Stay With Me (29 page)

“We can’t all be sinners.” Pastor Dan’s
indignation rang through the church. Mrs. Beckett took a sudden
interest in the hem of her cloak.

“It must be true, then,” Pastor Dan said in a
sad voice. “We are all sinners. There is not one among us who is
without sin.” He rubbed his chin as if in deep contemplation. Sarah
knew he was just timing his next line.

“But perhaps,” his voice rose, “your sins are
not as serious as your neighbor’s sins. I imagine that’s a great
comfort to many of you.”

Sarah didn’t think anybody looked all that
comfortable. With the exception of Freedom. He sat relaxed in the
pew, his skinny legs extended in front of him and his arms folded
across his chest, looking every bit like a man who intended to
enjoy the show.

“I caution you,” Pastor Dan said, his voice
thundering in the quiet room, “do not take pleasure in comparing
your sins to your neighbor’s. When you judge another, do not
rejoice. For you have committed the greatest sin of all. Only God
has the right to judge.”

Rosie Brickman let out a puff of breath,
Thomas Jefferson wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his
hand, and Fred sat absolutely still, his mouth hanging open. Sarah
glanced at Pastor Dan. He stood a little straighter, his chin had a
cocky tilt, and his eyes danced. He’d scored and he knew it.

“And He,” Pastor Dan lowered his voice,
almost to a whisper, “will judge us most kindly. Especially those
of us brave enough to admit our sins and to ask for His
forgiveness. Our God is a kind God.”

Mrs. Beckett examined the buttons on her
shoes. Lana Lewis had her eyes shut and one hand over her
mouth.

“Our God is an understanding God, too.”
Pastor Dan, like any great actor who has taken command of the
stage, eloquently waved his arms, making his robe billow. “He
understands temptation. He understands weakness.”

Sarah made the mistake of looking at John. He
stared at her, the muscles in his strong neck flexing.

“He’s an expecting God, too. He expects each
and every one of us to examine our sin, to repent, and sink to our
knees and to beg for His forgiveness. He expects us to beg
forgiveness from those we’ve hurt.”

From the set of Mrs. Beckett’s mouth, Sarah
thought Hell might freeze over first.

“As we ask God to forgive our sins, let us
give thanks for our neighbors and our community. Let us give thanks
that we are able to gather together as one. Let us commit our
intentions and our resources to ensuring that we honor our God and
maintain this most holy place of worship.”

Men reached into their pockets and Mrs.
Beckett snapped open the little purse in her lap.

Pastor Dan held up a hand. “Let us pray,” he
said, his voice loud and clear. The congregation bowed their heads.
“Dear God, thank you for the many blessings you have given us.
Guide us gently, yet firmly. Grant that our giving may be generous.
This house of worship needs a new roof.” He paused for effect. The
dutiful parishioners kept their hands clasped and they eyes
down.

“Please recognize that all we give, we give
in Your name. Amen.” Pastor Dan stepped from behind his alter,
picked up the small round basket at the end of the first pew, and
passed it to Mrs. Beckett.

After nodding at Sarah, Pastor Dan, looking
as if he barely needed the cane at his side, fairly waltzed out of
the church, as if he were walking on air. Sarah launched into
“Shall We Gather at the River”.

Thomas Jefferson, a sour look on his face,
dug a little deeper in his pocket. Deputy Lewis squirmed in his
pew, then nodded to his wife. She took her hand off her mouth,
lifted up the hem of her skirt, and pulled some folded paper money
out of her sock. When the collection basket reached Toby Ryan, he
threw some coins in. His wife reached across two surly children and
gave him two quick raps on the shoulder. He dropped another handful
in.

Sarah’s fingers flew across the keys as the
basket made its way to the back of the church. When the last man
had dropped his money in, he brought the basket back up to the
front of the church and set it on top of the plain wooden
alter.

As soon as his hand let go, people started
gathering up their things and gently pushing their children toward
the aisle.

She played until the church cleared. Then she
stopped for a minute before flipping a page and beginning a whole
new song. When she finished that one, she let her hands rest on the
ivory keys. Then she sorted through her music, making sure the
pages were folded just so. She took a minute to blow some imaginary
dust off the keys. Then she re-sorted the music, putting it in
alphabetical order.

