SIMPLE TWISTS OF FAITH
By
Judy Dearborn Nill
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 by Judy Dearborn Nill.
All rights reserved. With the exception of quotations for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author.
This is a fictional work. All characters, organizations, and events in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Jacket Art by Adam Scott Youngers
For Mical and Steen, who wouldn’t let me give up
With many thanks to all who have read and commented on this story.
Each of you has helped to make it the best it can be.
Chapter 1
I’m dizzy. I can’t think.
Pastor Jeffrey Grantham signals the choir director. She turns, extends her arms, and scoops the air. Choir and congregation rise for the final hymn while the pipe organ blasts out the opening measures of “Who May Abide?”
I grip the pew ahead. My knees don’t want to support me. This happens a lot in church. Not because it’s church, but because of Jeffrey. I don’t call him “Pastor” when it’s just the two of us alone.
He’s in his thirties but looks much younger, with sandy hair and penetrating gray eyes that never miss a thing. Perfectly creased charcoal slacks and polished loafers show below his black robe. He’s short, shorter than his wife Skylar, and not too muscular. But he’s a powerful man, a man who commands attention with his deep, resounding voice.
I make a supreme effort to tear my eyes away from Jeffrey. I don’t recognize the tune of this hymn. From the sound of it, neither does anyone else. We bleat it out like lost sheep with mush in our mouths. “O God, who may abide in your tent and on your holy hill?” I sing, trying for Jeffrey’s sake to put some energy into it. He’s told me he hates half-hearted worship.
Next line. “Those you grace to act for good, who speak the truth with will.” I swallow that part. Speak the truth. Should I?
I almost miss what comes after this. I do misread it and squawk out, “Those whose tongues you bless hurt not their neighbor’s wife.” Oops. I shut my mouth and look around. Did anyone hear me? That should have been “neighbor’s life.”
My gaze roves over the two-thirds filled sanctuary and lingers at the right-hand corner below the pulpit, where Jeffrey’s wife Skylar sits—when she bothers to attend. I’m glad she’s not there now. With her model-thin figure, expensive designer clothes, and carefully frosted hair, she’s too perfect for this place. Not too perfect for Jeffrey, of course. He deserves the best, and they make a cute couple, despite the platform heels she insists on wearing to church. They look like the people you see in cruise commercials, all tanned and grinning from their fabulous vacations in Hawaii or Bermuda.
But I happen to know something about them that most people don’t. I know their marriage is in trouble.
How does a high-school sophomore who thinks of herself as this congregation’s answer to Ugly Betty know so much about our hot new pastor? It’s a long story, but I’m happy to tell it. I love to tell the story, in fact. There’s a cheesy old hymn by that name, “I Love to Tell the Story.” Grammy Grace used to make me laugh by bursting into song with it whenever she got to talking too much about the past. It has nothing to do with my story, though. Mine and Jeffrey’s.
I bring my focus back to the hymnal. We’ve just about screeched and mumbled our way through “Who May Abide?” It’s funny. Jeffrey’s good at coordinating services. He likes to match all the readings and songs to his sermon, but sometimes he picks the most godawful hymns. I can tell the whole congregation’s so done with this one. I wheeze out the last line, which dies in the air along with everyone else’s exhale, and I suck in a deep breath.
The old guy on my right is new to me—one of the many visitors who’ve discovered Walburn’s historic First Church, halfway between Seattle and Tacoma, since Jeffrey took over. The man’s dressed in wrinkled khakis and reeks of tobacco. I try not to criticize him in my mind. I also try not to breathe in the stink. Camels, I bet. Same brand my mom smokes. My mom. Another story, but I’m getting there.
Anyway, I’m about to sit down for my favorite thing. Jeffrey’s sermon. Not that I always hear what he says. Sometimes he talks over my head. Maybe over everyone’s head, for all I know, but he does it in a way that hypnotizes you. He didn’t start out as a preacher. He worked in sales and promotion for dot-com companies until the latest bust. Before that, he studied literature in college, which means he quotes Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson and a lot of other writers besides the biblical ones.
As Jeffrey climbs into the pulpit, a ray of sunlight strikes the stained-glass window over the altar, haloing his head. Is that a coincidence or what? The window itself shows sun breaking through clouds and a dove descending from heaven. Today started out gray and hazy, even though it’s August. It sprinkled overnight, but now a miracle—the sun blazing triumphant, like God’s rainbow promise to Noah after the flood.
Jeffrey looks out over the congregation, and my heart pounds. I tug at the bodice of my dress, suddenly afraid it’s too tight. I bought it for him, like I curled and tinted my hair for him. I want him to notice, but I’m afraid I’ve gone too far. I hold my breath till he makes eye contact with me. I’m not sitting where I usually do. I’m way far back on the left, too self-conscious to sit up front with my chest sticking out.
Do I imagine it, or does Jeffrey’s face light up and his smile widen for me? It’s so like him to pay special attention, no matter what I wear or how I fix my hair. He knows how much it means to me. “Hello, Emma, I see you there,” his eyes declare. They crinkle around the edges. My stomach churns from overexcitement. I can’t wait to tell him how great his sermon was. I haven’t heard it yet, but I know that’s what I’ll say.
Jeffrey bows his head. The sun halo has disappeared, but he looks so unguarded, so sweet in his silent prayer, my heart swells with love.
How can it be wrong to love someone this much? Love is from God. Jeffrey says that over and over. I heard it from another minister, too—the Reverend Walter Dodd, who pastored this church when Grammy Grace started taking me. I was in kindergarten then but I remember his favorite verse in the Bible. “God is love.” One of those things that don’t make sense if you think too much about war and disease, or even about seventh-grade dodge ball, but which sounds beautiful anyway.
Jeffrey speaks. “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O God, our strength and our redeemer.” He always begins his sermon this way. I look forward to hearing the sentence fall from his lips like a quality guarantee on everything he’s about to say.
“Amen,” we respond and sit down with a rustle of skirts and slacks, bulletins and hymnals. Behind me a baby fusses. Someone coughs.
I pull the hem of my dress over my knees. It’s pretty short. I like it, though. I mean, I’m sure I’d like it on somebody else. The blue print drapes in soft, silky folds. Kathy—that’s my best friend Cal’s mother—took me shopping for it yesterday. Kathy’s always after me to buy new clothes, lose my ponytail, and put on makeup. She jumped at the chance when I asked her to go to the mall with me.
