Ties That Bind (17 page)

“I picked you and Margot because you're both energetic, and fun, and you like kids. You'd be a good influence. And I think it could be as beneficial to you and Margot as it would be to the kids. With this custody battle going on, it might help Margot's cause if she could show the judge that she has experience with children. And I thought this might be a good chance for you and James to spend time together doing something fun. If you were leading the group, he'd have to show up every week. The sooner he gets to know the other kids in town, the sooner he'll start making friends.”

Paul moved closer to the table, took another large drink of his beverage and a correspondingly large mouthful of ice. He chewed on it for a long time, his thick, dark brows drawn together in a slight frown.

“You don't think James would feel weird about having his dad be his youth leader? You don't think that would make him seem like even more of an outsider?”

I shook my head. “My mom was the youth leader at my church and, if anything, it only made me more popular. Mom was teaching the kids about God, but she was also the one who took everyone out for hot fudge sundaes, and hay rides, and ice skating parties. The kids were crazy about her. Seeing how everyone related to her helped me see her not just as a mother but as a person, an interesting, likeable human being and someone I could relate to as well, someone who really cared about other people. Her example had a tremendous impact on my life. She was the one who really inspired me to go into ministry.”

“Not your dad?”

“Dad too, but in a different way. Dad is a preacher, but my mom is a pastor. The original word, you know, from the Latin, means ‘shepherd.' That was my mom, a shepherd, caring for each individual little lamb. I'm very like her.”

I stopped, realizing how long I'd been going on. Laura came to the rescue, carrying a tray loaded with food. Everything smelled so delicious. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing the burger with one hand, the sweet potato fries with the other, and stuffing both into my mouth, but I restrained myself long enough to bow my head to say a silent (and very sincere) prayer of thanks before diving in.

“The thing is,” I said through a mouth half-full of cheeseburger, “this would be a great help to me and to the church, but I think it could be a help to you and James too.”

Without saying anything, Paul took his now-empty bread plate and, using his fork, pushed a pile of his nachos onto it, then shoved the plate in my direction.

“Here.”

I swallowed and looked at him doubtfully. “You sure?”

“Of what?” he asked with a grin. “That you need the nachos more than I do or that I'd be a good youth leader? Answer ‘A' is absolutely. I've never seen a woman with an appetite like yours. I'm a little less sure about ‘B,' but … I'm willing to give it a try.”

“Thanks, Paul. I really appreciate it. You're going to love these kids, you'll see. So will James.”

He picked up a tortilla chip, scooped up a pile of chili and cheese, and lifted it to his lips, but stopped just short of taking a bite. “And you think Margot Matthews will be interested in helping too?”

“Absolutely. I'm sure of it.”

“W
hat do you mean you're not interested?” Virginia squawked, dogging Margot's heels as the younger woman carried a bolt of blue gingham cloth to the display shelves. “I met him and his boy on Sunday. Seems like a very nice man, perfect for you. He goes to church, has a good job. What's wrong? I thought you like lawyers.”

My lunch with Paul ended a little earlier than I'd figured, probably because I wolfed down my food, and a good part of Paul's, in record time. With a few minutes before my next appointment, I decided to pop over to Cobbled Court Quilts to talk to Margot about the youth group. Her reaction wasn't exactly what I'd expected.

Margot squatted down to reach the lower shelf. “In case you hadn't noticed,” she said, forcing the fabric into a narrow opening in the middle, “I'm kind of up to my ears in lawyers just now.”

Virginia's eyes went wide behind her thick glasses, giving her an expression like a bug that has just heard something shocking. “This is not just any lawyer we're talking about, Margot! This is no namby-pamby, stamp-collecting Arnie Kinsella, no bleached-tooth, smarmy Geoff Bench ….”

Evelyn, who was standing at the notions display, emptying out a mailing carton filled with various pins and needles and sliding them onto racks, interrupted her mother with a laugh. “Mom, you've never even met Geoff Bench. How do you know he's smarmy?”

“Because Margot told me about him.”

“I never said Mr. Bench was smarmy,” Margot protested as she got to her feet and returned to the checkout counter.

“You didn't have to,” Virginia retorted. “He
sounds
smarmy.”

“Seriously, Margot,” the older woman said as she returned to her quilting hoop near the window, stopping to scoop Petunia, the rotund shop cat, into her arms before sitting down, “just because Arnie Kinsella broke your heart doesn't mean you need to write off every lawyer on the face of the planet.”

