Preacher Sam

by Cassondra Windwalker

  Sometimes daughters took after their fathers more than their mothers. Sam wondered if Amy had gotten her desire to please others from her dad. “Today is fine. This afternoon, maybe?”

  Tangible relief permeated Adam’s voice. “That would be great. Let me give you directions. We’re about forty-five minutes from Broad Ripple. Is that too far?”

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll just grab a pen.”

  Sam scribbled down the directions and crammed the slip of paper in his pocket along with the phone. By the time he re-entered the kitchen, Dani had almost everything ready for opening and had started mixing up the Belgian waffle batter.

  “I’ll commandeer that,” he told her, lifting the bowl out of her hands. “You have enough to do. Plus, you need to do the girl thing so you can look pretty for your new beau. Just in case.”

  Parker’s head shot up. “Whaaaat?” he drawled. Sam laughed. Sometimes he thought the kid was seventeen instead of seven.

  Dani fumed. “I’m seriously going to kill you. What’s your plan for when I kick your bony butt out on the streets?”

  “You can’t do that, Mom!” Parker protested. “That would just make more homeless people.”

  “So glad to know the confidence you both have in my ability to survive on my own,” Sam rejoined drily.

  Dani raised her brows. “Let’s say we’re informed by past experience.”

  Sam dropped a glob of batter into the waffle iron with a dramatic flourish. “Lucky for you two, I’m not inclined to withhold my culinary brilliance based on your judginess.”

  “I’m not sure if putting chocolate chips in everything equates to culinary brilliance.”

  “I am!” Parker injected earnestly. “Chocolate chips are brilliant!”

  “And there you have it. Now go get done whatever you need to do to open the shop before you-know-who shows up.”

  Dani glared at him wordlessly, but Sam noted she did sweep up the stairs for a quick mirror check. Sam slid Parker’s waffle onto a plate, generously filled the divots with chocolate chips, and topped the whole affair with a swirl of whipped cream.

  “Where’s the syrup?” Parker asked, all innocence.

  “Oh, no,” Sam replied. “I don’t think so. I may be only an uncle, but even I know that waffles, chocolate chips, whipped cream, and syrup are not a healthy combination for a growing boy.”

  Parker shrugged and dug in with relish, seemingly untroubled by Sam’s denial. “Had to try.”

  A lesson Sam had learned the hard way. He’d made more than a few missteps when he’d first moved in as a result of Parker’s “just trying:” a horror movie marathon, packing a can of soda for his field trip lunch (apparently rated as contraband in his no-sugar school,) and the granola bar fiasco. That last one Sam still felt a little defensive about. The word “granola” meant healthy, right? Surely a healthy snack before bedtime couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t his fault Dani only bought the chocolate-dipped granola bars that infused children with immortal energy levels.

  Saturday mornings might be very different from Tuesday nights, but Sam had learned that, even so, Dani wouldn’t be amused if she came back in to find Parker’s breakfast swimming in a sea of syrup. Sam couldn’t say exactly where she drew her lines—after all, there didn’t seem to be any Moral Laws of Dani prohibiting frozen pizza or canned ravioli, but he knew better than to ask any challenging questions. Besides, Parker seemed to be as healthy as the sugar-free, chia-munching, vegan delights he went to school with, so Sam figured most kids survived the fads and vagaries of their parents just fine regardless.

  Once he’d cleaned his plate, Parker headed for the TV, still in his pajamas. Saturdays were laid-back affairs. Dani wouldn’t even start worrying about homework till after the shop closed—or rather, Sam amended, till after he took over, now that they were staying open later. He figured he could visit the Jensens about one and be back in plenty of time to take over the shop till ten for Dani. But first, they had to get through the morning.

  Sam walked into the dining room, flipped down the chairs from the café tables, and turned on the lights. He unlocked the front door and turned over the OPEN sign. No crowd yet, but it wouldn’t take long.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Well, wasn’t that disappointing, Sam mused as he wove through traffic on his way to the Jensen’s farm on the outskirts of the city. Ian Lannister had not made an appearance this morning. Likely because, as Sam supposed, he worked Monday through Friday and had no reason to be there on an early Saturday morning. He’d said he lived in the neighborhood, though. Maybe Sam had scared him off. Maybe he’d embarrassed himself and couldn’t face coming back. Sam decided that was the most likely option.

