July Thunder

“I always thought it was good they put those tapes out of sight where the kids can’t find them.”

“Me, too. It shows some responsibility, without interfering with people’s choices. And it’s all soft-core, anyway.”

A little giggle escaped her. “You’ve checked it out?”

He sent her a sour look. “Only in my official capacity. Somebody complained that they were renting child pornography.”

“Were they?”

“Of course not. The woman who complained hadn’t even been in the store. She’d heard it from someone, who’d heard it from someone else. You know how that goes. Anyway, the stuff they’re renting is pretty much on the level of an R-rated movie, just more of it.”

“Well, I’ll be the first to admit I don’t understand the fascination for those things. But then, I’m a woman.”

“I’m a man,” he said, stating the obvious. “I don’t read girlie magazines, either.” Then, unable to resist, he added, “Why settle for pictures if you can have the real thing?”

He heard her gasp; then a deep laugh escaped her. “You are wicked, Sam Canfield. Wicked, wicked.”

“So my father always said.” But this time he said it without bitterness. Somehow Mary’s laughter had taken the sting out of her teasing words—and the sting out of remembering his father. He wished it would last.

As they approached her house, she said, “Why don’t you come in for breakfast?”

“I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble. I’m an old hand at fast breakfasts. I can microwave bacon and some sausage biscuits, and make coffee in a jiff. And you need to eat something.”

He couldn’t argue with that. Nor, he realized, did he want to. Exhausted as he was, he was still too wound up to hit the hay. He figured it might take him an hour or so to wind down from working all night. It always did.

“Thanks, Mary. If you’re not too tired.”

“I’m as wired as can be. I got my second wind along about 5:00 a.m. And I’m hungry, too.”

So he parked in her driveway. For an instant he wondered if his father was watching from across the street, then told himself he didn’t care. It made him uneasy, though, that Mary had intimated his father was showing interest in him. In Sam’s experience, Elijah grew interested only when he believed his son was messing up.

The air in town was hazy now, not as bad as up in the pass, but the effects of the fire were reaching here, too. The morning sun, heralding yet another dry day, looked pale through the smoke, and yellowed.

“It smells smokier than a frigid winter night,” Mary remarked as she unlocked her door. He knew she was referring to the number of woodstoves that burned around there when it got cold.

But the smoke hadn’t penetrated her house, at least not yet, and Sam noticed a delicate scent of lilac on the air. “Is that lilac I smell?” he asked.

“Yes. I love it. It’s in the carpet freshener.”

Almost in spite of himself, he smiled. “When I was about six, we lived for a while in Michigan. My dad was pastor of a small church up near Saginaw. And we had this huge lilac bush at the corner of the house, just covered with blossoms. I used to like to suck the nectar out of them. And I used to hide under it. Nobody could find me there. I seem to remember spending entire afternoons daydreaming, surrounded by lilacs.”

Mary led him into the kitchen, shucking her flannel shirt and hanging it over a chair back. “Did you have to hide often?”

He found himself looking into her green eyes. Sinking into her green eyes. And he saw a gentleness there that made his heart slam. Gentleness wasn’t something Sam had experienced very often in life, not even in his marriage. It had an unexpected effect on him, an effect that held him rooted to the spot even as she turned away, apparently accepting his silence as an answer.

“How many sausage biscuits do you think you can eat?” she asked, opening the refrigerator door.

“Uh…” Her question might as well have been spoken in another language. Somehow it didn’t connect with his brain.

She smiled over her shoulder. “Why don’t you wash up in the bathroom, and I’ll make coffee. The caffeine might clear the cobwebs.”

He was grateful for the easy escape. Because, for no reason he could figure out, Mary’s tidy little kitchen had suddenly seemed as threatening as a dragon’s lair. As if something awful might leap out at any moment.

A strange way to react to a gentle smile.

One look in the mirror over the bathroom sink almost caused him to laugh out loud. He looked like a raccoon, so much smoke, sweat and dirt had stained his face. He was surprised any woman would offer him breakfast, looking the way he did.

And now that he noticed, his shirt stank of smoke and sweat, too. Oh, man. He ought to slink out of here now, before she noticed.

