by Lynne Gentry
Chapter One
“Living in the parsonage is not for sissies.” Leona Harper’s husband planted a kiss on the top of her head. “If you want to wear fancy red shoes, wear ’em, darlin’.”
“Maybe I’ll wait until Christmas.”
“It’s almost Thanksgiving. Why don’t you go ahead and break them in?”
“I was fixin’ to, but ...” Leona twisted her ankle in front of the mirror, imagining herself brave enough to wear trendy shoes whenever she wanted. “You don’t think they might be a bit much?” She reached for the shipping box. “The bows didn’t look this big on my computer screen.”
“So what if they are?”
“I wouldn’t dare fuel Maxine’s fire.”
J.D. tucked his Bible under one arm and pulled Leona to him with the other. “If Sister Maxine wants to talk, let’s give her somethin’ real juicy to say.”
Leona loved the way this bear of a man nuzzled her neck every Sunday morning. J.D. Harper was as handsome as the day they met some thirty years ago, even with the silver streaks traipsing across his well-trained waves. Folks often guessed him a successful CEO of some major corporation rather than the pastor of a dying church in a small west Texas town.
“I can hear her now. ‘Anyone who can buy new shoes doesn’t need a raise.’” Leona pushed J.D. away and undid the ankle straps. “Eighteen years and we haven’t even had a cost of living adjustment.”
“The church provides our house.”
“You know I adore living in this old parsonage, but we’re not accruing a dime of equity.” She buried the shoes in the box and closed the lid. “How are we ever going to be able to afford to retire?” She stashed the box next to her forgotten dreams.
“We’ve got equity where it counts—”
“Don’t say heaven.” Leona rolled her eyes at J.D.’s ability to remain slow to anger. “As long as the Board believes we’re living on easy street, I don’t know how we’re going to make ends meet here on earth.”
“The Board? Or Maxine?”
“Same thing.”
“Live your life worrying about what Maxine Davis thinks, she wins.” He had her, and he knew it. “Is that what you want?”
Ignoring the righteous twinkle in his eye, Leona slipped on the sensible brown flats she’d worn for the past ten years. “I hate it when you preach at me, J.D. Harper.” She threaded her hand through the crook in his suit-clad arm.
“So many worries. So little time.” He kissed her temple. “If it weren’t for guilt trips, you wouldn’t go anywhere.”
“It’s all we can afford.” Leona scooped up the Tupperware caddie that contained her famous chicken pot pie. What good did it do to long for exotic cruises or expensive adventures? She’d given up those dreams, along with her dreams of writing, long ago. But she’d never give up on wanting her whole family together, even for just a couple of days. “Let’s get the Storys and go.”
Sitting on the living room couch were the blue-haired twins and founding members of Mt. Hope Community Church. They waited where they waited every Sunday morning. Today, instead of their regular offering of canned pickles, they each had a large relish tray on their lap.
“Etta May. Nola Gay. I’m fixin’ to preach the Word. You girls got your amens ready?” J.D. offered Nola Gay his arm.
Nola Gay blushed, “Reverend Harper, you’re such a tease.”
“It’s my turn to hold his arm, Sister,” Etta May complained.
“Lucky for you lovely ladies, I’ve got two arms.”
Arm-in-arm J.D. and his fan club crossed the church parking lot, trailed by the lowly pastor’s wife.
J.D. opened the door to the fellowship hall. The familiar aroma of coffee and green bean casseroles assaulted Leona’s nose. If only she had a nickel for every meal she’d eaten in this dingy room, maybe they could pay all their bills, save a little for retirement, and even afford the mini vacation J.D. had reluctantly agreed to take when the kids came home for Thanksgiving.
“Y’all need help with those trays?” Leona asked Nola Gay.
“We may be slow, but we can still handle a few pickles,” Nola Gay assured her.
“Holler if y’all need me.” Leona headed for the kitchen, weaving through the scattered tables. Crock-Pots brimming with roast and carrots or pinto beans and ham lined the counter.
