Faux Pas (A Road's End Mishap Book 2)
Page 8
“And that would be?” he asked.
“Amending the Constitution.”
Mack’s mouth dropped open.
Sadie snorted. “What? You have a problem with that? Someone’s got to do it.” She shrugged and looked around the table at her six friends, one teed-off Secret Service Special Agent, and her pretend-stupid pastor. “Might just as well be me.”
Chapter 13
Ross MacElroy had a problem—not the biggest one he’d ever faced, nor the most dangerous, but certainly the most puzzling he’d encountered during his long career—and he didn’t have much time to figure out what to do. If there was even anything he could do, that is.
Stuart Thomas Rogers would arrive in Road’s End, Virginia, in a few days, and although Mack had no doubts about the physical safety of the Commander-in-Chief, he did have his doubts about any peace and quiet the president might be expecting during his weekend getaway to attend an intimate family gathering.
In short, there wouldn’t be any.
Having the president’s obnoxious brother-in-law present would be bad enough, although he couldn't do much about that. Mack didn’t doubt that most of the people attending would welcome a break from the senator’s outspoken and belligerent attitude toward STR, but the presence of Gilbert Austin was non-negotiable. Unless NASA figured out a way to make that trip to Jupiter a reality in the next ten days. Other than that remote possibility, Mack and everyone else at the wedding would just have to tough it out and hope for the best.
But these Road’s Enders were an intelligent, concerned, public-spirited, and quick-witted bunch of senior citizens. They could cause some serious grief for the president, if by nothing more than asking straightforward, uncomfortable questions about his back-pedaling on the promises he’d made during his campaign.
And that was exactly what the president had done. Mack usually wasn’t one to immerse himself in the political side of … well, politics, but he’d been as close to STR as a person could be during the first campaign. At every single stop, in all his speeches, during debates, town hall-type meetings, press conferences, even private conversations, the spiritual side of Stuart Thomas Rogers dominated above all else.
That all changed when his wife died. Whether or not her unexpected death had anything to do with the president-to-be’s apparent turning away from his beliefs and the God-founded promises he’d made to the American voters was not for Mack to say. Yes, he had his opinion—he thought Caroline Rogers’ death, indeed, had everything to do with her husband’s abrupt about-face. Nothing short of a devastation of that magnitude would have swayed the convictions of the man whom Ross MacElroy admired greatly. But Mack knew his responsibilities were to protect the president, not second-guess the man’s reasons for keeping or not keeping campaign promises.
Or for losing his faith.
Nevertheless, Mack was left with the problem of whether or not to warn President Rogers about what he’d be up against once he stepped foot in Road’s End. On one hand, the president was fully capable of fielding questions and responding to criticism. Plenty of it had come his way during the past three years, not only from the ever-present press, but from Senator Austin as well. In the end, it probably wouldn’t make any difference one way or the other. On the other hand, dealing with both Senator Austin and a town full of ornery citizens would almost certainly ruin a good time for a man who clearly deserved a measure of peace and quiet.
Mack shook his head. Even though he witnessed it constantly, it was still hard to believe that a family member could work so vehemently to smear the name of a well-meaning and patriotic brother-in-law who happened to be the POTUS. But that’s exactly what Senator Austin did every day of his life—on the Senate floor, in press conferences, television interviews, and committee meetings. Over and over, Austin criticized decisions that Mack knew full well STR had agonized over, with Austin apparently taking delight in maneuvering the president into uncomfortable positions. What on earth had possessed Irene Rogers to marry that blowhard, backstabbing, pompous excuse for an American statesman was well beyond Ross MacElroy’s comprehension.
But what was even more difficult to understand was the way in which STR faced his biggest critic. Instead of taking the offensive and putting the man in his place once and for all, President Rogers insisted on taking the high road. He refused to say anything negative about the man himself, instead limiting his remarks to the matters of policy with which Austin continually found fault. Mack would love to see the president give it right back to Austin. Just once. Give him exactly what he deserves.
