Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3)
Page 26
All these questions, first from her head and then from that-that fine-looking man! Emma had the strongest urge to rise up out of this harder-than-a-brick pew-did they make church pews hard for a reason, so folks wouldn't get too comfortable?-and escape for a breath of fresh air. Suddenly she felt so hemmed in, so conscience stricken.
That morning Ezra had gotten himself out of bed and declared he was going to church, and she'd denied him that wish. "It's impossible!" she'd declared, easing him back to bed. Luckily, Jon had left the house at dawn or he'd have surely found a way to get hint to services even if meant bringing him in on a stretcher. He'd looked as pale as the moon and as gaunt as a goat on its last legs. "I don't want to be responsible for yer fallin' or soniethin'," she'd told him, hands on her hips. Besides, what in the world iL of ld folks think?-the words sat on her tongue as well. It would cause a stir, all right, his coming through the big, wide doors. Why, she could almost picture Iris Winthrop's pinched expression now as she craned her neck to watch the proceedings. As far as she knew, he'd never graced the inside of a church, and starting now, when lie was so weak and frail, seemed a silly venture.
He'd looked at her from his spot on the edge of the bed, his deep-socketed eyes clouded with inquiry, his warbled breaths clamoring to get out. "Why you been goin'?"
He might have thrown her across the room the way the question hammered through her heart. Yes, why? She'd never gone to church in her life, either, but from the day Grace's letters started coming, an undetermined longing for something more had come to roost in her soul. She'd thought that going to church might alleviate that need, but so far, it had done nothing but make her vulnerable. In all her born clays she'd never dealt with so much inner turmoil. Even as a child, she'd learned the art of coping under stress, strapping down her emotions so they couldn't bubble forth. Lately, though, tears threatened almost daily.
"I'm not exactly sure. I guess it feels like the thing to do." She dropped down beside hire then and felt her shoulders sag, felt the ancient mattress tilt precariously with her added weight.
"It's that preacher," Ezra stated.
She slanted her head at hini with a curious look. "What do you mean?"
He gave his gray head a half shake. "He talks to ya like ya was somebody important, like ya really matter to him and to God. I tol' ya I'm thinkin' deep about the stuff he's been sayin'. I ain't long for this earth, Emma. I'm squarin' things away with my Maker."
She should have viewed hiiii with compassion, hauled him up and made an effort to get him to the church, but instead that old sense of anger circled around her heart again. She'd jumped to her feet quick, as if a bee had poked her in the backside, then pressed the wrinkles out of her skirt. Whether it was his admission that he was dying or his remark about setting things right with God that had her reeling with confusion, she couldn't say. All she knew was that she'd left him to his own defenses not ten minutes later, shutting the door behind her and heading up the street to Hickman's brand-new clapboard church, mingling in with the others who strolled up the sidewalk in their Sunday duds, and feeling like the worst kind of human being.
Jon's sermon wound down with his final point: God hears the prayer of the righteous. In his deepest parts, he knew he held his audience captive, not because of anything he'd said, but because of the way the Lord's words had fairly flowed from his mouth. Not for a minute would he take the credit for the Spirit's moving.
Sunlight pierced through spotless windows, glancing off the faces of those sitting in its direct path. Eiiiiiia's face, while lit with glowing rays, betrayed some dark emotion he couldn't quite place. Lord, help her find her way to You, he prayed, even as he delivered the last of his message. And help me to be patient while I wait for You to work.
The big doors opened as he prepared to announce the benediction. Heads turned, eyes gaped wide, jaws dropped, and gasps of heaved-in air echoed off the plaster walls. Even Jon, hands extended to deliver the blessing, paused midsentence to stare down the center aisle with utter stupefaction.
"I got soniethin' to say-if ya don't mind, preacher kid." Unconinionly steady, considering his condition, Ezra Browning stood in the doorway flanked by Wes Clayton and Elliott Newman. Luke stood behind the threesome, his ear-to-ear grin nearly splitting his pudgy face in two. Not only that, he looked proud as a peacock, as if he alone were responsible for seeing Ezra to the church, and never mind their lack of punctuality.
