Читать книгу Ties That Bind - Marie Bostwick - Страница 10

The church vestibule was cold and a little gloomy. The big overhead chandeliers were dark so the only light came from a few low-watt faux-candle wall sconces topped with tiny gold lamp-shades. Though the sanctuary had been decked for Christmas more than two weeks before, the clean, sharp scent of cedar and pine boughs hung in the air. That’s the upside of an unreliable furnace; chilly air keeps the greens fresh longer.

Abigail stood on the mat and stamped the snow off her boots. “We’re late,” she said in a slightly accusing tone, nodding toward a trail of melting slush left by those who had arrived first.

It wasn’t my fault. Abigail left me cooling my heels in her foyer for ten minutes while she was in the kitchen giving Hilda, her housekeeper, last-minute instructions about Franklin’s dinner. I almost reminded her of that, but then thought better of it. I’ve known Abigail long enough to know she doesn’t mean to sound snappish. She just hates being late. When you think about it, it’s kind of sweet that she fusses over Franklin’s dinner like that, as though they’d been married three months instead of three years.

If I ever get married, that’s just how I’d want to treat my husband, as though we were newlyweds forever. I wish …

I stopped myself. I wasn’t going to go there. I was going to stick to my resolution, be content in every situation. And what was so bad about my situation anyway? Things could certainly be much worse. Think of poor Reverend Tucker, lying in a hospital bed.

“Have you heard any more about Reverend Tucker?” I asked as I followed Abigail down the stairs. “Mr. Carney made it sound pretty bad.”

“Ted likes to make things sound bad,” Abigail puffed. “Makes him feel important to get everyone else in a flutter. There’s no such thing as a good heart attack, but Bob will be fine. I called the hospital and pried some information out of the administrator.”

I’ll bet you did. I smiled to myself. Abigail is one of the biggest donors to the hospital and about fifty other charities. She has clout in New Bern and no qualms about exercising it on behalf of people she cares about.

“I insisted that they put the same doctor who treated Franklin on the case. He’s the best cardiac man in the state. Don’t worry, Margot. After a few months of rest and rehabilitation, the good reverend will be back to his old self.”

“That’s a relief. I can’t imagine anyone else being able to fill his shoes.”

“Nor can I. But we will have to find someone to replace him, at least for the next few months. On such short notice, especially right before Christmas, I don’t suppose we’ll have much to choose from in the way of candidates. But,” she said with grim determination, “beggars can’t be choosers. We’ll just have to find ourselves a warm body and hope for the best. I just hope Ted doesn’t let the meeting drag on and on. I don’t want to be here all night.”

“Well, there’s only one item on the agenda. All we have to do is discuss the candidates and vote for an interim minister. How long could that take?”

Abigail arched one eyebrow. “Obviously,” she said, “you don’t know Ted Carney as well as I do.”

I was sketching lines of intersecting squares along the margin of my legal pad, thinking about side dishes to serve with the Christmas turkey. Somebody coughed and I jumped, startled by the noise, worried that I’d missed something.

I hadn’t. Ted Carney was talking. Still.

When Abigail and I arrived, Ted, president of the board, was reminding everyone that the pastor was already scheduled to take a sabbatical in the spring. Ted proposed we extend the sabbatical to six months, giving Reverend Tucker plenty of time to recover, and that the Tuckers stay at Ted’s cabin on Lake Winnipesaukee, leaving the parsonage vacant to house the interim pastor. Everyone liked the plan and voted in favor of it. So far so good. Now all we needed to do was choose our interim pastor. Easy.

But instead of getting directly to a presentation of the candidates, Ted began going through a list of every minister who had served in the pulpit of New Bern Community Church for the last two hundred years and spelling out the relative strengths and weaknesses of each one—in excruciating, mind-numbing detail.

No one was listening.

