Reinventing Leona (10 page)

Surprise registered in his grandmother’s eyes. “That corncob was a bank president?”

“He was.” David waited, allowing the full force of his disclosure to sink in. For some reason, watching his grandmother chew on the incredulous details of the inside story gave him a great deal of pleasure. “Cotton was too young to retire and too old to be hired by anyone else. About that same time, his wife was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The man needed help, and my father gave it to him. Cotton wasn’t just the church janitor. He was Dad’s friend.” David started for the door, then stopped. Going in for the kill, he closed his case. “That incredible man downstairs would have given my father his own heart if God would have allowed him a say.”

Grandmother grabbed his arm, halting his huffy exit. “I can understand being good to your employees. I’m good to Marvin.”

David removed her hand, unwilling to be sequestered by such a harsh judge. “Your chauffeur’s name is Melvin.”

Shrugging off his reprimand, his grandmother perched primly on the edge of the double bed. “David, I know you think I didn’t care for your father, but that is not the case. I just feel the man never lived up to his potential.”

The hairs on the back of David’s neck stood on end. “What do you mean Dad didn’t live up to his potential?” Picturing his hands wrapped around the bony neck of this exasperating woman brought new understanding to crimes of passion. “J.D. Harper was the smartest man I’ve ever known.”

“Brilliant but lacking in common sense.” Running her hand over the faded chenille spread, she cleared her throat. “When your mother came home from college with this promising young business major, your grandfather and I were thrilled. We could tell things were serious, so your grandfather went out on a limb and offered the boy a place at the firm. But after law school, J.D. had some sort of religious experience. Said God had called him into ministry, of all things. We tried to tell him he’d be begging for scraps to feed his family the rest of his life . . .”

Absently picking fuzz from the bedspread, she seemed lost in her thoughts. Her hand tugged at a stubborn bump. David waited, despite the voice in his head telling him to run. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say, but an invisible hand held him in place, unable to move, unable to miss a word of the story he’d always wondered about.

As if the time had finally arrived for the disclosure of her well-prepped testimony, his grandmother lifted her chin and looked at him. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “But your father wouldn’t listen. Instead, the fool convinced Leona they could live on faith. So she left her budding journalism career. Before we could do a thing about it, they married. Next thing we knew, they set off for parts unknown, determined to save the world. We didn’t speak to them again until we received your birth announcement in the mail a couple of years later.”

Rallying to his father’s defense, David straightened to his full height. “Their life didn’t turn out so bad.”

“Look at this place.” She waved her arm at the collection of garage-sale finds furnishing the tiny room. “Your mother was not raised to be a wet nurse to a menagerie of ne’er-do-wells.” She stood and took David’s hands in hers. “My dear boy, neither were you. I’ve seen to that.” Her hand moved up to the watch she’d given him for his birthday. “Do not make your mother’s mistakes. Live up to your potential. End this ridiculous toying with trying to
find
yourself. It’s time you claim what is rightfully yours, young man.”

David searched the fire licking the darkened pupils of his grandmother’s eyes. An errant thought jarred his mind. Had Moses struggled with the same disconcerting sense as he watched hungry flames fail to consume the burning bush? Undoubtedly, he must have because the unsettling experience compelled the Israelite to assume a role he was unprepared to handle. And look where it got him. Dying on a mountain outside a Promised Land he could never enter. David pried himself free from his grandmother’s ironclad grip.

“What it’s time for . . . is lunch. Get yourself together and come downstairs.” He turned and strode from the room.

Why hadn’t he admitted he was ready to take his place at Worthington & Price? He’d caught glimpses of the empty void behind the mesmerizing glow before and not backed away from the risks. Why now?

David stomped down the stairs. He ducked into his father’s home study and shut the door. He ran his hand along the top of the tiny metal desk, then slumped into the worn office chair. If Grandmother was right, J.D. Harper had wasted his life. David’s stomach roiled at the injustice. His father was an impressive man. He could have had an incredible career, gone places, met important people, made a fortune . . . all of the things David wanted for his own life. Why didn’t his father want the same things?