Margot pressed her lips into a thin line as she opened the drawer of the cash register and started counting bills and change. “Thank you, but I am not interested.”

“Why not? Weren't you listening to what Philippa told you? The man thinks you have beautiful eyes!”

“Pretty,” I corrected.

“Pretty,” Virginia conceded. “Fine. Pretty is a start. Isn't it?”

Margot ignored the question and kept to her task, her lips moving silently as she added up a pile of quarters and scribbled the total onto a slip of paper.

Virginia sighed heavily and stroked Petunia, who glanced up at her and yawned. “I don't understand,” Virginia said, addressing the cat. “As long as I've known Margot, she's been desperate for a man. Now a nice, churchgoing lawyer says she has pretty eyes and Margot won't give him a second glance.”

Margot slammed the register shut. “I am
not
desperate! Not anymore. Not about men. The only thing that I'm desperate about these days is helping Olivia heal and winning this custody battle.”

“Good for you!” Madelyn Beecher exclaimed.

Madelyn, whose bed-and-breakfast caters to quilting groups, had stopped in to pick up a few supplies.

“Desperation isn't attractive. It's also a slippery slope. I'm proof of that. I was so sure I needed a man to make me feel worth something that I ended up compromising every part of me that was worthwhile. Now I prefer to think of men as accessories.” Madelyn sniffed. “Attractive to have, possibly useful, but not a necessity. Life enhancing, not life saving.”

“Is that what you tell Jake?” Evelyn teased. “That he's an accessory?”

Madelyn smiled and dropped her detached demeanor. “Not exactly. But Jake understands my need for independence. That's one of the things I love about him.”

“I don't understand you people,” Virginia said. “Can't Margot be an independent person and still give this man a chance? Independence isn't all it's cracked up to be, you know. I've been independent ever since my husband died and I can tell you right now, it's not as much fun as it looks. Especially when you're my age. There's a lot to be said for growing old with someone,” she said quietly, looking down as she stroked the cat.

Evelyn put down a package of pins and went to her mother's side, leaning down to kiss her on top of the head.

“You know, I think we might be getting a little bit ahead of ourselves,” I said. “I don't think the fact that Paul noticed Margot and thinks she has pretty eyes means he is quite ready to propose, or that Margot was his primary motivation in saying he'd help with the youth group, though it may have been … an enhancement,” I said, shifting my gaze to Madelyn, who smiled at me.

“I'm sorry, Margot,” I said and put on my jacket. “I wouldn't have bothered you with this right now except I thought you'd love the kids. I know they'd love you. I figured it might impress the judge too, but you've got too much going on.”

“Philippa,” Margot said in a pained voice. “I hate letting you down, but …”

“It's okay. Don't worry. I mean it.” And I did too. The last thing I wanted to do was add stress to Margot's life. “I'll find someone else to help.”

“Who?” Margot asked.

Well, that was a good question. Like many churches, ours suffered from an unfortunate adherence to the 10–90 rule, meaning that 10 percent of the people were doing 90 percent of the work. The largest percentage of the congregation seemed content to let the smaller percentage, or the minister, do the heavy lifting. After all, isn't that what ministers are paid to do? Dr. Mandel was insistent that I had to slow down a bit. But at that moment, I couldn't think of anyone who would be willing and capable to step in and help with the youth, at least no one who wasn't, like Margot, a member of the 10 percent and therefore already too busy.

Of course, if I let the word out that Paul Collier was willing to serve as co-leader, there were probably any number of single women who'd be willing to help. New Bern is a little short on eligible bachelors. But somehow, I didn't think this would bring out the kind of leader I was looking for.

“Don't worry about it,” I said. “I'll find somebody.”

Margot came out from behind the counter and followed me to the door. “Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. See you all later,” I said, giving a wave to the group and a smile to Virginia. “And I'll see
you
at quilt class.”

“Looking forward to it,” Virginia replied. “Wash that fabric and iron it before you come to class. With a baby quilt, I think it's best.”

“Will do.”

I opened the door and felt Margot's hand on my arm.

“Philippa? Wait a minute.”

 

It wasn't until I'd said my prayers and gotten into bed that I remembered to call my father. It was a call I dreaded making, but there was no reason to. I should have known my dad better than that.

“Dad, are you sure?”

“I'm not interested, Pippa. Absolutely not. I'm surprised you'd even ask.”