Although how she could have failed to notice, sitting right beside him in the truck cab, he couldn’t imagine. Maybe the smoke covered the sweaty smell.

If he’d had a change of clothes, he might have hopped into her shower. Instead he had to strip off his shirt and do what he could with a washcloth and a bar of soap. And when he was done, it was kind of embarrassing to look at the black stains on the cloth. He rinsed it out as best he could, but it was going to take a heavy-duty trip through a washing machine to save it. And it was pretty, too, not just some colorless white cotton of the kind he owned.

That was when he noticed that the whole bathroom was pretty. Lavender and lilac and cream dominated in the shower curtain and rug, along with the soap dish and other stuff he never knew the names of. He bet her whole house was pretty. Feminine.

He and Beth had been kind of basic about such things, preferring instead to spend their money on skiing and a recreational vehicle. Not to mention a boat for fishing on the reservoir.

There was even a tiny old medicine bottle holding a few tiny dried purple flowers.

All of a sudden he was uneasy, feeling as if he’d stumbled into a virgin’s bower. Mary McKinney dealt in things he couldn’t begin to fathom, things like tiny little flowers and probably satin sachets in her dresser drawers. It was an alien world.

Moving swiftly, he donned his flannel shirt, thinking that he’d wasted the effort of washing himself. Once again he was enveloped in soot and stench.

When he returned to the kitchen, taking care not to peer off to the side at her living room—it was probably dripping with cute feminine things—he found her pouring two mugs of hot coffee. The microwave was humming, its digital display on a countdown. She, too, had scrubbed up a little, washing the ashen color from her face and neck, restoring her rosy color. But as she moved closer to hand him the coffee, he could smell the smoke on her, too.

“I’m afraid I killed your washcloth,” he said as he accepted the mug. The cream and sugar were already on the table, in blue willow containers. His mother had done that, too, he remembered with an unwelcome pang. She’d never been content to put the milk on the table in a store container.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said pleasantly. “It’s just a washcloth. Two-ninety-nine at the discount store. I’ve got bigger worries.” Then she laughed.

God, her laugh was incredible. Warm and throaty, seeming to rise from deep within her. Its touch was almost physical.

“Sorry,” she said. “I seem to be punchy from lack of sleep.”

A helpless smile came to his own mouth, like the harmonic response of a tuning fork. Irresistible. “Me, too. Tell you what. Nothing either of us says is to be taken into evidence.”

She laughed again. The microwave pinged, and she pulled out a clear plastic pouch containing bacon. “This stuff is actually pretty good.”

“I know. I depend on the microwave. Without it, I’d either starve to death or go broke from eating out all the time.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him, still smiling. “One of those, huh?”

“One of whats?”

“Testosterone-based life-form.”

He had an urge to laugh, but instead he played along. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know. Those poor unfortunate creatures who are incapable from birth of cooking or cleaning.”

“Ah. You mean I suffer what some folks call testosterone poisoning.”

She shrugged, still looking impish. “Same thing, I guess.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ll have you know my house is pretty clean.”

“No underwear on the bathroom floor? No giant dust bunnies under the bed?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure what’s under the bed….” He trailed off and enjoyed watching her laugh again. Damn, it had been so long since he’d shared anything approaching humor. Who cared if they were punchy from lack of sleep? It felt good.

Using only the microwave and coffeepot, she put quite a meal in front of him: bacon, sausage biscuits, orange juice and coffee, and plenty of it. And once he started eating, he realized he was famished.

She spoke as he bit into his second biscuit. “It must have been hard work, building the firebreak.”

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been quite so hard if I hadn’t been spending too much time on my can in a patrol car recently.”

One of those enticing smiles flickered across her face. “I could say the same. It’s funny, when I moved up here I had all these ideas about cross-country skiing, hiking in the summertime. Instead I always seem to be too busy.”

“That’s life. There’s always something that needs doing.” But then he remembered Beth. “My late wife had a different philosophy.”

“What was that?”

“That the responsibilities won’t go away if you ignore them for a few days. They’ll always be there. In fact, she used to say that if you let them, responsibilities will expand to take all your time.”

“How did that work out?”

