Back Where I Belong: A Wonderfully Witty and Completely Absorbing Love Story (Susan Wade Series Book 3)

by Virginia Gray

  I nodded and flashed him a dazed smile. “Absolutely. Oh, don’t stop!”

  With lips swollen and a face still flushed from our brief, but explosive passion, I was absolutely going to be late for my first class. I had twenty minutes to drive forty miles through sheriff-infested speed traps. I rushed into the classroom to the echoes of Amen. The minister gave me a warm smile and motioned to the seat nearest him. In trouble already. I flipped to page one of the United Methodist Handbook, and my eyes immediately glazed over as he began his lecture on the history of the church and life of John Wesley. I wasn’t even sure who founded the Baptist movement; we just studied scriptures in Sunday School then stared at our feet while the preacher yelled at us for an hour or two.

  The next three Sundays saw a nonexistent office emergency, a fake sore throat, and a wicked case of make-believe cramps. At this point, I was fairly sure Jimbo loved me. I had to confess my sins to someone, so Mona bore the brunt on her delicate shoulders.

  “You’ve got to tell Pete! It’d make him so proud, and I think he’d be hurt if you didn’t.”

  “But it’s kind of weird, don’t you think?” I was fine with holidays, but if he believed I’d suddenly turned all religious, then he might expect us to go weekly, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that kind of commitment.

  “Susan, you’re joinin’ his church. That’s a big deal.”

  I looked up from my laptop that evening. “Pete, what do you think about the Flamingo Resort and Casino? They have twenty chapels, plus we can choose from a variety of themes, including An Evening in Paris.” I pushed a cheesy picture of a couple posing under the fake Eiffel Tower towards him and channeled my inner take-no-prisoners business persona. “We could totally make this work.”

  His eyes scrunched up like he was in immense pain, but then he breathed deeply and said, “Wherever you are, that’s where I’m gonna be. If Vegas suits you, then Vegas it is.”

  “Excellent. We can choose the color scheme, flowers, cake, etc., right online. Plus, no invitations to stress over, and we’ll save a fortune.” My black widow spider nodded and continued weaving her intricate web of lies. “My job’s crazy right now, and I really don’t have time for all this wedding garbage. Vegas will make my life infinitely easier. Does April work for you?”

  “Tomorrow works for me,” he said, thoroughly melting my insides.

  “April it is. I’ll book tomorrow.”

  ♥

  I was fairly inept at hiding things from Pete, but so far, this whole membership thing had gone off without a hitch. All I had to do was get through this weekend’s new member’s ceremony, and the sanctuary was mine.

  “I was wonderin’ if you’d like to have brunch in New Bern, Sunday. Your birthday’s next week, and I thought it would be nice.”

  “Um…this Sunday?” I hadn’t come up with a concrete plan for avoiding him, yet, but I was mulling over some sort of elective surgery or a grand mal toothache.

  “I’ve already made reservations at Front Street Café for twelve-thirty. Then I was thinkin’ we could walk along the river—ya know, like on our first date.” Crap, the romance card.

  “That sounds great. I might have to meet you there, though. I, um, have something I’ve got to do first.”

  “On Sunday mornin’? What’s so important it can’t wait ’til later in the day?”

  “Office?” It was a weak excuse, but he was well aware of my job affair. “I may have a conference call with China.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Hmm. It would be about midnight there if I’m not mistaken. Maybe you could cut them some slack and call when they’re actually awake.” Grr!

  “Don’t you and Jimbo want to go fishing? I mean, we could always go on Saturday.”

  He sucked in his upper lip—something he only did when he was wrestling with a strong, often painful emotion. “We could, but I was thinkin’, I’ve never taken you to the church where I grew up. Since we’d be down there anyway, maybe we could go that mornin’. I’d love to show ya off. And I’m sure some of my old Sunday School teachers would be very happy to tell you all about how rotten I was.” His tone was light, but his expression was earnest.

  Disaster!

