Oh, it was all a big mess, and as far as she was concerned, they'd both do well to pretend the kiss had never happened. Clearly, he was swimming with regrets; why not let him off the hook and admit she felt the same? He was the pastor of Little Hickman Community Church, for gracious sake. If ever a mismatch existed between two people, it lay between them-her acting as "mother" to a beefy array of misfits, him a gentle shepherd leading his flock of Christ followers. Why, if Mrs. Winthrop ever got wind that he'd crossed the line from respectability into licentious revelry (for that is what she would call their innocent kisses), she'd see to it he lost his position, not to mention his preacher's license.
In fact, Emma had given serious thought to warning hire of the dangers he posed for himself by even staying under her roof. Of course, in order to have that conversation, he would have to look her square in the eye again, and she couldn't guess when that might happen.
It had proven a chore getting Ezra down the back stoop, but once she did, they strolled slowly toward the arch where the grapevines grew thick and lush, their ambrosial scent wafting across the path. September's sun was fast setting, so rather than take him all the way, she stopped to lower him into the sturdy garden bench situated just feet from the vines. He huffed a puffing breath and grasped hold of the bench arms to steady himself. Once comfortable, he actually angled her with a crooked grin, which automatically drew suspicion.
"You seem especially chipper," she said, turning and walking to the grape arbor, bucket handle draped over one arm. Amethyst-colored grapes hung in chunky clusters, their mere sight sending her taste buds into a tizzy. On impulse, she popped a few into her mouth to satisfy her craving, savoring their luscious juices, swallowing there down, skins, seeds, and all.
"Ain't I got a right? I'm much improved, don't ya think?"
It was somewhat of a minor miracle, this newfound spurt. "Doc says your gettin' good rest and eatin' better has given you a new lease." She wouldn't mention that he'd also said it could be short-lived.
Moments passed, with the only sounds a few chirping birds, gentle breezes passing through the leaves, and a neighborhood dog barking up a storm. When the lull became uncomfortable, Emma glanced up from her picking and caught Ezra staring off toward the house.
"You thinkin' on soniethin'?" she asked.
He cleared his throat. "Been talkin' to the preacher kid." His voice was hoarse from lack of use.
"About what?"
"Things."
She felt her brow pull down, but kept at her task. "Such as?"
"He got nie to thinkin', that's all."
Jonathan Atkins had a way of doing that. Did he hope to save Ezra Browning from his multitude of sins? Now, wouldn't that be a miracle? Her cynicism had her yanking grape clusters off their vines at record speed.
"Says I should try to make the end o' my life count fer soniethin', maybe startin' with iniprovin' ar communicatin', yer and mine. I ain't been the best at it. Plus he got nie to thinkin' 'bout God an' all. Ain't that somethin'?"
Struck speechless, she picked faster. At the rate her bucket was filling, she would need to empty it soon.
"He tol' me the Bible's meant ter folks such as me-sinners, that is. Lord knows I'm the biggest one. Says it's a matter of askin' Jesus, God's Son, to forgive nie my past, and He'll do it. Seems a little far-fetched if ya ask nie, but if it's that simple, I night give it a try. Course, I'd need to beg for pardon from you as well. That's what the preacher kid tol' nie."
Was this one-way conversation really happening? And if it was, why couldn't it have taken place twenty years ago? For reasons she couldn't quite identify, the root of bitterness she'd nursed for most of her life sprouted tenfold. Did he really think it was as easy as that?
"I been a poor example, Emnia. I done ya wrong."
Her basket full, she whirled to face her father. While plastered, he'd punched her more times as a child than she cared to count, screamed obscenities when she hadn't finished her chores, and belittled and embarrassed her in front of God and everybody. As if that weren't enough, he'd expected her to clean up after him when he lay in his own vomit. How old was she when he'd first handed down that chore, four, five? Looking at hint now, hunched and old beyond his years, dying, to boot, she should have had some measure of compassion, but she simply couldn't muster it. What was wrong with her? The man was trying to make amends, for pity's sake, and her heart felt cold and stale, hard as a brick.
