One More Kiss

by Kim Amos

Caring for Betty would make him feel an ocean of emotions, but instead of drowning in them, he would let them buoy him. He would defend her and love her furiously and deeply and completely. He would let the emotions make him strong, not weak.

  He tore down more signs, one after the other, wondering who would have done this, and why. He would defend Betty to them if she wanted him to. He would confront them but not with fists. He would rage internally, but then let the grace and love that God had taught him underscore all his actions externally. He ripped and shredded and pulled until his breath puffed white in the clear cold. He was breathing hard—chest rising and falling—when he caught the scent.

  Raspberry.

  His gut was instantly filled with iron and thorns. He sniffed again, just to be sure. The sweet, flowery smell was there again, even stronger. It was in the ink. It was from the markers themselves.

  Glancing at his watch, he realized he’d let too much time pass. He set his jaw, knowing what he needed to do. He glimpsed the church at the end of Main Street, the steeple glinting in the frosty morning like the hilt of a giant’s blade. He bundled the scraps of paper in his arms, tape twisting and fluttering along the edges, and strode purposefully up the street.

  It was time to find Valerie Lofgren and have a talk with her.

  And he had a pretty good idea where she was right this minute.

  Minutes later, he shouldered open the back door of the church. It was already unlocked since Celia was always the first one in on Sundays, setting out bulletins and vacuuming and helping ready the place for Sunday service. Clutching his tattered bundle, he headed toward his office, knowing what he would see when he rounded the corner. And sure enough, there she was. Same as ever. Armed for Sunday morning with a long list of things she wanted to discuss with him. Valerie’s constant presence in his quarters made sense to him now, of course. He only wished he’d put it together before.

  Valerie was seated in one of the battered chairs for guests alongside the wall outside his office. Her legs were crossed and her back was straight. If her face paled slightly when she saw what was in his arms, she covered it admirably.

  “Good morning, Pastor. That’s quite a bundle you have there. Need a hand?”

  He didn’t respond, only kicked open the door to his office and dropped the entire pile of scraps on his desk.

  “I wanted to stop by because I had some updates to the bulletin,” Valerie said, smiling as she followed him into his office, “and we may want to think about repainting the lines around the handicapped parking space, so that Mrs. Ivard’s wheelch—”

  “No,” he said, cutting her off abruptly. “You will not stand here and pretend to be an upstanding member of this congregation after this.” He gestured to the pile of scraps. “Care to explain yourself?”

  Valerie tilted her head, smoothing back a piece of hair as she did so. He watched her fingers tuck the errant strand in place, and wondered at her shiny nails, her clean cuticles. They were the opposite of Betty’s hands, which were work-worn and sturdy.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I’d like you to use a different tone with me, please.”

  “I’ll use whatever tone I need to,” he said, low and furious. Her eyes widened.

  “Excuse me, Pastor, but I believe—”

  “Right now, I don’t care what you believe. I care about what you’ve done. So you need to tell me immediately how these signs came to be placed on Betty Lindholm’s shop front in the dead of night, reeking like your raspberry markers.”

  Her face did pale then, and God help him, he relished the sight. He savored the feeling of sticking up for Betty, even though she was strong enough not to need him. But that was the best part. He wasn’t doing this because he had to—because she compelled him to or liquor gave him false bravado—but simply because it felt good. It felt right.

  He’d gotten a taste of the emotions that Betty Lindholm could send coursing through him, and the only thing he wanted was more of the same. More of her. More of them together. Always.

  God had forgiven him for his past. Gus had forgiven him. And somewhere, he wanted to believe, Shawn had forgiven him, too.

  The only person who hadn’t forgiven Randall Sondheim was Randall Sondheim.

  Because of that, buried in the back of his mind, had been the question of whether he deserved someone like Valerie. Someone who would keep him from feeling too much, who would never ignite emotions in him that could lead to passion or rampant fervor of any sort, who would keep his spirit tidily in place while wearing her pearls and smart shoes.

  But no more.

