Heavens to Betsy (29 page)

The Judge shrugs. “Betsy’s friend can stay. This won’t take long.”

“No, it won’t,” I agree. I reach into my pocket and slap the stolen offering on the conference table in front of me. “Because I know who’s been taking the offering.”

Edna smirks. “We all do, Betsy. Your confession comes a little late. What we want is your resignation.”

You’d never know that yesterday I was helping her with the simple task of dressing herself. Edna’s momentary lapse into humanity evaporated as quickly as it appeared.

“I do have something to say, but I’m not going to resign.” I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. I’ve been so busy being furious for the last twenty-four hours that I’d forgotten to be nervous. The enormity of the situation hits me at the worst possible moment. Now.

“Hey,” Cali says, “isn’t that the woman who—”

I step, ever so slightly, on her foot. The enormous table disguises the action.

“Ow!”

“Is your trick ankle acting up again?” I ask innocently, but I can see she’s gotten the message. She settles back for a good sulk. I lick my lips and start again. “I know who took the money. Obviously, it wasn’t me.”

“I’m aware of that. But nevertheless, I didn’t take it.” I look her straight in the eye. “But I know who did.”

From the tote bag at my side, I pull out the Web cam I took down this morning. I set it on the table next to the wad of bills.

“I’ve been monitoring the sacristy from my computer. I saw the culprit take the money Sunday afternoon.”

Edna snorts, Ed looks intrigued, Gus looks up from his ledger, and The Judge leans ever so slightly forward. Marjorie continues to knit the fluffy pink sweater she’s making for one of her multitude of blonde granddaughters.

“It was a church member, but I’d rather not say who. They’ve returned the money to me, and I feel sure it won’t happen again.” I look straight at Edna.

She thumps her cane on the floor. “Do you expect us to believe such an outrageous story?”

I stand up, place my hands flat on the table, and lean forward. “What I expect is to be trusted as the senior pastor of this congregation. You all selected me to fill Dr. Black’s shoes, and now I want you to honor that choice.” I look Ed in the eye, then The Judge and Gus, and finally Marjorie, who has actually laid down her needles. “You all know I didn’t take the offering. For pastoral reasons I’m not willing to expose the person who did. I believe in second chances, and I’m willing to forgive the culprit and give him or her a new start.” I pause for effect. “I think that’s what Jesus would do.”

Cali taps her french-manicured nails on the table. “Can I go yet?”

“Why is she here?” Edna snaps. “This is a private matter.”

“Cali was in my office when the culprit took the money. She saw who took it, just as I did.”

“As I said, Cali and I both know who it was, but we’re not going to reveal that information right now.”

Edna pales beneath her pancake makeup and rouge. “Well, if it wasn’t you, Betsy, it must have been the man who attacked me.”

Very smooth, Edna.

“As I said, I would rather not name any names. I believe in forgiveness, and I’d like a chance to practice that.” Again, I look Edna straight in the eye while I’m talking. It’s like being locked in a battle to the death with Darth Vader but without the funny breathing, the big black mask, and the
whooshing
of the cool light sabers.

There’s silence for a moment as the other committee members try to puzzle out exactly what’s going on between me and Edna. I don’t think it’s occurred to any of them she’s the thief, because why would the biggest contributor to the church turn around and steal it back?

Ed looks at Edna. “Does this mean you’re withdrawing your accusation against Betsy?”

“Does this mean I can go?” Cali hisses.

I look around at their faces to gauge the mood of the group. They’re confused, but even more they’re relieved that we’ve avoided a major scandal.

The Judge, the smartest person present, clears his throat. “It appears to me an unknown person stole the money and attacked Edna. The property committee needs to look into improved security, but I see no matter for this committee to act on.” He pronounces his judgment as solemnly as if he were behind the bench, bailiff at his side.

Relief slides through me like the rush from a really good piece of chocolate.

“Wait.” I hold up my hand. “There’s one more thing we need to address.” I turn to Cali. “Thank you for coming. We won’t keep you any longer.”

Cali flips a strand of blond hair out of her eyes. “It took all this to figure out that the only thing you’re capable of stealing is my boyfriend? Jeez.” She pushes back her chair, stands, and makes an exit that rivals Edna’s cane for dramatic effect.

The Judge takes a pocket watch from his vest and makes a point of studying it. I get the hint. I also sit back down, take a deep breath, and go to war.

“This whole offering incident has made me aware that we need a more structured agreement about my new role as senior minister.” I pause to let the words sink in. “I would like for this committee to pass a vote of confidence in my ministry. I would also ask for a twenty-five percent pay raise, commensurate with my new responsibilities. And I want a one-year contract.”

A what? Did I just say that? This is way worse than when I babbled on David’s voice mail. What am I thinking? What about law school?

Ed’s stroking his chin. The Judge crosses his arms. Gus has shut the ledger. Marjorie’s gone back to her knitting, and Edna’s opening and closing her mouth like my poor fish must have done when it took its dying breaths.

