He walked out from behind the pulpit and stood in front of the congregation, arms at his sides. “I’ve made peace with the Lord, my friends. Now I need to ask you for your forgiveness and your help in making those campaign promises come true.”
I looked at Mel, my eyes wide. She squeezed my hand then nudged me with her shoulder and nodded her head toward the president. I followed her gaze. He smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. I thumbs-upped him right back.
Great feeling.
Chapter 48
After the president’s suggestion that we continue the summit later on that afternoon, we sang our last hymn, and I closed the service. Not only did the president need some time to collect his thoughts, and Sadie to reload, but there was all that debris to pick up and homes to check for overlooked damage. We’d meet again at 2:00 p.m. for the second half of the First Annual Presidential Promise Breakers Summit of Road’s End, Virginia, or as I thought of it, Bushwhacking the President, Part Two.
I stood on the porch, shaking hands and saying good-bye to my parishioners, when Mack strolled by with STR.
“Thanks for the assist last night, Hugh,” he said. “You sure you’re a pastor and not some kind of international secret agent?”
“Ha! Good one, Mack. I’m an international secret agent if you’re Humpty Dumpty.”
He pointed to his wounded arm and said, “Well, I sure took a great fall!”
President Rogers turned from disengaging himself from Ruby Mae Headley, who was doing her darndest to hook him up with Grace, and slapped Mack on the arm. “That you did, my good man. That you did.”
Mack grabbed his arm, bent over, and groaned.
The president looked mortified. “Oh, my gosh, Mack. I’m so sorry. Bad arm, right?”
Mack nodded and stood up straight. I noticed he backed away from his boss just a little bit. “Yes, sir, but it’s fine, sir. Just a flesh wound. No harm done.” He glanced at me with a pained expression. “See you later, Hugh.” He walked a few steps away, then took a position and resumed guarding the president.
“You bet, Mack,” I said. “Take care of yourself.”
I turned my attention to STR, who still stood in front of me. “Sorry about this morning, sir. Are you sure you want to continue this thing? You could always be called away, you know. Back to Washington? You are the president, after all. Nobody would think a thing of it and even if someone put two and two together, they’d do the same thing if they could get away with it. Believe me. We’ve all done battle with Sadie.”
He grinned. “That’s why I get the big bucks, Hugh. To answer to people like Sadie. I rather like her. She’s smart, no-nonsense, spry, and has a lot of guts. I don’t know a single other person her age who would risk their life to save the president’s. Remarkable woman.”
“Well, I’ll give her that. She’s remarkable in that endearing in-your-face, I’m right, you’re wrong, and don’t you ever forget it way she has.” I shook my head in mock seriousness. “If we could just find a way to use her talent for good. Drill sergeant? Navy Seals? Maybe Special Ops? Wait, forget that. I’m told we already have the Gray Ops and that’s bad enough. But put her up against some bad guys, and I guarantee you they’d see the error of their ways.”
“You make a good point, Hugh. Let me check into that when I get back to the office. We might be wasting a national treasure.” He grinned, shook my hand, then took my hand in both of his. “Great sermon today. I needed that—all of it. Sadie’s not the only national treasure this country has.”
In place of the gala outdoor reception planned for today, we all changed into our old clothes and proceeded to pick up sticks, branches, leaves, candles, and some unidentified items that may or may not have been pieces of Ruby Mae Headley’s hat collection. If they weren’t, they soon would be. While the rest of us spent hours bending, reaching, pulling, tugging, piling, and, in general, abusing ourselves, she scoured the ground in and around her house, the church, and anywhere else she could flit to in search of raw materials.
“A lady’s got to be prepared, you know,” she told Mel about halfway through our project. “Can’t afford to let God’s provision just get carted away in some dump truck and burned. No, ma’am, that wouldn’t be fittin’, with me bein’ His special project ’n’ all.” Somehow, Ruby Mae managed to overlook the divine miracle performed the night before—a miracle that resulted in the entire town remaining in one piece when it should have been leveled flat—and instead found a way to believe God orchestrated this entire thing so she could have branches, freshly-ripped from the trees, to glue to her hat. At least she was grateful.
