Reinventing Leona (2 page)

A perplexing uneasiness intruded upon her admiration. Something wasn’t right. A shimmering halo circled her husband’s head. Surely the unnerving effect was the result of the fluorescent stage lighting. J.D. would lampoon her overactive imagination should she mention the ominous quickening of her pulse, but Leona couldn’t resist scanning the platform.

The four dusty ficus trees and two tall-backed elders’ chairs decorating the stage were right where Noah left them when he exited the ark. Leona smoothed the Peter Pan collar accentuating her black wool dress. While scolding herself for succumbing to another round of unfounded jitters, her hand froze at her throat, her breath trapped below her panicked grasp.

Glistening beads of sweat dripped from J.D.’s brow. He removed a monogrammed hanky from his pocket and mopped his notes. With a labored swipe, he dried his forehead and returned the soaked linen to his breast pocket. As he clasped the lip of the pulpit, his knuckles whitened.

Leona stood, but her husband’s warning gaze urged her to stay put.

He cleared his throat. “There was one who was willing to die—” the pastor paused—“that you might live.” A pleased smile lit his face. He placed a hand over his heart then dropped faster than last year’s budget.

* * * * *

The weight of the crocheted afghan anchored Leona’s body to the wingback chair in the corner of her bedroom. Her head seemed disconnected, bobbing in a cloudy soup. She didn’t remember walking across the parking lot, climbing the steps to the parsonage, or stumbling to her bedroom. Nor did she recall shivering uncontrollably. But for some unknown reason Roxie’s reassuring words—“Let’s bundle her like a burrito and stave off the shock”—kept colliding with the apologetic image of Charlie Copeland saying, “I’m so sorry, Leona,” as he closed the ambulance door.

“How about I turn on your music?” Roxie didn’t wait for an answer. She flipped a switch on the small boom box on top of the dresser, activating the croon of the Gaither Vocal Band.

Unable to move her restrained arms, Leona labored to puff away the stray strands of blue yarn irritating her nose. Like a spectator on the sidelines, she watched her best friend flit around the shade-darkened room, turning on the lamps and barking orders over the beat of Southern gospel as if tragedy came boxed in the parts shipments arriving daily at Brewer’s Auto. How Roxanne Brewer pedaled everything from carburetors to windshield wipers wearing those above-the-knee skirts and stilettos had vexed men far and wide for years. But this mother of four put her finger on replacement valves in record speed, and she’d give a broken-down person the shirt off her Marilyn Monroe figure if she thought it would get them on the road again.

Roxie wedged herself like a tire jack between Leona and the big-boned elder’s wife hovering nearby, but the space gain did not lessen the pressure constricting Leona’s chest. “Maxine, you’re going to have to back up and give the woman some air.”

“Roxanne, our pastor’s wife does not need a tune-up.” Maxine peered over the edge of the half-glasses perched on the end of her pointed nose. “She needs spiritual comfort.”

Sparks flashed in Roxie’s sapphire eyes, igniting the static in her fly-away red hair. “How about I tell my tow truck to leave you sitting by the side of the road next time your new Caddie conks out.” She jammed her hands on her perfectly formed hips.

“Well, I never.” Maxine’s spine straightened to its full five-foot-ten height. Leona recognized the familiar battle stances and braced for the worst. Hardly a chamber of commerce meeting passed that the Cadillac Queen and the Parts Princess didn’t mix it up over competitive practices, business, and religion. “J.D. Harper’s passing is not a matter for the Episcopalians. The saints at Mt. Hope will tend to their own.”

“I’ve seen how your husband
herds
his sheep.” Roxie rested her hand on Leona’s shoulder, her voice turning sugary sweet. “If you don’t mind, I think my friend here will pass on your offer.”

“A tad bitter, are we?” Maxine’s voice dripped saccharine.

Roxie’s focus zeroed in on Maxine’s smug grin, her restrained temper flushing her cheeks crimson. “I don’t care where Davis Cadillac gets their parts. Can’t you understand the poor woman needs a minute to herself?”

“We will see.” Maxine approached Leona. Slicing the air in front of Leona’s face with her flattened palm, she fished for support. “Sister Harper, do you want me or this chop-shop hussy to stay with you?”

