by Tamara Leigh
“Mostly, I listen. That’s what they want—someone to sit down with them and hear what they have to say.”
“That’s all?”
“Usually, though, if you gain their confidence, they often start to ask questions and seek advice. And so you tell them what you learned from your mistakes, support the changes you made with Scripture, then let them decide whether or not to use what they’ve been given.”
“Okay, but do they use it?” Not sure I would have.
“A lot of times you’re just tilling the soil for someone who’s better at planting a seed and growing it, but it has to start somewhere.”
“I guess.” I slide my spoon through a pool of melted banana ice cream and snag a chunk of fudge. As I aim it at my mouth, I glance at Lisa.
An encouraging smile awaits me. “I’ve told you a bit about my past. Do you want to talk about yours?”
The spoon jerks in my hand. Fortunately, the chunk plops back into the pool of banana ice cream. I shake my head. “I prefer to focus my energy on the present and the future.”
“Okay, then tell me what you’re going to do about Maddox.”
“Do? There’s nothing I need to do about him.” Other than wait him out. And just how long does it take a church consultant to do his thing and move on?
“Well, I can tell you what I’d do if I were the one he was interested in.”
“Really, Lisa—”
“I’d put that pink helmet on and ask him to take me for a ride.”
I narrow my lids. “And you’d be comfortable jumping on the back of a motorcycle and letting some guy take you to only God knows where?”
She rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t ‘jump on,’ Maddox isn’t just ‘some guy,’ and a ride is all it would be. Not to ‘only God knows where.’ A little fun. That’s all.”
That’s what I once thought, but I know better. I set my bowl on the sofa table. “I should probably get going.”
Silence is all the answer I receive, broken by a click and whir that comes from the vicinity of Lisa’s modest entertainment center.
“It’s just my VCR,” she says dully like someone who has had the joy let out of her.
Ouch. I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. I’m simply not comfortable discussing my personal life, especially when it borders on my past.
She lowers her bowl beside mine. “Can’t stand to miss one of my favorite shows, even if it is a rerun.”
Speaking of which, my own VCR should be kicking on about now. If I hurry, I should be able to catch the last forty-five minutes.
“Have you ever watched The Coroner?”
My rear barely off the sofa, I whip my head around. “You like The Coroner too?”
Her eyes widen. “You like it?”
“It’s my favorite show.”
Her face brightens. “Well, then, why are we sitting here talking about things you don’t want to talk about when we could be watching our show?” She snatches up the remote, points, and clicks.
“I should—”
“Sit down.” She waves a hand. “At the first commercial I’ll nuke some popcorn, and we’ll have it made.”
Hard to resist, especially when the familiar theme music sounds and a montage of scenes flicks across the screen.
I drop back. “Sounds good to me.”
And it is good, even if strange, to sit beside her over the next hour, stuffing my face with popcorn as she stuffs hers, grumbling over my breath at the commercials as she grumbles under hers, and jointly aha-ing over the unfolding story line with which we’re both familiar. Just like old times.
I’m glowing. A nice feeling, even if off-putting. Though a voice in my head warned time and again about letting my guard down, I enjoyed Lisa’s company—so much that after The Coroner ended, I lingered and we talked. Of course, it helped that she didn’t probe further. It was nice. Just two friends—
I open my eyes where I press my forehead against the steering wheel and stare into the dimness. Friends. Did I really think that? Me. Lisa. Friends? That’s moving fast. We’re two women with something in common, namely The Coroner, and that’s all. Forget that we’re the same age, grew up together, were once great friends, both fell away from our beliefs, and now waitress at the same café. The Coroner is all we have in common.
And I’m lying through my teeth—er, thoughts. As much as I don’t want a friend my own age, the feeling of fullness in my heart is nice.
A tap on my window makes me jump, and I snap my chin up to meet Maddox’s gaze on the other side.
Heart whacking against my ribs, I press the button in the door and lower the window. “What are you doing here?”
