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  Before the accompaniment had a chance to stop, she’d clipped the microphone back onto the stand and rushed off the stage to her seat in the front row, keeping her gaze down.

  Old Buster stood from his seat behind the pulpit. I hadn’t noticed before how stooped over he’d gotten. And how tired his face looked. I almost felt sorry for him. Taking his place center stage, he lifted a hand in greeting. Smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket, the American flag pin he wore caught a glint of light. He moved his hands up to his head, patting down the combed over hair.

  “Good morning,” he boomed.

  A few from the front seats echoed him. Old Buster grimaced.

  “Oh, come on.” Wagging a fat finger at the congregation, he scolded them. “You can do better than that. I said, ‘good morning.’”

  Five or six other voices echoed him that time. He turned down his mouth and closed his eyes before lifting his lips into a smile.

  “I guess that’s better than nothing. We’ll have to keep working on that.” Surveying the congregation, he lifted his greeting hand again. “Looks like we’re full up this morning. I’m so glad you came. And feeling really blessed that we got to share in that special music. Wasn’t it just beautiful? Like listening to the angels sing.”

  I wondered what kind of angels he meant. The ones who sang to the shepherds on the night of Christ’s birth or the ones in the book of Revelation with eagle heads and swords of judgment.

  “How about, before I get rolling on this sermon, you all get up, turn around, and say hello to somebody you don’t know.”

  “Seriously. Does he not realize how small this town is?” I turned to Char. “We practically know each other’s shoe size.”

  “Except for the new minister.” She pointed to the front of the sanctuary.

  Outstretched hands all around him, Will tried to shake as many as he could. Moving from person to person, he nodded and smiled. I could hardly see him beyond all the people. Every few seconds I caught a glimpse of his dark, wavy hair. Or a glint off his glasses. Once I even saw the dimples in his cheeks. I hadn’t intended to be so eager to see him.

  “Poor guy,” I whispered, lifting up on my tiptoes to see over the crowd. My heart pounded despite my efforts to keep it calm.

  “He looks nice.” Char nudged me, almost knocking me off balance. “You should go ask him out.”

  “Are you kidding me? Just go up there right now and ask him out?” I rolled my eyes. “You’re crazy.”

  “I dare you.”

  “I’m not doing that, Char.”

  “I know for a fact that Deirdre made up that thing about him being divorced.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it came out of her mouth. Of course she made it up.” Grinning, she nudged me again. “If you don’t go talk to him by the end of the day, I’m going to give him your phone number.”

  “You’d be wasting your time,” I whispered. “He already has it.”

  “What?” She leaned in closer to me. “Are you for real?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “All right,” Old Buster returned to his center stage spot. “Enough of this chitchat. Let’s get going on this service.”

  Reluctantly, the congregation returned to their seats, getting ready for an hour-long sermon.

  Will turned before sitting, looking at the faces. It seemed like he was searching for someone. I let myself think it was me.

  “Now, some of you already met this fine young man down here in the front row. Keep on your feet, William.”

  Will shrugged, embarrassed, and scratched his scalp.

  “That young man is William Todd. He’s going to be ministering to our youth. I’m so pleased he’s here.” Old Buster said a few more words.

  I didn’t hear them, though. Because Will and I met eyes and he smiled. At me. And then the air didn’t come into my lungs without effort. He raised his hand in a small wave before sitting down. A few heads from the congregation swiveled in my direction.

  Thank goodness my phone buzzed with a text message from Cal. Otherwise, I might have stood there all day, numb and with a shaky kind of feeling in my head.

  “I’ve got to go,” I whispered to Charlotte. “Nursing home removal. Sorry.”

  “He looked at you, Ev,” Char said.

  “I know.” I gave her a smile. “Can you get a ride home?”

  She nodded.

  For the first time in years, I didn’t feel so much like the odd duck in Middle Main. I didn’t feel so lonely. The way Will smiled made me want to stick around.

