The First Ladies Club Box Set

by J B Hawker

  “What, she’s like married to God, or something?” DeRay asked

  “Don’t be silly, DeRay. She’s not a nun,” Paisley said.

  “Yeah, we’re Baptists, same as you, man,” Ryan added.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. I guess if Pastor Burt passed away, I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Burt dating, either…unless she found another preacher, maybe. She does like to be First Lady.”

  “But, can’t those guys come back and do the work? It’s not fair to keep us waiting,” Astilbe complained.

  “Don’t get mad at them; they’ve been helping a lot. Get mad at the dope who trashed our restrooms,” Ryan said.

  “You ever find out who did the dirty deed?” DeRay asked.

  “Nah. Did you guys hear anything around school about who did it?” Ryan asked.

  “Not a word,” said Paisley.

  “And that’s unusual,” Astilbe added. “Must have been someone from out of town.”

  DeRay’s phone began to vibrate in his pocket and he pulled it out.

  “Oh man, that’s my mom. I am late for supper. I’d better split. See you guys at school, if she doesn’t kill me.”

  “I should be going, too,” Ryan said.

  “We’ll walk part way with you,” the twins said, each taking her place on one of Ryan’s arms.

  “I feel like I’ve got two bodyguards, now. You’ll protect me from any bad guys lurking in the dark, right?”

  “It isn’t even all the way dark, yet, silly,” Paisley protested.

  “Besides, if any bad guys come around, you have to protect us,” Astilbe added as the three left the mall.

  *

  “Your sanctuary Open House was such fun and such a nice way to get people from the various churches together, so some of us wondered…” Naidenne Davidson began as she sat down next to Merrill in the old-fashioned parlor in the Community Fellowship’s parsonage.

  The latest First Ladies Club meeting had just adjourned for food and fellowship.

  “Wondered what?” Merrill prompted.

  “Well, we wondered if you would mind if some of our congregations joined First Baptist at your Mardi Gras beach bonfire this Saturday. We would all bring food, and supplies, of course. It just seems like it will be such fun,” Naidenne explained.

  “Say, doesn’t mardi gras mean Fat Tuesday? Shouldn’t the bonfire be on Tuesday, then?” Judy mused aloud, while the others ignored her.

  “We are planning a short Lenten devotion before the picnic. Would you all like to participate in that, as well?” Merrill asked.

  Naidenne looked questioningly at the other ladies.

  “I’m afraid coordinating something like that would take preparation. This Saturday doesn’t leave enough time to plan,” Elizabeth said.

  “But each group could meet separately for a devotion, right?” Judy offered. “That way we could all greet the Lenten season in our own way before celebrating around the bonfire together.”

  “That sounds doable,” Eskaletha agreed.

  “So, would that be okay with your church, Merrill? We don’t want anyone to think we are barging in on your party,” Naidenne added.

  “It sounds like a wonderful idea, to me. I can’t see how anyone could object. We all enjoyed having some of your people join us at our Open House. I’ll let my congregation know, but I’m sure they will be happy to have you join us.”

  “I’m so glad you said that, Merrill. I just know it pleases God anytime the various members of the body of Christ get together for fellowship,” Olivette said.

  When Naidenne got up to attend to her hostess duties, Eskaletha took her seat next to Merrill.

  “How are you doing? I mean really. You’ve had some hard knocks, lately,” she said in a low voice.

  “I’m okay, actually. I admit there have been some unfortunate events in the past few months, but death is just part of life, after all. Ryan seems to be adjusting really well. Of course, he has his moments when the grief sweeps over him, but he’s handling it. He’s always been a special kid.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear, but how about you? Are you handling it, too?” Eskaletha pressed.

  “Of course! Everyone has been so helpful and kind…even Peter, my brother’s friend from Seattle, has worked really hard to help repair our restrooms,” Merrill said.

  “Oh, ho, so that’s how it is, eh?” Eskaletha grinned.

