Page 39 of At Her Will

Vera met the woman’s gaze. What she detected there suggested Mrs. Byrd had come upon Rev in the garden before, and knew firsthand what he sought there.

Perhaps she should leave him be. If he was talking to Higher Powers, nothing Vera could offer would top that. But the compulsion she felt to see him had grown overwhelming. Maybe it was being driven by reasons beyond her own desires.

Or she was just telling herself that.

Fuck it, as Cyn might say. Vera wanted to see him, needed to see him. She wasn’t dealing with another sleepless night.

“Thank you, Mrs. Byrd. It’s a genuine pleasure to meet a true friend of Rev’s.”

The woman’s shrewd eyes registered the word choice, and she nodded. “I hope I’ve done the same, Miss Morgan. Sure feels like it.”

As Vera headed down the hallway, she noted it looked freshly painted. The building wasn’t fancy, but everything was clean and well maintained. Even the base boards gleamed, no accumulation of dust or scuff marks.

Once outside, that trend continued. No pollen on the siding, no bug residue or abandoned webs. In a coastal city where everyone struggled against the effects of a sticky, humidenvironment, the keepers of this building were on the ball. They cared about their church. She had no doubt Rev was part of that effort.

In the cemetery, she saw a recent grave, surrounded by fresh flowers. The polished tombstone said Betty Miller had passed at the seasoned age of ninety-four. Beloved wife, mother, friend and teacher. A line of pretty stones was on the uneven marble top, twenty-eight of them. She wondered if they’d been left by her students.

Even beyond the grave, people always had more stories to tell. Sometimes that was when the best stories came out to be noticed.

A hedge separated the cemetery from the garden, but a powder coated black metal archway woven with bougainvillea provided an entrance. A plaque above it read,Give your worries to the Lord. Offer Him your hope and faith, to give both strength.

Nested in a cluster of rugosa roses to her left was a replica of the Weeping Angel statue in New Orleans’ Metairie Cemetery, her head resting on a pedestal, body and wings stretched out nearly straight behind her. At the base of the pedestal was a planter holding the fish shaped worry stones.

The garden was a mix of wild azaleas, tended flower plots, potted plants and more religious statuary. A large cross marked the garden’s center. As she worked her way through the maze-like plantings to reach it, she kept an eye out for Rev.

Then she heard a deep, guttural moan, a swallowed sob. It was coming from the left side of the garden, so she changed direction, heading for it. Every few steps, she heard it again, so she’d stop. Such a sound required stillness to absorb it. Yet when it became a cry, torn from the soul of the one uttering it, she quickened her step.

The lance through her heart told her it was him.

He was kneeling beside a stone bench, his back to her. In front of him, on a hill of mulch and surrounded by azaleas, was another angel statue, this one standing tall and strong, wings spread and robes billowing, as if she was in a strong wind. Her face was kind but stern, a finger raised in gentle admonishment to counsel silence, to listen to what was being offered.

Rev had his head down, his elbows on the bench, face cupped in his hands, his broad shoulders shuddering. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, his knees on the concrete pad around the bench. His back was rounded, as if what gripped him held on tight and hard, curling him in on himself. As she drew closer, she realized that between the sobs and cries, he was singing in a broken, rough voice.

“Judge not lest ye be judged…

“All things are possible through He who gives me strength…

“Let go… Just let go… Just gotta let go…”

Even now, in the throes of such personal anguish, the pitch of his voice, its ability to compel and mesmerize as he put random words to music, was not diminished. If anything, it held more power. His pain took strength from her body, making her sit down on another nearby bench, but it pulled her spirit right to him. The notes rang through the garden, keeping even the birds silent.

He raised his head, his eyes closed. When she saw his tears, she could feel his worry and agony. Only love could create a wound that deep.

Her strength came rushing back. She couldn’t refuse the compulsion that told her he needed a Mistress’s care as much as he needed God’s.

She took off her shoes and stockings. Having the pathway under her bare soles felt right, as if she were on holy ground. She came closer, until she could put her hand on his shoulder.

He didn’t start at her touch. He went still, until another shudder passed through him. Lifting a hand, he covered hers and held it tight. She went to her knees next to him, her arm across his back, her cheek pressing against it.

She’d been angry, wanting to strike out at Witford and his aunt, for the wrong they’d done him, wanting to make them suffer for hurting a man she already deeply cared about. But here, she was pulled into what mattered to him about it, and tears rose and spilled down her cheeks.

She wasn’t just crying for what his family had done, but what hers had, and how lost they all were, every one of them.

He turned, and suddenly he was holding her. Every fear and worry she had bubbled up and, in his arms, were washed away. She was safe and cared for, in a way she rarely let herself know she wished for. He knew, and understood. He saw and felt her, down to the soul.

She was a Mistress, a woman who could care for herself and others. She could care for him, which was why she was here. Whether she’d wanted to be here or had been called here, it didn’t matter. It was all the same.

She was also a child, wondering at the world, sometimes afraid and hurting over it. Just like him.

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