Boo

  “I had a nice time,” he said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Even with the movie?”

  She smiled. “Yes, and you passing out.”

  “Good.” He swallowed and said, “I was wondering … about church. I’m going Sunday. I just … Can I … sit by you?”

  She patted his arm gently. “Of course you can. I would love it.”

  “I should’ve gone last Sunday. I sort of chickened out.”

  Ainsley had noticed his absence but thought it better not to mention it. “I can’t wait for you to hear Reverend Peck preach. He’s really good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thank you for a wonderful day. I had a lot of fun.”

  “Good.” He grinned at her, and Ainsley felt her legs go numb. That grin was going to do her in.

  She opened the car door and stepped out. “Wolfe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I wanted to invite you to—” Ainsley paused, wondering if she should speak with her father about this first. She dismissed the thought quickly. Heavens, she’d worn perfume twice in one week. If that wasn’t reckless abandon, what was? “To Thanksgiving dinner at my house.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. We always have a lot of guests over. I want you to come. You’ll have a lot of fun, and I cook the whole meal, so that’s reason enough, right?”

  He laughed. “Sure. Thank you.”

  “Bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Ainsley closed the car door, walked up the sidewalk to her house, and turned to wave at him as he drove off. She stood on her porch until his car was gone, trying to relish every last second of their time together. She didn’t know what their future held. But she knew she liked this man. She smiled at the thought of spending more time together and decided the chill in the air was telling her it was time to go inside.

  She turned around to find her father standing inches from her in the doorway.

  CHAPTER 17

  MARTIN BLARTY STUDIED his friend’s face as they sat across from each other at the Deli on the Dark Side, trying to determine if Oliver at all suspected that he’d bought a new car. Thankfully, Oliver seemed more interested in what Martin was saying than what he was driving.

  Martin continued, trying to remember what exactly Missy had told him. Oh yes. Be sly as a serpent and interfere like a dove. It didn’t sound right at the time, but he knew there was something in the Bible about serpents and doves.

  She had made a lot of sense when she’d mentioned that it wasn’t good for anyone involved if Wolfe Boone and Ainsley Parker hooked up. And since Oliver and Ainsley were longtime friends, surely he would be concerned enough to intervene in “a budding romance.”

  Then there was the whole argument about the “good of the town.”

  “I had no idea they were seeing each other,” Oliver said. “I mean, I knew … at least I heard that someone had witnessed to Boo. But now Ainsley’s interested in him?”

  “I think it’s more than interest, my friend. Much more.”

  Oliver studied the pickle next to his half-eaten sandwich. “I’d hate to see Ainsley hurt.”

  Martin shrugged. “One thing’s for sure, Wolfe Boone can’t be God’s best for Ainsley.”

  Oliver nodded. “I agree.”

  “I always thought it’d be Garth, myself.”

  “I had my bets on Billy Hanover, but I guess he’s not too fond of shotguns.”

  “So you gonna say something?”

  Oliver threw some money on the table and stood, prompting Martin to do the same. “I don’t know.” They made their way outside, and Martin was just about to ask Oliver again when Oliver said, “New car?”

  “What?”

  Oliver pointed to Martin’s Chevrolet, four cars down, which should have been hidden by a truck. The truck had left. Martin’s knees grew weak. “Oh, um …”

  “The Ford belongs to Sally Pratt. Bought it last fall. Traded in her four-door. The Nissan is Dave Bennett’s. Still running after eight years. Sold it to him on his fiftieth birthday. And the white minivan is owned by Judy Johnson. Even though her husband wanted an SUV. So the only other car left is the Chevy. Yours?”

  Martin swallowed hard. “My uncle’s. Dead now. Left it to me.”

  Oliver smiled. “Oh, well good for you! Looks like an ’87. That was a good year for that model.”

  “That’s good to know,” Martin said, with what little breath he had. “Well, good evening.”

  “See you soon, Martin.”

