Splitting Harriet Read online

  Oh Lord, deliver us from—

  Okay, not evil. “Disaster,” I whisper.

  “You okay, Harri?”

  I whip my head around and warm to Stephano’s smile. “Yes! Just… watching.”

  Smile turning sympathetic, he lays a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry. I’m watching out for First Grace’s interests.”

  I know there’s something I want to ask him, but his touch glitches the synapses in my brain. Not that I have a crush on him. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  No sooner does he start down the aisle than I remember my question about his involvement in the decision to push up the timetable to transition to a contemporary form of worship. Oh well. He’s probably just going along with Pastor Paul. Must pick and choose one’s battles and all that.

  A moment later, Bea enters through the side door. Speaking of battles…

  She gives the pianist, Blake Baldwin, a nod, then crosses to her organ. Ignoring the four young musicians who are at their instruments, she settles onto her bench.

  As the organ breathes its first breath straight out of the hymnal, the younger members’ excitement fizzles. In contrast, the senior adults go from unsettled to calm.

  I push off the back wall and join those filing down the far right aisle.

  “Harri?”

  I look around and see Pastor Paul’s wife. “Leah.”

  “Could I speak with you a minute?”

  As much as I hate being among the last to take a seat lest my tardiness reflect on my commitment to God, I reason that if the pastor’s wife is willing to endure tut-tutting, the ex-pastor’s daughter should be so brave. “All right.” I follow her out into the gathering area, which is populated by the usual “lobby lizards” (those inclined to socialize and imbibe coffee while the rest of us imbibe God’s Word).

  Leah glances around to be certain we’re out of earshot, then meets my gaze. “I want to thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Agreeing to support Paul in making changes at First Grace.”

  “Oh.” I cast back two nights to my exchange with her husband. I told him I’d do what I could, but I clarified that it was dependent on the best interests of the seniors. And I nearly restate this, but the light in Leah’s eyes makes me pull back for fear of extinguishing it. She actually appears happy.

  “Thank you,” she says again.

  “You’re welcome. I’m sure he’ll do what’s best for everyone.”

  Her smile increases. “You have no idea how much First Grace means to our family.”

  I don’t, but her sincerity allows a glimpse of something beyond the solemn face she usually presents. It’s as if everything is riding on the transformation of First Grace. I suppose that means we have something in common.

  She nods toward the sanctuary, the doors of which are now closed. “Should we see if we can slip in undetected?”

  “We can try.”

  R.T., head of maintenance and self-appointed guardian of the sanctuary, grows visibly discomfited at our approach. Doubtless, he’s weighing whether or not to suggest we use a side entrance.

  Taking pity on him, I draw alongside Leah. “It’ll be easier to slip in through a side door.”

  “Oh, certainly.” She alters course, and shortly, we step into the sanctuary to the tune of “Amazing Grace.” Though I rolled my eyes when I heard it as a teenager, it has been my favorite since my return to the fold—the words “saved a wretch like me” and “once was lost, but now am found” really get my emotions churning.

  Leah steps past me. “Amazing Grace,” she mutters on a sigh. She doesn’t add, “again,” but I know that’s what she means.

  Do not take it personally. After all, she probably hasn’t been through anything like you’ve been through and wouldn’t understand the significance of that ageless hymn. For her sake, I hope she never does.

  She slips into a pew next to her thirteen-year-old daughter, Anna, who at times reminds me of a younger me. And this is one of those times. As Leah places a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and leans in, Anna shrugs away. The point of contention becomes obvious when Anna flashes a resentful look and jerks earbuds from under her long, dark blond hair.

  Leah’s shoulders stiffen, and I feel her pain as if my own—rather, my mother’s. Unfortunately, a better understanding of “Amazing Grace” may be in store for her after all. And for the merest moment, I long to reach out to Anna, to let her know someone understands what it’s like being under the church’s microscope. But I don’t really know her, and besides, it’s none of my business.

