Walking Shoes Read online

  Four dusty ficus trees and two tall-backed elders’ chairs were right where Noah left them when he exited the ark.

  Leona smoothed the Peter Pan collar tightening around her neck. Her hand froze at her throat, her breath trapped below her panicked grasp.

  Glistening beads of sweat dripped from J.D.’s brow. He removed a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his notes. With a labored swipe, he dried his forehead and returned the soaked linen to his breast pocket. As he clasped the lip of the pulpit, his knuckles whitened.

  Leona stood, ready to call out no matter how inappropriate, but her husband’s warning gaze urged her to stay put.

  J.D. cleared his throat. “There was one who was willing to die—” the pastor paused—“that you might live.” A pleased smile lit his face. He placed a hand over his heart and dropped.

  * * * * *

  J.D. Harper never did anything spontaneously. Dying in the middle of his well-planned sermon was so unlike him.

  The weight of the crocheted afghan anchored Leona’s body to the wingback chair in the corner of her bedroom. Her mind bobbed in a cloudy soup. She didn’t remember walking across the parking lot, climbing the steps to the parsonage, or stumbling to her bedroom. Nor did she recall shivering uncontrollably.

  For some reason Roxie’s reassuring words—“Let’s bundle her like a burrito and stave off the shock”—kept colliding with the apologetic image of Charlie Copeland saying, “I’m so sorry, Leona,” as he closed the ambulance door.

  “How about I turn on your music?” Roxie didn’t wait for an answer. She flipped a switch on the small boom box on top of the dresser, activating the croon of the Gaither Vocal Band.

  A spectator in her own bedroom, Leona puffed at the blue yarn irritating her nose. She watched her best friend flit around the shade-darkened space, turning on the lamps and barking orders as if tragedy came boxed in the parts shipments arriving daily at her auto parts store.

  How Roxanne Brewer pedaled everything from carburetors to windshield wipers wearing those above-the-knee skirts and stilettos had vexed men far and wide for years. But this mother of four could put her finger on replacement valves in record speed, and she’d give a person the shirt off her Marilyn Monroe figure if she thought it would get them on the road again.

  Roxie wedged herself like a tire jack between Leona and the big-boned elder’s wife hovering nearby. “Maxine, you’re going to have to back up and give the woman some air.”

  “Roxanne, our pastor’s wife does not need a tune-up.” Maxine peered over the edge of the half-glasses perched on the end of her pointed nose. “She needs spiritual comfort.”

  “From you?”

  “I am the Chairman of the Board’s wife.”

  “My point exactly!”

  “Roxie,” Leona’s voice sounded more pathetic than usual.

  “I’m sorry, Leona.” Sparks flashed in Roxie’s sapphire eyes, igniting the static in her fly-away red hair. She turned to Maxine. “How about we take this discussion outside?”

  “J.D. Harper’s passing is not a matter for the Episcopalians.” Maxine’s spine straightened to its full five-foot-ten height. Leona recognized the familiar battle stances and braced for the worst. Hardly a chamber of commerce meeting passed that the Cadillac Queen and the Parts Princess didn’t mix it up over competitive practices, business, and religion. “The saints at Mt. Hope will tend to their own,” she finished in a huff.

  “I’ve seen how your husband herds the sheep at Mt. Hope.” Roxie rested her hand on Leona’s shoulder, her voice turning sugary sweet. “If you don’t mind, I think my friend here will pass on your offer.”

  “A true friend would not let her own bitterness over losing a major customer interfere with her friend’s best interests.” Maxine’s voice dripped saccharine.

  Roxie’s focus zeroed in on Maxine’s smug grin, her restrained temper flushing her cheeks crimson. “I don’t care where Davis Cadillac gets their auto parts these days. Can’t you understand this poor woman needs a minute to herself?”

  “We will see.” Maxine approached Leona. Slicing the air in front of Leona’s face with her flattened palm, she fished for support. “Sister Harper, do you want me or this chop-shop hussy to stay with you?”

  Judging from the elder’s wife’s planted size-eleven feet, Leona suspected Maxine had no intention of leaving without a fight, let alone going peacefully. Much as she’d dreamed of the day she could give Maxine what for, right now she didn’t have an ounce of fight left in her.

