The Runaway Pastor's Wife

by Diane Moody

  “Oh, you are absolutely right. I only hold fifteen percent of your precious little company. But I hand-picked the remaining members of your stockholders myself and they all answer to me!” Elliot burst into laughter.

  Michael froze. “That’s impossible!”

  “Not hardly. Why, eighty percent of Texas resides in my back pocket, in case you haven’t noticed. I can buy anyone and anything I choose. I have so many folks beholdin’ to me—they practically stand in line to do favors for Elliot Thomas.” He chortled once again. “Oh, me . . . this time it’s been a real pleasure calling in those markers. As soon as I got wind of this divorce nonsense of yours, I made a few quick phone calls. Made sure all my ducks were still in a row.” He rubbed his hands together, clearly enjoying the bomb he was dropping.

  “Listen, you little punk, you’ve played your last card.” Then, as if the clever thought just popped into his mind, he continued, “This is your last inning and the game’s over!” He croaked his self-absorbed laughter. “And guess what? You’re out!”

  Michael’s mind spun out of control. As Elliot laughed himself into a fit of wheezing coughs, Michael desperately groped for anything to stop this nightmare. He could see The Sports Page—his whole life—vaporizing before his eyes.

  And then he remembered.

  Suddenly the fog cleared and the answer broke through. How could I have forgotten?

  While Elliot finally caught his breath and took another sip of his drink, Michael nonchalantly wandered back to his seat. He sat down slowly, giving his mind ample time to devise a plan of action. It had been a long, long time since his thoughts had traveled down this secret passageway, but he was relieved by its mere existence.

  Not to worry.

  A resurgent smile stretched across Michael’s face. His confidence restored, he spoke slowly, his words calculated. “Elliot, you’re an egotistical fool. Think you have all the answers, don’t you? Think you can control everybody you meet by just snapping your pudgy little fingers. Well, I’m afraid you’ve pathetically miscalculated this time.

  “You see, I still have one card left to play.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Weber Creek, Colorado

  The carefully lettered wooden sign over the door read Williamson’s. The long front porch adorned with several old wooden rockers welcomed customers who stopped by. Stepping inside the old country store was like stepping back in time. The Ingalls family should be browsing these aisles. At the back of the spacious store, a stone fireplace boasted a bright, crackling fire from a fireplace tucked beneath an extended mantle sporting every imaginable gadget for the winter home. Four more rustic rockers sat ready and waiting for weary customers, a worn and colorfully braided rug resting beneath them. The long wooden store counter stretched along the entire length of the wall to the left, overshadowed by shelves reaching all the way to the ceiling. Each was packed with everything from Band-Aids to Borax to bubble gum.

  The hardwood floors creaked melodically under the tread of all who entered. Four short aisles offered an array of necessities and a few luxuries here and there. Along the opposite wall to the right, a refrigerated case installed back in the 70s held dairy products and assorted chilled beverages. Overhead, an umbrella of baskets and dried flowers cascaded from broad beams of sturdy oak.

  But it was the unique blend of aromas which first welcomed customers to Williamson’s. Freshly ground coffees and homemade pastries beckoned the clientele into the heart of the store. A pot of complimentary coffee enticed regulars to pause for a moment of small town gossip; the comforting fragrance of the logs burning in the fireplace, at times intoxicating. Even an occasional whiff of moth balls or liniment only added to the homespun ambience of this country store.

  Owners Bob and Mary Jean Williamson inherited their family store from Bob’s dad, now deceased, who had passed it along before retiring. None of the locals could remember Weber Creek without Williamson’s. The colorful products stocked on the shelves may have changed through the years, but the hospitality and courtesy remained the same.

  Mary Jean sliced a fresh pan of Scottish shortbread into long perfect pieces. “Bob, I want you to run that kettle of soup over to Emma before it gets cold. That way she can have a bowl of it with her cornbread for supper.”

  “Supper?” Bob snapped. “It’s only 3:00 in the afternoon. Nobody eats supper at 3:00 in the afternoon.”