Jon lowered his hands to his sides and cleared his throat, issuing a silent prayer for wisdom and guidance. In haste he sought out Emma but found her body turned full around like that of everyone else.
"May we be seated, folks? I believe this is important."
Hushed voices exchanged hurried phrases as, one by one, folks repositioned themselves, most looking bewildered, and who could blame them? How often did the town drunk cone to Sunday service and ask for their ear? Of course, Iris Winthrop took the cake with her haughty, contorted smirk, her floral headpiece tilting to the point of almost falling off when she jerked her head around to watch Ezra Browning's grand entrance.
Whining children, obviously put out by the delay, precipitated the need for a few mothers to usher them out, but for the most part, everyone stayed, including the ashen-faced Enmia, whom Jon worried might flee at any moment like a scared rabbit.
With assistance on either side of him, Ezra made his way to the front, shoulders straighter than usual, craggy face pulled taut by what could only have been sheer determination. His clothes hung rather off-kilter, but that was probably due to his weight loss. Had Emilia dressed him before coming to church, or had one of the boarders? Jon had felt bad about leaving the chore to someone else when he'd been taking full responsibility for his care, but on this, his first Sunday in the new church, he'd wanted to spend some extra time in prayer, so he'd left the house well before Ezra's waking.
"He'p nie up then steps," Ezra instructed in a hoarse tone when they finally reached the front, their progress so slow that Jon felt certain most watched with long-held breaths. "When I say my piece I want to see their faces."
Wes and Elliott exchanged a look but helped him up the two steps, Luke standing at the ready, looking all-important. Jon would commend the pair later for their kindness. He doubted either one had seen the inside of a church in years, so to march before the congregation now, making spectacles of themselves, must surely have taken courage. What must Ezra have said to convince them to swallow their pride? Shoot, they'd even spiffed themselves up for the occasion, lie noted, Wes's grayish hair plastered down with gel and parted down the middle, Elliott's white shirt appearing just pressed.
Jon stepped forward to relieve the men of their responsibility. When they turned, the front row quickly squeezed together to make room. Jon sent them all a grateful glance.
A quick assessment ruled Ezra capable of standing. Lord, please lend him strength for whatever it is he wants to say, and plant a seed of compassion in the hearts of Your people, he prayed.
His arni stationed around Ezra's curved shoulder, he asked, "What is it you've cone to say, Ezra?"
The fellow breathed deep, and for a change didn't expel a loud wheeze. If anything, he stood taller than usual, chest out, chin held high. "I cone to confess my sinfulness," he announced. The buzz that simple statement evoked nearly rocked the little church off its fresh foundation. Jon hushed them with a silent look.
"Go on," he urged, willing himself to remain calm despite the inner joy that sought to burst right through his shirt.
"I figure the whole town knows 'bout my past, what a scoundrel I been. I got no real excuse for my behavior 'cept to say that the devil hisself had a grip on me. But today I'm here to tell ya the devil's got no more say. I give my heart to the Lord jus' the other night while I laid in my bed." An undertone of awe whistled through the place. Warmth, like wildfire, spread the length of Jon's tall frame. Lord, is this really happening? He wanted to gauge the look on Emma's face, but he dared not move his gaze from Ezra.
Jon could feel the pounding of his heart clear to his temples. He squeezed Ezra's shoulder a little tighter. "Keep going, niy friend."
"My wife died back in '68 right after Emma was born, an' niy heart liked to broke in two. I didn't know how to be a pa, as most o' you know, so I did the worst thin' of all, I run from the responsibility, lost m'self in strong drink, treated my girl as if she wusn't even there, most days.
"It was a big mistake and one I been payin' fer ever since. Lost the respect of niy friends, what few I had, but worst, I lost niy girl."
At that, Ezra shot a fleeting glance out over the congregation until he found where Emma sat. He gave her a long, penetrating look. "Cain't blame 'er none for hatin' me as she does, but I'm here to say to her and to you all that I'm plenty sorry for my acts."
