by Tamara Leigh
“Taken?” asks a voice to my right. And there in the aisle stands Maddox eyeing the empty space beside me.
Why didn’t I set my Bible there? I shake my head and duck behind the hymnal. A moment later, we stand shoulder to shoulder.
“Share?” He leans toward me.
“Uh…” Unfortunately, there’s no other hymnal in the seat pocket. Grudgingly, I shift mine toward him and am grateful when he doesn’t attempt to assist in holding it.
As the stragglers root out seats, Bea starts in on the next hymn—a very old one I haven’t heard in forever. And I’m not the only one, as evidenced by the predominantly aged voices and the rustle of hymnals being searched for the page listed in the bulletin. I find it quickly and add my voice to the others.
With a sigh, Maddox taps the page where the date of the hymn is listed—1726—then nods to a group of visibly bored youth. One is even blowing bubbles!
“You have to engage them,” Maddox breathes in my ear. “Engage, engage, engage.”
Tempted to pinch him for causing a shiver to run down my spine, I sing louder.
To the relief of all—honestly, the ripple could be felt!—Bea rises at the conclusion of the hymn and makes her way to her front row seat. To my surprise, Jack, who prefers to sit at the back, is there.
As with last week’s service, Blake greets everyone and thanks Bea. “Now, if you’ll open your bulletins, you’ll find an insert.” Paper rustles around the sanctuary. “Our women’s ministry director has an awesome evening planned for the ladies, complete with child care for those with young children. So after the service, please sign up to attend.”
A murmur of interest goes around the sanctuary.
Down, pride! Down! It wasn’t you. It was Maddox. And God!
“Now if you’ll pull out the second insert, you’ll find the words for the songs we’re going to lift up to the Lord. God willing, next Sunday the words will be projected on a screen behind me.”
A moment later, the guitars, drums, electric keyboard, and piano are off and running, and I’m as tense as a rat backed into a corner.
“Thinking about taking off again?”
Maddox has got to stop breathing in my ear! I jerk my head around. “Is that what you’re doing here? Blocking my escape?”
“No, that’s just a bonus.”
I clench my hands, causing the bulletin to crumple.
“Come on, Harri—”
He’s breathing in my ear again!
“—give it a chance.”
I will not. Not when that so-called music makes me want to cut loose, toss my hands high, and move! I know where that leads—to no good.
“Close your eyes and listen. If you don’t want to sing the words, pray them.”
Oh! I just tapped my foot. Or maybe that was a cramp.
“You know you want to.”
“I do not.”
Lord, my old self is lifting its head and sniffing the air. You don’t want that. You like the new Harri, not that wild thing who turned from You and partied, partied, partied!
“David danced in the streets.” Maddox raises his eyebrows.
“That was different.”
He sighs and returns his attention to the band. When the timbre of his voice wends toward my ears, I cross my arms over my chest.
Yes, David praised the Lord in a mighty way, but he didn’t then go and smoke a pack of cigarettes, drink too much, and awaken in a very bad place the morning after. Well, there was that indiscretion with Bathsheba…
Sorry, Lord. I’d like to raise my hands and voice, but who knows where that might lead. Well, You know, but I don’t trust myself. I was bad. And what if, deep down, I’m still bad?
You’ve been forgiven, Harri, a little voice squeezes in. When are you going to accept it and trust God to be sufficient?
“Don’t even think about it, mister!”
Dumplin’ pauses midreach.
I shake my head. “Don’t you dare.”
He looks back at the object of his desire, then squats and begins to lick the very paw with which he nearly sank his claws into my sofa.
Did I win the battle, or will those claws be out again the moment I turn away?
“I’m keeping an eye on you.” I back into the kitchen where my avocado and tomato sandwich awaits a slice of swiss and a smear of mayo to serve as my dinner.
I plop the swiss on and crane my neck to check on Dumplin’. Still licking.
Spread the mayo. Licking the other paw.
Crown the whole thing with another piece of bread. Licking his neck. (How do they do that?)
Slice the sandwich and set it on a plate. Working on his lower chest.