  “What? No. It’s nothing like...,” Merrill broke off her automatic denial. “To tell the truth, I could use some advice. Woman to woman.”

  “Go on.”

  “Before he left for Portland on Sunday evening, Peter kissed me. It was just a peck, really, nothing too, uh, you know,” Merrill said.

  “Did you like it?”

  “Oh yes! I mean, it was very nice, very tender…” Merrill paused with a dreamy expression.

  “Come back, girl,” Eskaletha teased. “So, you definitely liked it. Then what’s the problem?”

  “I just don’t know if this is something I need in my life. I’ve got Ryan to think of and the congregation. I’m a middle-aged widow, for crying out loud. I feel just a little foolish to even be considering…”

  “Considering what, exactly?” Eskaletha asked, arching one eyebrow.

  “I don’t know! I’m too old for a boyfriend and too Christian to want a lover. I’m not really thinking about remarrying, either, even if Peter were interested in that, which I have no reason to believe he is. Am I making too much of a simple good-night kiss? What do I do when he returns? Should I act like it never happened?”

  “Well, it’s been a while since I was single, but I don’t think you can ever go wrong in any sort of friendship by being honest, as long as kindness goes with it. But, remember to be honest and kind to yourself, too.”

  Chapter 18

  Peter had two objectives in coming to Portland, one personal and one professional.

  What he’d uncovered at his first stop convinced him this coastal ‘vacation’ was not the wild goose chase Wolf had predicted, but he could only ferret out the rest of the story by digging around back in Bannoch.

  As he drove across the city, Peter was eager to tackle his personal reason for coming to the Rose City and to put it behind him, so he could return to what he was sure was going to be a front-page story.

  He parked his car in front of a rundown three-story apartment house in Portland’s Goose Hollow neighborhood.

  Peter passed some impressive homes on nearby Kings Hill while looking for the address, but this stained and patchy stucco building slumping dejectedly beside a semi-vacant industrial park was not one of Portland’s featured attractions.

  He rechecked the address on his phone, grabbed his notebook and walked up the cracked sidewalk.

  Stepping over a broken bottle and a puddle of what he hoped was spilled beer in the littered entry, he checked the names and apartment numbers on the buzzers beside the door.

  Many of the nameplates were empty and some of the apartment numbers had been defaced or scratched out. He made an educated guess, based upon the remaining information, and pushed one of the buttons for the third floor.

  He pressed the button a few more times before hearing a raspy, “Waddaya want?”

  “I’m looking for Monica Tulaine. Is this the apartment of Monica Tulaine?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Peter Compton. I’m a friend of Ms. Tulaine’s son, Peregrine.”

  Hearing no response, Peter was beginning to think he should try another unit, but just then a buzzer sounded, and the door unlocked.

  Hurrying through before the woman changed her mind, he began to climb the dark, sticky stairs to the upper floors.

  In the dim third floor corridor, most of the doors still had numbers, but many of the original metal numerals had been replaced with marker, paint, or in one instance, green crayon.

  The apartment he sought still possessed all its brass numbers, although some were dangling precariously. The number nine hung upside do
wn like a subscript six.

  Peter knocked gently to avoid dislodging the metal digits.

  The door opened a few inches and an eye, bloodshot and suspicious, squinted at him.

  “You from the County? I’ve got no money to pay back child support, so you can just keep moving,” the woman growled in a voice roughened by chemical intoxicants and hard living.

  “I’m not here about child support, Mrs. Tulaine. As I told you, I’m a friend of your son.”

  “Only son I got’s doing hard time in Pelican Bay. How you know him?”

  “Please, Mrs. Tulaine, won’t you let me in, so we can talk? As I said before, I’m a friend of your oldest son, Peregrine.”

  “Go away!” she said, starting to shut the door.

  Peter blocked the door with his foot, getting a smashed toe for his efforts, but stopping the woman from shutting him out.

  “Please Mrs. Tulaine, won’t you give me just a moment of your time?”