“And I’d like a decision on this right now,” I add for good measure. The power surging within me makes me feel like a Christmas tree lighted up for the holidays. I should be appalled at my impulsive decision—part of me
is
appalled, actually—but I suddenly know with
all my being that this is the right course of action. Ministry is what God wants for me. Maybe the Big Kahuna has just been waiting for me to quit playing it safe and stand up for myself. Which is exactly what Velva had been trying to make me see for the past six months, but I didn’t have the ears to hear. Like Dorothy, I’ve been trying to find the magic I need to get me home anywhere but in the ruby slippers on my feet.

The Judge nods at Ed, Edna thumps her cane again but doesn’t say anything, and Marjorie takes a pair of scissors out of her bag and clips a strand of fluffy pink yarn.

“Well, that’s done,” she says and pats her finished work. She looks up at me and smiles. “I think Betsy’s requests are reasonable. As the largest contributor in this congregation, I’d suggest we do as she asks.”

I swear the floor shakes. Sweet little Marjorie is the anonymous donor responsible for the financial well-being of the church? While Edna’s been fooling us, allowing us to believe it was her?

For a long moment, nobody says anything. We’re all wearing identical looks of astonishment.

And then, “All in favor?” Ed asks.

“Aye” is the answer, even from Edna who looks as if she’s sucking a dill pickle when she gives her assent.

“Well, then…” I’m not really sure what to say next. I’m as surprised as any of them by what’s just happened. I’ve just committed myself to Church of the Shepherd for the next year.

“Meeting adjourned,” Ed says, and everyone stands up.

“Congratulations, Betsy,” Marjorie says and winks at me.

I pull on my Vanderbilt Divinity School T-shirt, paper thin from years of spin cycles in cheap Laundromats, and a tattered pair of jogging shorts. With a deep breath, I stride into the bedroom and fling open the closet door.

The first things to go are the leather pants and see-through chiffon blouse. Along with the deathly black stilettos. Next, I purge the most unflattering elements of my wardrobe. Shapeless dresses, worn khaki pants, sweater sets whose pills have pills. Item by item I stuff them into paper grocery bags. It takes long enough that I work up a pretty good sweat. Does that count as my exercise for the day? Every so often I’m tempted to rescue something; I should have rounded up the hosts of
What Not to Wear
in case I got cold feet.

I stick to my guns, though. When the dust settles and the carnage is complete, there’s not much left in my closet. Three pair of pants that look as if they were purchased after the turn of the millennium, not before. Two white Oxford shirts and my navy interview suit from Ann Taylor Loft. And one summer dress that can pass for fashionable. It’s a good thing the personnel committee just gave me a raise, because I’m going to need every penny. Right now I own approximately three days’ worth of clothing.

After purging my wardrobe I start pitching the makeup. Experts say you should purchase new mascara every six months. I’m approximately two years behind. Powdered eye shadow that started out life as cream follows the mascara. Expensive foundation—the wrong shade
but so pricey I couldn’t afford not to use it. And, finally, all the lipsticks I have bought in search of that elusive perfect shade.

One by one I carry the bags to the trunk of my car to take to Goodwill. I dump the wastebasket full of old makeup into a garbage can and carry it to the street for pickup in the morning. And when it’s all over, I collapse on the couch and try not to freak out over what I’ve just done.

One thing the “Holy to Hottie” makeover did show me: I don’t have to settle for dressing like my mother. And I figure there’s got to be a happy middle ground between frumpy and fashionista. The next day, clutching my credit card, I head for Ann Taylor. The real thing; not the cheaper Loft store. I’ve made an appointment with a personal shopper, and I can only hope this one has some experience with sizes in the double digits.

Sure enough, she does.

“I think pale blue would be a great choice,” she advises as she hangs several garments in the dressing room. It’s been years since I’ve actually shopped for clothes rather than order them from a catalog. I never much cared about cut and fit, but I see now that I can look fabulous and still be comfortable. This is my kind of makeover. Just normal Betsy, a young professional who has discovered what she really wants.

I’m admiring the pale blue suit when the personal shopper brings me something I wasn’t expecting. It’s a pink slip-dress, trimmed in lace. Just to humor her, I slip it over my head. It should look like a nightgown, but it doesn’t. I should look ridiculous in it, but I don’t.

“I’d better not,” I say, and the personal shopper looks as disappointed as I feel.

“Are you sure?”

“That’s a dress that needs an occasion. I really don’t have anything coming up…” I trail off because I suddenly realize I do indeed have a special event in my near future. David doesn’t know it yet, but he and I have a date with destiny. I finally know what I want from life, and if I can face the personnel committee and make my needs and wants known, I can do the same thing with David. In theory, anyway. With this dress, sufficient preparation, and perhaps a few of Edna’s Darvocets.