Miss Julia Meets Her Match (15 page)

“Well, you will,” LuAnne said, “because she’s having several get-togethers next week and inviting a few church members to each one. I’m invited for Monday, and I was hoping you’d be going on the same day, but I guess not.”

“What’re these get-togethers for, LuAnne?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said with a laugh, “I guess I didn’t tell you that. They’re to introduce Curtis Maxwell. You know, so we can get to know him on a personal basis? I’m real excited about it. He is so well-known everywhere, even written up in
Time
magazine one time. Why, he’s been to the White House and everything.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I understand that he’s advised the president on a number of occasions.”

“Lord help us,” I said before I could help myself.

“Well, now, Julia,” LuAnne said, “Mr. Maxwell is a highly successful businessman.
And
he’s a Christian. Who better to advise the president, I ask you. I, for one, am thrilled that our leader seeks advice from somebody like Mr. Maxwell. Somebody who stands for traditional family values and who’s made his money with the help of the Lord.”

“LuAnne, for goodness sake,” I said. “Hazel Marie showed me that
Time
article on him, and he’s made his money on a pyramid scheme, where thousands work for him, funneling money to the top. How he gets away with it is a mystery to me. Now, is that really the kind of businessman you want advising the president or meeting at one of Emma Sue’s get-togethers?”

“Oh, Julia, you are just so cynical,” she said, waving her hand as if what I’d said was of no account. “Mr. Maxwell is a
Christian.
”

“Yes, well, I’ve known a number of Christians whose financial or political advice I wouldn’t take in a million years.”

“Then,” she said with an edge to her words, “I guess you won’t go to meet him.”

“Of course I will. Why shouldn’t I? I just don’t expect to lose my head because he’s talked to the president. Anybody with enough money can do that.” Thinking, if that were my goal in life, I could send in a hefty enough check to be invited to a White House soiree, myself.

“Oh, and Julia,” LuAnne said, standing as she prepared to take her leave, “you won’t believe all the talk that’s going around about that Mooney woman I told you about.”

I could’ve smacked her, and it was all I could do not to. “LuAnne!” I said, right sharply. I put her coat on her shoulders and turned her toward the door. “We don’t want to hear it.”

“I do,” Hazel Marie said. “Who’s the Mooney woman?”

“Nobody, Hazel Marie.” I opened the door and practically shoved LuAnne out. “I’ll talk to you later, LuAnne. Thanks for stopping by.”

I closed the door and turned to Hazel Marie, hoping to quickly repair the damage. “That woman carries tales about people we don’t even know. And I, for one, am tired of hearing them.”

“Oh, I enjoy hearing what’s going on,” Hazel Marie said, but in an unconcerned way, “even when I don’t know the people. It’s all interesting to me.”

This particular item, though, would be more interesting than she’d want, but I pretended none of it was of concern to me. “I tell you what, Hazel Marie, let’s go shopping. And I do believe we have some cleaning to pick up.”

If the mention of a shopping trip wouldn’t distract her, I thought, nothing would. And it did, to my great relief.

Emma Sue did call, inviting us for Thursday morning. Ordinarily it would’ve miffed me because it was so late in the week, meaning that she’d invited others before us. But I had too much on my mind to let such trivial matters concern me. Besides, she was probably saving the preferred guests for last, as I’d often done myself. But I told Hazel Marie that I’d never in my life heard of a preacher’s wife having little get-togethers to introduce a visitor who had no intention whatsoever of joining the church.

“A visitor is lucky to get a phone call,” I’d said. “But a party? The only thing I can say is that the roof on the sanctuary must be in worse shape than we know.”

When we got to the Ledbetters’ house that Thursday morning, I took in the long, ranch style construction, recalling the old Victorian that had once been the manse, owned by the church and available to every pastor we’d had for some thirty years. It hadn’t done for Larry Ledbetter, however, for he made it clear before accepting our call that he wanted a house of his own. And to that end, he’d asked for a larger salary and help with a down payment. So the old Victorian was now sold to a lawyer, who opened his office in it and complained about the heating bill, and the church owned no property at all, except what it was sitting on.

