Splitting Harriet

by Tamara Leigh

  “You don’t care for it?”

  “I supported the idea when it was proposed months ago, but now I’m thinking we’ve gotten ahead of ourselves.”

  I halt. “Why are you backing off? You used to be all for these changes, and now you seem… reluctant.”

  He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I don’t like the way things are happening. For three years I’ve given my time to First Grace, and at no charge because I believed it was what I was called to do. I felt I was part of this body—that I was making a difference. Now, since Paul decided to bring his friend on board, I’m being squeezed out. It’s as if all my hard work has been swept under the rug.” His voice catches.

  I reach to him and squeeze his shoulder. “You’re important to First Grace. No one discounts that.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I do.” Movement off to the side catches my eye, and I meet Maddox’s gaze where he stands in the middle of the gathering area with a young couple. And here I stand with my hand on Stephano’s shoulder. I drop it.

  “Seems like Maddox McCray is intent on taking everything from me,” Stephano mutters.

  Everything? Meaning his influence at First Grace? Meaning me? Though he has been trying to get together with me, Stephano can’t be serious. And yet it sounds as if he is. If so, what should I do? As evidenced by the past few years of fantasizing over being on his arm, I am drawn to him. Maybe I should explore this a bit further. After all, if I am ready to date, Stephano would be a better choice than a rebel like Maddox.

  I lift my chin. “Are you still interested in taking me out for dinner?”

  His eyes widen. “Are you, Harriet Bisset, asking me to ask you out?”

  That is so not right. “I…”

  “Yes, I’m interested.” A smile wipes away all evidence of distress. “How about tonight?”

  “That would be great—” Have you forgotten some little something? “Sorry, but I have other plans.”

  His brow darkens. “With Maddox?”

  “Actually, with the Feteralls, but they did invite Maddox along. They’re coming to my place for dinner and…,” I clear my throat, “…a play date.”

  “Did you say play date?”

  “I’m taking care of my mother’s cat, and Mrs. Feterall thought it would be fun to get Dumplin’ together with her cat. Sounds crazy, but I agreed.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “And Maddox thinks it would be fun to attend your kitty play date?”

  I give an “I’m with you” roll of the eyes. “I’m sure dinner is all he’s interested in.”

  “And I’m sure you’re wrong.”

  He’s talking about me, and considering Friday’s kiss, he’s right. In the next instant, I have an idea—not a good one, but it comes out before I can think it through. “Why don’t you join us? I’m just going to whip up something for dinner, and the cats are going to play.”

  He peers at Maddox. When his attention returns to me, there’s a determined glint in his eyes. “What time?”

  “Five.” But even as I say it, I know it’s in bad taste. Of course, I was looking for something to offend Maddox’s taste buds…

  “What’s that smell?”

  Lowering my chin behind the auburn hair that falls over my face, I give the contents of the pan a stir. “Brussels sprouts.” I smile. “Or maybe it’s the rutabagas.”

  “I thought so.” Maddox’s enthusiastic response causes me to drop my smile like a hot potato. That night when he and Pastor Paul came to my mobile home, I had pronounced that a taste for licorice and mango Jelly Bellys was as unheard of as a taste for brussels sprouts and rutabagas, but I was certain Maddox was pulling my leg when he claimed to like them. Wasn’t he? Of course, he does like licorice and mango…

  He steps alongside me, followed by Pucker, who is once more wearing a spiked, black leather collar. Doing the “bump and rub” against Maddox’s leg, Pucker issues a throaty “meow,” which would normally bring Dumplin’ skidding across the linoleum if I hadn’t closed him in my bedroom until my hands are free to introduce the felines. As it is, from the depths of my mobile home comes the sound of claws on wood.

  If I didn’t love my mom so much, I’d—

  “I’m flattered that you remember what I like.” Maddox reaches to take the wooden spoon from me.

  I don’t mean to jerk back, but my reaction to the brush of our fingers is a little much. Oh maaaan! This is bad.

  I take another step back—the better to look up at him—however, my gaze snags on his white polo, the short sleeves of which allow a glimpse of his tattoo, the unbuttoned collar of which allows an eyeful of tanned chest.