  Spotting a seat four pews from the front, I walk past the older set who sing with reverent countenances and the younger ones whose hands are thrust heavenward, as if to snatch all of God’s blessings for themselves. Just an observation…

  I slide into the pew and nod at the young couple who shift in to allow me more space, then scan the Sunday bulletin. The page number for “Amazing Grace” is listed, and I quickly retrieve the hymnal from the seat pocket. Though I know the words by heart, there’s something comforting about holding a hymnal—especially since it won’t be long before they’re removed in favor of words projected on a screen.

  As the last verse passes my lips, I stare up at our stained-glass Jesus. Will he stay? Or will he be phased out like the organ? I know it’s just glass and Jesus will be present regardless of whether or not this particular image of Him remains, but I ache at the thought of not seeing his arms stretched wide—as will the others who’ve spent years of Sundays gazing up at him.

  Bea launches into another song, and I look left and right and pick out a dozen of my father’s elderly flock. A moment later, I catch sight of the man in front of Mr. and Mrs. Feterall. Maddox has claimed the end seat of the right front pew. My pew—at least, according to the plaque screwed into the seat back.

  I groan. Fortunately, the sound is lost amid the mournful tide of music piped out by Bea’s organ. Dare I hope Pastor Paul’s buddy won’t notice the one-by-three-inch brass plaque engraved with my name and birth date? That its edges won’t dig into his back? That its cool surface relative to the wood won’t draw his attention? Of course, if he hangs around long enough, eventually he’ll ask about it. Everyone does.

  To my dismay, Bea plays through the hymn only to start back at the beginning. The pianist’s mouth is ajar and his hands are frozen over the keys. As for the younger set, they exchange glances. Then there’s Maddox. From his arms crossed over his chest to the tilt of his head, he’s in observation mode. The congregation plods through the hymn, and as it once more nears its end, I sense a dark air of anticipation: will she or won’t she?

  She does, which is unheard of. Sure, occasionally she plays through a hymn again, but it’s always at the end of a service to allow more time for those coming forward for prayer, salvation, or membership in the church.

  Again, the hymn nears its end, and I look from the determined set of Bea’s face to Blake Baldwin. Not only does he wear an equally determined look, but his fingers are poised above the keys, ready to pounce. And pounce they do. The moment the organ pipes out its last note, the piano looses its first, and with more gusto than most of us are accustomed to.

  Though I don’t doubt Bea is tempted to go head-to-head with the piano, she curls her fingers into her palms. Close call.

  As Blake plays through his version of the classic hymn, more hands shoot up, and I’m certain the younger families are giving thanks for the cessation of Bea’s organ. Judging by her flush of color, the message is received loud and clear.

  I tense in anticipation of her storming off the platform, but she just sits there. Even when Blake finishes the hymn and reaches to a microphone atop the piano—the likes of which I’ve never seen—she doesn’t move.

  “Good morning, First Grace!” He greets the congregation with the air of someone who does this every Sunday, which he doesn’t…or didn’t. Why do I have this sneaking suspicion First Grace will soon be acquiring a
music pastor?

  “We’re glad to have you join us in worshiping almighty God. Today we have a treat for you.” He smiles over his shoulder at the band. “As you know, First Grace is in the process of revitalizing this God-fearing congregation in order to better reach the unchurched in our community as Christ would have us do.”

  He glances to the right, and I follow his gaze and catch Maddox’s almost imperceptible nod. So that’s how it is.

  “One of the ways we hope to bring the gospel to those who are lost is through music. So in response to the needs of our community and our members’ requests, we’re pleased to provide a sample of the power of contemporary music to move the soul. But first, let’s show our appreciation for our beloved organist, Beatrice Dawson.”

  She looks around as the congregation applauds, then rises and crosses to the side door.

  “Please be seated,” Blake says as the applause fades.

  Overwhelmed by dread over the racket about to invade the sanctuary and sympathy for Bea who, doubtless, won’t be joining us, I lower to the pew.