Carry my sandwich into the living room. Plops down and starts in on his belly.
Take a bite as I lower to a chair. Lifts his head and looks toward the screen door.
A moment later, I also hear the voices and, as they draw near, identify one as belonging to Maddox. I make it to my feet just as he and Mrs. Feterall arrive on my porch.
“Oh, Harri, listen to this,” Mrs. Feterall says when she spots me heading toward them. “Maddox here fixed my dishwasher.”
Bracing a smile, I open the screen door. “That’s great.”
Maddox, wearing a white T-shirt and faded jeans, catches my eye, momentarily fixes on my mouth, and winks. Winks!
Mrs. Feterall walks past me. “So I told him about your leaky plumbing, and he said he could fix it. Go on, Maddox.” She shoos him toward the kitchen. “Have a look.”
I ease the screen door closed. “Actually, it’s a small leak—nothing I lose sleep over.” That old soup pot works just fine, and I only have to empty it twice a week.
“I’ll take a look.” As Maddox crosses into the kitchen, my gaze is drawn to the back pocket of his jeans that holds a screwdriver and a wrench. Manly. No little toolbox for Maddox McCray.
“Oh me! Isn’t this your mother’s cat, Harri?”
I shift my regard to that good-for-nothing lump who has resumed his bathing—below his belly! “That’s Dumplin’, all right. Tyler needed a break, so he dropped him here.”
“He must have been desperate.”
Who hasn’t my mother told about the rift between me and that cat?
Mrs. Feterall crosses to the sofa. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
Good luck. Dumplin’ is not a “Here, kitty, kitty” kitty. He’s a—
Dumplin’ steps lightly to her and rubs against her calves.
He’s just trying to make me look bad. I turn and head into the kitchen. As Maddox reaches into the cabinet beneath the sink, his short sleeve rides up and I catch sight of the jawbone of a skull. “Nice tattoo,” pops out of my mouth, the same thing he said to me the night he glimpsed the crown of thorns circling my upper arm.
He pokes his head out and grins. “Leftovers.”
That’s how I responded! Except I was self-conscious, whereas he doesn’t seem the least concerned about revealing his wild side. And to prove it, he pushes up the sleeve to reveal the tattoo in its hideous entirety. “A little much, hmm?”
I transfer my gaze from the hollow-eyed skull to Maddox’s darkly deep eyes. “Considering your line of work, you ought to have that thing removed.”
He lets the sleeve fall. “It goes with the motorcycle.”
Ah! I start to retreat, but he pulls me back with “How many signed up for Friday’s event?”
My indignation wanes as I’m shot through with the excitement I felt while staffing the booth. “It was the most amazing thing.” I advance toward him. “In all, thirty-two ladies signed up—young and old. And we’ll probably hear from more this week. Why, it’s possible we could have as many as fifty.”
“Great.”
I draw a breath. “Thank you for your help.”
“You owe me one.”
I freeze. Owe him? What?
He ducks back beneath the cabinet. “Just don’t let me leave here without my Jelly Bellys and we’ll call it even.”
/> Whew! “Sure.” I turn away.
When Maddox enters the living room five minutes later, I’m glowering at Dumplin’ from my recliner. The sycophant is purring loudly where he stretches alongside Mrs. Feterall’s thigh. Just to spite me.
“All fixed.” Maddox halts beside me. “It just needed a good turn of the wrench.”
I push up out of the chair. “Thanks.”
“Look, Maddox, isn’t he wonderful?” Mrs. Feterall rubs Dumplin’ beneath the chin. “I love cats.” She gasps. “Harri, maybe we could arrange a play date for Pucker and Dumplin’.”
A play date? They are not children. They’re cats. Finicky little—
Oh dear, she seems so hopeful. “I…guess we could.” A light comes on in my head. “Or maybe Dumplin’ could come to your place for a sleepover.”
She frowns. “First we need to make certain they play well together.”
Feeling Maddox’s gaze, I look at the bookcase where he slipped off to. He raises his eyebrows, then returns to my shelves. “Quite a collection of Bibles.”
