Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (41 page)

Joy sorely missed the elderly Reverend and Mrs. Younker. They’d been fine neighbors, and she longed for those chats she used to have with the preacher’s wife across the churchyard when they both went out to their gardens to pull weeds or check on their vegetables. The woman always asked after Annie and made a point to drop over every now and again with a plate of fresh-baked muffins or a loaf of bread still warm from the oven. Naturally, Joy would reciprocate, with a fruit pie or a chocolate layer cake. The reverend had liked to say that if it weren’t for his wife’s fine cooking and Joy’s magnificent desserts, he’d be trim as any twenty-year-old. As it was, the old fellow wheezed with every step and had obvious trouble keeping his belly bulge contained in his pants.

Joy had long known that retirement lurked on the horizon; she just hadn’t wanted to see it come to fruition. Not that she’d ever listened to one of the reverend’s sermons, unless she counted the times she’d sat rocking on her tiny front porch on a hot summer Sunday and heard snippets through the church’s wide-open windows.

Her parents had raised her to go to church, even though church attendance was more a ritual than anything, but a sordid past now kept her from it altogether. Women with sordid pasts didn’t go to church, did they? Shoot, women with sordid pasts didn’t even have many friends to speak of. Perhaps that was why she missed the Younkers so much. They’d always treated her with utmost kindness and respect, never condemning her for failing to attend church. Why, the reverend had even said she needn’t come to church at all to experience the Lord’s forgiveness; she could kneel right down in her own living room, if she had a mind to—but she didn’t. Not yet, anyway.

She knew that the Reverend and Mrs. Younker worried over her soul, for they’d promised to pray for her and Annie every day going forward. She still recalled the day she and had Annie stood on her front stoop, waving their hands like two flags, as the couple drove off, their wagon chock-full of trunks containing their earthly possessions, and headed south to live nearer their three grown children.

Joy dabbed at the silly dampness collecting in the corners of her eyes. My, one would think she’d gone soft as a down pillow. She pulled up her skirts and approached her daughter. “Time to go inside, dumplin’. It’s gettin’ plenty cold out here.”

“Aww. Me an’ Dorothy wants t’ keep playin’.”

Lately, it seemed that Annie’s invisible friend always played some role in her playtime. “I know, but I got t’ check on my soup, and I ain’t leavin’ you outside by yourself. ’Sides, it’s feelin’ like somethin’ might be brewin’ in the air.”

The fair-haired child squinted up at her. “Brewin’—what’s that?”

Joy reached down a hand to pull her daughter up—and got a palm full of mud for her efforts. “It means the weather could be takin’ a bad turn.” They mounted the steps together and entered the little house. She would have to stoke the fire to warm up the space. Good gracious, she’d thought she was done using the chimney for the season, but apparently, she’d been premature in hoping it. Mother Nature often played dirty tricks on gullible folks.

Before closing the door behind her, she let her eyes meander to the little church, where she caught a glimpse of the new preacher in his black suit and satin tie, stepping out of the door and taking his place at the top of the steps, in preparation for bidding his church family a good week. He was a fine-looking man, to be sure, with his dark hair; deep, cavernous eyes; broad shoulders, and towering physique—too darned handsome for a preacher, in her estimation. Glory, no man of the cloth ought to have such striking features. It was a wonder the female parishioners even listened to a word he said; for all she knew, they didn’t. They certainly did swarm him like a band of bees. Why, word had it that the congregation had multiplied many times over in the past months, mostly due to the spinsters who traveled from miles around for a chance to meet the new minister—the handsome, unmarried, thirty-something minister. Disgraceful, that’s what it was. Imagine going to church just to set your eyes on a tall, dark, and handsome preacher.

She latched her door with a louder-than-necessary click. It would be a hot day in the Arctic before she ever stooped so low.

