The Parson's Waiting

by Sherryl Woods

  That, however, didn’t solve the immediate problem of his avoiding any possible contact with Anna Louise. Oh, he was polite enough when they bumped into each other on the street. He was even courteous when Maisey invited Anna Louise to join them for dinner, which she did as frequently as ever.

  Anna Louise tried to avoid those tension-filled occasions, but Maisey would only accept so many excuses before she figured out what was really going on. Anna Louise didn’t want to stir up trouble between Richard and his grandmother by hinting that he’d in any way made her feel unwelcome.

  Thanksgiving came and went. Plans for the annual Christmas bazaar were keeping everyone busy. Like similar bazaars in Europe, theirs was held outdoors, with booths selling hot chocolate, crafts, holiday decorations and baked goods. People came from as far away as Charlottesville to stock up on unique Christmas items. Maisey’s crocheted pieces were always a big hit, but this year she’d said she didn’t feel up to sitting outside in the cold weather to run her own booth. She’d cajoled Richard into doing it for her.

  Anna Louise passed by several times and saw that he’d found plenty of company. She had the most uncharitable desire to claw Penelope King’s eyes out. Richard’s old high school sweetheart seemed fairly determined to win him back, and he didn’t seem to be fighting her.

  Losing her holiday spirit entirely, Anna Louise slipped away and went into the house. The flashing light on her answering machine taunted her from clear across the room. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat.

  “Not again,” she whispered, staring at the machine as if it had taken on a life of its own.

  A highly developed sense of responsibility prevented her from ignoring that flashing light. It could have been important, one of her parishioners in need of her comfort. But she knew in her gut what she’d hear when she pressed the Play button.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” the voice whispered with malicious glee. “Your days are running out. When the council vote is taken, your church will be taken away from you and you will be just another sinner.”

  Anna Louise sank down into a chair beside the desk and slowly pressed the button to erase the message. She listened to the whir of the tape taking away the vitriolic words, but it brought her no real relief. It was impossible to erase the awareness that there was someone in Kiley who hated her just for being who she was, who was so determined to destroy her and everything she’d worked for.

  “Anna Louise?”

  She looked up and saw the concern written all over Richard’s face.

  “Are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted.

  He glanced at the answering machine, which was now silent and unblinking. “Bad news?” he guessed.

  She drew herself up and forced a smile. “No. Just something I’m going to have to deal with one of these days. I’d hoped it wouldn’t be quite this soon.”

  “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

  “No. Sorry.” She managed to inject a cheerful note into her voice by sheer force of will. “How are Maisey’s crocheted items going?”

  “All sold out.”

  “She’ll be pleased.”

  “I just have one question,” he admitted conspiratorially, his mood lighter than it had been in weeks. “What in heaven’s name were they, anyway?”

  Anna Louise chuckled. “Doilies, for the most part.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “Aren’t there any in her house?” she asked, then answered her own question. “That’s right. She doesn’t have any. She said she didn’t feel like washing them and starching them anymore.”

  He continued to look bewildered. “They can’t be coasters, because the water would go right through all those little holes. Besides, they’re too big. I don’t get it.”

  “They go on tables. Sometimes on the arms of the sofa.”

  “What for?”

  “Decoration.”

  He nodded sagely. “That explains why she doesn’t have any at home. They’re tacky.”

  Anna Louise winced. “For goodness’ sakes, don’t say that around here. You’ve just sold them to half the people at the bazaar.”

  His eyes sparkled with mischief. “I know. Just proves my point.”

  “Richard!” she protested, biting back a laugh.

  “Don’t worry, Anna Louise, I won’t tell, if you don’t.”

  She studied his expression for a minute. “You just said all that to get me to laugh, didn’t you?”

  He winked at her. “Worked, didn’t it?” His expression sobered. “I just wish you’d tell me why you were so upset in the first place.”

  She couldn’t get into it with him. The call would just reaffirm everything he already felt about the narrow-mindedness of people in Kiley. She leveled a perfectly serious look at him.

  “Maybe I was just upset because you ran out of those doilies before I could get one,” she said, and took off before he could probe any more deeply.

  CHAPTER TEN

  If December’s weather was any indication, Richard didn’t want any part of January and February in Kiley. There had been two significant snowstorms already and the temperature had dipped close to zero on more nights than he cared to count. Not even a fire that blazed day and night had been able to ward off the chill in Maisey’s drafty old house. He’d taken to wearing so many layers of clothes, he thought he was starting to look a bit like a vagrant, wearing his entire wardrobe at once.

  Not that his appearance these days was of any real concern with the only woman on his mind being Anna Louise. He’d done everything he could to steer clear of her whenever possible, but the efforts had been useless.

  Not even the very willing Penelope had been able to distract him. He’d finally explained gently that he had no intention of getting involved with her again while he was in Kiley. He didn’t say that Anna Louise’s image was with him when he went to bed at night and with him when he woke up in the morning. He didn’t explain that while he slept, it was Anna Louise who tormented him in his dreams with her beauty and gentleness, her wit and strength and her unavailability.

