“Mom and Dad are coming, the first of June!”
“They are?” he asked weakly, then quickly revised it to “They are! Terrific! Hey, Mal—Nana and Papa are coming to see us.”
“I know,” Mallory said, nodding wisely. “And Auntie Merrie, too.”
“They’re bringing Meredith?” Jim asked.
Meredith, Trish’s younger sister, was the least favorite of his three sisters-in-law. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, he told himself. It was just that he felt thoroughly patronized and barely tolerated by her. Of course, he hadn’t seen her for three years. Maybe things had changed. Maybe they’d gotten worse.
“I know you dread it when my folks come,” Trish was saying, throwing him an apologetic glance. “But they are my family, and I love them. Mom and Dad were thrilled when I told them you were bishop.”
“Hey, I’m tickled pink they’re coming. Aren’t I, Mallory? See my ears? They’re pink, aren’t they?”
“They’re real pink, Mommy. I think he’s glad.”
“I think he’s hot.”
“Well, thank you, my dear—I think you’re pretty hot, too.”
“Now, Jim . . .” she warned, unamused.
“Where’re the rest of the troops?” he asked, feeling it best to change the direction of the conversation.
“Jamie’ll be right down, but you can call Tiff if you want. Tell her I’m fixing her favorite breakfast, in honor of the successful frog experience.”
“I take it I shouldn’t shower before breakfast.”
“Not if you want to eat with the family, which is a rare enough occurrence.”
“Okay—be right back.” He trudged up the stairs, admonishing himself as he went to be very careful of his wife’s feelings, which apparently were running pretty high this morning, and maybe even about to overflow their banks. It was true he was a little disconcerted about the visit from his in-laws, but he had survived them before, and he would again. It was worth it, for Trish to have the opportunity to share her life with her family. He knocked lightly, then opened Tiffani’s door a crack.
“Paging Miss Tiffani Shepherd, frog princess, victor of the biology lab, and favorite older daughter of her father,” he intoned. “You are hereby advised that your favorite breakfast is about to be served in the south dining room.”
A sleepy groan ensued from the direction of the bed. “I’m not hungry. I’m tired.”
“I believe the menu includes savory link sausages, hash browns, fluffy scrambled eggs, and hot biscuits with pan gravy or strawberry jam.”
“Mmm. Okay, I’ll be down. In a couple of minutes.”
Jamie bounded from his room. “Take your time, Tiff. I’ll eat yours for you if you’re too sleepy to get up,” he offered with a grin, heading for the stairs.
“You will not! You’d better not touch mine!” Her dad heard her feet hit the floor.
“Ah—at last the princess arises to greet the dawn!”
“Dad, you’re corny,” Tiffani complained, but her voice held a giggle.
“Corn-fed from the cradle up. Never claimed otherwise. Oh—and Mom has a surprise announcement.”
“What is it?”
“I wouldn’t dream of stealing her thunder. See you downstairs.”
He washed up quickly and joined the family at the table, grinning at Trish’s pleasure in informing her two eldest of the forthcoming visit of their beloved Nana and Papa and Aunt Merrie. They reacted with honest delight—and he wondered why he couldn’t join them. Trish’s parents were wonderful people—active and faithful in the Church, bright and happy and helpful in any way they could be. So what was his problem? He’d never been entirely sure, but whatever it was, he vowed to solve it—to clear it out of his life once and for all, so that his joy with his family on the occasion could be sincere and un restrained. He had nearly a month to deal with the situation. He could prepare. He could repent. And he would do it, if it killed him.
After breakfast, while Tiffani took her turn clearing up the dishes, he played a computerized Nascar racing game with Jamie, and Trish worked on a talk she was preparing for the next day’s sacrament meeting. She and the rest of the new Relief Society presidency had been asked to speak. Trish and the two counselors were old hands at speaking in church, but Ida Lou had been almost panic-stricken.
“Bishop, I don’t have the words to say, like the others,” she had told him, her eyes anxious. “I’m not educated, and smart about things like those young girls. All I know is how to work, and love people.”