***

Lucas Jennings sucked in a breath and prepared for the onslaught of female visitors who were sure to introduce themselves at the end of the service, based on his experience every Sunday since he’d started here. He’d seen at least half a dozen unfamiliar female faces this morning. There would be some batting eyelashes, a curtsy or two, and several white-gloved hands reaching out to give his hand an extra long squeeze, each woman hopeful to catch his eye in a special way. He had been ministering at Paris Evangelical Church since October—a full five months—and was sure he’d met every available woman in Henry County and beyond. He knew it would do him well to marry, so he could get on with the business of doing the work to which God had called him—preaching the gospel and serving the needs of others—but he wasn’t about to let that hasten his wedding day. No, when he married, it would be for love alone, and only with the woman whom he knew beyond a doubt God had ordained for him to marry—one with saintly intentions who would serve alongside him in humility of spirit and with a passion to reach the lost sheep of the world—well, maybe not the world, but at least Paris, Tennessee.

So far, Kate Ryerson might fit the bill. One of his parishioners had introduced them at a dinner she’d hosted, having invited both of them with the secret purpose of matchmaking. At first, he’d been put off by the trickery, but he’d found Kate quite pleasant and had followed up with several outings after their initial meeting. So far, he hadn’t found in her a single fault—unless it was her over-zealousness for speeding up the relationship process. She was twenty-nine, and she’d hinted more than once that she wasn’t getting any younger. From what he knew of her, she came from a good, hardworking, God-fearing family, had a heart for the Lord, and exuded warm, friendly personality. Best, she didn’t attend Paris Evangelical Church. Not that he wouldn’t welcome her attendance at some point; but, presently, he wanted to keep their budding relationship private. He did not need the likes of Mrs. Grassmeyer or some other busybody spreading gossip about his personal life with the rest of the congregation. Good grief, he had a job to do—one that demanded an investment of heart and soul. The fewer the distractions, the better!

An unusually cold blast of air accosted him as he stepped out onto the concrete landing. Just last Sunday, he’d stood in the dazzling, seventy-plus-degree sunshine to shake the hands of his parishioners; today, he shivered. He decided to go back inside, but before he could reach the latch to pull the door shut, he noticed a sign in the neighbor lady’s yard that hadn’t been there yesterday. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out what it said, but he couldn’t quite decipher the letters. No doubt, it had something to do with that sewing business she operated from her home. He gave his head a little toss. She was a strange one, that woman—pretty as any picture, as was her little girl, but distant as the rocky shores of the Pacific. Why, he’d never so much as gotten a simple wave out of her when he happened to spot her across the churchyard. It wasn’t as if he wanted or needed her friendship, but he wasn’t accustomed to people—women, in particular—completely ignoring him when all he wanted to do was say hello.

“You best close that door, Reverend. You’ll turn us into pillars of ice.” This came from Alan Potter, one of the church elders who’d served on the pastoral search committee that had hired him.

Lucas reined in his thoughts and shut the door against the frigid winds.

“You’d never believe it was short-sleeve weather just a couple o’ days ago,” remarked Mrs. Potter, a pleasant woman with a pear-shaped body whose gray hair was pulled back into a bun so severe that it nearly ironed the wrinkles right out of her face. She had a big, toothy smile that made up for the dour look.

“’Bout the time y’ think spring’s arrived, we get hit with a cold streak,” Mrs. Mortimer supplied, crowding in for the first handshake of the morning. “Can’t complain, though. Ain’t had but half an inch o’ snow all winter.”

Lucas smiled down at the petite older woman, who would have had to rise up on tiptoe to make five feet. She had a curved spine, which told him she’d seen taller days. He extended his hand as a queue formed behind her. “You’re right as can be, Mrs. Mortimer. Your Tennessee winter was a welcome reprieve for this Michigander. I’m used to digging out from snowdrifts two and three feet deep. I’ll take that half inch and be happy with it.”

She nodded, drawing her coat collar up close around her neck. “Fine sermon, by the way,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Lucas knew his sermons weren’t anything to brag about. Following up a seasoned preacher like Reverend Younker, PEC’s beloved pastor of twenty-some-odd years, proved a tall order to fill. This was only Lucas’s second assignment, his first post having petered out altogether when the small, aging congregation in St. Ignace, Michigan, reached a point at which nearly everyone was too old and feeble to leave home. The small Methodist church had essentially died right along with its parishioners. When he’d read in the
Evangelical Brethren Herald
about a pulpit opening down in Paris, Tennessee, he’d sent his credentials to the powers that be, along with a written essay detailing his Christian testimony, and the next thing he knew, he was hopping a train to a warmer climate and a larger congregation made up of varied ages. Why, they’d even provided him with a parsonage and an actual salary—meager, to be sure, but enough to survive on. Not only that, but if money did get tight before his monthly stipend arrived, the Lord always laid it on someone’s heart to stop by with a covered casserole and some sort of delectable dessert. In his opinion, it couldn’t get much better than that.

