The outer door suddenly opened, bringing Lydia out of her lonesome reverie, and a lovely African-American woman stepped into the reception area. She wore a tan rain-or-shine coat and had a large leather satchel draped over her left shoulder. In her other arm, she carried a day planner.
“May I help you?” Lydia asked politely, rising slowly from her chair.
“Yes.” The woman came forward and set her planner on the desk. “I’m Michelle Marx from the Charlotte Observer.”
“A reporter?” Lydia asked, surprised.
“That’s right. I wanted to know if I could speak with Pastor Boswick regarding allegations that were made by some of his former church members. Is he in?”
“Allegations?”
“Yes. You’re not aware of them?”
“Um, no. . .”
At that very moment, the door to Gerald’s office swung open and he stepped out, followed by an attractive blond named Cindy Tanner. Lydia knew Cindy and her husband were having awful marital problems. The man had left her and their two young children, and Cindy was heartbroken, so she consulted with Gerald frequently.
“Thank you, Pastor,” she murmured with a grateful expression. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“There, now, Cindy, you’re going to be fine. A good shepherd always takes care of his flock and, as I said, I will take care of you.”
Lydia felt a moment’s pride at how chivalrous her father-in-law sounded in front of the reporter wanting to investigate him. But the way Cindy gazed up adoringly at him caused Lydia a good measure of discomfort. Was that a come-hither look? Lydia glanced at Gerald. Was he looking back? Lydia checked herself. Of course he wasn’t flirting. How could she have even thought such a thing?
She cleared her throat. Both the pastor and Cindy turned toward her.
“Pastor Boswick,” Lydia began formally since they were in the workplace, “this is Michelle Marx. She’s a reporter.”
“How do you do, Pastor,” Michelle replied with a tight smile.
He nodded curtly, then whispered something to Cindy, who turned and left the office. After watching her go, he wheeled his gaze back to the journalist and assessed her in two sweeping glances. “I don’t have time for reporters,” he stated at last. “Have a good day.” With that, he turned and headed for his office.
“But. . .” Lydia’s argument was lost on the oak-paneled door that closed soundly behind him.
“Not very friendly for a pastor,” Michelle remarked.
Lydia fingered her phone and thought about buzzing him but noticed his line was lit; he was already on his extension. She glanced at the visitor. “I’m sorry, Ms. Marx.”
The woman shrugged. “I’ll just have to print the story with what I’ve got. But I can promise you, it won’t be pretty.”
Lydia felt a moment’s panic. “Perhaps I should try to talk him into speaking with you. Just a moment.” She made for Gerald’s office, but Michelle halted her.
“Don’t bother. I think I’ve seen and heard enough.”
“No, wait. . .”
Lydia glanced at her father-in-law’s door, wondering why he was behaving so brusquely this morning. That wasn’t like him. Turning, she followed Michelle into the outer hallway, unable to abide the thought of the woman slandering the Boswick name.
“Perhaps I can help,” she called after the reporter who stopped in midstride. “Please, come back into the office. I’ll get you some coffee and we can talk.”
Pivoting, the woman eyed her speculatively.
“I’m Lydia Boswick, the pastor’s daughter-in-law, and. . . well, since I work here, I might be able to answer some of your questions.”
One well-sculptured eyebrow went up. “His daughter-in-law, huh? Yes, all right. . .”
Back inside the reception area, Lydia poured coffee and then sat down in one of the lilac-printed upholstered armchairs. “Now, what allegations were you referring to, Ms. Marx?”
She flipped open her planner. “Do you know who Jordan and Sherry Smith are?”
“Why, yes,” Lydia replied with a curious frown. Sherry had once been Lydia’s best friend.
“Mr. Smith was the treasurer here, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. . .well, according to Mr. Smith, Pastor Boswick uses some unethical, if not illegal, practices to ensure the church’s financial stability as well as his own. He says that was why he left Southern Pride Community Church. Is that true?”
