The pastor’s eyes searched his flock. “The hardest of all, Jesus knew, was the unrepentant repeat offender.”
Alessi jumped as though he’d snatched her thought and shared it with the crowd.
“The one who won’t change, who keeps offending, maybe daily, even hourly. That was the justified cry of Peter: when is enough, enough?” The pastor’s agonized query drew every face to him. Breathless murmurs. He spoke as though each word meant more than he could express, no matter how he tried. “And Jesus said, never. We never have the luxury of unforgiveness.”
Her gaze traveled over the congregation. Heads nodded, others looked down. One young man, about her age or younger, stared at the pastor, and their eyes met with pride and affection. What she wouldn’t give to have someone look that way at her. But there she was, coveting a relationship she knew nothing about. She’d had twelve years of her mother’s love. That should be enough for anyone.
“We never have the luxury of unforgiveness, because unforgiveness leads to misery, to sin, to death.”
Nervous shuffling. The pastor shook his head as though the thought of their suffering caused him pain. Alessi wanted to reassure him that she was responsible for her own shortcomings. Mom had taught her that, without ever once rubbing it in. “Choices have consequences, sweetie. Don’t pick a bouquet of regrets.”
The pastor leaned forward in a professorial manner and went on. “Unforgiveness has many faces: not forgiving others, not forgiving ourselves, not forgiving God.”
“Don’t blame God, Alessi.”
Alessi remembered the sobs that had wracked her chest. “I hate God, Mom.” Her mother’s hand was too weak to stroke her, too feeble even to return her grip. “Don’t hate Him, baby. He’s all you have now.” The truest words she’d ever spoken.
Pastor’s voice grew solemn. “No matter the look of it, no matter the cause of it, no matter the frequency or the severity of the offense. We who are called by His name, who are set free from the bonds of evil, must allow no fissures in our love, in our charity to one another.” He softly pounded one fist into his other palm. “No one can find peace and hold a grudge. Unforgiveness devours joy.”
Alessi cringed. Life had enough ups and downs without a joydevouring element.
Pastor’s face darkened as she imagined Moses’ might have before he pronounced frogs or locusts on Egypt. “Do you harbor the enemy?” His expression intensified with an almost painful response from the crowd. He looked from individual to individual, gleaning their souls with his glance.
“Harbor the enemy?” A strange phrase for unforgiveness, but it compelled her to search her heart. Whom did she need to forgive? The person who took her car? She could hardly blame him or her when she’d left the temptation right out there, keys and all. She didn’t blame anyone, she just wanted it back. Couldn’t he see that?
But when his eyes reached her, they clung, and she wondered if the whole message had been for her. Did he know who she was and why she was here? Did he expect her to jump up and confess? Confess what? A lapse in security and a wish for her property back?
But there had been anger and fear … and doubt. Did she doubt God … and what He had in store? Her throat grew tight and the ragged edges of her nails bit her palms. The pastor released her with a slow blink of his eyes and took his seat. Breath returned to her lungs, and she whispered an apology to Jesus. I believe. Please forgive my doubt.
Karen led the choir in “Forgive, O Lord, Our Severing Ways” as a basket was passed, and Alessi was thankful Steve had paid her in advance so she could contribute. She hated to get something for nothing. And she’d gotten more than she expected from a small-town chapel. Why, he could be a televangelist or do crusades. The strains faded and the congregation dispersed, greeting each other as they left. Alessi started to leave but was caught up in the press at the door.
Karen reached her there. “Alessi.” She hugged her again. “Thanks for joining us.” She sounded so sincere.
“I didn’t know what time it started.”
“Don’t worry about that. I was just tickled to see you come in.” Karen pulled her aside to let others out past them. She waved. “Here’s Diana.”
Diana joined them with Dave in tow. He looked puffy-eyed and yawned when he greeted her. “Sorry.” He pumped a fist at his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Alessi said. “I shouldn’t have woken you last night; I just reacted.”
“What’s this?” Diana elbowed him.
Alessi saved him the explanation. “I saw my car. Someone in town was driving it last night.” It burned her how flagrant it had been, and she realized there might be more resentment in her than she’d thought.
Diana stared at her. “Are you sure it was yours?”
She hadn’t gotten close enough to grab it, but … “How many red convertible Mustangs do you have in Charity?”
“Well, I don’t know….” She looked uncomfortably at Dave. “Do you work on any, Dave?”
He shuffled. “Haven’t lately.”
Alessi felt a prickle in the back of her neck and turned to find the young man she had noticed before. He wasn’t smiling now, just appraising her as he made his way toward the door from the front. Though she thought she had seen a familial relationship, he didn’t share the pastor’s features or coloring. He was large boned and blond and looked away when she noticed his attention.
Ben joined them with Mary’s hand in his. Unlike Diana, whose verve radiated, Mary looked frail in spirit, something in the way her eyes darted about as though anything might happen. Ben said, “Alessi, this is Mary. Mary, Alessi.”