He folds his arms on the opening. “I was on my porch when you drove by five minutes ago. When you didn’t get out, I thought there might be something wrong.”
I stare into his night-darkened face. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just…”
What’s that smell? Cologne? No. More pleasant. Sharp. Crisp. Clean.
I peer nearer, and light from the porches up and down the street catches in his hair. It’s damp, meaning he must have recently climbed out of a shower, and the scent is some brand of manly soap. Very nice. Uh… just an observation.
“You were just what?”
“Thinking.”
He lights the face of his watch. “Out later than usual. It’s past eleven.”
“I was out with—” I scowl. “How do you know I was out later than usual? Are you spying on me?”
“Just observant.” His eyes scan our sleepy little neighborhood. “Around here, it’s an event to see or hear anything after nine. So where did Stephano take you?”
“Stephano?” I blurt out.
He smiles. “Never mind. Just checking.”
That was a tricky way to discover if I was out with Stephano. And he does have reason to think it possible, as Stephano continues to pay me more attention than our working relationship warrants. I glower. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“You’re right. Sorry.” His face is too shadowed for me to tell if it reflects remorse, but I’ll bet it doesn’t.
I grab my purse, but as I reach for the door handle, he pulls it open. I swing my legs out, and he closes the door behind me.
He looks up. “Nice night.”
“Yeah.” I step past him and cross to my porch, only to halt when I catch sight of what sits beside the door. I’d know that shape anywhere. And the colors inside, dimmed though they are by the night. In fact, were I a dog, I could probably smell them through the container.
“Happy birthday, Harri.”
I turn slowly around. “You gave me Jelly Bellys. A club-sized container.”
“The little packets were getting expensive.”
His smile hits me in the solar plexus, and for a moment I’m tempted to launch myself at him. Bad idea. “Thank you.” I scoop up the container of forty-nine flavors. Love the clicking and clacking of all those little beans!
“Well, I’ll let you get to bed.”
I whip around. “Want some?”
“What?”
I thrust the container forward. “Jelly Bellys. Want a handful?” Oh my! Did I offer a handful? As this supply is eight days ahead of schedule, I’ll have to portion it out through this last week of June, then through the entire month of July. I can’t afford to be throwing Jelly Bellys his way.
“Sure.” A moment later, Maddox settles onto the porch.
Well, I wouldn’t eat licorice and mango anyway, so I’ll just pick those out for him. I drop down beside him, unscrew the lid, and freeze at the absence of the plastic seal. “Oh no. It’s been opened.”
“Yes. I picked out the licorice and mango—didn’t want you to suffer any more mango-in-lemon’s-clothing mishaps.”
Considerate. Unfortunately, this means I’ll have to fork over the good stuff. Selfish, Harri. Very selfish.
I start to pass the container, only to realize how much larger his hands are than mine. Maybe I should scoop some out for him
. Stop it! I hold it out to him.
He shakes his head. “Birthday girl goes first.”
Don’t mind if I do. I lower the container between us and scoop up a handful. As I withdraw my hand, Maddox reaches in and his fingertips brush mine. Sizzle, sizzle.
Did he feel that?
Our eyes lock.
He did.
Lowering my chin, I try to pick out the colors in my hand. Is that cotton candy? Oh, why do I have to feel what I do every time I get near this supposedly reformed rebel? Or is it toasted marsh-mallow? And why are my fingers still tingling? Might it be a cream soda? And does Maddox really believe I’d just up and climb on the back of his motorcycle?
“My first was a peach.”
While only a foot separates us, I have an overwhelming urge to bridge the space.
He points to his mouth. “A peach.”
Sure is. A very nice mouth.
“Aren’t you going to eat any?”
I follow his gaze to my hand. “Oh. Of course.” A moment later, I swallow and have no idea what flavor just swept a path through my taste buds.
Lord, this isn’t good. Maybe Stephano, but not Maddox.
“Something wrong, Harri?”