Lydia tried to hide her surprise. Unethical? Her father-in-law? “Not to my knowledge. I understood the Smiths left SPCC for entirely different reasons.”
“I see. And what about Mrs. Belva Applegate and Miss Marion Campbell? Their families plan to file lawsuits, but the district attorney’s office states that it plans to file its own charges of extortion against the pastor some time this week. Can you tell me about this?”
“Extortion?” This time Lydia couldn’t conceal her shock.
“You don’t know? The families claim Pastor Boswick used undue influence to convince the two elderly women to purchase expensive term life insurance policies, naming him as beneficiary instead of paying for necessary medical treatments. The result, the families allege, was the premature deaths of their loved ones.”
“I don’t believe that’s the case at all,” Lydia replied, raising her chin defensively. “Both Mrs. Applegate and Miss Campbell were elderly women who were quite sickly much of the time.”
“So you don’t believe medical care from a licensed provider might have forestalled their deaths?”
“Neither woman wanted to go into a nursing home, so many of us here at church took turns preparing meals, cleaning, writing letters—”
“You, personally, helped care for the women?”
“I took my turn, yes. Once a month. And they were lovely gentlewomen who were grateful to be in their own homes at the end of their lives.”
“Hmm. . .” The reporter nodded thoughtfully. “Well, is it true that many more women are accepted into the fold here at Southern Pride Community Church than are men?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Especially widows and single women?”
Lydia frowned. “I don’t know. I guess I never noticed anything like that.” She shifted uncomfortably, recalling that her own mother had been a widow when they had first come to SPCC, back when Lydia was sixteen years old. But so what?
“Is it true that scores of men are turned away from this church every year because Pastor Boswick will not abide anyone disagreeing with his theology?”
“No, that’s not true,” Lydia answered confidently. “Many of our members are high-profile men in the community.”
She smiled weakly, but Michelle’s expression remained stony. “Do they agree with your father-in-law on every issue?”
“Probably not.”
“But you’re not sure?”
Lydia swallowed hard, thinking that the woman missed her calling as a lawyer. Why, she was as good at interrogating a subject as Michael had been!
Then suddenly her smile broadened. “Yes, I’m sure. My husband didn’t agree with his father on every issue. He was very opinionated and they debated quite often.” Lydia sat back in the chair. “So you see, that’s a misconception.”
“I noticed that you speak of your husband in the past tense.”
“He died two and a half years ago.”
“How unfortunate. I’m sorry.”
Glancing down at her hands folded neatly in her lap, Lydia merely nodded.
“And what about Patricia Reimer Jackson. Do you know her?”
Lydia raised her head quickly. “Yes.” She swallowed the fact that Patricia Jackson was her mother.
“Is it true Mrs. Jackson was church disciplined for rebellion simply because she was a widow who wanted to marry a man who was not a member of Southern Pride Community Church?”
“There’s a little more to it than that.”
“Oh? What more?” Michelle too
k up her pen, ready to write down anything Lydia might say.
But she didn’t utter a sound. How could she? It’d been a horrible, shameful situation.
“Was Mrs. Jackson openly rebellious?”
“Yes,” Lydia forced herself to reply.
“She was rebellious because she wanted to remarry and Pastor Boswick was against the match?”
“Yes.”
“So, going against Pastor Boswick’s will is open rebellion and grounds for church discipline here at Southern Pride Community Church. Is that correct?”
“That’s a blanket statement and I can’t possibly answer a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ ”
“I see. . .”
“Are you insinuating my father-in-law is a legalistic man?”
“Isn’t he? From the reports I’ve heard—”
“No!” Lydia raised her chin. “He maintains high standards, but he’s not legalistic.”
Michelle put the capped end of the pen against her lower lip thoughtfully. “Back to Mrs. Jackson. . .she stated she discovered after she was disciplined by the church that Pastor Boswick had years ago coerced her into signing over her late husband’s life insurance funds while she’d been under the impression he was merely managing them for her. Do you know anything about that?”
