Find all the parts of this story here.

Mrs. Concord

“Good ev’nin’, Pastor,” she heard Gary speak as he opened the front door. She couldn’t quite make out the response, but heard the shuffling of shoes and the not-so-gentle bang of the front screen door.

“Hello, Gary!”

That voice, Cecilia knew. She likened Mrs. Concord to Mrs. Claus – happy, outgoing, a little loud, fluffy gray-haired, and she probably kept a tray of cookies ready at all times in case children came to visit. Her own children were of course grown and gone. Did she have grandchildren? Perhaps that was what made her so jolly. While unsure of her family situation, Cecilia did know one thing: Mrs. Concord was a safe person, a person around whom you knew you were welcome and loved.

Even though Ephraim had said Pastor’s wife was coming, that reality didn’t hit home until she heard the voice in the entryway. Cecilia breathed deeply through the new calm that settled. She wouldn’t be at all responsible for conversation tonight. Mrs. Concord would lead the way.

Feeling like very relieved hired help, Cecilia pulled the pot pie from the oven and settled it into the cork-and-wicker basket specifically made to hold a casserole pan. She’d never seen such a thing, and gathered it must have been born sometime in the 1980’s. All sorts of creative things were from that era.

“Need any help?” Ephraim popped his head around the corner, wiping still-damp hands down his jeans.

Cecilia looked around and finally decided there were enough dishes to warrant some assistance.

“Could you please put the casserole near the door’s-end of the table?”

“Yuppers!” Ephraim replied cheerfully. He picked up the funky basket by its leather handles and whisked it out of the room.

Cecilia set out a few things she’d need to prepare dessert at the last minute before picking up the basket of biscuits and bowl of fruit salad. She felt a twinge of concern once again at how simple the food was, but reminded herself she couldn’t be expected to work miracles when told about company only an hour before the meal.

When she arrived in the dining room, Pastor Concord, Gary, and Ephraim were busy talking while Mrs. Concord finished a slow lap around the table, making little sounds of admiration at the pretty plates and bowls.

“This is just lovely, Cecilia! I’m assuming you are the one who set the table. Not that either of those fine gentlemen couldn’t, but you know what I mean,” Mrs. Concord teased with a wink. Cecilia couldn’t help but smile as she carefully set down her load.

“I do,” she agreed softly. Ephraim would have grabbed paper towels instead of fussy napkins; Gary wouldn’t have placed any kind of napkin at all. Still, Pastor held a chair out for his wife, and to her great surprise and pleasure, Gary pulled out the chair next to Mrs. Concord’s and held it for Cecilia. She sat with a blush and a murmured thanks.

“Pastor, wouldja lead th’ prayer?” Gary asked when all the men were seated, too.

“Certainly. Let us pray,” he began. Cecilia watched as four heads bowed and eight hands were clasped, some against the edge of the table and some in their laps. She hurried to imitate their posture.

“Bless us and these, thy gifts, which we received from thy bountiful goodness. In Jesus’ name, amen,” Pastor Concord spoke. The words were beautiful, but held little meaning to Cecilia. She hated feeling the weight of her different upbringing. None of the flowery, old-fashioned language at church made sense to her.

“So, Cecilia, how are you enjoying our little town?” Mrs. Concord launched in immediately after the prayer. All eyes were on her now, except Gary, who was happily serving himself some pot pie.

“It’s nice,” Cecilia replied automatically. Mrs. Concord laughed, not unkindly.

“Come now, it must be more than just that. Remind me, where did you live before here?” Mrs. Concord continued.

“Madison,” Cecilia replied. She accepted the fruit bowl from Ephraim and eagerly focused her eyes on dishing herself up. She missed the quiet dinners in the kitchen where most of the time, Gary and Ephraim talked farming, and she wasn’t required to participate.

“Oooh, how fun! There’s so much to see and do there. You’re quite young. Were you in college?” Mrs. Concord gushed as she accepted the fruit bowl.

“Trade school. I’m an aesthetician,” Cecilia replied succinctly. She glanced around in hopes someone else would become the object of the inquisition, but no luck.

“Oh, how lovely! That’s right – you told me you were at the new spa. Hmm. Might have to put a visit to you on my Christmas list,” she continued, sending an obvious wink towards Pastor.

“Yes, dear,” Pastor teased in return, grinning his big, friendly smile. Then he turned towards Gary, redirecting the conversation onto something farming-related.

“I’m so glad you’ve been coming to church,” Mrs. Concord suddenly whispered in her ear. Cecilia jumped in surprise and turned towards the older woman.

“Why?” she couldn’t help but ask.

Mrs. Concord smiled. “Because I like you,” was all she offered.

What did liking her have to do with being in church? Cecilia liked a lot of people, but that didn’t mean she was happy to see them in a certain place and time.

When she thought about it that way, church seemed a little odd. She supposed it was a thing of tradition for people to gather for worship. Why Sunday morning? Why in a church?

“What’s that thought?” Mrs. Concord asked with a kind smile.

“Were you a teacher?” Cecilia blurted in surprise. Was she so transparent that all her thoughts were printed on her forehead or something?

Mrs. Concord laughed. “Yes, I was. I’m not a mind reader, but you do have an expressive face, dear.”

Cecilia nodded and considered Mrs. Concord. She was the type of person who perhaps wouldn’t judge Cecilia’s ignorance.

“Why is church on Sunday?” she finally worked up the courage to ask, followed immediately by a big bite of fruit salad to give her face something to do.

“Oh, because Easter’s on Sunday,” Mrs. Concord replied easily. “Every Sunday is a mini-Easter.”

The first thing made sense. The second?

“What?” Cecilia asked when her mouth was empty.

“A mini-Easter. The fact that church is on Sunday, and many of the parts of the church service, are designed to point you to Jesus’ resurrection. To remind you that his death and resurrection save you,” Mrs. Concord explained further.

Cecilia knew about the crucifixion and resurrection from Caleb and that class they had taken together. But…

“Designed? You mean somebody planned out how church is supposed to be?”

“Most certainly,” Mrs. Concord nodded emphatically. “Ephraim, could you be a dear and pass the biscuits again? Thank you! Now, where were we? Oh, the service. Yes, it’s planned, although not by one person necessarily. If I remember correctly, it was added onto over time. Of course there are the parts given by Jesus himself – the Lord’s prayer and communion. Then the apostles added more, and the early church fathers, and so forth. A lot of what we use today is actually Martin Luther’s adjustments of the old Catholic mass. There are entire college classes on the church service and its pieces. It’s a very complex subject, and I, quite frankly, don’t know nearly as much about it as I should after being married to a pastor for 27 years.” She shook her fluffy hair gently. “But I’m guessing I’m already talking too much?”

“No,” Cecilia hurried to reassure her. “I liked hearing it, even though I didn’t understand all of it. I-” She cut herself off from revealing too much.

