“Of what?” he asked with a grin. “That you need the nachos more than I do or that I’d be a good youth leader? Answer ‘A’ is absolutely. I’ve never seen a woman with an appetite like yours. I’m a little less sure about ‘B,’ but … I’m willing to give it a try.”
“Thanks, Paul. I really appreciate it. You’re going to love these kids, you’ll see. So will James.”
He picked up a tortilla chip, scooped up a pile of chili and cheese, and lifted it to his lips, but stopped just short of taking a bite. “And you think Margot Matthews will be interested in helping too?”
“Absolutely. I’m sure of it.”
28
Philippa
“What do you mean you’re not interested?” Virginia squawked, dogging Margot’s heels as the younger woman carried a bolt of blue gingham cloth to the display shelves. “I met him and his boy on Sunday. Seems like a very nice man, perfect for you. He goes to church, has a good job. What’s wrong? I thought you like lawyers.”
My lunch with Paul ended a little earlier than I’d figured, probably because I wolfed down my food, and a good part of Paul’s, in record time. With a few minutes before my next appointment, I decided to pop over to Cobbled Court Quilts to talk to Margot about the youth group. Her reaction wasn’t exactly what I’d expected.
Margot squatted down to reach the lower shelf. “In case you hadn’t noticed,” she said, forcing the fabric into a narrow opening in the middle, “I’m kind of up to my ears in lawyers just now.”
Virginia’s eyes went wide behind her thick glasses, giving her an expression like a bug that has just heard something shocking. “This is not just any lawyer we’re talking about, Margot! This is no namby-pamby, stamp-collecting Arnie Kinsella, no bleached-tooth, smarmy Geoff Bench ….”
Evelyn, who was standing at the notions display, emptying out a mailing carton filled with various pins and needles and sliding them onto racks, interrupted her mother with a laugh. “Mom, you’ve never even met Geoff Bench. How do you know he’s smarmy?”
“Because Margot told me about him.”
“I never said Mr. Bench was smarmy,” Margot protested as she got to her feet and returned to the checkout counter.
“You didn’t have to,” Virginia retorted. “He sounds smarmy.”
“Seriously, Margot,” the older woman said as she returned to her quilting hoop near the window, stopping to scoop Petunia, the rotund shop cat, into her arms before sitting down, “just because Arnie Kinsella broke your heart doesn’t mean you need to write off every lawyer on the face of the planet.”
Margot pressed her lips into a thin line as she opened the drawer of the cash register and started counting bills and change. “Thank you, but I am not interested.”
“Why not? Weren’t you listening to what Philippa told you? The man thinks you have beautiful eyes!”
“Pretty,” I corrected.
“Pretty,” Virginia conceded. “Fine. Pretty is a start. Isn’t it?”
Margot ignored the question and kept to her task, her lips moving silently as she added up a pile of quarters and scribbled the total onto a slip of paper.
Virginia sighed heavily and stroked Petunia, who glanced up at her and yawned. “I don’t understand,” Virginia said, addressing the cat. “As long as I’ve known Margot, she’s been desperate for a man. Now a nice, churchgoing lawyer says she has pretty eyes and Margot won’t give him a second glance.”
Margot slammed the register shut. “I am not desperate! Not anymore. Not about men. The only thing that I’m desperate about these days is helping Olivia heal and winning this custody battle.”
“Good for you!” Madelyn Beecher exclaimed.
Madelyn, whose bed-and-breakfast caters to quilting groups, had stopped in to pick up a few supplies.
“Desperation isn’t attractive. It’s also a slippery slope. I’m proof of that. I was so sure I needed a man to make me feel worth something that I ended up compromising every part of me that was worthwhile. Now I prefer to think of men as accessories.” Madelyn sniffed. “Attractive to have, possibly useful, but not a necessity. Life enhancing, not life saving.”
“Is that what you tell Jake?” Evelyn teased. “That he’s an accessory?”