  He told himself that her being unavailable was what made him unable to shake her loose. Unfortunately, this perfectly logical explanation didn’t help one bit to satisfy his fascination.

  He was tucked under the layers of comforters considering his options when he heard Maisey coughing. The dry, hacking sound practically shook the house and brought him to his feet. He yanked on his clothes and tore down the hall.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded from the doorway to her room.

  “Fine,” she insisted, then went into another spasm of coughs.

  Richard plunked himself down on the side of the bed and glared at her. “Maisey, I don’t want you to even think about getting out of this bed today. I’m calling Doc Benson.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll be bit as a fiddle as soon as I get a cup of tea into me. Would you mind making it this morning?”

  He cast one last worried look at her as he stood up. “I’ll bring you some juice, too. And maybe a little honey for the tea. Is your throat sore?”

  “Just a mite. The tea will fix me right up.”

  In the kitchen, Richard put the kettle on for tea, then placed a call to the doctor. Before he could think better of it, he made another call, this one to Anna Louise. Just the sound of her voice made his pulse pick up speed.

  “Anna Louise, could you stop by sometime today? It’s Maisey. I’m worried about her.”

  “Have you called Doc Benson?”

  “He’ll be by within the hour.”

  “I have to make another call, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He was pleased by her matter-of-fact response. There was no hysteria. Anna Louise was a woman who had the kind of strength it took to handle almost anything. She’d be a real comfort in a crisis.

  Exactly the sort of woman a man who courted danger needed by his side. The thought crept in before he
could stop it. He dismissed it at once, then wondered at the fact that he’d instinctively turned to her this morning. He tried to convince himself he’d done it for Maisey’s sake, knowing how she always responded to Anna Louise’s gentle touch and quiet prayers. He knew better, though. He’d also done it because he wanted her there for himself, just in case this cough of Maisey’s turned out to be something serious.

  It startled him some that a man who’d faced sniper fire and pestilence without a qualm could come unglued when faced with no more than a hacking cough. But it was Maisey’s cough, he reminded himself. And he’d always cared more about what happened to his grandmother than he’d ever worried about himself. In retrospect he realized that was probably why he’d left her behind for so long. He’d been bracing himself against the possibility of losing her.

  Forty-five minutes later Anna Louise turned up, just as Doc Benson was finishing his examination. Richard was pacing the kitchen, trying not to panic at Maisey’s terrible, dry cough, which seemed to have worsened. His spirits picked up some at the sight of Anna Louise, with her hair all windblown and untidy and her cheeks flushed from the icy air.

  “Get over here by the fire,” he insisted, “before you catch your death of cold, too.” Too many bad memories of a winter just like this lingered for him to ever be able to take survival of the elements for granted again.

  “How is she?” Anna Louise asked, rubbing her hands together briskly as she held them over the heat.

  Just then Maisey coughed again. The sound was so wrenching, Richard couldn’t imagine how her frail body lasted through it.

  “It’s getting worse,” he told her. “It wasn’t that bad even an hour ago. Is this Benson guy any good? Maybe I should call for a specialist to come in from Washington.”

  “I doubt you’d get one to make a house call clear down here. Besides, Jonathan Benson is a fine doctor. He went to Harvard and interned at Johns Hopkins.”

  “Then what’s he doing way out here in the boondocks?”

  “He wanted to practice family medicine.” She put her hands on his shoulders and waited until he met her gaze. “Maisey is in very capable hands. Now, stop worrying.”

  “If you say so,” he muttered, and resumed his pacing.

  It was another fifteen minutes before Doc Benson emerged, his expression sober, but not exactly grim. Richard dared to hope. “Is she okay?”

  “With that cough?” Benson said dryly. “Hardly. But I’ve given her some medicine that should ease the cough and break up the congestion in her chest. I’ll send Tucker Patterson out with more. If she’s not better in a day or two, you’ll have to think about taking her to the hospital. I don’t want any more strain on her heart.”

  “I’ll take her today, if that’s what’s best for her.”

  “No. She was adamant about staying here. If you can keep her in that bed, then I’ll go along with it.”

  “She’ll stay there,” Richard said with grim determination.

  “I’ll go in and sit with her awhile,” Anna Louise said.

  When the doctor had gone and with Anna Louise in with Maisey, Richard finally had to admit to himself the flash of terror he’d felt earlier when he’d thought Maisey might be seriously ill. He couldn’t lose her, too. She was all he had. He’d stayed away for years, hoping that she would come to matter less and less, preparing himself for the eventuality of losing her. It hadn’t worked. He’d finally realized he should be treasuring whatever time they had left together, not anticipating the loneliness of the time when she would be gone. Once again, he had to face the fact that he had no business going overseas again.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee and sank into a rocker in front of the fire. He was still there, lost in thought, when Anna Louise finally tiptoed out of Maisey’s room.

  “She’s sleeping.”