“Well now, see? I think that’s exactly why the Lord called you,” he had told her. “Those are wonderful qualities. Maybe you could talk about those things, since they’re your strong points, and they also happen to be the two most important elements of service. A fancy sermon’s not what we need from you, anyway. Just a simple expression of your deepest feelings about the gospel and the Savior. Just be yourself, and your words’ll come across just fine. You’ll see.”
“Oh dear. Will you pray for me?”
“Absolutely.”
He would, too. And he sincerely hoped Ida Lou Reams would include him in her simple, heartfelt petitions to the Lord. If anyone could count on having prayers heard and answered, he believed it would be Ida Lou.
That afternoon Trish curled up on the sofa near where he was reading and said brightly, “Okay, I’m making my lists—one for things to do while they’re here, and one for everything that needs to be done before they arrive. Help me think! I know the windows need washing, inside and out, and the carpets upstairs need a good cleaning. I’d love to get new wallpaper in the guest room, where we’ll put my folks, and Merrie can have Mallory’s room. Mal can bunk with Tiffani that week. We’ll need to move her toys out of her room, but—”
“Why? Why can’t Mal’s toys just be neatly put on her shelves and in her toy box?”
“Jim, because she’ll want to play with them! They’ll need to be available to her. And besides, you just don’t put a grown woman in a room filled with toys. It’s . . . degrading, or something. Disrespectful. And I wonder if Samantha will follow Mallory to Tiff’s room, or if she’ll still want to sleep on Mallory’s bed? Merrie might not enjoy sleeping with an active kitten.”
“You’re sure her—what’s his name—Dirk? You’re sure he’s not coming, too?”
“He can’t leave his work, Mom said, but Meredith needs a break. Besides, she hasn’t been back here since Dad was transferred. She was what, then? Thirteen?”
He remembered that transfer. Brother and Sister Langham had been a presence in the small Alabama branch, as it had been, then—almost on the verge of becoming a ward—and it had been a loss to priesthood and auxiliary leadership to have them go. Worse than that, it had been a blow to the heart of a certain young brother in that branch, one eighteen-year-old James Dean Shepherd, when the Langhams left for Arizona, taking with them their sixteen-year-old daughter, Patricia, she of the shiny dark brown hair and lightly freckled nose that crinkled in the middle when she laughed, which she did delightfully and often. Life had seemed drab after the Langham station wagon headed west. It had been as though he had suddenly gone color-blind, seeing everything in shades of gray. Dances and activities had lost their appeal, and even the Sunday services didn’t seem as meaningful as they had when Trish Langham had been sitting in the fourth row with her family, where he could surreptitiously check her reaction to touching or humorous things that were said from the pulpit. He hadn’t told anyone of his feelings for Trish, so he suffered in silence when she was gone, preferring that to being questioned, teased, reassured that he’d get over it, or even showered with sympathy.
And then the letter came. Pale pink envelope with an embossed rose on the back, girlish script addressing it to Jim Shepherd Jr., in care of Shepherd’s Quality Food Mart, handed to him by his father. He could still see his father’s big, veined hand holding out the delicate missive, hear his voice saying, “Whoa, Son, if I didn’t know better, I’d say this looks like a love lette
r. But who’d send you a love letter here at the store? In fact, who’d send you a love letter?”
Who, indeed? Jim had looked at the Arizona postmark and dared to hope.
“Oh,” he’d said offhandedly, “it’s not a love letter. It’s just a friend from church. Her family moved away.” He had stuffed the letter in his back pocket, to open when he was alone, and had gone back to mopping the produce aisle. But his heart had beat faster, and as soon as nobody was paying him any attention, he had sauntered into the rest room and sought privacy in a stall. It wasn’t the most auspicious place to read a letter from Trish. He wished he were sitting on a split-rail fence up at Shepherd’s Pass, with the sweet wind blowing through the grasses, and the cattle calling with their gentle voices. But this would have to do; he couldn’t wait any longer. He slid a finger carefully under the flap of the envelope, trying not to tear it, and pulled out the single folded sheet.
