The Church Ladies

by Lisa Samson

  “Can you believe he agreed to do this?”

  India leaned forward. “He’s not as wishy-washy as he seems. Although I’m not what you’d call a real cream puff, so I didn’t know if he’d listen to me.”

  I examined her. Despite her forty extra pounds and dark, spiky haircut, she had quite the darling face. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”

  She shook her head. “When there are women like Joanna Jones-Fletcher around …”

  I waved a dismissive hand. “Contrived. It’s all contrived.”

  “Okay, like Chris then.”

  “Now that’s a different story. Just take comfort in the fact that truly beautiful women like Chris … the ones who are pretty inside as well … don’t have a clue as to their outward beauty.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “I mean, wouldn’t you rather beauty be bestowed on someone who deserves it?” Now that sounded like a good outlook.

  “I guess so. So what’s happening with the gala?”

  “Well, we’ve got the place. Now we need to go around to the businesses and beg for food and paper products.”

  India held out her hand for her portion of the list. She looked down. “Oh, good, The Sweet Stop. I love that place.”

  I did, too. “See about some chocolate covered strawberries. Maybe a truffle for the goodie bags we’re giving out as they leave.”

  “Will do. Gotta go or I’ll be late.”

  “See ya.”

  I checked my wristwatch. Onto the next church lady. I had to be finished with my rounds before Robbie went to class and had to drag Angus with him. I know the educational system has tumbled downhill, but I hope British Lit is still beyond my lastborn.

  I gulped down the rest of my coffee and made for the IGA.

  Sunny waved from her position at the cash register. “I’ve got good news!” she cried. “I can’t even believe it myself.”

  “What is it?” I eyed the display on the end of the cereal aisle: $1.99 for a box of granola. Wow, that was a good price. And with the way cereal prices had gone through the roof, pound for pound, steak was cheaper these days!

  “Marc said we could use the sound system from Baptist Bible. In fact, he said he’d be glad to come over and set it up.”

  “Wow!”

  “Yes, ma’am. I have to tell you, I was scared to even ask, but nobody had talked about needing it, and I knew we would, and so I did. I just did. At supper last night I said, ‘Marc, remember that boy who died?’ and then I told him the whole thing. I can’t believe I had the nerve.”

  “That’s great!”

  “Yes, ma’am. And did you know that Marc is really a good technical sort? He told me we don’t have to even think another thought about it. He’s even going to set up the tables for us.”

  “I can’t believe he’s come around like that. I mean, after Crazy Days and all.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But we did give out Cokes and all.” A customer came up, and she began to scan the items. “But I can believe it when I really think about it.”

  I nodded. “Well, you would know your own husband better than I would.”

  “Oh, it’s not that. It’s just that we’ve been praying for months now. Who knows how much power God’s been storing up for us on our behalf? I mean, stuff He knew we’d be needing now.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “I just never knew to look at God like that before. But you ladies have taught me so much these past months. Sometimes I feel like God is right beside me.”

  “You doubted that?”

  “Well, sometimes. It’s hard at our church sometimes. Wearing the right clothes and saying the right things, and I’m so quiet. I thought of Him as so unapproachable and well, like some king or something. Not to sound disrespectful,” she hastened to add.

  The customer, an elderly man, listened with interest and a smile, but didn’t say anything. He just handed Sunny the eggs and then the bread as she bagged his groceries.

  “That’s not disrespectful at all,” I said. I pulled my list out of my purse. “Here are some businesses I need you to ask for donated items we’ll need for the gala.”

  The customer paid for his food, picked up the bag, and turned to me. “What’s this all about?”

  I briefly explained what happened to Josh, talked about Jason Hearkens’s lack of a sponsor, and the planned scholarship fund.

  He scratched his baldhead. “That so? Well, I’m with the Lions Club. Maybe I can convince the members to set up tables at the grocery stores. To sell tickets. Maybe you can come to our meeting tomorrow night and explain it all.” He shrugged. “We really didn’t have much on the agenda, so you’d be doing us a favor.”

