by Ann B. Ross
No one, to my knowledge, had ever moved to Abbotsville and immediately set themselves up as judge and jury of everyone in the entire town. And, I mean, doing so before she even knew us. It was her assumption of our ignorance while being utterly ignorant of us that irritated me more than anything. What insolence!
“Just ignore it,” Sam counseled as we sat at the table finishing breakfast. “And her. If she wants to organize volunteers, let her. Maybe she’ll do some good. And if she wants to whip the councilmen into shape, let her do that, too. You don’t have to participate. More coffee?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, holding out my cup. “I know I don’t, and I won’t. But it just galls me that she’s acting as if she’s not a newcomer. Newcomers are supposed to allow us to get to know them gradually, standing back and letting us come to them. Of course, joining a church doesn’t hurt in becoming known around town. But has Connie done that? No, she hasn’t. She believes in reason, or maybe in energy or something. But there’s not one thing rational in her behavior. Any normal person would not have done what she did, and, worst of all, I have no doubt that she’s proud of herself for having given us the benefit of her superior knowledge.”
“Just stay out of her way, honey. If she upsets you this much, you should avoid her. From what you say about the reaction of the other ladies, it’s unlikely she’ll be invited to anything you normally attend, so it’ll be easy to do.”
“Yes, probably so. Except it’s so tacky to ask a hostess beforehand who else she’s inviting, then to decline when a particular name is mentioned.” I stirred my coffee absentmindedly. “Of course, do that often enough and hostesses will get the message—it’s either Connie or me, take your pick.”
Sam laughed. “From what you say, not many hostesses will be eager to entertain her.”
“You’re right, and maybe I should set the example. I’ll just not invite her to my annual Christmas tea. Everybody will know that I owe her because I accepted her invitation, and they’ll know I’m deliberately not returning the compliment. And if anybody has the nerve to ask why, I’ll tell them that I’m not in the habit of turning my home into a lecture hall, as some people have done. And hope it gets back to her.”
Sam grinned. “That’ll fix her.”
• • •
“On second thought,” I said later that evening, as Sam and I sat in the library in companionable silence with the television turned low and a fire flickering in the fireplace.
“On second thought, what?” Sam asked, lowering the Abbotsville Times.
“On second thought, I am going to invite Connie. I’m going to give her some instructions for a change. Let her see how things should be done, and if she’s as smart as Emma Sue thinks she is, she might learn something.”
“Sounds like a good idea. I think you should. At least,” Sam said with a smile, “you’ll have paid her back for inviting you, and you’ll have no further obligation to her.”
“Exactly. And furthermore, she’s so intent on teaching us how to be ecologically correct, I’ll just teach her how to be socially correct.”
“And she couldn’t have a better instructor.”
“That’s right,” I agreed with some complacency, for I knew my way around Abbotsville’s social scene. “I just hope she has the sense to learn from it.”
• • •
To that end, quite early the following morning I began making out my invitation list. It wasn’t too soon to make plans—the hectic Christmas season began earlier every year, and the wise hostess had her invitations in the mail a good two weeks or more before the designated date.
Of course, no one ever declined my invitations other than for the direst reasons, like a sudden illness or a scheduled surgery they couldn’t change. Simply having accepted another invitation on the same date never stopped a soul from attending my affairs—if something had to give, it wouldn’t be my invitation. I was justifiably proud of that and made every effort to make my guests happy that they’d chosen correctly.
But this year I was determined that my Christmas party would exceed all previous ones—even as satisfying as they had been in the past. As my list grew longer, I began to think of dividing the guest list into two sections. The first group could be invited from two to three P.M., and the second group from three till four. Some overlap could be expected—there always were some who overstayed their time and others who would come early. And some who would simply come early and stay late. Still, it was a way to attempt to accommodate a large crowd.
And with that, I put down my pen and began to think of building a new house, one that would comfortably contain as many guests as Sam and I wanted to entertain. Maybe a house with our bedroom on the first floor. Bedroom suite, I mentally corrected myself, and thought of how nice it would be as the years went on to have no stairs to climb.
A small, well-appointed two-bedroom house, I thought as I began to visualize how it would look. Then changed my mind. We’d need three bedrooms—the second one for Lloyd, of course, and the third for guests. No, why not a guesthouse for guests, with Lloyd’s in the main house with ours? And we’d have to have a library, modeled on the one we already had. And a working office for Sam. And an up-to-date, thoroughly modernized kitchen. And, oh, another bedroom for Lillian and Latisha for the nights they spent with us. And, of course, a bathroom for each bedroom.
Then there were what I would call the public rooms—maybe a double living room with facing fireplaces and a dining room large enough for my table to be fully extended, both with plenty of room to receive any number of guests. And a foyer and halls—there would have to be space for that. I just hate dark, narrow hallways, so they should be at least five or so feet wide upstairs and down-, wherever we needed hallways.
How many square feet, I wondered, would a house have to be to accommodate all the rooms I would want? I had no idea. I knew only that if we were to build something, it should be exactly what we wanted. No need to go to the trouble and the expense to end up with anything less.