  He’s a motorcycle man in gentlemen’s clothing, and don’t you forget it! I gesture toward the pan of brussels sprouts and saucepan of cubed rutabagas. “You think I made these just for you?”

  His head lists left. “I was under the impression you didn’t care for them.”

  “I don’t, but I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Feterall will enjoy them.”

  “Brussels sprouts and rutabagas?” Mrs. Feterall intercepts our conversation.

  Maddox and I turn to where she and her husband sit at my little kitchen table.

  “You…like them, don’t you?” I ask with an undertone of pleading.

  Mrs. Feterall appears pained. “I like rutabagas, but brussels sprouts give me gas.”

  “Me too.” Mr. Feterall pats his belly. “And rutabagas…” A look passes between him and his wife. “But I’ll give them a try, Harri.”

  I turn back to the counter where my salad awaits a good tossing. “Well, maybe Stephano likes them.”

  Beside me, Maddox tenses. “Stephano?”

  “Stephano’s coming, dear?” Mrs. Feterall says, almost warily.

  “Yes, I invited him.” I pick up the tongs and toss, toss, toss. “He called to say he’s running late but should be along any minute.”

  All is quiet, and I wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Feterall are as put out as Maddox.

  Mrs. Feterall clears her throat. “So, Harri, when are you going to put that helmet to good use?”

  My little adventure with the salad tongs ends as I follow her gaze to my refrigerator. On top, next to the Jelly Belly container, sits the pink helmet that I have every intention of packing away.

  “I understand Maddox has offered to take you on his motorcycle,” Mr. Feterall says.

  “He has.” Toss, toss, toss. “There!” I carry the salad bowl to the table. Though I pretend not to see Maddox or feel his look, it’s impossible to ignore Pucker, whose front paws are on the stove door and whose nose is pressed against the window.

  “He’s hungry,” Mrs. Feterall croons.

  Maddox scoops up Pucker. “Come on, big guy. You can sit on my lap.”

  Pucker meows, and I hear what sounds like Dumplin’ flinging himself against my bedroom door.

  Mrs. Feterall looks over her shoulder. “What is that?”

  I set the chicken on the table. “Dumplin’. He’s…uh…eager to meet Pucker.”

  “Why don’t you let him out?”

  She sees no evil in cats, does she? “Let’s wait until after dinner when we can give them our full attention, hmm?” I return to the counter, dish up the rutabagas and brussels sprouts, and set them on the table.

  “Knock, knock!” Stephano calls through the screen door.

  Avoiding Maddox’s gaze where he sits beside Mrs. Feterall, I wave Stephano in.

  The screen door swings closed, and he surveys the room. “Nice mobile home.”

  It is nice. Old and outdated, but nice. “Thanks.” I give the table a nod. “Join us.”

  As my rear settles in the chair beside Maddox, it hits me that I should have taken the chair beside Mr. Feterall. A moment later, Stephano sits down in it, and I’m sandwiched between the two men.

  “I’d be honored if you’d allow me to say grace.” Stephano reaches left and right. “Let’s join hands.”

  At my hesitation, he ret
rieves my right hand from my lap, and I feel… yes, electricity. I expect Maddox to take the same liberty, but he smiles and holds out his hand.

  I slide mine into his and bow my head. Groan! I’m lopsided. Despite my certainty that the man who holds my right hand is the better choice, my left hand is responding more enthusiastically to Maddox. Determinedly, I turn my attention to Stephano’s prayer—a nice prayer that blesses the meal and those gathered around. As he winds down, his voice catches, and I steal a peek. Sure enough, there’s moisture on his lashes.

  “And, Lord, we ask that You be with First Grace and its members as the body transitions to dual services—”

  What?

  “—and begins implementation of a building campaign.”

  My chin comes up while my left hand goes numb in Maddox’s tightening grip.

  “Amen.” Stephano smiles, as if unaware of the bomb he just dropped.

  As I attempt to wrap my tongue around coherent words, I give my right hand a tug and my left hand a jerk, thereby reclaiming both.

