Grace and the Preacher

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She aimed her smile at her uncle. “Would it be all right if  I invited guests to our house for next Sunday’s noon meal? I know we usually eat sandwiches alone, but I enjoyed our dinner and conversation at Mrs. Kirby’s house so much. I’d like to reciprocate and invite her and her boarders for dinner next week.”

  His eyebrows rose. “That means an additional six people around the table.”

  Grace’s cheeks heated. “Actually, by next week it will be seven. Mr. Dille will have arrived by then and will be residing in the boardinghouse.”

  A brief  flicker of something not quite comprehensible danced through his eyes, but he blinked, and the expression cleared. “Well, if  I’m not mistaken, there are enough leaves stored under my bed to stretch the table to an adequate length, and if people don’t mind sitting on mismatched chairs, everyone will have a seat. But are you sure you’re up to such an undertaking? We’ve never, er, hosted quite so many before.”

  Grace stopped and turned an imploring look on her uncle. “I know we haven’t invited people for a meal before, and if you consider it an inconvenience, I won’t ask them to come. But Mrs. Kirby told me today she believes I have the gift of servanthood. I wonder if she’s right, because watching her serve all of us today with such a cheerful attitude stirred the desire to be like her.”

  He gently squeezed her upper arms. “You couldn’t choose a better woman as an example to follow. If you feel this tug on your heart, then I won’t discourage you. I can give you some assistance since I won’t have any other responsibilities next Sunday morning.” His expression clouded.

  Guilt struck. She gripped his hands. “Is it too soon to host a gathering? I know stepping down from the pulpit is hard for you. If you’d rather I waited—”

  “No, no, Grace.” He smiled, his lips half  hidden by his mustache but his eyes glowing with sincerity. “I won’t squelch your eagerness. I trust Mrs. Kirby’s judgment about your gift of servanthood, and it will do my heart good to see you using a special gift from the Spirit. Let me know what items you’ll need for your special dinner next week, and I’ll visit the mercantile for you. Besides…”—he turned her toward the house, slipped his arm around her waist, and ushered her forward—“helping you prepare for guests will make me feel useful.”

  Grace fell silent as they entered the house. Uncle Philemon went straight to his bedroom for his customary Sunday afternoon nap. Grace hung her shawl on a hook by the door and crossed to their little parlor to read. As she settled on the sofa with a copy of  George Eliot’s The Mill on the Floss, she suddenly remembered something. When referring to Mrs. Kirby, Uncle Philemon had said, “You couldn’t choose a better woman as an example to follow.” She shot a startled look toward his closed bedroom door, a question rising in her throat—a question she would never ask out loud. Why hadn’t he chosen Aunt Wilhelmina as her example to follow?

  Grace

  Grace awakened Monday morning with an even fiercer determination to make Uncle Philemon’s farewell picnic a joyful event. Her uncle’s reluctance to leave the church building after service yesterday and his dismal comment about being useful haunted her. He needed a day of  laughter, happiness, and celebration, and she would see that he received it.

  Before leaving for the post office, she made a list of the items she wanted from the mercantile so she could prepare a fine dinner for her guests next Sunday. With the picnic taking up most of  Saturday, she’d need to prepare as much as possible before then. She left her uncle sitting at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee in one hand and her list in the other.

  She hurried through her usual duties—dusting, sweeping, carrying the rubbish from the tin basket beside the counter to the burn barrel behind the building, and replacing the Wanted posters with the new ones that had arrived with Friday’s mail. She smiled as she tacked the row of  black-and-white printed pages on the board. After school the older boys would gather around the board, memorize the faces on the posters, and hope to spot one of the outlaws so they could turn him in and claim the reward. To her knowledge an outlaw had never been captured in Fairland, but that didn’t keep the boys from dreaming.

  Shortly before noon Mrs. Kirby entered the office, her familiar smile in place. “Good morning, Grace. I came to see if anyone else had brought a note to add to the reverend’s book. I’m half afraid to ask. The book is already so thick he might need a wheelbarrow to tote it home.”

