Reinventing Leona (22 page)
Her hesitation alerted David that his cross-examination had struck gold. He was right. Something was wrong. Momma never phoned overseas just to chat, and he doubted this call was an exception to her penny-pinching rules. His pulse quickened. The last time his mother’s number showed up on caller ID, it had not been good news.
“What’s the real problem?”
“I need legal counsel.”
“What have you done?” David swiveled the desk chair and sat down. “Are we talking jail time?”
“No . . . well, maybe.”
He put his feet up on the desk and made himself comfortable. Getting to the bottom of this convoluted mess was going to take a while. “What’s going on, Momma?”
“As you know, I’ve got a job at the paper.”
“I’m proud of you. You’ll be great.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
David squelched the urge to nudge her to the point. Her fragile self-esteem did not need to catch wind of his impatience. “When do you start?”
“As soon as I get this pickle juice off my suit.”
Momma decked in business attire was an impossible image to conjure. “What kind of juice?”
“Never mind. I’m in the rehab lobby, but on my way to the office. Here’s the thing. I don’t get paid until the end of the month.”
“Didn’t Dad have some money?”
Why had he asked such a stupid question? What preacher ever had extra money? Miss one paycheck and of course, Momma would be strapped. The thought of making his own wife live like every dime could be the last was the very reason David had no interest in ministry. He waited, praying that somehow Momma’s answer would surprise him.
“I don’t know for sure. Saul says it could take months to get everything sorted out and settled.” Momma’s overdone chipperness did not mask the worry in her voice.
A half-unpacked duffle sat on his cot-sized bed. David fought the urge to cram everything back into his bag, skip his finals, and catch the first plane home. “Estates can take a bit of effort, but Dad’s should be simple to sort out.”
“There’s a mountain of paperwork to plow through. But I have to wait on the death certificates before I can start filing any of it.”
“If I had any money, Momma—”
“David, I’m not asking for money. How could
you
give
me
money? You haven’t even started your job.” Her voice sounded apologetic, like it had when they returned home from the all-night youth functions and she attempted to soothe David’s embarrassed anger.
If only Dad had died a year from now. Things would be different. I’d be settled at the firm, making some serious money, and in a position to help.
David railed against a God with such poor timing that a son would be denied the ability to care for his widowed mother. He added this new injustice to the mounting evidence list he intended to present in God’s prosecution case.
“I would think the church could float you a few bucks until you get things straightened out.”
Momma snorted. “That’s the problem.”
“The church?”
“No, Howard.” Momma’s tongue came down hard on the
d
in Howard. It reminded David of the times she used his full name, James David, to express her anger.
“What’s old Chrome Dome up to now?”
“He’s bringing in a guy to interview for your father’s job.”
David whipped his feet off the desk and jumped up. “Already?”
“Claims we’ll lose members if the pulpit sits vacant too long.”
“It’s been two Sundays.” David paced the length of his tiny place. He may not want his father’s pulpit, but why did the thought of someone else having it fly all over him? “You’re telling me that old goat is kicking you out of the parsonage less than a month after my father died?”
“That’s what it basically comes down to.”
The anger in Momma’s voice brought David a warped sense of satisfaction. Maybe now she would see that his decision to walk away from the pulpit and into a lucrative legal career had been the right one. Why would anyone want to live at the whims of an incompetent board who could toss a family from their home whenever the mood struck them?
While struggling to interpret the call of God, maybe he’d overlooked the obvious. He had legal expertise because God had given him the educational opportunities. Perhaps the Lord had chosen him to be a defender of those who could not defend themselves.
Dirty job, but someone has to make sure Christians treat each other like they should.
If he was to be the enforcer, then the sooner he accepted his place in the Kingdom, the happier he’d be.
“I’ll be home by the end of the week, Momma.”
Racing from the rehab center as fast as her fashionable pumps could navigate the slippery sidewalks, Leona sucked in pained gasps of the cold morning air, her deprived lungs greedy for relief. Her son was on his way home to help her make everything right and she intended to do the same with him. If she could see her mother in a new light, then surely the Lord would assist her in building some sort of bridge over the chasm separating them. She yanked open the door of the van and climbed in.