While J.D. checked the overloaded power strip, Leona deposited her contribution for the monthly potluck scheduled to follow the morning service. She glanced at the dessert table. Maxine’s coconut cake was not in its usual place. “I’m going to my seat.”
“You can’t avoid her forever,” J.D. whispered.
It wasn’t that she was afraid of the sour elder’s wife; she just hadn’t figured out the best way to address Maxine’s latest attack on J.D.’s attempt to make the worship service a little bit more relevant, something that would help an outsider feel welcome.
Truth be known, Maxine and Howard didn’t want outsiders to get comfortable on the pews of Mt. Hope Community Church. Especially anyone they considered to be “the less fortunate.” With the addition of the highway bypass, the community had experienced an influx of vagrants. Most of them needed help. Howard and Maxine preferred these interlopers to just keep walking.
Why God had seen fit to park a generous man like J.D. Harper at a church where the chairman of the elder board’s wife loved only two things—having the last word and adding to her list of complaints against the Harpers—was first in a list of pressing questions Leona intended to ask when she did get to heaven.
“I don’t want to start a fight before church,” Leona said. “It would ruin my worship and I’ll be hanged if I’ll let her take that too.”
“That’s my girl.” J.D.’s eyes lighted on something behind her. “Better put your game face on, Maxine’s fixin’ to test your resolve.”
Leona turned to see Maxine prancing through the door with her coconut cake seated on a throne of beautiful cut glass and her heavy purse dangling from the crook of her arm.
“Morning, Leona!” Maxine crowed.
Leona plastered on a smile and maneuvered through the chairs. “Can I give you a hand?”
“I don’t think so.” Maxine pulled her cake out of reach. “Unlike that Pyrex stuff you bring your little casserole in, this is an extremely expensive piece of antique glass. This pedestal has been in our family for years.”
Leona knew all about the Davis glass. Every Christmas, Leona had to practically beg Maxine to let the hospitality committee use the crystal punchbowl the Davis family had donated to the church on the condition the church insure it. The job of washing the slippery thing was one Leona tried to avoid.
Leona nipped the reply coiling on her tongue and offered her best platitude, “Your cake and platter are as beautiful as ever. Oh, I forgot I promised the Storys I’d give them a hand.” She smiled and quickly moved on to help the twins fussing over how many dill or sweet pickles they should put on their trays.
Leona regretted that from behind her retreat could leave the impression of her tail securely tucked between her legs. She waited until Maxine exited the fellowship hall before she headed to the sanctuary and her regular front row pew.
J.D. slid in just as Wilma Wilkerson blasted out the first note on the organ. He winked at her and began to sing.
Still stinging from her failure at repairing her relationship with Maxine, Leona inched along the wooden pew that vibrated from the force of her husband’s resonant bass. Clutching the worn hymnal, she filled her lungs to capacity, tightened her diaphragm, and joined him in praise. Music always carried her past any earthly troubles.
Behind the large oak pulpit, song leader, Parker Kemp brought the organist and sparse crowd to a synchronized close. Blue from holding on to the last note, Leona glanced across the sanctuary aisle. Maxine Davis eyed her back with her nose wrinkled in disapproval. Leona quickly diverted her gaze.
“And the church said?” Parker flipped to his next selection.
&n
bsp; “Amen,” the Storys chimed in unison.
“Before the sermon, we’ll be singing all five verses of page 156. Please stand, if it’s convenient.”
Solid oak pews groaned as the congregation lumbered to their feet.
Parker gave a quick nod to the organist, readying his hand for the beat. His expression morphed into that dazzling smile sure to land him the perfect wife someday.
Leona loved the Sundays this radiant young fellow led. Unlike the steady diet of first-and-third-versers, the county extension agent sang every word of every verse. Hymns that once plodded the narrow aisles danced before the Lord under Parker’s direction. His ability to stir in a little spirit always gave Leona the distinct feeling rain had fallen upon her parched lawn, offering a smidgen of hope that if this congregation had a shot at resurrection, maybe she did too.