Emma Sue opened the door for us, smiling broadly in welcome. At the sight of her, I managed a greeting as Hazel Marie gasped behind me. And no wonder, for the woman wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup in spite of all the efforts of Velma and Hazel Marie. She was back to the plain soap-and-water face that she’d presented to the world before her foray into the field of cosmetics.

“Don’t look so surprised, Julia,” she said. “This is the way the Lord made me, and it’s been shown to me that his handiwork doesn’t need anything artificial on it. Of course,” she went on with a glance at Hazel Marie’s expertly made-up face, “I’d never criticize anybody who felt differently.”

Of course she would, for she had in the past. But I’ll say this for her, Emma Sue looked as happy as I’d ever seen her—glowing, in fact. Whatever she was doing to herself, it certainly hadn’t come from the Clinique counter.

After ushering us in to join the ten or so church women milling around the living room and dining alcove, Emma Sue turned to greet a few more invitees who’d come up the walk behind us. Hazel Marie and I spoke to those already there and began to mingle with the small group. I could hear Emma Sue’s excited voice urging her guests to have something to eat, to find a seat, to be sure and meet Mr. Maxwell. She’d never been a comfortable hostess, mainly because preachers and their families were more accustomed to being entertained than doing much of it themselves. But that’s neither here nor there, for Emma Sue was thoroughly enjoying herself.

I poked Hazel Marie when I saw Norma Cantrell emerge from the kitchen, carrying replenishments for the table. “Look, Hazel Marie. What’s she doing here?”

Hazel Marie whispered, “Maybe Emma Sue’s keeping her away from the pastor’s office.”

I got another jolt when I saw Mayor Beebee circulating among the women, shaking hands and patting shoulders. He and Norma did not even look at each other, although I watched carefully to see if they’d give themselves away. Then I poked Hazel Marie again and whispered, “And what’s he doing here?”

She whispered back, “I don’t know. Maybe he came by to see the pastor. Except he’s not here.”

Emma Sue shooed us toward the group that was clustered around the Christian mover and shaker we’d heard so much about. To tell the truth, I was somewhat eager to see what he looked like. I expected him to be just as powerful in his person as he was in his reputation. Which just shows how wrong your expectations can be.

When the crowd parted, and Emma Sue introduced us, I was surprised to see a short, slender man who I wouldn’t’ve given a second look on the street. But on closer inspection I saw he had that sleek look that only careful attention to one’s grooming can give. He had brown hair that had been thinning until he’d had it surgically plugged. I know, because it was planted in rows on the top of his head. His eyes were hazel; his complexion clear and nicely tanned—all that jetting off to sunny climes, I imagine—and he had the sheen that Hazel Marie said came from facials and expensive creams made especially for men. Or
pour homme,
if you’ll pardon the little French I know.

His hand was soft when he shook mine, and I was shocked to suspect clear polish on his nails. I couldn’t help but wonder what Emma Sue thought about it. From all I could see, Mr. Maxwell had certainly not let the Lord’s handiwork speak for itself. His suit and silk paisley tie were fine-looking, and I knew in a minute that I was seeing custom-made clothes. Although I do admit that it was probably the first time I’d ever seen any.

Mr. Maxwell was most pleasant, asking us about our interests, complimenting our town and our church, and, most especially, taking pains to praise Pastor and Mrs. Larry Ledbetter, especially Mrs. Ledbetter.

I didn’t know what to make of him but, after getting an eyeful of Emma Sue, from which I’d not yet recovered, I wasn’t in any condition to pass judgment on her guest of honor.

Standing in the group around Mr. Maxwell, I happened to glance across the room, catching Louise Wortham and Peg Dolan eyeing me. They quickly turned away, then put their heads together to continue their whispering. I knew as sure as I was standing there that they were talking about the Mooney woman and wondering how much I knew.

I took Hazel Marie’s arm and whispered, “Let’s get something to eat to be courteous, then go home.”

But right then, Emma Sue clapped her hands to get our attention. “Everybody! Everybody!” she called out, even before Hazel Marie and I could move to the table where coffee and finger sandwiches waited in vain. “Everybody find a seat. Curtis, I mean, Mr. Maxwell, has a few words he’d like to say.”