I think about how Kathy felt sorry for me at Grammy Grace’s funeral, because I didn’t have anything nice to wear. I didn’t care, though. Grammy was dead, suddenly and forever. What did I even have to live for? The long days and nights afterward were pure hell, until she came back to me in my journal (more about that later). I never would have made it—I would have died of a broken heart or killed myself—if it hadn’t been for Cal and Kathy. And Jeffrey. Especially Jeffrey. In fact, Jeffrey hugged me the first time at Grammy’s memorial reception. I can feel again his warm, strong arms around me, his smooth linen shirt smelling of citrusy aftershave. He never wore the shirt after that. I must have ruined it with all my tears.
I bolt upright in my pew. Omigod, I’ve daydreamed through the first half of Jeffrey’s talk! He’s at the part where he lowers his voice for emphasis. I’ve timed him before. The emphasis point comes at the nine-minute mark. What’s he saying now?
“The third thing I want to say is alluded to in the hymn we just sang, but it’s more clearly stated in this morning’s scripture passage.” Jeffrey pauses to let that sink in. “The psalmist answers his own question about who is fit to dwell on God’s holy hill with something many of us don’t want to hear. Those, he says, ‘who do not slander with their tongue, and do no evil to their friends, nor take up a reproach against their neighbors.’”
Oh. No problem there. I never do that reproach stuff. I get along okay with the neighbors, too, although my folks don’t. And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t do evil to my friends. I glance around. Not to find friends, exactly. I don’t have any at church, at least not my own age. Lots of people loved Grammy Grace, though. Some of them are kind to me because of her.
I see the old guy on my right leaning against the end of the pew and breathing through his mouth. I hope he doesn’t need an oxygen tank or something. The Asian woman on my other side—someone else I don’t know—is busy with two children about four years old. Twins, probably. One of them, a girl with a pixy face, laughs and ducks behind her brother, who gazes at me thoughtfully. Pixy Face peeks out, ducks again. I smile and lift my hand to wave. The mother throws me a grateful look. I relax a little and promptly forget to listen to the rest of Jeffrey’s sermon. Before I know it, we’re standing again for the closing hymn. Yikes! What am I going to say to Jeffrey? I liked your point about not doing evil to my friends and neighbors? How lame is that?
Jeffrey heads down the aisle. I stand up as straight as I can and ignore my fear that my boobs will poke right through my bra and out from the fitted top of this dress. I feel like Jezebel. I feel like a slut.
Jeffrey passes without a sideways glance. I don’t know if I’m relieved or devastated. A spicy whiff of him reaches me, and my knees buckle. The grade-school acolytes, one boy and one girl, follow in the wake of Jeffrey’s aftershave, giggling and elbowing each other. So far they haven’t tried to cross swords with their candle snuffers.
Across the aisle I see Fay Brodie, the church secretary, give them the Evil Eye. They quit acting up. They’d better. You never know when Fay Brodie might grab you and pinch your arm or your back. It never happened to me, but I’ve seen her do it to other kids when their parents aren’t looking. Then she’s all “How are you, Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So? Doesn’t your boy look fine today? What a terrific job you’ve done with him. So well behaved.”
People pour out of the pews. The old Camel man, stooped and balding, merges into the stream. I step out after him. Where is Jeffrey? I can’t wait to be near him again, if only for the few fleeting seconds of our greeting at the door.
“Emma, Emma!”
My name comes at me like a fly buzzing around my head. I crane my neck to see Fay beckon from beside her pew. My heart sinks. I don’t want to talk to Fay. I want to shake hands with Jeffrey. I want to feel the warmth of his flesh pressing my flesh. I want to look into his eyes and watch him look into mine.
“Hello, Mrs. Brodie,” I say as she threads her way to my side. I offer my hand to shake according to the custom at First Church.
“My, my, don’t you look pretty today?” Fay takes my sweaty palm in both of hers. Her skin is paper-dry and scratchy.
My shoulders slump. She’s saying nice things, but somehow I know they’re not nice. Not really.
“Thank you.” I look down to avoid her eyes. The backs of Fay’s age-spotted hands are gnarled with swollen knuckles and snakelike veins. I wonder if they hurt. I’ve never known Fay to complain about pain if they do. She complains about everything else, but not about that.
“Who styled your hair?” Fay asks, slipping on the glasses she wears on a cord around her neck. “And isn’t that a new dress?” She twirls a knobby finger in circles. “Turn around. Let me see the back.”
Obediently, I turn, and as I come back around I allow myself a quick peek at the double doors that lead out of the sanctuary. Jeffrey looks up and our gazes lock. I smile with barely contained joy. He knows I’m stuck. He’ll wait.
“It’s different,” says Fay, “but attractive to some people, I’m sure.” Her eyes travel from the hem of my skirt to my chest, where they linger for a horrible second, then on to my head. “Did you dye your hair, dear? It looks metallic, but goodness knows, you young people are into the latest fads, aren’t you?”
Fads? I only used a highlighting rinse.
“It’s not permanent,” I tell her. “It’ll wash out.” I bite my tongue. What business is it of hers, anyway? Why doesn’t she corner Jasmine Mitchell and sneer at her hair? It’s purple. Besides, Fay’s own hair has been permed and dyed so orangey-red, it reminds me of a scouring pad.
“So…you’re experimenting?” Fay raises one penciled eyebrow and twists her mouth into a lopsided smile. Her dark lipstick bleeds into the wrinkles around her lips.
“I’m—uh, I guess….”
I don’t know what I might have said. I only know that Jeffrey has walked up behind me and laid a hand on my shoulder.
“Good morning, Emma,” he says. “Morning, Fay. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Fay sniffs. “It was raining when I got up.”
“Good for the grass.” Jeffrey shakes her hand, then mine. “Will you excuse us, Fay? I’ve called a meeting of the Sunday school teachers, and I need Emma there.”
Fay darts her gaze at me. “Emma’s going to teach Sunday school?”
“Yep, if I have anything to say about it, and of course I do.” Jeffrey chuckles at his own joke.
“Humph,” mutters Fay. “Silk purses out of sows’ ears.”