“I had to. I told the board president I would.”

“Well, he should have known better. Having a mentor might be a good idea, but having a father mentor his daughter? No way. That's a recipe for disaster. And having someone else step into your pulpit and ‘guest preach' for you once a month is a terrible idea too—no matter who the mentor is. The way you get to be a better preacher is by doing it, not by having someone else do it for you. What was your board thinking?”

“I doubt it was the board's idea, Dad. Ted Carney thought this up all on his own. He's a big fan of yours, talks about you all the time.”

Dad made a grumbling noise in his throat. “Ministers don't have fans, Pippa. Or if they do, they shouldn't. Anyway, please tell Mr. Carney that I said no. He's just going to have find someone else to be your mentor.”

“You know,” said my mother, who had been listening in on the extension, “that's not a bad idea. Phil, you must know people who might be willing to serve as a mentor to Pippa. You could make a few calls. Would you mind if he did that, honey?”

“No,” I said, “it would be great to have someone who'd talk me through a few of the pitfalls and politics of all this. Some days I feel like I'm in way over my head.”

“If it's any consolation,” my father said with a smile in his voice, “I still feel like that.”

“But it's hard sometimes, not having anyone to talk to. Today I had lunch with a member of the congregation and ended up unburdening myself about my frustration with Ted.”

“Oh, honey,” Mom said in a scolding tone. “You know better than to do that, especially if the object of your frustration is the president of your church board.”

“I know. I know. But it's okay. Paul won't say anything to anyone. He's a lawyer. Actually,” I said, smiling to myself, “he's
my
lawyer. I paid him a dollar so he can't talk to anyone about what I said at lunch. Attorney-client privilege.”

“You paid him a dollar and now he's your lawyer? What do you need a lawyer for?”

“I don't, Dad. It was kind of a joke. Anyway, don't worry. Paul knows how to keep a secret. He's a really nice man.”

“Oh? Is he single?”

I sighed and shook my head, knowing exactly where this conversation was going. “Yes, Mom. He is single. But there is nothing going on between us; we're just friends.”

“You and Tim were just friends when you met.”

“This isn't like that. I'm not interested in Paul romantically. I'm not interested in anyone in that way.”

“Tim has been gone for such a long time, sweetheart. Don't you ever get lonely? I just want to see you happy.”

“I am happy. In fact, I'm happier than I've been in a long, long time,” I said, looking down at my still-flat stomach and imagining my baby, curled up like a question mark inside me with arms and legs sprouting from the tadpole body that, according to one of the pregnancy websites I'd bookmarked, was now about the size of a kidney bean. Bean. I had been thinking that I needed some sort of nickname for this baby, something sweet but gender-neutral. Maybe this was it.

“But, Pippa, don't you ever—”

“Joyce,” Dad said in a warning tone. “Leave it. Pippa knows her own mind. And she knows if she's happy or not. She certainly sounds happy.”

“I am.”

In a few more weeks I'd be able to tell them why, but not yet. Not until I was sure that everything was fine and that the little bean inside me was safe and growing and healthy.

“Well, if you're happy, I'm happy. Good night, sweetheart.”

“Good night. I'll call again soon.”

I hung up the phone and set the alarm clock to go off six and a half hours later. Another short night. But it had been a good day, certainly a productive one.

Sunday's sermon was still pretty rough, but with a little encouragement from me, the Vacation Bible School committee had reached consensus on a curriculum. On top of that, Alex Dane and Tracey Sampras had decided to call off their engagement, choir had gone well, the stewardship committee had reluctantly but unanimously voted funds to replace the broken banquet tables in the fellowship hall, the boiler was working again, Paul Collier and Margot Matthews had agreed to serve as youth group leaders, John Wozniak, who had just been diagnosed with lung cancer and didn't know how to tell his wife, whose own health was frail, had agreed that he couldn't keep it from her and had decided to ask his son and daughter to come to town and help him break the news, and the fabric for my unborn baby's quilt was tumbling around inside the dryer.

A long day, a hard day, and a good day. For so many reasons.

I turned out the light, pulled up the covers, and laid my hand on my stomach. “Good night, Bean.”

 

The next morning, while Sherry was at the office supply store buying ink cartridges for the printer, my phone rang.

When I picked it up, a deep, slightly familiar voice said, “Philippa? This is Bob Tucker. I just got off the phone with your dad. I hear you could use a mentor.”