  The door was abruptly flung wide as the woman inside turned away and flopped onto a stained and sagging sofa of indeterminate color.

  She grabbed a pack of cigarettes off the nearby bent metal folding table and glared at Peter while lighting up.

  “You just say what you got to say, then go. I don’t want you here when my man comes back. He don’t know about that other boy.”

  “Thank you,” Peter said, looking around for a place to sit.

  Noting the squalid condition of the apartment, he decided to remain standing, despite his sore foot.

  “So, spit it out!” Peri’s mother snarled, blowing smoke in Peter’s direction.

  “I’ve come to find out why you walked away from your son all those years ago. When I heard Peri’s story of being left with his grandparents, I thought I might be able to help him by finding out what happened to you. I confess, when I discovered you were alive and living in Portland, I had some idea of a possible reunion.”

  “Well, you can just put that right outta your head,” Monica said, tipping ash onto the nasty carpeting.

  “Yes, I can see it wouldn’t be a good idea. But, still, if I can tell your son what made you leave him and why you didn’t come back, it might give him some of the answers he’s been seeking.”

  “Why’d I leave him? Well duh! Cause you can’t keep a baby on a fishing boat in Alaska, of course.”

  Peter must have looked puzzled, because she continued as though he’d asked a question.

  “Because my boyfriend was a crab fisherman and he wanted me to go with him for the season. I thought it would be fun, but he didn’t want the kid coming along. Me neither, to tell the truth. All that brat ever did was cry and make messes. His ritzy grandparents wanted him, so I let them have him.”

  “Just like that? You gave your child away?”

  Peter was appalled.

  “Well, not so much gave, actually,” she said with a smug smile. “They paid me five grand for him. Poor saps! I’da gave him to ‘em for nothing. But, I’m no dummy, I took what was offered. I needed the money for me and my boyfriend. They wanted the kid, so it was a win-win. I could always get another rugrat. Shoot, for a few years there, I was poppin’ a squalling brat out every time I turned around,” she laughed, and began to cough.

  Peter waited out her hacking spasm before confirming her bizarre tale.

  “Let me get this straight; Peri’s grandparents paid you money to go away and leave the boy with them?”

  “Didn’t I just say that?”

  “And did you never regret this arrangement, never want to see your son, again?”

  “Course not! I already had another kid on the way before the fishing season was over. Course, when I told him about it, my boyfriend kicked me out. I thought about hitting up the old people again, but I didn’t figure they’d want that baby, their dead son not being its dad, and all, so I just hung out in Anchorage for a few years. By the time I got back to Oregon, I’d forgotten all about that first kid, to tell the truth. But, hey, I’ve got plenty on my mind just keeping food on the table, you know? Say, I’m doing you a favor here, aren’t I? I’ll bet you wouldn’t mind giving me a few bucks to thank me, now would you?”

  Peter simply stared at the audacious creature.

  “Hey, you took my time and I gave you what you wanted, so you owe me!”

  Unfortunately, Monica’s current man happened to come through the door just in time to hear her rather ill-chosen words.

  He roared and grabbed Monica by the hair, pulling her off the sofa onto her knees.

  “What’d I tell you about hooking up on your own? You do what I tell you, when I tell you and I get the money. Remember, dummy?” he shouted into her face, spittle spraying onto her hair and eyes.

  Flinging her down, he turned to Peter, thrusting out his jaw menacingly and closing his beefy hands into fists.

  “You give me the money, not this cow,” he barked, bathing Peter in a cloud of stale breath reeking of alcohol and pot smoke.

  The man was large, but flabby.

  One look convinced Peter he was no real threat.

  “I’m not giving either of you anything. I’m leaving,” Peter said, backing toward the door.

  The man threw a wild punch which Peter easily side-stepped, throwing his attacker off-balance.

  A well-placed kick on the man’s backside sent him sprawling, while Peter made his escape.

  As he hurried down the hall, half expecting the angry lowlife to burst through the door after him, he heard blows and shouts coming from within the apartment. The woman cried out and there were sounds of heavy objects hitting the floor.

