"My boarders are not the most befitting characters, I'll grant you that," she said, matching the proprietor's pointed gaze. "But I'll have you know I operate a dignified business, certainly a step up from Madam Guttersnipe's establishment."
"A giant step," Fancy put in, bobbing her bony head up and down so that her sunbonnet tipped to one side, revealing her patchy gray hair.
Mrs. Winthrop made a clicking sound with her tongue and put a hand to her throat to adjust her close-fitting collar. "Well, of course that goes without saying. I'ni merely suggesting the minister should have thought twice before deciding to live among such-such ill-mannered men. Why, it could prove scandalous."
Since Emma wasn't in the mood for arguing, she swallowed down a retort and dropped her gaze to the purple fabric, fingering it one last time. She knew Eldred Johansson carried a limited supply of fabrics in the mercantile. And what he didn't have she could always special order. Suddenly it seemed important to take her business elsewhere. Her decision made, she turned and walked to the door.
"Surely you're not leaving already," Mrs. Winthrop asserted, her jaw dropping to her waist. "Didn't you come in with a list?"
Emma opened the door then paused to turn, applying a forced smile. "Why, yes, I did." She squeezed the rumpled piece of paper at the bottom of her deep pocket. "But the air is just. too stuffy for shopping."
Iris Winthrop's eyebrows shot up in dismay as she nervously moistened her lips and patted her forehead with a silk hankie. "Well, I never...."
Fancy Jenkins' mouth curved into a knowing smile as she hoisted her box of goods into her arms. "Well, I declare if you ain't right, Miss Emma. It is a mite stuffy in here."
yF he air was dank and clammy, scented with the smells of perspiration, dusty clothes, horse manure, and Lily of the Valley. It was all Jon could do to sing the morning hymn, "Rescue the Perishing," led by Carl Hardy and accompanied by Bess Barrington on the Winthrop's upright piano. About the crammed living room and parlor, paper fans fluttered before flushed faces, children cried and wiggled with boredom, and pesky flies zoomed about, eluding the swipe of death.
Jon mopped his damp brow with his handkerchief and examined his audience of faithful Sunday morning worshippers-all packed in close like a bunch of wayward lambs awaiting their shepherd's direction. There was Anna Johnson and her twin boys squeezed in the front row, one toddler on the floor at her feet, the other squirming in her lap. Robert, her husband, leaned against a far wall by the front door, yawning so big Jon thought he'd catch a fly for sure. Ben Broughton stood nearby, shifting from one foot to the other, his lips moving to the hymn's final chorus.
On either side of Anna sat Fancy Jenkins and her daughter, Sarah. Sarah seemed intent on helping Anna watch her children, while Fancy contented herself with watching him. Jon nodded politely at the widow. Liza Broughton and her stepchildren, the elderly Mr. and Mrs. Crunkle, Mrs. Martin, widows Ila Jacobsen and Rose Marley, and finally Lucy Fontaine and her brood of youngsters took up the first two rows of chairs. The rest of the worshippers either sat on the floor or stood along the walls, with a sparse number of occupied chairs in between. The crowded situation only stressed Hickman's necessity for a new church building-the sooner the betterbut first he intended to mention Ezra Browning's need for benevolence-and pray for hearts of compassion.
"Rescue the perishing, care for the dying," folks sang wholeheartedly despite the punishing heat. "Jesus is merciful, Jesus will save." A thunderous "Amen!" echoed across the room with the hymn's final chord. Jon rose and approached the makeshift pulpit, a wooden box stationed on a sturdy table. Bess rose, too, and wove her way through the masses to reach her family, all situated in the front parlor to the left of the entrance, just out of view.
Jon cleared his throat. "This morning's passage conies from 1 John 3:17-18." He hauled his big Bible up to the box and opened it to the place he'd bookmarked. Giving his congregants an encouraging smile, he began to read. "But whoso hath this world's good-"
A baby's loud cry stopped him mid-sentence and redirected the eyes and attention of several parishioners. He gave the mother a moment to hush her child with a bottle, then continued. "And seeth his brother have need, and shutteth off his compassion for him, how dwelleth the love of God in him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth."