Mrs. Concord had raised her own children and taught hundreds more, so she employed the age-old trick of simply waiting.

“I don’t feel very smart at church,” Cecilia confessed in a near whisper.

Sweet Mrs. Concord simply nodded. “It can be very confusing if it’s new to you,” she commented. “I take it you’ve at least been to some kind of church?”

“Yes. My…” Cecilia swallowed, not quite ready for that particular revelation at the first dinner. “A friend took me to church with him, but it wasn’t anything like Bethel. And we took a class there, so I know some basics about Jesus and the Bible. It just never feels like enough.”

A gentle smiled brought out the wrinkles in Mrs. Concord’s cheeks, and that alone eased the knot that had formed in Cecilia’s gut as she confessed her shortcomings.

“That’s one of the painful and delightful things about the church, and about God himself. There is always more to learn,” Mrs. Concord replied.

Cecilia highly doubted that. Surely someone like Pastor and his wife knew most, if not everything.

Mrs. Concord, however, wasn’t done speaking.

“Why, just last week Pastor taught a Bible study on Hosea, and my lands, what a fascinating book. Have you ever read it?”

Cecilia shook her head, then sat back and listened to Mrs. Concord’s cheerful voice spin a wild tale she never would have believed happened, if not for the unimpeachable character of the woman telling her.

Maybe God was a little like that…

Find all the parts of this story here.

China

“Cecilia?” Ephraim’s voice floated through the back door and into the kitchen like a warm summer breeze. She brushed the loose bits of flour and dough off her fingers and poked her head around the corner.

“Yes?” she asked, holding her dirty hands away from both herself and the wall. Ephraim grinned.

“Ooh, do we get biscuits? You make really good biscuits.” Between his praise and his toothy grin, Cecilia felt like she was looking at one of the loose-toothed kids at church instead of a grown man.

“Yes, you get biscuits. And thank you,” she replied softly.

“Excellent! Do you have enough for company?”

Uh oh. Company? They’d never had extra people to dinner. “Uhm…”

“Or can you make more? I’m sorry. Gary just told me Pastor Concord and his wife are coming to dinner,” Ephraim explained, shoulders shrugging by way of apology.

“Oh.” Cecilia glanced back towards the kitchen, her brain scrambling. The chicken pot pie was simple and would feed a small army. There just wouldn’t be as many leftovers for Gary and Ephraim to eat tomorrow night. But she could maybe whip up a side dish and dessert to stretch the food.

“There will be enough, yes. I appreciate the heads up,” she spoke absentmindedly. What made a good side dish with pot pie? Not another vegetable… Fruit would be good. She had bought blackberries for tart, but if she made a-

“Cecilia?” Ephraim broke into her thoughts.

“Mmm?”

“I was asking if you could set the dining room table instead of the kitchen table.” He looked like he was trying not to laugh at her, which only annoyed her. So what if the possibilities of blackberries were riveting?

“Dining room. Yes, I will.” With a brisk nod, she turned and retraced her steps into the kitchen. Biscuits on a cookie sheet, check. They could go in the oven in a little bit and come out piping hot just as she set the table.

Blackberries… Gary had mint in his garden, and she had seen wild raspberries. She could do a little berry salad.

That decision made, she easily prepped individual chocolate cakes in ramekins and snuck them into the oven next to the pot pie. She didn’t have whipping cream to make them truly decadent, but a dusting of powdered sugar would be sufficiently fancy.

When all the food was prepped and baking, Cecilia wandered into the dining room. Like every other space in this old farmhouse, it had an actual door off the hallway. Open concept had clearly not debuted until well after this place was constructed.
Despite knowing where it was, in two months of cooking here, they had never used it. Cecilia didn’t even know if it was clean.

Did Gary hire a cleaner? Did he do it himself? He was quite diligent about sweeping after dinner, so perhaps he was simply a fastidious housekeeping.

The more important question was why the pastor and his wife were coming to dinner. Cecilia entertained a moment’s panic that it was because of her. It had been a few weeks since her Lord’s Prayer conversation with Gary. She had come to church both Sundays, and he had saved her a seat each time. She had smiled and said hi to Sam and Sophie, Sam’s parents, a couple of the older ladies whose names always escaped her, and plenty of other people. She was making an effort. Was Gary displeased? Was the pastor here to reprimand her?

Then she realized how ridiculous that thought was. Why would Gary invite Pastor Concord and his wife to dinner with Gary and Ephraim if the whole point was to give Cecilia a dressing down? That would be mean, and Gary was never mean.

Could they be friends? Gary didn’t have people over, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have friends. He was rather welded at the hip to his farm, and it didn’t give a lot of opportunity to go out. He could have people over more easily. Then again, he didn’t chat with people at church the same way the old ladies did. He greeted people, exchanged a weird sort of grunting conversation with Tom Schmitt, then left. After making sure Cecilia got to her car, of course. She smiled and shook her head – Gary was such a gentleman underneath his uncultured speech.

At ease with her role once again, she scoped out the dining room. A large, glossy wood table dominated the space, hemmed by 8 chairs with graceful curving backs and emerald green padded seats. A matching china cabinet stood against the far wall. Glass doors on its upper half revealed a set of china so pretty Cecilia had to check if she drooled. A gold band adorned with tiny colorful flowers danced around the edge of each plate and bowl. The teacups had sprigs of flowers on either side with a gold strip down their slender handles.

She wanted to use all of it.

A drawer in the china cabinet revealed placemats, cloth napkins, and tarnished silverware. She drew out five of each and set them aside on the table. The doors on the bottom of the cabinet opened with a sturdy tug that almost sent Cecilia onto her backside, but once opened, she gasped at the silver and crystal candlesticks. One set of each, they had to have been wedding or anniversary presents. She wondered if she was staring at Gary’s wife’s trousseau.

She really hoped he didn’t mind her using these things. Pot pie was a little pedestrian to serve on fine china, but at the end of the day, why couldn’t you elevate simple food with beautiful dishes?

She carefully laid each emerald placemat with a snowy-white linen napkin on top. Then she placed the dinner plate on top, loving the color contrast. The little salad bowls would work well for the fruit, so she set those above the fork. A crystal water glass and the pretty little teacups above the knife and spoon completed the setting. She tried to quickly buff the silverware with a clean dish rag to no avail. She’d have to get some silver polish next time she went to the store.

15 minutes later, the glasses were filled, serving dishes placed, and then she heard Gary’s footsteps. She waited outside the dining room door for him to wash his hands.

“Ephraim said we should eat in here,” she gestured lamely over her shoulder, suddenly nervous and utterly terrified that Gary would be unhappy with her.

“Good,” was all he grunted, then made his way past her. He did a double take and then halted completely, staring at the dining room table with an unreadable expression. Cecilia just held her breath.