  Grace pointed to the basket on the counter. “Only three came in this morning. I don’t expect a lot more this week. Most people were so eager they brought their notes the first week after my announcement in church.”

  “Well, there are always some who procrastinate, so I’ll check with you every morning this week just in case. We don’t want to leave anyone out.” Mrs. Kirby transferred the folded pages from the basket to her reticule. “But I believe I’ll set these aside until Friday. Then I can arrange the last notes pleasingly rather than haphazardly. That is, if waiting is all right with you, dear.”

  “Whatever you believe is best is fine with me. I trust you.”

  The woman beamed. “I’m so eager to see your uncle’s face when we present him with his remembrance book. It will mean so much to him to know how thoroughly he has blessed the people in this community.” A serious look replaced her bright smile. “I couldn’t stop thinking about him last night. Well, worrying about him, I suppose. He wouldn’t have released his position as our church shepherd unless he knew without a doubt it was God’s will for him. Your uncle is nothing if not obedient to his Father’s voice. But does he know what he will do to fill his time? I’ve seen many men grow old and despondent when their lifework is no longer theirs. I think your uncle would guard against such behavior, but he is a man, after all, not a saint, despite his fine character and reputation, and he has been a preacher for more than half of  his life.”

  Grace rounded the counter. “I confess, I’m worried about him, too.”

  Mrs. Kirby shook her head, making a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue. “If  he has any hobbies or special abilities—other than preaching, of course—now would be the time for him to pursue those interests. Is he especially adept at anything besides preaching?”

  Grace tapped her lips. “He always looks forward to readying the soil for our summer garden. Probably because his father had been a farmer.”

  The older woman’s face brightened. “If  he seems to be searching for ways to busy his hands, I would appreciate him turning the soil in my garden plot. I’d even be willing to pay him. Perhaps in cookies.” They laughed softly together, then Mrs. Kirby made a sour face. “I enjoy raising vegetables, and I certainly enjoy eating them, but preparing the ground to receive the seeds is something I don’t necessarily enjoy doing.”

  “I’ll mention it to him. I asked him to shop for our groceries this week, but—” She clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Mrs. Kirby, I almost forgot. Will you and your boarders join Uncle Philemon and me next Sunday after church for dinner?”

  “For dinner?” Her eyes widened. “All of us?”

  Grace nodded. “Yes. Uncle Philemon and I enjoyed our time with you so much yesterday. We want to return the favor, and it would let me”—suddenly self-conscious, she clasped her hands beneath her chin—“practice my hospitality. Will you come?”

  “Of course we’ll come. And I’ll bring dessert.” Mrs. Kirby laughed. “That is, if any of us still want sweets after the picnic. We social committee ladies intend to indulge your uncle’s sweet tooth with all of  his favorites—Viola’s pecan pie, Ione’s chocolate cake, Regina’s vanilla ice cream, and my oatmeal cookies.”

  “The ones with lots of cinnamon, raisins, and walnuts?” Grace’s mouth watered. “Uncle Philemon has declared he could eat a dozen of those all by himself.” And so could she, although admitting it would sound gluttonous.

  Mrs. Kirby laughed again, nodding. “That’s right. I’ve heard him say so. Well, then, I’ll make an extra batch and set them aside for y
our Sunday dinner. Then he’ll be sure to get his fill.” She touched Grace’s arm. “Are you sure you’re up to such an undertaking, dear? Cooking for a crowd is very different from cooking for two.”

  Grace chewed the corner of  her lip.

  The woman sighed. “Now, don’t misunderstand. I don’t want to discourage you. I merely want to be sure you know what a challenge you’re facing. Especially considering the picnic and all you’re doing to prepare for it. You might want to give yourself time to recuperate from Saturday’s big event before inviting a whole boardinghouse full of people to sit at your table.” She drew back, her lips parting slightly. “Oh…”

  Grace withdrew, too. “What?”

  Mischievousness glinted in the older woman’s eyes. “Grace, are you sure you wouldn’t rather ask just Reverend Dille to dinner and let the rest of the boarders and their crotchety landlady eat at their own table?”