Stunned was about the only word Jon could think of to describe her expression; that, and perhaps wariness and disbelief. If ever he'd prayed without ceasing, it was now.
"The preacher here's been tellin' me 'bout God's love. Seems unlikely the Almighty could love such scum as nie, but accordin' to the Bible I been readin', it's true enough. Matter o' fact, He loves every one of you as well. `Bless the Lord who forgiveth all our sins,' is what I read three nights ago. `His mercy endureth forever."'
Ezra paused and cleared his throat.
Had a pin dropped to the oak plank floor, the sound would have carried up the road. A baby's whimpering cries split through the hushed air.
"After I read that verse I closed my eyes right there on my bed and asked the Lord to forgive me. A peace come over me like a flowin' river, ain't no other way to describe it."
"Amen, brother!" came the resounding affirmation from someone in the back.
"Hallelujah!" someone else shouted, to which the congregation broke into spontaneous applause.
And that's when Jon's gaze snagged hold of Emma's and she leaped to her feet. It was perhaps, in her mind, her only recourse. Escape. She slipped past Fancy Jenkins and then the Warner fancily, and with head pointed downward, hurried up the center aisle and out the double doors.
Eninia clumped down the sidewalk toward home, her heart beating out of her chest, her eyes pointed to her feet lest anyone try to stop her along the way. Tears longed to explode from the back of her eyes, but she held them at bay. No doubt, it would have made more sense to sit there with the rest of the congregation while her father confessed, but she couldn't. His words had pulled too tightly at her heart, like a cinched cord that squeezed and squeezed. Mercy, if she hadn't left, she'd have passed out from lack of proper breathing. Even now, beads of sweat erupted on her forehead and drizzled down her face, a result of her burned-out emotions.
Imagine! Ezra Browning a born-again Christian. Why, he'd stood right there in front of God and everyone and confessed his sins. Yet, the most remarkable thing of all, she ruled, was that irrefutable look of radiance on his face. She couldn't get it out of her mind.
She passed the mercantile on her left, the CLOSED sign hanging crooked on the door latch, and then Winthrop's Dry Goods, the wrought-iron bench in front that usually held a body or two now sitting vacant. She stepped off the sidewalk and crossed the dusty alley. When she shot a glance sideways, she saw Edgar Blake and Amos Jordan sitting on the steps of Zeke's Barbershop. Both lifted their hands and waved. She responded in kind, taking care not to slow her pace.
A giant step up and she found herself on the sidewalk again, tramping past a closed Flanders' Food Store. Orville Bordon crossed the street in front of her, giving her a tip of his hat and a casual nod. "Mornin' to you, Miss Emma," he called. "Or perhaps good afternoon is more like it. I see you been goin' to church lately. How you like that brand new building?"
"It's fine, very nice." She hoped she didn't sound too curt.
"Service must be over then?" he asked, pausing in the middle of the quiet street to ask the question.
"Just about," she said. Oh dear, what kind of answer was that? Now he'd know she'd left before the final benediction.
But if he thought it odd, he didn't say; he merely nodded and smiled. "Well, you have a good day now."
She resumed her hurried steps, anxious to reach the confines of her private quarters. Since Sunday's meal always consisted of leftovers, there would be plenty of time for her to gather up her frayed nerves and put them to rights again before facing her boarders-and her father. What would she say to him-to Jon? What did they expect her to say? She batted at damp eyes, glad that Mr. Bordon hadn't lingered.
Anxiety seized her chest as she thought about Jon, so tall and handsome standing there before his little congregation, so full of goodness and compassion. What a contrasting pair they made; he so faith-driven, she so faithless; he contented and at peace, she still gorging on the pain of the past.
Let it go, Einina, Grace had said in one of her letters. It isn't worth the battle.
She sighed as she lengthened her gait, staring down at her dusty high-top shoes.
Up the street, a horse-drawn rig, driven by Mort Brackett and carrying a female passenger, pulled into a spot in front of the post office. Since the stagecoach rarely stopped in Little Hickman, the fellow often delivered folks to and from Lexington for a fee. Rather curious about the woman he'd transported, Emma stopped at the base of her porch steps to have a look. Mr. Brackett jumped down, had a word with his passenger, and walked around to the back of the wagon.