Naturally, Maxine claimed allowing such unrestrained expressions of joy during the song service might lead to who-knows-what in the sanctuary. It had cost J.D. popularity points with the elder board, but in the end none of them had been willing to remove Parker’s name from the volunteer rotation. Thank God.
The congregation fidgeted as Wilma Wilkerson attempted to prod some heft into the organ’s double row of yellowed keys and squeaky pedals.
Leona used the extra time to beseech the Lord on Parker’s behalf. She’d always hoped their daughter Maddie would one day consider Parker more than an irritation, but Maddie was insisting on going another direction.
Perhaps the recent arrival of Bette Bob’s adorable niece was God’s plan for Parker. Unlike J.D., who never did anything without praying it through for weeks, she was flexible. To prove it, she made a quick promise to the Lord that she’d do her best to connect Parker and Bette Bob’s niece at today’s potluck.
J.D. reached for Leona’s hand and gave it a squeeze, same as he did every Sunday before he took the pulpit. Some pastors prayed. Most checked their fly. Mt. Hope’s preacher always held his wife’s hand during the song preceding his sermon.
Relishing her role as coworker in the Kingdom, Leona wiggled closer, her upper thigh pressed tight against her husband’s. Nestled securely against J.D.’s charcoal pinstripes, Leona could hear the throaty warble of the Story sisters parked three pews back.
The blue-haired-saint sandwich had a crush on her husband, but to begrudge these seniors a little window shopping bordered on heresy.
The old girls had suffered a series of setbacks the last few months, burying several of their shriveled ranks. What would it hurt if staring at her handsome husband gave them a reason to get out of bed on Sunday mornings? Besides, Widow’s Row vacancies were increasing at an alarming rate, and replacing these committed congregants seemed unlikely, given the current trend of their small town’s decline.
J.D.’s familiar grip throttled Leona’s errant thoughts.
She patted his hand. Her husband felt unusually clammy this chilly fall morning. Was this a new development, or something she’d missed earlier because she’d been in such a twit?
J.D. had been dragging lately. She’d just written off his exhaustion as the discouragement that hounded a man with the weight of a dying congregation on his shoulders.
What if something else was wrong? What if the elders had voted to let them go and J.D. hadn’t told her? She felt her keen senses kick into overdrive. Out of the corner of her eye, she checked his coloring.
“Are you okay, J.D.?” Leona whispered.
He kept his eyes on Parker, but Leona knew he wasn’t just waiting for his cue to take the stage. He slipped his arm around her trim waist, drawing her close. He whispered, “Who by worrying can add a single hour to her life?” His breath warmed the top of her color-treated head. A tingle raced through her body.
J.D. had promised her he’d take off for the entire week of Thanksgiving. He needed a break and they both needed the time to reconnect their family.
Both kids had finally agreed to come home from their universities. Leona wanted to believe David’s and Maddie’s hearts were softening, but she knew they’d only consented to a family gathering because it was their father’s fiftieth birthday. For him, they would do anything. For her? Well, that was a prayer the Lord had yet to answer.
The song ended, but the glow lighting Parker’s dark eyes did not. “You may be seated.” He gathered his list and songbook and left the podium.
J.D. ascended the stage steps as if taking some faith mountain.
He removed the sermon notes tucked inside a leather-bound Bible and surveyed the crowd’s upturned faces.
Leona recognized the tallying look in her husband’s eyes. He would know the dismal attendance count before Deacon Tucker posted the numbers on the wooden board in the back of the sanctuary.
J.D. unbuttoned his coat, ran his hand down his tie. “Mornin’, y’all.” He greeted his congregation of eighteen years with the same determined expression he had his first Sunday in this pulpit. Filleting the worn pages of his Bible with a satin ribbon, he opened to the day’s chosen text.
The rustle of people settling into their favorite pews rippled across the sanctuary.
The Smoots’ tiny addition fussed in the back row. Newborn cries were rare here. Leona was grateful the Smoots had decided to stay in Mt. Hope. Other than Parker, most of the young people, including her own children, left after high school and never came back.