Tanner was in his glory helping out around the yard. He wore one of Mandy’s old childhood shirts still miles too big and a pair of my gardening gloves. He spent more time putting them back on than he did wearing them, but he was so proud we asked him to help. He trotted to and from the wheelbarrow with big armloads of twigs and small branches or big bunches of leaves clasped between his little hands. Most of them ended up back on the ground before he reached his destination, but he always gave me that big grin, and undeterred, turned back for another load. Every once in a while, he’d stop to talk to his dad or mom, Irene, Mel, or me, chattering about what fun he was having and could we do this all again tomorrow. Please, Lord, no.
I looked up at one point and noticed STR, dressed in jeans and a denim shirt that looked suspiciously like one of Bristol’s, working side-by-side with George and Dewey. Well, he worked, and they jabbered. There’s a special place in Heaven for that man. Mack stood nearby, but Irene refused permission for him to do any manual labor. Too bad. He could’ve whipped our town into shape in about twenty minutes. He stood against the same tree that tried to kill Sadie last night and glowered—except when he looked at Tanner, that is.
Bristol spent his time checking out roofs, siding, and chimneys around town. He pronounced our roof sound and devoid of any telltale lightning burns. “Must’ve hit real close by,” he said, “but we might never know just where.” That was fine by me. A close call was better than the alternative, and if I had to be in the dark about where it really hit, so be it. I can live with a little mystery in my life. To my great relief, the church was in fine shape, as well.
From what we could tell, the only real casualty of last night’s winds was Leo Walling’s barn. Fortunately, he’d already made plans to spend the night in town because of the reception, and no one would have let him venture out in that storm anyway. There were a few pigs missing, he said, but if they were alive, they’d find their way back home. Of course, he didn’t really say it like that. More like a shrug, a smoke squiggle, and “Gone,” followed by a grunt, a smoke ring or two, and “Home.” Another shrug completed his discourse. That lengthy speech exhausted him verbally, and I don’t think he uttered a word, at least in my hearing, for the next two days.
I wondered if one of Leo’s pigs was what I heard last night. I hoped not. I’d hate to think I was the one to hear its last squeal.
The only other home outside the village limits was Mount Vernon, home to George and Martha Washington. In no way does it resemble our first president’s house, but they dubbed it as such so they could legitimately, in their opinion, sell things in their antique store that they advertise as originating from Mount Vernon, George Washington’s home. Those things often include candles that Martha makes, burns, rolls around in the dust, and generally beats the daylights out of so they look as though they’ve been dug up in the original George’s yard. They even sold kittens one time with a sign that implied they were sired by George Washington’s cat. They were. Their cat is named Pickles; he and Pewter had a fling one day and a few weeks later, George and Martha made a fortune. On the bright side, Mount Vernon, both of them, were untouched by last night’s storm. On the down side, the fraud would no doubt continue.
Sherman helped where he could, but since I’d ordered him to take Sophie back up to Emma’s place, he sulked for the rest of the afternoon whenever he was around me. He made
it very clear he thought Sophie should get some kind of award for her role in keeping the president ... what, warm? To hear him tell it, Sophie gnawed her way loose from Emma Rivers’ barn, risked life and limb to amble her way down Rivermanse Lane during the worst of the storm, removed the padlock from its hole, flipped up the latch that allowed entry into the dairy, re-secured the latch and replaced the padlock from the inside—talented camel we’re talking about here—and then waited patiently, chewing her cud, to save the president. When Pewter arrived, they put their heads together, came up with their “Pewter claws Sophie in the rear end” plan, and proceeded to save the day.
I tried to explain to Sherman that presidential awards aren’t generally given to animals, no offense to cats or camels, but he could take great pride in Sophie’s role in last night’s storm and that should be enough. I don’t think he went for it. Apparently, his reason for bringing Sadie down to the dairy in the first place was to make sure he introduced her to STR before he left town. He wanted her close by to save time. Despite warning him I’d turn him over to Sadie for punishment if he tried to bring Sophie anywhere near the president, he did it anyway. Why doesn’t anyone pay any attention to me?