  “Stop being so ornery and just do as I ask. That’s when she likes it and who are you to tell her any different?” Mary Jean placed the sandy rectangles of shortbread on an antique platter.

  “Whoever heard of supper at 3:00,” Bob grumbled. “Why, I’d have to have a whole ’nother meal by seven or eight or listen to a growling stomach half the night.”

  The front door opened with its familiar squeak as the verbal sparing continued. “Bob, just gather up the basket and get on over to Emma’s. Stop all your jabbering! The good Lord knows I’ve endured enough of your mindless arguments over the last fifty years, and I don’t want to hear another word of it today. I’m just plum sick of it.”

  “Who’s sick? Is somebody sick? Should we call a doctor?” a voice piped in from the front of the store. The kindly face of Dr. George Wilkins lit up with a subtle twinkle in his eyes. “Are you two pretending to fight again or is someone really sick?”

  “You bet I’m sick, George,” Bob answered. “I’m sick of this cantankerous old woman snapping orders at me as if I were some kind of hired help. Would you remind her that the name over the door was mine long before she ever had the good sense to marry me?” Bob tried his best to sound mad, but he was as always, totally unsuccessful.

  Mary Jean tipped her head back and forth, humming a familiar tune. She walked the basket over to Bob, pecked him on his cheek, and started back to her task. Bob gave her a swat on her ample back side then quickly made his getaway.

  The doctor tracked his usual path over to the coffee pot, filled the mug with “Doc” on the side, then shuffled toward one of the rockers.

  “MJ, come sit a spell and take a rest. Doctor’s orders. Let’s enjoy this nice fire for a few minutes, shall we?”

  And with those words began Doc’s daily visit as he did each and every day of the year, weather permitting. It was one of Mary Jean’s favorite times of the day. She and Doc Wilkins had grown up together not far away in Remington. Though not related they had remained as close as a brother and sister. Since the death of George’s wife some eight years ago, she and Bob had become Doc’s family. The good doctor treasured their friendship deeply. Mary Jean wiped her hands on her red bib apron, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sighed heavily as she sat down in the rocker.

  “Mercy, George, I just can’t seem to help myself when I start in on Bob. Anybody else would think we hated each other by the way we carry on.” She paused, sipping the hot coffee, then continued. “Funny how over the years you just grow into a pattern of playfully picking on each other ’til before you know it, it becomes a silly way of showing affection. I suppose that doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Doc said, rocking quietly. “Ina and I had our own special ways of doing the same thing. Nobody else would understand at all. Like how we’d always bicker over the last biscuit at breakfast. I’d offer it to her, she’d refuse it. She’d say ‘Gotta watch my weight, George,’ just as serious as all get out. Then we’d fuss back and forth three or four more times—use those same identical words every single morning of our married life together. Then, of course, I’d say ‘Well, Ina, if it’ll help you stay as beautiful as you are today, I’ll eat it. But only because you insist.’ Then she’d flip a dish towel and pop me on the shoulder with it and say ‘George Wilkins, you just beat all!’ We’d go through that little ritual every morning just like clockwork. Pretty silly, I suppose.” Doc sipped his coffee. “But it just goes to show we all have our quirky little ways of saying I love you. Doesn’t make a lick of sense to anyone else, but then I guess it doesn’t have to.” H
e smiled, gazing into the fire.

  Annie stomped her snow-covered boots on the welcome mat then opened the door to the quaint country store. The slow squeak of the door announced her arrival.

  “Afternoon, we’re back here,” a voice called out from the rear of the store. A jovial woman stepped behind the long counter. She smiled warmly. “C’mon in here, honey, and warm yourself by the fire. You look like one big shiver with an exclamation point thrown in for good measure!”

  “It’s freezing out there,” Annie answered, pushing back the hood of her coat.

  “Freezing? Heavens, this is practically a balmy day for Weber Creek. But stick around a few days if you want to see freezing,” the woman continued. “Big storm rolling in that’ll curl your toes. Can I get you some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

  “Oh, that sounds wonderful. Thank you, I’d love some.” Annie moved toward the oversized hearth, pulling off her brightly colored mittens to warm her hands by the fire. She nodded at an older gentleman with a thick head of white hair who was gently rocking his chair.