We obediently found a seat on Emma Sue’s sofa, a vaguely Victorian design that would’ve been much more appropriate in the manse that was now gone forever. Emma Sue’s decor left much to be desired, which was what I thought everytime I visited her. Not being a critical person, however, I tried to overlook the framed embroidered slogans and Bible verses that hung on the wall, the cross-stitched pillows with more cute sayings and the crocheted doilies on the arms and backs of the sofa and chairs. There were a few dried wreath arrangements on the walls and a leather Barcalounger that didn’t go with anything in the room. I declare, the room just cried out for something besides beige and brown to catch the eye. On the other hand, I expect a preacher couldn’t very well afford to have color splashed all around. His wife would be talked about all the more.

“Ladies,” Emma Sue said again. “I want to introduce Mr. Curtis Maxwell, the founder, owner, and CEO of Maxwell Household Products, which we all use and love. I know you’re as honored as I am to have him with us, and just as eager to hear what the Lord has laid on his heart to say. Now, everybody, let’s have a nice round of applause. Curtis, the floor is all yours.”

Emma Sue glowed all the more when Mr. Maxwell stepped forward, took both her hands in his and thanked her for giving him this opportunity.

“Ladies,” he began, looking very much at ease with every eye on him. “And Mayor Beebee. Let’s give this fine man a hand.” And he led the applause as the mayor took a bow. I clapped a couple of times, not wanting to appear discourteous.

Mr. Maxwell continued his little speech, pretty much repeating what I’d already heard about our town, our church, and our hostess. Then he got down to brass tacks. “Ladies, fellow-workers in the Lord’s vineyard, I’m here in your lovely town, not only for the purpose of meeting you, especially those of you who are a part of the Maxwell Household Products family, but also to give my support to the fine group of people who are preparing to put Abbotsville on the map. The Lord has been gracious enough to bless me beyond my wildest dreams and, for a long time, my heart was burdened with the obligation to give back to him. But I didn’t know how to do it, or where to do it. Then after much prayer and study, I knew I’d been touched by the Holy Spirit. He told me to return a portion of what I’ve been so abundantly given so that others might know his saving grace. Yes, I have received a call from the Holy Spirit, and he told me that the Walk Where Jesus Walked Christian Theme Park is a cause most worthy of my prayers and my support, and, my friends, yours, as well.”

Mr. Maxwell paused to let his words sink in, a pause I needed so I could collect myself. At his mention of the theme park, my back had stiffened and my eyes had widened. If this was what we’d been invited to hear, I was mortally offended. Not only because I was trying for all I was worth to get rid of Dooley, Mooney, and company, and had no intention whatsoever of supporting them, but because Mr. Maxwell’s paean of praise here in the Ledbetter house meant that the pastor had changed his tune since I’d talked to him. Now that he had his wife back the way he wanted her, why in the world would he get himself—and the church—mixed up in such a hare-brained and risky venture? Especially after he’d warned me against getting involved?

But Mr. Maxwell wasn’t through. He gave us a confident smile and said, “This effort has centered my life and given it focus, and I know it will do the same for you. I’m here to ask you to give the Lord a chance to change and bless your lives, just as he’s changed and blessed mine. Now, I want to leave one thought with you: If you want the Lord to bless you with all the world has to offer, you have to honor him and give him a portion of what you have, no matter how small it might be. It’s only in this way that he can pour out the blessings of heaven upon you. And he’ll do it, believe me, for I am an example of what he can and will do. Now, I want to turn the floor over to the Honorable Clifford Beebee. Mayor?”

All through this testimony, if that’s what it was, my back was getting stiffer and stiffer. I knew we’d been invited to meet Mr. Maxwell, an unusual occurrence at best, but I hadn’t known that we were going to be subjected to a plea for money. And now we were going to get a dose of politics on top of that.

I started to get up and take my leave, but I was wedged in on one side by Hazel Marie, and on the other by Amy Broughton.

“I’ll be short,” the mayor started, and I almost laughed. He was already short enough. “Don’t want to keep you ladies too long. I know you have to hurry home to fix lunch for your hard-working husbands.” He paused to allow time for us to appreciate his thoughtfulness, although I’m here to tell you that Emma Sue was the only woman there who still prepared a midday meal.