by Diane Moody
“No excuses needed,” he said, turning so they stood side by side watching Tristan and Macy get acquainted below them.
“How are you holding up?” she asked quietly.
“Aside from talking a hysterical woman off the water tower and springing my brother out of jail, I’m fine.”
“Lying does not befit you, Reverend Gellar,” she whispered.
“You could tell?”
She nodded, searching his eyes. “You look exhausted.”
“Well, yes, there’s that, of course.”
Tristan and Macy walked toward them, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. “You gonna introduce me to your girlfriend or what?”
Aubrey felt herself blushing as Tristan’s eyes settled on hers.
“Aubrey Evans, this is my brother Tristan.”
She took three steps down and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Tristan.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Aubrey.”
His gaze took her in, head to toe. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought she stood there without a stitch of clothing. Willing her face to shed the blush heating her cheeks, she turned her attention back to Peyton.
“Sterling was able to clear Tristan?”
“Miracle upon miracle,” Tristan answered. “For once in my life, this was an ‘I told you so’ moment. A chance to prove myself in my brother’s presence. I’m sure he’s given you a blow-by-blow accounting of my wayward life, but alas, at the present time, I have been acquitted of murder, and I am indeed a free man.”
“Then I’m happy for both of you because I know how important it was for him to help clear you.”
“Is that a fact?” he asked Peyton playfully. “If it is, it’s a first.”
“That’s a fact you can bank on,” Peyton answered.
She watched them stare at each other, and wondered how fragile their conversation might be below the surface. It dawned on her they probably needed some one-on-one time together.
“Well, I should be on my way,” she said, giving Peyton’s hand a squeeze before skipping down the rest of the steps.
“You don’t live here?” Tristan blurted as she passed him.
“Me?” Aubrey laughed. “No, of course not.”
“For the record, this is the church’s parsonage,” Peyton explained with a nervous chuckle. “Not that it matters. Aubrey and I have only known each other a few weeks.”
Tristan raised his hands. “My mistake. I guess you folks do things a bit different here in the Bible belt.”
Peyton turned to Aubrey, his own face slightly flushed. “You don’t have to go. In fact, I’d love for you to stay.”
“Don’t leave on my account,” Tristan added. “I’m not staying.”
“You’re not?”
“You’re not?” Peyton echoed. “Where’s the fire?”
“You know me. I’m a rolling stone.”
“Please stay. At least for the night. And Aubrey, why don’t you stay and eat with us. We can order a pizza. I’d really like for you and Tristan to get to know each other.”
Tristan turned to face her. “Well, now. That’s an invitation I’ll have to consider. I’ll stay if you will?”
She had the distinct impression he was flirting with her for one purpose only: to provoke his brother. A quick glance at Peyton convinced her as he mouthed a silent please?
“Supreme with extra ricotta?” she teased.
“Any way you like it,” Peyton answered.
“Works for me,” Tristan said, gesturing for her and Peyton to go first, taking the steps again to head inside.
She wasn’t sure it was a good idea but couldn’t resist Peyton’s tender beckoning. As Tristan and Macy lagged behind them, Peyton leaned over to plant a kiss on Aubrey’s cheek.
“Thank you,” he whispered, pulling her to his side. “There’s so much I want to tell you, but for now, let’s just do our best to keep him here a while longer.”
“No problem. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
Chapter 41
By daybreak, Peyton was already on his second cup of coffee as he scrambled to put together his message for the church service later that morning. His mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions, none of them falling in any semblance of order. At the rate he was going, he’d be lucky to string five coherent sentences together.
He threw on a jacket, tucked his notes in his Bible, grabbed his mug, and headed out onto the back porch with Macy in tow. The brisk autumn air slapped his sleep-deprived brain to attention as he lowered himself onto his rocker. Cradling the warmth of the coffee in his hands, he closed his eyes and rocked gently, willing his wandering mind to submit to whatever God would have him say today.
But far and away, his thoughts kept returning to Tristan. To think his brother actually slept in the guest room just inside the house still seemed like a peculiar dream. Only when he’d listened through the door and heard Tristan’s rhythmic snores had he believed it was nothing short of a miracle.
Was that the message he should preach this morning? The return of a prodigal brother? Lots of people understood estrangement. Children, parents, spouses, friends. In the biblical account of the prodigal son’s story, the main focus is the image of a father welcoming home his son, symbolic of God’s open arms to all of us, no matter how far we’ve strayed. He will always, always forgive those who turn their hearts back to Him, and welcome them home with a celebration fit for a king.
Not exactly the case with Tristan.
As far as Peyton could tell, he’d seen no evidence of remorse in his brother. If anything, Tristan seemed proud of his wild life and what he liked to call his “adventures.” He’d carried on for a couple of hours the night before, telling his tall tales over pizza with Aubrey and Peyton. To hear him talk, he had a fan club from coast to coast, most of them young women who liked to party. Oh, the stories he could tell.
Though Aubrey blushed at times, she seemed to enjoy getting to know Tristan, warts and all. But Peyton’s gut stayed taut through most of the evening, regretting that he’d invited Aubrey to stay. He should have known Tristan would try to shock her and charm her at the same time.
