Mrs. Miracle Page 18

  He stood as she entered the room and motioned to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Good morning, Mrs. Foster. I understand you wanted to see me.”

  Harriett sat and folded her hands primly in her lap. “It’s a matter of some importance.”

  “That’s what I understand.”

  He sat down and waited for her to continue. Harriett had hoped to exchange small talk and ease her way into this burden on her heart. She inhaled slowly, thinking the direct approach was probably for the best. A soul couldn’t ease into a discussion about sin.

  Pastor Lovelace waited silently, and Harriett plunged right in. “As you’re probably aware, I’ve been a member of this congregation for well over twenty years.”

  “It seems longer.”

  “My husband’s family was one of the founding members of this congregation.” She bowed her head out of reverence for the dead. “May God rest his soul.”

  “You’ve served our church community with great vigor,” Pastor Lovelace admitted graciously.

  Harriett had always been fond of the man. He showed a keen insight into the many personal sacrifices others had made on behalf of the church.

  “Tell me, how is the pageant coming along? Have you enjoyed working with Reba Maxwell?”

  “Well,” Harriett said with a heavy sigh, and scooted closer to the edge of the cushion. “I understand that when Milly’s husband was transferred, the church was in something of a bind, but personally—”

  “From all indications,” Pastor Lovelace interrupted, “Miss Maxwell is doing an excellent job, working long hours, and putting a great deal of time and energy into the project.”

  “Yes,” Harriett admitted reluctantly. The Maxwell woman had done everything he said, but the church had taken a risk by allowing a woman, one with spotty attendance at best, to step in at the last minute. Luckily there hadn’t been too many problems.

  “I apologize, Mrs. Foster, I’ve sidetracked you.”

  Harriett cleared her throat. “As I was saying earlier, I’ve attended this church for several years now and am familiar with many of the families.”

  Pastor Lovelace relaxed on his chair.

  “It’s because I know the parishioners as well as I do that I feel I can speak freely about their concerns.”

  “As you see them?”

  “Yes.” There were things she could tell him that would turn his hair prematurely gray. If he showed any indication of wanting to know the levels of depravity some of the upstanding members of this very church had shown, she’d be happy to tell him. Only as a matter of prayer, of course.

  “There appear to be a number of areas of deep concern,” she said, meeting and holding his gaze.

  He arched his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

  “First off, let’s discuss Emily Merkle.” She could tell by his blank look that he hadn’t placed the name. “Seth Webster’s new housekeeper.”

  “Ah, yes.” A smile quivered at the edges of his mouth.

  Harriett wondered what he found so amusing. “The woman’s a busybody.” And an old biddy besides, but she feared Pastor Lovelace would find her words unkind She didn’t want to alienate him before she zeroed in on the real reason for her visit.

  “I find Mrs. Miracle…I mean, Merkle…to be a woman of unique faith.”

  “Perhaps.” Harriett was willing to grant the woman that much. “She certainly has found a way to ingratiate herself with the women of this church in short order.” Harriett, however, wasn’t as easily taken in by a smooth tongue and slick manners. The woman was trouble with a capital T. Baking cookies for the women’s bazaar and contributing the recipe for winter fruit dip. Why, it was pure indulgence, that’s what it was. Pure indulgence.

  “Don’t you agree?” Pastor’s gaze narrowed as he looked at her. “Mrs. Merkle is a woman of unique faith.”

  “Faith, perhaps, but I see very little religion in her.”

  “How do you mean?” the young minister pressed. Something in his attitude changed; she noticed it in his eyes and believed he was keen to hear her response.

  “Well, it’s difficult to explain…with words. It’s as if the woman isn’t quite like the rest of us, if you catch my drift.”

  “You mean she isn’t of this world?”

  “Something like that,” Harriett agreed. “When she looks at me I’m left with the feeling that…” She didn’t dare voice the truth, not with the opposite sex. The fact was, she’d been left feeling exposed, as if Emily Merkle had the power to know things she had no business knowing.

  Once several years ago, shortly after her husband had passed on, Harriett had purchased a pair of silk underpants. She attributed the minor decline in common sense to her overwhelming loss and grief. She’d worn them only once and had hidden them in the back of her drawer ever since. For reasons she couldn’t explain, Harriett felt Emily Merkle knew about those black silk panties.

  “The feeling that…,” he prompted.

  “Frankly, Pastor, I’m not here to talk about the Websters’ housekeeper. It’s Ruth Darling who concerns me.”

  “Ruth Darling?” He sounded surprised. “Ruth’s the delicate matter you wish to discuss?”

  Harriett sat up on the chair, stiffening her spine. She was so close to the edge of the cushion that she was in danger of falling butt first onto the floor.

  She didn’t expect this to be a comfortable conversation, but she considered it her Christian duty. If she could save one lost lamb from stumbling into the den of wolves and being trapped in iniquity, then she’d completed her task.

  “What I say must stay in this office,” she warned, glancing over her shoulder to be certain the door was completely closed. She didn’t know Joanne Lawton well, but she wouldn’t put it past the church secretary to listen in on conversations that were meant to be private.

  “But of course.”

