Splitting Harriet

by Tamara Leigh

  Rebel in residence? Where did that come from?

  “—I can honestly say that just because someone dresses and behaves in a rebellious manner does not mean they’re not open to the pursuit of God.”

  Did that really come out of me? Was that You, Holy Spirit? ’Cause I know I didn’t mean to say that. Shallow and light was the intent, not playfully deep. And revealing…

  “See!” With a flourish, Mrs. Feterall slides a spoonful of rutabagas into her mouth.

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Feterall mutters.

  I lift my fork. “Now, since we aren’t here to debate church politics, I’m going to concentrate on this gourmet meal I’ve prepared for your enjoyment.”

  To my relief, the matter of who is welcome at First Grace is dropped, and the rest of the meal is eaten in relative silence—relative because Dumplin’ has begun yowling in between assaults on the door, and Pucker is growling as he paces the hallway.

  “I’ll help,” Maddox says as I rise to clear the table.

  “Oh no, I’m good at this.” I wave him down, but he lifts his plate—picked clean of rutabagas and brussels sprouts—and reaches for the salad bowl.

  Fine. “Stephano, Mr. and Mrs. Feterall, if you’d like to go into the living room, I’ll get the coffee brewing and serve up the pie.”

  They push back their chairs.

  “Is that a pink motorcycle helmet?” Stephano’s voice is a mix of incredulity and censure.

  Why didn’t I pack that thing away? “It sure is.”

  “I didn’t know you were a motorcycle enthusiast.” Anymore, his eyes add.

  “I’m not.” I reach for Mrs. Feterall’s plate. “It was a birthday gift from the ladies in our Red Hat Society.”

  “Then it’s for show.”

  “Actually,” Mrs. Feterall crosses into the living room, “Maddox wants to take her for a ride.”

  Her unintentional double entendre doesn’t escape Stephano. “Sounds dangerous,” he murmurs.

  Shortly, it’s just Maddox and me, and once the table is cleared and the dishes loaded in the dishwasher, it’s still just the two of us. And he’s still tight-lipped.

  I spoon grounds into the coffee maker and nod over my shoulder. “You’re welcome to join the others. I can handle it from here.”

  “I’ll cut the pie.” He steps to the counter. “I could use a few more minutes to cool down.” As I turn to him, he peers over his shoulder. “That’ll teach me to accept an invite when I’m clearly not wanted, hmm?”

  No, it will teach me not to behave in an un-Christlike manner. “I’m sorry. I was just…you know…” I sweep a hand toward my mouth.

  His brooding self retreats. “The kiss?”

  I whip my head around to confirm we’re still alone. We are, and the voices beyond don’t miss a beat. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  He slides a knife into the pie. “No, but I did, and there’s no going back.”

  I start to demand an explanation, but he puts a finger to his lips. “This isn’t a conversation we should be having now.”

  I lean nearer him. “It’s not a conversation we should have at all!”

  He stares into my upturned face, looking at my eyes, then at my nose, then my lips…

  A loud thud resounds from the depths of my mobile home, followed by a high-pitched cry that causes goose bumps to spring to my flesh.

  Grateful for Dumplin’s fury, I back away from Maddox, then wrench open a cabinet door and pull out cups and saucers.

  “You know,” Maddox drawls, “you might want to rethink this play date.”

  And just who asked him?

  I’m up a tree without a ladder. And it’s Maddox’s fault. When the fur went flying after the introduction of Dumplin’ and Pucker (who might now be truly earless), it was Maddox who threw open the screen door to separate them. Unfortunately, it was my mother’s cat that went through the door. And down Red Sea Lane. And up a tree.

  I clutch a panting Dumplin’ to my chest, thumb throbbing from the teeth he sank into it when I pulled his mewling carcass from the branches. I wince as he once more curls his claws into me—a reminder of what I can expect should I persist in my efforts to bring him down. So here I sit, out on a limb, while I wait for Maddox to return with a pillowcase.

  “Doing okay, Harri?”