Later, when Peyton walked her home, he’d apologized profusely until she pressed her fingers against his lips and said, “Enough. I’m not as naive as you think, Peyton. I wasn’t taken in by Tristan’s feigned charisma. Not for a second. What I witnessed tonight was a man who, by the way, has a quite familiar and handsome face,” she said, pausing to chuckle, “whose soul is broken and wounded, and in desperate need of forgiveness and a fresh start.”
“Wow. You got all that from his frat-boy stories of stealing kegs of beer and the multitude of bizarre dalliances with college cheerleaders?”
“Yes, which was remarkable, considering he never actually attended college,” she said with a smile. “You’ve got to hand it to him. Working in a college town has a lot of perks for a drifter like Tristan.”
He wasn’t amused then. He still wasn’t.
Even now, as he sipped his coffee gone cold, Peyton wished he’d said something, done something—anything—to reach through his brother’s ironclad veneer and shake some sense into him. He rubbed his face with a low growl. This was pointless. Grappling with his brother’s celebrated shortcomings wasn’t helping. He tossed the rest of the coffee on the grass and headed back inside with Macy. Maybe a shower would help. Maybe he should go to his office at church. Surely he’d be inspired there.
Forty-five minutes later in his office, he finished his abbreviated sermon notes, closed his Bible, then slipped down on one knee to pray for the service ahead, for those who would come to hear a word from the Lord. He also prayed for himself, feeling totally unprepared for this message. He trusted God as he always did, to use him as “an instrument for special purposes, made holy and useful to the Master.” Then he thanked God for what He would do in spite of his own scattered thoughts and outright fatigue.
“To You alone I give the gl
ory and honor, in Your name I pray. Amen.”
He stood, and as he gathered his notes, the door burst open.
“Oh Pastor!” Sugar squawked, her hand flying to her chest. “You scared me to death! I didn’t know you were here!”
“Well, it is my office, and it is Sunday morning, so—”
“Oh, I know. Heavens! I just wasn’t expecting you this early, what with the news of you and Sterling springing your poor brother from jail yesterday and all.”
He set his pen on the pad of paper and leaned back in his chair. “I see that word still travels at warp speed here in Braxton.”
She planted a fist on her hip. “You’ve been here long enough to know word gets around about such things. Don’t act all shocked and bothered with me.”
He laughed. “I’m just giving you a hard time, Sugar. How are you this morning?”
“Fine. But I will say I’ve missed you. This place has been a madhouse all week. The phone has rung off the wall, what with the news of Kathleen and her confession and … Lord have mercy, to think of that woman up on that ledge planning a swan dive like Peter Lanham’s. If you ask me, I think the time has come to pull that eyesore down before another troubled soul climbs up those rungs. Don’t you?”
He stood, reaching for his coffee mug. “To be honest, I haven’t had time to think about it. But I’m really sorry I’ve been out of the office so much. I know things will start to settle down now. We’ll get back on course. So tell me, are we all set for the service this morning?”
“I believe so. Did you find the order of service I laid on your desk?” she asked, following him out of his office.
“I did. Thank you, Sugar. I’m going to pop in for some coffee and visit with the folks. If you need me, you’ll know where to find me.”
“Sure thing, Pastor, but hold up a sec,” she said, catching up to him. She looked from side to side then over her shoulder before lowering her voice. “Is he coming?”
The heavy waft of Sugar’s cologne tingled his nose like a sneeze ready to blow. “Is who coming?”
“Who do you think? Your brother. Your twin. Tristan. He hasn’t left town, has he?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So?”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Gotta run.”
As he headed down the hall, he wondered if Tristan was still asleep. If not, had he found the note he’d left for him? It had taken him almost ten minutes to compose it. How silly. In the end, he’d wadded up the page and tried again, this time keeping it short and sweet.
Off to church. Service at 11:00. Brunch later?
But he had a hunch Tristan had already hitchhiked to the interstate and out of town.
As he entered the Coffee Corner, he gave his usual welcome. “Good mornin’, ladies and gentlemen!”
“Pastor! What a night!”
“Is it true? Did Kathleen kill Harley?”
“Were you really up on the tower with her?”
“Is it true Harley was wanted by the Mob?”
“You have a twin brother?”
And so it began.
At the final note of the choir’s special music, Peyton stood and made his way to the pulpit. Looking out at his congregation, he smiled and said, “Good morning.”
They responded as they always did. “Good morning.”
Somehow, the simple routine of the familiar exchange helped ease him into the moment. No, he’d not adequately prepared. But he realized that was okay. A calmness settled over him which he recognized at once. God was in control of this service, not him. Hadn’t he just offered himself as a mere instrument, made holy and useful to the Master? Of course.
Use me, Lord.
“I suppose we all have our own reasons for being here this morning,” he began. “Often times, we’re so used to this Sunday morning routine that we merely go through the motions—getting dressed, having breakfast, walking or driving to the church, and gathering here in this room. Truth be told, we could do it in our sleep.” He paused to smile. “In fact, many of you do just that. You sleep right through my messages.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“In fact, some of you are asleep right now.”