  Once she’d been granted the assurances she needed, Harriett felt free to continue. “I fear for the spiritual well-being of my dear, dear friend.” Unable to meet his gaze, she stared at her clenched hands. “I’ve discovered that…” She closed her eyes, hardly able to voice it. “That my friend has”—she paused for effect—“lusted after another man.”

  “Ruth Darling?” Pastor Lovelace leaped to his feet, then quickly sat back down. “I’m sure you’re mistaken,” he continued in a less boisterous manner.

  Harriett had feared it would come to something like this. She reached for her purse and withdrew an envelope. “I’ve kept a list of my observances,” she said, wanting it to sound as if the task had been repugnant to her. With a show of reluctance, she handed him the envelope. “You’ll discover that the first occurrence happened several months ago. In September…September seventh, to be exact, and right here in this very church.”

  Pastor Lovelace lowered the envelope to his desk without opening it. Harriett had hoped that he’d read the mounting data for himself and save her the necessity of having to spell out what could only be the truth. The evidence was overwhelming, the conclusion simple.

  “I’m afraid it’s Lyle Fawcett,” she said. “He’s the man who’s tempted her to this fall from grace.”

  “This has to do with Ruth Darling and Lyle Fawcett?” Pastor Lovelace sounded incredulous.

  “Why, yes.” His shock was what she’d expected. Apparently she was the only one diligent enough to recognize what was happening. To his credit, Lyle had been an innocent bystander, unaware of the course to sin his presence had wrought.

  “It pains me to inform you that Ruth has eyed Lyle like a bird of prey every Sunday for weeks. It’s most disconcerting to find a woman married to a man as good and kind as Fred Darling ogling another man.”

  “And you’ve discussed your concerns with Ruth yourself?”

  Harriett’s back went ramrod straight. Discuss the situation with Ruth herself? She’d never heard anything so ridiculous in her life. One didn’t go about confronting people about sin. That was a minister
’s job. While it was true that some less-than-charitable Christians might find it their duty, Harriett most certainly did not.

  “Surely you’re not suggesting that I speak to Ruth about this? Why…I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. It might surprise you to learn that matters are not always what they seem.” Although Pastor Lovelace’s eyes were kind, his words carried a sharp edge. “You might learn something.”

  “There’s a link between the two, isn’t there?” Harriett had suspected as much from the first.

  “I believe you’re right about that.”

  “Aha!” She raised her index finger toward the ceiling.

  Pastor Lovelace laughed outright and then had the good grace to look repentant. “I want you to promise me that you’ll discuss your concerns with Ruth Darling yourself.”

  It was unthinkable. “I…I don’t know that I can.”

  “It’s my feeling that if any of us has a question about one of our brethren, instead of asking others, we go directly to that person.”

  Harriett didn’t like what she was hearing. It was the last thing she’d expected the good pastor to suggest. “Surely you don’t condone Ruth’s behavior?”

  “It isn’t for me to condone or condemn.”

  Harriett couldn’t believe her ears. The woman was flirting with the worst form of sin. Surely Pastor Lovelace recognized as much.

  The pastor stood, indicating their time together was at an end. “You’ll do as I ask?”

  Harriett’s mouth opened and closed a number of times. “If you’re sure…if you think I should.”

  “I do.”

  He seemed to be waiting for her to leave. Harriett fumbled in her purse for another slip of paper. “There are two others whom I’d like to report…” Flustered now, she unfolded the sheet. “Barbara Newton and Oliva Sanchez, and—”

  “Have you spoken directly to them?” he interrupted.

  “Ah, no, but I assumed…I thought you’d want to do that yourself.” That he suggested she would was nothing short of shocking.

  “As I said, it’s been my experience that whenever one hears something unkind or negative about another person, the best course is to ask that person.” He paused and seemed to wait for Harriett to respond.

  “But…”

  “I know that you have a kind and generous heart for the people of this church.”

  Harriett relaxed. “Indeed I do. I care deeply about the spiritual welfare of every soul who walks through these doors.”

  “I felt you must. I know that you’d be the last person to want to create gossip.”

  She planted her hand over her heart. “Never. That’s why I came directly to you with these matters.”

  “All I’m saying is that perhaps it would be best to talk to these individuals yourself, in a spirit of love, naturally.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Ask if there’s any way you could be of help. Offer them your friendship.”

  She had so few real friends, and she wasn’t entirely sure why. Her shyness was a problem, and she’d had Abigail, but now that both her sister and her husband were gone, it felt as if the entire world had shriveled up and died. For the first time in her life she was truly lonely. No one wanted to be friends with her. No one invited her to their homes. She was good enough to play the organ for all their special functions, but not good enough to be a friend. Never that.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Harriett mumbled on her way out the door. She had achieved nothing. Her visit to Pastor Lovelace had failed. Ruth Darling would continue her flirtation with Lyle Fawcett and all the church would look on with horror as another family was destroyed.

  Trapped in her musings, Harriett walked outside the church without watching her step. When she stepped on a thin patch of ice in the church parking lot, her feet went out from under her. Arms flailing, she let out a bloodcurdling scream that was loud enough to hail the Second Coming.

