Earth to Emily by Pamela Fagan Hutchins Page A

And it’s a woman! I’ve never worked for a woman before.”
    Mother doubled as the secretary and most fervent worshipper at the Panhandle Believers Church, with a belief system older than she was by several decades. She wiped her hands on a frilly white-skirted apron longer than her skirt. Even with the homespun apron, she looked like an aging Vegas showgirl. Mother had a penchant for stilettos, and she didn’t like to cover too much of her long legs if she could help it. She never went in public without a full face of Mary Kay and half a bottle of Aqua Net—White Rain would do in a pinch—holding her baby-fine blonde hair perfectly in place.
    I pulled a glass tumbler from the red cedar cabinet. “Want one?”
    “A smidge.” She indicated about a sixteenth of an inch with her finger and thumb.
    “So, that’s pretty big news. How are the Believers taking it?” I grabbed a second glass and poured her smidge and my own full up.
    “People were quite devoted to Pastor Robb, and I’m not sure everyone accepts that God intended women to lead the church.” My eyes fluttered up into their sockets, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I’ll be surprised if we don’t lose members over this. That big church outside of town, Mighty is the Word or whatever they call it, is recruiting new members, and I do mean recruiting.” She shrugged, a hopeless gesture. “They have a male pastor.”
    Ah, Mother and the Believers. I love the woman and I look like her, but I don’t think like her. And Mother didn’t know everything about her soon-to-be-former boss and worship leader. My friend Nadine counted Pastor Robb as one of her top customers at the Polo Club, quick with a fat tip and always paying in cash. Was it a coincidence that most people left cash in the collection plate each Sunday? I didn’t think so. Anyway, Nadine would hate to see him go. I handed Mother her glass, then clinked mine to hers. “Well, I’m sure you’ll grow to love the new pastor, too.”
    Mother harrumphed. “How was your day, dear?”
    I took a tiny swallow of the white zinfandel. I shuddered. The first sip was always the worst. “Same old.”
    This was my standard answer. Mother had an insatiable urge to feed the gossip gristmill of her Sunday school class at Believers, and they’d ground up my personal life a few too many times, talking to the Lord and whoever else would listen. I’d learned to keep the interesting things to myself. For instance, I had neglected to tell Mother about wrecking Jack’s Jeep two nights before or the murder we’d almost stumbled upon at Love’s, and I sure hadn’t told her I’d spent half the day cooling my heels in lockup yesterday.
    “Anything new with Ja-ack?” Her voice trilled his name.
    For someone upset that her boss and worship leader was leaving her, she sure sounded happy. Actually, she’d sounded downright perky for a week or two now. Could she have met someone? I looked closer at her. I’d never seen the snug skirt she was wearing or the soft pink sweater. Hmmm, something to keep an eye on.
    “We’re working on Betsy’s case and a few others.” I pretended not to understand her meaning about Jack. She had finally given up on reuniting Rich and me, although I wasn’t sure she’d accepted that he couldn’t be re-established as a red-blooded heterosexual. She now pinned her hopes for my happily-ever-after and her grandbabies on Jack. Which brought up another subject I’d neglected to update her on: my very iffy reproductive potential. It could
definitely
wait.
    “I got her something little for Christmas. To go in the backpack you got her.”
    “About that.” I slugged down half my wine in one swallow, skipping most of the too-sweet taste experience. “Her foster parents aren’t allowing her to accept gifts. Or visitors.”
    “What? Whyever would they not?”
    “On account of it’s Jesus’s birthday.” The rest of the white zin slid down my hatch.
    Mother set her unsipped-from