“When?” she asked, trying not to think it had better be quick before one of them keeled over.
“Valentine’s Day. Isn’t that romantic? Frank says it’ll save him remembering their anniversary, but I think he’s a romantic deep down.” Emily slipped her feet with their sensible pumps into overshoes as she talked. “Perla is going to make the cake, and you and I are going to do little finger sandwiches and mints and canapés, and I don’t know what all. You can help me decide.”
Margaret grinned in spite of herself. She wasn’t sure how she’d been roped into catering a wedding, but she didn’t mind. It might even be fun. If she wasn’t going to fall in love and get married, she could at least help take care of those who did.
Mayfair climbed into the back of the Volkswagen, and the three of them drove to church, where Emily knew everyone. She introduced Margaret and Mayfair but seemed to sense that neither girl was entirely comfortable meeting new people and eventually left them with Cathy Stott. Cathy was eager to tell them how her son Travis had become a doctor and had gone in with another man in a practice up near Wheeling. Margaret was glad not to have to make conversation much beyond nodding her head, but she could see where Cathy might wear someone out.
Soon enough the service started, and Margaret found herself enjoying the hymns and the enthusiasm with which the congregation sang them. As the last strains of “In the Garden” faded, the pastor rose and, without any preamble, launched into the Scripture reading.
“Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.”
Margaret realized she was holding her breath. She loved the Psalms with their poetry. Somehow they spoke to her more than any story in Genesis or even the stories about Jesus ever had. She was glad the pastor opened today with pure poetry.
“If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.”
Pastor Johnston stopped and looked out over the congregation as though giving them time to absorb what he’d said. Margaret thought about the moonlight shining the other night. It hadn’t been light exactly, but not dark either. She imagined God seeing dark times like that, outlined in silver, because the darkness was light to Him. She squeezed her hands in her lap and waited for more. Would there be more?
“For thou hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.”
The pastor asked them to bow their heads and he prayed, but Margaret didn’t hear what he said. She was thinking of those last words. They sounded like Shakespeare could have written them, but no, here they were in the Bible. Fearfully and wonderfully made. Who was? The one who wrote the poem? Or everyone? Surely not her. She had seen herself. She knew herself, and she was a long way from wonderfully made.
The prayer ended and Pastor Johnston began his sermon. It was about how God knew them all, deeply and personally. Knew them better than they knew themselves, and He loved them anyway. Not because they were wonderful, but because they were His and He knew the potential that lay in each and every heart. The pastor claimed that what God wanted from them was that they live up to that potential. Even in small ways.
Margaret shook her head. She doubted she had much potential, she doubted God had planned much for her, but she realized that she wanted to live up to whatever small thing He intended. She promised herself that she would figure out what it was. Taking care of Mayfair, helping Emily, learning to farm, whatever it was, she was going to give it her all. Margaret felt lighter as the service ended. For the first time in a very long time she felt like she might have some purpose, like God might—eventually—come to be pleased with her, even if her mother never was. She smiled. And it felt good.
14
HENRY GRABBED THE PHONE on the second ring. Clint’s drawl wasn’t the most welcome sound. Henry had begun to have second thoughts about his chosen method for providing for his family but doubted Clint would care.
“Boy, ain’t seen you around lately. You been avoiding me? Or maybe you’re still laid up from your carelessness.”
Henry ran his fingertips over the scar on his chin. More than a week after the accident he was nearly as good as new with only a few fading marks. Except for this scar—that one seemed like it would stay after all. “I’ve been busy,” he said.
“I need you to make a run for me tonight. Got a new buyer, so this one oughta be easy. Sheriff won’t be lying in wait for you.”
“Guess I thought Charlie would be up and about by now. Maybe you don’t need me anymore.” Even the hint of disagreeing with Clint made Henry’s palms sweat.
“Charlie’s doing the run to Jack’s place. You’ll be solo this time. You be here at six.” Clint hung up, and Henry guessed he’d better go.
Over the past week, he’d been hanging around the house, helping his mom pack up some of his dad’s stuff, and he’d been at his grandmother’s a good bit, doing the milking, helping Margaret fix up her house, and not saying much. He liked that no one seemed to expect too much of him—maybe because of his injury. They accepted whatever he was willing to do and mostly left him alone. Well, except Margaret. She got kind of bossy sometimes, but he didn’t mind that as much as he used to. Somehow he thought Clint would be more demanding.
Maybe what he needed was someone who expected something of him. He took a shower and put on decent clothes. Maybe Clint would send him someplace interesting, with music and girls. He’d take his fiddle, but this time he wouldn’t drink. If he was going to get tangled up with anyone, he wanted it to be a conscious decision. He’d be making good money, regardless. Especially since Charlie wouldn’t be along to mess things up. Maybe this was a blessing. The cut on his jaw tingled, and he rubbed it. Yeah, a blessing.
As soon as Clint saw Henry, he began giving him a hard time about his nearly healed wounds.
“You using some kind of miracle salve?” he asked, grabbing Henry’s hand and turning it over to examine the new pink skin. Then he grabbed Henry’s chin, and Henry jerked away.