  Oliver turned and walked toward his BMW. A sigh of relief escaped Martin, who sure was glad he knew his Bible verses, because being sly as a serpent was coming in handy.

  “I’m running a little late. I’ll get dinner started,” she said, walking briskly past her father and into the kitchen. She heard him follow her.

  “Ainsley, please. Slow down.”

  “It’s roasted chicken with rosemary, Dad. We’re looking at over two hours to cook.”

  He grabbed her shoulders gently and turned her around. “It can wait. We need to talk.”

  Ainsley looked up at her father. His eyes were gentle and kind, as she knew them to be. She felt the knot in her stomach loosen. “Okay.” Ainsley turned the oven on to preheat, then joined her father at the kitchen table.

  “I’m sorry about how it’s been between us, honey. I hate that I left the house when we were both so angry. And I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you about it sooner. I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too, Dad. I’ve felt horrible all week.”

  He smiled at her. “That was Wolfe? Driving the Cherokee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, at least he has good taste in cars.”

  “And German food. He took me to Ingrid’s last week.”

  “I’ve eaten there once. Several years ago. It was good. All right, good taste in food, too.”

  Ainsley leaned across the table. “He’s great, Dad. I mean really great. I like him, and I haven’t felt this way about a man before.”

  She could feel her father tense even though he tried to keep a smile on his face. “What about Garth? You two clicked, right?”

  “Dad! Garth and I never clicked. Ever. He’s nothing I want in a man or a vet. Don’t you get that?”

  Sheriff Parker held his hands up. “Okay, okay. I get it. Garth still needs to win you over.”

  “Why do you like Garth so much?”

  He shrugged. “I know the guy. I’ve known him for years. You two practically grew up together. I know his family.” His eyes met Ainsley’s. “I don’t know too much about Boo except that he writes horror novels.”

  Ainsley leaned back in her chair. “Okay, that’s only fair. But will you give him a chance?”

  Her father was silent.

  “Please.”

  He nodded, his eyes shutting and his head bowing as if he’d just surrendered to something he’d long dreaded. But at least it was a start.

  “Thank you, Daddy. You won’t regret it. You’ll love him.”

  “By the way,” he said, “I have my Thanksgiving guest list made out for you. Worked on it yesterday at the donut shop.”

  “Good!” Ainsley said, relieved to be switching topics. “I have mine, too.” Ainsley stood and retrieved hers from the kitchen. They exchanged lists. Ainsley scanned his quickly.

  “You’re inviting Garth?” Ainsley asked.

  “And you’re not,” he said, eyeing the list in his hand. “You invite Garth every year.”

  “I didn’t want to this year. Why did you?”

  “Because I had a strange feeling you wouldn’t.”

  Ainsley sighed and shook her head. Her stomach hurt at the thought of seeing Garth Twyne at all, let alone for an entire day at Thanksgiving.

  “We’ve always said we can invite whomever we want, right? Anyone we think would be blessed by a huge Thanksgiving dinner. You’re not changing the rules on me now, are you?” her dad asked.

  Ainsley shook her he
ad. “No, Dad. It’s fine. Garth can come.”

  “Good,” Sheriff Parker said with an obvious smile of satisfaction.

  “But I have one more addition.”

  “Oh?”

  “Wolfe.”

  Her father’s cheery face fell into consternation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “ ‘Anyone we think would be blessed by a huge Thanksgiving dinner,’ remember? Both his parents are dead, and I have a feeling he spends most Thanksgivings alone.” She gave her father a pointed look.

  He nodded and stared at the table. “How about putting that chicken on? We don’t want to eat at midnight.”

  Ainsley stood and went to the kitchen. Her father would come around, once he met Wolfe. She’d had to overcome her first impressions of Wolfe too.

  “What did you do on your date today?” her father suddenly asked, leaning over the kitchen bar on the other side of the kitchen.

