by Kim Amos
Up in front of the church, Randall was taking his place at the pulpit. The organ was sputtering its last chords.
“She doesn’t always listen to me,” Jessie said, “but I promise I’ll try to get her to stop. And if I need help, can I—that is, would you and the pastor be available? To talk to us, I mean?”
Betty’s whole body surged with longing. She wanted to say yes so badly, to tell Jessie that she and the pastor—together—would help her through the tough time with her sister. She could picture Randall and herself, shoulder to shoulder, counseling and helping the good people in this town who needed it. She felt the yearning for it like a blade through her sternum.
But right on its heels was an image of the church program—and the empty space at the bottom where their partnership was supposed to be. If she couldn’t count on him to honor their agreement about supporting the store, how could she count on him to honor any kind of agreement about something so much bigger?
She chewed the inside of her cheek. Last night, after talking with Stephanie and Willa, she’d thought she could give Randall time he needed, that she could be persuaded to slow down and take things nice and easy, at the pace he required. At the pace his heart required. Now she understood that things could never be slow enough for him, because when you ran from something like Randall did, every move toward what was true and right would feel like the devil himself was on your heels.
“I’ll be here anytime you need me,” she told Jessie, squeezing the girl’s hand. It was the best she could do for now. Her words felt thin, like old paper—but she meant every one of them.
“Want to sit with me?” Jessie whispered, glancing at the front of the church. Randall had performed the welcome and was already reading the announcements.
A big part of Betty had wondered if she should just skip the service entirely. She didn’t feel like being gawked at as a Satanist, or listening to Randall preach after he’d gone back on his word about the bulletin. But she didn’t want Jessie to feel alone or to feel like Betty was angry with her.
“We’d better find our seats fast,” Betty whispered back, “before the church accuses me of disrupting the service because I worship the Dark Lord.”
They hustled over to a pew toward the back. “I hope the sermon is about guarding our hearts against satin,” Jessie giggled, “and the thread of his work.”
Betty clapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Don’t cotton to evil,” she said through splayed fingers.
They finally quieted when two people in the pew in front turned to stare at them. Their dark looks had pipe down written all over them.
In spite of the admonishment, Betty didn’t feel her smile fade until Randall opened his Bible at the front of the sanctuary. Her muscles tightened with dread. The last person she wanted to hear preach right now was Randall.
She prayed God would give her the grace to endure it. And runner’s legs when it was over, so she could hightail it out of there.
* * *
Randall cleared his throat for the second time. His voice was shaking, even though it had been years since he’d been nervous in front of his flock.
Then again, it had been years since he’d felt this much about anything—anyone, to be clear—and he wanted so badly to get it right. In front of him, his gilded Bible pages gleamed in the light. He’d turned to Matthew, chapter seven, to one of his favorite scriptures about not crawling up people’s butts for things you yourself were guilty of. Not that the Bible used the phrase crawling up people’s butts.
It was a good message about fairness, and about not saying one thing and doing another.
Something Randall himself needed to face.
He could see Betty’s blond hair toward the back, her head bent over her Bible. His feet twitched, wanting to carry him off the stage and down to where she sat, but he commanded his body to stay put.
For now.
So he could fix the issue with the bulletin.
“Many of you know,” he said, squaring his shoulders and letting his voice carry though the sanctuary, “that our town has been beset by some Halloween pranksters lately. Many of you also know that one of our local businesses had an unfortunate typo appear on a sign above its door earlier this week.”
He saw Betty’s head shoot up in the back. Her eyes were fixed on him, straight and unblinking. He flattened his palms on the pulpit and continued.
“This, coupled with the same store’s Halloween display, raised speculation that a member of our community was suddenly—shall we say—in cahoots with the dark side.”
There were a few titters of laughter and he welcomed them. Yes, it’s ridiculous, he wanted to say. Instead, he smiled at the congregation. “I think it’s natural to want to read more into this than normal, since Halloween can be associated with dark imagery and even danger. But at times like this, it’s important to take a step back and remember that Jesus talked a lot about not making mountains out of molehills. He tells us in John fourteen to not let our hearts be troubled. He tells us in Matthew six not to worry. And he tells us in John seven not to judge by appearances.”
In the back of the church, Betty had gone stone still. Stay with me, he prayed silently, don’t bolt.
“Our good neighbor,” he continued, “had a string of bad luck with some appearances, but we can’t let that condemn her. Which is why I want you to know the Lutheran church is actively supporting Betty Lindholm down at Knots and Bolts, and that we fully approve of purchases there this Halloween season. There is no darkness in Betty’s heart, and she’s been an upstanding member of White Pine’s community and this very church for years. Anyone who says differently and who jumps to conclusions about Betty and Satan will have me to answer to.”
He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and pushed back the sleeves of his sport coat. “Because here’s the funny thing about appearances,” he said, his heart beating so hard he was worried the alter mic might pick it up. He held up his tattooed forearms above the lectern. There was a small gasp from the congregation. “You can’t trust them.” He turned so everyone in the church got a good look at the phoenix, the tree, and its unusual leaves.