  Grace sucked in her lips to keep from smiling. Mrs. Kirby was so wily. “You aren’t crotchety. And, yes, I’m sure.” Having lots of people would help her feel more at ease in Rufus’s presence. The thought of  being alone with him—even if  her uncle was close by—made her palms sweat. “I’ve already planned the meal and have sent Uncle Philemon shopping, so I hope you’ll all accept my invitation.”

  “Of course we will.” Mrs. Kirby crossed to the screen door and braced her hand on its frame. “And just as you did for me yesterday, I’ll help you wash the dishes afterward.” An impish grin twitched on her lips. “It will give us time to talk about the new preacher without anyone overhearing.”

  Grace burst out laughing. “Mrs. Kirby! You’d engage in gossip?”

  “Of course we wouldn’t gossip. But we could participate in an honest exchange of observations.” She laughed, too. “I have his room ready, and I’m keeping my eye out for his arrival. Will he come on the stagecoach?”

  “He has his own wagon and horses.” Grace knew from his letters that the team and wagon were left to him by his deceased parents. She and Rufus were both orphans, something that bound her to him with a cord of empathy. But she intended to allow him to share as much about his background as he wanted with the congregation. She wouldn’t betray his confidence in her by divulging too much before he arrived and be accused of tale bearing.

  “Well, then, we’ll watch for a young man arriving in his own wagon. By Wednesday, your uncle said?”

  “Or Thursday.” Eagerness fluttered through Grace’s middle. So few days remained until she would meet the man who’d stolen her heart with his thoughtfully penned missives. “Not long now.”

  “I look forward to meeting Reverend Dille and hearing him preach. If  I remember correctly, your uncle didn’t have formal training before he set off as an itinerant preacher and eventually settled here, helping to establish Fairland.”

  Uncle Philemon was woven into the fabric of this little town. Grace hoped he wouldn’t eventually regret resigning and appointing the position as minister to someone young and inexperienced, even if  he’d specially chosen that someone in the hopes he would someday become his new nephew-in-law.

  “Training or not, he certainly knew how to share the Word.” Mrs. Kirby continued, her tone musing. “It will be interesting to hear how a preacher who’s had training at a special school shares from the pulpit. Do you suppose Reverend Dille will be all fire and brimstone? I heard plenty of that kind in my younger years.”

  Judging by his letters, she was certain Rufus’s delivery would be straightforward and truthful. But she only smiled, aware of  her quivering lips. “We will know by next Sunday, won’t we?”

  Mrs. Kirby chuckled. “I suppose we will. All right, Grace, I’ll leave you alone now. Come by the house this evening if you’d like. The social committee ladies will be working on the decorations for the tables at the picnic. Ione wants to drape the tables with white linen and put pink crepe-paper roses on the corners, but Regina prefers red-checked tablecloths and red and white crepe-paper streamers in the trees. She said roses would seem too much like a wedding. If  Ione wins the battle, we’ll have to save the roses and use them again…sometime.” With a wink the woman stepped out the door.

  The subject of decorating became heated during the social committee meeting that evening. Grace wasn’t a member of the committee, but the women asked her opinion. She hesitantly admitted red-and-white checks seemed more masculine and therefore more appropriate for a picnic meant to honor a man. After a bit more discussion, Mrs. Hidde agreed to the bright-colored tablecloths. But she looked so disappointed Grace came close to assuring her that she’d still get the chance to decorate with white linen cloths and pink roses…someday. That night she drifted off to sleep with the vision of  fluffy pink crepe flowers floating in her head.

  On Tuesday morning rain clouds gathered. All afternoon a gentle rain sprinkled the town, raising a host of worries. Would the rain continue through the week, ruining their picnic plans? Was poor Rufus caught in the rain? She hated to think of  him sitting on the wagon seat, drenched to the skin, but if  he holed up somewhere, would it delay his arrival in Fairland? Grace prayed repeatedly during the long, drizzly day for the sun to appear again.

  Gratitude filled her on Wednesday when she awakened to birdsong and fingers of sunlight poking holes in the clouds. By noon the heaviest clouds had moved on, and the warm sun began to dry the moist earth, something she monitored while frequently peeking at the street in the hopes of spotting an unfamiliar wagon driven by the new preacher.