  He didn’t have a good reason for wanting the guy to come back outside of the usual big brother desire to torment his sister. Lannister hadn’t seemed a bad sort, in spite of all the creeper jokes Sam hadn’t been able to resist making. On the contrary, Lannister gave off a distinctly decent impression. Poor fellow was just all wrong for Dani, though, and had no idea. Too nice, Sam decided. If Dani ever chose to spend more than a few casual nights with someone, they’d have to be made of sterner stuff. Lannister had chosen the right adjective for Dani—Sam’s sister was a fireball, the sort of woman who was more than capable of taking care of herself and others. A man worthy of walking beside her would have to be moving pretty fast just to keep pace with her, not to mention he’d need a strong back if he were going to equal her load. Lannister was all right, and his crush on Dani was kind of sweet, but it would go nowhere.

  Sam turned up the radio. Even after all this time, weekends still felt weird. He often caught himself in a mild state of anticipation on Saturday afternoons, as if Sunday morning he were going to get up, go greet his church, deliver a grand sermon, and probably invite someone over for Sunday lunch with Melanie and him. Instead, the weekends dragged, vapid and meaningless, as he worked to fill them up with something besides longing and regret. He could go to another church, start over, be the new guy. Form a whole different set of relationships and learn to navigate a whole different set of problems. He should, really. But that that would involve introductions: what do you do? Where do you live? Are you married? It was less that he was reluctant to answer than that he frankly didn’t know how. Even now, his own reality was the biggest mystery he faced.

  When he pulled into the long drive facing the Jensen’s perfectly painted farmhouse, Sam had no idea what songs had been playing on the radio. He didn’t bother to waste time wondering why he was here—that he’d soon find out. Instead, he found himself looking around the property itself, trying to find little pieces of Amy he’d missed when he’d been her pastor. Why hadn’t he taken the time to know her better? He’d swallowed whole the same image that she presented to everyone else –the pretty, perfect, efficient, working wife and mother whose faith was sufficient to keep her from scandal but not embarrassingly impassioned. She’d made every service, helped teach bible classes, and he’d spoken to her every single week.

  Nothing meaningful, though, and that seemed a poverty now. Polite exchanges about where Clay was traveling this month and aren’t you glad summer vacation is over and I’m so happy you’re over that cold. But he’d let her get by with what he’d known—if he’d bothered to think two minutes about it—had been a mask she was wearing. No mom, no wife, no woman, could be happy and pleasant and perfect all the time. Other people, whose griefs and trials had been more evident and seemingly more urgent, had distracted him. If he were honest with himself, out of all the people he counseled and prayed and mediated and argued with in a week, he was most grateful for the ones who didn’t insist he bear witness to their pain. Ones like Amy.

  Sam unbuckled his seatbelt, squeezed his eyes shut tight for a minute. It had been so easy to pat himself on the back for a week’s work back then; he could just flip through his appointment book and make a checklist of good deeds, if he wanted to. Pennies in Heaven. Now all he could think about was how many peopl
e had he walked right past, had he exchanged pleasantries with, who were basically bleeding out in his arms and he couldn’t even smell the blood?

  He opened his eyes and swung himself out of the car. Too late now, he told himself fiercely. You can’t go back. You can’t fix anything behind you. You can only go forward. And that’s what you’re doing now. All you need to do now is to see these suffering people right in front of you. This will be bad enough.

  The Jensens’ place was one of many family farms that still surrounded the Indianapolis city proper. Sam could tell that most of the acreage had been sold off, probably to subdivision contractors who seemed to eat up farmland like pigs eat truffles. Or like pigs eat anything. A large garden, mostly harvested, was visible behind the house. The yard area around the neat two-story farmhouse was bounded by wide-spreading maple trees. A wooden picnic table sagged under one of the shady limbs, and a tire swing was suspended from a thick branch. A brightly colored plastic climbing gym and swing set stood beside a large curling slide, clearly new additions for the grandchildren.