  I glance down at Stephano, whose eyes are squinted against the setting sun. “Yeah.” I sigh, and in response, some of the tension leaves Dumplin’. He buries his head in the crook of my arm, and grudging sympathy creeps over me. I draw my hand from his chest to scratch his neck. Lo and behold, he relaxes further and…

  He’s purring! In my arms. Running that little motor of his—

  Ow! He clawed me again.

  No, wait. He’s kneading dough—that happy little paw-and-claw thing model cats do when they’re content. Makes no sense, and yet he purrs and rocks his body gently as he sinks and retracts his claws. Dumplin’ is kneading dough! On me!

  I draw my fingers higher, and he raises his chin to grant me better access. As I scratch away, our eyes meet, and nowhere in his unblinking orbs is there anything that resembles hatred. In fact, that little glimmer might be sorrow. Or pain.

  “Poor baby.”

  He bumps his head against my arm in such a way I could almost believe he likes me.

  Passing my hand over his neck, I falter at the stickiness beneath his fur and the red smudges on my fingertips. “Did that mean old Pucker hurt you?” Scratch, scratch. “You were just defending your territory, weren’t you?” Scratch, scratch.

  Purr, purr, purr.

  “Got it!” Maddox is advancing, pillowcase in hand.

  Suddenly, I can’t stand the thought of sticking Dumplin’ in a bag. Whatever trust he has placed in me will be destroyed. “Thanks, but we don’t need it after all.”

  Disbelief radiates from Maddox’s face. “What?”

  I lift Dumplin’ to my shoulder. “We can do it, can’t we, baby?”

  Maddox is at the base of the tree now. “Harri, he’ll go nuts, and you’ll fall.” He reaches for an overhead branch.

  “We can do it.”

  But he’s already on his way up. A moment later, he’s in front of me, bracing against a branch with the orange-tinted sky at his back brightening his curls. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that’s a halo he’s wearing. “Okay, rebel in residence, hand over the cat.”

  I’d be offended if I hadn’t earlier labeled myself as such. Eyeing the pillowcase in the waistband of his jeans, I shake my head. “It’ll scare him more.”

  “Sorry, Harri, but though you and Dumplin’ have decided to bond at this inopportune time, I’m not letting you break your neck.”

  “Listen to him,” Stephano calls.

  Before I can react, Maddox slides a hand between my shoulder—zip-zap-zzzzzt!—and Dumplin’. “I gotcha, big guy.” Keeping Dumplin’s legs facing outward, he tugs the pillowcase from his jeans and hands it to me. “It’ll go easier if you help.”

  Surprised by regret that my newly formed bond with Dumplin’ may be severed, I open the case.

  “He gotcha, hmm?”

  I follow Maddox’s gaze to my swollen thumb. “Among other places.”

  “Make sure you put some antibiotic cream on it as soon as you get home.” He rubs the cat’s head. “Sixty seconds and it’ll be over, Dumplin’.”

  Dumplin’s eyes bulge as he goes down into the pillowcase, then there’s a deep-throated meow and flailing.

  Maddox snatches the mouth of the pillowcase closed. “Fifty seconds, Dumplin’.” He gives me a wink and, ten seconds later, is on the ground.

  “Now what are you going to do?” Stephano eyes the thrashing linen Maddox dangles away from his body.

  Maddox glances at me as I jump down beside him. “I still have thirty seconds.” He starts back toward my mobile home.

  On the opposite side of the street, Mr. and Mrs. Feterall walk side by side, the latter soothing the distraught Pucker cradled
in her arms.

  “Is he all right?” I call.

  Mr. Feterall nods. “Missing a piece of ear, but otherwise fine.”

  Mrs. Feterall doesn’t seem so certain. “Er…Harri, maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”

  Ignoring Stephano’s snort, I smile apologetically. “Can’t say we didn’t try.”

  Mr. Feterall raises a hand. “Thank you for dinner, Harri.”

  When Stephano and I reach my home, Maddox is easing the screen door closed. He descends the stairs. “Dumplin’s under your bed.”

  Does this mean we’re enemies again? “Thank you for your help.”

  “Sure.” He looks at Stephano.

