Something More by Janet Dailey Page B

eyes twinkling. “A more soft-spoken minister you couldn’t find anywhere. Isn’t that right, Griff?”
    He grunted his lack of interest in the subject.
    â€œWhat would you like me to do first?” Angie asked when Ima Jane started toward the kitchen.
    â€œYou can begin by dragging the tables over against the front wall while Griff and I get the pulpit from the back room. A couple of the tables will have to be stacked on top of each other, but we’ll give you a hand with those.”
    â€œSounds good.” Angie grabbed the edge of an empty table and started pulling it across the floor, smiling at the thought of the look on her mother’s face when she’d learn that in Wyoming people attended church in a bar. It would be a severe shock to her Methodist-strict soul. Angie regarded it as an experience not to be missed.
    â€œâ€˜Where sin abounds, grace does much more abound,’” she murmured to herself and laughed softly.

Chapter Seven
    I ma Jane was lighting the altar candles when the first congregation members arrived. Only seconds earlier, Angie had set the last folding chair in place, one of a dozen that supplemented the bar chairs, arranged now in orderly rows to serve as pews.
    She stood back and studied the transformation of a bar into a place of worship. A long black curtain, hung from hooks fastened to the ceiling, encircling the long bar, completely hiding it from view. Along the end wall, a cloth of wine-colored velvet embroidered with a gold cross was draped over one of the bar tables that now saw duty as an altar. Above it, there was a portrait of Jesus against a stained glass background. The neon beer lights in the front windows were silent and dark, hidden behind tightly drawn curtains. To the left of the altar, a speaker’s podium served as the pulpit, its new use confirmed by the wooden cross tacked on its tall front.
    There were few visible reminders identifying the place as a bar. Even the tables lined up along the wall were covered in white sheets. Yet, mixed in with the scent of burning candle wax, Angie detected telltale traces of stale tobacco smoke and spilt beer. She liked the combination.
    A quick glance at her watch warned Angie that she had scant ten minutes before the services were scheduled to start. As she took a step toward the door, Ima Jane intercepted her.
    â€œYou are going to stay for the services, aren’t you?” Her expression held the beginnings of dismay.
    â€œI was on my way out to the camper to change.” Angie pulled at the front of her yellow T-shirt, drawing attention to her inappropriate attire.
    Ima Jane dismissed her concern with an expansive wave of her hand. “Good heavens, you don’t need to bother doing that. Church here is pretty much a come-as-you-are thing.”
    â€œMaybe, but just the same I think I should change to a blouse.”
    Before Ima Jane had a chance to pooh-pooh her plan, Angie slipped out the door, crossing paths with Joanie Michels, who was on her way in, the bottom half of a cardboard box clutched in her arms.
    Startled, Joanie did a double take, then stared after Angie while continuing to walk forward, one hand outstretched to catch the door. Not looking where she was going, she walked right into Ima Jane.
    â€œExcuse me.” She bounced off, identified the obstacle in her path, and apologized in an embarrassed rush. “I’m sorry, Ima Jane. I didn’t see you standing there.” Instantly she turned curious eyes after Angie. “That woman—is she the granddaughter Tiffany Banks was telling me about? I forget her name.”
    â€œAngie Sommers.” Ima Jane supplied it, then studied the ash blonde with a questioning look. “When did you talk to Tiffany?”
    â€œShe called me this morning to fill me in on everything we missed last night.” Joanie paused in the doorway, watching until Angie strode out of sight, then stepped inside and breathed