  “Exciting times for First Grace,” Blake says as the guitars, drums, electric keyboard, and his piano lay into it. And my response frightens me. Though I clasp my hands, the longing for unbridled rhythm that was born in the midst of my rebellion lifts its head to sniff the air. This is how it started—with Christian rock, then non-Christian rock, then punk, then heavy metal, then those I began to relate to and allow to influence me, then cigarettes and alcohol, belly piercing, tattoos, boyfriends…

  Forcing a composed face, I rise and walk down the aisle toward the doors that seem a long way off. And longer yet when I become aware of the speculative gazes following me. At last, I step into the gathering area.

  Lord, am I messed up or what?

  Too late I remember the lobby lizards, but they’re gone. On one hand I’m relieved, on the other resentful, as I’m certain it’s the music that moved them from their coffeepots into the sanctuary. “Fine,” I mutter and start toward my office, only to falter when I pass the glass doors that lead to the parking lot. As Bea heads for her car, I push through the doors and call to her.

  She halts, and even from a distance, I can see her eyes are moist. “You okay, Bea?” I come around her car.

  She clutches her purse to her chest. “It’s over, Harri. The First Grace your father and his faithful built is gone, just as Edward’s gone—”

  She catches her breath at her husband’s name. Widowhood has been painful for Bea, whose world was wrapped up in her childless marriage to a man who adored her, warts and all. She juts her chin toward the church. “God doesn’t dwell here anymore.”

  “That’s not true. First Grace is just… changing.” How I wish I believed that. “God is still here.”

  “Where? In that…that…” She growls, causing her extra half chin to jiggle. “That heathen music? Which, I needn’t remind you, put you on the road to ruin, not to mention your dear mother and father.”

  No, she needn’t remind me. Nor that she’s one of the few who hasn’t forgiven me. “Please don’t walk away.”

  “Why not? If my organ is to be taken from me, what’s left?”

  “God.” My response surprises me, yet it shouldn’t. Like me, she can’t deny that Pastor Paul’s sermons are moving. In fact, before he began implementing changes, I once saw her hand jerk up from her side. For a moment, it appeared it might go all the way.

  “Bea, you know the organ needs to be fully restored. It was twenty years old when First Grace purchased it thirty years ago.” Wow. Keep going, girl. Maybe you’ll convince yourself! “It’s too expensive, especially as the organ’s being phased out and, six months from now, will only be used on special occasions.”

  “Precisely! If not for those electric monstrosities, there’d be no question about restoring it—no matter the cost! If you think I’m going to sit quietly by while the powers that be phase out my organ, you don’t know me.” She fumbles through her keys and starts jabbing at the lock with one. “Wrong key.” She fumbles some more and returns to her jabbing.

  She’s in no state to accept help, just as she’s in no state to drive the short distance to the mobile home park, and I lay a hand over hers. “Let me.”

  If looks could kill… But then her face crumples and eyes flood.

  Risking rejection, I give her a hug. “I’ll drive you home.”

  She nods.

  Before she can come to her surly senses, I bundle her into the passenger side; however, as I slide into the driver’s seat, she shakes her head. “I don’t want to go home. Take me to my brother’s house.”

  Which is a couple of miles up the road. No longer expecting her to settle into her favorite armchair with a glass of sweetened iced tea, I inwardly groan. Guess I won’t be staffing the women’s ministry table between services and Sunday school, or sitting in on the widows class. Of course, I’ll hear about it, as well as my exit from worship, but right now Bea’s in need.

  Despite Bea’s brother’s urging that I call a cab after he and I spent an hour calming her, I declined. After all, it’s a beautiful day and her brother’s house is less than two miles from the mobile home park. An easy walk, except in heels and near-ninety-degree weather. At least I’m wearing slacks and a light blouse, and a mile back I abandoned the heels that now swing from one hand beside my purse.

  When I pass by First Grace, I glance over my shoulder at the parking lot, which is beginning to stir with those leaving Sunday school classes. And once more, regret lodges in my emotions. I’m not sure I would have been able to return to the sanctuary had I not taken Bea to her brother’s, but I would have liked to be around to gauge how well the new instruments were received. Of course, it’s not as if I won’t hear about it. In fact, I’m sure there will be messages on my answering machine. With that thought, I step up my pace.

