She pursed her lips, nodded quickly, and looked around the room. She smiled at Mel, scowled at me, and ignored MacElroy entirely.
“Original eighteenth-century house, right?” she said.
Mel moved toward her and touched her arm. “Yes, it is, Ms. Stutgardt. Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll get you a cup of coffee? I’m Melanie Foster, by the way. Hugh’s wife. This gentleman is …”
“MacElroy,” the agent spoke up, “Ross MacElroy.” I noticed he left out the part about being a federal agent scoping out the town for a presidential visit.
“Yes. Well, nice to meet you all, but I’m on a timeline here. I have another appointment in …” She checked her watch. “… forty-four minutes. Shall we get down to business?”
I scrambled to accommodate her, pulling out a chair and motioning to her to have a seat. “Yes, yes, let’s do that, Ms. Stutgardt.” I explained our situation and subsequent need for a permit to commence repairs. “So, as you can see, we’re in dire need of your approval, especially with this wedding coming up.”
She stared at me. A few seconds passed.
“Uh, do you have any questions?”
She blinked. Good, she was alive.
I cleared my throat. “Ms. Stutgardt? Do …?”
She held her hand up to shush me. I felt like an errant toddler—again. “I’m thinking.”
About six weeks later, she stopped thinking. “There are some problems.”
I nodded. “Yes, there certainly are. I don’t see how we can possibly hold services, let alone a wedding,” with the President of the United States in attendance, no less, “with the foundation in its present condition.”
She shook her head and sighed. “That goes without saying, Pastor Foster.”
I morphed back into toddlerhood; frankly, I was getting tired of everybody being smarter than me.
“I’m not talking about structural problems,” Ms. Stutgardt continued. “I’m talking about legal issues, restrictions on making renovations to historical buildings, environmental concerns. Where, for instance, do you intend to put the bodies?”
Great. Now I had bodies. “What bodies?”
“The bodies in your cem-e-ter-y, Pastor Foster,” she said with a sad shake of her head. It came out sounding a lot like, You poor man. You poor, poor, dunce-like man.
I glanced out the kitchen window toward the church across Rivermanse Lane. “I don’t get it. Why would we have to move anyone from the cemetery?”
She sighed. I could tell she was weary from dealing with the likes of feeble-minded me. “Because of the excavation procedures.”
“Excavation?” She was starting to annoy me. “You mean digging out the basement? Frankly, that’s been done. I have some civic-minded men here in Road’s End, Ms. Stutgardt. Men with shovels and a lot of time on their hands.”
“Without a permit?”
I nodded. “You’re lucky they didn’t have a backhoe. They’d have dug another Panama Canal.”
She looked bewildered. I got the feeling no one had ever jumped the gun without her loading the weapon and pointing it for them. She obviously didn’t live in Road’s End either. “But where’s the …”?
“The dirt?”
She nodded and looked around the kitchen as though she suspected they’d carted it over here and tossed it in a corner.
“It’s in piles in the backyard of the church. Don’t worry, Miss Stutgardt, we’ve been very careful with the digging. The men shored up the foundations and the ceiling of the basement. Actually, I was very impressed with what they’d done when I saw it.”
“You weren’t here when they did it?”
“He was in Richmond at the time, Ms. Stutgardt.” Melanie spoke up.
“Hilda will do,” she said, giving Mel a weak smile.
“Okay, then, Hilda it is,” Mel said. “Would you like more coffee? As I said, Hugh was in Richmond during that time, digging up information on the history of the church, in fact. The men, uh …”
Hilda glanced at me. “Started without you, right?”
“Yeah, they did. But their hearts were in the right place. At any rate, we have a dilemma here.” I looked over at Ross.
He scowled, probably wondering how we were going to host a wedding in a church whose basement and foundation were sitting in big heaps just outside the back door without dumping the President of the United States into the hole left behind. I had to admit it was a good question. “Quite a dilemma, in fact.”
And then, as if our kitchen wasn't already filled to the rafters with odd characters, I heard an off-key rendition of Amazing Grace coming from outdoors. That could only be one person. I looked at Mel, but she was too stunned by the recent news to give a rip. A few seconds later, the back door sprang open, and in stepped Ruby Mae Headley.