“Nothing.” I pop a Dr Pepper and chew, chew, chew. “I’m just wondering how long you expect this consult thing to take.”
“Can’t wait to get rid of me, hmm?” Though his mouth is on the upside of a smile, the space between us tenses. “Every church is different. Fortunately, First Grace is receptive to change, its pastor easy to work with, and there are adequate funds to transition the body into the twenty-first century.” He tosses a bean into his mouth. “Once the vision statement is agreed upon and the committees in place to oversee the plans—I’m projecting four months from now—the bulk of my job here will be done. After that, I’ll check in from time to time and make recommendations and adjustments where necessary.”
“Then you expect to be gone before Thanksgiving.”
He pauses with a bean in front of his mouth. “Afraid I’ll interfere with your holiday plans? That you might be tempted to spend them with me rather than the octogenarian set, a bunch of faded, pink flamingos, and a tub of Jelly Bellys?”
I wouldn’t have put it in so many words, but he sums it up so well that I’m forced to acknowledge that it is what I’m afraid of. That what I feel for him will get out of control and I’ll do something that will set me back years. That I’ll stumble. So hard I might not get up again. It frightens me. Pushes me toward denial—actually, a lie. And one, I realize, he’s expecting.
I nod. “As I don’t deal well with temptation, it’s best to stay away from it.”
I feel more than see his surprise and, in the silence, struggle for something to turn the conversation. “So do you like consulting?” Lame.
Maddox’s gaze ranges over my face. “I do. In fact, I believe it’s what God intended for me all along.”
I poke through the beans. “Then you don’t regret leaving the marketing firm?”
“No. However, you should know that I didn’t leave. I was fired.”
It’s true, then. Not only kicked out of seminary, but fired from his job. How reformed can he be?
“But before your imagination gets carried away, I’ll tell you what happened.”
He’s going to confide in me?
Maddox pours his Jelly Bellys into his shirt pocket and clasps his hands. “I worked at the marketing firm six years and made my way up through the ranks. During my last year, I began dating the daughter of one of our senior partners. Six months later, I asked her to marry me, and she accepted. Over the next four months, she tried to erase all traces of the rebel with whom I’d come to terms, elevate me to her social standing, and convert me to her faith.” He smiles wryly. “Which I was too head over heels to look into before then. We’d talked about God and Jesus, and I assumed we were on the same page, but her Jesus was different from mine.”
“How so?”
“Her faith taught that salvation is gained only by works—an individual’s efforts rather than God’s grace.”
Meaning she discounted the cross—didn’t believe a person could be saved simply by accepting Christ. “You’re right. Her Jesus is different from ours.”
Maddox nods. “Grateful we hadn’t married in haste, I broke off the engagement. Two months later, I was fired.”
“What reason did they give?”
“They said I wasn’t doing my job, that I was unreliable and they’d received complaints from clients.”
“Did they complain?”
“The only thing I gave them cause to complain about was my refusal to drink while entertaining them, and it had never bothered them before. In fact, it was something of a joke that they could count on me to get them home safe.”
I lean back on my hands.
“But I believe it was part of God’s plans, and I did learn some valuable lessons.” He looks across his shoulder at me. “Of course, there is one lesson that I thought I had down but find I’m once more struggling with.”
“And that is?”
He lowers his gaze to my mouth. “The one about keeping my business and personal life separate.”
I push up off my hands, but that only brings us closer. And a moment later, he leans in and slides a hand around the back of my neck.
“I’ve wanted to do this forever,” he says against my lips, then his mouth closes over mine, and I don’t say no…don’t pull back even though a kiss has become as foreign to me as cigarettes and alcohol. I do nothing to discourage him. Which is encouraging him, isn’t it? As is my hand that slides up over his shoulder, fingers that grip the material of his shirt, lips that give as they’re being given to…
Maddox draws back. “Now tell me you didn’t want that too.” He smiles.