I sighed, put aside my daydreaming, and picked up my pen. I had a party to give. As I looked at the lengthening guest list, I had an inspiration—not a party but a soiree! Put them on notice right at the beginning that it would be special. Now, of course, I knew that, strictly speaking, a soiree is an evening affair, but I also knew that people in New Orleans called almost everything—morning, noon, or night—a soiree. So what I could do was to change the times to, say, from four to five for the first group and from five to six for the second, which would be close enough to qualify as an evening affair. And if anybody wanted to stay the whole two hours, why, that would be fine, too.
Music, I thought. A soiree would require background music, and something more than the FM radio or the Christmas tape Lloyd had put together. Then I thought of Sara O’Neill—she played the harp when the Episcopal church had special musical programs, and I’m talking about one of those huge instruments, which required her to wear a long dress so she could straddle it, not one of those mouth organs. Or was I mixing it up with a cello, which I was sure required an unladylike position?
Sara would know how she was to sit, and with her name, she was undoubtedly of Irish descent, and weren’t they great harp players? Or was I stereotyping her? Another thing Connie accused us of doing.
Well, whatever.
The music would be beautiful, all in the background, of course. I wasn’t looking for a recital, where people would have to sit and listen instead of talk and mingle.
But where to put her? Those harps were quite large, and just one of them with Sara next to it would take up a fourth of my living room. The back hall? Maybe close off the kitchen door and stick Sara and her harp back there under the stairs. People would see her as they moved from the living room to the library, where I would put a red felt floor-length cloth over the mahogany desk with another punch bowl on it along with a couple of trays
of finger food.
Of course, putting Sara and her harp in the back hall might interfere with access to the downstairs bathroom, which could be a problem with so many ladies in the house. They’d have to go upstairs, which would be fine for everybody except Miss Mattie Freeman, who’d never make the climb in time. I sighed, knowing I couldn’t make it perfect for everyone. Another reason, I thought, with some justifiable pleasure, to consider building a new house.
With a sudden intake of breath it came to me that I might be in the process of falling in with what Connie had recommended—doing away with the old and building the new.
That decided it, right then and there, my old house suited me just fine. I wasn’t in the mood to rehabilitate anything and daydreaming wasn’t getting my soiree planned.
So to get myself back into a party mood, I wrote out “A Christmas Soiree” to see how it would look on an invitation. I liked it, and if Connie Clayborn wasn’t impressed with the way we did things in Abbotsville, she could go back to Boston. Or to Switzerland, which would be even better.
Chapter 8
I put down my pen again when I heard the front doorbell ring, wondering who could be calling at eight-thirty on a Tuesday morning. Listening carefully so I’d know if I wanted to be available, I heard the scuffle of Lillian’s shoes with the run-over heels as she walked to the door, then the low rumble of a male voice. Who in the world?
“Miss Julia?” Lillian said as she appeared in the library doorway. “The Reverend Mr. Ledbetter come callin’.”
“Well, for goodness sakes,” I murmured, considering, then deciding against, a correction to the Reverend Dr. Ledbetter by virtue of an honorary degree. “What does he want?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Lillian answered. “He don’t tell me, but he waitin’ in the livin’ room.”
“Ah, well,” I said, putting aside my notes and preparing to go in and be as gracious as possible while turning down whatever committee on which he wanted me to serve. In spite of Connie’s rant about giving back, I’d about had my fill of giving either to or back to church committees. Besides, Connie didn’t support any church at all, and I’d spent my life taking on one church-related job, project, or program after another. “Thank you, Lillian.”
I walked down the hall to the living room, where I found Pastor Ledbetter standing in the middle of the room.
“Have a seat, Pastor,” I said. “How nice to see you. I hope you’re well.”
He looked up, surprising me with the lines of strain on his face. “Is there a place we can talk?” he asked. “Somewhere a little more private?”
I started to tell him that Lillian was the only one who could possibly hear us, and she wasn’t at all interested in what he had to say, and that I’d probably tell her whatever it was, anyway. The anxious look on his face stopped me.
“Why, yes,” I said. “Let’s go into the library.”
He followed me back to the library, stood back as I entered, then pulled the door closed behind us.
Whatever was on his mind seemed serious enough to warrant a soothing fire in the fireplace, so I turned up the gas until a small blaze began to warm the room. I motioned to one of the wing chairs beside the fireplace, but he took a seat on the leather sofa on the other side. I took the wing chair facing him, and waited.
“Well, Pastor,” I finally said, since he seemed reluctant to begin, “is there something I can do for you? Although I will tell you now that my calendar is full and I simply can’t take on another thing, at least before Christmas.” Of next year, I mentally added.
He shot a quick look at me, then darted his eyes around the room. Sitting there in a typical male position—legs a-spraddle with hands clasped between his knees—he looked as if he’d rather be anywhere than where he was. Whatever proposition he had to present, it was looking more and more likely that I wouldn’t want it.
