The bishop thought of his own Christmas day—of how fun and fulfilling it had been, spent with his family.
“I’m sorry, Scott, I truly am,” he said. “If I’d had any idea, you’d have been at our house, celebrating with us. We’d have been glad to have you.”
“No, no—that’s okay. I wouldn’t have been great company. I survived, anyway.”
“Has Marybeth said anymore about the Church, of late?”
Scott shook his head. “She just spends more and more time in her various charitable efforts. I guess she finds that satisfying.”
“Well—I s’pose she could do worse.”
“That’s certainly true. I should be grateful, shouldn’t I?”
The bishop reached out and squeezed his shoulder, giving it a little shake. “Sometimes small favors are all we have to be grateful for,” he acknowledged.
* * *
Friday evening, shortly before seven, Tiffani appeared in the family room dressed for her movie date with Peter MacDonald. The bishop looked up from his reading, a mixture of emotions welling up in him. She wore the requisite jeans, with a red turtleneck sweater that brought out the color in her cheeks, and her hair was styled with the front part pulled back in a complicated pattern of little twisty things, the back a tangle of dark gold curls. She looked older, suddenly—almost like a college girl, he thought.
“You look nice, sweetie,” Trish said casually.
“Thanks,” Tiffani replied, with an equally casual air, although her hands seemed to have a mind of their own, finding little meaningless things to do, fiddling with a pencil from the table, patting restlessly against her jeans-clad thighs, smoothing her eyebrows, and fingering the little dangly gold things in her ears.
“So!” her father said heartily. “All ready for your first date! Let’s get a picture of you before he comes.”
“Oh, Dad! Honestly, what’s the big deal? It’s just Pete.”
“Just Pete?”
“Well, you know what I mean. You guys are friends with his folks. Probably his dad told him to ask me out, or something.”
“Oh, I doubt that was necessary. Come on, Tiffi, stand by the fireplace.”
Tiffani let out an exasperated sigh but stood obediently, her head cocked to one side, while her dad snapped her picture.
“There,” he said. “Thanks for indulging your sentimental old dad.”
“Okay,” she said in a voice of strained tolerance, but there was the quirk of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “Now, Dad—you don’t need to give Pete the third degree, all right? And I’m perfectly capable of telling him what time I need to be home, so don’t worry about that—or anything, okay?”
“I’ll try to be good,” he promised. “But I reserve the right to worry about anything and everything I choose.”
* * *
He worried about the content of the movie they would see; he worried about whether Pete was a safe driver; he worried about whether Pete’s standards were anywhere close to Tiffani’s; he worried about whether they would each have a good time and what they would each report to their friends about the date. He worried . . .
“You’re worried, aren’t you?” Trish asked, when he had sighed deeply for about the fourth time and had drunk several small glasses of water at the kitchen sink. “Either that, or dinner was way too salty.”
He looked at her miserably. “I can’t seem to find the off button,” he confessed. “Is it going to be this bad every time she goes out?”
“I hope not. I can’t seem to settle down to anything, either. We’re probably being silly. Pete seemed very nice when he came to get her, didn’t he? Very polite and respectful and all that.”
“He has nice manners,” the bishop allowed. “Around us, at least,” he added in a low growl.
“Jim! Do you have any reason to believe he’s different, away from adults?”
“Just the fact that they all are,” he said.
“Were you?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You acted scared to death around my folks!”
“I still do.”
“Oh, not so much now. Our last visit was pretty relaxed, I thought. But when we were first getting together, and you came to visit in Arizona—I thought you’d have a stroke every time my dad asked you a simple question. Your face would turn so red!”
“Well, that was different. I was just a rube from the boonies, and he was a scholar and a gentleman—in every sense of the word. I respected him a lot—still do—and I was just afraid he was going to see me for the nervy little upstart that I was, daring to court his beautiful daughter when I had no credentials and little schooling and nothing—”
Trish interrupted him. “You had the credentials of being a fine member of the Church, with a strong testimony and a natural kindness and concern for other people. That’s what my dad saw—and that’s why he didn’t run you off. Plus, I think he suspected that if he had, I’d have gone, too.”
“Would you?”
“I’d have put up a major fuss, that’s for sure. I saw your good points, too—always had—and I wanted to be with you more than with any other guy I ever dated.”
“I didn’t even date anybody else.”
“Well, you were shy. I suppose I should be grateful for that—you might have discovered you liked somebody else better.”
“Not a chance. I looked them over; I wasn’t that shy. But I never saw anybody who compared.”
“Do you think the kids today have that kind of steadfastness?”
“Not most of the ones I know well,” he replied. “Although, to be fair, some of them might. I mean, I didn’t exactly tell everyone I knew how I felt about you.”
“You told Mac.”
“Right. And how was I to guess that Mac would go and father a kid who wants to take our little girl out? Life’s so unpredictable.”
“Meant to be, I guess.”
They tucked Mallory into bed, kissed Jamie goodnight, and watched the late news.
“Well, okay, it’s time, isn’t it?” he said, glancing at the clock on the mantel.