  Sam realized he didn’t even know if Amy had any brother or sisters. If her parents were Christians.

  He’d barely finished knocking when the door opened. Adam Jensen welcomed him in. If possible, he looked grimmer, older, than he had yesterday. Sam couldn’t imagine the finality of laying a child in the ground. He wished Melanie were here. She walked so much closer to death than he did; she was more comfortable with the many faces it wore.

  “Thanks for coming out, Preacher.”

  Sam decided it would be just plain cruel to correct him again. If thinking of Sam as a preacher somehow made this easier for Adam, or gave him some kind of comfort, Sam was loath to take that away for the sake of an oblique truth.

  “The least I could do. I’m glad to be here.”

  “Come on in.”

  Sam saw that Clay certainly hadn’t been the first person in Amy’s life to have high housekeeping expectations – assuming it was even fair to think that those expectations had come from Clay and not from Amy herself. The Jensen home was spotless, with red chickens and speckleware on every surface and frilly curtains on every window.

  Speckleware. Was that a real word? Sam wondered. It sounded right. And that’s what the stuff looked like—like someone had taken a blue bowl and speckled white paint all over it.

  Adam led Sam into the living room and motioned him to a seat. Lenore appeared in a doorway, wiping down her hands on an apron. Her fine, yellow-tinted hair was pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, and her faded blue eyes were precisely framed with liner and mascara. Sam didn’t know what was worse—the man who had no camouflage for his sorrow, or the woman whose subterfuge could only accentuate the marks of her devastation.

  “Preacher Sam! Can I get you a cup of coffee? Some cookies? Fresh-baked. Oatmeal chocolate-chip.”

  One of the things Sam had learned from his years in the ministry was the importance of accepting a gift, even one as small as a cup of coffee. Human beings don’t want—they need—to have something to offer. Something of value to trade for companionship, for friendship, for time. To rob someone of the chance to give, to serve, was a cruelty and a pride in Sam’s mind. It might seem hard to ask a grieving mother to cook and serve and make coffee, but he knew it for what it really was: a kindness. Lenore needed to busy her hands, to find some pattern she could fall into for even a few minutes that was not defined by her loss. She had been a cook before her daughter died; she was a cook still.

  “Sounds delicious. I’d be grateful. Can I help you carry it in?”

  “Oh, no. I have a lovely little tray just for that. Amy—” a quick swallow—“got it for me for my birthday.”

  Sam assumed whatever they needed to talk to him about should wait till both the Jensens were in the room. He glanced around the crowded, pillow-plumped living area and searched for a safe and temporary conversation topic.

  “Pretty quiet for a house with two girls.”

  “Well, we planned ahead. The girls are upstairs in our bedroom watching Dragonheart. The nice thing about being so old is that all your old stuff is new for your grandkids. We may not have seen any of their movies, but they haven’t seen any of ours either.”

  Sam laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  Lenore’s voice floated in. “Coffee or sugar, Preacher?”

  “Just black for me, thanks.”

  Lenore bustled in, wide green metal tray painted with pink roses piled high with mounds of cookies and three steaming cups of coffee. Sam wasn’t surprised to see that the offer of cream and sugar had been a polite effort for company—his own grandparents only drank their coffee black, too.

  “This looks wonderful.” Sam bit into a warm cookie, the flavors of chocolate and cinnamon melting over his tongue as the chewy oats provided the perfect counterpoint of texture. “Mmm. Don’t tell my sister, but these might be the best cookies I’ve ever had.”

  To his delight, the sad-faced Lenore actually preened, just a little. “Your sister?”

  “She owns a café bookstore and is quite the baker herself. But these are spectacular.”

  Pink rose to Lenore’s cheeks, and she smiled stiffly. “I’m so glad you liked them.”

  A moment of silence passed as they sipped their coffee, and Sam decided he should make it easier on them. “What can I do for you? Amy was a good woman. If there’s any way I can help her family, I’d be grateful for the chance.”