Gary stepped into the room and glided fingers gnarled by age over the soft wood of one of the chair backs. His eyes took in the china, flickering candlelight, and crystal water glasses glinting in the evening sun. When he turned to leave, she caught a glimpse of tears in his eyes.

Oh, what had she done?

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll…” Clean it up? There wasn’t time. How could she fix this?

Gary cleared his throat and grunted. “Sorry? Hmmf. I say thank ye.” He stared at her a minute, nodded, and walked away.

Thank you? For what?

Then she heard Gary humming, honest to goodness humming a tune, as he walked to the front door. She recognized the old song about a sweetheart, and understood. She couldn’t help but smile as she hummed along on her way back to the kitchen.

Find all the parts of this story here.

Father

“Come outside wi’ me for a minute,” Gary requested – demanded? – as she finished unloading the grocery sacks. Cecilia squinted at the unusual request, but ultimately nodded. She tucked the milk where it belonged on the top shelf of the fridge, then followed him out the Dutch back door.

Gary pulled a piece of straw from one of the many pockets of his overalls and began to chew on it. He walked across the back yard, passed the veggie garden, and leaned on the pasture fence that stretched out like a lanky teenager from the back of the barn.

“Didn’t see ya in church yesterday,” he commented after a minute.

Cecilia bit back a sigh and resisted the urge to walk away. She liked Gary and did not want the imminent chastisement.

“No,” she finally agreed, not knowing what else he wanted.

“Were ya sick?”

“No.”

The silence grew until she fidgeted in discomfort. Her confession came haltingly, quietly, and most begrudgingly.

“I didn’t feel like going. It’s… hard for me, sometimes.”

Gary snorted – actually snorted! She’d never known an old man to do that.

“Girlie, I didn’t feel like milkin’ Edna this morning. These bones hurt so bad sometimes that I don’t wanna get out o’ bed. But it dun’t matter what I feel like. Edna needs milkin’, so I gotta milk ‘er. She’ll be hurtin’ if I don’t. Them’s facts, not feelin’s. Ferget yer feelin’s. What’s facts?”

What’s facts? Excellent question, and right now, she felt so turned upside down she didn’t know.

Wait a minute. Felt. She felt confused. What did she know, though?

“I… um…”

Gary just waited patiently through her stammering, chewing on his piece of straw and staring out over the fields. The sun beat down on her hair, and she wished she hadn’t forgotten her hat.

“It’s hot,” she finally blurted.

Gary’s laugh was like the bleat of a sheep, and prompted Cecilia to share her own laughter back.

“Yer not wrong, girlie,” he grinned. “Tho I was thinkin’ more ‘long the lines of facts ’bout the Almighty,” he chided gently.

“I know,” she sighed. “It’s just been so long since I heard the basics.”

Again, Gary snorted. The man spent too much time with his animals, snorting like a bull and laughing like a sheep.

“Wrong,” he challenged bluntly. “Sunday mornin’, whadya hear?”

Cecilia wrinkled her nose and thought through the church service. She was too embarrassed to confess that she spent most of Sunday mornings terrified of what others were thinking of her and not enough time actually hearing what was said.

“I- I can’t remember,” she stammered.

Gary peered down at her. “Ya can’t remember the Lord’s Prayer?” he asked incredulously.

Well, okay, sure, she could come up with that one. Right?

“Our Father… in heaven, hallowed-” She stopped suddenly. “What in the world does ‘hallowed’ mean?”

“Means ‘holy’,” Gary grunted. “But back up. Firs’ two words.”

“Our Father,” Cecilia dutifully recited.

“What’s facts?” Gary prompted.

She stared out over the field, dropping her arms onto the old fence railing. “I don’t know. I don’t have a father,” she whispered.

“Well. Now ya do. An’ he’s a perfect one,” Gary nodded, as if that explained everything. As far as Cecilia was concerned, it explained nothing.

She wondered what Gary had been like as a father. Was he strict? Affectionate? Did he help with homework? Give them snacks? Or was he cold and distant? She doubted he could have been so, with how he treated her. She’d never describe him as sweet or happy, per se, but he was content, with himself and the world around him. His demeanor spoke of one who had seen much and kept his head through the ups and downs. He didn’t seem bitter about his children not wanting the farm, or his wife’s death.

What made a father good, let alone perfect? She’d have to pay attention at church to how the fathers interacted with the children. Even then, how would she know if they were doing their jobs well?

But being a father wasn’t a job. It just… was.

“Your father is in church on Sunday mornin’,” Gary interrupted her musings. “If ya want to know ’bout Him, ya gotta be there.”

Well. That told her. Feeling utterly wretched, she stared down at the long grass and let her tears blur her vision. Was that what a good father did, too? She knew she was supposed to be there. She hated how emotional of an experience it was, and not in a good way.

“Can I sit with you? Always?” she blurted. Maybe church would be less scary if she knew she had a set place.

“Course ya kin,” Gary snorted again.

“Thanks,” she whispered, swiping at her tears.

“Time’s a-wastin’.” Gary slapped his hands against the fence rail and stepped back. “That new tractor’s been actin’ up, and young Ephraim don’t know a spark plug from a’ oil filter.” He shook his head in apparent disgust, but Cecilia caught a little smile tilting up his lips. Gary liked Ephraim, even though he complained about the young man’s ineptitude. Gary liked teaching, liked passing on his knowledge.

Was that something a good father did? She wished she knew how to ask.

“I’ll start supper,” she said instead, heading back towards the house. She heard Gary sigh before she got two steps.

“Ask yer question, girlie, or it’ll rot yer brains,” he demanded, but in a placating tone.

She whirled around and stared at him open-mouthed for a second before she could order her thoughts enough to ask.

“Um… Were you… a good… I mean, are you…” Okay, maybe she hadn’t ordered her thoughts very well. She heaved a big breath. “I don’t know what good fathers do. You seem to like teaching Ephraim. Is that because you’re a good father?”

Gary scratched his stubbled chin. “I like passin’ down what my father passed ter me. Sure, that’s somethin’ a father does. A good one does it with patience. Tha’s where I stumble sometimes.” Gary winked, then turned his loping gait towards the barn.

A good father teaches with patience.

Her childhood had been full of impatient adults. She had eventually learned that they didn’t want a child around for their leisure pursuits. Her time with Caleb had been too short to teach her anything about fatherhood, especially since his family lived four states away. She had first met his father on her wedding day, and only saw him twice more before Caleb’s funeral.

More thoughts on good fathers would have to wait. She had pork chops to fry.

Find all the parts of this story here.

Hiding

Sundays were hard. Every week, Cecilia pushed herself to put on her nicest jeans and newest t-shirt, but she still felt lacking. She really should go buy a new pair of pants, but she still didn’t feel financially stable. The income from Gary was helping – slowly. Not quite quickly enough for dress pants, though. How could there not be a resale shop in this town?