  Chapter Twelve

  Olga

  Most days, after I got the lunch dishes done up and drying in the strainer, I’d make my way into my old sitting chair to catch a quick nap. It did my aging body good. But I hadn’t caught my nap in days. What with getting my hair done for my date, church on Sunday, a few busy days at the funeral home, I didn’t get half a chance. By Wednesday, my comfy chair called to me.

  Sitting down felt good, the chair cradling my back just right. And the way I could lift my legs up, taking the pressure off my tired ankles, oh, it did me good. The minute I drifted off, though, I heard footsteps traveling up my back stairs.

  “Hi, Gran.” Charlotte’s singer voice rang clear into my home.

  “Oh, come on in, honey.” It took all my will to pull the lids up off my eyes and all the muscle I had to push my feet down and sit up straight.

  “Did I wake you?” Craning her neck, she looked past the lamp on my side table to peek at me. “I can come back another time.”

  “No, sweetheart. You come on.” I had to make a couple tries at getting up to standing. But I got on my feet after all. “Didn’t you have to work today?”

  “We were slow. Deirdre let me go a little early.”

  “You like that job, don’t you?” I made my way to the kitchen. “Before you answer that, would you like a little iced tea? Or a can of pop?”

  “I can get it, Gran.” She stepped toward me. “Yeah. The job is going really well. I like it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” I pointed at the fridge. “Help yourself to whatever’s in there, honey.”

  “Deirdre’s been nice to me so far.”

  Grabbing a couple of glasses from the strainer, I set them on the dinette. “You know I’m proud of you, don’t you? Deirdre can be a tough cookie. No pun intended.”

  Jostling bottles of ketchup and mustard and jars of pickles clinked when Charlotte tugged open the refrigerator door. She pulled out the pitcher of tea.

  “Well, I’m there to work. I try to ignore all the drama.” She put the pitcher on the counter and reached into the freezer for ice. “She makes up most of it anyway.”

  “I bet she does. Maybe she should have been a writer, the way she creates stories.”

  “Some of the things she comes up with are pretty terrible.” The tea rushed over the ice cubes, making them crackle. “Mom says it’s a good dose of the real world.”

  “Your mama’s right.”

  “Well, she didn’t hear the girls from the dorm. I think they were worse.”

  Taking my glass, I walked back to my comfortable chair. “Come on over and sit with me.”

  Charlotte chose to sit right in a puddle of sun that flowed in through my picture window. Gleaming off her red hair, it formed a halo that circled the back of her head. She sunk right into the couch.

  “I still feel badly.” She worked her lips into a quick frown.

  “About what, sweetie?”

  “Not working in the funeral home.” Slumping her shoulders, she sighed from deep down. “It’s not for me. You know?”

  Ever since that no-account father of hers took off, Charlotte had spent a lot of time worried about everybody else. She’d only started kindergarten when he’d gone. She’d wanted everybody to be okay. Especially her mama. That part of her hadn’t grown out as she got older.

  She had the nice girl part down pat. Good thing she could also bare those teeth o
f hers when she had to. Along with the sensitivity, she had a fierce sense of loyalty.

  “Charlotte, I don’t think you should feel bad at all.” I put my glass of tea on a coaster next to me.

  “Whenever I’ve thought about doing that job, even just in the office, I get stressed out. I couldn’t hear all the sad stories every day.” Squeezing her eyes shut, a few tears gathered on her eyelashes. “I’m not strong like Cal and Ev.”

  “No, you aren’t,” I said. “But, honey, you’re strong in a different way.”

  “I don’t know, Gran. I’m too sensitive.” Her green eyes glimmered more for the tears that watered them. “I feel everything too deeply. I’m weak.”

  “Sensitivity has nothing to do with being weak, Charlotte. You hear me?”

  Below us, slow, soothing music played. A recording of some piano playing old hymns. Funeral music. Listening to those tones made my memory decide to go for a little jog.

  “Back a real long time ago, I played the organ for church.” I relaxed into my chair. “I’d sit behind it and move my feet over the pedals and my fingers over the keys, making music. Oh, I’ve loved music far longer than I’ve loved Granddad.”