  “Ladies, please. I know we’re all upset, but I need to call the kids.”

  Roxie placed her hands on Maxine’s shoulders, ratcheting her sideways. “In private.”

  Maxine’s head swiveled, neck bones popping, her face demanding a reprieve. But Leona nodded, relieved she had not had to say the words she dreaded. Telling her children their father had just died would be difficult enough without the prying eyes of those who deemed her incompetent listening in. She didn’t have it in her to smile at their critique of her coping methods.

  Roxie pointed at Leona’s silent face. “There you have it, Maxine.” Roxie smiled. Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on the way out.”

  “Episcopalians.” Maxine stomped toward the exit. She turned and waggled her finger in Leona’s direction. “Don’t think for a moment this liberal heathen is interested in caring for the widows and orphans, Leona Harper.” The door clicked shut with a decisive disgust.

  Widows? Orphans? The ugly words ricocheted off the floral wallpaper, bounced around with Gloria Gaither’s chorus of “Something Worth Living For,” pierced the blue afghan, and slammed directly into Leona’s heart.

  “Thank goodness she’s gone.” Roxie peeled back a corner of the blanket and Leona felt her emotions hemorrhage. “You ready, girlfriend?”

  Leona nodded but her body had joined forces with her ebbing resolve in a conspiracy to shut her down.

  Roxie reduced the stereo volume. “I’ll be right here.” She drew her phone out of her bra and pressed a number on her favorites list. “Here you go.”

  Leona searched the liquid pools of Roxie’s eyes, finding that familiar island of support. Fingers trembling, she took the phone and brought it to her ear. Trepidation rang loud and clear on her end. No one answered on the other.

  Chapter Two

  David Harper fiddled with the volume control then yanked out his disposable earphones. It was no use. He couldn’t concentrate on a movie. Digging his fingers into the armrests of his first-class seat, he returned to an upright position. He stared out the window at the vast darkness, feeling separated from home by more than an ocean. Surprised he’d been able to catch an international flight on such short notice, he wasn’t surprised he’d been unable to sleep as the plane hurtled him toward Momma. His normally sharp edge dulled with each tick of his expensive watch. He ripped out the in-flight wish catalog, flipped through a few pages, then stuffed it into the pocket. Shoe-shine kits and tie organizers were useless to a man headed home to bury his father.

  He pressed the call button.

  A uniformed woman appeared in the aisle. “May I help you?”

  “A cup of coffee, please.”

  The flight attendant smiled. “Cream and sugar?”

  Arriving exhausted and cranky to face Momma would not serve him well. “Black. The stronger, the better.”

  Tossing the tiny airline pillow onto the empty seat beside him, he wondered why his mother thought he could preach his father’s funeral sermon. What makes her think I’d want to? Hadn’t he made it clear when he left the States to get his graduate degree in history that he had no intention of ever stepping into a pulpit, especially the one his father occupied? Had occupied.

  David lowered his tray table. He raked his straight brown hair off his forehead, rested his head against the leather seat, and closed his eyes. He rubbed the place at his temples where Momma’s words pounded out a haunting rhythm. Dad’s dead. Dad’s dead. Dad’s dead
.

  David shifted in his seat, drumming his fingers on the makeshift table as he waited for his coffee. But he could not get comfortable. Nor could he shake the guilty feeling that disappointment had ruined his father’s health, and his announcement would break his mother’s heart.

  * * * * *

  A mountain storm had hit Denver during the night. Sleet pelted the window of Madison Harper’s loft apartment. Sitting up in bed, she pushed mussed blonde curls away from her eyes, and checked the time on her cell phone. Eleven a.m. Apprehension fluttered in her growling stomach as she noticed she’d missed a call from Aunt Roxie at ten Central time and another from her mother not five minutes later.

  “Why would Momma call during church?” Maddie rubbed her eyes, checking the screen again. “Pickings must have been slim at the church potluck for the attendance police to call before two.”