Drumming his fingers on the desk’s cold surface, David let his mind skip across the church parking lot, returning to the swinging doors of the sanctuary. He saw himself slipping inside the quiet, eerie cavern. Adjusting to the dimness, he noticed a mist hovered above the baptistry, shrouding the stained glass cross and the jeweled path. Suddenly his father strode through the fog, a smile spread across his rested face. David burst into an all-out run down the aisle, but the robust man ascended the stage and took the podium just as David arrived at the family’s front pew. His father pointed and David felt compelled to obediently take a seat. Leaning forward, David watched with a silent helplessness as his father, a fireball of energy, a man on a mission, opened his Bible. A cold wind howled through the auditorium. David strained to hear his father’s sermon, but the words whipped out of his hearing. And then, without warning, J.D. Harper vanished.

Hot tears stung David’s eyes and brought him back to an empty parsonage study. He shuddered, trying to disperse the lingering traces of confusion clinging to him like the last leaves of autumn. If Grandmother was right, how could she explain why his father had been so happy? How could she explain the glowing beacon that drew the searching to his father like lost ships to a lighthouse?

David’s thoughts and questions, sticky and balled together, bounced against the inside of his skull. He closed his eyes. Squeezing the bridge of his nose to ease the pain, he pressed harder, hoping to force some answers. But none came. He released his hold and opened his eyes. The darkened computer screen came into view. He ran a trembling hand over the keys his father had used to peck out his sermons.

A sudden jolt traveled through David’s fingers, searing a path as it blazed up his arm and shot out his shoulders. When the sensation passed, a stinging numbness remained. Rubbing his arms, David attempted to restore a feeling of normalcy.

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear Momma had summoned her angel thugs to gag him, tie his bound body to the railroad tracks that ran through the middle of town, and restrain her son’s floundering soul until he cried uncle.

It would
serve Momma right if I let the train plow right over me.

* * * * *

Maddie managed to avoid her mother in the deluge of Thanksgiving Day company bursting from the creaky seams of the parsonage. Once Momma slipped into her hostess-with-the-mostest mode, even the second coming of Christ would have to wait for the conclusion of Leona Harper’s organized festivities.

Trying to remain inconspicuous, Maddie picked up scattered plates and wadded-up orange and brown Pilgrim napkins littering the large dining room table. The Story sisters had Momma’s undivided attention, regaling her with tales of cucumber blight. Hands full, Maddie retreated to the kitchen. She set her load on the counter, then put the stopper in the sink and squirted a shot of dishwashing liquid into the stream of warm water. Plunging her hands into the steamy suds, she gazed at the church building that blocked a good portion of her view through the paned windows.

Living next door to the church had advantages and disadvantages. On the plus side, the preacher’s family could leave one minute before the services started and still not be late. On the negative side, whenever anyone needed a key to get into the building on Monday mornings, they always felt free to drop in on the pastor, even if it was his only day off. No rest for the weary.
No wonder Daddy had a heart attack.

But these minor inconveniences were nothing compared to the curse of the Story sisters. For the past eighteen years those shriveled prunes had made it their practice to arrive thirty minutes early for church services, stop in at the parsonage, then park themselves on the Harpers’ plaid couch until time for the morning worship to start.

Maddie remembered the first time the Storys showed up unannounced. David let them in, inadvertently trapping Momma in the downstairs bathroom wearing nothing but a silky slip. Momma managed to get Daddy’s attention, then proceeded to inform him in a terse whisper that he was to remove the sisters by hook or by crook. Daddy went to the living room and invited Nola Gay and Etta May to hand out bulletins, saying the job required early birds with a keen eye for the lost and downtrodden. But the trick only worked once, leaving Momma no choice but to be fully dressed and ready to pass the old biddies’ inspection by sunup every Sunday morning.

A fork splashed into the water, bringing Maddie back to the task at hand. She resumed the scrubbing of dried turkey gravy from Momma’s grocery-store china, but she kept an eye on Church Street. Checking the clock on the microwave, she figured she had about an hour before Justin’s arrival ignited the fireworks. Maybe if she saw his car drive up she could sneak him in the back door, and she wouldn’t have to face Momma until after everyone went home.

