Page 134 of At Her Will

He was murmuring that. Telling her how sorry he was, how he’d be where she needed, when she needed him.

Life didn’t always allow it, but believing in that person’s love, how fervently they wished for that, meant so much. She wanted to believe.

“Rev.” She spoke his name softly. When he wiped away her tears with his thumbs, she did the same to him. A strong man’s tears. Was there anything more certain to help heal a woman’s heart? Those tears said,I love you, you’re not alone with this, I want to fix it.

“Rev,” she repeated his name, because she wanted to do so. She gazed up at him. “Are you hungry? I made soup.”

He didn’t smile, his eyes holding her as tight as his arms. “Have you eaten tonight?” he asked.

She shook her head. He plucked a towel from the stack on her dryer and pressed it between her legs. Then he dropped to one knee to blot the seed he’d left on her thighs before using the same towel on himself and fastidiously tossing it into the wash.

“I’ll make us two bowls,” he said. “Any bread to go with it? Maybe one of those muffins?”

“I’m not sure you’ve earned muffins yet.”

It was a weak attempt at humor. The flicker in his eyes acknowledged it, but he gave her a solemn nod. “Maybe some soup crackers. I’ll go get your clothes from outside.”

He’d noted the cotton robe she kept on a hook by the door, so he helped her into it first, even tying the sash, caressing her hips. She kept the extra robe there, because sometimes she liked to sit on her back porch after she’d changed into her nightgown. The robe helped if there was an evening chill.

Shewoulddo that again.

“You can keep your jeans on, but leave your shirt off,” she said.

More relief, that she wanted to be able to look at him, touch him as she wished. But when he touched her face before he went to retrieve her clothes, she could tell he wasn’t expecting her to be the same as always. She appreciated that.

After he returned from the yard and deposited her clothes in the hamper, per her direction, he followed her into the kitchen. Sliding onto a stool, she let him do as he’d said, fix them soup. Serve and wait on her.

“So who’s doing the service at your church this Sunday?” she asked. It brought that uneasiness crashing back through her, but she was feeling like she could win the battle with it right now.

He gazed down at the vegetables swimming in a seasoned tomato-y broth. “Me.”

“Have you ever done that before?”

“No. It’ll be the first time I ever done it by myself. But I helped Witford come up with enough sermons. And it needs to be me. The congregation is confused, and hurting. I hope God will show me what to say, to help.”

In the pause that followed, she expected he was thinking of inviting her, and talking himself out of it so she didn’t feel like he was pressuring her. She wasn’t sure herself, so she asked a question to fill in the awkward silence.

“Are you taking over the position permanently?”

“I don’t know. The church was started by Teena Joy, Tisha, and Tisha’s husband, my Uncle Mel, before he passed away. Witford grew up in it, like I did. We never had to choose a preacher.”

“So you could just take over doing it permanently. No vetting process.”

“Yeah.” He found her soup crackers in the pantry and, at her nod, put a handful into her soup before he did the same for his own. “But I think I’ll ask the congregation to choose. It’s their church, after all. If they want someone else, I’ll fill in until they ready to take over.”

“Would you want the job?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Sunday sermons are only one small part of being the preacher. I couldn’t work at the school anymore, and that’s important to me.”

“What if you hired a co-preacher, and you shared the responsibilities? A partnership, so you have an equal say in the church’s management and direction.”

“Maybe.” He slid onto the stool next to her, and stirred his spoon in the broth.

“Rev, look at me. What’s going on?”

He lifted his head, his expression troubled, at a perilous depth she recognized. She’d seen it in her own mirror, these past few weeks. “It shook me up, my faith in certain things. It isn’t the church’s fault. Isn’t the congregation’s fault. But that poison was there, and I having a hard time understanding how it happened, and if I missed something I should have seen.”

“It's a wound,” she said at length. “Only thing is to let it heal and see what life offers you.”

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