What did I do? Rather, what did he do? I gasp. “You kissed me!”
He glances at my hand that, for some reason, is still gripping his shirt.
I snatch it back. “You kissed me.”
He consults his watch. “Think of it as a gift—when you give someone something she really wants. In this case, for her birthday.” He rises and reaches a hand to me. “It’s now Saturday, give or take a minute. Happy birthday, Harri.”
Ah! “Next time I’d appreciate it if you limit your gift to Jelly Bellys.” I thrust my hand out only to frown over the single bean stuck to the center of my palm. What happened to the others? I know I didn’t eat them.
“You dropped them about midway,” Maddox says.
I look down, and sure enough there are little beans scattered across the steps. But they had to have made some noise, and I didn’t hear—
Which is the point, isn’t it? I grab the Jelly Belly container and slam on the lid. “Thank you for the Jelly Bellys. And that’s all.” I stand. “Good night.”
“’Night, Harri.”
I let myself into my mobile home and groan as Dumplin’ cries mournfully from my bedroom. Happy birthday to me…
Harri’s Log: • Day of Dumplin’/Pucker play date (must think positive)
• 5 days until The Coroner rerun (tempted to have Lisa over)
• 37 days until Jelly Belly replenishment (Maddox is good for some things)
• 190 days until the completion of Bible #8
First Grace will never be the same. Not that I thought it would after everything that’s happened, but it was still recognizable—at least, on some levels. Now this…
As the other churchgoers file out of the sanctuary, I stare at the projection screen mounted over the baptistery and beneath our stained-glass Jesus. In huge letters, it thanks us for coming. And just about everyone is going on about how convenient it was to have the worship songs up in front of them… the scriptures Pastor Paul referenced… the talking points…
I drop my chin and wish it were yesterday again. Yesterday when Gloria forced me to take a day off in honor of my birthday and I slept in. If not for the phone call, I’m certain I would have
slept past ten. It was my parents, and it lifted my spirits to hear their voices and excitement over their mission work. I’d savored the fifteen minutes I’d been gifted and refused to waste a single one on voicing concerns about the direction First Grace is headed. Of course they asked, but I made light of it. And when the conversation ended with more “Happy birthdays” and “Love yous,” I felt as if I’d been given a hug.
In an effort to recapture the feeling, I close my eyes and hear their voices—Dad’s all deep and rumbly, Mom’s warm and cheery.
“Harri?”
Ohhh. So close.
Mrs. Feterall is headed down the aisle toward me, followed by Mr. Feterall, who’s followed by Maddox. Why do I have this feeling I’m about to be deeply annoyed?
Mrs. Feterall halts before me. “We are still on for this afternoon, aren’t we?”
I nod. “Early dinner and play date at my place.”
“Wonderful! Do you mind if we bring Maddox along?”
I slam my gaze to his. I certainly do mind! After all, he kissed me! As for it being a gift, despite his conceited claim that I wanted it, I did not. And I do not like the look in his eyes that’s full of remembrance of Friday night, nor the smile on the lips that touched mine.
Mrs. Feterall pats his shoulder. “You could use a good meal, couldn’t you?”
“I could. If it’s anything like Harri’s chicken and dumplings, I’m in for a treat.”
That’s what he thinks. I’ll teach him to go and kiss me without my permission! “Then it’s settled. I’ll see you at my home around five o’clock.” And sometime between now and then I’ll whip up something that will discourage him from ever again accepting an invite to my home. The… lip kisser!
I give the Feteralls a wave and hurry down the aisle. Hmm. Wonder what would sit well with Mrs. Feterall’s stomach and, at the same time, offend Maddox’s taste buds.
Stephano falls into step with me as I pass into the gathering area. “You don’t seem happy, Harri. It’s the projection screen, isn’t it?”
I falter. Forgot about that, but it definitely has a lot to do with my turmoil. What in the world am I supposed to do with my hands during worship?
“A bit much, hmm?” he presses.