  That got a little grin out of her. It made me glad.

  “I could sing, but never joined the choir. Guess it scared me too much. I preferred to hide behind a giant instrument. It made me feel I was a whole world away when I played. My aunt Gertie, of course, thought it an awful waste of time. She didn’t care a lick for music or art or reading. To be honest, I don’t know if the woman ever learned how to read more than a recipe. That’s how it was for some women in those days.” The back of my head rubbed against the doily I’d laid on the chair years before. The old lacy thing fell to the floor. I certainly didn’t have the energy to pick it back up. “Anyway, the preacher at the time, he had his wife give me lessons on the organ. I never had such joy as when I put notes together to play a song. It felt like power and grace and praying all at once.”

  “Why don’t you play anymore?”

  “Well, for one, take a gander at these fingers.” I spread my hands on my legs. “Crooked as a drunk farmer’s rows. I wouldn’t be able to move these things on the keys if I wanted to.”

  “That’s not it.” She shook her head. “You wouldn’t let something like that stop you.”

  “You know me so well, don’t you?” I sighed. “Well. Let me tell you. After Granddad opened the funeral home, I’d play for the services. These days they use a recording. But, back then, I had an old electric organ. The first couple funerals bothered me a bit. Mostly because I knew everybody in town for all my life. I had to learn to keep my eyes fixed on the sheet music and not listen to the crying. Good night, the sound of crying has always gotten to me.”

  Muffled voices added to the gentle music from downstairs. Sounded like a good sized crowd had gathered.

  “One day, we had to do a funeral for a little one. A baby. He’d just died in the middle of the night. Nobody knew what happened. He just never woke up in the morning. The mother found him.” Something caught in my throat, making me cough. I sipped a little of my tea before going on. “The parents wanted to see the wee thing before the funeral. Then Granddad would close the casket before everybody else showed up. Back in those days, people didn’t view the young ones. They didn’t think it was appropriate. It’s a hard thing to see. That’s why they didn’t want to look.”

  Charlotte’s big eyes filled up with tears, and she let them tumble down her cheeks. How had she grown so mature as not to be ashamed and wipe them off or try to hide them? I wondered when I’d become so grown-up, even as an old lady.

  “I was pregnant with your mama. It was still early on, but far enough that she liked to make her presence known. I kept my hands on my belly, feeling your mama moving, just like butterflies. And the other mother, she walked to the casket, hands touching her stomach, too. I imagined she remembered the fluttery bumps she had not too long before.” I let my eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. I saw the way that baby looked. I’d dressed him just that morning. Such a doll. That’s how I’d gotten through it. Made myself pretend he was a doll I was dressing up.

  That memory stabbed at me.

  “She caressed her baby’s face. All over. I was afraid she’d pick him up, as if he was just in a crib, finishing up a nap. The father, though, he stood back with his arms crossed, working so hard at being strong. I can’t imagine it wasn’t eating him up completely. But completely.”

  Closing my eyes, that time, I let them stay shut longer. I saw the woman standing at the tiny box. A wooden one. No lining. No hinged top. It had been the one that would cost them the least. They couldn’t afford much of anything. Clive hadn’t charged them full price for a single thing. But we were young and barely making ends meet. Trying to get ready to welcome Gretchen into the world. For how little we charged them, though, we had to eat beans and rice for a full month to make up for it.

  That mother, she stood over that casket, touching her baby. Touching her stomach. The sobs coming out of her settled right into the pit of me. She leaned in close to his small face, talking to him. Her quiet voice sounded like swishing air to me. I never did know what she said to the boy. Wasn’t for me to know anyhow. Just for her and the baby. And God, I supposed.

  Mousy hair hung in her face as she nodded at Clive, not connecting with his eyes. He stepped forward and lowered the top onto the casket. That husband of hers didn’t loosen his crossed arms. Didn’t so much as give his wife a tender look. He stood like a statue and watched as she melted from the smoldering grief.