Madelyn smiled and dropped her detached demeanor. “Not exactly. But Jake understands my need for independence. That’s one of the things I love about him.”
“I don’t understand you people,” Virginia said. “Can’t Margot be an independent person and still give this man a chance? Independence isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know. I’ve been independent ever since my husband died and I can tell you right now, it’s not as much fun as it looks. Especially when you’re my age. There’s a lot to be said for growing old with someone,” she said quietly, looking down as she stroked the cat.
Evelyn put down a package of pins and went to her mother’s side, leaning down to kiss her on top of the head.
“You know, I think we might be getting a little bit ahead of ourselves,” I said. “I don’t think the fact that Paul noticed Margot and thinks she has pretty eyes means he is quite ready to propose, or that Margot was his primary motivation in saying he’d help with the youth group, though it may have been … an enhancement,” I said, shifting my gaze to Madelyn, who smiled at me.
“I’m sorry, Margot,” I said and put on my jacket. “I wouldn’t have bothered you with this right now except I thought you’d love the kids. I know they’d love you. I figured it might impress the judge too, but you’ve got too much going on.”
“Philippa,” Margot said in a pained voice. “I hate letting you down, but …”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry. I mean it.” And I did too. The last thing I wanted to do was add stress to Margot’s life. “I’ll find someone else to help.”
“Who?” Margot asked.
Well, that was a good question. Like many churches, ours suffered from an unfortunate adherence to the 10–90 rule, meaning that 10 percent of the people were doing 90 percent of the work. The largest percentage of the congregation seemed content to let the smaller percentage, or the minister, do the heavy lifting. After all, isn’t that what ministers are paid to do? Dr. Mandel was insistent that I had to slow down a bit. But at that moment, I couldn’t think of anyone who would be willing and capable to step in and help with the youth, at least no one who wasn’t, like Margot, a member of the 10 percent and therefore already too busy.
Of course, if I let the word out that Paul Collier was willing to serve as co-leader, there were probably any number of single women who’d be willing to help. New Bern is a little short on eligible bachelors. But somehow, I didn’t think this would bring out the kind of leader I was looking for.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll find somebody.”
Margot came out from behind the counter and followed me to the door. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. See you all later,” I said, giving a wave to the group and a smile to Virginia. “And I’ll see you at quilt class.”
“Looking forward to it,” Virginia replied. “Wash that fabric and iron it before you come to class. With a baby quilt, I think it’s best.”
“Will do.”
I opened the door and felt Margot’s hand on my arm.
“Philippa? Wait a minute.”
It wasn’t until I’d said my prayers and gotten into bed that I remembered to call my father. It was a call I dreaded making, but there was no reason to. I should have known my dad better than that.
“Dad, are you sure?”
“I’m not interested, Pippa. Absolutely not. I’m surprised you’d even ask.”
“I had to. I told the board president I would.”
“Well, he should have known better. Having a mentor might be a good idea, but having a father mentor his daughter? No way. That’s a recipe for disaster. And having someone else step into your pulpit and ‘guest preach’ for you once a month is a terrible idea too—no matter who the mentor is. The wa
y you get to be a better preacher is by doing it, not by having someone else do it for you. What was your board thinking?”
“I doubt it was the board’s idea, Dad. Ted Carney thought this up all on his own. He’s a big fan of yours, talks about you all the time.”
Dad made a grumbling noise in his throat. “Ministers don’t have fans, Pippa. Or if they do, they shouldn’t. Anyway, please tell Mr. Carney that I said no. He’s just going to have find someone else to be your mentor.”
“You know,” said my mother, who had been listening in on the extension, “that’s not a bad idea. Phil, you must know people who might be willing to serve as a mentor to Pippa. You could make a few calls. Would you mind if he did that, honey?”
“No,” I said, “it would be great to have someone who’d talk me through a few of the pitfalls and politics of all this. Some days I feel like I’m in way over my head.”
“If it’s any consolation,” my father said with a smile in his voice, “I still feel like that.”