Jeffrey pretends not to understand. He touches my shoulder again and says, “Yes, indeed, Emma’s wise beyond her years.”
I’m not sure what Fay means by silk purses and sows’ ears, but I can’t mistake her tone. She doesn’t believe in me like Jeffrey does. Nobody believes in me like Jeffrey does. Except maybe Grammy, and she’s just a ghost in my journal.
Fay shakes her head. “Time was when Sunday school classes were taught by seasoned folk, men and women who’ve learned a thing or two in their lives. Can’t see any point to children teaching children. It’s like the blind men in the story—they’ll both fall in a ditch.”
“Ah, but that’s exactly the point.” Jeffrey beams at her. “Each one teach one. A place for everyone and everyone with a place. That’s what grows the church.”
Fay gives me a sour look. “If you ask me, Emma’s place is at home. She spends far too much time here as it is.”
My face burns. What is she saying? What does she know?
Jeffrey raises a finger and wags it playfully, but his smile is strained. “Fay,” he says, “you’re not to worry about Emma. She’s a big girl now.”
Fay snorts, fixing her eyes on my chest. “Too big, if you ask me.”
Automatically, I jerk my arms across my top. My purse, with the strap in the crook of my elbow, swings out and bumps one of Fay’s hands.
“Sorry,” I say.
Fay rubs at her hand like she’s getting the age spots out, opens her mouth to say something more, then pivots with a scowl and walks back up the aisle, crossing to the side door at the front of the church.
Jeffrey and I are the last people in the sanctuary. He takes my arm. “Never mind her,” he says. “She’s just jealous.”
I probably have a silly look on my face. Jeffrey thinks somebody’s jealous of me. Why? Why would Fay be jealous? Who cares. It’s a juicy thought. So is the idea that Jeffrey thinks I can teach Sunday school. Today is the first I’ve heard anything about it, but if Jeffrey thinks I can do it, I’ll do it. No matter if I shake through the whole forty-minute period. No matter if my voice cracks and the lesson plans fall right out of my head. No matter what.
“Thank you,” I murmur as I float down the aisle next to him.
“You’re welcome.” He gives me a smile that goes straight to my heart.
From what I can tell, most of the congregation has left for home or gone out to the fellowship hall, a portable behind the church. Jeffrey pauses at his study door, scanning the narrow passage between the office on his right and the restrooms on his left.
I’ve been to his study so many times over the last two months, I feel as though I’m moving into a familiar dream. It won’t be the same with a bunch of Sunday school teachers in the room, but I’m okay with that. I’ll be back next week for my regular counseling appointments. Just Jeffrey and me, all alone, the rest of the world shut out. The thought of it sends tingles down my spine.
When Jeffrey opens the door, though, no one’s there.
My jaw drops, and I turn to look at him.
He winks, then switches on the light and ushers me inside.
Chapter 2
“There’s no one here,” I say before I can catch myself. Brilliant, Emma. Nothing like stating the obvious.
Jeffrey smiles. “Not yet. I just thought you needed a break from the Bride of Godzilla.”
My turn to smile. Jeffrey’s rescuing me. Not only that. He’s trusting me with a snarky remark you wouldn’t expect from a minister. I couldn’t be happier and I want to show it, but I can’t think of a single thing to say, so I stare at him like a fool.
“You look wonderful,” he says, his eyes taking in my hair, my awkward attempts at makeup, my clothes, everything in one long sweep.
I feel a blush coming on. Lowering my gaze, I fidget with the clasp of my purse until I realize what I’m doing and force myself to stop. “Kathy—you know, Cal’s mom—finally talked me into the whole makeover thing at the mall.”
“Good for Kathy. Tell her I owe her one.”
I manage a crooked grin. Actually, it had been Jeffrey’s persistent hinting during counseling sessions that gave me the idea. I knew I’d have to deal with my mother’s comments about any changes I might make. That’s one thing that kept me paralyzed for so long. The other was the disapproval of people like Fay Brodie, who want me to remain the same washed-out Emma they’ve known forever and ever, world without end, amen. But I don’t feel comfortable telling him this. Not yet.
Jeffrey steps closer. Close enough for me to feel his body heat. My heart skips like an overplayed CD. Gently, he touches the top of my head. Prickles spread over my scalp. Then his hand slides down to my neck and cups my chin. I let out a little gasp. He quickly removes his hand.
Make it come back, I pray. Bring it back. Touch me again.
“Haven’t I told you all along how attractive you are?” Jeffrey’s hand falls to his side. “I’m happy—I dare say God is happy—you’re not hiding your light anymore.” He pauses, flashes another smile. “So does this mean you’ve ditched the drabs for good?”
I don’t know what to say. I’m confused, maybe even a little hurt. He thought of me as drab? I mean, I’m no Skylar Grantham. Not even close. But drab?
“I’m sorry, Emma.” Jeffrey claps a hand on my shoulder. “That was clumsy of me.” He narrows his eyes and tilts his head like he does when he wants to be sure I understand.
I glance away from the intensity of his focus.
“What I mean is that your new look indicates a shift in how you feel about yourself. Your self-esteem is growing, and that makes me happy.”
“I’m happy, too, then,” I say. I know it’s what Jeffrey wants to hear. That’s what he’s been working on all this time—my self-esteem. It started out as grief counseling twice a week after Grammy died, but Jeffrey soon spotted my lack of confidence and began to chip away at it. “God doesn’t make junk,” he says a lot. And “Beauty is as beauty does.” Stuff like that. Dumb but nice. He makes me feel almost normal, almost acceptable.
I suppose I’m a tough case. I try to agree when he says it’s wrong to put myself down, but it’s hard. I can hold off from dissing myself for a while. Eventually, though, I get tired and fall back into old habits. I’m so used to getting there first, pointing out my faults before Mom or Dad can pick on me.
Jeffrey gestures to the semi-circle of chairs in front of his desk. He’s had a committee meeting in his study since I was here last Thursday. “Have a seat,” he tells me.
I hang my purse on the back of one of the chairs and sit down, plucking at my hem. The dress is way too short, I realize. Why didn’t I see it earlier? Jeffrey must think I’m weird, going from one extreme to another, baggy old clothes to tight-fitting new ones. I look out the window at the parched grass that borders the parking lot. I hate myself for having nothing to say. No wonder Jeffrey thinks I’m drab.