  I handed him my card and took his name and number. “Okay, Mr. Webb. Thanks. I’ll be there tomorrow night. What time?”

  “Seven o’clock. We meet down at the elementary school.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Good.” The man grinned. “I’ll be waiting out front.”

  He left with his bag of groceries. Must have a bum knee, I thought, watching him limp slightly as he made his way through the automatic door. Poor man.

  Sunny shook her head, her long blond hair flailing out like the swings on an amusement park ride. “I can’t believe the way this is falling together.”

  “I’ve planned lots of charity stuff in my time, Sunny. It always does.”

  “But this seems to be kind of supernatural.”

  I thought about it a second or two, then nodded. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  I grabbed a few boxes of cereal, paid for them, and was speeding over to Joanna’s a couple of minutes later. Through the center of town and onto Coventry Circle, I negotiated my Subaru.

  Coventry Circle was a parade ground for pristine old homes. Mostly Victorian, not my favorite period of architecture to be sure, the houses still emanated a majestic aura with their thick lawns and colorful border gardens.

  Joanna lived at number 2109: completely white, rounded porches anchored either side of the three-storied house, and a cupola served as a sunlit crow’s nest complete with a cock-a-doodle-doo weathervane. Stained glass windows at interesting locations provided colorful relief to the pale, lacy facade. And all this for just the two of them.

  As if that seemed fair! Well, Joanna used to be a stockbroker. And actually, she’d signed on a couple of clients here in Mount Oak. She probably wasn’t hurting at all.

  Reverend Quentin Fletcher whirled out the side door and cycloned an officious path toward his car as I pulled up, announcing my arrival with the sudden scream of a very surprised set of brakes.

  Wow, was he good-looking or what? Movie star good-looking. Not model good-looking. Say what you want about Hollywood, but their men have more character to their looks than the fashion world does. His hair, thick and black, stayed put in the breeze, however. Hairspray?

  Oh, well. Nobody’s perfect.

  He waved and called, “You must be Poppy Fraser!” as I climbed out of the car.

  “And you must be Reverend Fletcher.”

  “Forget the Reverend stuff. Call me Quentin.”

  We met in the middle, just by the front walk lined with fuchsia petunias and white alyssum. Hanging baskets of bleeding hearts between each porch pillar swayed slightly in the summer zephyr.

  “You heading off to church?”

  “Yes. Joanna’s roped me into printing off the handouts for the gala.” He fished a hand into his pants pocket and came up with a set of keys with various colored plastic rounds around each one. So this guy took that verse about redeeming the time quite seriously. No trying three keys in one lock for him.

  “You don’t sound too thrilled.”

  He combed through his hair with well-manicured fingers. Guess I was wrong about the hair spray. “I’m not. I’m a busy man.”

  Oh, brother.

  I smiled. “Then don’t let me keep you. Nice to meet you. Bye.” Bigger smile, and down the walk I s
ashayed without a backward glance.

  I’m a busy man.

  Well, lah-dee-dah.

  I pushed the doorbell, and Joanna appeared half a minute later looking perfect as usual.

  Admittedly, I’ve got a problem with these people. More than jealousy. I felt complete, un-Christianlike disdain and unadulterated superiority.

  Oh, man! Will I ever be able to control my old man? A one-second prayer for a quick change of heart accompanied my “Hi, Joanna.”

  “Hello, Poppy Thanks for coming over here. I’ve got some coffee on. Would you like a cup?”

  “I never turn down a cup of coffee.”

  Joanna led me back to the old kitchen. That was a surprise. And the kitchen was surprisingly messy. Not a Chris kitchen, but not a Fraser kitchen either.

  “I hope you don’t mind us sitting back here. I like the sunshine in the morning. It helps me get through the rest of the day.”

  Well, huh. That sounded different from anything she’d ever said before.

  So we sat together, sipping weak coffee out of surprisingly ordinary mugs and going over the public relations for the gala.

  “Quentin’s printing off the handouts for the churches today. Under threat of life and limb, I might add.”

  “So I gathered.”

