his father had hoped, but much like a father with his own prodigal son, that only made Jeff’s decision all the sweeter for his dad.

  "Just here for dessert, or are you going to have some of Mabel’s meat loaf?"

  "Did she make her special gravy?"

  "Does a prickly pear make sweet jam?"

  Jeff had to smile. Redding wasn’t a poet, but he certainly knew how to get his point across. "Meat loaf with extra gravy.”

  He’d almost finished his meal when Redding slid into the seat across from him. “Church keeping ya busy?”

  “Pretty much.” He nodded and passed the last forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

  “Except for last night, we haven’t seen ya in here much. Not since that horrible business with Jenny Buckner.” Redding shook his head and clicked his tongue making that same tsk-tsk sound every person in town made when Jenny’s name came up. “Such a tragedy that one. Right under our noses. You’d think with all the busybodies makin’ everyone else’s lives their business, someone would have seen this coming.”

  Yeah. Someone. Except the only person Jenny had confided in was him. And now she was gone. Jeff could barely nod, hoping Redding wouldn’t push the subject further.

  “Heard little Pammy Sue Wharton is back in town and working at the church.”

  “Thank the Lord.” Despite his worries, and except for yesterday’s appearance of Pam’s alternate personality, she had been nothing less than a godsend. “With Ellen on maternity leave and Dad still recovering from surgery, I’m not too humble to admit, the load was getting a little heavy.”

  “Well, if Pammy Sue’s the reason behind two visits in two nights, I’m obliged to her.” Redding leaned forward, looking quickly to either side as though ensuring their privacy before divulging classified information. “Never hurts business none when the Lord’s representative graces your establishment. Especially with us serving, you know, spirits and all.”

  “Anytime,” Jeff whispered back in the same conspiratorial tone.

  “I’ll get
you some of Mabel’s pie. Blackberry. On the house.”

  Jeff nodded and watched his former Little League baseball coach saunter off. The mention of Jenny’s name took his mind back to that awful night. He’d been having dinner here at the café when the news had rushed through town like a flash fire in a drought-ridden forest. Jenny had been found by her neighbor. She’d managed to crawl about ten feet into her yard before blacking out. From what the police had pieced together, she’d probably been baking in the hot Texas sun for hours before her neighbor spotted her body heaped on her front walkway.

  He’d rushed to the hospital. Sat by Jenny’s and Mrs. Harris’ side for two days straight. He’d finally broken away to go home, freshen up, and get a little shut-eye with every intention of returning shortly.

  He never had the chance. He’d been home less than fifteen minutes when the phone rang. Jenny had arrested. They couldn’t revive her. It was over.

  Freshening up didn’t seem very important anymore. He’d hurried back to be with Mrs. Harris, but the hospital room was empty. According to the nurse, when she'd informed Jenny’s mother she could stay as long as she needed with her daughter, the woman had quietly explained she’d already said her good-byes, and then asked the nurse to relay a message. “Tell Jeff, Pastor Parker, I appreciate all he did for my baby. I’ll forever be grateful, but I’d like to be alone for a while.”

  Unable to drown his sorrow in a bottle of whiskey, he’d left the hospital and come straight to the diner to wallow in Mabel’s homemade pies with extra cream. He couldn’t face his mother and father. The hurt was too raw. The truth too painful. They’d have seen his failure before he’d passed through their door. He didn’t want to see the disappointment in their eyes. Didn’t want them to ever know his part in the death of Jenny Buckner. So he’d come to sit with the closest thing to a father a boy raised in Hope’s Corner could have—his baseball coach.

  Now here he sat, troubled yet again, in the company of his long-ago mentor and Mabel’s soothing home cooking. If only he could find, buried in the blackberry pie with extra cream, the answer for what to do about the two sides of Pamela Sue Wharton Dawson.