Page 18 of Playing With Fire

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Ricky made sure he was seated as close as possible to Hattie Beecham. After clashing with Silas, he figured that the wife might be a softer target for his questions.

His head was still wired from what had turned out to be a challenging debate, especially on an empty stomach and a single lukewarm coffee.

He slid into the seat next to the diminutive preacher.

“So nice to meet you, Ricky. Your mom has been talking about you coming home.” Hattie reached out for his hand, and Ricky felt a moment of frozen incomprehension before he realised that they were about to say grace. His neighbor, a rather dour-looking man who was apparently the church treasurer, grabbed Ricky’s other hand.

The sensation of holding Hattie’s small cool hand, the bones delicate as a bird under his large fingers, and having the other hand immobilized by the iron grip of a large and callused palm, was novel to say the least. Novel, but bearable, Ricky decided as a voice murmured a long and indistinct prayer.

“Amen,” everyone said loudly. Ricky had his hands back.

A sudden niggle of guilt popped into his head. He shook his head to clear it. Must be the effect of going to church and then compounding his dose of holiness by coming to lunch.

Guilt.

Guilt that he hadn’t shared the secret—the life-changing secret which alternately thrilled and terrified him—with the two people who loved him most, his parents. That he hadn’t even told his mom and dad about Chrissie, though they likely already knew she had died. Temple Mountain was a small town, after all.

A furious, frustrated sadness crept down Ricky’s back. It lodged in his chest like a shard of ice.

He was going to find his baby and claim her? Sure.

Who was he kidding? Only himself.

“Your folks are so proud of you.” Hattie was speaking in her clear quiet voice. Her accent was pleasant, almost musical on the ear.

Ricky forced himself to focus. He threw Hattie a polite smile. Around them the sounds of clinking tableware had briefly silenced the chatter. He followed suit. The beans and molasses were every bit as good as they smelled.

“Your mom says that you are taking some stress leave from work. Not surprising, in your job.”

He cleared his throat, ready for an inquisition, but Hattie laughed.

“Don’t worry. Just because I’m a minister doesn’t mean that I expect you to bare your soul.” She took some ham and passed Ricky the plate. “I think that sometimes confession is overrated. Too easy. Sorry. But it means nothing without repentance and absolution.”

Ricky was surprised into laughter. Clearly neither of the Beechams believed in small talk.

He spent a few minutes juggling plates, noticing that the treasurer was a big fan of ham and mustard, not so keen on coleslaw and green salad, but couldn’t resist a baked potato with grilled cheese. Hattie, on the other hand, served herself tiny portions which she artfully distributed around the plate to look like a bigger serving.

She was still looking at him, eyebrows raised. Waiting.

Ricky scrambled to make some trite comment about everyone speaking their own truth or whatever bullshit people used to justify moral equivalence these days.

The words died in his mouth. He stared into Hattie’s calm eyes.

“I’m more into the judgment side of things these days.”

Hattie nodded. She nibbled at her salad. “Humans are frail. We stumble and fall.”

She looked in the direction of the children. Ricky’s gaze followed.

Alma and the twins were part of the boisterous group, all relishing the fact that their parents were too busy chatting or too far away to enforce good manners or a balanced diet. Fingers rather than utensils were mostly in play, and there was barely a vegetable in sight.

“I don’t believe that those children’s parents did not love them. But for some reason, that love was twisted or hidden by their own anger or their own needs.”

Ricky felt the grim lines of his face relax as he watched. Jodi was parked at the end, a sticky-faced toddler squirming on her lap while she cut up ham on a small child’s plate, all the while nodding as one of the twins explained something which involved much knife twirling. With a spare hand, she gently lowered the knife, still listening.

She glanced upwards, catching Ricky’s eye, and threw him an impulsive, glowing smile that instantly pierced his defenses.

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