But for reasons known only to him, STR refused to take that route. He never veered off into personal rebuttals or attacks against his accuser. Frankly, folks were beginning to divide into two camps: those who felt he was too soft because of his spiritual beliefs and those who felt he’d abandoned those beliefs altogether.
And neither one boded well for his re-election campaign—let alone the host of problems posed by the eccentric, Constitution-meddling, atom-splitting residents of Road’s End, Virginia.
Mandy Foster paced back and forth in the Peacefield Room, named after the Quincy, Massachusetts, home of John Adams, the nation’s second president. It was the largest of the rooms at The Inn at Road’s End. Her parents had specifically chosen that room to accommodate Mandy’s wedding preparations. Mandy and Jonathan would be spending their first night as man and wife in that room, as well, so the extra size would make a difference when both bride and groom were in residence. Of course, that decision had been made before they knew the President of the United States would be staying under the same roof. Mandy wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up bunking in the dairy behind the house.
She stopped at the door then turned on her heel and strode back to the window to gaze out at the scene below. The kitchen garden was in full bloom with purple-headed chive blossoms swaying in the slight breeze that riffled through the yard. The rosemary, thyme, sage, basil, dill, and … well, she couldn’t remember them all, but her mom would have anything and everything found in a colonial kitchen garden planted out there. Mandy remembered a garden of some kind at each of the many homes they’d lived in during her childhood. She made a mental note to take a stroll through the garden later that day. Maybe its soothing scents would help clear her mind, although it would take some mighty powerful scents to erase the problems plaguing her at the moment.
Yes, she’d come clean with her parents about Jonathan’s relationship with the President of the United States, although she’d really had nothing to do with initiating the confession. It was more of a parental ambush, aided and abetted by that darned special agent, Ross Somebody-or-other.
She sighed, turned from the window, walked to the end of the four-poster bed, and plunked herself down. She flopped backward, her arms outstretched, and groaned. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t blame anybody but herself. And Jonathan, of course, who had convinced her to “wait for a better time” to spill the beans to her parents. Like there was any time better than another to tell your parents they were going to be a part of the First Family. Granted, the link would be pretty limp—more like a cobweb—but there was no good time or method to spring something like that on them. She and Jonathan had simply waited too long. That’s all there was to it.
Boy, had Mom been teed off. Mandy couldn’t blame her, though. As if being mother of the bride weren’t stressful enough, Melanie Foster now had to face the fact that The Inn at Road’s End was about to have the most influential person in the world within its walls. Talk about pressure.
But the worst thing about the entire the POTUS is coming to the wedding fiasco wasn’t Stuart Thomas Rogers or his importance. According to Jonathan, his uncle was as friendly in person as he appeared to be when addressing the nation. “Nothing fake about him, Mandy,” he’d said when he first dropped the bombshell on her a few months ago. “You’ll love him, and he’ll love you. I just know it.”
The worst thing would be Senator Gilbert Austin and his merciless hound
ing of all things presidential. Jonathan had told her several times that he had no idea why his stepfather was so outspoken when it came to his famous brother-in-law. Mandy secretly thought Gilbert Austin was jealous of the president’s popularity. Maybe he even harbored a strong desire to ascend to the Oval Office himself one day.
But Gilbert Austin, as obnoxious and downright nasty as he could be, was good news compared to what Mandy knew her parents didn’t yet know. Not only had Jonathan’s faith grown weak, but he had a darling little boy named Tanner who was soon to be Melanie and Hugh Foster’s grandchild—a little boy they had no idea existed.
Talk about a surprise.
Chapter 14
The next few days would have tried the patience of a telephone pole. I didn’t know whether to help out, hide out, or just plain get out.
So, I did some of each.
Choosing when to get out of Dodge was easy—any time Winnie, Ruby Mae, or Martha showed up. I’d have hightailed it out the back door when I heard Sadie’s cackling, too, except she usually came with baked goods, and no pastor worth his salt hurts the feelings of a parishioner bearing peanut butter cookies.