“Not too bad, usually. Yeah, the bills had to be paid on time whether you felt like it or not, but other things… Well, she used to get up on her day off, and the house would be a mess because we’d been too busy, and the yard would need mowing, or whatever, and she’d say, ‘Let’s go fishing, Sam. It’s a beautiful day.’” He almost smiled, remembering.

“And I’d say, ‘But, Beth, I’m supposed to work on the yard,’ or whatever it was. Once it was patching the roof because we had a small leak.” Mary’s green eyes were smiling gently at him, he noticed.

“What did she say?” she asked.

“She’d say, ‘Sam, that yard will still need mowing tomorrow.’ Or ‘Sam, that roof will still be fixable this afternoon.’ And off we’d go.”

“Sounds like a great philosophy.”

“It was.” To a point. Sometimes it drove him batty. Things needed doing when they needed doing. Like the roof. They went fishing, had a big early-afternoon thunderstorm, and he’d wound up having to patch the bedroom ceiling as well as the roof. But it would have felt disloyal to say that to Mary, so he kept it to himself.

“Still,” Mary said, almost as if she were reading his mind, “I guess you’d need to watch your balance.”

“Sure. And I’ll be the first to admit that procrastination drives me crazy.” He shrugged. “I’m one of those people who just wants to get it done. So I guess I’ve lost my sense of balance the other way lately.”

She nodded. “Maybe I have, too. It gets easy to let work and responsibilities substitute for life.”

He’d never heard it put that way before, and he turned it over in his mind. “Yeah. Less painful.”

“Exactly.” She sighed quietly and nibbled on her strip of bacon. Sam was making huge inroads into the mound of food she’d put in front of him. “It makes it easier not to think.”

“It sure does.” He was tempted to ask her what she didn’t want to think about but decided he didn’t know her well enough. If she wanted to, she could volunteer. “Used to be I loved to sit out on dark nights and just look up at the stars. I used to feel this, um, connection to something bigger.” He was almost embarrassed to say that. It was a part of himself he hadn’t exposed to anyone in a long time.

But to his surprise, Mary simply nodded. “I know what you mean. I feel that way sometimes, when I’m walking alone in the woods and the breeze is whispering in the treetops. It’s like being in a cathedral.” Then her expression turned haunted. “It also gives me too much time to think.”

He could identify with that. He gathered they were both running from a bit of depression. Well, hell, most of the world was, one way or the other. He didn’t pretend his problems were any worse than anyone else’s. He just didn’t plan to set himself up for another round.

But as he left Mary’s house and headed home, he realized he’d found a kindred spirit in her. And that really disturbed him.

7

“Brother Elijah,” Mrs. Beemis said, smiling too avidly, “you wouldn’t happen to be any relation to Sam Canfield, would you?”

He’d only been at the church a few days, but already Elijah had pegged Mrs. Beemis as a gossip and potential troublemaker. She looked like a dear old lady, with gray hair, a surprisingly smooth and rosy face, and blue eyes that peered out from behind the requisite eyeglasses with rhinestones at the outer edges. Everybody’s grandmother.

She was also entirely too eager to tell him about her fellow congregants. Properly handled, a minister would find a woman like her useful. But she had to be handled like nitroglycerin. Every church he’d ever pastored had had at least one Mrs. Beemis.

It was Wednesday evening, after prayer service, and about fifty people were milling about in the tiny parish hall, sipping grape juice and soft drinks and eating cookies. Too many of them, thought Elijah, were able-bodied men who ought to be helping with the fire fighting. On the other hand, it was his official welcoming party, and many of them may have felt it necessary to be there.

Mrs. Beemis was still waiting for an answer. The longer he delayed, the more likely she was to think he was hiding something. And Elijah had nothing to hide. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Yes, he’s my son, Mrs. Beemis.”

“Oh, my, how delightful! He’ll be joining our congregation, then?”

It was not a harmless question. Elijah took a second to consider. “We all have to follow our own paths to the Lord.”

“Yes, of course we do.” Her eyes indicated that her curiosity hadn’t been quenched. It was entirely likely that in a half hour she would be phoning everyone she knew to suggest that a preacher who couldn’t raise his own son in the faith was one who ought to be watched.

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