“Just healed fast. That’s all.”
Clint looked at him sideways. “Maybe. And maybe you had some special doctoring. I hear that youngest Hoffman girl might be some kind of healer.”
Henry felt a bolt of fear run through him. He’d just as soon Clint didn’t know Mayfair existed.
“Way I hear it, she set Angie Talbot’s mind to rights. Ain’t no medicine can do that.”
“That’s pure gossip,” Henry scoffed. He knew Clint’s woman went to see the Talbots from time to time, and anyway, Wise was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business.
“Maybe. ’Course seems like gossip almost always has a seed of truth buried in there somewhere.” He peered at Henry’s face again. “Might be that girl could do my old woman some good. She’s got the female complaint.”
“I don’t see how she could help.” Henry wanted more than anything to steer the conversation in another direction. “How about this run you want me to make? Time’s a wastin’.”
“In a hurry, are ya? Well, this one should be easy.”
The new run turned out to be a simple drop-off. In a cemetery—no music, no girls—just an envelope of cash hidden in a tombstone. Clint gave him directions to an old graveyard adjacent to a Baptist church up north. It was dark when Henry arrived. A poor excuse for a moon lit his way. He was supposed to find a large stone that stood a good four feet tall with the name Bert Williamson inscribed on it.
Apparently Bert had been known for his moonshine when he was still living, and some of his kin, who kept up his business for
a time, felt it was appropriate to honor him by giving him a hollow marker. A section at the top lifted away, and several gallons of liquor could be stored inside. The Williamsons had given up running moonshine a decade or so ago, but they still facilitated its delivery. And Charlie had arranged for the Simmons family to be the county’s new supplier. Henry found that a bit odd. Seemed most moonshiners were running out of business, not finding new customers. And Charlie had never struck him as much of an entrepreneur. Oh, well, it meant money in his pocket, and that was the main thing.
Henry got out of the truck and stumbled over a footstone. He muffled a mild curse. He didn’t think anyone was around, but making a lot of noise didn’t seem like a good idea. He planned to find the stone and then go back to the truck for the liquor. Being in a cemetery after sunset made him feel funny. He wasn’t afraid. It just felt like a place he wasn’t meant to be. He stood and scanned the markers. There, one stuck up well above the others. That had to be it.
He wound his way over to the stone and found the removable section. Easy. He hurried back to the truck. Best to get this over with and head home. He was steps away from the stash of moonshine when someone said, “Howdy.”
Henry yelped and grabbed at his chest.
“Oh, hey there, didn’t mean to scare you,” the voice continued.
A man stepped away from the front of the church, and Henry could finally see him against the dimming sky.
“You gave me a start,” he said.
“Guess you didn’t expect anyone to be here this time of day.”
Henry could feel the tension stretching his shoulders tight. Who was this guy? And what was he doing out here? Could he be Clint’s new customer? Sweat popped out under his arms, even though it was cold.
“This is my church,” the man said, nodding toward the building. “I like to come out here of an evening sometimes. Spend a little time with God.”
“Oh yeah. That’s good.” Henry waited for the man to ask what he was doing there.
“It is good. Jesus knew how important it was to spend time alone with His father. I think folks tend to overlook how important one-on-one time with God is.” He stepped forward and stuck out a hand. “Raymond Sawyer. Call me Ray. I’m the pastor here.”
Henry took the man’s hand in the dark of the cemetery and was surprised at how warm it felt. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. You in a hurry?”
“No, I guess not,” Henry said. His head told him to get out of there as fast as he could, but there was something about this man that appealed to him, maybe even reminded him of Dad. He wanted to keep talking.
“Come on inside. I want to show you something.”
Henry followed Ray through the front door of the church. It was only a little warmer inside and smelled kind of musty with a hint of lemon furniture polish. Ray flicked on a light above the podium up front. The church was pretty simple—some rows of pews, a dais with the podium, and some chairs to one side that looked like they might be for a choir. A bare wooden cross hung on the wall above the dais. The single light caused it to cast dramatic shadows. Henry felt an urge to cross himself like he’d seen a Catholic buddy do at college.
Ray led the way up to the podium, where an immense Bible lay. He flipped to the front cover and then turned a few of the parchment pages until he came to some handwritten entries.
“Here you go—everyone who’s been married, born, or died in this church since 1798.”
Henry stepped up and began to turn the pages. The names went on and on. Babies being born, people getting married, old folks—sometimes not so old—dying. It was impressive. Sometimes the script was fancy; sometimes it was a barely legible scrawl. An entire community, a whole other world recorded at his fingertips. He stepped back and looked at Ray.
“It’s great, but why show me?”
“You were out there in the cemetery. I figure you were looking for family. Searching for your history or some such.”
“Uh, yeah. It’s getting pretty dark, though. Guess I’ll have to come back another time.” Henry glanced at the book, looking for a name to throw out if Ray asked whose history he was after.
“Of course, there’s a whole lot of history in here that goes even further back. Maybe goes back so far that you and me are kin.”