  I was highly uncomfortable with public displays of religion. In fact, I found it discomfiting when Mona prayed over her lunch at work, and when Pete said grace at dinner when we had guests. And my mom..? She did that shit in public! And to pledge a religious oath with him staring at me? I began hyperventilating.

  “It’d mean a great deal to me.” An uncharacteristic fragility swam in his beautiful peridot eyes.

  “Okay,” I sighed. “That would be great.”

  He pulled me into his arms and kissed me deeply. “I do love you.”

  ♥

  According to the historical marker, Centenary Methodist Church had dropped anchor in historic downtown New Bern in 1772. Pale brick, the color of stone, lent the building an old world feel. Intricate copper finials, green with age, tipped the insanely complex, slated roofline, and spiraled turrets, decorated with beautiful stained glass window slits, pierced a perfectly blue sky. We walked towards the arched entrance hovering over a series of smooth columns. It was truly a glory to behold, and I felt a sliver of excitement as I imagined bolting down these stairs, my arm looped through Pete’s, rice grains pelting us. I glanced at his handsome profile and smiled. Surely the impending, most likely painful hour was worth the price.

  “Ya look beautiful, by the way,” Pete murmured as we neared the door.

  “Peter Walsh!” A greeter shouted, throwing up his arm. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “It’s good to be here,” Pete replied.

  “Heard ya’d moved to Atlantic Beach.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man’s expression suddenly became grave. “Son, you haven’t set foot in this church since your mamma passed. I know Maggie wouldn’t have wanted that. This’ll always be your home. We love ya here, boy.” Then he hugged Pete fiercely as I stood, shell-shocked.

  After a brief clearing of throats, they broke with a manly back slap, and Pete turned to me. “Mr. Walker, this is my fiancée, Susan Wade.” The word fiancée stopped the man dead in his tracks. What followed was a suffocating hug, laced heavily with nose-prickling aftershave.

  “My goodness, you’re pretty as a peach,” he proclaimed, gripping my arms. “Pete, where’d you find a beauty like this?”

  “Walmart. Can ya believe it?” I narrowed my eyes as they both laughed loudly. “No, Susan and I met…” He stopped and looked at me sweetly. “We met in Havelock. Luckiest day of my life.”

  “I’m certain of it,” Mr. Walker remarked.

  At this point we were holding up a line of churchgoers, so we said our goodbyes and entered the vestibule.

  The next man, with whom we repeated much of the previous scene, offered bulletins. I knew my name was printed somewhere inside. If Pete saw it, I’d be flushed out like a duck during hunting season and spend the next hour suffering odd looks and silent questions.

  “No thanks, we don’t need one,” I said, dragging Pete by the arm.

  “’Course we do, Susie-Q. We won’t know which hymns to sing.”

  “Well, let’s not waste valuable resources then.” I smiled and took one from the man. “We’ll share.”

  The aisles were thick with milling people, but the pews were filling quickly. “Where would ya like to sit?” he asked. There was no way in hell I was toting Pete to the special roped off area where the new members had been instructed to sit. Just then one of my classmates waved as he ushered his family past. I gave him a tight smile.

  “Um, where did you sit growing up?” I asked.

  “Well, Mamma always sat up front.” A shadow of sadness crossed his features. “Looks like that’s full, today, though. Must be something special goin’ on.”

  “How about the back? I’m feeling a little nauseous.” Totally true. “I might need to sneak out.”

  “The bathrooms
are through the double doors up front by the organ, actually. If you’re not feeling well, we could go.”

  “No! I mean—”

  Just then the shit hit the fan.

  “Peter Walsh! Heavens! And don’t you look so handsome in your fine suit.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Martha. This is my—”

  “Fiancée?” She raised an eyebrow then winked. Oh, let the earth swallow me whole.

  He gave me an odd look, but before he could speak, several high-pitched voices squawked, “Peter Walsh!” all at once.

  Then it was like a Macy’s after-Christmas sale, with half the women in the church crawling over one another to maul him with affection. I tried to escape the melee, but he kept a solid grip on my hand.

  “I want y’all to meet Susan Wade, my fiancée.” Feminine peals shimmered around us. Joining the cacophony were more than a fair number of “It’s about time you found someone” and “I wish Maggie could see this” comments.

