Splitting Harriet Read online

  He glances around and grins. “With grandma and grandpa watching? No.”

  I glimpse the movement of Lum and Elva’s bedroom curtains, and a smile tugs at my lips. “We watch each other’s backs.”

  Maddox’s gaze drops to my mouth. For a moment, his infuriating grin falters—only to return, broader than ever. “Must make you feel safe.”

  With a grunt, I resume my course. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to finish my walk.”

  He falls into step again. “I don’t mind at all.”

  Great! Of course, under the circumstances, who can fault me for one last indulgence, hmm? I reach into the container. And my elbow brushes his arm.

  “That was you, not me.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “Wouldn’t want to be accused of impropriety.”

  “Then don’t walk so close.”

  But he continues to do so. What could be his motive for strolling a mobile home park with a contentious woman—in slippers, lounge pants, and T-shirt, no less—at ten o’clock at night? I pop the bean in my mouth. Dr Pepper!

  “Any licorice ones in there?”

  So, he likes those nasty black pellets, does he? Figures. “Nope.”

  “Mango?”

  Now that’s creepy. He likes two of the three I can’t stand. What are the chances of that? “Sorry, no mango.”

  “You sure?”

  I shift the container to the opposite arm in case he gets any funny ideas. “Positive. Picked them out this morning in time for garbage pickup.”

  He stops. “You threw them out?”

  “Nobody eats licorice or mango. That would be tantamount to eating brussels sprouts or rutabagas.”

  “Which I do.”

  Is he pulling my leg? Of course he is.

  “Next time, set aside the licorice and mango for me.”

  I will not! And I almost say it. What is wrong with me? Why such meanspirited thoughts?

  But I know the answer. Maddox represents change that threatens to rip out the stitches in the darned-and-patched fabric of Harriet Bisset, who launched into open rebellion with pumped-up music, shrunken hemlines, a get-with-the-times-or-be-left-behind attitude, and a loose interpretation of the Bible that was eventually abandoned altogether. Not only did I pay for abandoning my faith, but my family paid, including my brother, Tyler, who still isn’t talking to me much beyond the obligatory “hey,” despite having come to my rescue that night.

  “Okay?” Maddox says.

  “What?” I blink. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Glad to hear it, but I was asking for confirmation that you’ll save the licorice and mango for me.”

  Figures. “If I remember. Of course, it could be a while. This was my allotment for the month.”

  “I can wait.”

  That could be a very long wait.

  We walk in silence to the end of Red Sea, and as we turn onto Jericho Road, he says, “What’s your favorite flavor?”

  Thinks he’s connected with me, does he? “Tossup between coconut and margarita.”

  “I like margarita, but you can keep the coconut—tastes like soap.”

  “It does not!”

  He jerks his chin. “Does too.”

  “You—”

  I cannot believe we’re arguing about this. Doing an about-face, I put over my shoulder, “This has to be the stupidest conversation I’ve ever had.”

  “I’ve had more intelligent ones myself.” He pulls alongside. “But I believe this one has served its purpose.”

  “Purpose?”

  “Broke the ice.”

  With rolling eyes, I turn back onto Red Sea. “Do you ice skate, Mr. McCray?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me tell you what happens when pond ice breaks: what starts out as a good time becomes tragic as those near the break go down into the icy depths. Not a pretty sight. In fact, deadly.”

  He closes a hand over my arm, causing me to startle so hard I nearly drop my Jelly Bellys. “You’re really set on disliking me.”

  I look into his features, framed by hair that the streetlight at his back casts a golden light around. “Where relationships are concerned, I’ve learned the hard way to be cautious. I don’t take ‘breaking the ice’ lightly.”

  His semipermanent grin drops off the edge of his face, and he releases me. “You don’t have many friends other than the older set, do you?”

  I open my mouth to protest but close it at the realization that what nearly came out was “ouch.” Not that I don’t have friends my own age, but they’re a select few, and I keep them at arm’s length. I know it’s wrong, but I put store in the advice of the infamous Diane de Poitiers, who said, “To have a good enemy, choose a friend. He knows where to strike.” Something I learned the hard way as a disillusioned teenager.

