by Angela Hunt
“That’s fine, Cleta.”
“Well—” Her bony hand shot out and gripped his wrist. “The committee and I were wondering if you would allow him to say a few words at the conclusion of the service. He is such a charming man and a wonderful orator.” Her gaze drifted from Winslow’s face to the package under his arm, then her pleading expression morphed into one of curiosity. “Big box, Pastor. Have you been ordering books again?”
“No and no, Cleta.” Winslow shook off her hand, then turned so that she couldn’t read the return address on his package. “I have some special things planned for Sunday, and I’m afraid there won’t be any extra time for Reverend Hartwell.”
“But, Pastor—”
“I’m sorry.”
Without giving her time to argue, Winslow lowered his head into the rising wind and took off for the church.
“Well,” Cleta said, opening the half-door and moving into the post office, “that certainly did not go well.”
Beatrice nodded, her wide eyes bearing evidence that she’d heard the entire conversation. “The preacher had a regular bee in his bonnet this morning,” she said, absently running her fingertip over the single black whisker that grew from her chin.
Cleta stared for a moment at the whisker, then shook off her fascination and returned to the subject at hand. “Well, if he won’t give us time, we’ll just have to take time. After you finish playing the closing hymn, Bea, you keep right on playing something soft, and I’ll take that as my cue to get up and introduce Reverend Hartwell. Then he can speak his piece and tell us whether or not we’ll get the grant.”
Bea leaned her elbow on her desk. “Eighteen thousand dollars,” she said, her voice dreamy. “You know, if there’s any left over, I think the parsonage could use a bit of sprucing up. Just the other day Edith was saying that the refrigerator is twenty years old . . . and I know she would like a dishwasher.”
“That’d be nice. Maybe I’ll ask for more money.” Cleta leaned against the open mailbox cubicles and studied the preacher’s retreating figure. “I used to think Edith Wickam was a godly woman, but now I think she’s a verifiable saint. Can you imagine living with a man like that?”
“Jumpier than a June bug,” Bea agreed. “’Specially lately. I can’t imagine what’s got into him, but he’s been awful snappish these past few days.”
Cleta’s mouth quirked with humor. “Maybe he’s taping that hair too tight.”
Chapter Twenty-three
On the fourth Sunday in October, at one minute until service time, Edith strode through the churchyard and into the vestibule without greeting a single soul. Pausing to pick up a bulletin, she glanced up to look at Winslow’s picture . . . and saw that it was gone.
Her body stiffened in shock. Were they so eager to be rid of Winslow that they had already removed his portrait? What kind of people were these? She thought she knew them, but apparently spiteful natures hid under those smiles.
She drew a long, quivering breath, controlling the anger that shook her, then pushed her way through the swinging door. Keeping her eyes fixed to the cross on the wooden pulpit, she walked to her usual pew, took her seat, and smoothed her dress.
She didn’t know what the day would bring forth, but every nerve in her body assured her that today would be important. Winslow had been more secretive in the last three days than he’d ever been in his life, and everyone in town knew that Rex Hartwell had arrived yesterday on the ferry. Last night the Lansdowns had hosted a big dinner for him at the B&B, but Winslow had insisted that Edith decline their invitation.
“I can’t go out on a Saturday night—that’s my sermon preparation time,” he’d told her. “So call Cleta back and give her our regrets. We’ll have to meet Reverend Hartwell after the service.”
Trembling with impotent rage, Edith clutched her Bible. Cleta probably never meant for her and Winslow to come to dinner. The invitation had been a meaningless gesture, because surely Cleta knew that Winslow would need that night to prepare for Sunday.
Keeping her body facing forward, Edith turned her head as much as she dared and swiveled her eyes toward the other side of the church. Floyd and Cleta sat in their usual places, and between them sat a tall, dark-haired gentleman that had to be the eminent Reverend Hartwell.
How could they bring him to church before Winslow had even been asked to leave? Such cruelty was inconceivable. It was . . . like a philandering husband flaunting his young and pretty fiancée before his tired and not-yet-divorced wife.