  “Y’all’ll be comin’ to my house for Sunday dinner,” a largish elderly woman pronounced.

  “No, my house,” another said.

  I prepared for the ensuing catfight, but Pete, sensing the estrogen surge, politely said, “We’d love to visit with all y’all, but I’ve already promised to take Susan to brunch for her birthday.” They beamed at me and then turned back to him in unison. “Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing?” I rolled my eyes steepleward.

  We were dragged to the middle of the church and sandwiched in the dead-center of a long pew spilling over with people. Though November, I was sweating like it was the Fourth of July. Becoming increasingly nervous, I flipped through the bulletin. The list of new members was between the who’s in the hospital and the who died sections on the last page. I breathed a small sigh of relief. Perhaps no one would even notice. Pete reached for the bulletin, but I held onto the flimsy sheets like a wad of hundred dollar bills, then I carefully folded the pages so only the scripture lesson and the hymn numbers were visible.

  The service was exactly like every other Sunday worship service I’d ever attended: welcome, introductory hymn, Old Testament scripture reading, prayer, New Testament scripture (while standing), The Lord’s Prayer, another hymn, and special choir music as the offering plates were passed. Pete emptied his billfold and winked at me. “I’m a little behind on tithing.”

  After yet another prayer and a short song verse, we settled in for the sermon, which so happened to be titled “Assessing Your Personal Relationship with God”. I swear, the man should have just used my full name and gotten on with it. When I glanced at Pete, his top lip had disappeared, and I wondered if he wasn’t feeling the exact same way. If he hadn’t darkened these doors since his mother’s death, then there was way more going on here than a casual church visit. Pete and Jimbo’s Sunday morning fishing trips suddenly seemed more an exercise in avoidance than a weekly boondoggle. His eyes met mine, and he squeezed my hand.

  Pastor Hewitt was a gifted speaker. His points were well-made and insufferably compelling, and he didn’t raise his voice even once. Perhaps that, Pete’s comforting grip, and the fact that we were literally packed into a pew like a tin of escargot were the only things keeping me from slithering under the oak bench and military-crawling it out of the sanctuary.

  Were my motives for joining this church self-serving? Absolutely. Was I committed to worshipping on Sundays? Snort. The long and the short of it: I was a Methodist poser. I just hoped the Methodist hell was more forgiving than the Southern Baptist one, because…Yeesh!

  “Friends, we are blessed today. Through the grace of God, our church family has grown by ten. It is my honor to introduce our newest Centenary members,” Pastor Hewitt proudly announced. Clapping and a whole lot of “Amens” followed. “New members, please step forward at this time to receive your certificates.”

  As everyone stood and filed out of the front pews, my palms went slick, and I felt a bit faint. To my right sat a pack of slightly overweight ladies fanning themselves and looking rapt. To my left, Pete and another pile of ladies. How the hell was I going to get out of here?

  Pastor Hewitt met my eyes and nodded expectantly. I sucked in a whole bunch of air and closed my eyes. It was now or never, so I did the unthinkable: I stood.

  “Susie-Q, you okay?” Pete asked, concern painting his face.

  I pulled that shit right out of my butt like I was sitting in Bob’s office, completely unprepared. “I feel the spirit moving me.” Then I turned my back to him and murmured, “Pardon me,” all the way to the aisle.

  Standing ramrod straight and refusing to look at the congregation, I thought about how truly ridiculous this was. I had no problem whatever speaking before hundreds of colleagues and executives, where literally millions of dollars and my job itself were at stake. Yet here I was, facing a medium-sized congregation of loving people in a small town church, about to go into heart failure.

  When my name was called, I mounted the steps and met the minister at the podium. I answered his questions mechanically, bowed as he said a quick prayer over my head, and grasped the membership certificate, rolled up like a diploma and tied with white satin ribbon. After taking my place at the foot of the stage, I finally met Pete’s eyes. He wore the most bizarre expression of awe, and I suddenly experienced a great sense of peace, as though I’d done something really special—something right.