I have no reason to feel as if I’ve been caught with a controlled substance, but I’m flushed with guilt. “Would you like a glass of iced tea?”
“Thank you, but Mrs. Feterall filled me up.” He runs a finger across the spines. “King James, New King James, Holman Christian Standard, the Living Bible, New American Standard, New International Version, the Message, God’s Word Translation.” His attention drops to the shelf below. “And a multitude of God’s Promises books.”
He doesn’t know the half of it. Well, maybe half, since that shelf holds about half of those I’ve purchased over the years. The other half are on my bedroom nightstand.
Maddox turns. “Are you considering becoming a minister like your father?”
“Oh no,” Mrs. Feterall says. “Harri’s just well read. Reads a Bible a year, don’t you, dear?”
“Something like that.”
Once more, Maddox shows my mouth more attention than is warranted. “Interesting.”
No, it’s not! Determined to prove that I have a life, I step forward and grab a book from the shelf that holds my “keeper” fiction. “Have you read Escape from Fred?” I turn the cover toward him. “It’s about a preacher’s son. Funny.”
His mouth twitches. “I’ve read it, as well as the first two in the series.”
I return the book to its slot. “Then there’s Linda Windsor, Tracey Bateman, Rachel Hauck, Allison Pittman—”
“Do you read anything besides Christian fiction?”
“From time to time.” No need to clarify that the last time I shopped in a bookstore other than my friendly Christian one was years ago.
“I should get back to Mr. Feterall.” Mrs. Feterall gives Dumplin’ a parting rub.
“I’ll walk you home.” Maddox sounds all gallant, but I know about the skull tattoo.
I hurry into the kitchen and retrieve the Ziploc that contains four Jelly Bellys. “Here you are.” I thrust the bag at Maddox as he holds the screen door for Mrs. Feterall.
“Thanks.” He focuses on my mouth again, then touches his own. “Uh, Harri…”
Surely he doesn’t think he’s owed a kiss for fixing my leak? I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head.
He starts to say something, then leans in and swipes the corner of my mouth with an index finger.
I stumble back. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He turns his finger out to reveal a smear of mayo.
That’s why he kept staring at my mouth. I smile sheepishly. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
And he means it. Despite his insistence that the timing is wrong, Maddox doesn’t seem able to help himself.
Lord, why did You throw him in my path? And Stephano! You know I’m not ready for this. Ah! You’re testing me. Well, I intend to pass with flying colors. Then, when You’re good and ready, You’ll give me someone to settle down with.
“Good night, Harri.”
I jerk my chin. “Good night.”
Maddox takes Mrs. Feterall’s arm and guides her down the stairs.
I watch them until my tummy sends up an SOS, then turn back to my avocado and tomato—
There’s Dumplin’. On the table. Crouched by my plate. Licking the mayo oozing out the side of my sandwich.
Harri’s Log: • Day of Sabrina—“Oldies but Goodies” miniretreat
• 7 days until the next rerun of The Coroner (VCR ready for tonight’s episode!)
• 15 days until Jelly Belly replenishment (halfway mark!)
• 199 days until the completion of Bible #8
Great event, Harri.”
That’s the consensus, but it’s nice to hear from Pastor Paul’s wife. Remembering the lively discussion that followed the double feature, I smile. “I gather you’re a Harrison Ford fan.”
Leah glances around to be certain we aren’t overheard by the ladies cleaning up. “That Bogart has to be an acquired taste. Honestly, I just don’t see it. As for Audrey Hepburn, she was perfect!”
Which is where many of the younger women crossed over. They loved Audrey. As for the older women, several were impressed with Harrison and admitted he was every bit as good-looking as Humphrey. But the discussion got good when we turned to themes relevant to the Christian life, and Leah showed a side of herself I’d only ever glimpsed. The woman really knows her Bible.
She sighs. “I wish I could have convinced Anna to come, but she’s distant lately. That teenage thing, you know.”
“Is everything all right?”
“No.” Leah’s shoulders dip. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been wanting to talk to you, as you understand better than anyone what Anna’s going through.”