“But it’s hard sometimes, not having anyone to talk to. Today I had lunch with a member of the congregation and ended up unburdening myself about my frustration with Ted.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom said in a scolding tone. “You know better than to do that, especially if the object of your frustration is the president of your church board.”
“I know. I know. But it’s okay. Paul won’t say anything to anyone. He’s a lawyer. Actually,” I said, smiling to myself, “he’s my lawyer. I paid him a dollar so he can’t talk to anyone about what I said at lunch. Attorney-client privilege.”
“You paid him a dollar and now he’s your lawyer? What do you need a lawyer for?”
“I don’t, Dad. It was kind of a joke. Anyway, don’t worry. Paul knows how to keep a secret. He’s a really nice man.”
“Oh? Is he single?”
I sighed and shook my head, knowing exactly where this conversation was going. “Yes, Mom. He is single. But there is nothing going on between us; we’re just friends.”
“You and Tim were just friends when you met.”
“This isn’t like that. I’m not interested in Paul romantically. I’m not interested in anyone in that way.”
“Tim has been gone for such a long time, sweetheart. Don’t you ever get lonely? I just want to see you happy.”
“I am happy. In fact, I’m happier than I’ve been in a long, long time,” I said, looking down at my still-flat stomach and imagining my baby, curled up like a question mark inside me with arms and legs sprouting from the tadpole body that, according to one of the pregnancy websites I’d bookmarked, was now about the size of a kidney bean. Bean. I had been thinking that I needed some sort of nickname for this baby, something sweet but gender-neutral. Maybe this was it.
“But, Pippa, don’t you ever—”
“Joyce,” Dad said in a warning tone. “Leave it. Pippa knows her own mind. And she knows if she’s happy or not. She certainly sounds happy.”
“I am.”
In a few more weeks I’d be able to tell them why, but not yet. Not until I was sure that everything was fine and that the little bean inside me was safe and growing and healthy.
“Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy. Good night, sweetheart.”
“Good night. I’ll call again soon.”
I hung up the phone and set the alarm clock to go off six and a half hours later. Another short night. But it had been a good day, certainly a productive one.
Sunday’s sermon was still pretty rough, but with a little encouragement from me, the Vacation Bible School committee had reached consensus on a curriculum. On top of that, Alex Dane and Tracey Sampras had decided to call off their engagement, choir had gone well, the stewardship committee had reluctantly but unanimously voted funds to replace the broken banquet tables in the fellowship hall, the boiler was working again, Paul Collier and Margot Matthews had agreed to serve as youth group leaders, John Wozniak, who had just been diagnosed with lung cancer and didn’t know how to tell his wife, whose own health was frail, had agreed that he couldn’t keep it from her and had decided to ask his son and daughter to come to town and help him break the news, and the fabric for my unborn baby’s quilt was tumbling around inside the dryer.
A long day, a hard day, and a good day. For so many reasons.
I turned out the light, pulled up the covers, and laid my hand on my stomach. “Good night, Bean.”
The next morning, while Sherry was at the office supply store buying ink cartridges for the printer, my phone rang.
When I picked it up, a deep, slightly familiar voice said, “Philippa? This is Bob Tucker. I just got off the phone with your dad. I hear you could use a mentor.”
29
Margot
March
Paul squatted down to hold the dustpan while Philippa swept up a bright tangle of colored confetti and eggshells. “What a mess.”
“But the kids loved it,” Philippa said. “Margot, this was a great idea.”
After a couple of weeks of sitting in and watching how she ran the youth group, Philippa suggested Paul and I get together and create our own lesson plans and activities. While we were sitting in Paul’s kitchen talking about how difficult it was to engage some of the kids, James wandered in and offered a few relevant observations.
“It’s too much like school,” he said. “All day long, we sit in classrooms while adults lecture us about stuff we don’t really care about. Like algebra. Who needs it? I’m going to play pro basketball when I grow up.”
“James,” Paul said, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder, “I don’t want to burst your bubble, but you’re about a foot too short to play in the NBA.”