  “Dual services?” Mr. Feterall glances from Stephano to Maddox.

  “Building campaign?” Mrs. Feterall shakes her head.

  Maddox’s eyes are on Stephano. “At the moment, it’s just talk.” His voice is tight with reproof. “Talk that was to have stayed between those privy to it.”

  “Sorry.” Stephano grimaces. “Guess I missed the part about keeping it hush-hush.”

  My tongue kicks in. “Then it’s true? First Grace is moving to two morning services and launching a building campaign?”

  Maddox lowers Pucker to the floor. “Both are under consideration.” He gestures toward the pan of roasted chicken. “May I?”

  How can he think of eating at a time like this?! “What do you mean under consideration?”

  He spears a thigh. “Among other things, the vision committee is looking at First Grace’s growth and how best to handle the projected increase in numbers. Eventually there won’t be enough space to accommodate those moving into the area and looking for a church home. We’re considering two phases. Phase one is to move to dual services to spread out the congregation and make room for visitors. Phase two is to raise money to enlarge the sanctuary.” He frowns. “Am I eating alone?”

  Stephano and the Feteralls begin passing the food around. Not until Stephano thrusts the brussels sprouts in front of me do I break eye contact with Maddox.

  I scoop up what looks like a miniature head of cabbage and pass the sprouts to Maddox, who plops two big spoonfuls alongside his chicken.

  Ugh! He’s actually letting those things touch his chicken.

  “What’s this?”

  I turn to Stephano, who’s peering into a bowl with distaste, and am flushed with embarrassment. “Rutabagas.”

  “Never heard of them. A favorite of yours?”

  “Actually,” Maddox says, “they’re a favorite of mine, and Harri was kind enough to cook them up for me—and brussels sprouts.”

  My relief at having the blame shifted off my shoulders is momentary, as in the next second I realize how it must sound that I cooked for Maddox.

  “Is that so?” Stephano’s knowing tone makes me bristle.

  “Sweet of her, isn’t it?” Mrs. Feterall says.

  Stephano hands the bowl to me. “Think I’ll pass.”

  If only I could too, but I place a spoonful opposite the brussels sprouts, leaving a wide berth for the chicken to come.

  Maddox accepts the bowl. “Thank you.”

  You are not welcome!

  My conscience gives me a hard pinch that nearly unseats me. This is your doing. It wasn’t enough that Stephano’s presence would offend Maddox. You had to go and serve stinky vegetables in hopes of offending his taste buds as well.

  I stare at my plate.

  Lord, I need a spiritual checkup. I’m trying to be open to change for the good of First Grace, but this talk of dual services and a building campaign makes me sick. Is this what You want—to uproot my father’s—er, Your church and replace it with something that has the potential to grow like a weed? Note: weed.

  “Is it the rutabagas, Harri?”

  “What?”

  Mrs. Feterall offers a sympathetic smile. “They do smell powerful.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You look a little green.” She reaches a drumstick across the table and places it on my plate. “Try the chicken, Harri. It smells wonderful.”

  “Might neutralize the rutabagas.” Mr. Feterall is trying to be helpful.

  I pick up my knife and fork. “Thanks.”

  Mr. Feterall clears his throat. “Tell us more about the dual services and building campaign, Maddox.”

  “Though nothing is decided yet, moving to dual services is the least expensive way to accommodate the growing numbers until enough money can be raised for the enlargement of the sanctuary—if enlargement fits the vision being developed.”

  What does he mean if? Is he saying dual services might be all that’s needed? That it might not be necessary to enlarge the sanctuary?

  “So two services?” Mr. Feterall’s brow rumples. “I heard that when First Baptist went to dual services, they kept the early morning service traditional and introduced a contemporary service during the late morning hour. Is that what you’re talking about?”

  Hold up! That doesn’t sound so bad. Traditional for the older folks, contemporary for the younger ones. Might work.

  Maddox lowers his knife and fork. “The last thing we want is to separate the young from the old, which could happen should a traditional and contemporary service be offered. A healthy church is a diverse church where young and old form one body. The challenge is to find the place where all can feel their needs are being met.”