Leona dropped her cell phone into the sticky, briefcase-sized handbag Roxie insisted she buy to accessorize the new outfit for her return to the working world. She opened the glove box and dug out a couple of unused Dairy Queen napkins, then scrubbed at the vinegary syrup splattered across the front of her pinstripe suit.
Good thing Mother’s aim was off, or I’d be wearing pickle juice between my not-too-much-but-not-too-little earrings Roxie picked out.
She wadded the shredded napkin, then tossed it onto the floorboard. Why hadn’t she thought to stick in that bottle of Cotton Blossom body splash Roxie picked up at the strip mall? Then again, how could she have known? The average person does not expect to be pelted with canned goods while visiting her poor, sick mother. Some catastrophes just could not be prepared for . . . like a person’s husband dropping dead, being forced into the working world without a minute’s notice, threatened with eviction from her home, or the sudden realization that God had prepared both of her children for such a time as this. God had not left her destitute.
Cranking the ignition key, Leona shot the Lord a quick prayer of thanks along with a request that today would not be the day the van chose to be temperamental. Appearing professional while smelling like a sweet pickle would be tricky enough without showing up late her first day on the job. The van coughed to life, and Leona let out her first deep breath since her narrow escape.
Accumulating snow flurries glossed the pavement. She eased from the rehab parking lot and turned right onto Main Street.
Driving past Mt. Hope’s struggling downtown, Leona thought about how much David sounded like his father. She blinked back tears. Having her son in J.D.’s corner at next week’s board meeting would be a comfort. Once David cleaned Howard’s clock, maybe Maxine would back off the crusade to get the Harper boy in the pulpit. Leona suspected the preacher parade idea had been Maxine’s ploy to force David home.
Failure pricked Leona’s conscience. What kind of a mother stands by and lets her son get pressured into taking the pulpit simply because she needs a roof over her head? Accepting the call of the Lord was not the same as acquiescing to extenuating circumstances. Leona’s freshly manicured nails clicked rapidly against the steering wheel. This time, Howard and Maxine had gone too far and messed with the wrong momma.
Exactly what she intended to do about the situation, she wasn’t sure. She needed something that would knock the legs right out from under Maxine’s plan, make her sorry she had trifled with Leona Harper. But what? And just how evil could her plan dare be? Leona maneuvered the van into the tight parking space in front of the Koffee Kup. Before she killed the ignition, the flashing blue neon warning signal registered with her preoccupied brain.
“What was I thinking? I can’t park here.” She slammed the gearshift into reverse. Relishing her sinful fascination with retaliation had nearly cost her another run-in with Ruthie.
Leona backed out, drove around the corner, and cut through the alley. But a trash truck blocked the only open space behind the brick building. Bouncing her left knee, Leona circled the block. She glanced at her watch. In less than five minutes, she’d be late.
This is an emergency.
Stomach in a knot, she slid down until only her eyes peered over the wheel. Coasting into the only available spot, she prayed Ruthie was still too busy with the breakfast rush to notice.
Through her cracked windshield, Leona checked the diner window. Ruthie, her broad back to the street, flipped something greasy on the grill.
Thank you, Lord.
Leona fumbled with her keys, snatched her new handbag, then sprinted toward her employer’s door.
Modyne glanced up and frowned.
Leona drew her purse tight against the pickle stain on her chest, hoping her less-than-graceful entrance had not ruined her only opportunity to make a good first impression. She flashed a rectifying smile. “Morning, Modyne.”
“You born in a barn, Leona?” The news icon returned her attention to the computer screen.
“Oh, sorry.” Leona gave herself a mental kick in the seat of her new suit pants as she closed the door and her mouth.
Across the room, Ivan continued the clicking of computer buttons, shouting over his shoulder, “Be with you in a minute.”
“No rush.” Leona’s taut lips scraped across clenched teeth. Another full-fledged smile would allow the butterflies swooping around in her stomach an escape hatch. Sooner or later she would have to open her mouth and catch a breath, but for now she’d settle for whatever air she could inhale through her nose. The scratchy combination of paper, ink, and the rancid smell of scorched microwave popcorn tingled her nostrils.