Bless her heart, Ruby Mae never picks a good time to coming calling. She has good intentions, but so often the initial purpose of her visit is lost in a flurry of vivid descriptions of her many, and ever-worsening, ailments and the latest floral project, which is usually sitting jauntily, though precariously, atop her head. And believe me, I’ve seen all the silk begonias and gall bladder surgery scars I’ll ever need to see. Her forgetfulness inevitably leads to a second visit, and it starts all over again.
But bad timing never stops Ruby Mae, and this day was no exception. She seems to think because Mel and I own an inn, she doesn’t have to knock. We were lucky this time; everybody was dressed. Not long ago, I wandered downstairs in my boxer shorts for a cup of coffee before showering one morning and found her standing in the dining room looking through the silverware drawer.
“’Mornin’, Pastor,” she had said, looking up at me. “Need a cake server. A nice one, mind you, not one of those cheapie ones like Martha Washington uses, tryin’ to pass it off like it’s the real thing.” She snorted. “From Mount Vernon, no less. You have one? I prefer sterling silver.” While I sidled over to the living room for a throw to wrap around my waist, she added, “You might wanna cover yerself up, Pastor. Not seemly to have a man of God wanderin’ ’round public in his skivvies.”
I had wrapped the throw around my waist and, emboldened by my ivory-hued, fringed skirt, I said, “This isn’t in public, Ruby Mae. This is my dining room.” I jabbed my finger toward the floor, as if pointing to the pine planking would bolster my position. “My very own private dining room.”
She shut the drawer, brandished a cake server at me, and said, “Then ya got no business runnin’ an inn, if you ask me.” It doesn’t seem to bother Ruby Mae that no one ever asks her anything; she just tells them what she wants them to know anyway. “This’ll do for now, but you might want to tell Melanie to get a nicer one next time she’s in Richmond.”
We had a little warning this time, but not enough to make a clean getaway. Ms. Stutgardt looked annoyed by the interruption, Mel was too distracted to even notice, and I’m pretty sure Agent MacElroy nearly shot Ruby on the spot.
I was just happy to have my pants on.
“Hello there, Ruby Mae,” I said. “What can we do for you?”
“Mornin’, Pastor.” She glanced around the table. “Came to talk to Melanie ’bout the weddin’ dress.” She made a circular motion with her finger at those sitting down. “Who’re y’all?”
I stood and offered her my chair. “Ruby Mae, this is Hilda Stutgardt, the county official who can help us with our repair project at the church.”
Hilda gave her a frigid smile.
“And this is Ross MacElroy. He’s … well, he’s a friend of one of our wedding guests. Ross came to make sure we had accommodations enough for everyone, didn’t you, Ross?”
MacElroy half-stood and nodded curtly. “Ma’am.”
“My, oh my, but you’re a big one, ain’tcha?” Ruby Mae looked him up and down. “You a married fella? ’Cause if you ain’t, I got a beautiful daughter you oughta meet. Don’t I, Pastor? Melanie? Isn’t Grace a beautiful woman?” She sat down in my chair, reached over, and patted MacElroy’s hand. �
�Oh yes, you’ll do just fine, big man. Just fine.”
Agent MacElroy looked traumatized. Way to go, Ruby.
Mel snapped out of her presidential visit fog and said, “Ruby Mae, did we make plans to meet? I’m sorry. I don’t remember. Would you like some coffee?”
Ruby Mae nodded. “Yes, please. Just black. Gotta watch my waistline.” She looked down at her ample body—no waistline in sight. “No, we didn’t have an appointment, but I knew you wouldn’t care, me bein’ the head seamstress ‘n’ all.”