“It wasn’t coercion. My. . .Mrs. Jackson,” she said, catching herself, “donated those funds to SPCC.”
Lydia still remembered the night her mother had signed the documents. Michael had come along and they’d sat together on the sofa, where they talked and he comforted her in her grief over losing her dad. That was really when it all began—they fell in love while business matters were being settled in the dining room.
“So, Mrs. Jackson donated the funds and Pastor Boswick promised her security and safety within the arms of Southern Pride Community Church. But once she was no longer a member, she no longer had that protection—or her money. Is that right?”
“Well, sort of. . .Pastor Boswick can only offer protection to his flock.”
“But he can keep the flock’s money regardless.”
“It was a donation,” Lydia maintained. She stood, suddenly desiring to end the cross-examination. “I have work to do, Ms. Marx, and I think you should be on your way.”
“I understand, but answer me one more question,” Michelle said, standing and looping her bag over her shoulder. “Is it true that Southern Pride Community Church’s membership is all white? No African Americans? No Hispanics? No Hmong or Native Americans?”
“Um. . .” Lydia had to think. Weren’t there other races represented here? SPCC was a large church and drew people from within a thirty-mile radius around Woodruff, Gastonia, and Charlotte—surely it was racially blended. “I’m afraid I honestly don’t know the answer to your question, Ms. Marx,” she replied lamely.
“Well,” she said, throwing Lydia a disappointed look, “thanks for your time, anyway.”
“You’re not still going to print the article about those allegations against my father-in-law, are you?”
“You better believe I am!” The journalist turned and strode toward the door. “My readers deserve to know the truth, and I hope to bring it to light. Have a nice day, Mrs. Boswick.”
Lydia stared in horror after the woman. The truth? She couldn’t possibly know the truth! Her father-in-law was the kindest, most caring man on earth, not some criminal!
The phone rang, and Lydia snapped to her senses, walked back to her desk, and answered it. It was the assistant pastor’s wife, Eileen Camden.
“I haven’t seen him this morning, but I can put you through to his voice mail.”
“Sure, that would be fine. Thanks.”
She took care of the call just as Gerald reappeared from his office. “That woman,” she said with jangled nerves, “that reporter—”
“I hope you got rid of her.”
Lydia swallowed. “She left. But she promised to print some awful lies about you.”
Her father-in-law puffed out his chest and grinned wryly. “Lydia, my dear, the Lord said there would be persecution from the world when we try to further God’s kingdom. I’m not afraid of anything the newspapers might disclose. Such things have happened to me before. Every intelligent person knows those daily newspapers are filled with gossip and sensationalism.”
“Yes, of course. Everyone knows that—”
“Don’t let it upset you. Now, what about my coffee?”
Lydia managed a smile. “Coming right up.”
❧
As much as Lydia tried to take Gerald’s advice, she felt anxious for the rest of the day. The questions Michelle Marx had asked troubled her and put doubts into her head, causing her to feel confused. But, as her father-in-law often said from the pulpit, questions were the workings of the devil. After all, Satan had questioned Eve in the garden, causing her to doubt God’s word. . . .
By early afternoon, Lydia determined to push aside her worry and concentrate on her work. The hours ticked by. Soon it was three-thirty and Tyler and Brooke burst into the church offices.
“Hi, Mama. Ready to go home?” Tyler asked in his usual exuberant tone.
“Lower your voice, Ty,” Lydia lightly scolded him. “And I’m just about done.”
“Well, well, two of my favorite people,” Gerald said, strolling out from his quarters. “I thought I heard you come in, Tyler.”
Lydia grinned. Tyler with his boisterous ways could be heard for a mile. Gerald liked to say he was “a preacher in the making.”
“And, little Brooke. . .you just get prettier every day.”
“Thank you, Grampa,” she said, beaming.
While the children chattered amicably with their grandfather, Lydia cleared her desk and prepared to leave. Then Gerald scooted them into the outer hallway, motioning with his head for Lydia to join him in his office.