Because we had to eat anyway, and the food for the reception was already prepared, the ladies of Road’s End, with the exception of God’s special project, Ruby Mae Headley, were inside the inn putting food out for a casual brunch. The windows were open to let in that fabulous breeze that only the morning after an imminent disaster and divine intervention can create. Every once in a while, their voices rose and drifted in my direction. Well, maybe rose isn’t the right word. Detonated. Yep, that’s better.
“Sadie, would you get yourself over there and sit down!” Martha spoke first. “You’re injured, and an injured woman shouldn’t be getting herself all tired out. You’ve been through a lot. Let the rest of us take care of this.”
“I don’t care what you say, Geraldine Martha Washington, I can still do my part around the kitchen,” Sadie said. “Now git outta my way!”
Winnie was up next. “Sadie Simms, don’t you speak to my friend that way! Sit down now. You’re the one in the way. We’ll take care of this.”
I didn’t realize Winnie Wyandotte had a death wish, but telling Sadie to get out of the way was proof indeed. Sadie was having nothing to do with getting out of the way or sitting down or being injured, for that matter.
“Did you just tell me to get out of the way?”
“I sure did,” Winnie said. “For once in your life, will you just let someone else do something without you stickin’ your nose in it?”
Winnie was about to get her wish—her death wish, that is. I cringed, thinking about Sadie’s comeback.
“That’s my wedding cake, and I’m not in the way, and I’ll do what I darned well want to do to make this a joyful and fun-filled gathering, you old crow. I’m not dead, fer cryin’ out loud.”
Not yet.
I think Hazel Parry stepped in about then, because things quieted down immediately. Hazel has a wonderful way of smoothing things over; maybe STR could use her in some ambassadorship in a war-torn country somewhere. Sadie could mess things up around the world, and Hazel could smooth them over. Sounded a lot like our international relations already.
“Well, long as I know yer not gonna mess with my cake,” Sadie said a moment later. “I’ll just go over to my place and git my constitutional amendment papers.”
Oh good. She’s leaving one argument behind to get ammunition for a bigger one. It crossed my mind to ask, for about the hundredth time in the last few months, just what it was God wanted me to do in this town. Preach? Mediate? Break up fights? Play Pick-Up Sticks? Seems to me that’s precisely what my life has been all about since moving here. Throw in some gunfights, a blizzard, drug thugs, and a camel to the ghastly events of this week and you’ve got yourself a movie. Move over, Tom Cruise. There’s a new guy in town.
Jonathan Sterling was about as happy as any man had ever been. He put his hands on his waist and leaned backward, stretching his aching back muscles. He was a fit man, but the activities of the past few days had taken their toll. He was sore and bruised and battered, scratched, gouged, and rubbed raw by wind, rain, and hail.
None of that mattered, though, because he was a new man—a new creation brought back from the brink of eternal disaster by the love of Jesus Christ. Yes, he thought he’d been a believer in the past. But at best, his faith had been weak, his resolve even weaker. He could so easily have walked away from God entirely after Jillian’s death and been lost forever. Guess I wasn’t a believer to begin with. Thank You, Lord, that I am now.
Last night changed all that. He closed his eyes and raised his face to the sky. He felt the warm sun on his skin, the gentle breeze blowing through his hair. He could smell damp earth and the slight scent of flowers and herbs as they too raised their heads toward the sky and drank in the rays of the life-giving sun. He prayed silently. “Thank You, Lord, for my son, my wife, and for giving me another chance to love You and serve You. Please help me never again to let You down.”
Chapter 49
Precisely at noon, Grace Headley walked outdoors and announced it was time for our meal. Every resident of Road’s End promptly migrated to our yard and through the front and back doors of the inn, despite the fact that she hadn’t stepped more than ten feet from the inn and barely raised her voice to hail us. Must be that food magnet everyone in this town seems to have.