Dear Jim,
How’s everything going? How’s everybody at church? I miss everybody. Tell Becky and Shellie hey for me. Out here they say hi, not hey, like there. It’s real dry here, and cool and windy at night and in the early morning, but real hot in the afternoons. The school I go to is new and all on one floor, and a lot of the kids are like Indian or Spanish. Its ok, but I miss Fairhaven High. Do you ever see Muzzie at school? She was my best friend who wasn’t LDS. If you see her, tell her hey for me and to write me. I’ve got letters from Shellie and from Sister Talbot and a cute note from little Brian Kent that I use to baby-sit.
So, how’s work? And baseball? And are you going to race your truck on Saturday mornings this summer? If you do, I hope you win. The Church here is bigger than there, and there are more kids, but I don’t know them much yet, and I feel kinda lonesome for some of the people there. Write me if you want.
Your friend,
Trish
P.S. I hope its okay to send this to your dad’s store. My Mom doesn’t know where she put the branch address list. Luff ya! T.
He read the letter over three times. Could it qualify, in any way, shape or form, as a love letter? How should he know? It was the first letter he could ever remember receiving in his whole life. When she said she missed some of the people in Fairhaven, did that include Jim Shepherd? When she put “Luff ya” in the postscript, could that be taken with any degree of meaning, or was it just girl talk? Did she really want him to write back? And how could he possibly say “hey” to Becky and Shellie and Muzzie for her? He was shy enough that he didn’t even acknowledge the presence of those girls if he wasn’t forced to. If he gave them Trish’s message, they’d know she’d written him! Of course, that wasn’t an altogether unpleasant prospect—maybe it would raise him a notch in their estimation—maybe like from nonexistent to a place in the land of the living. On the other hand, maybe they’d tease him about her. Or worse, maybe they’d write and tease her about him! Life had suddenly grown complicated.
“Jim? What’re you grinning about?”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, I think Merrie must’ve been about thirteen when you moved away, because you were sixteen, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but you’re avoiding my question. Why the big grin?”
He felt himself blushing, an acutely embarrassing thing after all these years. “Thinking about getting that first letter from you,” he admitted. “I was such a dope—such a rube. No sense at all about girls. Scared to death to write back, but too crazy about you not to.”
Trish came and sat on his lap, pressing her cool cheek against his flaming one. “I still have that answer you sent me,” she said softly. “I practically wore it out reading it over and over.”
He chuckled. “Huh! Must mean you couldn’t decipher it, ’cause it can’t have been that good.”
“It wasn’t. It was very stiff and noncommittal and polite. Not very personal at all.”
“Well, heck, I guess not—I was afraid your dad would read it!”
“He wouldn’t have. Nor Mom. Merrie would’ve, though, if she’d found it. I kept it hidden in my scripture tote, with tithing receipts and my patriarchal blessing.”
“Wow—I was in good company.”
“That’s right—and that letter was almost as inspiring to me as the other things.”
“Come on, Trish. You just said it was stiff and—”
“Yes, but it was from you. In your very own not-so-great handwriting. See, even then, I think I loved your spirit first. I loved that you were a convert, and took the gospel seriously. And you were so nice. Not phony-nice, and not namby-pamby, goody-goody nice, but genuinely nice. Kind to people. And unassuming. No big-head, swaggering jock. Just a down-home, solid, good person.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t have anything to be big-headed about. Just an ordinary kid.”
She shook her head. “Huh-uh. Not ordinary at all. Pretty rare, in fact. And I didn’t want to lose touch with that—with you.”
He tightened his arms around her. “Good thing you kept writing.”
“Sure is—what was the ratio? Ten of my letters to one of yours?”
He winced. “Sorry, babe. I’m not much of a letter writer, even now.”
“Oh, you improved.”
“I did?”
“Over time, you actually began to answer my questions, and to share your thoughts. That was so cool, you can’t imagine.”
“I had thoughts?”
“And a sense of humor about things that tickled my funny bone. And a growing testimony, that shone through more and more as you grew up.”
“Well, you know how it is with converts. The Church and the gospel were pretty meaningful to me, even as a young guy.”