A few elbows jostled sleepy spouses.
He joined their laughter, adding, “Oh, just let him sleep, Sally. You can tell the mayor about it over lunch at Denton’s.”
Sally buried her face in her hands, giggling along with the others.
“Now, where was I?”
He caught Aubrey’s eye and reminded himself not to wink. Still, she returned his smile, then he found his place in his notes.
“So yes, we all have different reasons for being here this morning, and you’d have to be living under a rock not to know about the events of this past week. So rather than beat around the bush, let’s talk about it. Let’s deal with it openly and see what we might learn from it.
“Because here’s the thing. In a small town like ours, it’s easy to get caught up in the rumor mill. It’s easy to assume everything we hear is true, or at least partially true. Right? But why is that? Why do you think we so readily accept the news we hear off the grapevine as fact? And why, rather than checking out the facts for ourselves, do we then pass along these tidbits of information? Like willing bystanders anxious to enter the conversation, whether it’s true or not. Why do we do that?
“Good question. I’m not sure I know the answer, to be honest. We can play the victim card and claim it’s just how we’re wired. Those of you a little older might remember a tabloid newspaper called The National Enquirer. You probably also remember its tag line—Enquiring minds want to know! I see many of you nodding your heads. I’m told that paper would print anything to sell copies. Ghost stories, alien sightings, celebrity gossip—and the papers would fly off the racks.
“For those of you too young to remember, back in the old days they had what were called newspapers that you actually held in your hands, and you had to literally turn the pages.” He mimed the act as laughter filled the comfortable pause.
“But that particular paper sold millions of copies because we seem to have an insatiable appetite to learn bad things about one another. And who knows, maybe it’s true. Maybe we are wired that way.
“But that excuse won’t wash for those of us who are believers. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. God has told us in His Word time and time again to seek the truth. Always. And why is He so adamant that we seek truth?
“The answer is one you know well. Say it with me: ‘You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.’ That’s it. There’s nothing complicated or difficult to understand. The truth shall set us free.
“Then let’s get to the truth and settle this once and for all. First, Harley Creech was not murdered. Not by me, not by my brother—and by the way, yes, it’s true—I do have an identical twin brother. Nor was Harley killed by his sister Kathleen. And for the record, Kathleen gave me permission to tell you what I’m about to say. So here it is. They had an argument. Harley lost his balance and fell back into the empty baptistry here behind me, and in doing so, broke his neck, dying instantly. End of story.
“Second, Kathleen Creech is a good and decent person whose life has now been shaken on three different occasions, such that most of us, had we been in her shoes, would never have gotten out of bed to face another day. She does not need our pity, our ridicule, our gossip, our slander. And if you are tempted in any of those areas, even in the slightest, most remote possible way, then I would remind you, even as our Lord instructed, to ‘let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’
“Kathleen Creech needs none of that. What she needs is our prayers. She is one of our own. And she needs our love and support to get through the difficult days ahead. I hope I can count on you to join us in ministering to her however we can. But most of all to pray for her.
“Because … well, the fact of the matter is, none of us know what those around us might be going through.
None of us know the heartaches and trials they may be experiencing. Most of us tend to hide the hurting places within us. We slap on our Sunday masks, and act as if we’re all perfectly fine all the time. That’s how we play the game. But the reality is, we’re not. You’re not, and I’m not.”
He paused, taking a deep breath before going on, then slowly releasing it. He closed his Bible, took a step to the side of the pulpit and leaned against it.
“I am definitely not fine. If you’ll notice, I’ve not pointed my finger at you as I’ve addressed this subject, and for good reason. That’s because there have been times in my own life, more than I care to admit, when I—”
Peyton froze.
At the rear of the room, Tristan slipped inside the sanctuary doors and slowly found a place to stand against the back wall. He looked up front, locking eyes with Peyton. For a moment neither of them so much as blinked. Another moment passed. Then Tristan glanced up at the bill of the cap on his head and slowly slipped it off as a lopsided grin shaped his face.
Peyton smiled, the long-forgotten memory of their father forever scolding Tristan for wearing his ball caps in church. Week in and week out, every single Sunday of their young lives, their father would roar, Have some respect, Tristan!
The memory shared, that “twin thing” echoing their father’s words in both their ears across the auditorium.
As folks twisted to see what Peyton was smiling at, he returned to his place behind the pulpit.
“Sorry about that. I was telling you about times in my own life when I jumped to the wrong conclusions based on rumors or ‘misinformation’ as I’ve heard it labeled. But more often than not, I made those conclusions based on my own preconceived impressions. I saw what I thought I had always seen instead of giving that person the benefit of the doubt. Giving that person a chance to do the right thing. To be the person God made him or her to be.
“Because, let’s face it. We’re all pretty messed up, much of the time. Life is messy, and we get messed up. But we all deserve a second chance. No matter where we’ve been or what we’ve done. We are all worthy of a second chance.