Worse than the jeans were the people. Gary and Ephraim seemed determined to introduce her to every human in the pews (a new word!). She had sat with them one week, then with Sam and Sophie, then the formidable Ms. Pauline Johnson, then back to sitting with Gary. She preferred him to all the rest. He didn’t really pay attention to her, but always turned pages slowly and traced words with his fingers. To most, and honestly, to Cecilia at first, it had seemed like he just moved slowly from old age and needed the help of his fingertip to follow the lines of small print in the hymnal (she was rather proud of herself for remembering that word, too). After several weeks of study, however, she quickly realized he only did those things when she sat with him. So much for old age.

She appreciated that they all wanted to help; she really did. She just wished there was a way to help that didn’t involve leaving her feel like a stupid child in an uneducated, inexperienced adult’s body.

In some ways, it felt like it had been so long since she’d had to humble herself to learn something new. Beauty school was almost 3 years ago. Her marriage had begun two and a half years ago – although that held felt like two years of constant learning. High school was even farther in the rearview.

Cecilia realized she hadn’t really opened herself to people in a long time. She didn’t make friends easily, and Caleb had been one of the only people to get close to her in… forever, really. That was only because he pushed. Sure, he was kind and gentle about it. But he had talked to her constantly, asked her out probably dozens of times before she’d said yes, then continued to shower her with attention and affection.

Maybe she should start a patio garden. Working with her hands would feel good. Working with her hands? Says the girl who does facials and cooks all week.

Frustrated and a little disgusted with herself, Cecilia traded her nicest jeans and newest t-shirt for a pair of sweatpants and a scrubby t-shirt. If physical labor was what her brain needed, that was what it would get. She pulled the bucket of cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink and got to work. She normally spent about an hour a week cleaning her small apartment, and she had already done that on Saturday morning. Today, she set to deep cleaning.

At the church Caleb had brought her to in Madison, she had met a woman named Marly who worked as a professional house cleaner. The woman had talked incessantly about cleaning products and techniques, imbibing her listeners with random cleaning knowledge. The rest of it, Cecilia filled in with logic and the internet.

She proceeded to spend the next three hours doing everything from scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom faucets with a toothbrush to whitening the grout on the bathroom floor with baking soda and hydrogen peroxide. She was actually quite impressed with how much nicer the apartment felt when she was done. Somehow it had become easy to view the place as less-than, when the exterior of the building and the landscaping weren’t as nice as many other places in town.

By the time she sat down to a cold cut sandwich and a glass of water at noon, a headache-inducing mixture of pleasure and guilt swirled inside Cecilia. Why was it so difficult to just be okay? How did one go about making the hard things in life a little easier to get through?

Cecilia spent the afternoon staring at mindless TV episodes on her ancient laptop, while her mind bounced from thing to thing. She found herself down a mental rabbit hole starting in her childhood and making its way to her first date with Caleb.
He had been such a gentleman, even though he was just a college kid. He had dressed up and taken her to a restaurant with table service, not fast food. Scared as she was, Cecilia had known deep in her bones that day that there was something infinitely precious about Caleb Chatsworth.

He had loved her with his whole heart, gifting his strength, joy, and leadership to her. His other gift? The faith that gave him his own strong foundation. It had been so much easier to go to church with Caleb at her side. He understood what was going on, never made her feel bad. He had been a balm to her fear in that place and time.

Now she was on her own, and not for the first time, she looked out over the landscape of her choices and wondered what Caleb would think of her. She had fled their apartment, their church, their friends (who had mostly been Caleb’s, anyway), and she could find no seed of pride in her imaginary Caleb-garden. But she had found a job – two jobs – and a home, and most of the time had dragged herself to church. Perhaps the Caleb-garden had a little love plant for her in this regard.

As strange and new as faith and church had been, Cecilia knew one thing: Caleb would never have allowed her fear to keep her away. But she had. Sitting lost and lonely on her second-hand couch, she buried her face in her hands and cried.

“Caleb,” she whispered. “I think I messed up.”

Find all the parts of this story here.

Caleb

Ephraim dried the dishes again, and this time, he did more talking.

“I take it your family didn’t leave you much,” he started in.

“What do you mean?” Cecilia asked, not looking at him.

“You were so shocked by Gary’s kids. I’ve met them all. They’re nice. Suzy is an office manager, Pete’s an engineer, and Lars owns a landscaping company. It’s not a crime that they didn’t want the farm.”

Cecilia heartily disagreed, but didn’t know how to say so politely. Instead, she scrubbed out the stainless steel skillet with more vigor than was likely necessary.

“Washing the coating off the pan won’t change Gary’s kids, you know,” Ephraim teased.

“I know,” she huffed.

“You’re a woman of few words,” Ephraim mused. “You can say what you think around here. Gary speaks his mind, and likes it when others do. I certainly won’t judge.”

That’s what he thought. He didn’t really know her at all. Two meals didn’t make them even friends.

“You don’t believe me,” he said after a minute.

Cecilia looked around. Gary was long gone, the floor needing little attention tonight.

“I get that you don’t know me,” Ephraim continued as if she might have commented something, or perhaps as if he hadn’t been waiting for her to speak. “But, see, my dad’s the mayor.” He paused to let that one soak in. “Yeah, kinda crazy. What’s the mayor’s son doing working on a farm? Oh, I tried the political route. Even spent three years at my dad’s alma mater, studying law like him. I can’t really explain it, except to say the land calls me. Ever since my mom brought me to one of the public strawberry-picking events here as a little kid, I have been obsessed with farming. The food cycle is amazing. Did you ever think about that?”

And Ephraim launched into a dizzying monologue on how seeds grow into plants, then drop more seeds, which grow into more plants, also covering dead plants nourishing the dirt. He threw in a lot of big words Cecilia hadn’t heard since high school biology, like ‘symbiotic’. She struggled to keep up at first, but he must have realized it and slowed the firehose. By the end of it, she was ready to jump on the Ephraim-farmer bandwagon.

“Do your parents support your choice?” she found herself asking, against her better judgment.

“To a point. My dad still thinks I’ll grow out of this ‘phase’,” he replied, wiggling his fingers in air quotes. “No matter how many times I explain that a phase lasting over 20 years is probably not a phase, he still thinks I’ll somehow magically become interested in law and politics again.” He paused to put away the squeaky-clean skillet. “My mom, though, she’s finally on the same page as I am. She’s been out to visit Gary with me a few times, and she sees how much I love working with him.”

“Do you want the responsibility of owning Gary’s farm someday?” Where were these questions coming from?!

“Yes and no. I’d rather Gary get to keep working a long time, you know? He loves this place. The land, the crops, the animals, the barn. Even the house, although he spends less time here since his wife died. But since Gary can’t live forever, I’m honored to be the one he’ll pass it down to. I hope someday I’ll fill it with my own children, and maybe one of them will want to be a farmer, too.”

“How does Gary make money?” Cecilia asked, needing the conversation to move away from such a personal topic as kids. Although on second thought, asking how someone made money was probably not the most polite thing in the world.