Jon surveyed the gathering of folks. They were good people, honest and hardworking, and, for the most part, compassionate toward others. He recalled numerous times when they'd demonstrated selfless giving-like the barn raising out at Rocky and Sarah Callahan's farm this spring, the Christmas bazaar a couple of years ago when they'd donated all proceeds to disadvantaged families, and the work clay last fall when they'd served the widows of the community. Then there was the time the bridge over Little Hickman Creek collapsed and the men united as one to rebuild an even sturdier one, completing the job in just three days. Yes, these were good people, made of strong moral fiber, courageous and full of spirit. He had confidence in them. Just the sane, he approached the topic with caution.
"I want to talk to you today about our Christian responsibility to help and encourage those less fortunate than we. Now some of you might say, `I don't have a spare dine to give. How can I help the needy when I'm in need myself?' I'm not talking about emptying your pockets; I'm talking about emptying your hearts."
Just then, Anna Johnson hefted a squirming twin into her arms, motioned for Sarah Jenkins to look after the other one, then wove her way to the front of the house, creating a nionien- tary disturbance. Jon watched while folks made room for her passing. Against the west wall, Harvey Coleson, the town's only barber, mopped his sweaty brow and shifted his two-hundredpound frame, angling old Mrs. Jarvis with a perturbed look when she succumbed to a coughing fit. Jon sighed. If he had to guess, he'd say he'd lost his audience at the words Christian responsibility. Still, he forged ahead.
"The early church carried each other's burdens, looked for opportunities to help. Jesus said in Matthew 25:35, `For I was hungry, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in."'
Jon proceeded to speak about the duty of all Christians to uplift the downhearted, provide hospitality, and work as onto the Father-without grumbling or complaining. He cited relevant Scriptures and gave examples of the generosity of the first Christian church. As he sought to end his message, he scanned the people's faces. "God calls each of us to live holy and righteous lives, following after Paul's example to cone together as laborers with God," he charged. "Why, right in this fine community there are those without hope who could benefit from the fruit of our labors."
Outside, a brisk breeze blew through the open windows, parting Mrs. Winthrop's long, velvet curtains and providing momentary relief from the sweltering air. Jon removed a handkerchief from his hip pocket and made a sweep across his face. Again, he studied the roomful of faithful worshippers, comforted by Ben Broughton's encouraging look.
"Our number one responsibility is to reach lost souls for Christ," he continued, "but often that is accomplished by first healing the sick, feeding the hungry, and befriending the lonely. I would hope that folks would see Little Hickman Coni- munity Church as a place that cares."
"Amen to that, Reverend," offered the elderly Esther Martin from the second row, her floral hat so big that those sitting behind her had given up trying to see around it.
Jon smiled. "I think it's clear we need to erect a new church building."
A resounding "Amen!" came from several different directions along with nods of agreement.
"And I'm ready to proceed as soon as you are, but first there is a pressing situation in our community we need to address, an individual that sorely needs our help. His house is in sad shape, I'ni afraid, missing windows, peeling paint, broken porch steps. And the inside is just as bad. With the aid of several able bodies, nien and women alike, I believe we can help get this poor soul back on his feet. Can I count on you to lend a hand?"
Heads turned toward each other and waggled up and down. Faces rife with eagerness sought Jon's challenge, awaited his direction.
"Who is it, preacher?" someone asked.
Jon swallowed down a lump the size of his breakfast of grapefruit and sucked in a cavernous breath. "It's Ezra Browning. I paid a visit on hini three days ago."
Gasps and whispers rose up all around, the mumbling and buzzing akin to a roomful of bumblebees. At the front of the house, Mrs. Winthrop suddenly came to life, pressing a hand to her ample chest. If Jon didn't know better, he'd say she was about to have a coronary right in her own living room. He gripped the corners of the box that held his big King James Bible and uttered a silent prayer for guidance.
"What's this about, Reverend?" asked Elmer Barrington, his voice carrying over the simmering crowd. Elmer, who'd been sitting around the corner in the front parlor with his family, came out in plain view to ask the question. "Why would you bother visitin' him? He ain't nothin' but a foul-mouthed, drunken dolt. His own daughter don't have nothin' to do with 'im."