Judging from the elder’s wife’s planted size-eleven feet, Leona suspected Maxine had no intention of leaving without a fight, let alone going peacefully. Much as she’d dreamed of giving Maxine what for, right now she didn’t have an ounce of fight left in her. Leona’s paltry attempt to clear the clump of emotions clogging her throat failed. Speaking was out of the question. She prayed Roxie would be able to read the pleading look in her eyes and save her from having to verbalize her choice.

“Leona needs to call the kids.” Roxie placed her hands on Maxine’s shoulders, ratcheting her sideways. “In private.”

Maxine’s head swiveled, neck bones popping, her face demanding a reprieve. But Leona nodded, relieved she had not had to say the words she dreaded. Telling her children their father had just died would be difficult enough without the prying eyes of those who deemed her incompetent listening in to find fault with her coping methods.

Roxie pointed at Leona’s silent face. “There you have it, Maxine.” Roxie smiled. “Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on the way out.”

“Episcopalians.” Maxine stomped toward the exit. She turned and waggled her finger in Leona’s direction. “Don’t think for a moment this liberal heathen is interested in caring for the widows and orphans, Leona Harper.” The door clicked shut with a decisive disgust.

Widows? Orphans?
The ugly words ricocheted off the floral wallpaper, bounced around with Gloria Gaither’s chorus of “Something Worth Living For,” pierced the blue afghan, and slammed directly into Leona’s heart.

“Thank goodness she’s gone.” Roxie peeled back a corner of the blanket and Leona felt her emotions hemorrhage. “You ready, girlfriend?”

The expected agreement would not come. Leona swallowed, but the obstruction would not dislodge. Her body had joined forces with her ebbing emotions in a conspiracy to shut her down.

“I’ll be right here.” Roxie reduced the stereo volume on the Gaithers. She picked up the phone and dialed the long-distance number she knew as well as Leona. “Here you go.”

Leona searched the liquid pools of Roxie’s eyes, finding that familiar island of support. Fingers trembling, she lifted the receiver from the outstretched hand and brought it to her ear. Trepidation rang loud and clear on her end, but no one answered on the other.

Chapter Two

Sleet pelted the window of Madison Harper’s loft apartment. Sitting up in bed, she pushed mussed blonde curls away from her eyes, then checked the time on her cell phone. Eleven o’clock. Apprehension fluttered in her growling stomach as she punched the missed-call button.

“Why would Momma call so early on Sunday morning?” Maddie rubbed her eyes, checking the screen again. “Pickings must have been slim at the church potluck for the attendance police to call before two.”

Holding down the speed-dial number with her thumb, Maddie awaited the commencement of Momma’s weekly grilling. She reached for the fast food cup that had left a ring on the hand-me-down nightstand and wet her dry throat with the watery Diet Coke. What excuse could she offer today? Last week it was that-time-of-the-month. This week she would have to claim late-night surgery rotations again. Risky, but even if Momma had her suspicions, she’d never fault attention to excellence.

“Maddie?” Her mother rarely answered on the first ring.

“Hey, Momma.” Maddie doubted her scratchy voice would get past those keen ears, but hoped they could continue the pretense: Leona Harper didn’t know her daughter spent Sunday mornings at the church of the sacred pillow, and Maddie didn’t know her backsliding ways drove her mother crazy.

“I tried calling your roommate so you wouldn’t be alone when I tell you . . . but Katie Beth didn’t answer her phone. I went ahead and called your brother since England is several hours ahead of us.”

Maddie’s heart skipped a beat at the unusual sound of panic in Momma’s voice. “K.B. must be at church.” She’d regret admitting that her roommate was a better Christian than the preacher’s daughter, but it was too late now. “What’s so tragic that you spent the money to call David?”

“Sweetheart, maybe you should sit down.”

Why did her mother have to make a production out of every little thing? Maddie jabbed a pillow between her back and the wrought-iron headboard. “I
am
sitting down.” Nobody exited the stage of Momma’s show until she gave the cue so she might as well get comfortable.

“Sweetheart, I hate telling you this over the phone, but . . .” Momma’s voice cracked. “Daddy is no longer with us.”

Silence weighted the airwaves like a sinker on a fishing line. Maddie yanked the phone away from her ear and stared at the blank screen. They had not been disconnected. But Momma had sunk to an all-time low if this new tactic was supposed to guilt her back to church.

“What do you mean?” Maddie didn’t hide the edge of irritation creeping into her voice.