  He’d allowed her to prattle around his office—and around his life—enough. And now it was time to put an end to things.

  “I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about,” Valerie said, indignant. “And if you’ll excuse me, I don’t need to stand here and be questioned like this.” She turned to leave, but he brought his fist down on the desk with such loud force that she stopped, frozen.

  “This is not a game,” he said. “You are a member of the church board, which you delight in reminding me of almost daily. So as a member of this church board, you either come clean about the vandalism, or I’m going to take this to the cops. I’m sure they’ll be interested to know about someone slandering a local business.”

  Valerie opened her mouth, then closed it. Her lips trembled. “You’re making too much of this. I only wanted to pass along a message of edification.”

  Randall scoffed. “Edification? This is not noble work, Valerie. You did it in the middle of the night. Under cover of darkness so you wouldn’t be discovered. That’s not how heroes behave.”

  “I…” She trailed off, her words fading.

  “Why did you do it?” he demanded. She shook her head, but he refused to relent. “Tell me why.”

  “Surely you…” She swallowed hard, tried again. “Surely you must understand why I did it, Randall.” She paled visibly. “I thought it would be glaringly obvious by now.”

  She was saying what he’d finally brought to the forefront of his brain, what he’d finally let him self grasp. She had feelings for him.

  “Valerie,” he said, more gently this time, “that hardly excuses this behavior. Trying to disparage Betty’s business? Because you liked me? It’s straight out of high school.”

  Valerie’s eyes flashed defiantly. “Well, it feels like high school,” she said. “Betty Lindholm had her claws into Cole Anderson for years, and she never let anyone else have a chance with him. So I took matters into my hands. Same as now. Her business is dark and ghoulish and ungodly this time of year. So I did something about it. Then and now, I look at all this as rightful action.”

  “I look at it as borderline criminal,” Randall said, working to keep his voice even. “And certainly not the behavior of someone who sits on the board of this church. I need to ask you to resign immediately.”

  Valerie blinked rapidly. “Resign? For this?” She waved her hand at the crumpled signs as if they were nothing more than a few Post-its.

  “As I said, effective immediately.”

  She gave him a shaky smile. “Randall, this is all a misunderstanding. I care about you. I’m sorry if I didn’t express it correctly. But you have to know how I feel.”

  Randall felt a twinge of compassion for her then. He welcomed it. It was a reminder that no one was without sin and screwups. Especially not him.

  “I can appreciate that,” he said slowly, “and as I said, I’m flattered. But I don’t feel the same way.”

  “Because of her,” Valerie said, her neck cords straining under her pearls. “Because of Betty.”

  “Yes. I’m in love with her.” It felt incredible to admit it out loud. “I love Betty Lindholm.”

  Valerie’s aquamarine eyes filled with tears. “I feel like I lose everything to her some days. Isn’t that silly? But I do. To a girl they used to call Bucky in high school. Did you know that? She was the beaver because of her teeth. They were awf
ul. And Cole Anderson still picked her over me.”

  Randall’s heart plummeted. He didn’t know that at all. He clenched his fists, wishing he could have known Betty back then and could have told her how beautiful she was.

  “I know I shouldn’t be mad at her,” Valerie said, her voice choked, “but I can’t help it. She gets everything I want. Why is that? Because that’s a sermon I’d love to hear.”

  “Surely she doesn’t get everything you want,” Randall said. “Does she?”

  “No,” Valerie agreed, “it only feels that way sometimes.”

  “Maybe,” Randall said, taking a step forward, “something to consider is how Betty simply is who she is. No pretense, no filter. You know what you’re getting with her.”

  “What, and I’m some kind of enigma or something?”

  “No, but some days it does seem like you’re hiding behind a veneer of some sort. Like, what would happen if you didn’t wear lipstick, for example? Or you wore flip-flops instead of heels? Maybe folks might want to see that side of you. Does that make sense?”