Worse still, the church was as crowded as she had ever seen it. All the usual folks were present, and she’d even caught a glimpse of Russell Higgs on her way in. After all of Winslow’s visits, it had taken Rex Hartwell’s arrival to get that lobsterman to church!
As Micah Smith asked the congregation to stand and bow their heads for an opening prayer, Edith broke every childhood rule and used the occasion to stare at the stranger. Even with his head bowed, she could see that Rex Hartwell was everything her husband wasn’t—wide-shouldered and athletic-looking, with a full head of glossy hair.
Like Absalom of the Bible. She sniffed as she bowed her head. Rex Hartwell was probably as proud as David’s son, too, and that pride would be his downfall. In no time at all, he’d be caught up in town politics and gossip. Cleta and Vernie and Bea would snare him just like that tree caught Absalom’s hair and left him dangling like a fish on a hook.
“Would you please turn to hymn number 253? The pastor has specifically requested that we sing ‘Blest Be the Tie.’”
Micah’s sweet voice broke into Edith’s bitter thoughts. In an instant of repentance she confessed her cattiness, then pulled the hymnal from the rack.
“Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love . . .”
The words floated over the congregation, bringing a bittersweet flood of memories to Edith’s heart. How loving this church family had been when she and Winslow arrived ten years ago! Bea and Birdie and Cleta had taken her into their homes and hearts, and she had felt supremely welcomed. But now that they wanted her gone, no one had bothered to say a word of farewell . . .
“The fellowship of kindred minds is like to that above.”
Kindred minds? Nothing could be further from the truth. For over a month, probably longer, the church committee had been keeping secrets from her and Winslow, and those secrets would surely tear them apart . . . beginning today, from the looks of things.
“When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain . . .”
They would never know the pain she and Winslow were feeling. Did they think that pastors and their wives weren’t human? That they didn’t have a fair share of insecurity? That men of God didn’t need affirmation and encouragement now and then? Preachers weren’t supposed to be holier-than-usual; they were supposed to be shepherds and servants. But this stubborn, blind flock was about to send its shepherd on his way without so much as a fare-thee-well . . .
“But we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.”
Joined in heart? Not likely. She had never felt more estranged from her friends. Even though she had been keeping herself aloof in the light of recent developments, still, no one had bothered to knock on her door and ask if something was wrong. No, they hadn’t come to inquire about her because they knew they were about to cast her out. They’d come to her tea and eaten her scones, but they hadn’t invited her out.
Micah closed his hymnal and placed it on the pulpit. “As Beatrice plays our offertory special,” he said, smiling at the congregation, “I’ll be helping the pastor set up a few things at the front of the church. Don’t let us interrupt your worship.”
Edith lifted her chin. As if anyone here intended to worship God today! They had come for only one reason— to get a glimpse of Reverend Rex Hartwell as he looked them over.
Micah stepped away from the pulpit as Beatrice began to play, and the first tinkling notes of “My Jesus, I Love Thee” smote Edith’s conscience. As her blood ran thick with guilt, she bo
wed her head and prayed . . . for real.
Father, I don’t know what to do with all this hurt . . . and these troubling thoughts. Please make our way clear today . . .and help Winslow. If I’m hurting like this, I know he has to be feeling even more pain.
Winslow bit his lip as he and Micah rolled the silver serving cart from the side storage room to the front of the church. Micah stood the stereo speakers near the communion table, one on each side, while Winslow pulled the black box from the lowest shelf of the serving cart. Crouching on the floor in front of the first pew, Winslow placed the box on the floor, plugged it into the wall socket, then flipped the power switch. He gave a final inspection to the lapel mike on his tie, then gave the power pack at his belt a reassuring pat.
He was ready. Today the congregation of Heavenly Daze Community Church would experience a sermon unlike any they’d ever heard before. For today they would not only hear about Habakkuk’s prayer, but they would see and touch and taste . . . a full sensory experience, courtesy of the Portland Theatrical Company and Winslow Wickam’s special effects.