  Would he reach Fairland today? What would he say when he met her? Would he call her Miss Cristler or the more familiar Grace? If  he called her Grace—and, oh, how her heart pounded at the thought—would she have the courage to call him Rufus?

  She wished he would arrive that very minute so she could set aside this anxious anticipation, and at the same time she hoped he would wait until tomorrow so she’d have more time to prepare. She couldn’t remember ever being so nervous and so eager to meet someone face-to-face.

  Shortly after noon Mrs. Kirby visited the post office to check the note basket, which was empty. She balled her fists on her hips and clicked her tongue on her teeth. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that no one brought anything yesterday. Not too many people enjoy being out and about when rain is falling. That’s why I didn’t come in. I’m like a cat in that I only want to get wet under controlled circumstances. Who can control a rainstorm?”

  Despite her tangled nerves, Grace couldn’t resist a short laugh. Mrs. Kirby was such a gracious lady. Her sense of  humor always caught Grace by surprise. “I’ve wondered if  Ru—, Reverend Dille got caught in the rain yesterday and if it slowed his progress.”

  “It very well could have. Wagon wheels will sink into a muddy road, making it harder on the horses. A wise man won’t overwork his animals.”

  Grace fingered the lace collar she’d fastened over the neck of  her solid-green dress. “I suppose we shouldn’t expect him today then, hmm?”

  “Probably not.”

  For the first time in her life, she wanted to scold rain clouds.

  “But it wouldn’t hurt to watch for him, just in case. If  he drove through the rain yesterday, more than likely he’s bedraggled and soggy and will be eager for a warm, dry place to lay his head. Someone will need to direct him to the boardinghouse right away.” The glint of  humor Grace was beginning to recognize returned to the woman’s eyes. “Would you like me to park myself on the bench in front of the Farmers and Merchants Bank and act as a lookout?”

  Grace wanted to be the one to welcome Rufus to town. He’d indicated he would visit the post office on his arrival, but he’d have to drive past the bank in order to reach the post office. If  Mrs. Kirby spotted him first, she’d lead him to the boardinghouse before Grace had a chance to set eyes on him. Panic stampeded through her.

  She shook her head hard. “No, ma’am. No need for that. I’m sure you have other things to do besides watch for the new preacher.”<
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  The humorous glint turned knowing.

  Grace hurried on. “Everyone who comes to town passes by the post office. I’m sure I’ll see him, and I’ll be certain he knows the way to the boardinghouse.”

  With a soft chuckle Mrs. Kirby turned toward the door. “Very well, Grace. As I’ve already said, his room is ready for him. If all goes well, he’ll have the chance to settle in yet before night falls.”

  But he didn’t arrive in Fairland Wednesday afternoon. Or Thursday. By the time Grace closed the post office Thursday afternoon, her nerves were as taut as the lines of string Uncle Philemon had stretched to separate their garden rows. She shared her concerns with him at supper time, and he assured her that the rain had certainly delayed Rufus but he’d make his appearance in town on Friday. She hoped her uncle’s words proved true. All of  her waiting and wondering and worrying was eating a hole in her stomach.

  Friday’s mail delivery arrived on schedule, and Grace commended Mr. Lunger for being so timely despite the muddy road conditions.

  He shifted his hat to scratch his head. “Thank you for the compliment, but the roads were purty much dried up an’ passable already by Wednesday afternoon, Miss Cristler.”

  Grace scowled. If  Mr. Lunger could get through, why couldn’t Rufus?

  “Even if they hadn’t been, I’da still got here on time. Me an’ my team, we don’t let nothin’ stand in the way of  keepin’ our schedule.” He fingered the butt of the whip standing in its little holder next to the seat.

  Grace shuddered. She hoped Rufus wouldn’t be cruel enough to beat his animals into hurrying. Mr. Lunger was an experienced driver. Rufus likely was not. Uncle Philemon often preached on the importance of  letting patience have its perfect work. She’d simply have to exercise patience.