  Valerie drew in a shaky breath. “I suppose it does,” she whispered, wiping a tear that had found its way down her cheek. “I think most days I’m just worried people won’t like me if they know who I really am. Like how I haven’t sold a house in a month, and I have a scar on my butt—seriously, right across both cheeks from a biking accident—and I have no idea what the difference is between a cabernet and a merlot. None.”

  Randall grinned, unable to help himself. “That’s actually pretty endearing. I think that’s the kind of thing people want to hear more of. Not less.”

  Valerie wiped her nose. “Seriously?”

  “Well, I can’t guarantee anything, but just remember, everyone is thinking the exact same thing, okay? On some level we’re all insecure about who we are and what we feel.”

  “Even you?” she asked.

  “Especially me,” he admitted. And then, on a whim, he pulled up his sleeves. “I have tattoos,” he said. “I’ve always kept them hidden. But now I think maybe I’ll start showing them to people.”

  Valerie’s gaze was wide. “I had no clue.”

  “Yep. That was the general idea.”

  She looked up at him with bleak remorse. “If I promise to be better—if I promise to try anyway—can I still be on the church board? I know I acted like a jerk with those signs, and I’m sorry. Truly. But I love this church. I really do.”

  Randall pressed his fingertips together. Time would tell if Valerie was serious. Which was fine, because he could give the situation as much time as it needed.

  “Let’s do this,” he said carefully. “Why don’t you take a leave of absence from the board and tell everyone you’re going to volunteer for some community organizations. And as part of that, you can ask Betty if you might volunteer to help her for, say, ten hours in her shop every week. I’m sure she’d welcome the extra pair of hands. But you’ll need to talk to her about it and make sure. That is, after you apologize to her directly.”

  Valerie stiffened but nodded. “All right,” she said. She looked like she was going to go, but then paused.

  “There’s something else you should know,” she said, picking nervously at the skin around her thumb. “I changed this morning’s bulletin. I took out the part about the church partnering with Betty.”

  “You what?”

  “You’ll have to announce it from the pulpit. I’m sorry, Randall. I’ve acted selfishly and stupidly. I’ll tell Betty the truth about what I’ve done. I promise. I’ll take full responsibility.”

  There was a shuffling behind them, and they turned to see Celia in the doorway, pointing at her watch. “T-minus two minutes, Pastor,” she said. “The sanctuary is nearly full.”

  He glanced at Valerie, whose face was streaked with fresh tears.

  “Any chance you forgot to put out the bulletins?” he asked his secretary.

  Celia raised her brows. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

  For once, he wished his secretary wasn’t so competent. “No reason,” he said, wincing inwardly. What would Betty think when she sat down and saw the blank space where their partnership was supposed to be? She would think the deal had been revoked, and that “taking things slowly” was code for him not caring for her or her business.

  That is, if she didn’t think that way already.

  “Sorry again,” Valerie whispered, and turned to go. Celia followed her. Randall glanced furtively at the clock. One minute until he was going to stand in front of his entire congregation and he had nothing prepared. Not a single thing.

  But maybe Valerie had given him more than just an apology.

  If he thought about it, she may have just handed him the boldest, most daring sermon of his life.

  He took a breath, and headed for the sanctuary.

  Chapter Seven

  Betty was bleary-eyed from too little sleep and too much coffee in the past twenty-four hours, but that didn’t stop her from seeing if she could catch Jessie Reid before the Lutheran church service stared.

  Thankfully, the girl’s 1940s up-do was as hard to miss as her sister Olive’s flaming pink pixie cut.

  As she wove through the morning service crowd, trying to get to Jessie, she heard the murmurs from the congregants around her. Bits of conversation reached her ears. “Satan” and “darkness” and “not shopping there” had her skin prickling. Her face flamed. She caught Red Updike’s eye, but the old farmer glanced away quickly. Fat lot of good praying did was the vibe she got off him.

  She willed herself to be strong, to not let her chin tilt anywhere but up. She vowed not to remember the way she’d glanced at the church bulletin this morning, and her body had gone cold with the realization that Randall had pulled any mention of supporting Knots and Bolts. Even in spite of the financial benefit it stood to give him.