  “You’re head of women’s ministry.” Maddox yanks me back to this year, this moment. “That’s not just older ladies, but the younger ones whose needs are not being met. They require more than in-depth Old Testament studies, quilting circles, and oldies-but-goodies movie nights. They need programs that embrace old and young, programs tailored to their ages. And some just need a friend.”

  Though I’m trying not to flinch, inside I’m spasming. Not only because I’ve been tongue-whipped, but because he’s right. I have put in place a couple of programs for the younger set, but it has been a halfhearted endeavor. And not very well received.

  Oh Lord, I’ve become a stumbling block, haven’t I?

  “Now that the ice is broken,” Maddox continues, “let me say this: by the time I leave First Grace, you and I will either know each other well or hardly at all.”

  In other words, “So long, Susan.” Er… Harri.

  Lord, please help me not to become my own worst enemy. Again.

  “Do you understand the situation? That we’re going to be working together, not against each other?”

  Longing to immerse myself in one of my God’s Promises books (and I own several Scripture for Every Dilemma offerings), I say, “As I told Pastor Paul, I’ll do what I can to help First Grace accommodate its younger families and to help its older set to adjust—to the extent my conscience allows.” Oh, why did I have to toss in that last bit?

  He scrutinizes my face. “I assure you, neither I nor Brother Paul would ask you to compromise your God-given conscience.”

  God-given. Just to remind me of the difference between my wants and desires and what he and Pastor Paul believe to be God’s. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “And I’m glad you’re willing to work with me to equip First Grace to better reach its community.”

  I force a smile. “As Pastor Paul said, I’m all yours.” Why didn’t I reword that?!

  His mouth softens. “That’s right. You’re all mine, Harri.”

  Something about the way he wraps his tongue around my name causes a shiver to flit across my skin. Why did I give him permission to call me Harri?

  “At least the part of you that belongs to the women’s ministry.” He steps back. “I’ll see you at tomorrow’s meeting. Good night.”

  As he crosses to the other side of Red Sea, I frown. Where is he going?

  He glances over his shoulder. “Thank you for walking me home.”

  Realization hits so hard that had the blow landed in the center of my face, it would have shoved my nose back into my brain. I look beyond him to the mobile home that is used to lodge First Grace’s guest speakers.

  No. Oh no!

  Harri’s Log: • 1 day until the Invasion (drums and guitars)

  • 6 days until the first rerun of The Coroner

  • 28 days until Jelly Belly replenishment (must be strong)

  • 212 days until the completion of Bible #8

  It is not good for woman to sleep alone, especially after a day like yesterday. Thus, when I awaken, I am not alone. Sharing my full-size bed is the sweetest… cutest… tastiest… most satisfying—

  As the clock radio belts out a Bill Haley and His Comets tune,
I cuddle closer and give my overnight companion a little shake. But no rattle. No roll. Opening my eyes, I focus on the container clasped to my chest. Empty. Devoid of every last Jelly Belly. Of course, there is the bit stuck in my lower molar. Cotton candy?

  I push onto an elbow and grimace at the sight of my bed that evidences my late-night search through God’s Word: tissue box, crumpled tissues, highlighter, sticky-tab dispenser, God’s Word translation, and four little God’s Promises books that range in color from black to fluorescent orange.

  I reach to the latter, only to jerk at the pain behind my eyes. Ugh. Hangover. But it has nothing to do with the empty half-liter bottle on the bedside table, the contents of which I downed before I started on the tissue box.

  No, not alcohol—been there, done that. This was club soda. Big, nose-tripping bubbles that expensive sparkling water can’t compare with. As for the hangover, while the Jelly Bellys probably contributed, the crying fits are the real culprit.

  Grateful I don’t have to be at the café until nine for Saturday’s “sleep-in” crowd, I stand gingerly lest I jostle my brain. Halfway to the bathroom, I catch the sinfully deep rumble of a motorcycle and feel my hangover lighten. Jack Butterby’s grandson must be visiting. Though the young man doesn’t get out to Franklin often, his visits always lift up Jack. Doubtless, tomorrow will be a good Sunday for the elderly man, at least until the drums and guitars start up. Unfortunately, Jack isn’t one of the lucky ones who wear a hearing aid that will enable him to dial down the volume.