She was stalling. Knew it. Didn’t like it,
especially, but she didn’t think her nerves could handle one more
meeting with John Beckett. If he could avoid her on his turf, then
she sure as heck could avoid him on her turf.

Sorry, God. Your turf
.

She waited another five minutes before
walking down the short aisle and opening the heavy door.

John and his mother stood less than five feet
from the door. Pastor Dan chatted with Rosie and Myron Brickstone.
Fred talked to Thomas Jefferson while his children ran in circles
around the small yard.

Everywhere she looked, fools lingered. Didn’t
these people have anywhere to go? That’s what was wrong with the
good old days. There was no damn rat race.

“Sarah,” Pastor Dan called out. “Your music
was lovely. Thank you for sharing your gift.”

She nodded, uncomfortable that everyone had
stopped socializing and turned toward her. What had been a big
screen action movie suddenly became a silent picture.

Darn it. Pastor Dan might be happy starring
in his own drama series but she was the type who preferred to be
backstage, painting scenery or arranging sound effects.

Pastor Dan waved her over. “Rosie and Myron
have just extended to me a very kind invitation to join them for
lunch at their restaurant. You’ve been such a help today. I
couldn’t imagine going without you. You will join us, won’t
you?”

Sarah thought Rosie might explode. Her cheeks
puffed up, her face got red, and her eyes bulged, as if they might
just pop out of her head.

For a brief second, Sarah thought about
saying yes. It would serve Rosie, with her
I’m-so-much-better-than-you-attitude, right. Then she caught a
glimpse of John’s mother. The woman had gone completely white.

Pastor Dan’s words confirmed her fear. “John
and his mother,” the preacher said, “are joining us. Come on, we’ll
have a party.”

Sarah looked at John. He shrugged, then gave
her one of his sleepy, sexy smiles that left an answering ache in
the core of her soul.

She forced her eyes back to Pastor Dan. “I
have to be getting back to my room. I—I have things to do.”

She took another three steps. Pastor Dan
hooked his arm around her shoulders. “Nonsense. You need to eat
anyway.”

Mrs. Beckett stepped forward. “Pastor Dan,”
she said, her voice chilly, “I recall that Sarah never was much for
eating a big dinner. Always a little too worried about her
waistline.”

Everyone turned to look at Sarah. She
resisted the urge to suck in her stomach.

“I think,” Mrs. Beckett said, “that we should
just let Sarah go on about her business and the five of us can have
dinner like we planned.” She grabbed John’s arm and tried to pull
him forward.

It was sort of like trying to move a big rock
with a very small shovel. He didn’t budge.

John looked first at his mother, then at
Sarah. “If Sarah’s not going,” John said, his voice quiet, “I’m not
either.”

Mrs. Beckett’s hand shook as she grabbed at
her son. “Don’t be a fool,” she said, her tone raising in decibels
with each word.

John didn’t answer. He gently removed his
mother’s fingers from his sleeve. “Sarah?”

“John,” she said, wishing the earth would
open and swallow her up, “its fine. I’m not all that hungry. I made
plans to meet Suzanne anyway. Go have a nice dinner.”

He shook his head.

Pastor Dan looked expectantly at Mrs.
Beckett. She had her lips pressed together so tightly that they had
lost their color. Rosie was trying to get her husband’s attention
but Myron Brickstone stared at the sky, as if he’d never seen a
cloud before.

“Mother?” John urged.

Mrs. Beckett spun around, bringing her face
to within inches of Sarah’s. “This is all your fault,” she said. “I
don’t know why you had to come back.”

“Mother.” John’s voice held a warning
now.

Great. Just what she’d hoped to avoid.
“Look,” she said, taking a step back from the group. “I have to go.
Suzanne’s expecting me.”

“I’ll walk you back to the hotel,” John said,
falling into step beside her.

“Don’t do it, John,” Mrs. Beckett urged.

“Go have your dinner, Mother,” John said,
never breaking stride. They’d walked halfway to the hotel before he
spoke again. “I’m sorry about that.”