  The surprise of it had left a bitter taste in her mouth, one she was having trouble swallowing down. But swallow it she would. Because now there was no one left to tell the good people of White Pine that she didn’t pose any Satanic threat and shouldn’t be boycotted.

  She had to fix this mess herself.

  “Jessie,” she said, slightly out of breath as she caught up to the young woman. They both stopped next to a stained glass window depicting Jesus with a flock of lambs. “Can I speak with you for a minute?”

  The young girl’s bright red lips parted in a smile. “Hi, Betty! Of course. If you’re here to ask if we made more blueberry fritters, the answer is yes. Sorry we ran out last week.”

  “Oh, it’s not that,” Betty said, clutching her phone tightly, the picture from the graveyard cued up in her image library. “I just wondered if I could talk to you about Olive.”

  Jessie rolled her eyes. “Did she get an order wrong for you? She messed up Arvid Faltskog’s latte on Friday and made it double-caf instead of no-caf, and the poor man e-mailed me at two thirty a.m. on Saturday morning to tell me he still hadn’t fallen asleep.” She laughed, deep and throaty, and Betty couldn’t help but smile, too. “I gave him a dozen free donuts to make up for it. And if you need something, too, it’s not a problem.”

  “It’s not that,” Betty said, a nervous fluttering in her stomach. She wondered suddenly if she was doing the right thing, going to Jessie about the picture. It felt better than going to the police, or to the girls’ parents, whom she didn’t know. She had a feeling Jessie was the one keeping the closest eye on her sister, and she hoped her instincts were right.

  “I’m in sort of a pickle with Knots and Bolts,” she said, hoping she sounded calm and reasonable, “because of all the recent damage to property around town in conjunction with Halloween. Normally it wouldn’t affect me at all, but I had that banner up for a short time—”

  “The Satan is here one, yeah,” Jessie said, nodding. “I remember.”

  “Well, that, coupled with a Halloween display I’d made, has people kind of worried that maybe I’m connected to all the graffiti an
d smashed pumpkins, and that they shouldn’t support my store.”

  Jessie’s eyes were wide in her pretty face. “Seriously? That’s, like, the stupidest conclusion to jump to ever.”

  “Tell me about it,” Betty agreed. “So that’s why I decided to see if I couldn’t catch some of the Halloween vandals. Just to prove I wasn’t part of them. If I had a name and a face that weren’t mine connected to the damage, maybe the town would cut me some slack. You know?”

  “That makes total sense.” Jessie’s perfect brows drew together. “But I’m not sure what this has to do with me. Or the Rolling Pin?”

  The fluttering in Betty’s stomach had become a full-on roller coaster. “I may have had some luck snapping a picture of one of the vandals last night. Does this person look familiar to you?” She handed over her phone, grateful that her hands weren’t shaking too much.

  Jessie took the device and her countenance froze. Several tense moments passed. Finally, Jessie looked up through her darkly mascaraed eyelashes. “Where was this taken?”

  “At the cemetery.”

  Jessie’s jaw clenched visibly. “Were there any others?”

  “We saw other shapes, yes, but this is the only person we got on camera. Look, Jessie, I’m not trying to make trouble. And this is only one blurry photo. But I thought maybe you could talk—”

  “I’ll get her to stop,” Jessie said crisply. She suddenly looked weary. “One way or another, I’ll work on her. And I’m sorry, Betty. I am. Things are just tough.”

  Betty grabbed the young woman’s hand. The organ was playing. Service was starting. “How so?” she asked, even as she knew they should find their seats. “What’s going on?”

  Jessie looked off, like she could see through the stained glass window, straight into the bright fall morning. “Olive lives with me now. She was with our mom, but Mom isn’t exactly Mother of the Year material. And I mean—I got her the job at the bakery, and I thought things were okay, but I guess they’re not.”

  “They’re not falling apart either, though,” Betty said gently. “This isn’t prison-level stuff. It’s mostly petty. We all did stupid things when we in high school. Frankly, I wouldn’t care at all if my store wasn’t at risk.”