“For so long, I kept my true self hidden. All anyone saw were the parts of me I wanted them to see. I was very careful, very proscribed about the information I put forward. That’s because I felt responsible for a dark part of my past, and I didn’t want anyone to know about it. A part that includes the tattoos you see here today.”
Taking a deep breath, he told the story about Shawn, about Gus’s intervention, and about the accident. He told it fully and truthfully without holding back. He explained his fear about feeling too much, about not wanting to be too vulnerable, because he was worried he’d destroy something he loved all over again.
“Until now,” he concluded in the quiet sanctuary. No one was moving, save for a few congregants reaching up to wipe tears from their eyes. Betty gazed back at him, her blue eyes unflinching.
“I am in love,” he said, his voice thick. He didn’t even care that it wasn’t its usual booming resonance. So be it. His palms were slick as he pressed them against the lectern. A few scattered whispers reached his ear. He ignored them, pressing on.
“Sadly, it’s taken me a bit to realize the true nature of my feelings. I’d asked for time from the person I cared about, to figure out exactly what was going on. I thought I needed to slow the relationship down because I was letting fear rule me instead of hope or even joy. But then I realized that what I needed to do was to take a bold step. To be fearless instead of fear-filled. To do the thing that will show everyone that I’m not hiding who I am anymore.”
The congregation collectively leaned in. Betty’s face was white, her mouth open.
Randall stood to his full height. He threw his shoulders back. “I’m declaring today, here and now, that I am in love with Betty Lindholm. I should have been able to say it before now, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t. But Betty, I will live the rest of my life trying to ma
ke it up to you. I’ll never run away from us again. I’ll love you until the day I die if you let me. I’ll marry you—”
He stopped. This part was unplanned. He hadn’t intended on those words, but now that they were out, he knew they were right. He smiled.
“That is, if you’ll have me, Betty, I’d be honored to marry you and be with you ’til death do us part.”
There were gasps from the congregation, then wild applause as he left the altar and headed down the red-carpeted aisle toward the back. Betty was still sitting in her same spot, her eyes filled with something like shock and wonder. Her knuckles were bright white as she clutched the pew in front of her. Next to her, Jessie was grinning wide enough to make his face hurt just looking at her.
Betty’s eyes tracked his every movement as he approached. Finally, when he was right on top of her, he unpeeled her hands from the pew and got down on one knee. That’s when he saw a small smile twist the edge of her mouth. His heart surged. She might be freaked out, but she was happy.
“Betty Lindholm, I don’t have a ring. But I swear I’ll get one. And I swear you’ll never have to cut through any more walls to get to my heart. Ever. It’s yours, if you’ll have it. And if you’ll let me have your heart, I’ll cherish it always. I know this is right. In my bones, I know it’s supposed to be us, together. And I think you know it, too. You don’t have to answer now, in front of all these folks, but just know that I’m asking. With my whole heart, I’m asking if you’ll marry me.”
His blood pounded. His suit was soaked with sweat. His hand was probably clutching Betty’s too tightly. He knew he must look like a fool. She would never say yes. But that’s okay—because she should know she was loved and cherished and desired. That was enough.
He wondered if she’d pull away and tell him gently that she’d think about it.
He thought she might stand and run for the back door.
But Betty Lindholm—his strong, wonderful Betty—did neither of those things. Instead, she stood to her feet and pulled him up with her.
“If I’d known you were going to do this today, I’d have worn lipstick,” she said. The whole congregation burst into laughter, and she grinned up at him. His muscles ached with affection. He touched the soft skin of her face, running a finger down one delicate cheek.
“I suspect,” she said, taking a shaky breath, “that proposals are like Lumberjack Grocery produce. When it’s good, you know. And I think I know. So yes, Pastor Randall Sondheim, I’ll marry you.”
The words swept over him in a sea of emotion so deep and powerful that all he could do was pull Betty to him and grip her tight. “I love you,” he breathed into her hair as the congregation erupted around them in cheers and applause and fresh tears.
“I love you, too,” she whispered back, “even though you acted like an idiot.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“I sort of did, too,” she said, pulling back so they could look at each other fully. Her eyes danced across his face. “I didn’t want to give you the time you might have needed. I was being selfish.”
“We both made mistakes.”
“But now we’re getting married apparently.”
“Betty, I’m going to kiss you now.”
“We’re in church, Pastor, so let me say a hearty amen to that.”
He tilted her head and brought their lips together, distantly aware that the organ was playing and someone was ringing the church bells. The cheering in the sanctuary began anew, all while his heart felt packed with enough emotion to make his ribs stretch. He kissed Betty more deeply and welcomed it all—ready to feel everything he could with the woman he loved.
Chapter Eight
Betty rode home in the passenger seat of Randall’s car, dazed and overwhelmed. She’d been hugged, congratulated, kissed, and toasted for the past hour. Her skin tingled and her brain buzzed. She folded her hands together in her lap, trying to gather her thoughts, part of her wondering if this had all been a dream. Had Randall really asked her to marry him in front of the entire congregation, and had she really, actually said yes?