“Sells his crops,” Ephraim shrugged. “Some at the roadside stand, the rest to commercial outfits that pick up his corn and join it with other small farmers’ corn to supply feed to the large dairy farms, for example. Stuff like that.”

Cecilia nodded, and they washed in companionable silence for a few minutes – until Ephraim had to open his mouth again.

“You seem kind of skittish,” he observed. “I’m surprised that something like a job was enough to make you leave your safety net of familiar faces and places to start over with strangers.”

The silence hung between them like humidity in July. She didn’t want to talk about herself, but as she thought about her hesitation, it really didn’t have to do with Ephraim or Gary or the farm. They were all very nice, and she got the impression that both men were of the old-fashioned gentlemanly sort.

In short, they weren’t her mother.

“I needed a change,” she finally spoke quietly. She pulled the plug on the sink drain, watching the water swirl around. In some ways, it felt like a metaphor for her life. “My husband died.”

A shuffling noise behind her alerted her that Gary had re-entered the kitchen, and probably in enough time to hear her. She sighed and let her head drop, feeling certain they would both have a million questions.

“I’m sorry fer yer loss, girlie,” Gary spoke into the silence, his usual growl tempered by compassion. “I had mah Nancy with me for 48 years, an’ not a day goes by I don’t wish she were back.” A cough and a sniffle interrupted his gentle speech. “How long were ya murried fur?”

Tears clogged her throat as the image of Caleb’s sweet smile filled her mind’s eye.

“One year, 11 months, and 17 days.”

“Hmmf,” Gary grumbled. “Not long ‘nuf.”

“No,” she agreed.

“What was his name?” Ephraim asked.

She blinked away her tears and twisted the dishrag, turning to face Ephraim for the first time. She mustered up a little smile, thinking of her beloved.

“Caleb. Caleb James Chatsworth.”

It was so much easier to say his name than she had expected. For months, even thinking it had reduced her to tears. But now, she remembered him with a mixture of sorrow and joy.

Not thinking, just moving, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and called up one of the last pictures they had taken together. They’d been house hunting, and had found a beautiful park in one of the neighborhoods.

She turned and showed the photo to Ephraim and Gary. Gary squinted down his nose, making her think he might need to visit the optometrist.

“Hmm,” Gary hummed his approval, the first hint of anything remotely related to a smile twisting up the edges of his mouth.

Find all the parts of this story here.

Legacy

Cecilia showed up at Gary’s farmhouse at 4:30 Friday evening, panicking about the short timeline. It wasn’t that she couldn’t make anything in an hour and a half, but rather that she had wanted to make something more special than she now could.

She brought with her a small army of tools and supplies that hadn’t previously resided in Gary’s kitchen: a small saucepan (did he only cook in bulk?), a knife sharpener (his knives likely hadn’t greeted one since before Cecilia was born), olive oil (he had the frighteningly unknown and unhealthy ‘vegetable oil’ bottle ubiquitous in 90’s kitchens), and baggies of spices and herbs (salt and pepper were the extent of his, and the tin of pre-ground black pepper looked nearly vintage). With these and the fresh ingredients she had picked up today, she felt she could make a decent meal.

Today she knew to set her own place at the table, so it wasn’t awkward when 6:00 rolled around and Gary and Ephraim tromped inside. There was a lack of greeting from Gary, and a repeat of yesterday’s ‘heya’ from Ephraim. Was this her new normal? Gary said a prayer when they had all sat down, the same one as yesterday as well. Definitely the norm here.

“If’n ya saw mah sign at church, ya musta bin there Sunday. I don’ recall seein’ ya,” Gary spoke after his first few bites of chicken in cream sauce.

“I- I was there,” she replied, confused and feeling oddly defensive. “It was my first time.”

“Ah,” Gary nodded sagely, as if she had explained some secret to the universe. She decided to focus on bites of asparagus salad.

“Did you just move to the area?” Ephraim took up the mantle of conversation, his voice surprisingly deep and rich for a young man with a slender body.

“Two weeks ago,” she replied, then quickly took another bite to discourage personal questions.

“Where are you from?” Ephraim did not get the hint. Sadly, Gary looked just as interested in the answer as Ephraim.

“Uh, Madison.” Maybe if she didn’t make eye contact they would stop?

“That’s a big change, Madison to a small town,” Ephraim commented.

“Hmmf,” Gary grunted. “‘s better here.”

Ephraim laughed out loud. “You’re biased, Gary,” he argued. “You’ve never lived anywhere else.”

“Nuthin’ better’n home ‘n the farm,” Gary said with a definitive nod.

Thank you, Gary, for taking over the conversation!

“You know I agree, Gary. I just like yanking your chain on occasion,” Ephraim smiled indulgently.

“Hmmf.”

“What made you choose New Albany?” Ephraim returned the conversation to Cecilia.

No! Why couldn’t he keep teasing Gary?

“Um…”

She wrinkled her forehead. Why had she come here? Certainly she hadn’t expected to make dinner for Gary and Ephraim. Nor was it the church, or the company she expected to keep.

Oh, yeah. Work.

“I got a job,” she spoke into the pained silence.

Ephraim raised an eyebrow, looking like he was about to call her bluff. She decided to go on the offense.

“The hours were better here than most places in Madison, with a lower cost of living. It’s more economical. Have you always lived here?”

There. Get them talking.

“Yup,” Ephraim replied, then grinned like he knew what she was up to. She just looked down at her plate and said no more.

“Boy…” Gary drawled in a warning tone.

Ephraim, the sass, laughed out loud. “Okay, okay,” he capitulated to another growl from Gary, palms up in defeat. “Sorry,” he muttered, then took a drink of water before continuing.

“Yes, I was born and raised here. My parents live in town. I’ve been working for Gary for – what, almost a decade now? Yeah, about that long. I think I started picking strawberries when I was 12,” Ephraim mused.

“Eatin’ more’n ya picked,” Gary said with a snort.

Ephraim laughed in agreement. “Yeah, but you didn’t mind.”

“Hmmf,” was all Gary would say. Still, Cecilia noticed he didn’t seem upset. There was definitely a special place in crusty Gary Brunn’s heart for his apprentice.

“How long have you had the farm, Mr. Brunn?” Cecilia prompted, hoping to keep them talking.

“Yer kin call me Gary, ya know.” He gave her the side eye, so she nodded in acknowledgement. “This were mah dad’s farm, and muh grand-dad’s afore him. ‘snuf to live on and summat to help ’round town ‘casionally. None ‘o my kids wanted it, an’ they moved so fer ‘way my grandkids don’t know th’ place.”

“What will happen when you, uh, can’t work anymore?” Cecilia asked.

“Ephraim kin have it, if’n he wants,” Gary shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

“But… ” her brow furrowed. “Why didn’t your kids want the farm? It’s their legacy.”

