make sure we have plenty of your divine masterpiece. Caroline, we’ll need candles, a cutting knife, and cake plates, of course.”
“Right.” More entering on the to-do list. “Will you want to come early to decorate?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Around four would be perfect.”
“You can count on the Frogmore Café, Mrs. Carrington.”
She stands tall, handing me a check for four hundred dollars. “See to it.”
13
Sunday morning J. D. rides with me toward Mossy Oak and Beaufort Community Church. We bob our heads to the rhythm of Keith Urban on the radio.
Oh, wait . . . I reach out and snap it off. Maybe I shouldn’t listen to Keith on the way to God’s place.
“Hey, what are you doing? I like that song.” J. D. says. He’s sporty and handsome in a cream-colored Polo and navy Dockers.
“I don’t know. Shouldn’t we be humming a hymn or something? Like the first verse of ‘Amazing Grace.’”
J. D. flashes me his charming smile. “No, we don’t have to sing a hymn.” All right, he should know; he grew up Baptist. “Relax, Caroline, it’s church. Not the IRS.”
As we arrive, the last of the front-porch talkers are wandering inside. I slip my hair out of its ponytail, smooth out the tangles with a quick brush, then fix my lip gloss.
J. D. walks around to open my door. Taking my hand, he escorts me forward, but at the church steps, I jerk him back. “I’m nervous. It’s been ten years since I went to church—some youth event with Elle.”
The brawny deputy hooks his arm around me. “Caroline, you don’t have to go in. We can cut out and drive down to Hilton Head. Walk on the beach and eat at some old dive by the water.”
“Dive by the water? In Hilton Head?” I turn to the church doors. “I promised Mitch.”
“I appreciate that, Caroline, but skipping Sunday church when you haven’t been in over a decade isn’t going to stun anyone. You can change your mind.”
“I know—”
Actually, it’s not changing my mind that’s bothering me right now. It’s my hypocrisy. Most of the time, I doubt God. He’s the superior of the make-believes: Santa, the Easter Bunny, and Superman.
Yet, here I come, stepping into His territory.
“Y’all coming in?” An older gentleman in a suit and bolo tie stands in the door. “Service is starting.”
“Um, yeah—” I peer into J. D.’s eyes. “Hilton Head will always be there.”
“Hey, it’s your decision. I’ll do whatever you want to do.”
Mitch signals to us from the back pew. “You made it. Hey, J. D.” He doesn’t seem put off that I brought a guest.
“Look at you. Suit and tie.” I nudge Mitch with my elbow. “My, my.”
He hands me a bulletin. A thick, worn black Bible rests on his knee. “Is this seat okay or do you want to go up front by Mom?”
Surely he jests. “This seat is just fine.”
J. D. slips his arm around me as I face forward. My legs feel feeble, and my insides quiver as if I’m cold.
Mitch eyes my stiff posture. “Are you planning on running?”
“Maybe.” I know, I know, I’m sitting on the edge of the seat, stiffer than a dead coon . I’m a fish out of water here.
Up front, an overly gregarious woman in a really green suit welcomes us all to Beaufort Community. “Just a few reminders. Wednesday evening is potluck for the community. Be sure to invite—”
A hand touches my shoulder. I swerve around to see the dark, ten-der face of Pastor Winnie. “Good to see you here, Caroline.”
I clap my hand over his. “Hey, Pastor Winnie.”
“Mitch, son, good to see you home.” Pastor Winnie approves of him with a wink and shuffles down the aisle to a front row seat. He whispers to Luke, who turns around, scouting the back pew. When he spies me, his expression brightens.
In the surprisingly peaceful atmosphere of the church, I discover how much the breakfast-club boys feel like family.
A few rows up and over I spot Elle with her family. She has four sisters. Three are married with
“Right.” More entering on the to-do list. “Will you want to come early to decorate?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Around four would be perfect.”
“You can count on the Frogmore Café, Mrs. Carrington.”
She stands tall, handing me a check for four hundred dollars. “See to it.”
13
Sunday morning J. D. rides with me toward Mossy Oak and Beaufort Community Church. We bob our heads to the rhythm of Keith Urban on the radio.
Oh, wait . . . I reach out and snap it off. Maybe I shouldn’t listen to Keith on the way to God’s place.
“Hey, what are you doing? I like that song.” J. D. says. He’s sporty and handsome in a cream-colored Polo and navy Dockers.
“I don’t know. Shouldn’t we be humming a hymn or something? Like the first verse of ‘Amazing Grace.’”
J. D. flashes me his charming smile. “No, we don’t have to sing a hymn.” All right, he should know; he grew up Baptist. “Relax, Caroline, it’s church. Not the IRS.”
As we arrive, the last of the front-porch talkers are wandering inside. I slip my hair out of its ponytail, smooth out the tangles with a quick brush, then fix my lip gloss.
J. D. walks around to open my door. Taking my hand, he escorts me forward, but at the church steps, I jerk him back. “I’m nervous. It’s been ten years since I went to church—some youth event with Elle.”
The brawny deputy hooks his arm around me. “Caroline, you don’t have to go in. We can cut out and drive down to Hilton Head. Walk on the beach and eat at some old dive by the water.”
“Dive by the water? In Hilton Head?” I turn to the church doors. “I promised Mitch.”
“I appreciate that, Caroline, but skipping Sunday church when you haven’t been in over a decade isn’t going to stun anyone. You can change your mind.”
“I know—”
Actually, it’s not changing my mind that’s bothering me right now. It’s my hypocrisy. Most of the time, I doubt God. He’s the superior of the make-believes: Santa, the Easter Bunny, and Superman.
Yet, here I come, stepping into His territory.
“Y’all coming in?” An older gentleman in a suit and bolo tie stands in the door. “Service is starting.”
“Um, yeah—” I peer into J. D.’s eyes. “Hilton Head will always be there.”
“Hey, it’s your decision. I’ll do whatever you want to do.”
Mitch signals to us from the back pew. “You made it. Hey, J. D.” He doesn’t seem put off that I brought a guest.
“Look at you. Suit and tie.” I nudge Mitch with my elbow. “My, my.”
He hands me a bulletin. A thick, worn black Bible rests on his knee. “Is this seat okay or do you want to go up front by Mom?”
Surely he jests. “This seat is just fine.”
J. D. slips his arm around me as I face forward. My legs feel feeble, and my insides quiver as if I’m cold.
Mitch eyes my stiff posture. “Are you planning on running?”
“Maybe.” I know, I know, I’m sitting on the edge of the seat, stiffer than a dead coon . I’m a fish out of water here.
Up front, an overly gregarious woman in a really green suit welcomes us all to Beaufort Community. “Just a few reminders. Wednesday evening is potluck for the community. Be sure to invite—”
A hand touches my shoulder. I swerve around to see the dark, ten-der face of Pastor Winnie. “Good to see you here, Caroline.”
I clap my hand over his. “Hey, Pastor Winnie.”
“Mitch, son, good to see you home.” Pastor Winnie approves of him with a wink and shuffles down the aisle to a front row seat. He whispers to Luke, who turns around, scouting the back pew. When he spies me, his expression brightens.
In the surprisingly peaceful atmosphere of the church, I discover how much the breakfast-club boys feel like family.
A few rows up and over I spot Elle with her family. She has four sisters. Three are married with
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