  Pressing Momma’s number, Maddie braced for her mother’s weekly grilling. Did she go to church? Then where? Tell me about it. Maddie reached for the fast food cup that had left a ring on the hand-me-down nightstand and wet her throat with the watery Diet Coke. What excuse could she offer Momma today? Last week it was that-time-of-the-month. This week she would have to claim late-night surgery rotations again. Risky, but even if Momma had her suspicions, she’d never fault attention to excellence.

  “Maddie?” Her mother rarely answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Momma.” Maddie doubted her sleepy voice would get past those keen ears, but hoped they could continue the pretense: Leona Harper didn’t know her daughter spent Sunday mornings at the church of the sacred pillow, and Maddie didn’t know her backsliding ways drove her mother crazy.

  “I tried calling Katie Beth so you wouldn’t be alone when I tell you . . . but Katie Beth didn’t answer her phone. I went ahead and called your brother since England is several hours ahead of us.”

  Maddie’s heart skipped a beat at the unusual sound of panic in Momma’s voice. “K.B. must be at church.” She’d regret admitting that her roommate was a better Christian than the preacher’s daughter, but it was too late now. “What’s so tragic that you spent the money to call David?”

  “Sweetheart, maybe you should sit down.” Why did her mother have to make a production out of every little thing? Maddie jabbed a pillow between her back and the wrought-iron headboard. “I am sitting down.” Nobody exited the stage of Momma’s show until she gave the cue so she might as well get comfortable.

  “Sweetheart, I hate telling you this over the phone, but . . .” Momma’s voice cracked. “Daddy’s...” the hitch in Momma’s voice stopped Maddie’s heart. “Your father ... is ... dead.”

  Silence, heavy as the sinkers her father used to tie on the end of her fishing line, weighted the airwaves. Maddie yanked the phone away from her ear and stared at the blank screen. They hadn’t been disconnected. If this new tactic was supposed to guilt her back to church, Momma had sunk to an all-time low.

  “What do you mean?” Maddie didn’t hide the edge of irritation creeping into her voice.

  “He was in the middle of his first sermon point when suddenly he collapsed behind the pulpit. By the time I got to him . . .” Momma paused. “He was gone.”

  A loud buzzing crackled through the thick hush on the other end of the line, swelling to a roar inside Maddie’s head. She’d not heard correctly. The seriousness of the words matched her mother’s tone, but like a fever that had no obvious explanation, they did not make sense. Ask questions. Get the facts straight before you make a diagnosis. “What are you saying?”

  “Maddie, I know you’re shocked but we need to make a plan—”

  “This isn’t funny, Momma.”

  “Sweetheart, is there someone who can take you—”

  “Daddy can’t be dead.” Suffocating beneath the unbelievable words, Maddie threw back the heavy quilt. She could hear muffled crying. “Momma!” The scream had come from somewhere deep within her body cavity, ripping a gash through every major organ as it exited.

  “Maddie?” A smooth Southern alto flowed across the line. “Calm down, baby.”

  “Aunt Roxie?” Maddie adored her momma’s best friend. The flaming-haired rebel was more fun than any of their stodgy flesh-and-blood relatives. Every time Roxie pried open the straitlaced parsonage lid sheltering the preacher’s kids, Maddie sucked in the breath of fresh air as if it were her last.

  “Baby, you need to catch the next plane home. Charge it to my credit card.”

  A million unanswered questions raced through her mind, but only one thing mattered. “Aunt Roxie, did my daddy suffer?”

  “Hell’s bells, you know God wouldn’t do that to your daddy.”

  “Tell Momma I’m on my way.” Maddie closed her phone, her hands trembling. She swung her feet to the floor, but could find no solid footing on the cold wooden surface. Without the rock that had been her father, there was no place safe to stand.

  * * * * *

  Maddie dragged her finger through the thick layer of dust settled upon the darkened oak desk her father hauled up three flights of stairs the day he moved her to Denver.

  If the family car goes over the rail, save Momma.

  Why had Maddie’s jumbled gray matter landed on her mother’s ironclad rule? Maybe it was because the woman hated water deeper than a puddle, and this frightening development would be worse than the time they went to Memphis and had to cross that huge arched bridge spanning the Mississippi. Momma rolled down the windows, gripped the door handle, and made us promise we’d save her first since we could all swim.