Gary snorted. “Legacy don’t matter to these mod’rn kids.”

Brow furrowed, Cecilia only voiced her disagreement to herself. Maybe not to some kids, but to others, having a legacy as beautiful as this farm might have made all the difference in the world.

Find all the parts of this story here.

Dinner

She plated the pork chops just as the old man entered the kitchen, Ephraim on his heels. What kind of name was Ephraim, anyways?

“I’m Gary Brunn,” the old man stuck out a hand, fingers bent with arthritis, age, work, or all three.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Cecilia Chatsworth,” she replied, not knowing if that’s what he wanted.

“Glad ya made yerself at home. What’s fer dinner?” Gary continued, turning towards the table.

She decided simple was better. “Pork chops, mashed potatoes, green beans, fresh rolls, and a salad.” She pointed to each dish as she spoke. She noticed Gary and Ephraim stood behind their places at the table as though waiting for something.

“Where’s yer plate?” Gary barked. Ah, that’s what they waited for.

“Uh, I didn’t think…” She hesitated. Gary just stared at her with piercing blue eyes, no less sharp for the many years they had seen. She swallowed. “I’m cooking for you, sir,” she finally stumbled.

“And ya don’t need yer own supper?” Gary raised an eyebrow, shaking his head. “If’n yer got ‘nuff, bring yer plate.” With a sharp nod, he and Ephraim sat down, but didn’t reach for any of the food. Not knowing what else to do, Cecilia tried to move quickly in fetching herself a plate, silverware, and a glass of water. Unfortunately she and speedy weren’t friends, and the silverware hit the floor instead of the table.

Ephraim jumped to his feet and picked it up before she could finish setting her glass down.

“Thanks,” she mumbled as she accepted the fork and knife.

“You’re welcome,” he said with yet another smile. Goodness, what did the man have to be so happy about? Or was he just laughing at her?

When she had seated herself, Gary folded his hands and placed them against the edge of the table in front of his plate. Ephraim followed suit, so she figured she should probably do the same.

“Bless us and these thy gifts which we r’ceive from thuh bount’ful goodness, thru Jesus Christ er Lord. A-men,” Gary intoned, Ephraim joining him on the emphatically two-syllabled ‘amen’.

Not knowing what else to do, Cecilia quietly chimed in with her own Amen when they were done. She tried to replay what Gary had said, but the words got lost in her brain. Clearly this was normal here, though, as Ephraim moved right onto dishing up food.

She accepted the various dishes as they were passed around, from Ephraim to her to Gary. She felt bad taking food before it had reached Gary. It was for him, after all. But he didn’t seem to mind, and in fact several times encouraged Ephraim to pick up a dish first. Funny how two men followed such proper table manners, passing dishes clockwise and always using the serving utensils. She had the odd feeling that if she had put out cloth napkins, they would have spread them in their laps.

“Didja find what ya needed?” Gary asked when his plate was full of everything but the green beans.

“Yes, thank you,” Cecilia replied politely. Gary eyed her, but said no more, diving into his mashed potatoes.

“Cecilia, this is heavenly,” Ephraim gushed after barely chewing a bite of his pork.

“Gary, I vote she stays, if I get a vote.” Then he winked at her. She felt herself blushing and forced her attention down to her plate, carefully cutting a green bean.

“Hmmf,” Gary grunted, continuing to eat. Okay, apparently he wasn’t ready to make a decision. Cecilia could live with that.

Ephraim started talking to Gary about some piece of equipment that wasn’t working right, and Cecilia quickly tuned out their discussion of parts and welding and heaven only knows what else. The pork had turned out quite well, plenty moist and not too chewy. The herbed butter gave it a good flavor. The mashed potatoes were fluffy and not too salty. The beans were good, but apparently off the menu for Gary Brunn. And the rolls hadn’t risen quite as much as she wanted them to, but still enough to be passable. She could do better next time.

“Cecilia?” Gary’s gravelly voice interrupted her wandering thoughts.

“Sorry, sir. Yes?” she replied.

“I’d like ter hire ya. Three nights a week okay fer ya?”

Yes! Yes! Yes! “Yes, sir. Do you have a preference for which nights? I currently work late on Wednesdays, but could adjust that if needed.”

“Where d’ya work?”

“Sunrise Salon and Spa on the south end of town. I’m an esthetician,” Cecilia replied by rote.

“Esthe-what? Ya put people out?”

“Oh, no, that’s an anesthesiologist,” she corrected. “I help people with skincare.”

“Hmmf,” Gary replied. “I dun’t mind which nights, long as ya spread ‘em out ‘nuf.”

“All right. Would you like one to be a weekend?”

“Ev’rybody needs a break. Yer should have ‘un, too.”

Did that mean yes or no? She opted for the ‘spread them out’ focus. “Um, okay. How about Monday, Thursday, and Saturday?”

Gary shook his head. “How ’bout Friday ‘stead of Sat’rday?”

“All right.”

“Good,” Gary replied with a nod. “I’ll pay by check ev’ry Friday. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

With a final nod from Gary, that seemed to be the end of the discussion. Cecilia peeked at Ephraim, who continued to eat while watching the exchange. He had taken seconds of almost everything, which pleased Cecilia. Gary had taken seconds of potatoes, too, and surprisingly, salad.

With little said, they finished their meals. Cecilia started in on the dishes, shocked when Gary told Ephraim to go help her.

“You don’t have to,” she objected. “Haven’t you worked all day?”

“Sure, but I’m guessing you have, too,” he replied with a shrug. “Drying dishes never hurt anybody.”

So Cecilia washed, Ephraim dried, and Gary wiped the table and swept the floor. Never had Cecilia experienced such a thing, and she didn’t know what to make of it.

Find all the parts of this story here.

Cooking

Thursday was better. Cecilia had four clients, and one of them bought a whole bag of products, giving Cecilia a nice little boost in her commission. She changed her clothes promptly at 3, then left the spa and headed straight for the grocery store.

There were three grocery stores in New Albany: the outrageous organic one she would likely never visit, the big store from a small midwestern chain with slightly higher prices, and the small store from a big chain with slightly lower prices. She always went to the small store. They had everything she needed, and she’d never been a fancy cook. Even in Madison where she had access to all kinds of specialty stores, she had stuck with what she knew and could easily afford.

She started at the meat counter, quickly selecting a pork loin that she had the butcher cut down to a reasonable size. It would easily feed four men, and she assumed the farmer wanted leftovers.

Next, she visited the produce section. Green beans and bell peppers called her name. She could sauté or roast them to great appeal. She also found fresh herbs for the herbed butter, and fresh garlic for the potatoes. She chose Russets for the mashed potatoes, since they were the fluffiest (in her opinion). Then she grabbed a selection of salad fixings, hoping the farmer would have ingredients for a dressing. He had to have some kind of oil, right?