  A moment later, my right heel lands on a rock amid the scrubby grass bordering the road. Fortunately, I’m one of those “barefoot” women, yet not of the pregnant-in-the-kitchen variety. Thus, my feet are calloused and holding up fairly well.

  Shortly, a car passes and honks, and I raise a hand. Turning onto the road that fronts the mobile home park, I set my sights on the entrance bordered by flowers planted by the residents. As always, I get a toasty feeling as I pass between the pillars. I love living here, as I’ve done since that night Harriet and Pam rescued me from myself. This is home—no loud parties beside, above, or below. No young, uninhibited neighbors. No loudmouthed music. Which reminds me, I will have to talk to Jack Butterby’s grandson, since I’m sure I’m not the only one he awakened last night. Sweet of him to visit, but that motorcycle of his!

  Speaking of which…I looked around as I neared Harriet’s mobile home, and coming through the entrance on a chrome-y gunned-up machine is not Jack Butterby’s grandson. Unless he’s bought a new motorcycle and lost about fifty pounds.

  I squint to see into the helmet, but the face shield is tinted.

  The motorcycle slows as it nears, and it’s then I notice the arm around the motorcyclist’s waist and a head over his shoulder. The passenger is Jack, but that’s not his grandson driving. I believe that’s our new neighbor.

  Flushed with awareness of my appearance—from my dusty feet and pant hems, to my light blouse that perspiration causes to cling to places best left unclung—I groan.

  The motorcycle draws alongside, and as Jack calls out a greeting from the depths of his helmet, the motorcyclist lifts his face shield.

  Nope, that wasn’t Jack’s grandson last night or yesterday morning. It had to have been Maddox.

  “Hello, Harri.”

  “Hi.”

  He slides his gaze down me, which falters at about the level of my chest where my blouse clings, then jerks to my bare feet, which he stares at with an intensity unwarranted by dusty toes. “Had a nice walk?”

  The strain in his voice sounds as if he barely made it to the other side of temptation and wants badly to look over hi
s shoulder. Even if it means being turned into a pillar of salt. Though part of me recoils at arousing the man in him, another part is tempted to tempt him more, despite my absence of attraction for him. That would be the “bad” Harri who, I don’t doubt, is lying in wait.

  Dear God, You know I don’t want to be that Harri again. Lead him—and me—not into temptation. Please!

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I had a very nice walk.”

  “Done told you, Maddox. She went after poor Bea.” Jack flashes his dentures at me. “I’m guessing she had you drive her to her brother’s.”

  “Yes.”

  Maddox considers my toes a moment longer, then takes the long way around my chest—swinging right and looping up to look me in the eyes. “How is our organist?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “Will she be back?”

  “Of course. You thought otherwise?” Or should I say hoped?

  “She’s upset with the pending removal of the organ, and I worried that she might do something drastic.”

  Really? Or is he just saying what he thinks I—and Jack—want to hear? “She’ll be back next Sunday.” No need to tell him that getting the commitment out of her was roughly equivalent to getting her to surrender her Medicare card. But providing Pastor Paul doesn’t further alienate her, First Grace still has an organist, like it or not. I only hope she doesn’t pull the three-times-through-a-laborious-hymn thing again.

  “Thank you for seeing her home and speaking with her,” Maddox says. As if I did him a favor. As if my heart had nothing to do with it. I know I’m being overly sensitive, but I feel like a cat whose fur is being rubbed the wrong way.

  “No problem.” I shift my attention to Jack’s long, wrinkled face beneath the helmet. “So what did you think of the new instruments?”

  His motorcycle-induced enthusiasm falters. “Can’t say I liked them.”

  Ha!

  “But can’t say I didn’t like them either.”

  Oh.

  “I suppose it’s good for the young uns, though. They seemed to enjoy it.”