Deirdre Camp was making a grocery list. Pat Boyd was holding her BlackBerry, surreptitiously checking her e-mail. Waldo Smitherton, who is ninety-six, was dozing, but there was nothing new about that. He sleeps through most board meetings. The only person who appeared to be listening was Miranda Wyatt; her eyes were glued to Ted.

Abigail, obviously irritated, was drumming the table with her fingers. I wondered how much longer she’d be able to control her temper. I looked at my watch.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Ted! Get on with it!”

Seventy-eight seconds. Pretty impressive. For Abigail.

Ted sputtered like a jowly bulldog and glared at Abigail. “Excuse me,” he said. “Were you wishing to address the chair or the board? I believe there needs to be a motion before you can do either.”

Ted likes to invoke Robert’s Rules of Order—usually incorrectly. It makes Abigail crazy.

“No! There doesn’t! This isn’t a formal meeting and we’re not ready to take a vote, so we don’t need to make a motion! What we need to do is find a pastor before Christmas. So, do you have any résumés for us to consider or not?”

Abigail’s outburst elicited stirring among the benumbed board. People sat up and stopped their doodling. Pat powered down her BlackBerry. Adam Kingsbury elbowed Waldo, who woke with a start and shouted, “Aye!” thinking it was time to vote.

Scowling, Ted pulled a small stack of papers out of a weathered brown briefcase.

“Is this all we’ve got to choose from?” Pat asked. “Two résumés?”

“I’m afraid so,” Ted replied apologetically. “And they aren’t résumés so much as information sheets. I typed them up myself. The pool of candidates available in time for Christmas is very small and I wasn’t able to reach either of them on the phone. One is flying to Europe and the other is on a backcountry ski trip. However, I did put in a call to Reverend Oswald, head of the Eastern Conference, who is on a mission trip to Malawi. Before we were cut off, he told me a little bit about the candidates. They’re fresh from seminary, but Reverend Oswald said either would be an excellent choice.”

Abigail leaned close to my ear and hissed, “If we’ve only got a choice between one embryo parson and another, then why did he subject us to that endless lecture?”

Miranda raised her hand before speaking, as usual. Miranda is a third-grade teacher. Ted smiled and yielded the floor. Abigail rolled her eyes.

“Pardon me, but might it be a good idea to find a guest preacher for Christmas and fill the position later when there are more available candidates? Ted’s inspired comments on the qualities of a true minister made me think we shouldn’t rush this.” Miranda smiled sweetly. Ted ducked his head in a sort of “oh, it was nothing” way.

Abigail’s eyes darted from Miranda’s face, to Ted’s, and back to Miranda’s. “Is she flirting with him?” she whispered.

I shrugged. It was possible. Ted was a widower and Miranda was divorced. It was hard for me to imagine anyone being attracted to Ted romantically, but they say everybody is right for somebody—a rule that seems to apply to everyone but me.

“Miranda makes a good point,” Ted said, flashing a wide smile in her direction. “We could bring in a guest pastor over the holidays. Reverend Flatwell is avail—”

Ted was interrupted by a collective groan.

Floyd Flatwell is a retired minister who is always willing to fill in for a pastor who is sick or away on vacation. Before he’d retired from ministry, Floyd had retired from a career as a golfer. He never won a major tournament, but he had played on the professional circuit. If you’re looking for someone to preach for one Sunday, possibly two, Reverend Flatwell is a fine choice. But more than that? Uh-uh.

Four years previously the church gave Reverend Tucker a two-week trip to Israel as a gift to celebrate his fortieth year in ministry. He caught pneumonia on the flight home, so the congregation got to listen to Floyd Flatwell preach sermons about spiritual insights he’d gained on the links—lots of references to following through, keeping your eye on the ball, and heaven as the ultimate nineteenth hole—for four weeks in a row.

Abigail said what everyone else was thinking. “Absolutely not. We have more visitors on Christmas than on any other day of the year. Do you think a sermon comparing the journey of the three wise men to the rigors of tackling the back nine at Augusta—with descriptions of every hole—is going to convince them to come back?”