Overseeing the renovations at the church, thankfully, took up a good share of my time. Mack was as good as his word. I received a phone call from Hilda Stutgardt on the morning after the day Mack first ventured into Road’s End. I couldn’t tell if she was furious with me, stunned that her autonomy had been questioned, or awed by my friends in high places. Up to this point in my life high places were usually references to Heaven or that feeling you get when you smell fresh coffee and spot the still warm chocolate chip cookies on the counter. I couldn’t help but be awed myself. However tenuous my link to the Oval Office, though, I was beside myself with joy to hear Ms. Stutgardt tell me the renovation project had been approved. I was on my way over to share the good news with Grace at the church office when I ran into my band of roving renovators. I was not surprised to hear them arguing. It’s what they do best. That and destroying things. Like my peace of mind.
George, Dewey, Frank, Pastor Parry, and Leo stood in the middle of the road where Rivermanse Lane intersects Gloucester Street. When you’re facing the lane, the Inn at Road’s End is on the right and the Christ Is Lord Church stands on the other corner to your left. If I wanted to get to the church, I had no choice, other than sneaking through the backyards and making a giant loop from here to Richmond and back, but to walk up to them. And as much as I dislike getting caught up in their arguments, making a 150-mile round trip on foot to avoid them seemed a little extreme.
I put on my best hey there, guys. It’s great to hear you arguing so early in the day smile and joined them.
“What’s up, men?” I shook hands all around. It surprised me to see Frank awake and standing. “Good to see you, Frank,” I said. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
He grunted.
Leo removed his pipe, looked up at the blue sky, then back down at me, and said, “Yep.”
George and Dewey raced one another to answer first. “Sure is, Pastor,” George spat out just as Dewey yelped, “You betcha, Hugh.” It all came out sounding like “Shoebetsahewter.”
Now Dewey doesn’t like George to outdo him in anything, nor does George appreciate being one-upped by Dewey. Doesn’t matter if it’s whose wife makes the best macaroni and cheese or the number of heart attacks that friends, relatives, or assorted celebrities, whom neither one of them have ever met, have suffered. If it’s measurable, it’s debatable. If it’s not, then it’s debatable forever. The only thing those two like better than arguing with one another is carrying on an argument with no end in sight.
Today was no exception. The topic of the day seemed to center around vehicles.
Dewey jumped back into the conversation I’d interrupted. “What’s wrong with my tractor?” Apparently, the arrival of their pastor wasn’t enough of a deterrent to end their squabbling.
George snorted. “Tractor? You call that heap o’ rusty metal and ragged rubber a tractor? I’ve seen tin cans with holes shot in ’em that looked better’n that thing.”
“Why, you …”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, surely we can come to some …” Perry tried to intervene.
“No offense meant, Pastor Parry, but you don’t know what yer talkin’ about,” George interrupted. “You’ve always driven a decent car—not great, mind you, but decent—but that don’t give you the es-per-tease you need to make any decisions about this.”
“Es-per-tease? What’s that s’posed to be?” Dewey said. He shook his finger at George. “Don’t you go lecturing me, you old fool. You mean expertise? Can’t you pronounce nothin’ right?”
George backed up a step then changed his mind and charged right up into Dewey’s face and shook his fist. “I can pronounce ‘beat you to a pulp,’ Dewey Wyandotte.”
Dewey wasn’t about to take that from anybody, let alone his best friend and worst enemy. “Don’t you go threatening me, George Washington. If there’s anyone ’round these parts that knows their vee-hickles, it’s me.” He jerked his thumb at his own chest. “I’ve been drivin’ quality cars and trucks and John Deere tractors for longer’n you’ve worn long pants.”
“That’s ’cause you’re older’n rocks.”
I sighed. What a way to start the day. “Guys, guys. Let’s give it a break, okay? What on earth are you talking about, anyway?”
