by Lin Stepp
It didn’t help that he’d gotten another note from Crazy Man either. Written on a napkin from the Shady Grove bar, it said: I know what you did. Jack wasn’t sure if this was simply another chiding from the resident vigilante about his getting drunk that night or if the man really knew more. It made him nervous, thinking about it sometimes. However, now that he’d confessed all to his mother that night in the hospital, it wouldn’t really matter too much if the rest eventually got out. Like most small scandals, it would blow over in time.
The note from Crazy Man had arrived in Jack’s home mailbox this time. That vexed him, too. His girls might have been the ones to find it. He was glad he’d picked up the mail that day. He didn’t like the idea that the man knew where he lived and had come up his private drive into the woods to bring the note. Jack also didn’t like thinking about Crazy Man’s being that close to his home and family. Still, Jack didn’t call and tell the sheriff about this note. He put it in a Ziploc bag and locked it up with his private papers. Swofford might have started asking too many questions down at the Grove if he’d gotten Crazy Man’s note written on one of the bar’s napkins.
Climbing out of his car at the realty office now, Jack saw that one of Jerrell Webb’s boys, Cecil, was mowing the yard. Jack waved at him as he headed up the walkway to the office. He’d need to write out a check for Cecil to pick up when he left.
Margaret looked up from the computer as Jack let himself in the door. “Some guy said he was supposed to mow the grass today. I hope it was okay.”
“Yeah. It’s Cecil Webb, one of Jerrell Webb’s boys. The Webbs mow all the properties around here. They do good work.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Well, he’s silly-acting. Came in here wanting to hang around and be chatty and tell jokes.”
Jack laughed. “Cecil’s just outgoing and friendly—and perhaps a little simple-minded. But he’s harmless.”
Jack picked up the mail to flip through it. “His brother, Beecher, is exactly the opposite. He’s a broody, moody man and hardly has a word to say.”
Margaret snorted. “Typical of the people around here.”
“There are peculiar people everywhere, Margaret.” Jack sat down in the chair opposite Margaret’s desk. “Besides, it might surprise you to hear how talented all the Webb family is in the musical field. They have a bluegrass band called the Webb Creek Band. They’re rather well-known in the area.”
Margaret looked up in surprise. “I think I’ve heard them. They came to Maryville a couple of years ago as a part of a fall bluegrass festival. Three men and a pretty blond singer?”
Jack frowned. “The pretty blond singer was Ira Nelle, Beecher’s wife. She got killed about a year or so ago. Tragic thing. She had a beautiful voice. And she left two little boys behind. The loss has been hard on the family.”
“I imagine.” Margaret looked thoughtful. “It’s hard to lose a parent.”
Jack studied her covertly then. He was sure she was thinking about her father, and he knew how that loss felt, too.
“How’s Althea?” Margaret asked.
“Getting cantankerous and anxious to get out of the hospital.” Jack grinned. “It’s a good sign. I think they’re going to let her come home on Friday, if all goes well.”
“That’s tomorrow.” Margaret looked at the calendar. “That seems soon. She only went in on Monday.”
“The hospitals don’t keep people long today.” Jack propped his feet up on the chair across from him. “But we’ll have some nursing care at home. And, of course, Bebe will be there.”
Margaret nodded, finishing up what she was working on at the computer and then starting to print her document. She lifted it out of the printer tray, added it to a stack of other letters, and handed them all over to Jack.
“Here’s the last of those letters you asked me to type. If you’ll sign them, I can get them posted this afternoon.”
Jack looked over the letters. “You’re doing a good job here, Margaret. If I haven’t said thank you for filling in, I want to say so now. It’s often hard to get good temporary office help here in Townsend.”
“So I’ve heard,” she said sarcastically.
Jack winced. “If you want to knife me again, I could turn around and let you have a go at my back.”
She shrugged, unrepentant. “No need. There are plenty of others enjoying a go at your back. I’ll stay with the direct approach. It’s more honest.”
“Actually, I’ve rather appreciated that direct approach this week.” Jack got up to pour himself a cup of coffee.
“What? My stabbing at you all week with my candid comments?”
Jack grinned and sat back down. “No. Your honesty about it. You didn’t admire my actions, and you haven’t been too timid to say so.”
Margaret shook her head. “What got into you that day, Jack? That was a really dumb thing to do.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.” Jack’s words were sharp in reply. He got up in annoyance to pace over to the window to look outside, turning his back on Margaret.
Margaret, in wisdom, didn’t say anything for once.
He turned back to look at her. “The whole scene made me think too much of the time when my father died. I panicked and didn’t handle the situation well.”
Margaret put a hand under her chin thoughtfully. “No, you didn’t. And it hurt my mother. I told you I didn’t want that to happen.”
Jack slumped back into his chair. “I’d give anything if it hadn’t been your mother who came and found me.”
“Mother’s dealt with drunks before. It was the fact that you’d been drinking with that ditzy little Ashleigh Layton that hurt her. Plus the fact that it was Ashleigh who was the one who took you home.” She gave Jack a long look. “There were some pretty strong implications in that to think about.”