"The booze made me do crazy things," he muttered, head down, plucking lint balls off his pants. "I don't expect-" A bout of coughing forced him to halt mid-sentence. Emma pursed her lips tight and watched his struggle from afar, knowing there was nothing to do for it.
When he got a hold of the spasm, she slowly approached. "We should go in now. It's gettin' toward dusk." She set the bucket on the ground beside his feet and hauled hint up. He rose slowly, his legs shaking when they took his weight. "I'll cone back for ny grapes after I get you settled."
She felt his eyes bore into her as they walked, her arm steadying him on the bumpy path. Not for the life of her could she say the words he wanted to hear-words like, "It's all right; I can put it all behind me; my rotten childhood never happened; let's start over."
Trust God to heal the hurts of your past, Emma dear.... The words from one of Grace's letters returned with punishing blows. Forgiveness is far more freeing than living with a heart of anger.
It was too much to think about right now. Perhaps tonight she would try whispering another prayer before going to sleep and see if that would help to piece together her frayed emotions.
Silly tears threatened at the corners of both eyes, and even as she pondered what she might say to God, she wondered if it would be worth the trouble.
Would He even hear her pathetic cries?
Jon was waiting by the window when Eninia brought Ezra into the kitchen. "I'll take over from here," he said, giving then both a start. "Sorry. Didn't mean to surprise you. I saw you coning up the path." When Enna shot him a hasty look, he noted her glistening eyes and wondered what Ezra had said now. She looked on the verge of tears-again. Had an argument ensued between father and daughter? He'd thought for sure old Ezra's heart was tenderizing, that for the first time ever he was seeing himself through different eyes, seeing what his life could have been like had he chosen God early on. But now he wondered. He'd certainly said something to make Emma miserable.
God, if he's hurt her, I'll be tempted to kick him into an early eternity, whether he's ready or not.
"Everything okay?" he asked, looking from one to the other. It was the first time in a long while he'd allowed himself to look deep into Emma's face, and what he saw there revealed a truth he'd been running from. He loved her deeply.
Her casual, polite nod did not convince him. Pulling back her chin, she handed Ezra off to him. "Since you offered, I'll leave you to his evening ablutions. I have to go get my bucket." With a turn, she left the kitchen, slamming the door harder than necessary behind her. Jon watched her out of the side of one eye as she strode down the path, and he saw her lift her apron to swipe her cheek. Blast!
"You say something to get her riled?"
Ezra's breathing seemed more labored than usual. "Jus' that I been Join' some thinkin'. Ya know how you been tellin' nie 'bout God and His love an' forgiveness? I thought it was all good stuff what I said, but it don't appear she liked it much."
Ali, so that was it. She didn't want to hear that Ezra's heart was going soft.
"Well, Ezra, forgiveness is a touchy thing. Might be you'll need to talk to God about that. I can't promise you she'll ever forgive you entirely, but you can't allow her lack of mercy over you to stand in the way of your own salvation. By asking her forgiveness, you've done your part. The melting down of her heart-now, that's God's business."
Ezra's legs trembled from weakness, so Jon set him down on a stool next to the butcher-block table. Once situated, he clasped his hands in his lap and fidgeted, his breaths coming out like a
whole band of whistles. Jon stood next to him, worried he might topple. "I got to make her see."
"Maybe she's not quite ready yet, you know, to hear what you have to say."
A minute lapsed while Ezra seemed to collect his thoughts. "I left home at a ripe young age, you know. My ma and pop was glad to see nie go."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Phftt. Couldn'ta been much more 'n thirteen, fourteen." In his eyes was poignant sorrow, deep and cavernous. Of course, Ezra hadn't a clue how transparent they were, crystalline windows opening into his soul, as if they had a story all their own to tell.
Jon waited, then ventured a question. "What were they like, your parents?"
Tilting back his head to look at the ceiling, lie gave a dismal snort. "Distant. They never had no use for me."
"Why do you think that was?"
"Never could figure it out, 'cept they liked Howard and Hester better."
"The twins." He remembered Ezra's revelation about his older sister and brother from when he'd eavesdropped from the doorway.