I watch him take off his clerical robe. He hooks it on the back of the door, then seats himself behind his desk, empty of everything but a phone, a gooseneck lamp, and an appointment calendar. Ceiling-high shelves all around the room are crammed with his books. He’s told me he has twice as many at home.
Jeffrey loosens his tie and adjusts his jacket sleeves before he looks at me again. “So… teaching Sunday school excites you, does it?”
I don’t want to talk about that now, not when we have this unexpected time together. I shrug. “I didn’t even know I’d be teaching Sunday school until ten minutes ago.”
He smiles. “But you’re willing?” Jeffrey rolls his chair out from behind his desk and walks it across the floor to me. When he sits again, his knees brush mine. I tense for a moment, then relax, allowing my bare knees to snuggle against his pant legs. He backs up with a jerk.
I shrink away, afraid I’ve done something wrong. It’s only the phone ringing, though.
Jeffrey frowns, looks at his watch. He goes to his desk and glances at the Caller ID. His hand hovers over the receiver as a boyish grin spreads across his face. “I think I’ll just let it ring. Is that okay with you?”
I smile and nod, pleased at the conspiracy.
While the phone bleats another seven or eight times, Jeffrey returns to his chair and takes his time settling in. We’re not close enough now for our knees to touch, but my heart is beating fast.
“If she needs something, she’ll call back,” Jeffrey says.
She? Does he mean Skylar?
“So how about the primary kids, Emma? You want to teach the little ones? Should be a cinch for you, since you used to help out in the nursery. You’d be starting with the kids you’ve known from the time they were babies.”
My racing heart plummets. Is that all Jeffrey wants from me? Babysitting? It’s as if he sees me as a pitiful kid to practice charity on. Get me busy, keep me involved. Poor Emma, she needs to have her confidence bolstered. I get that from other people. I don’t need it from him.
My feelings must be all over my face, because there’s an edge to Jeffrey’s voice when he speaks. “I wouldn’t force you, of course. I just thought you’d be a natural with the toddlers. I’ve noticed you like small children.”
I look at him. You have?
Jeffrey’s eyes soften. He rests a hand on my knee. “I notice everything you do,” he says.
I swallow. “You do?”
Jeffrey presses his lips into a thin line, takes his hand away. “Is that so hard to believe, Emma? After all the time I’ve spent with you, you must know how much I care.”
“I think….” I don’t know what I think. Is Jeffrey saying he cares because I’m special to him, or is he saying he cares because he’s my pastor and it’s his job to care?
“You think what?” Jeffrey extends his hand.
I’m not sure what to do with it until he wiggles his fingers. Hesitantly, I place my own hand in his. I hope my palm isn’t as sweaty as the rest of me. To my embarrassment, a tear trickles into the crease of my cheek. I put my head down so Jeffrey won’t see.
“Oh, Emma.” He tips my chin up and gazes at me.
I’m lost in his eyes, mysterious and gray like the ocean.
The phone rings again, and Jeffrey utters a curse. I’ve never heard him swear before. I thought ministers didn’t do that. It makes me feel privileged in an odd sort of way. Frowning, he leaps out of his chair to grab the phone.
I hope it’s Skylar. I love the thought of him being pissed off at his beautiful, successful wife for interrupting us. Shamelessly, I listen to Jeffrey’s end of the conversation, expecting to learn more about their relationship from the way he talks to her.
“What’s that?” says Jeffrey. Pause. Deeper frown. Tightens his grip on the receiver. “No, I’m in a meeting. Sunday school teachers.”
Oh, wow. Jeffrey’s lying. Teachers, he said. Not teacher. And I’m not even official yet.
“Can’t it wait? What about Bob? He—” Jeffrey stops while Skylar (or whoever it is) raises her voice and talks fast.
I hear how shrill she sounds, but I can’t catch her words. Damn. Who’s Bob? Memories of an old movie crash my brain, something I’ve watched with Mom a lot during her late-night lonesome spells. Bill Murray plays a nutcase named Bob whom everybody loves except his shrink. Maybe Jeffrey’s Bob is mental, too, and Skylar’s secretly in love with him.
Or not. Calm down, Emma. Jeez, maybe I’m the nutcase.
Jeffrey lowers his voice. “Look, we’ll talk about it later. Call Bob.” Long break during which the voice on the other end comes down a notch in volume. Then firmly: “I told you, I’m busy, and I’m likely to be tied up for a good hour or more.”
A good hour or more? With me? I can’t believe my luck, and I can’t wipe the grin off my face when Jeffrey replaces the receiver.
He cocks his head. “What’s so funny?”
I sit up straighter. “Nothing.”
“Something must have tickled your funny bone,” he says. “What was it?”
I look down into my lap. Fight my smile. I can’t tell him without appearing snoopy and overeager, so I don’t say anything.
“Sorry about the interruption, Emma. Skylar went into work today—” Jeffrey heaves a sigh, sinks into his chair, and rolls it back so he can cross his legs. We’re facing each other, about two feet apart. “Another Sunday without her here. I mean, I suppose I can’t fault her. I used to be a workaholic, too, before God slapped me upside the head.” He smiles. “She’s having a little car trouble. Nothing serious.”
Before I can respond, Jeffrey’s smile turns upside down. It’s chilling to watch, like a thunderhead blotting out the sun. “Maybe she’ll think twice before she takes off again on a Sunday,” he says. “It’s bad enough she doesn’t support me, doesn’t believe in what I do. Does she have to shout it from the rooftops, too? Half my parishioners must think—” He clamps his jaw shut, looks out the window. “Sorry, Emma. No need to burden you with that.”
“It’s not a burden,” I tell him. “Who’s Bob?”
“Bob?” His gaze snaps back to me. “Why do you ask?”
Oh, God, now I’ve done it. Overstepped the bounds. Jeffrey’s mad at me for eavesdropping. My face on fire, I try to recover with the first thing that pops into my head. “What About Bob? ” I say. “It’s a Bill Murray movie that came out a long time ago. My mom has the DVD.”
Jeffrey blinks at me, uncomprehending. I start to babble about the characters in the movie.
“Hold it,” he interrupts before I can make a complete ass of myself. “I’ve seen it. In fact, I’m a big fan of Bill Murray.” He uncrosses his legs and rolls his chair closer to me. “Have you seen Lost in Translation? That’s my favorite.”