Three women approached him together, their smiles as big as half-moons, their eyes gleaming with undisguised interest. All three had their hair done up in braids that wrapped around the tops of their heads like crowns. Their plaid dresses had that hand-sewn look. Nothing wrong with that, but the ill-fitting garments clung to their rotund frames in a none-too-flattering way.

“Morning, ladies,” Lucas greeted them. “Nice to see you in church today.”

They all beamed, the plumpest of the three revealing a large gap between her top front teeth. She snatched his hand and refused to let it go, propelling it up and down like she would a pump handle—and, from the strength of her handshake, he suspected she was used to operating one. “What a fine sermon, Reverend Jennings. Me and m’ sisters been meanin’ t’ come visit y’r church ever since we heard about y—”

The sister standing closer to her elbowed her with gusto, knocking her off balance.

“What she means t’ say is, we heard you was a mighty fine speaker, so we thought we’d come hear f’r ourselves, and I’ll say this—folks sure was right…about your preachin’, that is.”

Lucas forced a polite smile. “Why, thank you kindly.”

“We’re the Harding sisters. You mighta heard of us,” said the third. “We live a fair piece from here, but the drive over didn’t bother us none.”

Lucas had no idea why he might have heard of them, but he let the remark pass. He managed to wrench free of the biggest woman’s clutch, then clasped his hands behind him and dipped his head. “Mighty nice to meet you, uh,…”

“Oh, forgive ar manners, Reverend. I’m Erlene,” said the one with the firm handshake. She nodded to her left. “This here’s Elaine.” And to her right, she gestured at the third. “And this is Arlene.”

Erlene, Elaine, and Arlene. Nice.
Lucas would never remember who was who, but then, perhaps he wouldn’t need to, if they didn’t return. He judged them all to be close in age, probably in their mid- to late thirties. “Well, I thank you ladies for making the drive out. Mighty nice meeting you.” Out of sheer politeness, he focused on the folks next in line, Mr. and Mrs. Milford, and then the Bransons and the Shelhamers. In due time, the sisters made their way to the door, a few thoughtful parishioners greeting them on their way out and inviting them back.

He couldn’t help but hope he’d seen the last of the Harding sisters, much as he knew it wrong to think ill of them.
Lord,
he wondered,
will this weekly parade of women ever slow down?
But, even as he silently asked the question, he spotted yet two more women he’d never seen before, standing at the end of the procession, no doubt hanging back so as to be assured of gaining his full attention.

“Fine sermon, Reverend Jennings.” This from Sam Connors, the local blacksmith. His pretty wife, Mercy, stood next to him, an arm around each of their two boys. By the look of her midsection, she would spit out a baby most any day, not that he knew anything about the birthing process. He liked the couple and had enjoyed himself the times they’d invited him over for Sunday supper. What he wouldn’t give for a handsome family like theirs. Truly, the Lord had blessed them.

Could Kate Ryerson be the woman God had set aside for him? She seemed to have it all—faith, values, eloquence, and a love for God…all qualities any preacher would deem beneficial in a wife. And they did enjoy each other’s company, laughing at many of the same things as they took the occasional evening stroll in her neighborhood. One thing lacked, however, and it had been just this morning, while he got ready for church, that he’d identified what that was: love. He
liked
her plenty, but he wasn’t
in love
with her…not yet, anyway. They’d shared a few kisses, but each of them had left him dissatisfied. Perhaps the Lord would see to it that his feelings for her increased. He knew that she had strong feelings for him, the way she’d started hinting at marriage after a mere handful of dates.

“We’d love to have you over for supper again,” said Mercy, dragging Lucas back to the present. He berated himself for dwelling on other matters when a line of congregants were still waiting to shake his hand.