  He stood and moved closer to the fire. “I couldn’t bear to lose her,” he said, his voice catching. He couldn’t meet Anna Louise’s gaze.

  “You will someday. You have to face that.”

  “Not now.”

  She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I wish you shared my faith,” she said, her head resting against his back.

  He drew comfort from her nearness, if not from her words. “If you’d been where I’ve been, seen what I’ve seen....”

  “We may not understand it, but there is always a purpose to everything that happens. If you can’t accept that for yourself, then at least know that Maisey does believe it. She is at peace with whatever God has in store for her.”

  Anger bubbled up inside him, but he forced it back. Rage was pointless. He sighed and turned to face her, his arms now circling her in a loose embrace. “Thank you for reminding me of that. It’s selfish of me to need any more.”

  Anna Louise shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “Not selfish, Richard, just human. You’ve spent too long thinking of yourself as some larger-than-life hero, living recklessly and challenging fate. The fact of the matter is, though, that you’re simply human, just like the rest of us.”

  Richard wondered what Anna Louise with her lofty talk and gentle ways would say if she realized exactly how human he felt right this minute with her in his arms and what a struggle he was going to have letting her go.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, that rare, special moment of intimacy with Anna Louise and his own fears for Maisey’s health had practically faded from Richard’s memory. His grandmother’s returning vitality had wiped away his panic and determination had quieted any thoughts of Anna Louise.

  Well, practically any thoughts. She still popped into his head at the most inconvenient times, taunting him with memories of her warmth and generosity of spirit. No question about it, Anna Louise lived the kind of life she preached about. There was no room in that life for a renegade journalist who was filled with bitterness.

  Or so he told himself time and again when temptation seemed about to get the better of him.

  “You’re not dressed,” Maisey said just then as she came into the kitchen where Richard was sitting in his favorite chair by the fire.

  He glanced up from the new book on foreign policy that had come in the morning mail. It had been sent by his boss with a curt note suggesting he immerse himself in research for his next assignment “assuming you expect to get back to work this century.” He hadn’t read a word of the thick tome in the past hour. That alone was a testament to the way his priorities had shifted in the past few months.

  “Dressed for what?” he said.

  “Christmas Eve service.” She frowned at him. “Don’t look at me that way, young man. I’ve been going to this service since I was a girl and I don’t intend to stop now.”

  “Maisey, you’ve been in bed for the past two weeks. It’s too blasted cold for you to be traipsing around the countryside. You’ll catch pneumonia.” It was not an idle worry, given her recent state of health. He’d seen a far younger, stronger woman succumb in weather just like this.

  “We’re driving five minutes in a car with heat you keep turned up like an old blast furnace. I’ll be fine.” She regarded him slyly. “Of course, if you insist on staying here, I’ll have to walk. It’s too late to call one of the neighbors to pick me up.”

  Richard sighed in resignation. “Give me ten minutes,” he said, and reluctantly went to put on a suit.

  As he changed clothes, he thought about the way he’d spent the previous Christmas. He’d been holed up in a hotel with a dozen other journalists, listening to the shelling that hadn’t let up for the holiday. Supplies were scarce, but a British reporter who’d recently arrived had brought along a fresh supply of Scotch whiskey. The overall mood was increasingly mellow, but hardly filled with holiday cheer.

  Then an Italian correspondent had gotten word that a church in town was holding a Christmas Eve service despite the dangerous chaos in the streets. They had bundled up, then traipsed on foot over the icy roads to report on the bravery and determin
ation of people who refused to let a war keep them from worshiping on this holiest of nights.

  He could remember distinctly the sharp bite of the wind, the achingly cold dampness that had penetrated through layers of wool, then the faint, beckoning flicker of candlelight in the windows of the ancient church. Even more clearly, he remembered the constant rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire.

  To his astonishment, the pews had been filled. The scent of evergreens and incense had mingled in air that was almost as cold indoors as it had been outside. Voices rose in harmony over unfamiliar prayers in a language he barely understood.

  He recalled with vivid clarity his sense that the prayers were wasted. Rather than seeing the poignancy and hope in the church that night, he had thought only of the folly. The sense that those suffering such terrible hardships were placing their faith in an uncaring God had never seemed clearer.

  Discovering in the morning that half a dozen people, two of them children, had been killed on their way home from that service solidified his sense that prayers were useless against insanity. That conviction had never left him.

  Tonight, though, he pushed aside his own cynicism as a gift to Maisey. Going to this service was important to her and he could not let her down. With each passing day he had grown more aware of her increasing frailty. There was no way to tell how many more Christmases she might have. If a church service brought her comfort, then he owed it to her not to spoil that.

  Outside, the clear sky looked as if diamonds had been scattered across it. The moon cast streams of silver across the landscape. Not a single sound disrupted the utter stillness. The quiet, which should have soothed, instead, seemed almost unnatural after years of spending Christmas in places where the chilling sound of gunfire was more prevalent than that of joyous carols. Even when an official truce had been called, there were always those who violated it.