Ezra nodded. "Brats, they was. Always talking 'bout me behind niy back, pokin' fun at me, kickin' me around, sat'in' stuff like Ma and Pa liked them better, and I was nothin' but a crossbreed."
"Crossbreed. What would make them say that?"
Shriveled shoulders dropped even further. "Don't know, don't care. My folks was on trips a lot for business, left us kids with some neighbor lady. They never knowed half the tinie what was goin' on. When they'd get home from their long trips they'd haul out big presents for the brats and give me sonie- thin' like a measly little writin' tablet."
Some nagging thought pestered Jon in his deepest partlike an itch he couldn't quite reach or an obliterated memory that refused to resurface. Something just didn't seem right here. He felt his brow crease, drawing his eyes into beady circles. "So where did you go when you left home?"
Ezra tipped his head at him and frowned. "Roamed the countryside. Picked up jobs here an' there, mostly in honky-tonk joints. I was big for niy age. Weren't hard gettin' folks to believe I was eighteen. Most places give me room an' board and all the booze I wanted. That's how my habit got off the ground.
"Once I met my Lydia, though, things started lookin' up." His eyes went wet at the corners and he shook his head. "Liked to died when she stopped breathin' that hot day in June, leavin' nie with that squallin' kid."
"And that's when the drinking started up again?" Jon took a long-held breath and swallowed.
Ezra's face lowered, making Jon wonder if he'd suddenly dropped off to sleep, but then he gave a slow, gloomy nod. "Got worse than ever after that. Ain't no excuse for my behavior, 'cept to say I wasn't happy unless I was pub-crawlin'. Even that pretty li'1 girl out there," he poked a finger toward the backyard, "couldn't turn my eyes away from the stuff. Now that I think 'bout it, I prob'bly resented her. Ain't that a rotten thin' to say?"
Jon patted the old nian on the shoulder. With all his might, he wanted to dislike him, but it wasn't in him to do so. Almost from the time he'd taken the job as Little Hickman's pastor and committed to helping the helpless, he'd latched on to Ezra Browning. Now, no matter what, he couldn't let go.
"Best get you ready for bed," he said, having no idea what else to say. Out the back door, he noted Emma loitering in the garden, probably waiting for them to disappear.
He helped him off the stool. The fellow grunted and swayed, and if Jon hadn't been there to catch him, he'd have fallen flat on his face.
Lord, please live Your life through me. Make me a light that points the way to You. I never set things right with my own pa, and a part of me still mourns that fact. Maybe that's what draws me to Ezra. He reminds me of Luther Atkins. It may be too late for my pa, but its not too late for Ezra.
He led Ezra to the washroom on the main floor, Ezra's feet shuffling along at a childlike pace, the floorboards squeaking under each labored step.
renzied enthusiasm rippled through the congregation. It was a full house in Little Hickman Community Church, the new building drawing curious attendees from as far away as Nicholasville. Why, it was a celebration to rival the opening day of the new schoolhouse some two months earlier. Thankfully, the sun shone bright, even though the maple leaves in the churchyard had started dropping to the earth one by one, their flaxen hue a sure sign that cooler air would soon be blowing up the valleys and over the ridges, bending Kentucky's blue grasses and ushering in an all-new season.
Dressed in their Sunday best, which, for most men, simply meant a freshly laundered shirt tucked into a pair of trousers held up by suspenders, and for the womenfolk meant a simple cotton dress, folks sauntered down the center and side aisles seeking out spots in which to crowd together on shiny new pews.
With her usual flair, the church pianist and Hickman's newly appointed schoolteacher, Bess Barrington, treated the incoming church attendees to a rendition of "Onward Christian Soldiers" on the slightly off-key piano.
When the piano the Winthrops had generously commissioned to purchase for the new church had not yet arrived from the Michigan manufacturer, and Jon had decided the donated one at the school should remain intact, Emma had kindly offered the use of hers, saying it just sat in the music room like a big of hippo, anyway, collecting dust. "Makes nary a peep, 'cept for those tines back when Mr. Wonder tried to play it," she wrinkled up her nose at the memory, "and Miss Tabitha decides at midnight to use it as a tactic to wake the dead."