  For the most part, Daddy, the Maypole around whom Momma fluttered, humored his wife’s irrational fear of drowning. But Maddie remembered feeling grateful when her father drew the line at Momma’s determination to have the handy saying cross-stitched into the bands of the family’s underwear.

  As for rescuing Momma from a raging river, Maddie had yet to witness the need for such a heroic action. In truth, it was a well-known fact that most everybody in Mt. Hope believed Leona Harper walked on water. Maddie thought she’d seen her do it one time at the beach, but turns out Momma had found footing on a hidden sandbar.

  Ratcheting up the heavy roll-top cover, Maddie cringed at the familiar squeak. She gathered the stack of blank residency applications and jammed them into a worn backpack. How had Daddy ever gotten Momma’s head beneath the surface of the baptismal waters? The woman would rather take her chances with the devil than submit to a dunking. Either he tranquilized her or she must have really loved him.

  Forcing the latch on the door of the secret cubby, Maddie found the tattered Bible her mother said she would want someday. Hands trembling, she opened the cover and read the words her father had written in his firm scrawl: May the Word of the Lord always be a lamp unto your feet, Princess.

  Maddie slid the satin ribbon over tissue-thin pages and opened to the marked passage. While her father’s exhortation took her aback, she was not surprised her mother had marked this particular passage, the twentieth chapter of Exodus.

  Daddy believed in living the commandments, but Momma made sure that disobey and die had been encoded into her children’s DNA.

  To behave outside the boundaries of the preacher’s wife’s tidy little box demanded a round of punishment more memorable than Leona Harper’s savory chicken pot pie. Taking a moment, Maddie looked over the rules God chiseled in stone.

  Thou shalt not do this. Thou shalt not do that. Blah, blah, blah. Maddie couldn’t help feeling sorry for the children of Israel living under the weight of the law.

  She closed her daddy’s Bible and stuck it in on top of the residency forms. She zipped her backpack.

  Maybe the save-Momma commandment was another one of her mother’s leadings of the Spirit. She had to admit Momma had the sixth sense of a psychic when she accurately predicted Deacon Hornbuckle’s disappearance with his blonde secretary. I bet Momma knew Daddy would drop dead. Shame at her wicked thoughts washed over Maddie.

  Despite any
celestial forewarning, Momma would be scared to death. What would the woman do? How would she support herself? Leona Harper had been a preacher’s wife for thirty years, having never worked a day outside the home since giving birth to David, the golden child.

  The reason for her years of intense childhood training became crystal clear and jerked Maddie’s head with a start. In her typical plan-ahead fashion, Momma had foreseen the possibility of this day and reared her children accordingly. She would expect her children to come home the same way she expected them to rescue her if the family car plunged through a guardrail.

  David and Maddie Harper were Momma’s catastrophic-event insurance policy.

  Visions of her own plans disappearing below the churning surface of this tragedy flashed through Maddie’s mind. Bile rose in her throat. How could she become a doctor if she dropped everything and dove in after Momma? How could her parents do this to her? Even more galling—how could God do this to her?

  Maddie brushed away hot tears. She dug the point of a pen into the scratch pad and scribbled a note for Katie Beth. She hoisted the backpack to her shoulder, yanked the handle of the wheeled carry-on bag. The apartment door slammed behind her.

  A sleety mix glazed the streets of surrounding Colorado’s best med school. Maddie pulled her jacket hood over her head and waited for the taxi to the airport. She scrolled to the med school number. The message she left on a secretary’s voice mail claimed a family emergency.

  Next, she scrolled to her boyfriend’s number. Maddie hesitated before pushing Send. Maybe she should wait, call Justin after it was too late for him to insist on coming. Finding the right time to introduce the aspiring Olympic snowboarder was . . . dicey. Choosing this moment to spring the announcement that she planned to move in with him when her current lease expired was . . . suicidal. Snow had better survival odds in the eternal lake of fire.

  This wasn’t her father’s fault. Unlike Momma, the good pastor never expected someone to jump in and rescue him. Maddie’s breath hitched in her chest. Without Daddy, who would quiet the storm of her exasperating mother in cahoots with a rule-chiseling God?