"I'll say," came the voice of Martha Atwater. "He's rude and obnoxious. I don't even want to walk down Main Street when he's out and about. Smells to high heaven, if I do say so. Cain't even walk a straight line in broad daylight."
"I've made him promise he'll sober up," Jon offered. Well, saying he'd squeezed a promise out of the fellow was a bit of a stretch, rather like saying he'd wrestled a bull into submission, but Jon refused to retract his words for fear of losing more ground.
"What makes you think anything will change if we do fix up his place?" This from Clarence Sterling, an aging farmer who'd lived in Hickman most of his life. He stood next to an open window, his petite wife, Mary, sitting in front of him in an English club chair fanning herself, her white hair wrapped in a tight little bun.
"I don't know that anything will change, Clarence," Jon replied. "For all I know, Ezra Browning will curse the ground we walk on, might even kick its off his property. The man's rarely been shown any kindness, so he won't know how to handle it. On the other hand, our good intentions just might provide a channel for some positive changes. Sadly, there are no guarantees when a Christian steps out on a limb to help a wayward soul. One thing I do know. If we don't start showing hint some brotherly love, he'll never see God's grace in action.
"Think of it, Little Hickman Community Church just could be his only hope for salvation."
"I'ni all for it," said Ben Broughton.
Several others offered nods of agreement, but then Iris Winthrop's emphatic throat clearing drained his hopes. "Well." She pushed herself to a standing position and the room went quiet as a cemetery. It was a known fact she carried weight in the town, and even more in the church since she opened her home every Sunday for morning services, a generous act to be sure. Because of that, folks paid her heed whenever she called for it. Jon braced himself for the coming lecture, her expression enough to scare off a bat.
"I, for one, think the idea quite preposterous. What has this insufferable man ever done for Little Hickman except embarrass us? His actions at the Independence Day festivities were quite inexcusable, if you ask me, not to mention humiliating."
Humiliating for whom? Jon wanted to ask.
"Mrs. Winthrop, I-"
"Furthermore, the people of this town would do well to concentrate their efforts on finishing the schoolhouse and church before wasting precious time on the likes of Ezra Browning. Most lead busy lives, and expecting folks to donate their time and energy at this abhorrent man's house is not only foolhardy, it's-it's insolent."
"Insolent?" "And disrespectful," she added, as if he needed another insult.
Upon finishing her speech, she clicked her tongue in disgust, the flowers on her wide-brimmed hat fairly trembling. Slowly, she sat herself back down, taking care to fix her bountiful skirts on the way to her wingback chair.
"I'ni not asking for the town's help, nia'ani," Jon said while begging the Lord for patience. "I'ni asking the church to step in. God has called us to be His servants, to rescue the perishing, care for the dying. Did we not just sing those very words in the morning hymn?"
"I don't care what we sang," she said with a cool stare. "Wasting our time on this man is-"
"Oh, Iris, for the love of all that's good, be quiet." Jon was certain God Himself had intervened until he recognized the voice of Clyde Winthrop.
"Amen!" mumbled Esther Martin quite loud enough for everyone to hear. A few snickers filtered through the air.
Normally sedate by nature, if not downright compliant, Clyde possessed the innate ability to rein in his blustering wife at the most opportune times. Jon believed he also had the patience of job to have lived with Iris for nearly half a century. With surprising servility, she lowered her chin, expelling a loud sniff.
Clyde moved to stand behind his wife. "Now then," he said. "It seems to me we ought to hear the reverend out. He's spotted a need within our community and apparently has a plan for meeting it. I, for one, am curious to hear what that plan night be."
Heads bobbed and faces once full of doubt now sparked with interest. It was a start, Jon mused, nodding his appreciation to Clyde for defusing an otherwise tense situation, then sweeping his gaze out over the small congregation before presenting his proposal.
"Supper's on!" Emma called from the dining room just as the clock in the hallway chivied six times. "And ya best not dawdle."
All around the house, a clatter arose as feet hit the floor. Then came the pounding traffic on the front and back stairs and the slamming of the front screen door, its squeaky hinges making it quite impossible for anyone to enter the house unnoticed.