  Voices filled the lobby as the people came into the funeral home. They didn’t stop at the doors of the chapel. We didn’t have anybody extra to stand at the doors, keeping them out. They just walked right in and saw her falling to pieces. I got myself to the organ and played the notes on my sheet music, letting the strains pull out long and mournful, the way my soul felt them.

  Then she screamed. The mother. I’d never heard anything like that scream before. It didn’t sound like it could have come out of a human. It terrified me. I played louder and louder, trying to drown out her grief. Because I couldn’t take it anymore. Because it reminded me of what could happen. That my baby could die, too.

  After Gretchen came along and we brought her home, I’d wake from the nightmares drenched in sweat. Nightmares of my girl, dressed like a doll and in a cheap, wood box. I’d have to get into Gretchen’s room and feel the warmth of her skin before I could calm down.

  “Gran?” Charlotte’s voice broke through my memory. “What happened next?”

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” I snapped my eyes open. “I got swept away, didn’t I? Well, it was too much for me to take, that funeral was. I couldn’t do any more of them. Guess you got your sensitivity from me.”

  The music from downstairs fizzled out. So did the buzzing murmur of talking. Old Buster’s voice almost shook me out of my chair. That man rattled me so.

  “What’s it like being his cousin?” Charlotte asked.

  Now, I didn’t mean to roll my eyes. They just did it all on their own.

  “That good, huh?” She laughed. Oh, but it sounded like a song.

  “How about we bake a pie?” I wanted to move on from the memory. Not wanting it to haunt me for the rest of the day, but knowing it most certainly would. “Now, I don’t know how Deirdre puts together her crusts, but they tend to be a little on the dry side. You ought to know how to make a proper crust. My mother’s recipe will be perfect.”

  As we mixed and rolled and formed the dough, I told her stories about Old Buster. What it was like growing up in Aunt Gertie’s house with him. How he got that nickname from his tendency to bust people. Especially for busting his little brothers and me.

  But, in the back of my mind, all I could hear was the screaming of that mother. And me, pounding away at the keys and stomping on the pedals of the organ, wanting to drown out the possibility of losing my child.

&nbs
p; Chapter Thirteen

  Evelyn

  Charlotte pulled her car up to The Beauty Hut. It was a rare thing for us to have time, just the two of us. I needed a fresh look. I’d grown tired of the bun I wore every day for years. But I didn’t trust myself enough to go alone. The last time I did that, I ended up with a black dye job and a haircut I couldn’t manage.

  “Okay, I think I’ll just get a trim.” Remembering the hair tragedy gave me cold feet.

  “Come on, Ev.” Charlotte looked at herself in the mirror attached to her visor.

  “I’m a little nervous.” I touched the long hair of my ponytail. “What if she scalps me?”

  “She won’t.” Char turned toward me. “If you really hate it, though, we can go somewhere and get it fixed.”

  “Scalped can’t be fixed.”

  “It’s just hair, Ev. It’ll grow back.” Grabbing her purse, she found lip balm and rubbed it on. “Besides, we’ve got to get you all prettied up for your next date.”

  “He hasn’t asked me for another date.”

  “Yet.” She offered me the lip balm. “You need some?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I think you should get some color done.” She unbuckled her belt. “Oh, Cal asked me to talk him up while we’re here.”

  “The boy needs to learn to take a hint.” I touched the top of my brown hair. “She’s already turned him down three times.”

  “Just wait till you meet her, Ev.” Char opened her door. “You’ll understand.”

  The last time I’d been inside The Beauty Hut, I was five years old. Martha, the old owner, had given me such a bad haircut, my mom never took me back. That morning, as Char and I made our way along the walk to the salon, I couldn’t shake the nerves, fearing that I might leave the place with some kind of unspeakable hair disaster.

  Bad hair seemed to be a theme in my life.

  Char opened the door for me. I’d expected the smell of thick hairspray and moth balls. Instead, a mixture of lavender and peppermint laced the air. The old dark wood paneled walls had been painted a bright, robin’s egg blue. Fresh Gerber daisies in vases sat on counters all around the small room. The only thing that had remained the same was the sign over the door.