Alessi took her hand with a warm smile. “I’m so glad to meet you. I don’t know what I’d have done without Ben’s help.”
Mary smiled up at him, then her eyes darted down again. “This is Cait and Lyn.”
“Hi there.” Alessi received little more than a glance in response. The girls had too much of their mother’s nervousness. They needed Ben as much as Mary did.
Ben didn’t look as tired as Dave, but she apologized anyway. “I shouldn’t have bothered you about my car. I’ve caused you enough trouble.”
A hand pressed the small of her back, and she knew before he spoke whose it was. Steve leaned into her ear. “We need to talk.”
What now? Alessi wished she’d made a quick escape, but Steve’s hand was firm. She could barely wave to the others before he propelled her toward the door, where Amanda, resplendent in fox fur, presented an obstacle. Did she wear anything that some creature hadn’t lost its life for?
“I understand you had trouble last night.” She addressed Steve, though truly, Alessi thought, the trouble had been hers.
“False alarm.” Steve tried to keep moving. Did he really think that, or was it only to avoid elaborating for Amanda?
“I’m having a New Year’s Eve party. Will you be there?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that.” He shot her a smile, then squeezed Alessi past and kept a steady pressure on her back toward the minister and his wife.
The wife caught Alessi’s hand between both of hers. “Steve, you haven’t introduced your friend.” She was petite, dark haired, with skin so gleaming smooth it looked poured on. She had been seated with the blond guy.
Steve said, “Alessi Moore, Madeline Welsh. Pastor Burton Welsh.”
She shook the pastor’s hand firmly. “You sure do pack a church.”
“Not I.” He looked up with an expression of true devotion at the gleaming cross. She would have moved on, but he said, “And this is our son, Carl.” He motioned toward the blond youth who loomed up from behind her, taller even than he’d seemed earlier.
“How’s it going?” he said.
“Well, it’d be better if I got my car back. But at least I know it’s here in town. Last night—”
Steve’s hand pressed into her spine. “Come on, Alessi.”
“Have a great day.” Pastor Welsh’s smile was dazzling, the sort you’d pay to see on t
he big screen. Then he was greeting the next person with the same direct attention.
Thirteen
ALESSI SKIPPED A STEP AS STEVE tugged her around the side of the chapel, turned, and pressed her into the wall. “You need to watch what you say.”
“What did I say?” And who did he think he was?
He glanced over his shoulder at the people streaming away on foot or bundling into their cars. “Don’t talk about last night.”
“Why not?” Did he expect her to pretend that nothing happened, that her car was a donation to Charity?
The silver flecks in his eyes gleamed like the ice crystals glittering in the air around them. “Just trust me on this.”
“Like you trust me?”
His hands tightened on her waist. “More.”
At least he was honest about that. Frustration and confusion draped her. She dropped her head back against the wall. “I thought it would all be different. I thought the halo was a sign from God. It was supposed to mean something good.”
“Halo?”
The Lord’s reminder of the good, the silver lining, His way of helping her find the magic, the strength to keep on. The proof that angels were watching over her. Was it all foolishness? It would sound that way to Steve.
Her throat tightened. “What am I supposed to do? That car is all I have.”
He didn’t understand. How could he? Six years without love, six years of knowing she was a burden and compensating in every way possible. That car was all she had to show for it. And she was not convinced the Lord was taking it away. It was Steve and the sheriff and Charity and the person who stole it in the first place who wanted her to give it up.
“Come on.” Steve took her hand and led her away from the wall, out across the parking lot aswirl with ground blizzards, and back toward his house.
Trust him? It was getting absurd. But his grip was purposeful. They reached the house, and he motioned her inside, saying, “Ben and Dave went out for breakfast. How do waffles sound?”
Waffles sounded fine, but food was not on her mind. “Why shouldn’t I talk about my car?”
He went to the kitchen and turned on the coffeepot.
She rested her hands on the counter. “Why does everyone change the subject or act like they don’t hear me?”
He pulled a waffle iron from the cabinet and plugged it in.
“Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
Steve looked as though he might answer, then said, “Hand me that red-and-white book.”
Alessi reached for the cookbook standing in the corner. “I would have talked to Sheriff Roehr at church, but he wasn’t there.” Because his sleep had been disturbed? Or he didn’t worship God? Maybe he thought he was God, accusing her of disturbing the peace.
Steve said, “I’m sure he’s doing what he can.”
“He did not even try to follow my Mustang last night.” Maybe he already knew where it went. The thought caught her short. Maybe he was in on it, a corrupt sheriff who kept the town in fear. She almost burst out laughing at the thought—old Sheriff Roehr with his replaced hip. So maybe he was just inept.
Steve took out a mixer and bowl.
“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?”
He turned from the counter and studied her. “Nothing’s going on. There’s not some master plot or … or …”
“Sinister force.”
His mouth jerked. “Right. It’s just different in Charity.”
“Different how?”
He opened the drawer and took out beaters, then inserted them into the mixer. As he flipped the pages of the cookbook, she figured he was not going to answer. But then he said, “Something like this is not supposed to happen.”