  Peter pulled out his cell phone and reported a domestic disturbance at the address.

  “It sounds like someone’s being beaten,” he reported to the dispatcher.

  He almost felt sorry for Monica Tulaine.

  What had brought her to this point? She must certainly have once been someone more pleasant, more loveable, for Peri’s father to have married her.

  Reaching his car, he sat for a few moments processing what he had seen and learned.

  How was it possible for a creature like that to have given birth to a man like Peri? And Mrs. Bostwich and her husband had known all along where his mother went. They actually bought Peri from her and had been lying to him about it all these years.

  Peter had been prepared to be disappointed by this visit, but what he’d learned shocked him.

  Now he had the answers he sought, but what should he do with them?

  *

  Merrill was in the kitchen of the annex checking out the supplies for the weekend bonfire.

  On her knees searching through a cabinet below the pass-through, she was out of sight of the three men who entered the social hall.

  “I’m just saying, it shows a woman doesn’t have what it takes to be a senior pastor,” Thom Ortello said.

  “Now, Thom, don’t you think you are being a bit harsh? It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference who the pastor was when the bathrooms were vandalized,” Manny Lum replied.

  “Would a man be making all this fuss about using the sanctuary? This would never have happened without Pastor Bishop pushing this on us, and now we’ve got all these expensive repairs.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet the vandals wouldn’t have dared to do it, if we had a man pastor,” Alden added, nodding his head vigorously.

  “I don’t know why you two are so down on Pastor Merrill. She preaches well and our attendance has more than doubled since she’s been here.”

  “Oh, that’s just curiosity-seekers coming to see if they can find more dead bodies, is what I think. Once this whole thing dies down, we’ll be back to the handful of regulars who were here when she arrived. You’ll see,” Ortello said.

  “I don’t agree with you, Thom. Many of these new people have started coming to Sunday school and the other activities of the church, as well as the worship services. They may initially have come out of curiosity, but they are becoming part of the congregation, now,�
�� Manny responded.

  “I hope not,” Alden said. “All these new folks just make more messes for me to clean up. A man preacher would put a stop to that, too.”

  Behind the counter, Merrill was stunned to hear the men’s conversation.

  She was not surprised by what Alden said. She’d known he resented her ever since she asked him to return the apartment keys, but she thought she had smoothed things over with Thom.

  She hated eavesdropping on the men but hesitated to reveal herself and embarrass them.

  She was praying fervently for wisdom when she heard Ortello speak, again.

  “I don’t like that guy she’s got hanging around, either. It doesn’t look good for him to be in the church all the time. How do we know he doesn’t stay there all night, anyway?”

  “Oh, Thom! That’s her brother,” Manny said.

  “Not him. The other one who showed up at the Open House. He’s been sniffing around her ever since.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen him, too. Pretends he’s helping fix the restrooms,” Alden added.

  “I’m surprised at you two. Pastor Bishop is doing nothing wrong and only someone who wanted to make trouble would even suggest there was anything inappropriate going on. Now, let’s get these picnic tables loaded on the truck.”

  When the men left, Merrill stood up feeling weak in the knees, both from her prolonged crouching and from what she’d just overheard.

  Chapter 19

  Elizabeth Gilbert sipped herbal tea in the breakfast nook of Judy Fall’s kitchen.

  “Merrill thinks she will be able to get the restrooms up and running as soon as the bonfire picnic is out of the way. She says the rooms only need a few more minor repairs and they will be usable. I guess she’s doing the painting, with her nephew’s help,” Elizabeth commented to Judy’s back, as her friend vigorously kneaded an unwieldy lump of multi-grain dough.

  “Ryan’s a good kid,” Judy said, rubbing a lock of hair off her forehead with the back of one hand and leaving a streak of gluey dough in the strands.

  “I understand your girls are both very fond of him. Do you think that could become a problem?” Elizabeth asked.