According to Ivan, the press only ran on Friday. Without the clanking
ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk
of the ancient machine, the atmosphere in the cluttered office seemed peaceful. Toes cramping in her new heels, Leona surveyed the dingy space, her perusing gaze lighting on an empty desk. A little dusting and she could see herself seated there, creatively moving words around on the page, her concentration not suffering in the least . . . especially once Modyne’s constant pecking was retired.
Ivan pushed his chair away from his desk. Metal scraping against the scarred wood floor jarred Leona from her daydreams. “Care for some coffee?”
“Sure. That’d be great.” Leona had practiced condensing her sentences in hopes of making a good first impression. First impressions were everything in setting the tone for a copacetic working relationship. If church work had taught her nothing else, it had taught her that digging out of the hole of perceptions-gone-awry was an impossible task.
Modyne continued to tap away on the computer keys. “Make mine black.”
Leona had made coffee and smiled about it her entire married life. She couldn’t believe such menial Christian service had given her a handy expertise in the marketplace. Maybe she should pinch herself. “Happy to, Modyne.” She removed her black wool coat and draped it over a folding chair. Following Ivan to the coffeemaker hidden behind stacks of papers, another thought occurred to her. Once she got settled, she could offer to tidy the place up a bit. Coffee and cleaning. Two things she knew well. She’d see that Editor Tucker got his money’s worth if she had to get down on her hands and knees and mop every warped board in the press room.
Ivan wiped the insides of two stained mugs with a paper towel. “You can bring a cup from home if you want.” He poured a thick black liquid into the mugs, then filled a dusty Styrofoam cup nearly to the brim. “Here. Care to see your desk?”
“Of course.” Leona opted to ignore the oily film rising to the top of the disposable cup. Keeping her eyes on the back of Ivan’s sparsely-sprigged head, she carried one mug and the paper cup to the front desk without sloshing a drop. She never imagined all those years of walking with a book on her head to perfect her posture would bestow yet another marketable skill. “Here you go, Modyne.” Leona added a dash of levity to her voice for good measure.
“Thanks.”
“You’re so welcome, Modyne. I’m here to help any way I can.”
The ace reporter lowered her nose and peered over her half-glasses. A hint of a snarl formed under the shadowy mustache the older woman no longer waxed. Leona waited politely for a response to her offer, but was met with a stony silence. Apparently congenial dialogue was not Modyne’s strong suit.
Leona brandished her Sunday smile. Modyne’s frosty demeanor might have deterred the less seasoned, but as a pastor’s wife, she was way ahead of the competition when it came to dealing with the cantankerous. Church work had given her years of experience dealing with irascible personalities. Crock-Pots, J.D. called the Modyne-types. Always on simmer. But given time, these slow cookers would eventually crank out a fork-tender rump roast. On more than one occasion, the pastor’s family had even been invited to share in a feast of reconciliation. All Modyne needed was a little time to warm up to the idea of another woman in the office and she’d be falling all over the new hire.
“We use Quark to build a page.” Ivan leaned over the empty desk in the corner, pushed a button on the computer, and the dark monitor came to life. “You’re familiar with the program, right?”
Visions of the assorted and confusing TV, VCR, and DVD remotes scattered across the parsonage coffee table danced before Leona’s eyes. She took a deep breath, smiled, then plunged ahead, hoping Ivan considered honesty the best policy. “I think I mentioned I can use Word, and I e-mail occasionally, but after that, I’m afraid I’m . . . technically challenged.”
Ivan’s mouth hung ajar as if she had just been sprung from hibernation in an ice cave. “Well, I guess we’ll start with Word.” He managed an encouraging nod.
Modyne’s eyes cut above the rim of her glasses. “She’ll have to learn the page designer sometime.”
“Let’s get her feet wet before we dunk her.” Ivan pulled out the empty desk chair. “Why don’t you try out this seat? Do I need to adjust it for you?”