“No,” I say, wishing I had so we could talk about it. “I guess my favorite must be Groundhog Day. You know the one where Bill Murray keeps living the same day over and over again? Sometimes I feel like my life is like that.”
Jeffrey watches me for a moment, then scoots forward so that our knees touch. “Doing the same thing day after day can be so monotonous,” he says, taking both my hands in his.
My breath catches in my throat.
Jeffrey pulls me to my feet and tenderly cradles my face. His eyes peer deep into my soul.
Omigosh! I’m out of air. I’m melting. I’m spinning into outer space.
All of a sudden, yet slowly, deliberately, Jeffrey’s mouth is on mine. He’s kissing me, and I’m kissing him back.
Abruptly, he lets go.
My eyes fly open. What? What did I do?
Jeffrey’s clear across the room, breathing hard. How’d he get there so fast? “Time for you to go, Emma,” he says, his hand on the door.
I shake my head. Shake it again. What’s happening?
“It’s getting late,” he says. “I want you to go over to the portable and round up some Sunday school teachers. Can you do that for me?”
I open my mouth. “But—”
“No buts about it. We’re all friends here. Nothing to be scared of. Good practice for leadership, too.”
I’m speechless with despair. This was my first real kiss. Maybe I didn’t do it right, and Jeffrey’s disappointed. I’m looking at him with a million questions on my tongue when someone knocks outside.
Jeffrey recoils from the door. “Who is it?” he calls out, his eyes on me, pushing me away, warning me to stay away.
“Fay. Fay Brodie.”
Jeffrey frowns. “What do you—?” He halts. Checks his sharp tone. “What is it, Fay?”
“I thought you might want the list of volunteers for Sunday school.”
Jeffrey pokes his head out the door. “That’s kind of you. Did you—that is, were you in the office long? I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” Fay’s office adjoins Jeffrey’s study, and we all know the walls around here are about as soundproof as cardboard.
“Not long.”
I see her dyed red head bob around so she can look past Jeffrey when he takes the list. I’m sure she’s caught a glimpse of me, but I don’t care. All I care about is making her leave. I have to find out what I did wrong so Jeffrey will kiss me again.
“That’s fine,” Jeffrey says. “Oh, and if you have a minute, would you mind running over to the portable to see what’s become of the rest of my teaching staff?”
“The rest?” Fay says, starting to bob and weave again.
“Dave and Melissa, the Bertram sisters, the Ellisons. Whoever else you can find from the list.”
“I don’t have the list. I just gave it to you.”
“Ah, but you have it memorized. I know you, Fay.” I bet Jeffrey’s winking at her. He winks a lot, and everyone seems to like it. Especially women.
“Well, I do like to keep track of things,” Fay admits. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. Thanks so much. I appreciate your help.” With that, Jeffrey closes the door on Fay Brodie and turns around, a finger to his lips. He looks as boyish as my friend Cal at age eleven or twelve after he filled the salt shakers with sugar in the break room of the family restaurant business.
I hold my breath until I hear Fay move away from the study door, her footsteps tapping down the hall to the foyer.
Jeffrey tosses back his head and explodes with laughter. “My Lord, what a morning,” he says and laughs some more. Then he cracks the door, peeks out and, much to my dismay, leaves it open. “You should have seen the look on her face, Emma.” He puts the list on his desk, pulls his chair back, and sits down. “Priceless, absolutely priceless.” He nods and smiles to himself, studying the floor. After a while, his smile fades and he glances up. “Aren’t you going to sit?”
“Sit?” I say. I don’t understand why he’s laughing. I don’t see anything funny about Fay Brodie.
“Like this.” Jeffrey demonstrates. “You bend the knees.” After I go back to my chair, he crosses his legs and rests a hand on his ankle. “So you’re on board for the fall. That’s great. Really great.” He uncrosses his legs and leans toward me. “You did say you’d do it, didn’t you, Emma? Teach the primary kids?”
I stare at him. It’s not like he’s making any sense. Didn’t we just kiss?
“They can be a challenge,” Jeffrey says, “but if you get them young, you have them forever, as my old mentor Dr. Omer used to say.”
I drop my gaze to the area rug. Dr. Omer, Jeffrey’s pastor in California, talked him into retiring from the dot-coms to enter seminary. Once Jeffrey told me that Dr. Omer was right on the money with that piece of advice. “It must have been straight from God,” he said with a wink, “because right after I cashed out my investments, the whole industry went belly up.”
Jeffrey ducks his head to see my face. “Emma, are you okay?”
I nod, choking back a lump in my throat.
“Sure? Because if you’re worried about Fay Brodie, there’s no need. She just wants to protect my reputation.”
“What do you mean?”
Jeffrey shrugs. “Well, you know. A girl in my study, no chaperone. Fay’s old-fashioned about things like that. We don’t have to worry about her, though, because nothing happened. Right?”
“But—”
Jeffrey talks over me, his voice strong, insistent. “Nothing happened, Emma. Do you understand?”
I don’t answer. What does he mean, our kiss didn’t happen?
Jeffrey pushes his sleeve back to peer at his watch. “I wonder what’s keeping everyone. You suppose someone brought real food to coffee hour?”
“Real food?”
“Real food, Emma. You’ve heard of it—cheese, fruit, vegetables.” He waves his hands in front of my face. “Hello in there. Have I lost you?”
“Lost—? You haven’t lost me,” I say. “I’ll always be here for you.”
Jeffrey’s eyebrows shoot up, and I know instantly I’ve said something totally stupid again. What’s wrong with me, anyway? Half the time I can’t talk and the other half I wish I didn’t.
“I mean…” I fumble for words. “I mean, I know you’ve always been here for me. And I want to do whatever I can to help you out…with the Sunday school. If you need teachers, I mean.”
“It’s not that, Emma. I have plenty of volunteers. You need to teach, though. It’ll be good for you. Get you out of yourself. Boost your self-confidence. Besides, the kids will love you.”
“I doubt it,” I say, waiting for Jeffrey to contradict me. He doesn’t. A bitter taste fills my mouth. I was right in the first place. I’m just a charity case to him.