“Yeah, I know.” Jack didn’t offer anything more.
Margaret shook her head. “I haven’t wanted to like you, Jack Teague. But, admittedly, I’ve developed a grudging fondness for you this week. It’s surprised me.”
Jack quirked a small smile toward her.
“Now, don’t get overly excited about that observation. But I’ve seen some good attributes in you this week while I’ve worked with you that sort of counterbalance the bad.”
“And?”
“And maybe you have possibilities.”
“To link up with your mother?” He raised a brow in question to her.
Margaret wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t go that far. Although I’ll admit Mother has mooned and brooded about you all week and not been herself. I was thinking more in terms of the possibility that you could become a more decent person.”
Margaret’s words rankled. “And what about you, Miss Less-Than-Perfect? Don’t you think you could use a little changing for the good?”
“We weren’t talking about me.” Her answer was clipped and prim.
Jack grinned. “Perhaps we should. You haven’t been very nice to your mother in the past, either. And recently, you haven’t been very nice to our resident good-looking preacher. In fact, you seem rather snippy with him. Almost bit his head off the other day when he stopped by here.”
Margaret tapped her nails on the desk and shifted restlessly in her seat. “I’ll admit I’m annoyed with Reverend Westbrooke.” Her tone grew brittle.
“How come?” Jack propped his feet up again, glad to have Margaret in the hot seat now instead of himself.
“Did you know he was a best-selling writer?” She gave Jack a challenging look.
“Sure.” Jack scratched his neck casually. “Most everyone around here does. Writes some sort of devotional books or something. His books are pretty well-known in their field, I hear.”
“That’s an understatement.” Margaret’s voice was snappish. “His books stay practically sold out in the bookstore. They’re being printed internationally now, and he can get a huge fee to speak almost anywhere in the U.S.”
“So why is that a problem?”
Jack often found it difficult to figure Margaret out.
“He didn’t tell me about it, that’s why.” Margaret flounced up out of her seat to go over to the small office refrigerator to get herself a cold drink—some sort of fancy bottle Jack didn’t recognize.
“What’s that?” he asked, eyeing her drink.
“Green tea. It’s good for you.”
“Got another?” He raised his brows in interest.
“Sure. And there’s half a sandwich in there I couldn’t eat from lunch. You can have that, too, if you want it.”
“Thanks.” Jack went over to dig out the sandwich and a bottle of the green tea from the refrigerator.
He sat back down and propped his feet up again. “What’s really the problem with Vincent’s having written some books and being well-known for them? I should think—since you’re so snobby about reputation and money—you would be impressed with that.”
Jack saw Margaret squirm.
He laughed then. “That’s it, isn’t it? You feel guilty that you’ve given Vincent the cold shoulder all these weeks—thinking he was only a small-town preacher—and now you feel angry at yourself, knowing you might have misjudged his worth.”
“You have a smart mouth, Jack Teague.”
“Too close to the mark?” He gave her a teasing look.
“He should have confided in me.” She stuck her chin up.
“When? While you were turning your back on him and ignoring him? While you were pretending you weren’t attracted to him when you were? Or maybe while you were hiding out from him all the times he was looking for you?”
“You’re ticking me off, Jack.” She gave him a mutinous look.
“So, are you ready to admit you might like the preacher more now that you know he’s a little more successful materialistically than you first thought?” He took a long drink from his tea. “It seems to me you have some worldly ways about you that are almost as objectionable as mine. No one respects a little gold digger.”
She stood up in anger.
“That’s not true, Jack Teague. You take that back.”
“Are you going to deny you’re more interested in Vincent Westbrooke now that you know he’s more successful than you thought he was?”
To Jack’s surprise, Margaret burst into tears. “I really hate you, Jack Teague.”
“No, you don’t. We just shoot straight with each other, you and I.”
He laid down his sandwich and went around the desk to hand her a tissue. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Margaret. And don’t be so quick to think Vincent doesn’t understand your feelings. Why don’t you talk to him about it?”
“I have.” Her reply was snippy.
Jack chuckled. “To rail and snap at him, no doubt.”
Margaret looked up defensively. “Well, I was upset.”
Jack patted her on the shoulder. “You need to analyze what you’re really upset about, Margaret. You need to think about what you really feel about Vincent Westbrooke—beyond what he does for a living, preaching or writing or whatever.”
“I’ve been trying to avoid that kind of thinking.” Margaret looked up at him with eyes still wet. But her words were honest.
“Hard to hide from your thoughts,” Jack commented.
The door interrupted their conversation as Cecil Webb came in to tell them he was finished with the yard. Jack went back to write him a check, leaving Cecil to attempt to entertain Margaret again with another of his jokes. He seemed oblivious to any of the emotions stirring in the air.
Jack thought of his conversation with Margaret again on Sunday as he worked his way into the crowded pew to sit beside her. His girls had wanted to sit with the Butlers, which put Jack and the twins squeezed between Roger, Samantha, Daisy, and Ruby on one side and Margaret and her mother on the other. Jack could only be grateful he hadn’t been jockeyed into a seat beside Grace. Sitting with his leg up against hers throughout the service would have been an agony right now. He’d only seen Grace in passing this week, and their interactions had all been brief and strained. What could he say to her after what happened anyway?
