Reinventing Leona (17 page)

While the entire community of Mt. Hope regularly overlooked Roxie’s affinity for dramatic overstatement, she did not have that luxury. Leona’s blood pressure rose like a teakettle over a high flame, pushing her up from her seat. “What’s wrong with what I have on?”

“For starters?”

“Well, that’s as good a place as any.”

“No one has worn Peter Pan collars in fifteen years.”

“I’m afraid to spend any money before Saul gets J.D.’s affairs in order.”

“You wait around for your lawyer to settle with the insurance company, and you’ll be out on the street with nothing but your resoled shoes.”

Leona dragged the top of her worn navy slip-on across the back of her leg. “Roxie, I don’t think the board will ask me to leave the parsonage until I’m ready.”

“Then where will they put the new pastor?”

Good question, but a better question would be, where would they put their old pastor’s wife? Visions of crawling back to her mother’s guest apartment over her three-car garage hammered Leona between the eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “The search process will take months. I don’t think the board is in any hurry.”

“So Howard insisting you find work was merely a suggestion? Something to keep your mind off your troubles?”

“He’s right. I’m going to need a job. We barely have a dime in savings.”

“Just because I’m a dyed-in-the wool Episcopalian, don’t think I don’t understand the depths to which a desperate Baptist can sink. I’d bet the store that Howard is not about to let you sit in the parsonage and collect dust.” Roxie stood and shook her finger. “Any man that would put an end to the livelihood of the handicapped is gonna want you out so the new preacher can move in. Then what’s to become of you, Leona Harper?”

“Fortunately, Howard does not have the only vote. Harold and Hank are good Christian men. They’ll see that I’m treated right.”

“Wake up, Leona.” Roxie slapped her well-toned thighs. “Those two puppets wouldn’t know an opening prayer from a closing one. Howard pulls their strings, and they vote exactly how he wants. It’s time you grew a backbone and told that grumpy old so-and-so he can take his key to this dilapidated old parsonage and shove it where—”

“Roxie, please. Antagonizing the board chairman is hardly the best route to take at this moment.” Leona’s knees gave out, dropping her to the couch. “I need time to figure out what in the world I’m going to do with my life. I’ve been a preacher’s wife for thirty years and now . . . what am I? The only skills I can list on a résumé are Sunday school teacher and potluck planner. I doubt there’s a big market for calculating the gallons of tea Ivan and Modyne might drink in a month down at the
Messenger
.”

Roxie plopped beside Leona. “Girlfriend, I refuse to allow you to sell yourself short. You are proof that it takes two men a week to get done what one good woman can do in an afternoon. Once you’re not pouring every ounce of your energy into that church, things will start to fall apart. Then Howard will figure out what a wonder you are and how lucky he was to have you for the past eighteen years.”

“Let’s hope Ivan agrees. I want to have some kind of a job before the kids come home for Christmas and Mother gets out of rehab.” Leona patted Roxie’s hand. “I know you’re just looking out for my best interests, but I don’t have it in me to fight over this house right now.”

“Then I’ll do your fighting until—”

Leona shook her head. “It’s not your battle . . . it’s mine.” She watched her friend sort through the limited options. “You’ve seen all the casseroles crammed in the fridge. There are plenty of good folks who will not allow Howard to throw me out until I’ve had a chance to get on my feet.”

Tears glistened in Roxie’s eyes. “You’re going to end up banging on Bertie’s door.”

Leona clenched her jaw, heaving her pocketbook strap over her shoulder. “I’ll live on the street before I move in with Mother.” She rose, then marched toward the front door. “Tater, stay. Momma’s got to get a job.”

A familiar voice stopped Leona’s I-mean-business exit in midstride. She scanned the room, convinced she’d heard J.D.’s distinctive baritone proclaiming God would not allow more than a faithful servant could bear.
Easy for him to say, but where was he when the cabbages levitated on aisle three?

She checked the television. Muted. She glanced at Roxie’s satisfied smirk. Not a word. And finally Tater, his tongue lolling from the corner of his upturned face. If she thought the dog spoke, maybe she was losing her mind. But then talking canines were no more far-fetched than this sudden inexplicable conviction that she could actually land a real, paying job.

Chapter Fourteen

Thirty minutes later, Leona stood in the middle of Roxie’s posh master bedroom clutching a file folder containing two copies of a still-smoking, freshly printed résumé. “I don’t think it would look professional if you tagged along to my interview.”