“As you know,” he says, “I plan to grow this church through the Sunday school. Parents are always looking for a good, solid Sunday school, and with my curriculum, their kids’ll be begging for more.” He grins at me. “Get the kids hooked, and the parents will follow. More people means more money. Combine that with a lot of vision, and we won’t need to take a backseat to the megachurches anymore. I know this in my spirit. I feel it in my gut. God has called me to….” Jeffrey breaks off. “Emma, are you listening?”
I look away.
“Just as well,” he says. “I was about to wax profound.” He swivels around to the door. “Ah, here we are.” Jeffrey gets up to welcome the first wave of Sunday school teachers, many of them still munching cookies or swigging coffee. “Good to see you again, Dave, Melissa. Hello, Annabelle. How’s it going, Hugh? So glad you could join us, Susan…Sarah…Peter. Emma and I have just been sharing a vision. We want to hear from you, too.”
No, we don’t.
“Visions, Pastor?” Hugh Vedder hands Jeffrey a cup of coffee. “Milk, no sugar,” he announces. Mr. Vedder is the senior deacon and Jeffrey’s closest church friend. He likes to take credit for convincing Jeffrey to rise to the challenge of First Church’s dwindling congregation and ancient, crumbling building.
“Wonderful,” says Jeffrey. “I can use a shot of caffeine.” He grips Mr. Vedder’s shoulder briefly, then lets go, a gesture I’ve noticed parallels the wink with women.
“Figured so,” says Mr. Vedder, wedging his bulk into the opening between Annabelle Li and Mr. and Mrs. Dewitt. “Visions are fine for preachers like you. That’s what we hire you for, after all. But the body needs food and drink.”
“Some bodies more than others,” Jeffrey answers.
Pointedly, it seems to me. Mr. Vedder must weigh three hundred pounds. But he just chortles like a jolly Santa Claus, his sweat-shiny cheeks fat and rosy.
I pull into myself, folding my arms over my body. Mrs. Putnam, who joined the church two Sundays ago, claims the seat next to mine in a swirl of frilly clothes that smell like they were washed in perfume.
What am I doing here?
I look to Jeffrey for help. Jeffrey’s my touchstone, my anchor. He’s busy passing out photocopies of his plans for the fall, complimenting Annabelle, a college freshman, on her new book bag, apologizing to Mr. Dewitt for forgetting something unimportant, shaking hands with everyone who comes through the door.
“Excuse me,” I hear myself squeak.
Jeffrey doesn’t respond. Mrs. Putnam’s head turns. She regards me with distant, alien eyes.
I flush. “Excuse me,” I say, louder. I have to get Jeffrey’s attention. I can’t just sit here and pretend I didn’t try to speak.
The small, overcrowded room falls silent. My stomach drops like it does in an elevator.
Jeffrey’s expression is hard to read. “What is it, Emma?”
“I—I think I’m going to be sick.” I slap a hand to my mouth and bolt for the door.
Face blank, Jeffrey gets there ahead of me, swings the door open, and watches me out.
I can feel his eyes bore into me all the way down the hall.
Chapter 3
I sag against a stall door in the church restroom. The urge to vomit has passed now that I’m not in Jeffrey’s study with all those people who know me only as Grace Longwood Thorpe’s loser granddaughter.
Maybe they’re right about that. I live in a slummy neighborhood. My parents have enough problems to fill an entire week on Dr. Phil. I feel so isolated at times I’ve wondered if the Centers for Disease Control issued some kind of warning for other kids to stay away. But it hurts to see the pity in church people’s eyes, and to know they only pretend to care for me because it’s their Christian duty. Sometimes I wonder if even Jeffrey only pretends to care. It’s crazy to feel this way, but I can’t help it. I’m uncertain of his love when we’re not alone.
The sick feeling twists my insides again. I’ve just made a spectacle of myself. Why would Jeffrey want anything to do with me? I hunch over the toilet and retch, but nothing comes up. I was too nervous about my new outfit to eat breakfast this morning.
I put the lid down and sit on it, not sure what to do. I left my purse in Jeffrey’s study. At the thought of going back for it, another wave of nausea hits me. I stick my head between my knees until it passes. No way am I going back in there.
Yet as soon as I reject the idea, it comes back in a different form. What if I wait until everyone leaves the meeting? Everyone but Jeffrey. Not only could I retrieve my purse without twenty people prying into whether I’ve hurled or not, but Jeffrey would be relieved to see I’m all right. We’d be able to pick up right where we left off.
I’m at the sink splashing cold water on my face and wrists when the door swings open. It’s Annabelle Li.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I stare at her reflection in the mirror.
Annabelle and her parents are new. Before Jeffrey came, I don’t remember a single person of color in the congregation. Now we have the Li family, the Nguyens, the Sanchezes, and the Patels. Even a few African Americans show up when Jeffrey hires a gospel choir to do the music. He eventually wants to alternate contemporary and traditional worship styles, but right now he’s “going slow” so he doesn’t alarm the old folks. Some of them refuse to attend services with “wild” singing and PowerPoint sermons. “Of course, when the church is busting out of its seams,” he likes to say with that confidence I admire so much, “we’ll have both kinds of services every Sunday.”
Annabelle clears her throat, and I’m startled out of my stupor.
“I brought you this.” She holds up my purse so I can see it in the mirror.
“Oh.” I whirl around. I’m so rattled by her messing up my plan to get Jeffrey alone, I don’t even take the purse until she places it in my hands. What was I thinking when I bought it, anyway? Annabelle doesn’t carry a purse. Most girls I know don’t carry purses. I think of Jasmine Mitchell, one of the few kids my age at church. You won’t find a purse anywhere between her purple hair and leather mini. Ever.
“You look like you’re feeling better,” Annabelle says. She dimples when she smiles. Petite, with short red-and-brown-streaked hair, she’s dressed in capris and a sleeveless top. “You had us scared there for a minute.”
“Us?”
She shrugs. “You were about to toss your cookies, girl. Jeffrey led us in a prayer for you.”
He would, of course. I’ve seen him do it for other people. “I—I guess it got too hot in there.” I pause over what I’ve just said, wondering if it betrays what Jeffrey and I were doing. “I mean,” I correct myself, “with all of us in such a small room.”
“You coming back in?” Annabelle asks.