She opened her mouth and then closed it. Joy bubbled inside her. Happiness coursed through her. That was evidence enough, she thought, of what had just transpired. Randall Sondheim loved her, and she loved him back. They were going to walk down the aisle together and become man and wife.
Nevertheless, she was grateful when he reached over and threaded his fingers through hers. Some could say that she hardly knew this man, but the truth was she knew him more deeply and passionately than she had known anyone, ever. She stared at his muscular forearms, bared to the world now, and the soft smattering of hairs over the top of the tattoos. His profile was so handsome as he drove—strong jaw, high cheekbones. An electric current hummed inside her. She recalled his touch when they were in Knots and Bolts and shivered.
“Betty,” he said, perhaps feeling it, too, “I was wondering if you might want to come to my house instead. There’s so much to talk about. There’s so much to…do.” His steady gray eyes found hers, and the hunger there was clear. Her nerves sparked. She licked her lips.
“Yes. I would like that very much,” she said, gripping his hand more tightly.
Minutes later, they were through his front door and she was taking in the clean lines of his home—the bare wooden floors, the dark, angled furniture, the afternoon light streaming in from behind enormous windows. And a smell that was so Randall—like leather and paper and sandalwood. Books were everywhere in neat piles and arranged across bookcases. She touched the spine of one. Great Expectations.
“So you read things besides the Good Book,” she said, smiling. She loved this discovery of him and relished the fact that there was a lifetime of discovery ahead for them both.
“I read like an addict,” he said, standing next to her at the bookshelf. “You?”
“Mysteries, mostly. On TV, I watch that show, CSI. All the versions. All the reruns. Do you think that’s stupid?”
He turned her so she was facing him. “Nothing about you is stupid,” he said, cupping her face in his large hands. His gray eyes were alive with emotion, his dark hair shining like a crow’s wings in the warm light. He was storming with strength and feeling. It radiated off him and jolted through her.
“Everything about you is incredible,” he said, tilting his head toward hers, “including the fact that you’re standing here.”
“I deserve a prize, I think,” she said, smiling up at him.
“How about a ring?” he asked, pulling her even closer. She felt her lips part, wanting his kiss. He obliged, bringing his mouth to hers in a shower of sparks that turned the light around them hot and white.
“Randall,” she breathed. He deepened the kiss in response, his tongue entering her, his arms wrapping around her. She pressed against him and he groaned deep in his throat. His hardness, his desire for her, was right there.
“I wanted you before,” he said, breaking the kiss to gaze at her, “but deep down I also think I knew I loved you. If you feel I took advantage of you in your store that last time, please just know that—”
She dropped her hand and grabbed his cock. “Take advantage of me, Randall,” she said, feeling his penis jump under her fingertips. He threw his head back. “I knew what I was doing then. I know what I’m doing now. Being here, being with you…” She trailed off, trying to put a net around her thoughts and bring them toward the shore of her mind. She felt so much for him, the emotions nearly blocked out the words. “I understand what this is.”
“It’s right and true,” he said, placing a hand on her waist and running it along her ribs. “I knew it then. I wouldn’t have fooled around that day and walked away.”
“I know,” she agreed, untucking his shirt from his pants and reaching for his belt. “This is forever. It was, even then.”
He grabbed her hand. “Come with me,” he said, and pulled her down a hallway painted a rich cream color. Along the wall were a series of antique
maps showing jagged continents and sea monsters arcing through the water near listing ships. She stopped to take them in.
“Exploration,” Randall said, gesturing at the artwork. “Of land, of sea. It’s a handful of souls being bold when most people thought you could fall off the edge of the earth.”
She gazed at the rich colors, dazzled and entranced. At least until Randall put a warm hand on her neck. He traced the outline of her clavicles. “I intend to explore you,” he said, his eyes flashing with desire. “A new land that must be conquered.”
“Lucky for you the natives are a willing people,” she said.
He tugged her the rest of the way down the hallway until she was in his bedroom. His bed was simple but tasteful—a sturdy oak frame with a bright white coverlet and a handful of downy pillows that kept it all from being too stern. On the bedside table was another neat stack of books. On the walls hung more maps, more pictures of ships and ports.
“This is a theme with you, I see,” she said, inclining her head toward the art.
“More exploration,” he growled, “just wait and see.”
And then his hands were on her all over again and he was pulling her onto the bed, the smell of soap and sandalwood filling her nose and mind. He ground his hard, muscled body against her and she pressed back, wanting to give as much as he would give her. He made a deep, animalistic sound that took her breath away. Hot desire rolled through her, carried on a wave of deep joy that this man was hers. He loved her. He’d asked for her hand in front of half the town and she’d said yes.
How was it even possible? Oh, but then the feeling of his skin on hers once they’d peeled their clothes off was all too real. She might never truly understand the miracle of what had happened between them, but she’d live the rest of her days being grateful for it.
“Beautiful Betty,” he said, gazing at her spread before him, naked, on the stark white bed. She traced his tattoos, loving how free she felt, loving how her self-consciousness had melted away, loving this man in front of her. She would never be Bucky Lindholm again, would never have to worry that the object of her interest would walk away.