She rounded out her visit with the dairy aisle for butter, sour cream, and cheddar cheese to make the mashed potatoes truly delectable. As a bonus, she could use sour cream as a creamy salad dressing base if he didn’t have oil.

Her eyes bugged out a little at the total. She spent that much on 3-4 days worth of groceries for herself! But she had to remind herself that she was feeding hardworking farmers. They would appreciate a hearty meal.

Driving out to the address Mr. Brunn had given was so pleasant, she almost missed the turn. A long gravel driveway brought her up to a 2-story farmhouse that could have used a little love. Sure, the structure was in fine condition, the white paint pristine and bright. But it needed flowers in the garden beds, the yard needed mowing and weeding, and the scraggly corner bushes needed to be pruned. The front porch begged for some seating, maybe even a swing.

Cecilia reminded herself it wasn’t her house to make a home, then climbed the porch steps to knock on the front door. She knocked again when there was no answer after a minute or two. Still more time passed with nary a sound or response. A glance at her phone told her she was down to exactly 1 hour and 57 minutes before she needed to have dinner on the table.

Should she walk in the house? Try to find Mr. Brunn? She presumed he was still out working. Ugh, she should have figured this out on the phone with him.

She took a stroll around the house, leaving the bags of groceries on the porch. She rather hoped she’d find someone, but the only living things between her and the barn were a scruffy old dog and a handful of bugs and birds. The dog didn’t even move when she rounded the corner of the house. She had to stare at him to make sure he was still breathing.

“Here goes nothing,” she muttered to herself, before cupping her hands around the sides of her mouth.

“Mr. Brunn!” She shouted. “It’s Cecilia to make your dinner!”

“Let yerself in, girlie!” Came a yelled version of the gruff, old voice she had heard on the phone. Then a young man’s laughter followed. She couldn’t see them, so presumably they were behind the barn.

Ah, well. She’d do as he said.

Just inside the front door, a big rug to the side told her she should probably remove her shoes. She left her tennies on the plain rug, then meandered down the hall. The house was built in a shotgun style, with rooms branching left and right off a central hallway leading from the front door straight through to the back. She found the kitchen behind the last door on the left.

Oh, what a kitchen! Afternoon sunshine pummeled gently worn oak cabinetry until it fairly glowed. A simple white laminate countertop was scrubbed clean. Not a single ornament cluttered the counter. The stove – an older coil-burner model – had a canister of utensils where she might have placed a spoon rest.

Set inside the short end of the L-shaped cabinets was the most beautiful old farm table Cecilia had ever seen. The simple rectangle had a slit down the middle, probably for an extension. Four chairs filled in on two sides. The wood was scratched, dented, scarred from hot pots and pans, and stained in a few places, and Cecilia imagined the wood was whispering its stories of life, love, and loss.

How many family dinners had been eaten around this table? Had Mr. Brunn once had a family? Did he teach his children how to read here? Or was he a bachelor? Had he ever brought a lady here on a date? She longed to know the secrets the table held.

First things first, she had a job audition to get to. She dug through the cabinets and found pots and pans near the stove, cutting boards and knives near the sink, and dishes at the far end. Mixing bowls lived above the pots and pans. She had brought her own cast iron, knowing how it worked. She wasn’t prepared for the coil stove, though, and had to spend a little time on her phone’s very slow internet to ensure she could safely use the pan.

Then she set to work preparing the pork chops, boiling the potatoes, and baking the rolls. When she had a lull in her workflow, she washed up the dishes she had used so far – no dishwasher, unfortunately – and set the table for two. By 5:55, the side dishes were on the table, and the pork chops rested under a tent of foil.

At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, she turned toward the door. Her first glimpse of Mr. Brunn was the back of a head of shaggy white hair, in need of both washing and trimming. Broad shoulders rounded forward underneath a short-sleeved plaid cotton shirt, untucked from baggy jeans. He disappeared down the hallway, probably into the bathroom Cecilia had noticed in her brief self-guided tour.

Behind the white-haired man came a young man, probably only a little older than herself. He had what she used to call dirty blond hair, before she started working with Emory and was corrected. He had neatly trimmed dark blond hair, very tan skin, and a big, white-toothed, friendly smile.

“Hiya,” he greeted, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I’d shake your hand, but…” Letting the comment trail off, he showed her dirt-caked hands and fingernails. Not knowing what to say, she just gave a tight smile and nodded.

“I’m Ephraim,” he said. “You’re Cecilia, right?”

“Yeah,” she replied. Genius, Cici.

“We’ll wash up and be right there,” the young man smiled again, then moved down the hall.

Well, then. Here we go.

Find all the parts of this story here.

Gary

Later that week, Cecilia stared at the picture of the flier. It had been slow at work. She made a low wage only when she had clients. The receptionist took pity on her and generally tried to schedule her clients close together, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. Today, she’d had a 9:00 facial and a 2:30 consultation. That’s it. Her bank account was screaming for help.

She re-read the details of the ad.

Wanted: cook to make three dinners per week for old farmer and his hand. You choose the nights. Will pay for groceries plus $50/dinner. Contact Gary Brunn.

The ad ended with a phone number. She wondered if Gary was the old farmer. And had he really described himself as old? What a funny man.

Cecilia pondered if she could really do this. She absolutely loved cooking. Making dinner for Caleb had been one of the best parts of their short years. In the last 6 months, however, she had become an expert pot pie-microwaver. She hadn’t pulled out her pots and pans in so long, and yet, she had oh-so-carefully packed her favorite cast iron skillet and brought it with her. It was, after her ring, the best gift Caleb had given her.

Yes, she could cook for an old farmer and his hand. Farm hand, she assumed. Would he be old, too? Or just a kid, with a huge appetite? Either way, working on a farm was a lot of physical labor. She might love making appealing vegetables the most, but she would almost bet her skillet these farmers would be meat-and-potatoes men. Well, potatoes were basically a vegetable, so it would be fine.

After dithering for way too long, at 7:30 she dialed the number on the ad.

“‘Lo?” a gruff voice responded.

“I’m calling about the ad for a cook,” Cecilia spoke, definitely too quickly. When the man didn’t say anything right away, she tacked on, “At Bethel.”

“Who’s this?” the man asked.

“My name is Cecilia Chatsworth,” she introduced herself.

“Hmmf,” the man grunted. “Never heard o’ ya.”

“I just moved to New Albany two weeks ago,” she explained.

“And ya go to Bethel?”

How to thread that needle? She still wasn’t sure. “I did last week,” was the most honest thing she could say.

Honestly, though? She could really use an extra $150 a week.

“Hmmf,” was all he said. This time, she let him think. She had no clue what to make of him, and began idly wondering what he looked like. She pictured a short man wearing denim overalls and a faded plaid shirt, squinting over reading glasses while complaining about the font size of his book.

“And yer can cook?” he prompted after a minute.