Something stately and proper about her manner kept Eninia gawking. My, she was a fair-looking type with her green-what was it? Brocade?-traveling gown and matching jacket, a feathery, flowery hat sitting at just the right angle on her head, a shiny black bag resting on her lap, a parasol hanging over one arm. She spoke to Mr. Brackett in a soft voice then pointed at her trunk. He heaved it off the back of the wagon, carried it around to the front, and then returned to fetch her off her high perch. Even from where she stood, Emma heard the very cordial "Thank you, sir."
She had to be well bred, Emma thought. No one she knew ever gave the scruffy Mr. Brackett the title of sir.
After giving a little shake of the head, she was about to turn when Mr. Brackett caught her eye. "There she is," he said, pointing. "Afternoon, Miss Eninia!" he hollered.
She made a shield from the noonday sun with her hand. "Good day to you, Mr. Brackett."
Not wanting to appear overly nosy about the female traveler, she took to her steps again.
"Wait! Emma?" the woman called to her.
She paused and turned. "Yes?"
The woman approached, parasol in hand, bag hauled over her slender shoulder. The smile on her face, warns and vaguely familiar, caused a catch in Emma's throat, which kept her from swallowing. No, it couldn't be.
"I-I'm sorry to say I don't have any extra rooms," she sputtered.
The fair lady looked to be in her late thirties or early forties. And, yes, it was a fine brocade she wore, definitely storebought, and looking mighty expensive.
The smile on her face never let up. If anything, it broadened as she looked Emilia up and down.
"You're even prettier than I imagined."
"What?"
Miss Tabitha meowed from the screen door, letting it be known she wanted out. From under the porch, No-name emerged, stretched his long, scrawny frame, and yawned. As if he'd just noticed the stranger, he hobbled over to her and greeted her by way of a sniff.
"You told me your hair was blond, but I didn't picture it quite so long and flowing, and your lovely face, well, how often does a person describe herself to a tee?" She giggled and revealed bright teeth, the middle front one turned slightly in.
"Pardon?" Eninia took one step down, bringing her that much closer to the regally clad woman. "You aren't...." She squinted, swallowed, tamped down a wave of excitement.
She nodded, fast
, several times. "Yes! I'm Grace. Grace Giles."
"No. Grace? My cousin, Grace?"
The rapid nods continued.
Emma's hand pressed flat across her open mouth.
"I hope I'm not coming at a bad time. Your last letter, well, it sounded somewhat desperate. And you said if I ever wanted to visit, I could share a room with you. My cook and wait staff urged me to cone. Matter of fact, I told you in one of my letters I was thinking of selling. My cook is very interested in buying my business-he and his wife, of course. She also works for me. They're giving it a trial run this next week."
Her babbling persisted while Eninia's mind tried to sort it all out. Grace, her only known relative, had come all the way from Chicago just to see her? It seemed too good to be true.
It took two steps down to get to ground level, and when she did, she threw her arms around her cousin's neck and wept.
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still can't believe you're here," Emma said. She plopped down on her bed, exhausted. "That trunk was heavy. What on earth did you put in it?" She slid over and patted the place beside her, a silent invitation to her cousin to sit.
"I can hardly believe it myself." Rather than sit, though, Grace ran to the window to look out. "Oh, my, what a lovely garden. Your sunflowers reach nearly to the clouds."
"Aren't they soniethin', though? I didn't expect such a crop of 'em. I guess I threw out more seeds than I realized."
"I do so miss flowers in my little Chicago apartment. There's just so much room out here. I can't get over the lush trees, the green, rolling hills, the lovely, wide-open skiesand the birds. My! Everywhere I look, nature abounds. Why, you must awake each morning and thank God for the beauty of His creation. Me, I wake up to the sights and sounds and smells of the city. Oh, it's not that I'm ungrateful, mind you. I'm thankful for my very lucrative business. It's just that as I age, I find the city less and less appealing."