“Take a chill pill, Leona.” Roxie stepped out of her walk-in closet, loaded with several clothing options. “I’m just saying, it won’t hurt Ivan Tucker to remember Brewer’s Auto is one of the
Messenger
’s best advertisers. And that’s not even counting the expensive Christmas center spread we take out every year.” She held a jacket under Leona’s chin, wrinkled her nose, then tossed it on the bed. “I don’t have a problem reminding the editor he owes me one.” She dumped the pile, returning to the closet. The sound of hangers whizzing along the rod got mixed up with her mumbling.

“Roxie, if anyone owes you . . . it’s me.” Leona laid the folder on the dupioni silk duvet, a testament to her business-roughened friend’s softer side.

Roxie came out armed with one more choice, a stunning Liz Claiborne suit, complete with crisp white cotton blouse, and Anne Klein pumps. Not bad for a parts lady. “Black is slimming.”

Leona squirmed her way into the worsted-wool skirt and tugged on the zipper. The expensive fabric felt foreign, like she was a sausage stuffed into someone else’s skin. Leona wiggled her toes around the wad of toilet paper Roxie had crammed into the toes of her half-size-too-large shiny shoes. “I hope I don’t break my neck trying to walk in your slingbacks.”

“So hate me. I couldn’t bear sending you into the world dressed like a charity case.” Roxie tucked a stray strand of Leona’s hair behind her ear, a pleased smile lighting her face. She turned Leona’s body to face the bank of full-length mirrors lining the wall opposite the massive poster bed. “Now you look like the ace reporter you are.”

Leona had to admit the transformation was astounding. “Reporter-wannabe.”

“Same thing.” Roxie led her to the tailored-suede chaise. “We’ve got a minute. Let’s go over this résumé one more time.”

“I don’t—”

“You want to end up selling car parts with me?” Roxie opened the file. “I didn’t think so. Besides, I’m not willing to risk the undoing of our delicious friendship with too much togetherness.” She perched her reading glasses on the end of her nose. “So, tell me, Mrs. Harper, what have you been doing?” Her dead-on imitation of Ivan’s nasal drawl brought a shared snicker.

Taking a moment, Leona considered her sparse options. She could list the Ladies Day Committee she headed every spring. Pulling off the spiritual extravaganza sucked up a lot of time, plus it forced her to work with Maxine Davis, so she should get extra credit for that one. Leona chewed on her lower lip. She probably had a couple of gold stars in her crown for eighteen years in the toddler nursery. Sunday school teachers were hard to come by. But did her points count if she secretly hoped to move or die to get shed of all those runny noses? Oh, she almost forgot. The annual Silver Servers Sweetheart Banquet was her baby. Folks had been known to say they were fifty-five a few years early in order to get an invite.

Leona ran a mental tally and sagged. Even if she counted the little entertainment skit she wrote for the banquet, none of what had occupied her life for the past thirty years amounted to a hill of beans on a job application, or in life for that matter. Heaving a sigh, she settled on, “I completely remodeled the parsonage for the next pastor.”

Fire rimmed Roxie’s blue pupils. “Wrong answer, girlfriend.”

Leona snatched the folder and slammed it shut. “How would you translate mother of two, preacher’s wife, and general church flunky into marketable job experience?”

“Calm down. I’ve got it all figured out.” Roxie removed her readers.

“You do, do you?” Leona did not like the plotting look swimming around in Roxie’s fishbowl eyes. She fell for it once, the time Roxie convinced her eggplant was the new shade of brunette, but she had no intention of being suckered into such a monumental catastrophe again. Her hair was the color of grape juice for months.

“I do.”

Turn tail and run.
The warning flashed in Leona’s mind, but the confidence on her friend’s face, coupled with her own unquenchable curious nature, compelled her to ask, “And?”

Roxie waited, her dramatic pause reeling Leona in the way a spider retrieves a stuck fly. “You’re going to tell Ivan you’ve been a Director of Creative Arts.”

“A what?”

Ignoring the question, Roxie thumped the manila file with the earpiece of her glasses. “I’ve tweaked your résumé.”

Indignation snapped Leona’s shoulders stiff. “I can’t mislead Ivan.”

“No,
you
can’t.”