She turned to Hilda. “I’m making their daughter’s wedding dress, you know. Gonna be beautiful. Just beautiful. I do a lot of this kinda stuff. See my hat?” She pointed to the plot of land covered in flowers teetering on her head. Hard to miss. “I made this.” She nodded vigorously; I worried about a landslide. “I make all kinds of these hats. It’s my trademark. Wouldn’t be caught dead without my hat on. Speaking of dead, you oughta see my funeral hat. Talk about outta this world!” She giggled. “Outta this world! Get it? Heaven? ’Course the real one got blown to bits right here in this very house not so very long ago. Stupid George Washington mistook it for Mothman of all things. Did you ever hear of such a silly thing?”
“Ruby Mae,” Melanie said, “why don’t you and I go into the living room with our coffee and make ourselves comfortable while Hugh and our guests finish up their discussion.” She took Ruby Mae by the arm and gently tugged. “Here, let me help you. We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”
Ruby stood, and Mel steered her toward the dining room to the living room beyond. She glanced back at me with that you owe me big time look she gets sometimes.
Ruby Mae stopped dead in her tracks, turned, and looked at Ross with a sly grin on her face. “I know what yer thinkin’, big man. Yer thinkin’ if Grace looks anythin’ like her mama, you gotta meet her, right? Now don’t you even try to hide it. I know when a man thinks I look mighty fine, and you’ve got that silly, calf-eyed look on yer face.” She wagged her finger at him. “Just you keep in mind that I’m a married woman. My husband’s been dead nigh on thirty years now, bless his sweet soul, but in my heart of hearts…” She tapped her heart lying somewhere beneath the ivy dangling from her head. “… I’m still a married woman. But Grace, well, she’s not. Never has been. Don’t know what she’s waitin’ for. But you just say the word, big man. Just say the word.”
I had a feeling Ross was just about to say the word, and it probably wasn’t one we wanted to hear. “Well, Ruby Mae, we don’t know if Mr. MacElroy here is a married man, now do we? Right, Ross? You might have a wife waiting at home for you right this very minute.” Please, Lord, let him be a married man.
Ross seemed dumbstruck and had nothing to say on the topic of marriage.
Ruby Mae looked offended. “Well, then, he shouldn’t be messin’ with a married woman, now should he?” She put her hands on her hips. “I declare. Men! But I forgive you. Remember, if you’re not a married man, you might want to wander over to the church and meet my Grace. You won’t be sorry.” She turned and flounced out of the room.
Ross looked at me. “Your secretary’s her daughter, right?”
I nodded. “Guilty.”
“George Washington was here?”
“In the flesh. And yes, he’s married to Martha. Isn’t that in your notes somewhere?”
Ross looked like he was going to throw up. “Who’s Mothman?”
“Interesting character, but remember, George just thought it was Mothman. No proof that it was. Please don’t hold that against us.”
“Geez, Pastor, what’d you do to deserve all this?”
Before I had a chance to say anything, Ms. Stutgardt cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, I have another appointment, so if we could just get on with our business.”
My brain leaped back into the present. Wasn’t much better than thinking about the past, but I didn’t have much choice. “Please, Ms. Stutgardt. Surely you can see how important this is to all of us?” Right about then, I’d have gotten on my knees if that would help change her mind. But I was saved that humiliation when she abruptly pushed back her chair and stood.
“Well, I wish I could help you,” she said, “but rules are rules and I can’t bend them. Not even for a church, Pastor Foster.”
I nearly knocked my chair backward jumping to my feet. “But the wedding! Mandy’s getting married in less than two weeks!” I looked at Ross as if there were something he could do to change her mind. Why wasn’t he throwing her on the table and whaling the daylights out of her? I got a blank look in return. I turned back to Hilda. “Isn’t there something? A loophole? An exemption of some kind?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Sorry. None that I know of, at least.” She turned to leave then stopped and shrugged. “Of course, you can always try to go over my head.” Sounded like a dare.
I sighed. “I’d hate to do that, Ms. Stutgardt, but you leave me no choice. We simply have to have that church back in time for the wedding.”
She smiled; well, she moved her lips. Maybe she just had a gas pain. “Good luck with that, Pastor Foster. There aren’t many people in this county who can overrule my decisions.” She walked to the back door, looked back at us, and cocked her head. “In fact, you might have to go all the way to the White House.” She chuckled at her little joke ’til she was out of earshot.