Glancing at Miranda, who was looking at her lap, Ted shifted his shoulders. “If that’s how everyone feels, we’d better look at the candidates on hand.” Ted picked up the first résumé and started telling us what we could have read for ourselves.

“Anthony Ferrari graduated from seminary last spring. He’s done volunteer work with at-risk youth and served as a chaplain for a police department in Worcester—”

Waldo Smitherton interrupted with a raspy bark. “Ferrari! Sounds like a pricey sports car. We don’t want a minister who drives a fancy car. Wouldn’t look right.”

“He doesn’t drive a Ferrari,” Ted said. “It’s his name. He’s of Italian descent.”

“What?” Waldo cupped his hand to his ear. “He climbed the Martian Crescent?”

Ted raised his voice a couple of notches. “He’s Italian!”

Waldo frowned. “I don’t know about that. My brother’s wife was Eye-talian. Nice girl, but too fertile. They had nine kids. Drove my brother to the poorhouse.”

Squinting his birdlike eyes, Waldo addressed the group. “We just spent good money repainting the parsonage. If some family with a buncha kids moves in there, we’ll have to redo the whole job. Is this fella married? How many children they got?”

“Four,” Ted admitted. “With another due to arrive in April.”

There was a murmuring among the group.

“Moving on,” Ted said wearily. “Philip A. Clarkson also graduated from seminary in the spring. He is forty and unmarried.”

Abigail kicked me under the table. “Unmarried,” she mouthed.

“Stop it,” I mouthed back, just as clearly.

“In addition to a Divinity degree,” Ted continued, “Reverend Clarkson has a Master of Social Work. He spent sixteen years working in the field, first in a home for senior citizens, then a rural hospital, and finally in a large metropolitan high school.”

“Philip A. Clarkson,” Deirdre mused. “He wouldn’t happen to be related to Philip R. Clarkson, would he? My sister is a member of his congregation in Boston, one of the largest churches in the denomination. He’s a wonderful speaker!”

Ted beamed. “Yes, I believe this is his son. My phone connection to Reverend Oswald was poor, but before we were cut off he said this is Reverend Clarkson’s only child. If he’s half the orator his father is, we’d be very fortunate to hire him.”

There were murmurs of approval as the board took in this information.

“It’s too bad we don’t have time to bring him in for an interview,” Miranda said. “But imagine! Having the son of such a famous pastor here in New Bern! I think Ted did an amazing job, finding such a well-qualified candidate in less than a day.”

Adam Kingsbury, who is in his fourth year of what was to be a two-year term as church treasurer, no one else being willing to take on the job, was chewing nervously on his thumbnail.

“Ted, we haven’t discussed finances. How are we going to get money to pay an additional salary? What about insurance?”

Ted held up his hands. “It’s all going to work out. We’ll be able to put our new pastor on the Conference’s insurance plan. As far as his salary,” Ted drew his bushy gray eyebrows together, “I think we’re going to have to put off plans for a new furnace.”

“Oh, no!”

“Not again! We barely got through last winter.”

“I know, but I don’t see another alternative. Do you?” Ted let his gaze rest on Abigail, who ignored him.

“That’s it, then. We’ll just have to make do with the old furnace and pray that God makes it last another year. Now,” he said, clasping his hands together, “it sounds like we’ve settled on our candidate. We just need someone to make a motion. Margot?”

I looked around at the others, surprised that Ted would call on me to make the motion and more than a little annoyed to see the wide smile on Abigail’s face. I knew what she was thinking, and I was having none of it. Single I am and single I will remain. I have accepted this, so why can’t everybody else?

I felt a kick under the table and jumped. Abigail, still smiling that irritating smile, tipped her head to one side, urging me to get on with it.

“I move that we call the Reverend Philip A. Clarkson as interim pastor of the New Bern Community Church.”

“Second!” Abigail chirped so loudly that she startled the again-dozing Waldo, who jerked his head up and shouted, “Aye!”