The spring on Leona’s pressure gauge went slack. “Good. I’m glad we agree upon something.”

“But—” an impish grin curled the corners of Roxie’s lips— “there’s no law against
me
polishing up the rough edges.” She charged full-steam ahead, undeterred by Leona’s rolled-eyes protest. “Here’s how I see it. Creating something out of nothing is a talent, and no one does it better than you. I’ve seen you throw a full-scale seniors’ banquet armed with nothing more than a can of tuna, a hot glue gun, and a ream of construction paper. If that’s not creative, I don’t know what is.”

“But Ivan’s one of our deacons, for Pete’s sake. He knows what I do at the church—”

Roxie held up her hand. “I’ve seen children entertained for hours climbing through your bedsheet tunnels, and there’s not an old codger in town who’d miss your senior citizens’ night.” She snapped her fingers. “Wake up, Leona. You
are
the Director of Creative Arts, whether you want to believe it or not.”

How in the world did her exasperating friend manage a successful business with such a deplorable lack of logic? Frustration collided headlong with Leona’s ailing self-esteem. The ugly concoction raced through her veins and raised her voice to a shriek. “Are you thinking Ivan needs someone to fold his weekly publication into paper party hats?”

Roxie’s face hardened. She waved her arms like a worked-up televangelist trying to raise pledges. “Hell’s bells, Leona, you didn’t just throw parties. You sold relationships. Every time people gathered around your banquet tables, they came away with a better understanding of each other.” Roxie paused and took a breath. Still panting, she lowered her chin and arched a plucked brow. “Anybody can hawk a few newspapers, but not everyone can sell goodwill. And there’s not a business in this dying town that couldn’t stand to sell a lot more goodwill. People will line up to buy what you’re selling.”

Her friend’s pep talk sizzled in the air. Leona studied Roxie’s confident face. What had she ever done to deserve such undying loyalty and love? Not a single thing she could think of. It reminded her of J.D.’s sermons on grace and the unmerited favor God bestows on folks, even when they could never earn it. Grace was a gift, free to all who were willing to reach out and take what he offered.

But therein lay her problem. To receive the gift, the recipient had to grab hold. Leona blinked back tears. She didn’t have the energy to lift a finger, let alone latch on to a rope and dally over dangerous rivers of deception or jump through the flaming hoops Roxie had lined up between her and the newspaper editor. This was a job for Super Christian, not a freshly widowed pastor’s wife.
Lord, I can’t do this.

Suddenly a firm pressure conformed to the curvature of Leona’s spine. Glancing over her shoulder, Leona saw no one . . . but for some reason, she was not surprised. The calming touch belonged to the hand of God. She was certain. Not since her Deacon Hornbuckle premonition had she been this sure of a holy presence. A warming started at the tips of her toes. It surged faster than a caffeine rush through every weary particle in her body, intensifying the beat of her heart. Pumping strength into her limbs. Renewing her spirit.

Leona squeezed Roxie’s hand. “Just when I think I cannot take another step through this dark valley, the Lord sends somebody to me.” She rose from the bed and kissed her best friend’s cheek.

She picked up her borrowed Dooney & Bourke handbag, along with the file folder touting her adapted credentials. Roxie gave an approving nod. While Leona regretted time did not afford her the opportunity of marinating in the Divine’s presence, she rejoiced, secure in the knowledge that she no longer faced this battle alone. Never had. Leona laced her fingers through a proffered invisible hand. Shoulders squared, she stepped through the open door wearing shoes she could never fill, walking faithfully toward a job she was far from qualified to do.

* * * * *

Leona wheeled the minivan into an empty parking slot along Mt. Hope’s busy Main Street. She threw the gearshift into park. The rusted hunk of metal idled in gyrating gratitude. She hoped wasting a little gas would allow the sputtering heater a chance to thaw her cold feet before her appointment with the newspaper editor. How could a red-hot faith cool in the time that it took to back out of a driveway? She swallowed, the disappointment of her short-lived confidence refusing to go down easy.

Through the cracked windshield, she could make out the gold-leafed letters
Mt. Hope Messenger
stenciled across the large plate glass window under the brick building’s weathered awning. She had been in the newspaper office a hundred times over the years, and her stomach had never rebelled before. But then, dropping off church news articles was an entirely different ballgame than interviewing for a reporter position.