“If they made it into the early movie and then got something to nibble on after, it’s just about time—depending on how long they take to eat. They might be talking—to each other, or to other kids they know. That can go on indefinitely.”
“No it can’t, because her curfew isn’t indefinite!”
“She’s a sensible girl, Jim. She’ll be home, soon.”
“You guarantee that?”
“She has twenty-five more minutes.”
“That wasn’t a guarantee.”
* * *
Tiffani let herself in the front door just as they were turning out the lights in the kitchen and family room and feeding Samantha her bedtime snack.
“Well, hey there,” her dad boomed. “How was your evening, sweetheart?”
“Fine,” Tiffani said, turning to lock the door behind her.
“Did you have fun?” asked Trish.
“Uh-huh,” Tiffani said.
“Did you like the movie?” pursued her mother.
“It was okay.”
“Did you like Pete?” inquired her father.
“He’s okay.” She drifted toward the stairs. “I’m tired—I’m going to bed now.”
“Okay. Thanks for getting home on time,” Trish said.
“I said I would.”
“Right. Well, we appreciate it. Goodnight, sweetie.”
“’Night.”
They stood together and watched her climb the stairs. The bishop turned to his wife in frustration.
“Uh-huh? Fine? Okay? That’s all? What kind of communication is that?” he demanded.
His wife wrinkled her pert little nose at him. “Sixteen-year-old kind,” she explained. “Maybe we’ll get more tomorrow.”
“We’d better,” he grumbled. “I didn’t spend my entire evening worrying, only to be repaid with uh-huh’s and fine’s!”
* * *
&n
bsp; They were enjoying one of Trish’s Saturday morning breakfast extravaganzas when a knock sounded at the kitchen door. Trish answered.
“Come in,” she invited. “You must be Marguerite Lowell! I’m Trish Shepherd. We’re just having a late breakfast—won’t you join us? We have way too much food.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” stated the woman who stepped just inside the doorway. She held out Trish’s jam jar and a small envelope. “Mother sent me over to say thank you for the bread and jam. The jam’s real good—I like it. Here’s the jar, all washed.”
“Oh, you didn’t need to return the jar,” Trish told her. “But thank you. Marguerite, this is our family. My husband Jim and our children—Tiffani, Jamie, and Mallory.”
The bishop smiled and nodded at her, taking the opportunity to take stock of the daughter who liked to shovel snow. She was slender except for a little weight through her hips, and her coloring reflected her mother’s—pale skin and dark hair—the hair, in Marguerite’s case, braided into thick plaits that were pinned on top of her head. She wore no makeup, and she had a faint, dark mustache on her upper lip. She looked back at his family, almost eagerly, he thought.
“Hello,” she said in their direction. “Well, I have to go back. Mother said not to stay too long. Thanks again.”
“You’re very welcome,” Trish replied. “Come again, when you can visit,” she added, closing the door behind the visitor.
“Okay, so she’s weird, too,” pronounced Jamie, reaching for another pancake.
“Now, Jamie, let’s not judge the lady, on first meeting. We may get to be real fond of her, who knows?”
“Dad, she was weird,” Tiffani confirmed. “She acted like she was scared not to do everything just like her mother said. When you’re thirty-four—that’s weird.”
“Maybe she’s just a little slow or backward,” Trish said. “Let’s not worry about it. Maybe we’ll have a chance to get better acquainted and find she’s not weird at all.”
“Maybe she’d like to play with Samantha, since her mommy doesn’t let her have a kitty,” suggested Mallory. “Only, she’d have to play with her here. Samantha can’t go over there.”
“That’s sweet of you, Mal,” her dad told her. “But she may not like kitties, either.”
Mallory’s expression showed what she thought of anyone who might not like her beloved pet. “That would be weird,” she echoed her older siblings.
The bishop sighed. They had some work to do regarding tolerance of differences.
* * *
Trish read the thank-you note that Marguerite Lowell had brought and handed it silently to her husband. He read:
Dear Neighbors,
Thank you so much for your welcome to the neighborhood and for the gift of bread and jam. Our Marguerite is enjoying it very much. She likes sweets, and she doesn’t get very many. It’s good to know we have Christians next door.
Thanks again.
The Lowells
“Nice enough note,” the bishop commented. “Sounds just like the lady.”
“Very correct,” agreed Trish. “Do you suppose when she finds out we’re LDS, she’ll still think we’re Christians?”
“Well—we are.”
“Of course. But you know how some folks think.”
“Sure I do. I reckon we’ll just have to make sure we act like Christians. Remind the kids, will you, to cut back on the heathen rituals and sun-worshiping?”
“Oh, you joke, Jimmy—but you and I both know that in some circles, Mormons are considered anything but Christian! And it makes me wonder, because she’s already made such a point of mentioning it, and asking Hestelle about us in advance, whether she might not belong to one of those groups.”
He shrugged. “She might—but let’s try real hard not to borrow trouble in advance. Let’s just be good neighbors and the best examples we can of what we know and believe. By the way, Tiff didn’t volunteer much more about her date, yet.”
“I know. But maybe there simply isn’t much to tell.”
He wished he were certain that was the case.