“It’s the Road’s End Inaugural Presidential Motorcade and Honor Guard Parade, Hugh,” Pastor said. “We’re calling it The Parade for short. Just seems easier, don’t you think? We knew this was something you’d want to do for the president, but with all the other stuff you have going on, well, … you know.”
No, I didn’t know and furthermore, I didn’t want to know. But the fact that I was going to know, no matter what, loomed large, and I fought for words. My tongue-tiedness soared to new heights. “Uh …”
“Now, now, Hugh. We know you’re overwhelmed, but this is the least we could do for you,” Perry said as he patted me on the back. Not too hard, Perry. I might just throw up.
“Yep,” George said. “This is gonna be one fantastic parade. The Prez is gonna be one happy feller when he gets to Road’s End.”
Prez? Happy feller?
I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Guys, guys. Let’s just wait a minute here. You do understand, don’t you, that nobody is supposed to know the president is coming to Road’s End? Nobody at all? Agent MacElroy made that very clear.”
“Why, of course, Pastor,” Dewey said. “And no one does know. Just us Road’s Enders.” Wink, wink.
Precisely.
“But if you have this … this—”
“Road’s End Inaugural Presidential Motorcade and Honor Guard Parade,” Perry said, finishing my thought for me. Well, not my precise thought. I doubt Pastor Parry has it in him to think what I was thinking.
“Thank you, Pastor,” I said. “Yes, that motorcade thing.”
Dewey muscled in before George could correct me. “We’re calling it a parade, remember, Hugh?” The men all murmured agreement.
Why was I feeling ganged-up on?
I looked at Dewey. He smiled back, oblivious, thankfully, to what I was thinking he could do with his parade. “Thank you, Dewey,” I said. “Yes, parade. If we have this parade, there’s no way on earth we can keep it a secret. You know how news has a way of getting around in this town.”
The men looked at one another with knowing grins, elbowed one another in the ribs, and nodded. “Oh yeah, Pastor, we know jest what yer gettin’ at,” George said. He lowered his voice as if the cobblestones beneath our feet were wired for sound. “The wives.” More winking. More elbowing.
The wives, my eye. The men assembled before me were the biggest gossips this side of Neptune. Anything their wives passed along was a direct result of having heard it from their husbands who either heard it from one another or more often than not, just flat out made it up.
“Well, fellas, I d
on’t know if we should be pointing fingers,” I said. “We are Christian men, you know.”
In case you’re wondering, the irony of that last remark didn’t escape me, given the thoughts I’d entertained in the last thirty seconds.
“Nevertheless, we need to keep this visit a secret. It’s absolutely essential that no one knows about it. No one.”
“Who’s gonna know?” George said, looking around at his cohorts. “It’s just us, Pastor. Don’t you worry none. We’ll keep it under our hats.” He punctuated his remarks with a determined grimace and a nod of his head. “You betcha.”
I was not comforted. In truth, I was up to my eyelids in the suffocating horror of imagining the President of the United States being subjected to … to … whatever it was these men were going to subject him to. On the other hand, I never dreamed I’d be rounding up drug lords with a gang of senior citizens during a blizzard either. That’ll teach me.
And then it was back to business. “You ain’t gonna bring that rattletrap of a tractor into the parade, Dewey. You just ain’t.”
“It’s not just any ol’ tractor, George. It’s a John Deere. And you wanna bet I’m not bringin’ it to the parade?”
The spat continued. Pastor Parry interjected some placating remarks here and there, and Leo contributed an occasional grunt or smoke ring. When I thought about it later, I remembered hearing a gentle snore coming from Frank’s direction. But an argument between Dewey and George or Frank falling asleep on his feet was the least of my worries. These men were planning a parade for the Commander-in-Chief against the direct orders of the biggest man I’ve ever seen. Was I the only sane one in the bunch?
Given the track record of these guys, I feared I was. And given my mental health track record since arriving in Road’s End, my being the sanest one in the bunch was a mighty scary thought.
Chapter 15