There was a guest minister at the church today: Reverend Grady Hartwell. Vincent introduced him as he started the service. Hartwell worked at Montreat and traveled as an evangelist. Jack knew Hartwell was a friend of Vincent’s family and had known Vince since he was only a boy.
Reverend Hartwell was a fine-looking man, with rich brown hair and warm gray eyes. He had a solid ministry career and a strong family life now, but his past had been dark. He told about it with candor in his message, sharing how far he had sunk into a disreputable lifestyle in graphic detail.
“My personal gods were alcohol, drugs, myself, and a good time,” he told them, shaking his head. “And I believed, some of the time, that I was happy. I thought religion was for weak people, and I couldn’t see anything in it that I thought I needed. I couldn’t even see much in religious people I wanted to emulate.”
Jack squirmed in his seat at that.
Hartwell walked away from the pulpit, carrying a hand mike. “It wasn’t religion I really needed anyway. It was faith. And it was Jesus. But I had to sink to a really low point before I came to terms with my need.”
Margaret seemed to be restless beside Jack, moving about in her seat, fiddling with her purse. Nothing like a powerful testimony of a changed life to stir people up.
Grady Hartwell leaned forward to speak to them with passion. “I had to walk down a lot of dark, harsh, and lonely roads before I finally found the Roman’s Road. The day I found that road really changed my life.”
He walked back to the pulpit to pick up his Bible. “I encourage each of you to open your own Bibles and follow me through these passages in Romans, starting at Romans chapter 3:23: ‘For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.’ ”
He flipped the pages of his Bible. “The good news to follow is at Romans 5:8: ‘But God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.’ ”
Jack knew these Scriptures. He’d heard them since he was a boy, but they burned in his heart today in a new way.
“Romans 6:23 says: ‘For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.’ ”
Jack noticed, with surprise, that Margaret had a Bible with her today. She was looking up the Scriptures and following the message along with everyone else.
“You know,” Reverend Hartwell was saying, “all my life, people tried to make finding faith sound like a hard thing. But it’s the easiest thing there is. Look over a few chapters further to Romans 10. Right there—God’s way into the secret garden of grace is made real plain. You realize your own way isn’t going to cut it. That you can’t establish your own righteousness, that you need to repent of your selfish life and your selfish ways and submit your life to God. A repentance and a readiness to change come first. Then the next step is easy.”
He walked out from behind the pulpit again, carrying his open Bible in his hand. “In Romans 10:9-13, the Word tells you that all you have to do then—in order to come into the Kingdom of God—is confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead. That’s it. Repent, want to change, believe, and confess your belief to others.”
He stopped to look out at them and shook his head. “I fought doing this for about half my life, wanting to do everything my own way. Not wanting to submit or yield myself to anyone, even God. How stupid I was.”
Reverend Hartwell smiled then, a radiant smile. “But I didn’t stay stupid. I changed. And God did the rest. And He has been working his miracle-working changes in me ever since. I am, like the Bible says in second Corinthians 5:17, ‘a new creature now. Old things are passed away and, behold, all things are new.’ Grady Hartwell is a different man now—and all due to one decision made in a church meeting, pretty much like this one, on another warm summer morning thirty years ago.”
He closed his Bi
ble and looked out at them. “I want you to know that I had a totally different message prepared to give today. This is a Presbyterian church, and a salvation-based, testimonial message didn’t seem appropriate to prepare.” He grinned. “But God had something else in mind. And after being a stubborn, mulish, and unregenerated old fool—following in my own ways—for so long, I’ve finally learned better now. When God nudges me to do something His way these days, I tend to listen better.”
He chuckled. “Now here’s the thing. God’s encouraging me to have an old-fashioned altar call today. I know the history of this old church, and, in times past, there were altar calls here. Sinners who needed to be saved came right up here to the altar to give their lives to the Lord, and old reprobates who had drifted away from God came up here to rededicate their ways to the Lord once again. Folks playing church, but without a true, deep personal faith came up here to make a change.”
Reverend Hartwell looked out over the congregation. “There are some of you in each of those categories here today who need to come up front and set things right. I know it isn’t what you usually do here, but it’s what needs to be done today.”
He walked down the steps to the front of the narthex. “Coming forward in a church service is an old-time, brave way of saying before God and everyone: I am changing my life today. God honors that bravery and ‘stepping out in faith’ by meeting you, often with dramatic power and might.”
Jack squirmed in his seat again. He wished for a moment that he’d stayed home with Althea this morning and let Bebe bring the girls to church.
“If God is drawing you to come down and set things right with Him this morning, you know it as I’m speaking it now. There are several of you who have drifted from God here today and some who have never come to know God intimately and who want to.” He paused. “There also are a few here who simply haven’t realized until recently that there was a life of faith and greater happiness even possible. This morning is orchestrated just for these whom God is calling. The Lord wants you to come into His family today. Friends, it is a beautiful thing to come to know the Lord and to be welcomed into the Kingdom and Family of God.”