  Mrs. Feterall holds up a finger. “But you can’t please everyone.”

  “Regardless of how we handle the transition, we’ll lose members, but if we do it right, we should be able to preserve the core while drawing in other seekers.”

  Mr. Feterall wags a slice of french bread. “But the question is, do we want to draw in others?”

  Maddox pauses in the middle of cutting a brussels sprout. “That is why the church is here—to give the saved a place to worship and to bring the unsaved to Christ.”

  Mrs. Feterall nods. “Amen.”

  Her husband pats her hand. “That’s all fine, dear, but what about them kids who wear black clothes and chains? Why, we’ve already had several show up, haven’t we, Stephano?”

  “Yes. Can you pass the salt and pepper, Maddox? This is really bland.”

  “I should have warned you.” Maddox hands the shakers to him. “Harri isn’t into spice. Bland is more her style.”

  Spoken like a true authority on Harriet Bisset, which doesn’t slip past Stephano, who stiffens beside me.

  “Let me tell you,” Mr. Feterall continues, “I thanked God when those kids didn’t sit near me.”

  Maddox lowers his fork. “Are you saying they shouldn’t be in church?”

  “Not if they’re gonna cause trouble.”

  “Did they cause trouble?”

  “Not really, but they caused a stir.”

  “Distraction,” Stephano says without looking up from his vigorous salting. “They were a distraction.”

  Maddox’s lids narrow on Stephano, who’s now having a go at the pepper. “Did they return the following Sunday?”

  Stephano scoffs. “Thankfully not.”

  “Why?”

  As if to explain something very simple to someone very stupid, Stephano draws a deep breath. “They didn’t fit in.”

  “Because no one made them feel welcome?”

  “Oh no!” Mrs. Feterall shakes her head. “Brother Paul spoke with them. They shook hands, and I heard him invite them to come again.”

  “Which they didn’t.” Stephano’s jaw shifts. “You see, you don’t dress like that, walk like that, or talk like that if you’re seriously seeking God.”

  My thoughts exa
ctly, at least until I’m whacked upside my conscience by Scripture about judging others, intolerance, and hypocrisy. That last one takes me to the book of Matthew, when Jesus called the Pharisees hypocrites for shutting the kingdom of heaven to those who were trying to enter. That’s exactly what we were doing by keeping a wide berth between ourselves and the teenagers. Shunning them, just as I was shunned when I needed someone to reach out to me.

  I look at my plate and the wide berth between rutabagas, brussels sprouts, and chicken. Perhaps if I allowed them to touch, one would complement the other and taste all the better for it. I start to nudge the sprouts toward the chicken but pull my fork back. No. Food’s a different matter.

  Wondering what’s taking Maddox so long to respond to Stephano’s pronouncement, I slide my gaze to him.

  He’s staring at Stephano, jaw clenched, as if it’s taking his all not to blast him out of the water. Finally, Maddox says, “You’re saying they weren’t seeking God?”

  Stephano shrugs. “At best, they were curious. That’s not seriously seeking God.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “Then why didn’t they return the following Sunday?”

  “Perhaps if others had welcomed them as Brother Paul did, they would have.”

  “I doubt it. Besides, can you imagine the number of families we’d lose if we started attracting kids like that?”

  “True,” Mr. Feterall murmurs.

  Maddox continues to regard Stephano. “If Jesus, who showed us how to treat others, didn’t care what His followers wore or how they looked, why should we?”

  “He’s right.” Mrs. Feterall nods.

  Oh dear. The line is being drawn. Maddox and Mrs. Feterall on one side, Stephano and Mr. Feterall on the other. So where does that leave me?

  As if wondering the same thing, Maddox glances at me. “First Grace is not a country club, Stephano. It’s a church and is called to welcome the least among us.”

  With a clatter of utensils, Stephano sits back. “What do you think, Harri? Did those kids belong at First Grace?”

  Lord, all I wanted was to serve a nice dinner and sit back and enjoy our play date—well, not exactly.

  “Yes, dear, what do you think?”

  I look at Mrs. Feterall. Sticky situation. Must find a way out. “Well, as rebel in residence—”