Endless Chain (10 page)

“I’m sorry. You’d be an asset. But I’ll still see you at church?”

“If my dad lets me come.”

Sam was fairly certain his visit this afternoon would make that less likely. He watched the boy trudge up the hill.

“You had six calls this morning, and one of them was Miss Fletcher.” Gracie Barnhardt, who had been the church secretary since Martha Wisner’s retirement, handed Sam a fistful of pink memos, signed and dated, with “comments” in careful script at the bottom. “Sounds mad,” one read. “Lonely,” another theorized.

Gracie, whose frail body hid an iron constitution, was always right on top of church politics. Luckily for Sam, Gracie shared her opinions with him, and him alone.

Sam glanced at the message from Christine. “I’ll be gone a few days. Call you when I get back to town.” His gaze flicked to Gracie’s comment: “Sounded rushed.”

With the school year right around the corner, Sam guessed Christine was taking the Labor Day weekend to relax before work began in earnest. She had probably accepted one of the many invitations she received and gone down to the Keys for some late summer sun, or up to the Hamptons for a “country weekend.” A Hamptons country weekend would be more her style than the one she had experienced in Toms Brook, and they would see each other late next month when he visited her in Atlanta.

“Nothing I can’t deal with,” he said, looking back up at Gracie, who was pinning errant strands of snow-white hair into a tight knot on top of her head. “Anything else going on?”

“Marvin’s leaving at the end of the day. We’re having cake and punch, and I’ve already bought his going-away gift. I got him one of those alarm clocks with the big numbers so he won’t have any excuse to be late on his next job.”

“You didn’t.”

“Well, I wanted to.”

Marvin was happiest playing banjo with Zeke Claiborne’s bluegrass band, or hanging out at one of the truck stops on I-81, playing the phone card sweepstakes machine. Sam wished his new employers well and hoped they found a way to make him work harder.

“How’s Elisa doing?” Sam asked.

“You want the truth?”

“When have you ever told me anything but? In grisly detail?”

“The church hasn’t been this clean in years. She’s supposed to be helping Marvin, you understand, and he’s supposed to be showing her what to do. But mostly he sits around and watches her do the work. It’s a good thing today’s his last day or I’d have fired him myself.”

“I’d better watch out. I could be next.”

“Well, not by me. But there’s a deacon or two who would like to pack your bags.”

After Sam’s morning at Jenkins Landscaping, he was all too aware of that.

“Elisa said you were going to show her what to do at
La Casa
sometime this afternoon,” Gracie continued. “She’s coming by in a few minutes.” She held up her hands. “I’m just reporting.”

In his office, Sam returned the most important calls and tried Christine, but she was already gone. He got her answering machine and left a brief message telling her to have a good time.

There were two women in his thoughts these days, and he was all too aware of both. Unfortunately, Christine occupied the smallest space. They spoke a couple of times a week—or rather, she spoke. She wasn’t interested in his struggles or his work here, but she was certain that stories of people he had known in Atlanta or plans her father had suggested for their future would interest him greatly. The distance between them, with all its subtleties and implications, was her biggest blind spot.

The other woman was Elisa. Sam hadn’t spent any time alone with his new sexton since the day he had taken her to meet Helen Henry. He greeted her when he saw her at work and knew from a conversation in passing that she had moved into Helen’s house. Helen had told him that Elisa arrived with little more than a backpack and a shopping bag, and settled into her room in a matter of minutes. Helen had covered the bed with the “art” quilt with which Elisa had been so taken.

“Looks to me like nobody’s been good to that woman in a long time,” Helen had said. “Something as picayune as a pretty quilt and she gets all dewy-eyed.”

Sam hadn’t avoided Elisa. He had simply not sought her out or put himself into situations where he might find her by herself. Same thing exactly.

His attraction to her was physical, yes. Elisa was one of the most appealing women he had ever known. He had not taken a vow of celibacy at his ordination, nor promised to wear blinders.

Had it
only
been physical, he was certain he could have moved beyond it. But in addition, he knew an emotional bond was forming. He admired Elisa. She was courageous and hardworking. Despite her confrontation with Leon Jenkins, she had showed compassion for the boy that same night, and for his father, as well. She was intelligent, insightful…

And he was in trouble.

Once a future with Christine had seemed assured. Then their relationship had been tested, was still being tested. Now he wondered at what point a man told a woman he was grateful for the support and love she had given him, but, sadly, no longer needed either.

When did he know if it was true?

The intercom buzzed, and Gracie told him Elisa was waiting. He met her in the reception area. She was wearing black pants and a white shirt, which seemed almost to be a uniform of sorts. He didn’t recall seeing her in anything else. Today her hair was in a neat braid starting high on her head and ending in a shining fall below a simple gold clip. She wore tiny gold earrings and not one smudge of makeup.

She turned, and he felt the punch in the gut that was becoming his standard reaction. He liked everything about her. The graceful curve of her neck, the sheen of her hair, the slight tilt of her huge dark eyes, the hesitation before she spoke, the musical cadence of her words.

Somehow he managed a friendly, but not too friendly, smile. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“No problem. Is this a good time? I can come by tomorrow. I’m nearly finished for the day.”

He remembered that she had worked a shift at the nursing home last night, and probably wanted to go home and take a nap if she could. He was just as glad he had a good reason not to drag out this encounter.

“It shouldn’t take long.” He told Gracie he would be back to proof the newsletter she was typing; then he ushered Elisa out of the office.

August was nearly over, and the walk across the grounds was pleasantly warm. Several days without rain had reduced the humidity, although the clouds gathering overhead warned that might change, and soon. His roses were preparing for new blooms in a few weeks, when the weather cooled.