  Joanna set her forearms at the edge of the table. “He’s driving me crazy.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  “No, really. You seem like a very well-adjusted woman.…”

  What a crock!

  “And your husband seemed so nice at Crazy Days.”

  Well, that much was true. They didn’t come any nicer than Duncan.

  “That’s all I want from Quentin. Just to be a nice guy.”

  “Was he a nice guy when you met him?”

  “Not at all. Arrogant and confident. You couldn’t tell him anything, Poppy.”

  “And you thought that was terribly sexy because he had the looks to go along with it, right?”

  “Exactly” Joanna shook her head and picked up her coffee mug.

  “I wish I knew what to tell you.”

  “Yeah, well, waking up one day and realizing you married someone for all the wrong reasons is not something anyone foresees when she’s standing at the altar looking like Grace Kelly.” Joanna waved a hand. “I don’t know why I even said anything. I figured if I got involved in your little group, maybe I’d get some insight into handling marriage with a pastor. But, really, I think I’m just not cut out for this sort of life.”

  “Give it a chance, Joanna. To be honest, I’m new at this pastor’s wife stuff myself.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Duncan just became a pastor four years ago. I still don’t really like it. But it’s his thing, and I’ve got to be supportive.”

  That sure sounded good.

  Joanna got up to get the coffeepot. “There’s a big difference between Duncan and Quentin, though. Duncan really lives his calling. With Quentin it’s just a job. He doesn’t really even believe the Bible.”

  I couldn’t understand that. “I’ve always wondered how men who don’t really believe in the faith go to theological seminaries and become pastors.”

  “I don’t know because it sure isn’t about the money!”

  I breathed in deeply. “What about you? Is faith hard for you.”

  “Extremely. And that’s probably the bulk of my problem.” She topped off my coffee. “I’m a lot of things, Poppy I’m superficial, proud, and greedy, but I’m not going to pretend I’m something I’m not. Not like Quentin does.”

  I sighed. “You’re sure in a pickle.”

  “I know.” She sat back down. “And if I leave him, well, I’ll ruin his ministry.”

  “Such that it is.”

  “Such that it is.” Joanna suddenly smiled and slid behind her usual veil of professionalism. “Well, that’s enough of my woes, let’s get on with business.”

  And I knew just then that Joanna Jones-Fletcher’s stay in Mount Oak was limited.

  “Well, then. I’ve got a list of the businesses you can visit for freebies.” I ripped a sheet of paper off my pad, Joanna’s name on the top.

  Joanna took the list and nodded. “Okay. The Patio for pastries, good choice. And what’s the Photo Stop for?”

  “Disposable cameras.”

  “Sounds good. You want me to follow the gala up with a mailing, snapshots and all?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  “I’ll get a photographer, too. We’ll want this to be covered in the Sentinel.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s coming together,” Joanna said.

  “Well, it’s a good cause.”

  “Chris’s life makes mine seem like a dream.”

  “I guess so. But you don’t have to live her life, you have to live yours. And if you’re miserable …”

  “You’re miserable.”

  I wanted to tell her to turn to the Lord. That if He could keep me married and somewhat sane as a pastor’s wife, He could do the same thing for her.

  Maybe next time.

  After all, didn’t these things take time? I hadn’t exactly been Miss Caring until a couple of minutes ago. I hadn’t even tried to act the part.

  But something inside me told me to take a chance. People expect pastor’s wives to talk like this. I’d only be rising to expectations, not pouncing down and thumping a Bible. “Joanna? I notice you never pray at the meetings. I mean … has anyone ever told you who Jesus really is? What He really did?”

  “Not really. To be honest, I was raised by just my dad. And he was an atheist. He hit the roof the first time I brought Quentin home.”

  “Would you mind if I told you about Him? I promise I won’t preach a sermon or anything like that.”

  “No, Poppy. Actually, I think I’d like it.”

  And so I did. I told her about the Creator God who sent His Son, His beloved, beautiful Son into a dark, sinful world full of hate and wars and death and abuse. I painted a portrait of words, a stunning portrait of a love so dazzling, so wonderful, it was the only perfection we would ever know until we saw that Son, Jesus Christ, face-to-face.