* * *
“Bishop Shepherd? Elder Bussero here. Got a problem, Bishop, and we’re not sure what to do about it.”
“A problem? What’s that?” Not a problem working with Elder Rivenbark, he hoped.
“Well, it’s with the Kress family. They think maybe they’ve made a mistake, being baptized.”
“That was only a week ago! Why would they change their minds already?”
“See, it was something that came up in a discussion in the Gospel Essentials class. You remember we sang ‘O My Father’ in sacrament meeting? And you remember how it talks about having a ‘mother there’? Well, somebody asked if that meant our earthly mothers who had died, and were waiting for us in heaven, and somebody else answered and said no, that it meant God’s wife, our Heavenly Mother. Well, the Kresses freaked out, and said they didn’t believe God would have a wife. I guess they’ve been stewing about it, and they just called and want us to come back over and talk to them about it.”
“Okay. And that would be you and Elder Rivenbark, right?”
“Yessir. Only I hate to bother him with too much stressful stuff right off, you know? So I wondered if you might meet us there and help explain things to the Kresses. Since, actually, you know, our work is technically done when the folks are baptized, and then the ward takes over fellowshipping and teaching and all . . .”
“I know how it works, Elder. But just a word of advice about Elder Rivenbark—don’t baby him, okay? He’d resent that, and he’s used to working hard. In fact, why don’t you ask him to spearhead this discussion with the Kresses? But give him a little time to prepare. And I’ll be glad to be there, too. I need to visit the family, anyway. What time?”
“Seven, this evening.”
“See you there.” He hung up and consulted the calendar in his briefcase, certain that there wasn’t any conflicting meeting this Saturday evening, but double-checking to be sure. He was right—there was no conflicting meeting. However, he had penciled in, “Date w/Trish—dinner, movie.”
Oh, boy, he said to himself. He had forgotten. He had planned to take her to a nice, quiet place for dinner, where they wouldn’t be likely to be interrupted or distracted. It had been a while since they had been out on a date, just the two of them. The holidays had been busy, and then there’d been Thomas’s accident. He’d been so tired, so worried of late. He knew Trish was looking forward to this evening out. She deserved it—and far more. He sighed and headed upstairs, where she was vacuuming their bedroom carpet. He motioned to her to turn it off.
“Babe,” he began, in the sudden silence, “about tonight . . .”
He hated the stricken look in her eyes. “Something’s come up, right?”
He told her. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I was looking forward to it, too. But I’ll take a rain check for the first available evening, okay?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Another month or two—whenever you can fit it in.”
“No, no, babe—I’m talking next week!”
She ticked the days off on her fingers. “Monday’s family night, Tuesday, you’re in meetings, Wednesday, you’re going home teaching again, Thursday, I’m giving a presentation at the PTA meeting, and then it’s Friday, when you told Jamie you’d take him and Buddy to the basketball game. Saturday’s the Ward Game Night, and then it’s Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday again. I understand how it is, Jim. You have to prioritize. Don’t worry about it.”
She switched the vacuum back on. Her cheeks were pink, and he suspected there were tears forming in her eyes, but she turned the machine away from him so that he couldn’t see. He wanted to go to her and hold her, but he was afraid she would shake him away. He had been dismissed.
Chapter Fourteen
* * *
“ . . . o’er-rule mine acts to serve thine ends”
He knew he had a problem. If there was anything that distressed him more than havin
g disappointed his wife, it would only be having disappointed his Father in Heaven. Now, he suspected that having done the first, he had done the second, as well. Something, obviously, had to be done. What was not so obvious, at least to him, was exactly what that something should be. He went downstairs, pulled on a warm jacket, and got into his truck. A thin, cold drizzle was falling, distorting the view through his windshield. He didn’t have anywhere particular to go, but he wanted to be alone and unobserved for a time of pondering and prayer. If he felt he could have spared the time, and if the weather were more clement, he would have driven to Shepherd’s Pass, his ancestral home and favorite thinking place. As it was, he started the truck, turned on the wipers, and almost automatically headed toward another home—the ward meetinghouse. Nothing was going on; the parking lot was deserted, and that was just how he wanted it.
He let himself into the building, locking the door behind him, and made his way into his unheated office, where he knelt, bowed his head, and presented his problem to the Lord, asking forgiveness and direction. He knew it was Church policy for husbands and wives to set aside time each week for each other, and he had heard it said somewhere, by somebody he respected—he couldn’t remember exactly who—that during the judgment process, men would be asked what they had done to make their wives happy.
He thought back over the last several months. He and Trish had gone to visit T-Rex in the hospital; they had, of course, both been involved in VerDan’s wedding; they had attended the temple together, once with another couple and once with a ward group; and of course they had been together for Christmas and New Year’s festivities in their home. None of these, however, had been a real date—the pair of them alone with time to talk and relax and enjoy being together.
Even their traditional Sunday afternoon walks had gone by the board more often than not, either because of other pressures or due to miserable weather. Frequently they went to bed at different hours—one being asleep before the other made it upstairs. No wonder Trish was feeling neglected! He needed to repent. She, after all, was his first priority, his companion, helpmeet, and love—without her, nothing else would matter quite as much.
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