Splitting Harriet

by Tamara Leigh

  “Prevention.”

  “So what’s the difference of opinion?” Pam asks as she and Harriet halt before us.

  Maddox gives my hand a squeeze. “After much ado, I convinced Harri that it’s permissible for a man and woman who are courting—”

  In concert with my gasp, Pam darts a knowing look at Harriet.

  “—to hold hands. You see, she’s afraid it could be viewed as inappropriate, and some might exaggerate the extent of our relationship. Thus, when she heard the two of you coming, she thought it best that we not be seen holding hands. Whereas I was certain that neither you nor Mrs. Evans would jump to unfounded conclusions.”

  As puzzlement flashes across Pam’s face, I struggle to keep my jaw from crashing to the ground.

  Harriet steps forward and pats Maddox’s shoulder. “I believe I speak for Pam, as well as myself, when I say it’s acceptable for two young people who are courting to hold hands.”

  “Uh…yes.” Pam nods. “Nothing wrong with handholding. We are, however, protective of our little Harri, so we frown on anything more than that, especially at this stage in your relationship.” She taps a finger to her lips. “Now should a ring be forthcoming—”

  “Pam!” Harriet snaps. As heat floods my cheeks, she takes the other woman’s arm. “Why don’t we leave these two young people to their walk.”

  “I was just trying to lay the ground rules,” Pam shrills as Harriet leads her friend away. “Don’t want Harri going berserk again, do you?”

  Harriet doesn’t respond, at least not in any way audible. The two turn down their street, and I meet Maddox’s gaze, but before I can apologize for Pam’s “ring” comment, he says, “That went over well.”

  It did?

  Neither of us speaks again until we reach my mobile home, and then out of my mouth pops, “Are you really courting me?”

  He’s smiling again, and in such a way that I’m tempted to press a smile of my own to his. “I thought that was obvious, Harri.”

  My heart flutters. “I’ve never been courted.”

  His thumb caresses mine. “I’m glad I’m your first.”

  Only where courting is concerned. Struck by regret, my face falls.

  Maddox tips up my chin. “Accept forgiveness, and leave the past in the past.”

  I stare into his eyes and realize how much I want to do that—and with him. Before I can talk myself out of the impulse, I lean forward and kiss him. “All right.” I draw back and am tickled by his surprised expression. I just kissed him, and in broad daylight. “Talk to you later.” I loose my fingers, cross the lawn, and at the steps look around at where he stands alongside the road. “About Stephano…”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “I won’t be seeing him anymore.”

  “Why?”

  Say it, Harri. Take a chance. Put it out there. See what flies back. “Because he isn’t what I want.” Ooh, that was bold.

  Maddox’s head tilts. “Are you offering an exclusive?”

  I pull my bottom lip from between my teeth. “I am.”

  “Gladly accepted—and reciprocated. I’ll pick you up Friday at six for dinner and a movie.” He starts to turn away but pauses. “Should I rent a car, or is the pink helmet a possibility?”

  Deep breath. “The pink helmet. Definitely.”

  “Harriet Josephine Bisset!”

  The middle name—not good. I wince. Not only because it portends trouble when Harriet Evans lets it rip, but because it reminds me I’ve yet to receive a satisfactory answer as to why my parents didn’t provide me with a parachute in choosing my middle name. Harriet—given to honor the woman who helped birth me, but Josephine? Merely a name my mother liked and which was to have been my first name. Both extremely old-fashioned, both unable to be shortened to anything rising above a male name. Thus, outside of “Harri,” I had nowhere to go but “Jo.”

  Harriet blinks at me through the screen door. “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “Of course!” I open the door.

  She crosses to the sofa, plops her skinny bones down, and pats the cushion. “Come.”

  I glance at my recliner, from which Dumplin’ lifts his head to meet my gaze. Oh well, he wouldn’t have taken kindly to being evicted anyway, nor would Doo-Dah, from where he stretches on the kicked-out footrest. From the looks of it, you’d never know that the two were at a standoff when I entered the mobile home an hour ago. It was a disturbing sight, with Doo-Dah crouched on top of the refrigerator and Dumplin’ pacing the linoleum below. Thankfully, I hadn’t lost any Jelly Bellys to their tiff, as the lid held when the container hit the floor.