  From her peripheral vision, she saw Joanne Lawton’s face wide with shock and horror from the office window overlooking the parking lot.

  The next thing she knew the pavement was rushing up to greet her. She closed her eyes and prayed for mercy.

  She must have blacked out because when she opened her eyes, she saw two men leaning over her. Both wore the familiar uniform of paramedics. Carefully they placed her on a mat and wheeled her toward the aid car. It was difficult to focus on which part of her body hurt the worst. Her head felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Her arm had to be broken, for the pain there was dreadful.

  In her agony, she groaned.

  “Try not to speak,” one of the men said to her. “It looks to me like your jaw’s broken.”

  Chapter 25

  Love looks through a telescope, not a microscope.

  —Mrs. Miracle

  “Good morning,” Emily Merkle greeted as a bleary-eyed Sharon walked into the kitchen.

  Sharon smiled back wanly. She hadn’t slept well, and from the way Jerry had tossed and turned the night away, she knew he hadn’t either. When she’d slipped out of bed she’d suspected he was awake, but he hadn’t spoken, so neither had she.

  After their frank discussion about their two divorced friends, they hadn’t said much of anything to each other. But, really, what was there to say? Their conversation had been comment enough.

  They’d get along better once they were divorced, Sharon suspected. Just making the decision seemed to have slackened the tension. They’d spent time with the children, attended a movie, and had spoken barely a cross word to one another in days, which she had to admit was something of a record of late. It was a sad comment on their life together.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Emily asked, and without waiting for a reply promptly poured her one. She carried it to the table and set it down for her. “The children are with their father this morning,” she said companionably. “I believe they went Christmas shopping. Leave it to a man to put it off until the last minute.” She chuckled to herself and returned to the task at hand. The large electric mixer hummed softly in the background, and the intoxicating scent of curry filled the kitchen.

  “What are you making?” Emily was a fabulous cook, good enough to open her own restaurant if she wanted.

  “It’s a fruit dip,” the housekeeper answered absently, reading over the recipe. “Delicious with winter fruit. Pear, apples, and the like.” She knocked the lid on a jar of mango chutney against the edge of the counter to loosen it, then twisted it open with all her might. “Here, read over the recipe. You’ll see what I mean.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Sharon said when she’d finished reading.

  “If you think it sounds good, just wait until you taste it.” Holding the mixing bowl in place under her arm, Emily scooped the fruit dip into a plastic container, then sealed it with the lid and placed it in the refrigerator. “Letting it set overnight is best, but if you can only chill it a couple of hours, that’s fine, too.”

  “I’d need to eliminate the walnuts,” Sharon said, glancing over the recipe again. “Jerry doesn’t like them.” She stopped, realizing she’d spoken automatically, without remembering that she no longer needed to concern herself with Jerry’s likes and dislikes. From this Christmas forward she had only herself to please.

  The knowledge should have delighted her; a few days ago it would have. Instead it depressed her. In her heart of hearts she recognized that the recipe would be tucked away, forgotten in the pages of a cookbook, like a good intention. It would be too much of a hassle to go to all that trouble just for one person. It wasn’t worth the effort.

  “Something smells good,” Jerry said as he walked into the kitchen. “I love the scents of Christmas.” He poured a cup of coffee for himself, then opened the refrigerator for the milk and spied the large turkey thawing inside.

  “Christmas evokes memories for me,” Mrs. Merkle said conversationally. “They must for you, too, after all th
ese years together.”

  “The first year Sharon and I were married, she baked a turkey,” Jerry said. “She’d never done one completely on her own, and we couldn’t afford for her to call her mother long distance and ask questions.”

  “It wasn’t a turkey,” Sharon corrected him, laughing softly, “just a large chicken, but I stuffed it and fretted over it with all the nervousness of a young bride wanting to impress her husband.”

  “How’d it turn out?” Emily asked.

  “Wonderful,” Jerry answered without looking at his wife. “One of the best Christmas dinners Sharon ever cooked.”

  “Jerry, it was a disaster.” Sharon couldn’t believe his memory was so short. “The bird was as tough as shoe leather, and the dressing was soggy and bland. I kept telling you how sorry I was that I’d ruined everything, and you insisted on eating it anyway.” She’d loved him for it, loved him until her heart ached with the memory of it.

  “The dinner was bad?” He looked genuinely surprised. “That’s not the way I remember it.”

  “It wasn’t much of a Christmas as Christmases go,” Sharon murmured. “We had so little.”

  “Ah, the good ol’ days. They bring back memories, don’t they?”

  “True,” Jerry added, sitting on the chair next to his wife. “As I recall, we couldn’t afford a Christmas tree, so Sharon made one by sticking toothpicks into those foam balls till she had a stack of porcupines and then sprayed them all with that snow that comes out of a can. Then she decorated that with tiny glass balls, all blue.”

  “It wasn’t that we couldn’t afford the tree,” Sharon explained. “Those were the days before the sheared trees were the fashion. We could have probably picked one up for a buck or two, but there wasn’t room in our tiny apartment for anything more than the two of us.”

  “Three months later we made room. Our first Christmas, Sharon was six months pregnant with Clay and we needed every penny we could to save for the baby.”