I looked at Special Agent MacElroy and grinned. I might just do that, Hilda. Might just do that.
Chapter 5
Stuart Thomas Rogers pounded his desk so hard his pen jumped. He was in a foul mood, and as usual, he had his brother-in-law to thank for it. Fighting Senator Gilbert Austin on every single congressional decision during the past three years was one thing, but now he actually had to spend time with the man over the weekend of his nephew’s wedding. He loved his sister dearly, but why on earth she’d chosen to marry Gilbert Austin, a pompous windbag and a staunch member of the opposite political party, to boot, was beyond him.
Of course, Senator Austin’s marriage to his sister wasn’t the only thing bothering Stuart Rogers. After all, he was the President of the United States; problems have a way of stockpiling when you’re leading the greatest country the world has ever known, and Stuart Thomas Rogers, or STR as the press referred to him, had already stockpiled a dandy batch of them since he took the oath of office.
But at the moment, Senator Gilbert Austin, arch political enemy, step-father of his much-loved nephew, Jonathan, and husband to his sister and only sibling, Irene, was making his life miserable.
President Rogers pushed against the famous Resolute Desk, stood, and turned to look out at the Rose Garden just beyond the three floor-to-ceiling glass panes that formed the bay window behind his desk in the Oval Office. On any normal day, he’d take a few minutes—or seconds, depending on the condition of his stockpile at the moment—to simply savor the view, marveling in the artistic beauty created by White House gardeners, year after year.
After three years in office, he still was amazed that he was privy to the famous grounds and gardens, free to wander among the flowers and greenery rarely seen by anyone outside the White House staff. Yes, the Rose Garden was familiar to the public because of the many ceremonies, events, and press conferences held within its confines over the years. But there were special places where he liked to wander, and, at least during the first days of his term, to pray. And they were his—for the time being—to enjoy on a personal level.
Today, though, the beauty escaped him. Today, he was content to let a white-hot anger directed toward Gilbert Austin consume him. Deep down STR knew Austin wasn’t the sole cause of his ire, and, if truth be known, his anguish. For the past several months, he’d been acutely aware of his complete break with the promises he’d made to the American people during his hotly contested presidential campaign three years before. Back then he’d been an ardent Christian, firm in his convictions and fervent in his belief that God was in control. God chose him to help lead the American people durin
g these perilous times, and he’d felt privileged. He believed that the Lord loved them all.
But no longer. Since his wife’s death near the end of the grueling two years of campaigning—at first in pursuit of his party’s nomination to the ticket and then on to his election to the greatest office in the land—Stuart Thomas Rogers had lost his zeal for God. He didn’t let on to his constituents, of course, and even though his desire to be president died the same night his beloved wife, Caroline, passed away from a massive heart attack, he was honor-bound to carry through. He’d already been ahead in the polls, but Caroline’s untimely death translated into a virtual victory at the moment the announcement was made public. He couldn’t have lost the election if he’d tried. The public’s adoration of Caroline translated into a landslide victory for not only Rogers, but for the congressional candidates running on his party’s ticket. His should have been the greatest victory for conservative, Christian voters in American history.
It wasn’t long, however, before the voters who put him in office started to notice he wasn’t attacking the issues with the same zeal he professed during his campaign. As the months passed, his shame deepened. Before long, he realized he no longer believed in a Heavenly Father, in salvation, or in God’s unfailing love, but his character was too strong not to be ashamed that he was letting down the people who believed in him—and in God—strongly enough to put him into the Oval Office.
“Can’t be helped,” he told himself time and again. God had His chance, and He chose to take Caroline away from him and away from the American people. No loving Father would do that to a child of His or to the nation founded on the principles of Christianity and freedom.
“We’re on our own,” he often said to himself during those times he wandered the White House grounds with only his thoughts and a Secret Service agent trailing behind for company. “There’s no one out there who loves us or cares what happens to us as individuals or as a nation. It’s all a big myth. The joke’s on me.”
Faux Pas (A Road's End Mishap Book 2) Page 3