“Yes, sir,” she replied simply. Then a thought occurred to her. “I could show you, if you like. A trial run.”

“Huh. An audition, ya think?”

“Yes, like an audition.”

“What night?” he barked.

“I’m free tomorrow evening.”

“Kin yer have dinner ready at 6?”

“I can.”

“Hmmf. Save yer receipt from anythin’ ya buy.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man gave his address and was about to hang up.

“Sir?”

“Hmmf?”

“Are you the Gary Brunn from the ad? The farmer?”

“Who else would I be, girlie?” the old voice rasped, then promptly hung up.

Cecilia chuckled as she set down her phone. Gary Brunn was a force to be reckoned with, and she looked forward to getting to know the man who went with that distinct voice. Had she seen him on Sunday? Perhaps, but then again, she barely remembered anyone besides Sam, Sophie, and Sam’s pushy mother.

Now she could turn her thoughts to the infinitely more pleasant topic of what to cook tomorrow night for dinner. She wanted him to be pleasantly surprised without setting the bar so high she wouldn’t be able to sustain it if he were to offer her the job. Even though he told her to bring a receipt, she also didn’t want to break his bank.

Come to think of it, $50 to cook dinner seemed like an awful lot. She could cook many dishes in under two hours, which would mean being paid $25/hour. That was a lot of money for something that seemed pretty simple to her. But maybe it was worth it to Gary Brunn.

She grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote out a short menu of pork with herbed butter (she’d get whatever cut looked best or was on sale, depending on what the store had), garlic mashed potatoes, some roasted vegetable (again, dependent on the store’s offerings – it just needed to be fresh), a salad, and dinner rolls. She could do all that in a few hours.

Did Gary have a sweet tooth? She wasn’t that much of a dessert baker. She’d tried a few things, but they never looked or tasted like she wanted them to. Should she pick up something store bought? No, Gary could buy his own desserts if he wanted store bought. She’d either bake or do nothing.

In sticking with her thought of not setting the bar too high, she figured the potentially fancy-ish dinner was enough. No dessert. She wouldn’t put herself through that much stress when this was just a trial run.

And with any luck, come next week she’d have a second job, filling out that sad-looking bank balance into something perfectly respectable and non-anxiety-inducing.

Find all the parts of this story here.

Friends

When the service concluded, Cecilia glanced around, expecting to see people get up and start talking. The talking part they did, but not the getting up. Instead, the man who had given her the bulletin walked to the front of the church and began gesturing to people, who got up one bench at a time. Since she was more than halfway towards the back, she had a while to wait.

While she waited, to her surprise and maybe a little horror, the young couple in front of her turned around to say good morning. The older couple sitting next to them also turned around, and Cecilia felt the weight of eight eyes boring into hers. A blush crept up her cheeks.

“Good morning. My name is Sam,” the young man introduced himself, twisting to extend his hand over the back of the bench.

“Um, hi. I’m Cecilia,” she replied, shaking his hand a little awkwardly. Then the young woman extended her hand, and Cecilia felt obligated to shake hers, too.

“I’m Sophie. Are you new here?” the woman asked.

Here as in this church? New Albany? Ugh, Cecilia hated even these basic social interactions. She never knew what to say.

“Uh, yeah,” she muttered. Brilliant, Cici, she chided herself.

“Well, welcome,” Sophie replied, seemingly unbothered by Cecilia’s lack of social grace. “I just moved to Williamson – that’s the next town over – a year ago. I still feel pretty new to the area. And I attended a different church at the beginning, too. I just transferred my membership to Bethel a few months ago. So I totally get being new! It’s a lot.”

What was she supposed to say back? The older woman sitting with Sam and Sophie spared Cecilia from having to figure it out.

“Hi, Cecilia. I’m Laurie Harrison, and this is my husband, Dan. We’re Sam’s parents. Welcome to New Albany! Do you live nearby?”

More awkward handshakes.

“I have an apartment a few miles away,” she finally answered Laurie. It was Laurie, right?

“Oh, one of those lovely new ones on the south end of town?” Laurie practically bounced in her seat.

“Time to go, Laurie,” Dan spoke quietly at his wife’s side, rising and following the directions of the man showing people down the aisle.

“Come to lunch?” Laurie asked as she scooted out of the seat, Sam and Sophie following.

“I can’t today, but thank you,” Cecilia replied automatically.

“Oh, dear. Well, I hope we see you next week!” Laurie called over her shoulder. Cecilia just nodded and watched the four of them walk away.

She could have gone to lunch, and a niggle in her brain made her wonder why she said no. It was habit at this point. She had so often said no when she was single. Really, Caleb was her courage. And since he was gone, she was back to her own devices. In the last 6 months, she had said no to everyone and everything. It was just easier.

As she followed Sophie and Sam out of the church, Sophie turned around to talk to her again.

“I hope you’ll come back next week so we can see you again,” the slender young woman said. She had blond hair and sweet, gentle eyes. Out of habit, Cecilia also noticed that her skin was a little dry, like she was recovering from a sunburn.

“I don’t know,” she answered as honestly as she could. She didn’t really want to come back; it was incredibly overwhelming.

Sophie’s brow furrowed, as if she saw more than Cecilia wanted to share.

“Is the traditional church setting unfamiliar to you?” she asked gracefully.

Grateful for the out, Cecilia nodded. “My previous church was very different.”

“I get that. I grew up in a church much like this one, and when I moved to Williamson, I attended a contemporary-styled church there. It was a foreign world to me. Instruments, pastor in jeans, music on a screen – I didn’t grow up with any of that. I’m guessing you’re the opposite?”

“Something like that…” Cecilia hedged. She didn’t know these people well enough to share details.

“If it would help you feel more comfortable, I’d be happy go over the service with you sometime. Or you could sit with us,” Sophie offered. “No pressure, though.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks. I’ll… I’ll let you know,” Cecilia stuttered.

“No problem,” Sophie reassured. “I just don’t want you to feel like you don’t have a place here just because it’s unfamiliar.”

Though she didn’t understand why, that made tears burn the corners of Cecilia’s eyes. She swallowed and pasted on a smile she didn’t feel.

“Thanks.”

“I hope we’ll see you around, Cecilia,” Sophie finished with another handshake. Sam shook her hand and smiled, too, and then they moved along.

She managed to get to the entryway without being bothered by anyone else. Once there, a bulletin board caught her attention, and she stepped over to read the various announcements. VBS was next week – and what was VBS? Someone was offering lawn-mowing services. And in the corner, a simple white paper with Times New Roman black text requested someone to cook dinner three nights a week for Gary Brunn and his farmhand.

Intrigued, Cecilia took a picture of the ad with her phone, then slipped out the doors before anyone else could accost her. The second she pulled her car out of the parking lot, she let loose the tears that had been begging for release for the past hour.

Bethel was so overwhelming. Did she really belong with such nice people in their sweet little church? She didn’t know how to be like them.