  I snort. Lucky. Never would have thought of hearing loss as something to be desired.

  Hoping to catch a glimpse of Jack on the back of his grandson’s motorcycle, I start for the window only to veer toward the bathroom when the club soda presses urgently on my bladder.

  Moments later, the rumble of the motorcycle recedes. If they’re heading for Gloria’s Morning Café, they’ll be gone by the time I get there. It’s an hour before my shift—an hour I badly need, not only to allow aspirin and a hot shower to work out my kinks, but to spend time in God’s Word, as I do every morning.

  Forty-five minutes later, clad in a pink top and beige capris, shoulder-length hair pulled back in a ponytail, makeup camouflaging last night’s wretchedness, my commitment to God’s Word kept, I climb aboard my mountain bike.

  Lum and Elva, whose mobile home is across the street, pause amid their weeding to call out a greeting. I raise a hand, then pedal down Red Sea Lane in the direction of First Grace’s guest mobile home. As I near Maddox’s new residence, I start to avert my gaze—nearly impossible owing to the pink flamingos that line the walk and the potted artificial shrubs that border the lawn—but Mrs. Feterall is out front walking her cat.

  I brake alongside the sixty-five-year-old woman. “How are you feeling today, Mrs. Feterall?”

  She fingers the blue silk scarf wound around her head, which conceals her chemo-induced hair loss. “It’s been a good week, Harri.”

  Pucker, her earless cat—well, he has ears, but you can hardly see them—pads between her ankles, wiggles his rear, and settles to the grass.

  I lay a hand on Mrs. Feterall’s arm. “Anything I can do?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  “Ah! More of my chicken and dumplings.” Which is one of the foods she’s able to keep down. Not because of any culinary talent I possess, but because it’s bland. All my dishes are bland. Simply put, I’m a “no spice” girl, which keeps these taste buds in top form (the better to enjoy Jelly Bellys).

  “Your chicken and dumplings would be nice, Harri, but—”

  A friendly bark is followed by the appearance of a fox terrier from down the street. He passes between me and Mrs. Feterall and, a moment later, is doing his business on his favorite pink flamingo.

  Mrs. Feterall nods at the mobile home behind. “What I’d really like is to know if we have a guest speaker this Sunday.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what exactly, or should I say who?”

  While I wasn’t told to keep Maddox under wraps, and he did meet with Bea and other residents last night, I’m reluctant to talk about First Grace hiring a consultant. After all, it isn’t my place. Or is it? Maybe Mrs. Feterall ought to be warned—at least about the drums and guitars, since she doesn’t require hearing aids any more than Jack Butterby. Stop it, you slippery little stumbling block!

  “Stop that!” Mrs. Feterall snaps, and I startle. But it’s Pucker she’s talking to. Pucker, who’s gnawing on his lavender rhinestone leash.

  Mrs. Feterall gives the leash a tug, and I look up. “What happened to his black spiked leash and collar?”

  “Mr. Feterall says he misplaced them, but I think he tossed them out. He kept saying it didn’t seem right walking a cat on a leash designed for a pit bull.”

  I’m with Mr. Feterall. Black leather and spikes, of which I saw my share during my rebellion, send the wrong message.

  Another tug and the leash is freed from Pucker’s teeth. Mrs. Feterall groans. “He nearly chewed it through.” After a moment, she nods at the guest mobile home. “Come on, Harri, I know you know.” She lifts her penciled-in eyebrows. “Mr. Feterall saw you two strolling down Red Sea last night.”

  Him too? Though it’s only a matter of time before the grapevine about Pastor Paul and Maddox’s visit with Bea makes it to this side of the park, I singsong, “Sorry, but a surprise is a surprise.” Progress, Harri! I give Mrs. Feterall’s arm a pat. “I’ll bring chicken and dumplings for Sunday supper.”

  “All right, dear.”

  I push off and, as I pedal past the guest mobile home, glance right. But I catch no sight of a face in the window, no stirring of curtains, and no car in the carport. For all appearances, Maddox isn’t “home.” So maybe I could have told her—

  Lord, help me!