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
She throws me a quizzical look. “It’s not too late. We’re still arguing over who gets to teach what. I want the youngest kids. How about you?” I don’t answer, so she keeps talking. “I love that age, three to five. I’ve got lots of ideas for them, too, but Jeffrey thinks my talents would be wasted there. He’s trying to talk me into working with first- and second-graders.” She laughs, dimpling again. “I’m a hard sell, though.”
I lean against the sink. Water seeps through the back of my dress. Why doesn’t Jeffrey let Annabelle take the primary kids if that’s what she wants? I could teach the older children. It depresses me that he’s got Annabelle pegged for a more challenging class, even if she is in college. I’ve noticed she called him Jeffrey, too. Not Pastor Jeffrey. Do Annabelle and Jeffrey sit in his study and talk like we do? Does he caress her face and tell her how lovely she is? My stomach lurches at the thought.
“You look kinda green,” says Annabelle. “Maybe you should sit down.” She glances around the restroom. Three stalls, two sinks, and a mop closet.
“That’s okay.” I swipe at my dress. Great. Now I look like I’ve peed my pants. I eye her boldly, willing her to go away. Go back to Jeffrey’s study. Figure out who’s going to teach what and leave.
She’s not giving up, though. “You need a ride home? I’m driving a ‘new’”—she puts the word in finger quotes—“used beater these days. Dad loaned me the money for it so I’d have wheels between here and Rainier.” She means Rainier Community College a few miles south of town.
I grope for an excuse. Why’s she being so nice? She doesn’t even know me.
Annabelle says, “I’ll just run back to the meeting, tell everyone you’re all right, and pick up my book bag.”
“No!”
Already on her way out, Annabelle whips around to face me, her dark eyes wide.
“No,” I repeat in a softer voice. “I can walk. I always walk.” My body, traitor that it is, sways, and Annabelle rushes up to steady me.
“I don’t think so.” Frowning, she opens a stall door, kicks down the toilet lid, and urges me to sit. “Trust me, I’m pre-med.”
I’m impressed, although I wonder how much medicine she’s learned in one quarter of community college. “I’m fine,” I say with a shake of my head. “Thanks for everything.”
I cross the foyer on wobbly legs. Behind me I hear Annabelle slip back into Jeffrey’s study. Will he ask her about me? What is he thinking right now?
I trudge down the cement stairs which Jeffrey had painted bright red to match the arched wooden doors. The building itself, Walburn’s first official church and the oldest still in use, is white clapboard with a bell and steeple. A sign near the sidewalk (HISTORIC BUILDING, 1889) gets lost next to Jeffrey’s modern reader board flashing info about services in electric red and green. It took some fast talking to convince all the deacons of the necessity for this, Jeffrey told me. He’s proud of his ability to persuade and convince. He should be. It’s a phenomenal talent.
I still feel faint, so I sit on the bottom step. I know I can’t stay here, though. Fay’s bound to come charging around the corner any moment, on the prowl for lost souls, hymnal thieves, or God knows what. Fay believes it’s her duty as church secretary to be the first one in the building and the last one out. I could wait in the parking lot until I see people head to their cars, but the lot’s visible from Jeffrey’s study window.
I look at my watch. Twelve-forty-two. I know Jeffrey doesn’t let meetings go much beyond one on Sundays. He says folks have better things to do—he has better things to do—than spend all day in church. I only need to stall for fifteen or twenty minutes. I could walk down the street a ways, then turn back. If anyone wants to know, I’ve returned for the Sunday school papers I left in Jeffrey’s study.
As I meander down the street, though, my hot-comb curls wilt in the heat and humidity. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, under my arms, and over my chest and back. Worse, my high-heeled sandals pinch so bad, I have to take them off. The gritty sidewalk burns through the soles of my feet. I live close enough to run home and change shoes, but Mom wouldn’t let me out of the house again without demanding fresh coffee, a piece of toast, a long sit-down in front of the TV to keep her company. I toss my sandals to the sidewalk, shove my sore feet into them, wince, and kick them off again.
Behind me I hear the toot of a car horn. I swing around, spacey enough to think it’s Jeffrey come to take me away from it all.
My heart plunges when I see Kathy McBride sitting behind the wheel of her maroon Saab, waving like she hasn’t seen me in weeks. What’s she doing here? She didn’t say anything about getting together today while we were shopping yesterday. Not that I don’t love her. Kathy’s the closest thing to a normal mom I know, even though her son Cal thinks she’s anything but normal. Outside of Jeffrey and Grammy Grace, no one has done more for me than Kathy and her family. Still, there’s such a thing as bad timing.
Kathy gestures for me to climb in.
I hesitate. It must be obvious to her that my feet are killing me. I can hardly say I’m enjoying my stroll. My only hope is that whatever she wants, it’ll be over soon.
I wrench open the car door and slide in, dropping my purse and sandals on the immaculate carpet. Kathy’s Saab is ten years old, but she takes such good care of it, you’d think it was brand new.
“Well, look at you!” Kathy whistles. “Your dress and hair—Emma, your makeup’s better than when the Macy’s girl did it yesterday. Told you you’re a quick study.”
“It’s okay, Kathy,” I say with a sigh. “I know I’m a mess. I looked better this morning.”
“I’m sure you did, sweetie.” She pats my thigh, then smoothes her flower-print peasant skirt over her knees. Damp tendrils curl around her plump cheeks and forehead and down the back of her neck. She’s wearing her honey-blond hair in a cute little knot at the top of her head.
“Lucky for me you showed up,” I say. “I just realized I left something at the church. Would you mind taking me back for it?”
“No problem.” Kathy smiles into her rearview mirror, steps on the gas, and pulls a U-turn in the middle of the street.
“It’s just some Sunday school stuff,” I tell her. “Jeffrey—I mean Pastor Jeffrey—wants me to teach Sunday school in the fall.”
“Super,” says Kathy.
“Primary kids…maybe. Anyway, there’s some stuff—papers and things—I left in Jeffrey’s—in the church office.”
Kathy takes her eyes off the road. “Emma, are you feeling okay? You look feverish.”
I flush. “I’m not feverish.”
She reaches sideways to feel my forehead and cheeks. “Maybe it’s just sunburn,” she says.
Yes, sunburn, Kathy. Go with that. I check my watch. Seven minutes to one.