Oh dear.
“Everyone expects so much from her, including her father and me. There isn’t room for mistakes, especially with everyone watching her every move. Her skirt’s too short. Is that mascara she’s wearing? Why is she talking to that boy?” Leah’s voice rises. “Shouldn’t she be more involved in the youth group? Surely the preacher’s daughter should set a better example—”
“Leah.” I nod at the other ladies who are attempting to appear uninterested.
“I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be burdening you.”
“You’re not. Why don’t we talk outside?”
Shortly, we sit on a bench beneath moonlit clouds.
“So how is Anna dealing with the pressure of being under the microscope?” I ask.
“How did you deal with it?”
The muscles in my face tighten, but it’s a reasonable question. “Not well, as you’ve probably heard.”
She nods. “I’m starting to fear that Anna might react the same, especially because this has been a long time in coming.”
“Oh?”
“She went through a difficult time at the last church Paul pastored when—” Leah shakes her head. “The thing is that these hormones of hers are all over the place, and with all the changes at First Grace, she’s growing away from us.”
Just as I did with my family.
“I don’t know what to do.” Her voice catches. “When you were in Anna’s place, what did you need?”
I turn my face up to the sky that offers not the slightest breeze to clear the warm, humid air wafting across my skin. What did I need? “I don’t know, though I do remember being lonely. That it felt as if there wasn’t anyone I could talk to or trust.”
“Because you felt betrayed.”
I smile wryly. “You’ve heard it all.”
“I’m sorry, but people talk.”
Of course they do. “Yes, because I felt betrayed, but also because of the pedestal I was trying to keep my balance on. As you know, preacher’s kids aren’t supposed to make mistakes, question their faith, or have lives outside their parents’ ministry. They’re supposed to be perfect.”
She closes a hand over mine. “Harri, would you talk to Anna?”
Panic flutters up my throat. “But I d
on’t know her. Beyond a ‘hi’ here and there, we’ve done little more than make eye contact.”
“I know, which is why I thought I’d bring her to next month’s event. Perhaps you could strike up a conversation.”
With a brooding teenager? Oh dear. “Um, that might be difficult.”
Her hand squeezes mine. “You’ll try, won’t you?”
Double dear. Of course, what’s the likelihood Anna will show up for Quilt Till You Wilt/Crop Till You Drop? “I’ll try, but don’t expect a miracle.”
Are those tears in her eyes?
“Thank you. And thank you for putting together tonight’s event. I enjoyed it, especially seeing the older ladies chumming with the younger ones.”
They were chumming. I had smiled at aged voices mixing with youthful chatty ones. Warmed to hear Lorraine Ibbley sharing a recipe with two young ladies and the three giggling when Lorraine advised the use of puréed prunes as a sugar substitute. Been touched when I overheard Mrs. Feterall using Scripture to console a young woman.
“Harri?”
I startle to find Leah’s face near mine, her hand on my shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
“I was just…somewhere else.” I push up off the bench. “I’m glad you enjoyed tonight. Hopefully, the quilting and scrapbooking event will be as successful.”
She stands. “I’m sure it will.”
“Even without a day spa giveaway?”
“That was definitely a draw. I have never seen Emily so animated.”
None of us have. The thirty-five-year-old woman, who still wears her Mennonite head covering despite having attended First Grace for five years, went from shoulders hunched and nose stuck in a Styrofoam cup to shoulders thrown back and nose in the air as she rushed forward to claim her prize. “Yes, that was a side to her I haven’t seen.”
Leah gives me a hug. “Good night, Harri.”
We pull apart, and I feel off balance, as if I’ve had something to drink that I shouldn’t. And yet, it’s not an unpleasant feeling. “Good night, Leah.”
She turns, and as I start to follow, I’m struck by a scent. Maddox is right. Irises do smell like grapes. But why am I only now noticing it when I’ve been sitting among them for the past quarter hour? I look up, but the stars Maddox encouraged me to take in are hidden by clouds. And, suddenly, I want to see them.