“What is it?” Lydia asked, trailing him. She felt certain he’d bring up the reporter. But to her surprise, such was not the case.
“Simeon Crenshaw phoned earlier, saying he needs an escort to a dinner meeting this evening. He asked my permission to take you, and I told him you’d be delighted to go along.”
Lydia frowned. “But—”
“Elberta and I will take the children overnight. I’ll follow you home, you can pack their things and still have plenty of time to pretty yourself up for your date.”
“Gerald, I don’t want to go out with Sim Crenshaw. I’m not interested in him.”
“Now, Lydia, Sim is a brother in Christ, an upstanding member here at SPCC, and he’s my attorney. Furthermore, you and I agreed that I’d have the say on whom you dated. That way, you won’t feel pressured to accept or turn away a possible suitor. I’ve suggested Sim before, but this time, you’ll go out with him, all right?”
Gerald gave her an indulgent smile. “Women are so emotional, as you well know. And so vulnerable. The weaker vessel.”
Lydia managed a nod. That was what the Bible said: the weaker vessel. And since Michael died, she’d been emotionally shipwrecked. She had come to depend on her father-in-law’s guidance and protection. She needed him.
“You need me. Am I right?” he asked as if divining her thoughts.
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you’re willing to continue with our arrangement. I’d like to see you remarry. . .go on with your life.”
“I’m trying,” she insisted.
“You need a husband,” Gerald maintained. “Someone who can take a firm hand to Tyler and set a good example for him. That boy is the apple of my eye, you know.” A faraway look entered his swarthy gaze. “He’s all I have left, since Michael died. . . .”
Lydia sensed that Gerald still missed his son deeply, just as she did at times. Nevertheless, she just couldn’t enter into a marital relationship that was not of her choosing. “Gerald, Simeon Crenshaw is not the man for me, nor is he the kind of father I’d want for my children.”
“You say that now, dear, but that’s because yo
u haven’t gotten to know Sim. He can really be quite charming. You’ll see.”
“But, I—”
“Lydia, dear, won’t you please go out with him tonight as a special favor to me? I’m going to require Sim’s help in the next few months, what with all these horrible accusations stacked against me.” Lowering his voice, he smiled. “Couldn’t you just help me get on his good side?”
“You’re already on his good side,” she assured him.
Gerald’s gaze hardened in a way that caused Lydia to retreat from further debate. She didn’t want to go out with Sim, but more than anything, she wanted to please her father-in-law. Her own father had died when she was seven years old, and Gerald Boswick was the only father-figure she’d ever known. He’d been generous and compassionate to her, despite his wife’s subtle animosity—and in spite of her mother’s rebellion—and he’d helped Lydia over the most difficult time in her life when Michael died. How, then, could she let Gerald down after all he’d done for her over the years?
“Yes, I’ll go out with Simeon Crenshaw tonight,” she forced herself to reply, albeit reluctantly.
“Wonderful. He’ll be delighted.” Pulling her into a quick embrace, her father-in-law kissed her cheek. “That’s my girl. Chin up. Smile. That’s it. Now, let me get my car keys, and we’ll call it a day.”
Nodding, Lydia fetched her purse and coat. Oh, Lord, she silently pleaded, help me make it through this night.
Five
Settling himself into a white plastic lawn chair on the front porch, Alec stretched out lazily. The weather had been mild today—another seventy-degree day. Some of the guys at work said the annual spring rain showers would begin soon and suggested Alec enjoy the sun while he could. So now, as the fiery red ball began its descent in the western sky, he reveled in its fading glory.
After a few minutes passed, he glanced next door, thinking it had been awfully quiet over at the Boswick house this evening. He guessed they were home, since the family minivan was parked in the driveway. He shrugged and lifted his newspaper. Maybe the kids had to stay inside and do their homework. In any case, it wasn’t any of his concern.
Southern Sympathies Page 4