  “How do.”

  “Hello.” She returned his smile. “This is just what I needed. It’s lovely.”

  “Well here, young lady,” he said, standing. “Let me give these old logs a nudge and see if we can’t give you a real fire.” He grabbed the poker and stoked the giant logs. “Name’s George Wilkins, but most folks ’round here just call me Doc.”

  She took his outstretched hand firmly, relishing its warmth. “Nice to meet you. I’m Annie.”

  Mary Jean handed her the steaming mug of coffee. “Hi, Annie. I’m Mary Jean Williamson. What brings you to our little neck of the woods?”

  Annie warmed both her hands around the large mug and sat down. “I’m on my way up to a cabin just a little further up the road. It belongs to an old friend of mine, Christine Benson—I mean Christine Benson-Hamilton. I haven’t seen her since college, and I’m still not used to her married name. Although she’s not married anymore so I’m not sure what name she goes by?”

  Annie yawned. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ve been on the road for several hours and I’m afraid it’s just about worn me out.”

  Mary Jean sat down on one of the remaining rockers as Doc continued to stand with his back to the fire. “Don’t often see a young lady traveling alone around here, what with the roads so tough this time of year.”

  Annie looked into her mug for a moment, then carefully sipped the brew. Her eyes misted over. Clearing her throat, she filled the uneasy silence. “Actually, I’m on a long overdue vacation. Christine has begged me for years to come up here and stay at her cabin.” She paused a moment then added, “I finally decided to take her up on it.”

  She got up to avoid their stares, moving closer to the crackling fire.

  “You’ll love it up there at Eagle’s Nest,” Doc said. “Christine inherited that cabin. It’s been in the family for years. Of course, it looks completely different than when her parents vacationed there. Through the years, she’s renovated it considerably. Made a few additions along the way. In fact, a few years back it was featured in some fancy magazine. What was the name of that, MJ?”

  “Southern Living. Four page color spread. They did a beautiful job.”

  “It has a breathtaking view of the valley,” Doc continued. “Quite a place.”

  “It sure is, and I’d say you’re in for a real treat if you’re aiming to rest,” Mary Jean offered. “It’s pretty remote up there, so you won’t have any traffic or neighbors bothering you. The only folks nearby are the Swensons and they’re out of town. Had a death in the family up in Minnesota.”

  Doc interrupted, “Well now, MJ, I reckon Annie will get along just fine. Knowing Christine, she left a well-stocked pantry and freezer. But with this storm coming in, we might want to get a few extras for Annie here in case the power goes or she can’t make it back down the road for a few days. Power’s liable to be off for several days if it goes. But she’s got a good back-up generator, far as I know. You’ll be fine, I reckon.”

  “Happens a lot this time of year,” Mary Jean added. “But never you worry. We’ll get you all fixed up.”

  The seconds ticked by. Other than an occasional hiss or pop from the fire and creaking of the floor under the rockers, they sat in silence. Finally, Annie took a deep breath then blew it out. She didn’t miss the expression of concern that wafted across Mary Jean’s wrinkled face. Thankfully, the moment was interrupted by the door creaking open.

  “Bob, how was Emma?” Mary Jean asked as an elderly gentleman pulled off his knit hat and muffler. What was left of his white hair fanned out in every direction.

  “Well now, that depends. If you ask her, she’s on her death bed. If you ask me, she’s just enjoying all the fuss folks are making over her. Though she was mighty interested in your chicken and rice soup, MJ.”

  Doc shook his head, “Ah, Miss Emma. Weber Creek’s resident hypochondriac. Hard to complain, though. She keeps me busy when everyone else is well.”

  Bob turned to Annie. “And who do we have here?”

  Mary Jean patted down the wayward hairs on her husband’s balding head. “Bob, this is Annie. She’s on her way up to Christine’s place. We need to get her all fixed up in case this storm decides to stick around when it hits. Oh, and Annie, if we forget anything or if you find you need more, just give us a call and Bob here will run it up to you. Gets him out of my hair, if you know what I mean, so don’t hesitate to call. As often as you can.” Mary Jean snorted at her own joke.