The sound of children was something Leona missed. She’d loved the days of diapers, sleepless nights, and planting kisses on the exquisite soft spot right below tiny earlobes.
If only dispensing love could remain that simple and teething remain a mother’s biggest worry.
Leona offered a quick prayer for the fertile mother of four. Maybe the Lord would spare that young woman the mistakes of her pastor’s wife.
Leona reined in her wandering focus and aimed it on the man standing before the congregation. No matter what became of her relationship with her children, she could always take comfort in the fact that at least she had J.D.
Uneasiness suddenly intruded upon her admiration. Something wasn’t right. A shimmering halo circled her husband’s head. Surely the unnerving effect was the result of the flickering fluorescent stage lighting. J.D. would surely lampoon her overactive imagination, but Leona couldn’t resist scanning the platform.
Four dusty ficus trees and two tall-backed elders’ chairs were right where Noah left them when he exited the ark.
Leona smoothed the Peter Pan collar tightening around her neck. Her hand froze at her throat, her breath trapped below her panicked grasp.
Glistening beads of sweat dripped from J.D.’s brow. He removed a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his notes. With a labored swipe, he dried his forehead and returned the soaked linen to his breast pocket. As he clasped the lip of the pulpit, his knuckles whitened.
Leona stood, ready to call out no matter how inappropriate, but her husband’s warning gaze urged her to stay put.
J.D. cleared his throat. “There was one who was willing to die—” the pastor paused—“that you might live.” A pleased smile lit his face. He placed a hand over his heart and dropped.
* * * * *
J.D. Harper never did anything spontaneously. Dying in the middle of his well-planned sermon was so unlike him.
The weight of the crocheted afghan anchored Leona’s body to the wingback chair in the corner of her bedroom. Her mind bobbed in a cloudy soup. She didn’t remember walking across the parking lot, climbing the steps to the parsonage, or stumbling to her bedroom. Nor did she recall shivering uncontrollably.
For some reason Roxie’s reassuring words—“Let’s bundle her like a burrito and stave off the shock”—kept colliding with the apologetic image of Charlie Copeland saying, “I’m so sorry, Leona,” as he closed the ambulance door.
“How about I turn on your music?” Roxie didn’t wait for an answer. She flipped a switch on the small boom box on top of the dresser, activating the croon of the Gaither Vocal Band.
How Roxanne Brewer pedaled everything from carburetors to windshield wipers wearing those above-the-knee skirts and stilettos had vexed men far and wide for years. But this mother of four could put her finger on replacement valves in record speed, and she’d give a person the shirt off her Marilyn Monroe figure if she thought it would get them on the road again.
Roxie wedged herself like a tire jack between Leona and the big-boned elder’s wife hovering nearby. “Maxine, you’re going to have to back up and give the woman some air.”
“Roxanne, our pastor’s wife does not need a tune-up.” Maxine peered over the edge of the half-glasses perched on the end of her pointed nose. “She needs spiritual comfort.”
“From you?”
“I am the Chairman of the Board’s wife.”
“My point exactly!”
“Roxie,” Leona’s voice sounded more pathetic than usual.
“I’m sorry, Leona.” Sparks flashed in Roxie’s sapphire eyes, igniting the static in her fly-away red hair. She turned to Maxine. “How about we take this discussion outside?”
“J.D. Harper’s passing is not a matter for the Episcopalians.” Maxine’s spine straightened to its full five-foot-ten height. Leona recognized the familiar battle stances and braced for the worst. Hardly a chamber of commerce meeting passed that the Cadillac Queen and the Parts Princess didn’t mix it up over competitive practices, business, and religion. “The saints at Mt. Hope will tend to their own,” she finished in a huff.
“I’ve seen how your husband herds the sheep at Mt. Hope.” Roxie rested her hand on Leona’s shoulder, her voice turning sugary sweet. “If you don’t mind, I think my friend here will pass on your offer.”
“A true friend would not let her own bitterness over losing a major customer interfere with her friend’s best interests.” Maxine’s voice dripped saccharine.