  I dug down into my purse and pulled out a tiny green New Testament. “I know you’ve probably got a lot of Bibles here and at church, but read this, Joanna. It’s a modern translation, so it’s easy to understand, and you can take it with you wherever you go and read it when you can. But please, read it with an open heart. I promise you, if you believe, it will change you forever.”

  “I’ll read it.” She took the book. “And may I ask you any questions I have as they come up?”

  “You’ve got my number.”

  “Yes. Okay, then.”

  The portal closed, and we sat quietly, in discomfort for several seconds. “I hope you’ll still keep coming to the prayer meetings, Joanna.”

  She gave a weak laugh. “Maybe someday I’ll even say a prayer.”

  Next stop, the Charmaine Hopewell abode.

  The Hopewell’s inhabited a large, sixties Volvo of a brick rancher on the east edge of town. Must have been Harlan’s doing because Charmaine definitely seemed the type to build a brick-front colonial in the new development north of the mall chocked full of extras. Corian counters, crown molding, garden tubs, and a gas fireplace with a remote in the master bedroom. Charmaine seemed to be a woman of creature comfort and overstuffed couches.

  I knocked on the door and was greeted by an eight-year-old, plump girl, who, unfortunately, looked nothing like Charmaine. “Is your mom home?”

  The girl rolled her eyes, heavy, round, green eyes with pale lashes. “Mama!” she hollered, but it really came out Maw-Maaah. And that was a first class whine if I had ever heard one. This little miss could put Paisley to shame! “You wanna come in or what?”

  I smiled a scrunched-up grin that refused to creep up to my eyes no matter how hard I tried. “I’ll wait here.”

  “Whatever.” She disappeared.

  Oh, b
rother.

  “Poppy!”

  I heard Charmaine before I saw her veer around the wall that separated the small slate foyer from the living room. “Hi, Charmaine!”

  “Well, come on in. I can’t believe Victoria didn’t show you in. Sometimes I just wonder where her manners are! Victoria!” she bellowed.

  “What?” the child answered from somewhere else in the house.

  “You just wait until after Mrs. Fraser leaves. You’re in big trouble!”

  No answer.

  I knew what Victoria knew. Charmaine would either forget all about it or let Victoria think she forgot. The really, really good thing about it was—Victoria wasn’t my child! And I had no delusions that I “could straighten her out in a week” if I were suddenly given custody of the surly munchkin.

  “Come on into the kitchen. Mama’s in there making a dump cake.” She leaned forward. “That’s about all she can do these days.”

  “Why?” I didn’t even know that Charmaine’s mother lived with them.

  “Arthritis. And she won’t take anything.” She rolled her eyes, apparently a common occurrence at the Hopewell house. “ ‘If the good Lord wants me in pain, I’ll be in pain!’ ” she mimicked.

  I dropped my mouth open and shook my head. “That’s got to be the strangest thing I’ve ever heard!”

  “Don’t I know it! But anyway, that’s the way it is. I’ve got some coffee on for you.”

  Feeling as if my caffeine addiction had reached a level of fame I’d never foreseen, I followed her through the living room. That distinct “Plug-Ins” smell infiltrated the air all around me, and surprisingly the house shone, a spectacular example of cleanliness being next to godliness. One could never tell about these things. I’d pegged Charmaine as a “messy” for sure!

  I peeked into the family room to the left of the living room. There it was, the overstuffed couch with big, soft pillows. And man, was that one of the biggest TV screens I’d ever seen outside of a movie theater! Actually it might have been bigger than some of those cheesy multiplex cinemas I’d gone to in Baltimore.

  The furniture couldn’t be described as anything I would pick out. The end tables matched the coffee table perfectly, and the knickknacks and wall arrangements looked like she’d bought them at one of those “girl parties” church ladies found themselves invited to all too often. Brass things that would vibrate little leaves and such if one slammed the front door too hard.