  “I’m waiting.” Harriet pats the cushion again.

  I skirt the cat-infested recliner and lower beside the older woman.

  “So”—she angles her body toward me—“you and Maddox McCray, hmm?”

  “I guess.”

  “There’s no guessing about it, Harriet Josephine Bisset.”

  The middle name again. I sink back into the cushions. “All right. Me and Maddox. But kissing is as far as it has gotten, and as far as it’s going to—”

  “Kissing?” Harriet draws back. “I thought you were at the handholding stage.”

  Oops. “That too.” And here comes the lecture.

  “Good for you.” She beams. “Do you know how long your parents have been waiting for this?”

  “What?”

  “For you to date—or ‘court,’ as Maddox so nicely put it. They’ll be thrilled. And I must say I’m pleased.”

  “You are?”

  “Oh yes. For a while I couldn’t decide who I’d rather see you with—Stephano or Maddox—but Maddox seems a good choice.”

  “Why?”

  “Aside from being fairly good-looking…” She frowns. “Well, that nose of his is a bit long. And it’s not exactly centered.” She waves a warm brown hand. “But I suppose it adds to his character.”

  Struck with a longing to run a finger down that nose, I curl my fingers into my palm.

  “Not to mention that curly hair,” Harriet continues. “Now don’t get me wrong. I like it, but it threw me at first. Makes him look a bit too mischievous, which is hardly what one expects from a church consultant.”

  Exactly how I felt—at least until I started wondering how well the curls would spring back into shape.

  “Oh, and that motorcycle of his!” Harriet rolls her eyes. “Made me question Brother Paul’s choice. I mean, how many men in Maddox’s position would feel comfortable riding a motorcycle? Even if biking was their passion, they’d be discreet for fear of how it might reflect on them. Like it or not, they’d drive something respectable.”

  But not Maddox. He likes his motorcycle, and so do I. So much that I want to climb on again, batten down the pink helmet, and feel the wind on my face and my arms around him.

  Harriet pats my hand. “Anyway, besides all that, I like the way he carries himself. Self-assured, but not to the point of arrogance. And the way he listens, and that when he says he’ll do something, he does it. Nothing wishy-washy about him.” She smiles. “The man knows what he’s about and isn’t afraid of what others think.”

  Simply Maddox. Well, maybe not “simply,” but there’s no trying to be something he isn’t. Unlike Harriet Bisset, who does like biking and dancing and who, despite her fondness for older folks, enjoys spending time with others her age.

  “So, what do you like about him, Harri—outside of kissin’ and handholding?”

  I’m so grateful for the distraction of Dumplin’, who pounces into my lap that I gather the purring ball of fur close. But for all my attempts to reciprocate affection, I receive a nip on the knuckle.

  “Ow!” I glare at Dumplin’, who glares back, then walks over me to curl up in Harriet’s lap.

  Harriet shakes her head. “You can’t move too fast with cats. It’s up to them to set the scene, and up to you to fit yourself into it.” She gives Dumplin’ a rub between the ears, to which he thrusts
his head up for more. “That’s how it is with cats.”

  Dumplin’ offers up his belly and begins to purr as Harriet scratches him.

  I am not jealous. I do not care if that nasty nipper prefers Harriet over me. Even if I’m the one who feeds him, cleans his litter box, vacuums away the fur, wipes up the hairballs, and soothes his distraught nerves. Not jealous. In fact, he’s not the only kitty in town.

  I scoop Doo-Dah off the footrest and plop him down in my lap. Mistake number one. How do you like them apples, Dumplin’?

  He doesn’t, as evidenced by the cessation of his purring followed by a growl. But Doo-Dah likes it, purring loud enough for the two of them as I rub between his ears.

  Gingerly, Harriet sets Dumplin’ on the floor. “That’s one of them scenes I was talking about.” She shakes the fur off her hands. “So, Harri?”

  Doo-Dah rolls, and I raise my eyebrows at Dumplin’ as I rub the belly offered to me. Mistake number two. “So what?”