“Miss Julia,” he said, looking past his hands toward the floor and ignoring my attempt at cutting him off, “I must ask you to keep this conversation confidential. I considered asking you to my office, where confidentiality is assured, but I couldn’t sit still long enough to wait for you. I’m in a desperate situation, and I need help.”
I knew it, I thought as I fought to prevent my eyes from rolling back in my head. Somebody has had to drop out, and he needs a Sunday school teacher or a committee chairman or a representative to the General Assembly for a week somewhere in Texas. No, no, and no again.
“I hate to turn you down, Pastor,” I said, although I didn’t really mind at all, “but, as I’ve said, I can’t accept another thing, and besides . . .”
“No,” he said, holding up a hand, “this has nothing to do with the church. I mean, it does, but not directly. I mean, it affects the church in that my ability to lead and minister to our members is badly hindered. But . . .” He stopped and looked directly at me. “This must not get around, Miss Julia. I’m trying to mitigate the consequences of it as much as I can.”
This did sound serious, and I wondered why he had come to me and not to Sam or to one of his elders.
“I assure you, Pastor, that I’m not in the habit of telling everything I know, and you may trust my word on that.”
“And I must ask you to give it,” he said, staring at me. “I must ask you not even to discuss it with Sam—not that I distrust him, but someone might overhear. You have lots of people coming in and out here, and they could pick up something that could, well, be damaging.”
Not only was it sounding serious, it was beginning to sound weird, but I gave my word.
“I will not discuss whatever it is with anyone,” I said, knowing full well how difficult it would be to keep anything from Sam. Especially something that sounded so tellable, as this was beginning to sound. “Now, for goodness sakes, Pastor, tell me what’s troubling you so.”
He unclasped his hands, leaned back against the sofa, blew out a long breath, and said, “Emma Sue.”
I blinked in surprise. “Emma Sue?”
“Emma Sue,” he affirmed, then sat up straight as if ready to face the problem. “She’s in a bad way, and I thought you might be the one to help.”
“Why, what’s wrong with her? Is she ill?”
“I’m beginning to think it’s more than that. I tell you, Miss Julia, I’m at my wit’s end. I’ve talked to her till I’m blue in the face, and everything just rolls right off.”
I could understand that. Most of what he said in the pulpit rolled right off me, too.
“My goodness,” I murmured. “Perhaps she needs a complete medical checkup. She may have low thyroid or something.”
He breathed deeply and, as if finally conceding a sorry conclusion, said, “Worse than that. She admits that it’s a spiritual sickness, but I’m thinking it’s a willful disregard of her duties and responsibilities to me. First Timothy three tells us that any man who desires to hold a church office must first rule his own house. Yet she won’t listen to me, and that, in turn, affects my authority in the church. I’m beginning to think that my influence over her has waned. That’s why I thought of you.”
I heard him and hearing, wondered about whom he was most concerned—Emma Sue or himself. But I knew the one I cared about, so I said, “I’ll be glad to help if I can, but, Pastor, it sounds as if she may need more help than I can give. Professional help, I’m referring to.”
“Possibly so,” he admitted, which was a giant step for him and proved to me that he was indeed up against something he couldn’t handle. “But it would have to be someone who’s a Christian, and even then, I hesitate because she’s so suggestible. To everyone but me, that is. But she’s suffering, and so am I. That’s why I’m turning to you. I don’t know what else to do.”
“Well, I’m not sure that I’d be much of a substitute for a counselor. Even a Christian one, but I’ll certainly do what I can. I care about Emma Sue. But tell me, Pa
stor, just what is she doing? I mean, to distress you so much. I know she suffers from migraines, but usually they’re over in a day or so.”
“Oh, it all started with a migraine,” he said with another deep breath. “A bad one. I had to put off writing my sermon to take her to the doctor for an injection. That usually puts her right quickly enough, but not this time. She’s been in bed since Friday—missed Sunday services, too. She hasn’t bathed or washed her hair, and she’s hardly eaten a bite. She . . . she just cries. And looks off in the distance. I am sick with worry. Something has to be done.”
“It certainly seems so,” I said, feeling great sympathy for Emma Sue, although I’d long thought that she put too much pressure on herself. “But Emma Sue is so capable and so energetic, I can’t imagine what could have brought her to such a pass.”
“Oh, I know what instigated it, but after much prayer and long consideration, I’ve come to the conclusion that I shouldn’t attempt to resolve the problem myself.”
“You mean you can pinpoint it?” I was surprised, because I’d assumed that Emma Sue suffered from a general dissatisfaction with her life—which she was unable to admit, even to herself—and from overwork while trying to make up for whatever was missing.
“Yes,” he said as his voice hardened. “It was that woman, that Clayborn woman.”
“Connie? Why, Pastor, Emma Sue and I discussed her on the phone the other day, and we decided that Connie has ruined herself in this town. But now that I think of it,” I mused aloud, “Emma Sue was more upset than usual, taking what Connie said as a personal criticism and even as a direct scolding from the Lord. I thought I’d talked her out of that, but I guess I didn’t if things are as bad as you say.”