“Sounds like my line.”
He laid the book flat, then turned. “What did you mean by the halo?”
“You won’t understand.”
“Try me.” He combined ingredients while she considered sharing something she knew would make him consider her less reliable than ever.
She drew a breath. “Halos like on angels.”
He held up a finger, ran the mixer, then said, “Okay. Go on.”
“When I see a halo, I know angels are watching out for me. That something good is going to happen. I just have to watch for it.” He could get the laugh over with; then maybe she would get some answers from him.
He didn’t laugh. He said, “Maybe you make the good happen because you’re expecting it.”
She hadn’t thought of that. But that would put the magic inside her, and she had no such illusions. Besides, she’d been watching for it when she came to Charity, and if it were up to her, it would have happened already. “No, it’s not me.”
He took a small bowl and cracked eggs into it, or rather dripped part of the egg in while passing the yolk back and forth between the shell halves.
“Don’t you like the yolk?” she asked.
“It calls for whites. You know what happens if any yolk gets in.”
“No. What happens?”
He glanced over, expecting what? “They’re supposed to beat up stiff.”
She nodded. Did he want her to guess?
“You really don’t know?”
Now she got it. He was testing her, trying to trip her up. She dropped her gaze. “My waffles come out of a box and cook in the toaster. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He had the good grace to look chastened, but she wondered what she was doing there with him anyway. He didn’t like her, didn’t trust her. Maybe he thought it was his job to prove her a fraud. After beating the egg whites, he said, “Come over here. You can fold these in while I oil the iron.”
She joined him in the corner and took the small bowl and spatula. Another trick? How could you fold foam in a bowl?
He opened the iron and brushed it with oil, then noticed her standing there still. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m not sure what you want me to do.”
He came back and scooped the whites into the batter, working them gently in with the plastic spatula, though they left small, fluffy lumps. He wore an aftershave that made her think of dark, thick woods, moose, and moonlight.
“Do you miss Alaska?”
He shrugged. “Yes and no.”
“What do you miss?”
He cocked his head. “Climbing up into air so crisp it catches your lungs by surprise. The rosy glow of sunrise on glacier ice as turquoise as Caribbean seas. The call of moose, lumbering grizzlies, and pine scent so thick it stays in your nostrils forever.”
She stared into his face. She’d never been farther north than Vermont, but she felt the scene as though he’d laid it out before her in the kitchen, and it sounded even more wonderful than Charity. “What don’t you miss?”
“Barb.” He laid the spatula down and handed her the batter bowl from the base of the mixer.
“Your fiancée?”
“My mistake.”
No wonder he had so little joy; it was being devoured by unforgiveness. Had he heard the pastor’s message?
She saw the light turn red on the machine. “Is the iron hot?”
“Quite.” He lifted the lid. “Here. Pour it out from the center or it’ll leak down the sides when we close it.”
She did as he said, but the batter came unevenly because of the egg whites. One side bubbled out when he shut the lid. Almost immediately the aroma filled her nostrils as the steam heated her face.
He said, “Now we let it toast.”
She rinsed her hands in the sink. “How do you know all this?”
He leaned on the counter. “You grow up without a mother, you learn to cook. Dad and I used to have contests, see who could make the meal of the week. Winner got out of dishes.”
“You were close to him.”
He nodded.
Alessi sighed. “Mom and I were just getting to that stage where we were more friends than mother and daughter.” She looked down at her hands in the towel, rubbed slowly. “I wish
she’d lived. I miss her so much.”
Steve crossed his arms over his chest.
Alessi said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Your loss is more recent.” She hung the towel over the bar.
He frowned. “That doesn’t make it worse.”
“You haven’t had Christmas without him.”
“I have every day without him.”
She was glad they had the span of the kitchen between them or she would have put out a hand and touched him.
He turned and eyed the steaming waffle iron. “You like them soft or crisp?”
“Either.”
He went over and lifted the lid. “Just between, I’d say.”
“Okay.”
He paused. “How about burnt black?”
She drew her brows together. “Black?”
“Can you form an opinion, voice a preference?”
She swallowed. “I’d rather they weren’t black.”
He took a plastic spatula and lifted the whole foursome from the iron onto a plate. It was nicely golden, and the warm, grainy aroma wafted through the room. “Perfect. I’m glad you didn’t want them burnt.”
“Would you have?”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
He poured more batter and closed the lid. “I gave you a choice.”
What was he trying to say, that she couldn’t make a decision?
“The usual response is one or the other.” He broke the foursome into quarters with his hands and put two on another plate.
She said, “I thought you might have a preference.”
He shook his head, obviously frustrated. “Take these to the table.” He handed her both plates, then followed her with a small jug of pure maple syrup and the butter dish. He went back, poured two mugs of coffee, and joined her at the table. Folding his hands, he said, “Father, bless this food and each of us in need of your grace.”
“That’s a nice prayer.” Alessi pushed back her hair. “I thought at first you were offended by prayer. I guess it was just me.”
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