  I’m overworked, frazzled, and harried.

  Oh, that’s funny. Harri-ed. Not that I haven’t heard it before, but it’s a good sign that I’m able to laugh at myself.

  “The Marigold table’s yours.” Gloria passes me on the way to the arbor beneath which her hostess stand is set.

  I glance at the table draped with a marigold-splashed tablecloth and am relieved that the three elderly gentlemen aren’t members of First Grace. Over the past two hours, Gloria’s Morning Café has seen more than its share of residents from the mobile home park, and every single one wants my opinion on either the church consultant living among them or the state of the organ.

  “Thanks, Gloria,” I call. And I mean it. Harried or not, I need all the tips I can get in the event I’m fired from First Grace. After all, despite good intentions and time spent in God’s Word, I know me. When it comes to Dad’s church and the older members who stuck beside him—and me!—all these years, there’s a good chance I’ll stumble. Thus, if my savings account is to remain intact alongside the dream for which it’s earmarked, I need to sock away more money.

  Straightening from the Rose table I was helping clear, I look around the café. Another year and all this will be mine. Mentally hugging the promise Gloria made years ago when I gave my all to help turn around her declining business, I settle my gaze on the new busgirl, who stares at me from behind thick glasses.

  “Think you can get the rest of it, Melody?”

  “Uh…” She frowns at the bin into which I’ve stacked dishes. “Yeah, Har…ri.”

  Har…ri—that’s how she says my name in her thick, Down syndrome speech.

  My heart tugs. Though when Gloria hired Melody she said there was to be no coddling—that we shouldn’t underestimate the young woman’s abilities—two days ago she dropped a stack of dishes and was mortified to tears.

  The Marigold table can wait. I scoop the last of the dishes into the bin. “I’ll get this to the kitchen.” I smile. “You wipe up, okay?”

  She gives an answering smile shot through with sunshine. “Okay.”

  Halfway across the dining room, I’m overtaken by fellow waitress Lisa, who lo
cks on me with bottomless blue eyes and mutters, “Coddler.”

  As we step into the kitchen, I narrow my lids at her. “So are you.”

  “Yeah, but I’m discreet. Speaking of which, how does your back feel?”

  I startle. I didn’t tell her about the Jelly Belly disaster. How did she find out about the fall I took? Or did she? I lower the bin to the counter alongside the commercial dishwasher. “What about my back?”

  She gazes down at me from her two-inch advantage over my five-foot-nine figure. “Just curious as to how deep Gloria’s poisonous looks sank.”

  Oh. So the boss caught me coddling Melody. “I guess we’ll know soon enough.” Pulling out my order pad, I sidestep the assistant cook as he lumbers past with a bag of cantaloupes.

  “Harri?” Lisa calls. “What’s going on at First Grace?”

  Picked up on it, did she? Was it the mobile home park crowd or me? I’m tempted to confide, but I know better. After all, though Lisa and her family no longer attend First Grace, they were there when the trouble started that nearly led to a split. Not major players, but players. “When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

  She catches her face before it falls—just as she does each time she offers the hand of friendship, and the best I can do is brush her fingertips. “All right, Harri, but if you want to talk, give me a call.”

  “You bet.” I hustle out of the kitchen and into Gloria’s path.

  The robust, older woman halts before me and raises her eyebrows.

  I sigh. “I know. No coddling.”

  “She can do it, Harri. If you want to help her—don’t. Just show her you believe in her, and she’ll start to believe in herself.”

  She’s right. I made too big of a deal over the dropped-bin incident, bundling Melody off to the kitchen rather than assisting her with the cleanup. “Okay.”

  Gloria smoothes her sleek cap of silvered hair and glances around. “Marigold’s waiting and now Daisy. So get out there and make us some money, hmm?”

  Us. I like the sound of that.

  As she turns toward her hostess stand, I look at the daisy-covered table, where sits the hip Chip Gairdt, the first hire Pastor Paul made when he took over First Grace. As usual, he seems out of place in a café frequented largely by senior citizens.