Henry tried to hide his confusion. What was this guy talking about?
Ray flipped forward in the Bible and then brightened, like he’d found an unexpected surprise. “Like this here,” he said. “Sometimes the good Lord whispers in my ear, and right now He says what you’re looking for is more likely here than out there.” He tapped the open book, then nodded toward the cemetery.
Henry wanted to walk out and be done with this crazy pastor, but he couldn’t resist looking where the man’s finger pointed. It was Genesis 25:34. He read the verse out loud. “Then Jacob gave Esau bread and pottage of lentils: and he did eat and drink, and rose up, and went his way: thus Esau despised his birthright.”
He knit his brow and looked at Ray. “What’s that mean?”
Ray shrugged. “It means ole Esau there thought his stomach mattered more than where he came from and where he was going. Come on back Sunday, and maybe I’ll have a sermon on it. Now, I’d best be getting on home, and probably the same goes for you.”
“Yeah, guess I’d better.”
The two men walked out and Ray set off whistling down the road. Henry hopped in his truck and drove over a ridge out of sight. He sat there for fifteen minutes, then circled back and stashed the liquor inside the Williamson stone in the cemetery. One of the jugs seemed significantly lighter than the rest and Henry was tempted to check it out, but he was in too much of a hurry. He wanted nothing more than to get on home, wanted nothing more than to forget the crazy preacher who spoke in riddles.
“Frank and Angie have decided to tie the knot right there in the parlor of her house on Valentine’s Day.” Emily handed Margaret another stack of towels as she cleaned out the linen closet, sorting, organizing, and deciding what needed to be thrown away. “I guess we’ll need enough food to feed fifty or so. It won’t be a big do, but there are quite a few folks who want to wish them well.”
Margaret smiled. Now that she’d gotten used to the idea, she was kind of excited about the wedding and the reception to follow. It would be nice to celebrate something, and goodness knows, she wouldn’t be celebrating Valentine’s Day otherwise. She even had a dress picked out to wear. Her mother had insisted on buying it last spring, even though Margaret thought it was too fancy. She’d brought it out to the little house on a whim, and now she was glad.
“If Henry’s the best man, who’ll be the bridesmaid?” Margaret pictured one of the older ladies of the community in some flouncy chiffon number and had to grin.
“I think she asked Perla.”
Now that Margaret could picture. Perla might not be exactly young, but she was a beautiful woman with her still mostly blond hair and petite frame. Margaret considered her own figure. Big-boned, her mother said, as if that sounded any better. One of her girlfriends in school said she was just curvy, but when someone like Twiggy was the benchmark, it was hard to be curvy. She sighed and sorted through her stack of towels, setting the worn ones aside.
“These would make a nice rag rug for the bathroom,” she said to the back of Emily’s head, where she was rooting in the bottom of the closet.
Emily looked over her shoulder. “That’s a wonderful idea. That can be our next project once the wedding is done.” She dusted her hands and stood. “Now, I’ll let you organize the nicer things while I go find the recipes I want to use. You have a better head for organization than I do.”
Margaret began tucking towels, sheets, and other household items back into the closet. Fantastic. She wasn’t thin or pretty or popular, but she had a head for organization. What man wouldn’t want to snap her up?
Henry tried to stand still while his mother hemmed a pair of suit pants that belonged to his father. Initially, he bal
ked at the idea of wearing Dad’s suit, but then he thought about how his father was Frank’s first choice for a best man, and the idea began to grow on him. It was like his father would be there in a way.
“Think I should throw Frank a bachelor’s party?”
His mom removed some pins from her mouth and looked up. “I know this wedding is a bit out of the ordinary, but I don’t see any reason to make fun of Frank.”
Henry bristled. “I’m not making fun. He’s pretty sharp. He might like to go out. I sure know some places I could take him.”
Mom bowed her head, inserted one more pin, then stood and fisted her hands on her hips. “There. Take those off and stop talking nonsense. I hate to think of you knowing about such places.”
“How do you know what kind of places I’m talking about? Might be I was going to take him to a church dinner.” Henry stripped down to his shorts and shoved the pants at his mother. “You always want to think the worst.”
“You’ve given me cause to think the worst of late. The sheriff stopped by again. He seems to think you might be doing some questionable work for that Simmons clan.”
“What did Pendleton say?” Henry thought he’d feel tougher if he were wearing pants.
“Sheriff Pendleton, if you please. Show some respect. He was just checking up on you. He and your father were friends, and he’s concerned that you’re falling in with the wrong crowd.” She folded the pants in her hands. “As am I.”
“No one needs to check up on me, and why is it that all of a sudden everyone knows what Dad would have wanted? He should have stuck around and let me know himself.”
Henry saw his mother’s face fall and wished he could snatch his words out of the air. Knowing he couldn’t, his instinct was to storm out and pretend he hadn’t behaved like a child throwing a tantrum. Instead, he flexed his fingers and reached out to lay a hand on his mother’s arm.
Until the Harvest Page 12