Feeling the pressure of two dozen pairs of curious eyes—including those of Reverend Rex Hartwell— Winslow climbed the steps to the platform and took his seat in the carved pastor’s chair. His notes, carefully transcribed on index cards, waited for him on the pulpit. After the special music by Birdie Wester, he would give these people a worship experience unlike any this side of the Mississippi.
In the closing notes of Bea’s piano special, the ushers— Floyd Lansdown, Charles Graham, Mike Klackenbush, and Buddy Franklin (whose long sleeves covered his tattoos, thank the Lord)—walked stiffly down the aisle and placed the overflowing offering plates on the communion table. With that duty accomplished, the four broke ranks and sheepishly returned to their respective seats.
Birdie recognized her cue and stood, then came down the aisle and hopped up the steps to the platform. Winslow noticed that her hand trembled as she spread a sheet of notebook paper over his notes—the words to her song, he supposed, so she must be suffering from a bad case of nerves.
Birdie cleared her throat, then nodded at Bea, who began the introduction. As was her custom, Bea played the last refrain of the chorus as an introduction, then the entire congregation took an anticipatory breath as Birdie began to sing “Let Others See Jesus in You.”
Winslow crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair, mentally reviewing the progression of his sermon. He had a slight case of nerves, too, for though he had studied Habakkuk’s prayer backward and forward, he had never combined the sermon, the sound, and the effects of the black box. All the elements fitted together perfectly on paper, but reality might prove to be a very different thing . . .
“Let others see Jesus in you,” Birdie sang, but an unusual quaver filled her voice. Winslow looked up, his concentration broken. Birdie sang often in church, and though she was no professional, she did have a pleasant voice. But her face had gone crimson in the last sixty seconds, and drops of perspiration lined her brow.
Winslow leaned forward, alarmed. Was she ill? Did she need a doctor?
Birdie finished the chorus and lowered her head to look at her notes. Knowing that he only had an instant, Winslow leaned forward and whispered, “Birdie? You all right?”
She barely had time for a brief nod before she launched into the second verse. She kept singing, but water was pouring from her forehead in earnest now. Winslow reached into his pocket, about to offer his handkerchief, but Birdie had her own solution in mind. Without missing a beat, she reached under her lyrics and pulled out Winslow’s index cards, then began fanning herself in rhythm to the music.
“Let others see Jesus in you.” She vigorously beat the air. “Keep telling the story, be faithful and true, let others see Jesus in you.”
Reacting in sympathy, several women in the congregation began to fan themselves with their church bulletins. Though the temperature inside the building was cool and comfortable, the women pounded the air with whatever they could find, sending Sunday hairdos askew. Staring out over the crowd, Winslow caught puzzled expressions on the faces of several husbands, but the riddle was solved when Birdie finally finished her song.
“Whew,” she whispered, dropping Winslow’s note cards into his lap. “Didn’t think I’d make it through. These hot flashes are meltin’ me.”
Winslow froze in his place, shocked at the combination of hot flash and Sunday solo. Something about the situation seemed somehow irreverent, but he didn’t suppose it could be helped. After all, on many occasions he’d had to ask for a glass of water from the pulpit because of a scratchy throat or a fit of coughing.
Dismissing the thought, he gathered his cards and moved to the pulpit, then glanced down at the front pew. Micah was in position, poised to flip the switch on the black box at the appropriate moment.
Everything was ready.
Deliberately avoiding the area where Rex Hartwell sat with the Lansdowns, Winslow instructed the congregation to turn to the book of Habukkuk. “I am going to do something special today,” he said, moving to one side of the platform, his notes in his hand. “We are going to combine our God-given senses to visualize what Habukkuk was feeling when he listened to the Spirit of God. As you know, Habukkuk had complained to God about the destruction of his people, then he complained about the wickedness of the Chaldeans. Today we shall see Habukkuk lifting his voice in prayer, and learning that man is to live by faith.”
He waited until the rustling of pages ceased, then glanced down at his notes. He frowned as he stared at the writing. He’d written the appropriate scripture in ink, but apparently Birdie’s sweaty hands had caused the ink to run, for the words were blurred and illegible.