  “What do you like about Maddox?”

  “Oh.” I take my eyes off Dumplin’. Mistake number three. “Actually, I think you covered it all. He’s attractive and unpretentious.”

  “Yes, but what about this?” She thumps my breastbone. “Is there something going on in there that I should know about?”

  My heart jumps at what I feel for Maddox. “Yes, and it frightens me. What if—?”

  “No what-ifs. You know the difference between right and wrong. All you need to do is have faith in what you know to be true. Fortunately, I believe Maddox is honorable, so that’s half the battle—or more.”

  True. Even if I do still have some of the hussy about me, Maddox wouldn’t allow our relationship to progress beyond kissing. Would he?

  “Aiyai!” The sharp teeth that nip my ankle make me come up off the sofa. Unfortunately, Doo-Dah reacts to the outburst by sinking his claws into my thighs to keep from tumbling to the floor where Dumplin’ waits. Fortunately, Harriet pulls Doo-Dah off me and heads down the hall.

  “Oh no, you don’t!” she scolds as she slams the bathroom door. “You just leave him be, Mr. Dumplin’.” A moment later, she reappears. Behind her slinks Dumplin’, lowered ears and tail making him look like a kid returning to the classroom after a visit to the principal’s office.

  Harriet halts in the middle of the living room and puts her hands on her hips. “If you’re gonna keep cats, you have to learn their boundaries.”

  As if keeping cats was my idea.

  Harriet glances at her watch. “Speaking of which, you remember God’s boundaries with regard to Maddox and you’ll be fine.” She steps forward, winds an arm around my waist, and bestows a bear hug that’s at odds with her size. “Make me proud, girl.”

  Harri’s Log: • Day of church picnic

  • 6 days until the next date with Maddox (Hopefully better than the last one—he was so distracted!)

  • 6 days until another rerun of The Coroner (record again)

  • 20 days until Jelly Belly replenishment (maybe more, as craving has decreased for some reason—Maddox?)

  • 142 days until the completion of Bible #8

  • 156 days until the café has a new owner!

  I sniff the air. Juicy, seared hot dogs. Sniff, sniff. And charred all-beef patties that promise thick black streaks. Crunch, crunch. And is that…? Oooh! No one said anything about grilled corn on the cob. Fortunately, I’m only running half an hour late, so there should be plenty of pickin’s left.

  My contribution to the church picnic tucked beneath an arm, I pedal alongside the field between the café and the church parking lot that brims with vehicles. As I do so, I feel pride of ownership. Well, pending pride of ownership. Fueled by the meeting with Gloria about the upcoming jamboree that took an unexpected turn toward setting a date to pass the café into my hands, I shiver in anticipation. January. In less than five months I’ll have the full down payment, and the loan for the remaining balance will be in place.

  I look over my shoulder at the café that sits front and center on just over eight acres. My dream is about to come true. The only question that remains is, when should I give my notice to First Grace? If I’m right about Oona being receptive to returning to women’s ministry, then the church won’t be without a director for long. The problem would then be the volunteer children’s ministry director position that Oona would vacate.

  I draw a deep breath and am grateful to be distracted by the scent of barbecue. I’ll worry about giving notice later. After all, the realization of my dream is five months out, so there’s plenty of time to work through the logistics.

  Several cars pull into the parking lot ahead of me, the last coming so close that I feel the heat rising off the black metal and correct my course to ensure I don’t get thrown off my bicycle. As the car pulls past, a head appears in the back window, and from out of a pale face framed by dark hair, a teenage girl sticks out her tongue to reveal its pierced glory.

  Great. Just the kind of people we want to attract. Rebellious youth who are here for anything but fellowship. Who’ll have the older folks making tracks and the rest of us peering over our shoulders and moving about in packs, the better to watch our backs.

  Calm down. They’re just kids trying to find themselves as once you were trying to find yourself. They could be gathering at the mall, but they’re at church, even if only for the free food. And somehow God will touch them, even if He hides His touch so deep inside they’re unaware of it for a time.