  Silence rolls in, the kind that speaks volumes—as in who’ll be the first to leave?

  I step forward. “Thank you both for coming to dinner. I’ll see you at work.”

  Maddox nods. “Thank you for the rutabagas and brussels sprouts.”

  “Anytime.” Oops. Didn’t mean that.

  Maddox gives me a sly smile and walks past. “Coming, Stephano?”

  “Actually, I’d like to speak with Harri a moment.”

  Maddox inclines his head. “Good night, then.”

  As he starts down Red Sea Lane, Stephano smiles lazily. “Crazy way to end the day, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Though what I really want is to get inside and end the day properly with a handful of Jelly Bellys, I turn to him. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

  “I have tickets to the symphony this Friday. I was hoping you might like to join me.”

  “Um…”

  He makes a face. “Don’t tell me. That show of yours again.”

  I splay my hands. “Sorry, I’m hooked. Were it any other night—”

  “Saturday, then.”

  Did I just open that door? Yes, you did. And you should have known he was on the other side. “Saturday would be great.”

  His smile is triumphant. “Dinner. Seven o’clock.”

  “All right.” Shortly, I close the door. I’m breathing heavily, and it all has to do with the feeling of being hunted. How have I gone from being an aspiring spinster to a “most wanted” something or other? What’s with Maddox and Stephano? And why me? It’s all fine and dandy to fantasize that either one might show an interest in me, but I know where dating leads—to kisses like Maddox’s. And beyond.

  God, I know You know what kind of trouble I’m capable of. Ten Commandments kind of stuff. And I know You don’t want me getting near that stuff again, so won’t You help me? You know, point me in the right direction. Directly, if possible, because You know me and the Holy Spirit—not always in sync.

  A knock makes me jump. What now? I jerk open the door, and there’s Maddox, the sky at his back having lost most of its glow on its journey toward night.

  His smile dims to a frown. “You all right?”

  “Yes! What do you want?” I’m too wound up to cringe at my obnoxious response.

  “I brought antibiotic cream.”

  “Oh. I probably have some somewhere, so thank you and good-bye.”

  “Harri?” He pulls open the screen door and steps in. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not. Did Stephano say something to upset you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “He didn’t get you all riled up again with talk of dual services and a building campaign?”

  “No. He asked me out on a da—”

  Oops.

  Maddox’s brow gathers. “And?”

  “And what?” Of course, I know what “what” is.

  “Your answer?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I said yes.”

  I should be pleased by the disappointment he doesn’t hide, as Stephano could be the means by which I dissuade Maddox from pursuing me, but I’m not.

  His jaw shifts. “Don’t you find it peculiar that, after all the opportunities Stephano must have had to pursue you, he chooses now to do so?”

  I do, but I’m not going to admit it. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do, but let’s get it out in the open.” He takes a step nearer. “Stephano views me as a rival, someone who has usurped his authority at First Grace. It makes him feel powerless. Resentful. So much so that when I show an interest in a woman he has overlooked, suddenly he wants to make up for lost opportunities.” His lids narrow. “Do you understand, Harri?”

  Don’t take offense. Don’t—

  “I understand that no woman wants to be told that the only attraction she holds for a man is a means to best another man. Just as I understand that all the opportunities Stephano missed may simply have been a result of…” I draw a deep breath. “… bad timing.”

  Maddox holds me in the grip of his gaze. Then, suddenly, his tension drains, and though he doesn’t move, it feels as if he’s taken a giant step back from me. “I think you know that my interest in you had nothing to do with Stephano.”

  Had? Meaning he’s no longer interested?

  “Regardless, I apologize if I offended you.” He sets the antibiotic cream on the desk by the door, then turns, pushes the screen door open, and walks away.

  Good. But then, why do I feel this terrible regret?

  Harri’s Log: • Day of dinner with Stephano (WILL have a good time!)

  • 6 days until The Coroner rerun (Hosting Lisa—pizza maybe?)

  • 31 days until Jelly Belly replenishment (Do NOT miss Maddox’s Jelly Belly tips! Wonder if I’m the reason he didn’t breakfast at the café today.)