Winslow rubbed the bridge of his nose and struggled to swallow his frustration. His previous sermons might well serve as examples of Murphy’s Law gone amuck, but today would be different. He knew this material, and he could do it blindfolded if he had to.
Tossing the cards onto the pulpit, he picked up his Bible and nodded at Micah. An instant after Micah pressed the button on the CD player, the ominous strains of a symphony in a minor key issued from the stereo speakers.
Winslow opened to the book of Habakkuk and began to expound upon the Scripture: “Now,” he said, “through the prophet’s prayer we will see that faith is the ability to be so sure of God, so certain, that nothing can shake us from our dependence upon him.”
As Micah leaned down and flipped the switch on the black box, a thin stream of gray fog poured from the mouth of the machine. Knowing it would take time for a full fog to form, Winslow continued. “Habukkuk knew his people would be judged for sin, but he was so confident in the coming Messiah that he trusted God implicitly. Though dark days were coming, Habukkuk knew the years ahead offered the sure promise of a glorious future for his people. In the mist of gloom and despair, a veritable fog of depression, Habukkuk was an optimist. His faith could not be shaken.”
The fog machine was really cranking now. Clouds of smoke billowed out of its mouth, and the eerie fog bathed the front of the church, obscuring the carpet and the base of the communion table. Though no one in the back could see the machine, they had begun to lean forward and crane their necks—good.
Moving into the fog, Winslow stood on the second step, letting the cloud rise around him. A chorus of whispering began to move through the sanctuary, like the breaths of two dozen simultaneous astonishments.
Winslow lifted his Bible and struck what he hoped was a dramatic pose. “Let’s read what the prophet had to say in the third chapter.”
He glanced down. Excellent. The smoke had reached his waist, and he’d have to lift his Bible higher to see the words. At this rate, the entire bottom of the church would be filled in a moment, and, combined with the eerie sounds of the symphony, everyone in the sanctuary would have a clear sense of the awe Habukkuk felt when he approached the throne of God.
Winslow drew a deep breath and began reading: “This prayer
was sung by the prophet Habakkuk: I have heard all about you, Lord, and I am filled with awe by the amazing things you have done.”
He drew another breath, but his lungs rebelled against the oily scent of the smoke. Unable to stop himself, he coughed, then inhaled again, then coughed harder. He held up a hand, warning his congregation not to be alarmed, and turned away from the smoke machine, but his tortured lungs would not cooperate. With each smoky breath he drew, his lungs protested more vigorously.
“Pastor?” Micah rose from the front pew and waded through the fog. “Are you all right?”
“Just a”—cough,—“minute.”
He drew a deep breath and heard something rattle in his chest. His eyes filled with water, and the sanctuary seemed to swim before him.
“Winslow?” Judging from the sound of the voice, the wavering woman before him was Edith. “Honey, do you need help?” She turned. “Micah, shut that thing off.”
“No.” Winslow waved a hand. “Keep it on, I’ll be all—”
A wracking cough seized him, held him by the throat until he found himself gasping for breath. A thousand thoughts collided in his brain—this was all a reaction to Birdie’s hot flash, if he hadn’t thought about glasses of water and coughing fits, none of this would be happening. But her situation had planted the thought, and the scent of the fog had made it blossom.
“Pastor, I insist that you shut the machine off.” This voice was firm and deep—and it belonged to Doctor Marc. “You can’t preach if you can’t breathe, man, and you seem to be in distress.”
“No.” Winslow managed only a strangled cry before the room went dark and he felt himself falling.
Chapter Twenty-four
Winslow awoke to the strident cry of gulls. He lifted his arms to bat the annoying birds away, but soft hands caught his even as a warm whisper reached his ear. “Calm down, Win, you’re all right. Everything’s fine now.”
Slowly, he opened his eyes to a blur of blue sky and white clouds. Edith’s loving face hovered over him, as did the concerned countenance of Doctor Marc.