  Ainsley stuck her head in the refrigerator, squeezing her eyes shut. Did she have to tell every detail of the date? And what was she supposed to say about the movie? Her father would never understand. She took the chicken out and gently put it on the counter, trying to act nonchalant.

  “We went to a movie.”

  “A movie?”

  “Yeah, Dad, a movie. People go to movies, you know.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I do. I just haven’t been in a while.”

  Her father snorted disapprovingly. “What movie did you go see?”

  Ainsley salted and peppered the chicken furiously, hoping to come up with something creative to say. “Um … it was a love story.”

  “A love story?”

  “Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

  Her father frowned. “A love story on the second date?”

  “It was good. It was about a woman everyone expected to be strong and perfect her whole life, and the imperfect man who came and saved her from a destiny of hardship.”

  Her father scratched his balding head. “I hope there wasn’t a sex scene.”

  Ainsley couldn’t help but smile. No sex scene. There was an axe scene, however. Luckily she didn’t have to see that. “No, Daddy.”

  “Good. There can be such trash in those movies.” He smiled at her. “And my baby’s always been pure and good. I don’t want anything to change that.”

  Ainsley smiled back, then turned to put the chicken in the oven.

  It was after eleven o’clock on Saturday evening, two hours later than Reverend Peck normally went to bed. His eyelids drooped with exhaustion, and though he hated the sound of his pencil tapping against the wooden desk at which he sat, it managed to keep him awake. The words of his sermon blurred in front of him, and for the life of him, he couldn’t even remember what he’d written only moments before. Nothing was flowing. It hadn’t all week. Usually sermon ideas were no trouble. But this week, his heart had been unusually heavy, and only in the last couple of days had he begun to realize why.

  Reverend Peck dropped his pencil, pushed his pad of paper back, stood, and began to pace the cold floor of his bedroom. The despair he felt amazed him; he was quite sure he hadn’t felt this way since his beautiful wife had died nearly twenty years before. His throat ached with emotion as he realized with great pain what all this meant.

  He had failed.

  And he was going to fail again, by not having a sermon ready for tomorrow morning. How could he possibly stand in front of his flock with nothing at all to say? And with disappointment lingering in the back of his mind as well?

  He sat on the edge of his bed, clasping his hands together as if to pray, though no prayer came to mind. But in a brief moment of clarity, he realized that his mental block must mean something. The fact that he couldn’t put words to paper and come up with a sermon must mean God was trying to tell him something. But what?

  For a long time he just sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, trying to make sense of a long and draining week. And then, without warning, he realized with excitement there was a test. He sat up straight and lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. Yes, a test! Something he could do to see if his little flock had indeed been listening all these years. He stood and laughed out loud.

  Yes! With one simple test he would know. Surely they would pass. It wasn’t hard, after all. But he knew one thing for sure: The test would tell him if his church had put his words in their hearts.

  He went to his living room as fast as he could, pulled on his warmest winter coat, and while still in his slippers and pajamas, went outside and scooted along the little pebble path that led from his humble cottage right up to the back steps of the church. His heart pounded with anticipation, for tomorrow would be perhaps the most extraordinary day of his ministry.

  Wolfe rose early Sunday morning, earlier than normal. He wanted to beat the sun and watch it rise through the east window of his home. There was something spiritual about watching the sun rise while he held warm coffee in his favorite mug, and because he didn’t yet have a good sense of how to talk to God, he figured starting the day out by watching the sun illuminate all of His creation would prepare him for his first day of church.

  The early rays of light spread over the distant Indiana hills while Bunny and Goose, frisky in the cold morning air, trotted playfully in the nascent haze. Wolfe sipped his coffee and thought about how in all his years of writing, he’d never been able to capture the glory of creation. One could nitpick a descriptive paragraph to death and still not reflect what he could see with his own eyes. The glow of the earth in the early morning seemed like the perfect introduction to God.