Jon had laughed, glad that at least they were again treating each other with civility. He couldn't even count the tines he'd wanted to share his heart with her, haul her into his arms again, and kiss her silly while savoring the scent of her hair against his cheek. Of course, he walked away from the temptation every time, knowing it could never work between them unless she dedicated her heart and life to Christ.
"Well, I appreciate that, Emma. I'll gather up some men to help me wheel it over there," he'd said just two days ago. "Maybe you'll cone Sunday to hear the way it's supposed to be played?"
She'd awarded hini with a half-grin, pausing midway in her mopping job. "I expect I will just to hear how it's played, mind you."
"Of course. I wouldn't expect you'd cone to hear my sermon.
With a hint of a twinkle in her eye, she'd turned back to her task. "And isn't that the truth."
And there she sat now, just four rows back, squeezed in tight between the Callahan family and Fancy Jenkins. Sarah Jenkins, Fancy's daughter, sat smack in front of them with Sully and Esther Thompson and their clan, holding their wiggling baby, Millie, on her lap. Jon suspected that before the service ended, Esther would be giving Sarah permission to take the toddler outside. When Jon failed to get Emma's attention-all he had in mind was a friendly smile-he turned his eyes elsewhere.
Amidst the commotion of incoming worshippers, he perused his surroundings from a chair on the two-step-up platform. It was a simple structure, simple but sturdy. High ceilings to afford that the sound would carry, a big potbellied stove situated at the rear, and floors made of four-by-four wood timbers, which even now carried their strong scent and probably would for years to cone, graced the interior. Four big windows flanked either side of the room to allow for plenty of incoming light, and kerosene lamps hung six feet apart from the fresh painted white walls. It was that new-wood, new-paint smell nixed with the scent of fresh bathed children that made a body fairly keel over with delight.
The sort of pride a father must feel when his child takes his first steps pranced straight across his chest. So many nien and women had pitched in at various stages of construction-he'd counted at least eighty-over the past weeks to accomplish the job of erecting Little Hickman Community Church, making its name all the more appropriate. Even folks who didn't normally attend Sunday services had rolled up their sleeves to see the building completed before the onset of bad weather. Sitting on the tiny platform now, with Carl Hardy seated on one side of hint and church elder, Bill Jarvis, on the other, he felt as if he were walking th
rough a dream. Wasn't it only yesterday he'd felt the nudge to sell his farm and donate his profits toward building a new church?
At the conclusion of Bess's hymn, the congregation hushed, settled into their spots, and pointed their gazes to the front of the sanctuary. With a smile on his face, Jon approached the roughhewn pulpit, Bible in hand and bookmarked at Psalm 118.
Clearing his throat, he swallowed the unexpected nervous knot that had grown up in his throat, opened the book at the appropriate spot, and, with booming voice, read, "This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it!"
Emnia's body shifted uncomfortably when she listened to the Reverend Atkins' pealing voice, his convicting words in his sermon titled "The God Who Hears" making her pulse tick at a faster-than-normal pace. When Fancy leaned into her shoulder mid-way through Jon's message and whispered, "My, ain't he a fine-looking man," Emma's jaw had dropped. Yes, he was that, but she wouldn't be admitting any such thing to Fancy Jenkins. Instead, she'd nudged her gently with an elbow and stifled a hysterical giggle.
For a change, though, it wasn't his superb looks that had her heart thrumming out of control. In fact, she couldn't quite pinpoint the root of the problem, unless it was the nudge in her own side that she suspected might be coming from the Lord Himself.
How much longer will you run from Me, My child? Don't you tire of carrying around all that bitterness? Won't you let Me help you take it off your shoulders? I can do that for you, you know. There is hope and healing.
"Are you seeking something, but can't quite figure out what it is? Are you looking for a purpose in your life, but finding little meaning?" Jon asked. "Do you have an empty heart that needs filling? Are you acquainted with the One who can fill it?"
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 25