“Do you feel ready to take over?” Sam asked. “Has Marvin showed you everything?”

“I’m all ready. It’s fairly straightforward, except for setups, and I think I know where everything is and how things should be arranged. If you notice any problems, just let me know.”

“And the schedule isn’t too exhausting? You worked last night, didn’t you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Things are going well at Helen’s?”

“We enjoy each other.” She glanced at him. “How are the dogs?”

“They need a good run. I’ve been too busy.”

“You should bring them to Helen’s for a run through the hills. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, as long as they leave her chickens alone.”

“They’d be scared to death of chickens.” He searched for something else to say. He was rarely at a loss for words, but right now he felt tongue-tied and shallow. None of the things he wanted to say could be put into words. He wanted to know more about her, to feel what she felt, see what she saw. And he knew that the deeper their conversations went, the harder they would be to control.

They arrived at the house, and he followed her up the steps. As he had promised, it only took a few minutes to go through the house and discuss what needed to be done. Elisa’s suggestions were good. He promised that the children and the volunteers would take a few minutes at the end of each day to clean up their projects so that all she would have to do was basic cleaning. She promised to stop over once during the week and once on weekends for a thorough scrubbing.

“It’s just a little over a week before we start,” he said, outside once more on the front porch.

“You’re looking forward to it?”

He glanced at her, and for the first time he realized how tired she appeared. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d motioned her into one of the rocking chairs a volunteer had donated. “Sit a minute before we go back. Marvin can wait for you.”

She protested but finally took the chair, closing her eyes a moment. “That feels good. I’m filling in a shift at the home again tonight. A last-minute emergency. I won’t be doing that very often.”

“Two nights in a row without sleep?”

“I’ll have time for a good nap if I leave soon.”

“You can sleep at the drop of a hat?”

“I can sleep standing up if I don’t have another choice.”

He had not wanted to be alone with her. Now that he was, he had to admit he didn’t want this to end. He sat on the top step and leaned against a pillar, watching her rock slowly back and forth.

“I don’t think I’m the only one who needs to regather forces,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Your mind is somewhere else. You don’t look happy today.”

He wasn’t pleased she had seen right through him. He had tried to convince himself they were not yet at a point where they were this close.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

“We have a saying in my country. The deepest waters make the least noise.”

“I went to see George Jenkins this morning. It didn’t go well.”

“You thought it might?”

“I’m forever hopeful.”

“And forever disappointed when people don’t behave as they should, yes?”

“How do you know that?”

“I think you take too much on yourself. This is Mr. Jenkins’ problem. You can only offer him the chance to make amends. You can’t force him.”

“It sounds like you’ve had experience.”

“It’s been some time since I believed my own good will had much effect on the bad will of others.”

He wanted to know more but sensed she wouldn’t tell him. “I believe in second chances. I’m here because of them.”

“At Community Church?”

He wondered why he had admitted that. He was opening a door that could easily have stayed closed, a peek into his life she hadn’t asked for.

“It’s a long story,” he said, “and you’re exhausted. You need to go home and get some rest before tonight.”

“I’m resting now. Tell me what you meant.”

He wanted to. He wanted to tell her more, perhaps to warn her away. He caught movement from the corner of one eye and turned to watch two crows challenge each other on the dead limb of the nearest oak. They dove at each other twice and missed. Then, satisfied, as if each thought he was the winner, they flew off to celebrate in separate directions. He hoped his problem with George would be solved that easily.

“I was the associate minister of a large church in Atlanta,” he said. “A very influential church. I was chosen for the position right out of seminary. The senior minister wanted to handpick his successor and groom him to take over when he retired. I had all the qualifications they wanted.”

He didn’t go into specifics. Scholarships he had won, articles he had published, the sermon series on forgiveness that had won him a round of preaching engagements in major churches before he even graduated. He had been the star student in a top-notch seminary. And none of that had gone unnoticed.

“The Savior’s Church is fairly conservative,” he went on. “But the congregation was intelligent and well-educated. I believed I could change them. Their budget was huge, and I saw potential for social service ministries all over the city, for outreach programs, for ministries to youth and college students. I thought I could make a difference.”

“Did you?”

He was surprised he could tell this story now with so little pain. He felt as if he were describing someone else’s life. Without rancor. Without blame. Without self-pity.

“I think I did. I was forced to pull back any number of times, to moderate my sermons, to ask for less from parishioners, to expect less in general. But a lot was going well. I met Christine. She’s the headmistress of the school that’s connected to the church. Her father and others were sure I had a career in politics. I began to believe I could change the world.”

He gave a wry smile, because even to his own ears he sounded very young. “Then one day I tried to.”

“What happened? Or is this too personal?”

“Do you know anything about the School of the Americas?”

She looked surprised. She had been making herself more comfortable, shifting in her seat, but she froze. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s a big part of the reason I’m here.”

“I…Yes, I’ve heard of it. It’s a program to train military leaders from Latin America.”

“The school is housed at Fort Benning, Georgia. Officially it’s called something else now, although it’s still known as the School of Assassins by the people who oppose it. There have been a few changes, some lip service to human rights and the finer points of democracy, but not nearly enough for most of us. The list of graduates is a hall of infamy. These men formed death squads in El Salvador, assassinated Archbishop Romero, and raped and murdered nuns. They killed thousands in Guatemala. It’s a matter of public record that the school taught torture techniques, kidnapping, extortion. The Pentagon was forced to declassify those documents. Some people think the school is still a huge force for destabilization in Latin America. Religious leaders of all denominations want it closed down. I was one of them.”