  Goose and Bunny scratched at the back door. Wolfe finished off his coffee, then went to let them in. They shook the morning dew off their coats before going to look for breakfast. Wolfe wasn’t interested in breakfast, and as he headed upstairs to his bedroom, his mind turned to Ainsley. He’d slept decently last night, but his unconscious thoughts had been filled with her face, and even this morning her beautiful voice seemed to fill his head. It was hard to believe that after all these years his dream had become a reality, yet that reality was still fragile. He swallowed the fear away and went to his closet to try to pick out something to wear.

  He didn’t own a tie, and the best he could hope for was a nicely pressed cotton dress shirt. He found one near the back and shook it while still on the hanger to loosen the dust. He hadn’t used an iron in years, and it took him twenty-five minutes to find the one he owned. When he finally did, he still couldn’t locate the board, so he used the kitchen counter.

  Goose and Bunny whined about their empty food dishes, but Wolfe didn’t pay much attention. He tried as carefully as he could to remember how his mother had taught him to iron, and though he missed some creases and the collar ended up a little crooked, he thought overall it didn’t look bad. There weren’t any noticeable wrinkles anyway.

  Back upstairs, he found a pair of dark trousers, slipped them on, and decided he’d better run a comb through his hair. He ran it through twice, once more than normal, and splashed a little cologne on, the same cologne his father used to wear. It always brought back good memories.

  He picked up his shoes and sighed at the thought of how many times he’d told himself he needed to go get new ones. He stared down at the tattered leather and scuffed heel of his left shoe, shook his head, and decided there wasn’t too much he could do about it today.

  Bunny and Goose eagerly circled him when he landed on the last stair step. In the kitchen, he lifted the heavy bag of dog food out of the pantry and poured it. They wagged their tails in thanks and began to eat.

  Wolfe still wasn’t hungry but decided to scramble himself a couple of eggs, just for something to do. He glanced at the kitchen clock. Only one and a half more hours before church started. Time was flying by.

  Wolfe dusted off his grandfather’s Bible, the one he had given to twelve-year-old Wolfe just before passing away. Wolfe used it now and then, mostly when he needed a reference
for one of his books. Even before his “conversion” he had understood it to be a book full of wisdom. Now he knew the words were alive. How alive he wasn’t sure. But when he picked the heavy book off the table, he held it with a certain reverence that just seemed to come naturally.

  The clock told him it was time to leave. He allowed himself a couple of minutes to walk down the hill, five minutes to find Ainsley and get settled, and three to four minutes of buffer time, just in case one or the other took longer. He settled Goose and Bunny, who couldn’t imagine where he might be going this time of morning. Noses down, they approached with worried brows and soft whines.

  “It’s okay, guys,” he said to them, patting their heads and rubbing their necks. “I’m going to church. Get used to this.” Goose’s ears perked up as he looked curiously at his master. “It’s a good thing,” Wolfe said in honor of his new friend. He stood and took his jacket out of the coat closet. It would be chilly this morning, but he wouldn’t be outside long. No use getting out his wool coat. It was itchy and looked worse than his shoes.

  Wolfe opened the front door, filled his lungs with the crisp fall air, and looked at the little church’s steeple, steady and tall as it had been every day. This day, though, it symbolized something more than a quaint romantic notion.

  He walked down the gravel path with his Bible under one arm, hands deep in his pockets, finding himself whistling an unknown tune, observing the birds, and thinking how wonderful Thanksgiving was going to be. The chill in the air couldn’t penetrate the warmth he felt inside. For the first time in his life, he felt he was on track. Even with all the success he’d had as a novelist, the solitary life he led as a writer only exacerbated his inner void, and he had experienced days when he thought life was most definitely not worth living. Only his poetry, his dogs, and perhaps even God Himself, though unknown to Wolfe at the time, had retained some significance in his life.

  A swarm of people mingled outside the front doors, and at first Wolfe thought that was where they gathered before church started. But it was awfully cold for that. No one seemed to notice his approach, and by the low murmur of the crowd, it dawned on him that something unusual was happening.