  Then, as if somebody had just scored a touchdown at a damn football game, a balcony filled with cheerleaders whooped and did the wave. Shocked to note it was nearly overflowing with Pete’s relatives, I cringed as Anita and my new sworn enemy, Mona Taylor flippin’ Skarren, led the go-team merriment.

  After six excruciatingly long verses of “Amazing Grace”, Pastor Hewitt invited our families to join us at the front for the meet and greet. Without trampling a single little old lady, Pete muscled his way through the crowd. His hands found my face, and he kissed me quickly before swallowing me in a hug I never wanted to end.

  “You didn’t need to do this.” His voice was thick with emotion.

  “I love you,” I replied.

  The crowd descended upon us. Between handshakes and hugs, I turned to Pete and casually said, “Oh, and by the way, this is where we’re getting married.”

  He beamed so brightly you could have cut the power, and no one would have noticed.

  6

  Mona in Wonderland

  “But, I don’t want to go to Quarterlies!”

  “But, I don’t care,” I retorted. “You’re going. Now let’s run through your presentation once more.”

  “I haven’t done this in I don’t know when.”

  “No one knows their job better you. What’s the problem?”

  She advanced on me with a look of sheer terror. “I’m afraid to speak in public.”

  “You surely presented when you were working in the Atlanta office.”

  “At the home office, but I wasn’t at a level requirin’ me to speak at corporate. I went up, but I didn’t have to actually talk.”

  “Tom surely sent you, right?”

  “Unh uh,” she replied, the tips of her immaculate hair brushing her cheeks as she shook her head. “He sent the service reps, of course, but not me. What am I gonna do?” Her large hazel eyes, framed by those thick eyelashes I wanted to steal, pleaded with me for understanding. They found none.

  “You’re going to prep this talk, and you’re going to go up there and give it. You’re a significant player in the district. You outrank everyone here except me.”

  “But still.”

  If I thought prepping Reeves had been difficult, Mona was nearly impossible. Her voice was suddenly too soft to hear, she hunched her shoulders until her body seemed to cave in upon itself, she tucked her hair behind her ears so often her skin had begun visibly chafing. Were I not on a highly self-serving mission, I would have relieved her—and myself—of this chore.

  ♥

  “Whew, I’m glad that’s over with,” she said as we t
ouched down in Philly.

  “What’s over?”

  “The plane ride. I don’t fly all that often. I was kinda holdin’ my breath durin’ landing.”

  Why did this surprise me? In my head, Mona was the same as me: a business traveler, the keeper of a bazillion frequent flier miles. But as I thought about it, other than her honeymoon on Ocracoke Island, she hadn’t gone anywhere except home to Charlotte since we’d met.

  Our swank downtown hotel was surprisingly well within budget, thanks to Jayne’s close and personal friend, Mr. Hotwire. To further cut costs, Mona and I were sharing a room; a novelty for the business me. The personal me would share anything with Mona, including plastic forks, ICEE straws, and possibly a kidney, but when I came to Philly, I had certain rituals—pep talks in the mirror, the scarfing up of all chocolate from the mini-fridge after particularly taxing days, the coping with deep-seated anxiety via copious amounts of alcohol.

  “I don’t remember Philadelphia bein’ this…big,” she remarked, gawking at the absolutely average sized-forest of glass and cement pillars. Jostled and bumped in completely normal fashion as we negotiated sidewalks flooded with well-dressed commuters the following morning, Mona rapid-fired “’scuse mes”, “sorrys”, and “you can go aheads” like machine gun ammunition.

  “Stop being so nice,” I grumped at a crosswalk. “Just shove past them.”

  “I will not,” she retorted. “Gosh! That’d be rude.”

  Shaking my head, I dragged her onward. Suddenly, she stopped square in the middle of the INTech plaza and stared up at the skyscraper like a kid on a field trip.

  “What is wrong with you?” I demanded.

  “It’s just…well, the building is so much bigger than I remember.”

  “Everything’s bigger than you remember,” I snipped, dragging her through the revolving doors and into the, admittedly, massive atrium.