“Your father was in the middle of his first sermon point; then suddenly he collapsed behind the pulpit. By the time I got to him . . .” Momma paused. “He was gone.”

A loud buzzing crackled through the thick hush on the other end of the line, swelling to a roar inside Maddie’s head. She had not heard correctly. The seriousness of the words matched her mother’s tone, but like a fever that had no obvious explanation, they did not make sense.
Ask questions. Get the facts straight before
you make a diagnosis.
“What are you saying?”

“I’m afraid your daddy is dead.”

“This isn’t funny, Momma.”

“Maddie—”

“Daddy can’t be dead.” Suffocating under the blanket of unbelievable words, Maddie threw back the heavy quilt. She could hear the muffled sound of crying and her mother handing off the phone. “Momma!” The scream had come from somewhere deep within her body cavity, ripping a gash through every major organ as it exited.

“Maddie?” A smooth Southern alto flowed across the line. “Calm down, baby.”

“Aunt Roxie?” Maddie adored her momma’s best friend. The flaming-haired rebel was more fun than any of their stodgy flesh-and-blood relatives. Every time Roxie pried open the straitlaced parsonage lid sheltering the preacher’s kids, Maddie sucked in the breath of fresh air as if it were her last.

“Baby, you need to catch the next plane home. Charge it to my credit card.”

A million unanswered questions raced through her mind, but only one thing mattered. “Aunt Roxie, did my daddy suffer?”

“Hell’s bells, you know I’d say if he did, but no.”

“Tell Momma I’m on my way.”

Maddie closed her phone, her hands trembling. She swung her feet to the floor, but could find no solid footing on the cold wooden surface. Without the Rock, there was no place safe to stand.

* * * * *

David Harper fiddled with the volume control to his disposable earphones, then returned his seat back to an upright position. Surprised he’d been able to catch a flight, he wasn’t surprised he’d been unable to sleep a wink as the plane hurtled him toward Momma. He felt his normally sharp edge dull with each tick of his expensive wristwatch. Classical music whispering in his ears, he closed the in-flight wish catalog and stuffed it into the pocket on the seat in front of him. Finding the perfect travel shoe-shine kit seemed an idiotic frivolity when a man was headed home to bury his father.

He pressed the call button. An immaculately groomed and uniformed woman appeared in the aisle. How these people managed to stay so put together in the middle of the night, out in the middle of nowhere, must be some carefully guarded industry secret he should investigate . . . if he had any control over his crazed mind.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I could use a cup of coffee, please.”

The flight attendant nodded. “Certainly, sir. Cream and sugar?”

Arriving exhausted and cranky to face Momma would not serve him well. Better to load up on caffeine. “Black. The stronger, the better.”

Tossing the tiny airline pillow onto the empty seat beside him, he wondered why in the world his mother thought he could preach his father’s funeral sermon.
What makes her think I’d want to?
Hadn’t he made it clear when he left the States to get his graduate degree in history that he had no intention of ever stepping into a pulpit, especially the one his father occupied?
Had occupied.

Jerking the headset free, David dropped the faulty equipment in his lap, then lowered his tray table. Using his fingers, he combed his straight brown hair off his forehead, then rested his heavy head against the leather seat back. He closed his eyes and rubbed the place at his temples where Momma’s words pounded out a haunting rhythm.
Dad’s dead.
Dad’s dead. Dad’s dead.

David shifted in his seat, drumming his fingers on the makeshift table as he waited for his coffee. But he could not get comfortable. Nor could he shake the guilty feeling that disappointment had broken his father’s heart and his announcement would fry his mother’s gizzard.

* * * * *

If the family car plunges over the rail, save Momma
.

Why had Maddie’s jumbled gray matter landed on her mother’s ironclad rule? Maybe it was because the woman hated water deeper than a puddle, and this frightening development would be worse than the time they went to Memphis and had to cross that huge arched bridge spanning the Mississippi.

Maddie dragged her finger through the thick layer of dust settled upon the darkened oak desk her father hauled up three flights of stairs the day he moved her to Nashville. For the most part, Daddy, the Maypole around whom Momma fluttered, humored his wife’s irrational fear of drowning. But Maddie remembered feeling grateful when her father drew the line at Momma’s determination to have the handy saying cross-stitched into the bands of the family’s underwear.