She jammed a handful of forks into the draining rack. Why did her boyfriend have to pick today to prove he could be caring and concerned? He’d avoided commitment this long. What was another year or two? Why couldn’t he let things calm down a bit before—

“Need some help?”

Maddie dropped a fork, suds splashing across the front of her petal-pink sweater. “Parker, you scared me to death.” She whipped the tea towel off the hook and dabbed at the splatters.

“Sorry.” Parker deposited a stack of dirty dishes on the counter. “Let me dry.”

“Excuse me?”

He pointed to the clean mound Maddie had on the counter. “The rack’s full.”

“Oh.” She returned the towel to the hook. “Thanks, but I’ve got it.” She submerged her hands in the soapy sink, anxiously searching for something to wash. Why was she acting like an idiot? Of course Parker Kemp meant dry
dishes
. The guy wouldn’t know how to come on to a girl if his corn crop depended upon it. She located a plate, rinsed it, then held it over the drying rack looking for an extra slot.

Without a word, Parker took the plate from her hand. He opened the drawer stuffed with dishtowels on his first try, acting as if he lived in this house and knew right where everything belonged. He toweled the plate to a sheen, then removed another from the rack.

A slow burn worked its way up Maddie’s puckered fingers. She thought Momma had put a stop to church members taking every opportunity to look inside the private nooks and crannies of their home.

The memory of her mother’s ingenuity in rigging the medicine cabinet in the downstairs bathroom brought a slight smile to Maddie’s lips. The parsonage living room had been crammed full of primped and perfumed church ladies attending a Sunday afternoon bridal shower. Suddenly, the crashing sound of marbles hitting the porcelain pedestal sink put a pleased smirk on Momma’s sealed lips and sent a red-faced Maxine Davis fleeing the scene without so much as a thanks-for-the-nice-time.

An evil chuckle escaped Maddie’s throat as she lifted the stack of dirty dishes Parker brought in. What made these people think their tithes entitled them to sit in the living room every Sunday morning or inspect the parsonage property whenever they had the urge? She immersed the plates in the water and a small battalion of tiny bubbles went airborne.

Maddie swiped away the suds on her cheek, then glared at the grin covering the face of her drying partner. She opened her mouth to set him straight, but decided against it. The events of the past few days had dampened her holiday spirit and blaming some innocent guy she’d known most of her life would change nothing. Swirling her rag, Maddie tackled one dish after another, wishing the recurring image of her father lying in that casket could be so easily washed from her memory.

The sound of silverware clanking against glass combined with an occasional cheer from the football watchers in the living room. Maddie was grateful Parker seemed content to allow the dead air to remain between them. Momma would have been proud at the restraint Maddie mustered in holding her tongue, but disappointed in her ability to show her appreciation for Parker’s obvious support.

Maddie took a deep breath. “Had enough football for one day?” She cringed at the sugary-sweet tone of Momma’s voice coming from her very own vocal cords. Sounding like her mother was the last thing she needed . . . or wanted.

“I have. Besides, it’s a proven fact that if you stand up, your food will fall to your feet.”

Looking down at the man’s size-thirteen loafers, Maddie laughed. “Why would you encourage that?”

“So I have room for another piece of pie.” Parker grinned and patted his trim stomach.

“I’m not sure how you came by your medical information, but it could be suspect.”

“You think?”

“I would stake the farm on it.” She’d never noticed the unusual flecks of gold in Parker’s twinkling eyes. They’d always been hidden behind windshield-thick glasses. Contacts or laser surgery had improved access to those deep wells of kindness and in the process improved his looks dramatically. Maddie gave herself a mental shake. Where had that thought come from?

Tater Tot’s stranger-alert bark at the front door filtered back to the kitchen. A few seconds later, Nola Gay stuck her head around the swinging door.

“Maddie, your mother sent me to tell you there’s some fellow with a guitar waiting for you in the living room.”

A sinking feeling rippled across Maddie’s stomach. “Already?” She took a corner of Parker’s towel and dried her hands. “I didn’t hear his truck pull up.”