Tonight there was an extra place setting at the table-in the spot where Mr. Dreyfus used to sit. It was the reverend's first official meal with the other boarders. For that matter, tonight, Sunday, would mark his first night's stay. She wondered how long it would take him to regret his decision. Surely, Gideon Barnard's foul mouth would do the trick-or the loud Saturday night carousing. And if those didn't do it, then their poker games would-or their blatant mockery of his beliefs. Whatever, he'd be gone before any of them could spell pig snout. She'd bet money on it.
As usual, Luke arrived first, his hair neatly combed to the side, with the exception of a few unruly strands at the back of his head that stood straight and tall as a cornstalk.
"The p-p-preacher's comin'," he announced to the floor. "He'll sit here." Luke pulled out a chair and stood behind it like a soldier awaiting his commanding officer, no doubt anticipating Jonathan Atkins' grand entrance. A tiny smile tickled the corners of Emma's mouth as she took her place at the head of the table and closest to the kitchen.
Harland Collins sauntered in next. A widower in his sixties, he was one of Little Hickman's blacksmiths, keeping shop in a room off the livery. No matter how hard he scrubbed, his hands never seemed to cone clean, much to Emma's chagrin. He nodded at both of then and took his usual seat, opposite Luke's chair. On his tail came Wes Clayton and Elliott Newman. Wes took the chair at the far end, same side as Luke, while Elliott sat on Luke's right and next to Emma. "Why ain't you sittin', boy?" Elliott asked, deep lines etched into his long, haggard face, making hint look as if he'd already reached the century mark, even though Emma knew him to be no older than Harland Collins. Of all her boarders, Emma felt sorriest for him. He had watched a malignant tumor eat away at his beloved wife, Matilda, before she finally passed on, leaving him with a teenage boy and a mountain of doctor and hospital bills. One year later to the day, his house burned to the ground. Because he'd let his insurance expire, there'd been nothing with which to rebuild. And that's when he'd come knocking on her door.
"I'ni w-waitin' on the preacher," Luke explained in his slow voice.
His father took up his napkin and laid it out on his lap, the only one of her boarders who used the cloth for its intended purpose. On more than one occasion, Harland Collins had used it as a handkerchief, while Gideon Barnard thought
it most useful for shining his belt buckle.
"You night be standin' awhile then," Elliott said. "Last I seen the preacher, he was sprawled out on his bed, plain tuckered, I believe. You best sit, son." With sunken spirits, Luke plopped into his chair.
Charley Connors and Gideon entered then and walked directly to their usual spots. "Yep, that preacher's still sleepin', far as I can tell," Charley said. "Guess all that movin' and whatnot did 'ini in."
"Or maybe ar company ain't to his likin'," said Gideon, pulling back his chair. "Figure them innocent ears o' his ain't used to ar kind o' talk." The nian wore a perpetual scowl, but now the briefest of smiles flickered like a flash of light from a lone candle. He ran a hand over his bumpy, sallow skin and sat.
A cackling Mr. Clayton nodded his head and pulled at the gray beard that matched his thinning hair. "We'll break 'im in.
"Heard he had a cantankerous father," said Mr. Newman, wiping at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, even though he hadn't yet touched his food. "And a mania who hung herself when he was just a lad. Somethin' tells me he ain't as innocent as one might expect."
That seemed to shut up the lot of them for the time being, particularly when Harland made a harrumphing sound and took up the bowl of mashed potatoes in the center of the table. Others followed suit, reaching for the platter of chicken, the bowl of green beans, and the tureen of gravy. Soon the clang of forks and knives on plates and the loud chomping of food made up the only sounds in the room.
Emma cleared her throat and put her napkin beside her plate. "I'll go check on the preacher," she announced, pushing back her chair, its legs scraping shrilly on the fresh scrubbed floor.
Several pairs of inquiring eyes gawked at her. "You ain't never checked on nie when I missed a meal," Harland Collins remarked.
Luke jumped to his feet. "I'll go with ya."
"Sit down, Luke," his father ordered. "The preacher ain't none of your business." Luke sat begrudgingly.
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 6