From Humbug To Holiday Bride

“I don’t want visitors.”

“I know.”

Not only wasn’t he inclined to leave, but he actually felt comfortable sitting with this intriguing shrew of a woman.

“I’ll have you removed,” she said.

“Go ahead.”

But she didn’t.

“I don’t know you.” She was frowning now, her eyelids heavy with fatigue.

“That’s changing, though, isn’t it? Even as unpleasant as you are,” he quipped.

“Rude, Preacher. The word is rude,” she corrected, still studying him. “Doesn’t seem to work on you, does it?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, grinning. “If you want me to be impressed that life has been unfair to you, I am. If you want me to pray for your recovery, well, know that I will. If you want to be sure that I know how bitter you are, then rest assured you have persuaded me easily enough.”

She shook her head slightly and almost returned his grin. “You sure you’re a holy man?”

“I don’t think of myself as a holy man and I don’t recall the term in my job description,” he said. “I’m just a man who happens to be employed as a pastor.”

“Where’s your collar?”

“In our church, a pastor isn’t required to wear a collar except during services,” he explained. “They all know who I am, that I serve them, that they hired me and can fire me. There are some in my congregation, in fact, who think I should be replaced.”

She was quiet for several seconds, then asked, “Why?”

“I’m a bargain turned sour,” he said lightly. He certainly hadn’t intended to talk about himself, but he saw that she was interested and thought maybe it wouldn’t hurt to draw attention away from herself for a while.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“They hired my wife and me as a team. Two for the price of one, so to speak. Then we had two children, Emma and Annie, and Maralynn wasn’t able to spend as much time as she originally did on church matters. Soon after, she became ill with a serious heart condition, and we required a housekeeper to help out at an additional expense. Maralynn died two years ago, and now there is only one of us to serve the congregation.” He smiled to encourage the skepticism on her face. “Most of the congregation accepts the circumstances and seems inclined to let things ride, so, you see, I’m not in imminent danger of being discharged.”

“Sorry about your wife,” she said. “But you’re pulling my leg about the rest.”

He laughed without mirth at her directness. “It’s a business proposition, hiring a pastor,” he resumed. “They hired me under advantageous circumstances that are no longer advantageous for them. Why shouldn’t they be concerned that they’re paying for more than they’re getting? They would have a better bargain by replacing me with a married couple.”

“What would you do if that happens?”

“Find another position most likely,” he replied.

“Is that difficult?”

“I don’t know. This is my first position as pastor and I’ve had it for six years. I have no idea what the job market is like.”

“Why aren’t you investigating it? You should prepare for your future.” Her whispery voice was fading.

“If it comes to that, then I will,” he said, shrugging. It wasn’t that he wanted to downplay Maralynn’s tragic death or the vague element of truth in his declaration about his job security. Both were serious issues that affected his and his family’s lives. Still, he had learned to live without Maralynn, and he knew most people in his congregation appreciated him. Hadn’t the board hired him a part-time assistant when Annie was born? And hadn’t they elected to keep Medford Bantz on staff? He could afford to shrug off her concern, although, oddly, it touched him.

“You have one other option,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Get another wife.”

“Marry again? Funny…I’ve been thinking along those same lines.”

“Well, that should be easy for you…what’s your name again?”

Hamish had to remind himself that humility was a virtue. “Hamish Chandler,” he replied.

“Hmm, that’s no name for a pastor.” While he tried to think of how to reply, she continued. “You’re a regular guy, Hamish. You’re the first regular-guy holy man I ever met,” she said, her eyes flickering with what he recognized as fatigue. “But don’t come back, okay? I don’t want any visitors,” she added, barely audible, her eyes closed. “And I don’t tolerate praying.”

Before he realized what he was doing, he had clasped his big hand over her small one and squeezed. “We’ll see,” he said. “Maybe I won’t be able to stay away. I’ve always enjoyed a good time.”

He left his card with his home phone number written in pen and only later asked himself why. Obviously, she would simply discard it.

Hamish was barely out of the car when his two girls came flying across the lawn and threw themselves against him, six-year-old Emma hitting him first because she was older and had longer legs, three-year-old Annie close behind, both of them pressing their faces to his middle and holding on with small arms and dirty hands.

Emma was the first to pull away, her brown hair a windblown frizz of tangles, her thin, delicate face sweetly marred by smudges, her deep brown eyes wide with excitement. “We caught a frog and we’re keeping him,” she declared. He laughed at the importance of her announcement, for she had been trying all summer to gather the courage to pick one up and bring it to the punctured coffee tin that waited on the back porch.

“I fell off the swing,” Annie said, her straight strawberry blond hair framing a round face and dimpled cheeks, her blue eyes demure and shy, too big for her face, but balanced by a wide mouth. Already she was on her way to becoming a beauty.

“Did it hurt?” he asked.

She nodded in serious warning, then asked, “Where were you?”

“I went to visit a lady in the hospital.”

“Is she going to die?” Emma asked.

“No, she’s getting better, but she’s been badly injured and she may never be able to walk again,” he told them.

Emma’s eyes were wide. “Will she have to stay in bed forever?”

“No,” he said, grinning. “She’ll have a chair with wheels and she can probably walk with crutches. Do you know what crutches are?”

“Jimmy Crowton had crutches. He’s in second grade,” Emma said.

He picked them up, one in each arm, and walked to the house. Annie reached down to open the door, and then he set them down in the big old back porch enclosed by windows, and they walked into the large, square farm kitchen where Mrs. Billings was cooking dinner.

He liked the smell of roasting meat and the slight tang of gas from the old range. He overlooked the worn vinyl on the floor and the chips in the porcelain of the stove, just as he ignored the rusty patterns stained into the bottom of the wall-hung sink and the dulled old faucets that leaked in spite of his efforts to replace worn gaskets and ancient stems.

The kitchen was immaculate and it was home, and he was lucky to have it And Mrs. Billings, who had happily made herself part of his family after her husband died four years ago. “How did it go?” she asked him, and he raised his eyebrows in mock exasperation, wondering how much she actually knew about B. J. Dolliver’s harsh, combative personality.

“I wasn’t welcome,” he said.