  The Jensens exchanged a glance. Adam spoke.

  “We’re not really sure. But someone has to know what’s going on.”

  “With the investigation?”

  “No. Well, maybe. It’s just…nothing makes sense to us.”

  Sam was feeling confused himself.

  “And you think I might have the answer?”

  “Maybe you can get it?” Lenore offered.

  “Why don’t we start with you telling me what the question is,” Sam suggested.

  Adam looked over his shoulder, hesitated for a moment as if listening to make sure the girls weren’t coming downstairs.

  “Clay doesn’t want the girls back.”

  Sam felt his eyes widen, kept his cookie-laden mouth shut with an effort. He finished chewing with alacrity and washed the crumbs down with a generous swig of coffee.

  “What do you mean, he doesn’t want the girls back? For right now? Or for forever?”

  “Forever,” Lenore said in a hushed voice.

  Briefly Sam closed his eyes. The girls had lost their mother, and now their father didn’t want them anymore. With an effort, he pushed on.

  “Do you think that could be grief talking? Maybe he is so overwhelmed that he doesn’t feel like he could take care of them right now.”

  The husband and wife exchanged another glance. “If by overwhelmed, you mean drunk, then that’s a definite possibility,” Adam returned drily.

  Sam lifted a shoulder. “People deal with death, especially unexpected death, in all kinds of ways.” It was a hard thing to say to two parents who had just buried their daughter and were now facing the prospect of raising two granddaughters before they’d even had a chance to grieve themselves, but Sam felt compelled to be as fair as he could to Clay.

  Lenore clasped her hands between her knees. “He’s not sad, he’s angry.”

  “That’s normal, isn’t it?” Sam suggested gently. “I imagine you’re angry, too.”

  Adam spread his hands. “We’re not trying to be unreasonable. I can’t say we ever felt very close to Clay, and he was gone a lot. But we’ve never had anything against him. And you’re right: we’re angry, too. Angry at whoever did this. But it feels like…it feels like Clay is angry with Amy. And he won’t even speak to the girls. That isn’t right. Even if he didn’t think he could take care of them right now, he’s still their father. They need as much help as they can get to survive this. Why would he abandon them completely?”

  Sam pushed that question aside for a mo
ment and focused on something else Adam had said instead.

  “You said you’re angry at whoever did this. Do you not believe Amanda did this?”

  Lenore spoke again. “You know Amy and Amanda grew up together, don’t you? They’ve been best friends since elementary school. Amanda was over here almost every weekend. She was a second daughter to us. Adam even walked her down the aisle because her father passed before her wedding to Raul. Amanda would never do this.”

  Sam chose his words carefully. “You know the police are saying she confessed.”

  Adam shook his head. “Maybe they coerced it.”

  “I went to see her myself. She’s not denying anything.”

  “She saw you?”

  Sam nodded. “Have you tried to see her?”

  “We scheduled a visit, but she wouldn’t see us.”

  “Maybe she feels too guilty to face you.”

  “So, you think she’s guilty, too.” Adam spoke flatly.

  Sam spread his hands, trying to measure his speech. “I’m having a very hard time accepting it, myself. Given the evidence, nothing else makes sense. But for anyone who knew Amy and Amanda, the evidence is what doesn’t make sense. Do you know anything that could explain all this? Offer some other solution?”

  Adam stood up and walked across the room to a green-and-yellow painted hutch and opened a small drawer, withdrawing a letter than Sam immediately recognized as having been mailed from the jail.

  “Amanda sent us this letter from jail. She must have mailed it almost as soon as she was incarcerated.”

  “What does she say?”

  “The letter itself is wrapped in a blank piece of paper that instructs us not to read the letter until she’s convicted.”

  “And you are following those instructions?”

  “Yes,” Lenore spoke up, her voice severe. Sam figured maybe that had been a bone of contention between them. He had to respect the force of character that would choose to honor the trust of a woman they loved like a daughter, even if the rest of the world thought that woman had killed their actual flesh-and-blood daughter. He was beginning to see where Amy had gotten her strict adherence to rules—her own and everyone else’s.