“You see? I picked up on that, and it seemed . . . priceless. Sometimes you’d tell me about your conversations with Mac, how you’d debate over scriptures and things. Most of the guys I knew didn’t talk much about the gospel, except maybe right after they came home from their missions, and then they’d taper off on that, and I think sometimes it was because they sensed that the girls got bored with hearing about it. But I never got bored, reading about things that meant a lot to you. I was sorry when you didn’t get to serve a full-time mission. I knew you wanted to.”
“It was a dream I had, but it didn’t work out.”
“It’s too bad. I know your dad’s illness complicated things.”
“Yeah, well—I felt torn, knowing I should go, but knowing that Dad needed me, too. Reckon I just wasn’t strong enough in the faith, yet, to stand up for what I believed. I’ve often thought it’s likely Dad would’ve been blessed with better health, if I’d have just gone.”
“Maybe so, and maybe not. But I think you did okay. It was a sacrifice you made, to be there for him and your mom, and to keep the business going through his illness. I believe Heavenly Father understands. He knows your heart.”
The bishop sighed. “Well, then he knows that I still wrestle with myself over that decision. I expect I’d be a better bishop and a better husband and father now if I’d served a mission. I’d have had experiences I just couldn’t get working in the store. But . . . I made my choice, and I live with it.”
“I don’t see how you could be a better husband or father, honey. And it seems to me you’re off to a great start as bishop, too.”
He kissed his wife—once and then again. “I appreciate your vote of confidence, babe,” he told her. “You have no idea how much.”
Mallory came into the room, her eyes alight at the sight of her mommy sitting on her daddy’s lap. “Me, too—me, too,” she cried, climbing on Trish’s knees. “Big hug, just like the Teletubbies!”
Chapter Seven
* * *
“ . . . on this, the Sabbath day”
Bishopric meetings were a comfort to him. There, more than anytime or anywhere else, he felt that the responsibility of caring for the more than one hundred families who comprised the Fairhaven Ward was not wholly his. He and his counselors and clerks had fallen into a trusting, companionable relationship, which was a b
it of a surprise to him, considering how different they all were. First counselor Bob Patrenko, fortyish with receding straight black hair, was an educated man with a keen eye for propriety and a good understanding of the Church Handbook of Instructions. Sam Wright, chubby-faced and about as down-home as they come, could read human nature as accurately as Brother Patrenko read the handbook, and his good-old-boy manner belied his sharp intellect and caused this second counselor to be underestimated by some who didn’t know him well. Joseph Perkins, a brown-haired young man with wire-rimmed glasses, was a fine ward clerk, good with the computer and conscientious about keeping the records up-to-date. He had a kindly, forgiving way about him. Executive secretary Dan McMillan had already made himself invaluable by keeping the bishop organized and his appointments reasonably spaced and the people reminded of the times. Just because the bishop kept expecting him to salute, click his heels, and reply “Aye, aye, sir” was no reason to complain. Dan was a good man.
Early on this Sabbath morning, grateful beyond measure that the Lord had blessed him with their faithful help, the bishop looked fondly at this collection of men. He glanced down at the agenda Dan had prepared for their discussion. “Special needs” was the next category, with several members’ names listed underneath.
“Roscoe and Hilda Bainbridge,” he read. “How is Ross doing? I haven’t seen him for over a week.”
“I was over there yesterday,” said Sam Wright. “Seems to me he’s ’bout the same, and Hildy’s holdin’ up, so far. Said they hatn’t had to increase his pain medication, so I reckon that’s good. But he don’t eat much, and it’s gettin’ so danged hot in that little house. They ain’t got nothin’ but a little bitty table fan that they keep where he is, but the kitchen and livin’ room catches the afternoon sun, and I reckon pore old Hildy about wilts in there.”
The bishop thought of his air-conditioned store and home and truck. He well remembered how hot it could be in a small house with no cooling system, especially on nights with no breeze when the temperature barely dipped a few degrees just before dawn. As boys, he and his buddy, Mac—Peter MacDonald—had once spread an old sheet out on the lawn at Mac’s house and doused it with water, then lay down nearly naked on it to cool their overheated bodies enough to allow them to fall asleep. This year’s weather wasn’t quite to that misery point, but it was unthinkable to let Ross and Hilda suffer unnecessarily from the heat in their already precarious condition.
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