Kathy pulls up to the curb across the street from First Church. Perfect timing. The red doors swing open, and people stream out. Here comes Mrs. Putnam, followed by Hugh Vedder and the Bertram sisters, the Ellisons, and the others. Not Annabelle, though.
I frown, pushing the passenger door open. “Thanks, Kathy. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
“Whoa, whoa,” she says. “I’m not through with you, little girl.”
I cringe. I’m sure Kathy means it as a term of endearment, but “little girl” makes me feel about three feet tall, with pigtails and a snotty nose.
“What?” I scoop my purse and sandals off the floor. I force myself not to look at my watch again. How long will it take for Jeffrey to lock up his study? And where the heck is Annabelle?
Kathy’s smile goes all cat-caught-the-canary. “When you’re done, we’re going someplace.” She laughs. “Silly goose. You think I drove all the way over here to taxi you back to church? I’ve got a plan, sweetie, and it doesn’t involve leaving you stranded in your Sunday best with sore feet and sunburn.”
“A plan?” My head is splitting.
“Yes, a plan. Now run along and get your stuff. You can leave those here, if you like.” She nods at my purse and sandals.
“But—”
“Go on.” Kathy makes a shooing motion.
All right, all right. Kathy’s plan is royally screwing my plan, but I can live with it. At least I’ll be able to see Jeffrey. Let him know I’m okay, I’m not chickening out of my Sunday school commitment. I’ll even babysit the primaries, if it’s so important to him.
I run across the street in my bare feet, flying up the red-painted stairs without any sense of pain. My feet are numb. It’s cool and dark in the foyer. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Then I don’t want to believe them.
Jeffrey’s study door is closed.
Has he gone already? Impossible. He wouldn’t leave before the rest of them. Haltingly, I step toward his door. Stop. Listen. Catch the sound of voices.
He’s in there with someone, and it’s a woman.
I tiptoe up to the study, avoiding the places where the floor creaks. For once, I fervently hope to hear Fay’s throaty rasp.
No such luck. It’s Annabelle, and she’s talking about how she’ll transfer to the University of Washington as soon as she gets a certain scholarship. Jeffrey’s telling her how bright she is, how he knows she’s going to be a brilliant doctor some day.
I can’t bear it. I turn and flee the church, allowing the door to slam behind me. The last thing I see before I convince Kathy we have to drive away as quickly as we can is Jeffrey sticking his head out of one of the double doors. He glances up and down the street, frowns, and goes back inside.
Chapter 4
Kathy zips around the corner from First Church into the first place she can stop and give me her full attention, the parking lot of St. Bridget’s. Parishioners are trickling out to their cars after noon Mass. The sprawling, tan-brick complex of buildings is as different from First Church as I am from Kathy, but a church—any church—is the last place I want to be right now. I blink back tears, at a loss for something to say that will satisfy Kathy’s curiosity.
“Honey, sweetie,” she croons, switching off the motor and hitting the button that opens our windows, “what’s wrong? What happened over there?”
I shake my head, still fighting for control.
“It’s okay,” Kathy assures me. “Take your time, but start at the beginning.”
“I—I can’t tell you,” I say. “I don’t think you’d understand.”
Kathy rears back. “Not understand? You’ve always been able to come to me with your problems, haven’t you?”
The car is hot without the air con. I shift in my seat and nod. It’s true. Kathy’s been my “mother of choice” since her son Cal and I met in fifth grade.
“Then what’s the problem?” she wants to know.
I look out the window at the maples that shelter St. Bridget’s. A thought comes to mind. Kathy and Cal used to attend this church, but when Cal refused to go anymore, they switched to Holy Cross on the hill. Not that he stayed there, either. If there’s one thing that really bugs Kathy, it’s that Cal’s been going through an “anti-Catholic phase,” as she calls it. It’s not a phase, though. He dropped out years ago, and I’m the only one who knows the real reason he left.
I glance over at Kathy. How does she allow Cal to keep secrets from her when she won’t let me off the hook without spilling my guts? She watches me expectantly. I see a glimmer of hurt in her amber eyes, and I have the answer to my own question. Cal’s better at doing what he pleases than I am. He may care as much as I do about what other people think, but he keeps a big part of himself to himself, often evading questions with jokes or pranks, and no one—not even Kathy with all her ways of prying things out of you—can make him talk.
I decide to take a lesson from Cal. “I didn’t mean that about your not understanding,” I say. “It’s nothing to do with you. Nothing to do with anyone. I got my period today, and—you know—my emotions are all over the place.”
Kathy nods sympathetically. “Where are your Sunday school papers?”
I startle. “Sunday school papers?”
“You said you needed to go back for Sunday school papers. You didn’t pick them up?”
“I—well…that’s just it. The office was closed. Locked up for the day.”
Kathy squints at me. “That’s what upset you? That they’d already locked the office?”
“No. I mean, yes. Partly.” God, I’m digging myself deeper and deeper. I slide down an inch or two in my seat.
Kathy spreads her hands. “Come on, Em. Talk to me.”
“All right,” I say. “It’s a guy at church. I like him a lot, but….”
“But…?”
“But….just when I thought he might be feeling the same about me, well…now I’m worried he likes someone else.”
“Oh, Em, I’m sorry.” Kathy pretzels herself across the gear box to enfold me in her arms. “Believe me, if he likes anyone more than you, he’s out of his mind.” When she releases me, she says with a laugh, “Besides, what about Cal?”
What About Bob? I look at my watch. Was it only an hour ago that Jeffrey flirted with me, held me, kissed me? “What do you mean?” I ask.
“I hope you realize by now that if you fall for anyone but Cal, Ma and Pop are going to be devastated.” She laughs again. “You know what hopeless romantics they are. They’d like nothing better than for you and Cal to fall in love and live happily ever after.”
I try to conceal my reaction to this. I mean, Lou and Loretta Perrino are like grandparents to me, but are they nuts? Sure, Cal’s my best friend, but he’s Cal. I don’t have romantic feelings for him, and I’m sure he doesn’t have them for me. He’s not ready for romance. He told me so himself last spring when I saw his gaze wander to a cheerleader named Gilda Dominguez. “Don’t worry, Em,” he wisecracked after he dumped half a Coke down the front of his shirt while ogling her. “I’m saving myself for a supermodel.”