  I approach the bike rack next to the playground and smile at church members crossing the parking lot. From the sound of it—the conversation, bursts of laughter, and squeals of children—the picnic is in full swing. From the looks of it as I round the parking lot, it’s a hit. Beyond the pavement, hundreds of people crowd the newly mown field that’s checkered with picnic blankets and lightly hazed by the smoke from two enormous grills. I sigh. What could go wrong?

  Five minutes later, I set down my chicken salad and peel off a corner of the plastic wrap to insert the spoon I tucked into my back pocket.

  I turn, and heading toward me, plate loaded, is the darkly dressed girl who stuck her tongue out at me. Flanked by similarly dressed youths—a girl of stouter build and a lanky boy—she halts. “Look, it’s the bike lady.”

  Look, it’s the rebel.

  “Nice bike.” Rebel Girl throws a hip out. “Love the granny handlebars.”

  Do not take offense. This is all about her friends. Not you. I swallow. “Thank you. I’m rather fond of my mountain bike. So, are you enjoying the picnic?”

  The boy picks up a hot dog, takes a bite, and around the mouthful says, “We’re just here for the food.”

  Love them, Harri. Don’t bite off their heads. “Well, we’re glad to have you.” I offer a hand to Rebel Girl. “My name’s Harriet. I’m head of women’s ministry.”

  She shrugs. “See ya around.” She and the boy head off, but the stout girl hesitates. “Thanks for the eats,” she says, then hurries to catch up with her friends.

  I’m tracking their progress among our church members—some of whom give them a wide berth—when a shadow falls over me.

  “Déjà vu?” Maddox asks.

  Close enough for me to feel a thrill, but not so close as to appear inappropriate. I peer across my shoulder and am relieved to find his brow unlined, unlike this past week that’s been rife with long hours as he and the vision team finalize First Grace’s vision statement and plans for the future. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

  He grins, then turns his attention to the youths. “So?”

  “They remind me a lot of who I was ten years ago.”

  “And you’re worried.” As if trying to pull something from memory, he frowns. “A self-professed rebel in residence once said that just because people dress and behave in a rebellious manner doesn’t mean they aren’t open to God.”

  “I believe that rebel was speaking in hindsight, which isn’t of much use at the moment.” I pick out the yo
uths, who now stand on the sidelines of a volleyball game. “Beyond the offer of a free meal, I mainly came to gatherings like this to get a rise out of people.”

  “And?”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘mainly.’ Why else did you attend?”

  “I suppose on the chance that I might catch a glimpse of God. If He existed, even though I told myself He didn’t, I was certain I’d be able to see Him in people like these.”

  “Did you see Him?”

  No is on the tip of my tongue, but it would be a lie, as the memory surfaces of a fifteen-year-old girl who tried to sell me a T-shirt to raise funds for her church’s youth program. Though I refused, she invited me to attend services with her and her family. I didn’t. Then there was the old lady with the towering cotton-candy hair who, I’d realized, was half-blind, since she wasn’t the least put off by my outfit or attitude. While my fellow party crashers were making mischief, she held me captive with stories of her youth. And then she started talking about Jesus and how much He loved me, and I was overwhelmed by the longing to burrow against her side.

  I sigh. “Yes, sometimes I caught a glimpse of Him, other times an eyeful, but I told myself I was being manipulated and that those people didn’t care about me.”

  “You were wrong.”

  “Yes, and most painfully with regard to my parents and church family. They—”

  “Mr. Feterall, look! Harri brought Gloria’s Hot Smoky Chicken Salad.”

  I pivot to face the older couple and am thrown by the sight of Mrs. Feterall without her head scarf. Wispy gray hairs curl all over her head, testament to the successful completion of her chemotherapy.

  She ruffles the hair at her temple. “I thought it was time to show off these curls. What do you think, Harri? Maddox?”

  I smile. “Absolutely.”

  “You look lovely.”

  Mr. Feterall slides an arm around her shoulders. “God’s been good to us.”

  Thank You, Lord.

  I prop a hand on my hip. “So I guess this means you’d like me to start adding a bit of spice to my chicken and dumplings?”