“You’re not responsible for your mother.”

“No. I suppose not. You know, she’s not a bad
person. I think she really misses Peter.”

“So do you.”

“Yes. Every day. But I was his brother, not
his mother. She needs to have someone to blame for his death.”

She stopped walking. What was he saying? “And
you don’t?”

He kept walking and she had to skip to catch
up. “Peter was a grown man,” John said. “He’s the one who decided
to make his fortune in that silver mine. You didn’t hold a gun to
his head.”

She grabbed hold of his sleeve. “Wait. You
can’t drop a bombshell like that and expect me not to notice?”

“A bomb what?”

She massaged her forehead with her
fingertips. “John, I’m starting to get behind. I can’t keep up. Two
nights ago you almost ran me out of your barn with a pitchfork.
Today, you stood up for me when your mother wanted to pick a fight.
What’s going on?”

John opened the hotel door and held it for
her. She walked in and saw Morton Turnip sitting behind the
counter. John nodded at Morton and with one hand on her back,
gently pushed her up the stairs.

“Same room as before?” he asked, heading
toward a door.

“That’s Suzanne’s room,” Sarah said. “I’m
next door.”

John’s eyes widened. “You have your own
room?”

She nodded.

“Give me the key,” he said, his voice
suddenly deep with need.

She dug it out of her purse with shaky
fingers.

John opened the door, pulled her inside,
kicked the door shut, took off his cowboy hat, and pushed her back
up against the door.

He stepped into her body, wedging one thigh
between her legs. With one hand behind her neck and the other high
on her ribs, his thumb just resting underneath her breast, he bent
his head and kissed her.

His lips were warm and wet and delicious,
better than any Sunday dinner. She opened her mouth, and his tongue
slipped inside.

“Oh, John,” she said. She felt the hunger,
the bone-deep hunger for him storm through her body. She pushed
herself against his thigh, riding him. He pushed his leg even more
intimately against her and she thought she might explode.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered against
his lips.

“I don’t either,” he said and kissed her
hard.

“We can’t do this,” she said, summoning all
her strength to pull away.

“We can.” In one smooth motion, he shifted
his leg and pulled her body, her whole needy body, up against him.
He was warm and solid and…oh my…hard as a rock. He cupped her
bottom with one hand and pulled her tight against him.

“I want you,” he moaned.

She’d never wanted anything more.

He pulled back and with infinite care, he
started to undo the buttons on her plain, tan blouse. When he
finished, he gently pushed the material aside.

He chuckled, a dry kind of laugh, when he saw
the row of buttons on her borrowed camisole.

“I’ll do them,” she said. He was way too
slow.

She got to the last button when there was a
knock on the door.

“John, are you in there? It’s Myron.”

John’s head jerked up. “What do you want,
Myron?”

“You better come quick, John. It’s your
mother. We think it may be her heart.”

“What?”

“She fainted at the restaurant. Pastor Dan
sent me for you.”

Sarah pulled the edges of her camisole
together. “Go,” she said. “She needs you.”

“I can’t leave you like this,” he said,
indecision in his dark eyes.

“I’ll be fine. Go.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“I want to see you later,” he said, already
grabbing his hat from the floor.

“Tomorrow,” she said, knowing her foolish
heart was simply asking to be broken. “Come back tomorrow.”

When John got to the café, they had his
mother propped up in a chair. Pastor Dan, on his knees, held his
mother’s hand. The crowd, three deep, parted just far enough to
allow him passage.

“Mother,” he said, squatting in front of her
chair. “Are you sickly?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Thank you for
coming.”

John looked at Pastor Dan. “How is she?”

Pastor Dan shrugged. “I’m not sure. One
minute she was talking and the next minute, we were picking her up
off the floor.”

“Probably my heart,” his mother said.

John reached out and laid a thumb over the
pulse in her wrist. Her skin felt warm, not clammy like he might
have expected. Her cheeks were pink and her pulse seemed
strong.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked.

“Better now that you’re here,” she said.
“Maybe I should just go home, John.”

Rosie stepped forward. “You haven’t had your
dinner yet. Why don’t you just sit a spell with us and eat a little
something.”