The ladies did a magnificent job of decorating the inn, as well as preparing and setting out the food. I could see that Mel was touched by their gesture, and she hugged each of them in turn. They all beamed—even Sadie, who had done nothing more that morning than get out of their hair—and accepted her thanks and compliments with good grace.
I must admit these women rank right up there with the greatest cooks and bakers in America. The wedding cake, sitting on the sideboard surrounded by fresh flowers, was magnificent. Simple by today’s standards, it consisted of three elegant tiers, each smaller than the one below it, decorated in what I thought was white lace laid atop the white frosting with little seed pearls outlining the lacy pattern. Much to my surprise, that lace and those seed pearls were created by Sadie Simms and made of edible ingredients. What newfangled thing will they think of next? Sprigs of freshly picked lavender and white roses, placed in the refrigerator the day before, thank goodness, were tucked here and there around the cake.
I admit I’m not much for fancy cakes—give me a Little Debbie snack cake and I’m thrilled to pieces—but this was a masterpiece, a glorious sight to behold. Add to that the beautiful wedding dress crafted by God’s Special Project, our own Ruby Mae Headley, great food, and outstanding decorations both at home and at church, and this occasion was one for the books. The residents of Road’s End never cease to amaze me.
And just to nail home that observation, I heard a commotion emanating from the living room. George and Dewey. Surprise, surprise.
I walked in to the room. It was jammed with folks balancing plates piled high with food on their laps and sitting on chairs in every crook and cranny of the room. Glasses of iced tea or lemonade rested on side tables or on the floor between their feet. No one looked up as I entered; all eyes were glued on George and Dewey sitting next to one another. For a couple of men who fight all the time, they certainly make sure they’re together at every opportunity. Their wives sat on either side of them, ignoring them completely. I guess you get used to it after a while.
“I told you yesterday, Dewey ‘Mr. Thinks He Knows It All’ Wyandotte, that it’s those big airliners that cause storms. Don’t you never listen to me? It’s all that turb-a-linse they cause. Those big engines get to windin’ up and causin’ sparks and such all-around and blammo! A thunderstorm.”
Those two seemed to have an uncommon interest in electricity this week. Just last night I heard them arguing about harnessing the power of lightning bugs. Now this.
“I ain’t a know-
it-all, George Washington, Mr. Born-in-a-Barn.”
That got a rise out of George, but Martha, without missing a beat, reached over and slapped his leg. Hard.
He restrained himself, barely, and Dewey continued, “It’s the devil, George. Plain and simple. Can’t you see what he’s up to? He’s drivin’ a wedge ’tween God-fearin’ folks like us. A gosh-darned wedge! He’s sittin’ ’round somewhere close by rubbin’ his creepy, bloodstained hands together, all happy ’n’ such that God’s children are at each others’ throats. Are we gonna make the devil smile, George? Huh? Are we? Or are we gonna make him cry and moan and tear his greasy hair out while we make the Lord grin from ear to ear?”
The room grew quiet. Nobody was accustomed to hearing Dewey Wyandotte make much sense, let alone do so eloquently. I stepped forward.
“Dewey, I think you’ve done a magnificent job of pointing out a very important, life-altering truth. And George,”—don’t want to leave George out of the compliments—“you make a good point about big airliners causing problems with our ... um, atmosphere. You’re both to be commended for your knowledge and good common sense.” I clapped my hands together. “Now, who’s ready for more food?”
I jumped out of the path of the stampede just in time. I could see the headline now: “Pastor Hosting President of the United States Crushed to Death by Horde of Hungry Senior Citizens the Day after God Saves Them All from Tornado and Assassination Attempt on STR Is Thwarted.” Okay, maybe not. In any event, I was lucky to get out of the way.
With the room cleared, I could see STR sitting in his favorite chair, one of the two next to the fireplace. “May I sit down, Mr. President?”
Faux Pas (A Road's End Mishap Book 2) Page 29