  “Thanks, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Bob grabbed a shopping basket then asked, “So, where is Christine these days? Italy? Australia? Never seen anyone hop around the globe like that girl.”

  Annie finished her coffee and took the empty mug to the counter. “She’s in Israel for several months. I’m not exactly sure what she’s doing there. Some sort of photo shoot, I suppose. The only way I connected with her was over the phone. She called me out of the blue a while back, and . . . well, turns out it was a good time for me to get away. We’ve been in touch ever since working out details.”

  Mary Jean looked at their newest customer. “Don’t you worry about a thing. We’re a lot closer than Israel and glad to help. Here’s a card with our number on it. Just a phone call away, though you’re welcome to stop by anytime. Anytime at all. How long will you be here?”

  Annie looked down at her hands as she put on her mittens again. “I don’t really know. I haven’t actually decided, to be honest.” She quickly looked up at Mary Jean then back at her hands.

  “Well, you just relax and enjoy that incredible view up there,” Mary Jean said, patting her arm. “You’ll going to have a wonderful time.”

  Doc Wilkins cleared his throat. “Some R&R, a little peace and quiet, well sir, that’ll do wonders for just about anyone.”

  “Okay, Annie, let’s you and I make a list of what you’ll need,” Bob added, reaching for a pen and paper.

  Annie felt a warm smile spread across face. “Thank you so much. You all are so kind. I’m really very grateful.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Seminole, Florida

  After reading Annie’s letter over and over, David finally pulled himself together enough to pray. He couldn’t begin to find the words. Instead, he felt his soul cry out to God, asking for direction, for answers. He was too stunned to cry, though he felt a desperate need to do just that.

  Later, when his mother gently tapped on the door, he lifted his head, got up off his knees and sat heavily on the bed.

  “David? Are you about ready to—” She stopped, staring at the expression on her son’s face. “David! What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  She shut the door behind her and moved quickly across the room to sit beside him. He leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees, burying his head in his hands.

  “Mom, where are the kids?” he whispered.

  “Jessie and Jeremy are downstairs watching cartoons, and Max
is studying in his room. Why?”

  “Annie’s gone.”

  “What? Of course she’s gone. I told you she had some things to do. Meetings, I suppose. I told you she’d be late, dear. What’s the problem?”

  David kept shaking his head. “No, Mom. I mean she’s gone. She took a flight out of town. Only she didn’t say where.”

  “What? But I don’t understand.”

  “I mean just what I said. She’s gone.”

  Caroline uttered a baffled sigh. “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like Annie at all. She wouldn’t just up and leave without telling you!”

  “Here—read this,” he said as he gathered up the pages and handed them to his mother. She looked at him, her face contorted with the urgency of her desire to understand.

  “But I—”

  “Read it, Mom.”

  Cartoon sound effects drifted up the stairs and under the door. David walked over to Annie’s side of their king-size bed. He noticed the framed family portrait was missing from the bedside table. So was Annie’s Bible. He wondered what else was missing from their room.

  “Oh no,” Caroline groaned, her voice cracking with emotion. “That poor child . . . she’s been hurting so badly and all the while hiding it—from all of us.”

  “Mom, where could she have gone? Why wouldn’t she at least tell me? I’ve got to find her. I have to.” He began pacing the floor. “I’ll call the airlines. Surely one of them will be able to tell us something. Or maybe I should call Pete Nardozzi at the Sheriff’s office. He could probably—”

  “No, David.”

  “Pete could help us find her. The airlines would talk to him if they knew it was a missing person situation and—”

  “Son? Don’t.”

  “What do you mean ‘don’t’?”

  “She doesn’t want to be found. She obviously needs some time alone. She’s made that very clear. Annie’s an intelligent girl. She wouldn’t do anything foolish or unwise. It sounds to me as if she’s planned all this out very carefully for a reason. Sometimes we have to be able to love someone enough to let them go—even for just a little while.”