  • 184 days until the completion of Bible #8

  So what do you want to do with your life, Harri?” I look up from where I’ve been contemplating the depths of my coffee for—

  How long have I spent at the bottom of this cup? Couldn’t say. Only that the last of the three calls Stephano has taken since we arrived at the restaurant was when I zoned. “What do you mean?”

  He throws a hand out. “You have a degree in business administration, and what are you doing with it? You’re a waitress.”

  Should I be offended? Let me think about that…

  “Yes, you’re also director of women’s ministry, but we both know how that came about.”

  Must I think about it? Not that he’s off the mark. The women’s ministry job was a favor to help me transition from waitressing to finding a job where I could use my degree, but I couldn’t bring myself to give up the café. It was there I felt the first twinges of healing when Gloria agreed with Harriet that the word of a scrawny, pierced, tattooed prodigal could be trusted—within reason. There that I was spoon-fed the love of the residents of the senior mobile home park who showed their forgiveness and support by showing up day after day. There that I allowed God back in. And then, Gloria offered to sell me the café…

  “Eventually, Harri, you’ll have to strike out on your own, especially now that your father’s out of the picture.”

  Yep, I’m offended. Mentally, I rifle through Scripture as I promised myself I’d do in situations like this. Maddox, of course, is behind the promise made following last Sunday’s encounter. I hadn’t behaved well toward him, and it has been nagging me—and getting worse with each passing day that builds the wall thicker between us. Which is good, or so I tell myself. I should be relieved that he hasn’t continued to pursue me, and I’ve only caught glimpses of him over the past six days, yet I miss him. But I don’t want to think about him. Scripture is what I should be thinking about. Something that deals with offenses…

  Ah! Proverbs 17. Or is it 19? Both? Regardless, overlooking an offense is a virtue. And I can use all the virtues I can get.

  “What I’m trying to say,” Stephano continues, “is that surely you want more for yourself.”

  Do not take offense! Okay, but enlightenment is definitely in order. “I do use my degree. Not only has it benefited the women’s ministry, but it has proven its worth in helping Gloria turn around her café.”

  “How
so?”

  Uh-oh. Went too far. My role in revitalizing Gloria’s business is not public knowledge and isn’t supposed to be until I sign my name on the dotted line. After all, though I’m on my way to realizing the dream, the possibility lurks that I’ll mess up, and the last thing I need is to do it in front of everyone.

  I shrug. “So maybe I’m exaggerating, but from time to time I advise Gloria, and what she’s followed through on seems to have helped.”

  He’s not satisfied. I can tell from the pinching of his brow. The shifting of his eyes. The opening of his mouth.

  “You may be surprised,” I rush on, “but I’m content with where I’m at.” Sort of.

  Now it’s Stephano’s turn to consider the depths of his coffee. “Then you’re okay with the direction First Grace is headed?”

  I knew he would return to the topic of dual services and a building campaign, and I should be grateful that he dropped the matter of my involvement with Gloria. “I’m uneasy, especially with how quickly everything’s happening, but I’m doing my best to support the changes. The same as I did when you were behind those changes while my father was still pastor.”

  “That’s just it, Harri. Since Maddox showed up, I’ve been hung out to dry. After your father retired and it was Brother Paul and me, everything started coming together. He respected my opinions and pushed through most of what I advised.”

  That’s how it was? But I thought Brother—er, Pastor Paul—was the one calling the shots, and Stephano was merely supporting him.

  The man before me sits heavily back in his chair. “But then he started questioning the direction First Grace was heading and suggested we bring in someone to help us keep our perspective.” He sweeps a hand before him. “Enter McCray.”

  I don’t know what to say. But I know how to feel: ashamed. My angst toward Pastor Paul has been misplaced. It’s true that he went along with Stephano’s plans, but he recognized that a change needed to be made.

  “Sure, I was invited to be a part of the vision team,” Stephano continues, “but it’s impossible to push through my ideas without them being debated and revised so much that they’re barely recognizable.” His shoulders sink. “It’s all about making everyone happy. And you can’t make everyone happy.”