“I’m still growing,” James said defensively.
Paul nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you top me by an inch or two before you’re done, but that’ll still leave you too short for the pros, buddy. Don’t give up on algebra just yet.”
He smiled and ruffled his son’s hair, but James pulled away.
“Whatever.”
“James,” I said, pulling out a chair, “do you have a second? I’d like to hear what kinds of things you would like to talk about at youth group.”
“What I want to talk about?” James sat down. “Really?”
Our conversation was very illuminating. What it all boiled down to was relationships. James desperately wanted to feel understood, accepted, and heard even while he struggled to understand, accept, and hear others. It wasn’t that surprising when I stopped to think about it. That’s what everybody wants and what everybody finds so hard to do.
After a bit of brainstorming, Paul and I decided that our emphasis for the spring would be on relationships, focusing on how Jesus handled his human relationships while on earth and employing lots of discussion, games, and activities to keep the kids engaged and help drive home the point. Today’s discussion centered around the story of Zacchaeus, a dishonest tax collector whose life had been transformed because Jesus took time to call him by name, seeing beyond the little man’s sinful shell and into his heart, a heart that yearned for God’s love and a new life.
Our quiet activity had been to pass out colored cards for each child and ask the others to, anonymously, write something positive about the person whose name was on the card. Our “active” activity had been the eggs. My quilt circle sisters, who only complained a little about not getting any quilting done that Friday night, and I blew out five dozen eggs and then stuffed the empty white shells full of red, yellow, blue, green, and orange confetti.
At the end of the night, the kids chased each other around the fellowship hall, shrieking as they cracked the eggshells on each other’s heads, releasing explosions of colorful paper and peals of laughter. Both activities were supposed to encourage the kids to look beyond appearances or first impressions and search for the good that exists inside everyone.
“I don’t know,” I said as I walked around the tables picking up empty paper cups and napkins the kids lef
t behind after their snack. “The card activity was good. I could see that a lot of them were really thinking about what to write, but the eggs? I think they were having so much fun that they might have lost sight of the point.”
“Nothing wrong with fun,” Philippa said as she swept eggshells out of a corner. “That’s part of what keeps them coming back.”
“Well, I hope the kids aren’t counting on confetti eggs every week. It took six women three hours to make them, four minutes for the kids to destroy them, and half an hour for us to clean up the mess.” I smiled and tossed a stack of cups into the trash can.
“James loved it,” Paul said. “He didn’t want to leave when Melanie came to pick him up.”
Paul and his ex-wife have a shared custody arrangement. She is supposed to have James every other weekend, but sometimes she has to cancel at the last minute. That upsets James, but rather than take it out on his mother, he gets angry with his dad. Poor James. He’s had a lot of changes in a short time. But Paul is a great father, so patient. Paul is a great guy in general. Why didn’t I notice that right off? I guess I could use some practice in looking beyond the surface too. That beat-up car of his threw me off at first.
He’s nice-looking too, more handsome than I realized at first glance. His eyes are deep brown with little flecks of gold, like pieces of polished amber held up to the light. He’s taller than I am and has an oddly athletic build for a lawyer. But maybe that’s not a fair assumption on my part. Geoff Bench is athletic. He’s always so quick to point that out. But the way he wears a suit always makes me think of the Incredible Hulk, as if the seams might burst at any moment and reveal some kind of slobbering monster, barrel-chested and hideously green. I swear he buys them too tight on purpose, just to give that impression. But where Geoff Bench is preeningly masculine, Paul is just manly. Paul is sort of the anti-Geoff. Come to think of it, he’s sort of the anti-Arnie, too, but in a different way.
He’s creative and talented. Next week, we’re going to talk about the church body and how everyone has something unique and special to offer to it. Paul came up with the idea of having a jam session to illustrate the point. Kids who play can bring their instruments, Paul will bring his sax, and Philippa will have a supply of percussion instruments—tambourines, bongos, and such—available for everyone else to use.
Ties That Bind Page 17
