Livvie's Song (41 page)

Around four o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, Will was doing what he’d put off for a long while—cleaning his apartment—when a knock sounded on the door to the second floor. He propped his broom against the wall and shuffled to his apartment door, hoping not to be greeted by a nosy reporter demanding more details about his criminal past.

In the hallway, he peeked out through the glass pane. Smiling back at him was the last person he would have expected to see: Reverend White. He quickly unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Reverend! How good to see you. What, uh, brings you here?”

The reverend gave him a teasing frown. “Surely, you’ve heard of the unwritten rule that a preacher may drop in on his parishioners for no particular reason.”

Will laughed. “Now that you mention it, I think I have heard something similar.” He shook the reverend’s hand, let him inside, and led the way down the hall to his apartment. “Hope you don’t mind a little dust,” he said as they stepped inside. “For what it’s worth, that broom over there is proof that I’ve at least attempted to make some headway.”

Reverend White put his hand on Will’s shoulder. “You’re a better man than me. I don’t even know where Esther stores the broom.”

Will hastily cleared a chair of the newspapers stacked there. The issue on top featured a front-page article about Livvie’s abduction and another about Clem Dodd, which mentioned that Will was a former friend and coconspirator. He hoped that Reverend White hadn’t noticed. But, then again, what was he thinking? He’d probably read both articles. The rest of Wabash had, after all. He’d probably come here to suggest that Will find a different church to attend. And who would blame him? No congregation wanted the likes of him tainting its reputation. He prepared himself to submit to the man’s wishes.

They sat down and, for the next ten minutes or so, made small talk, discussing everything from Livvie’s ordeal to the weather to automobiles. Finally, Reverend White said, “As you might know, I’ve read all the news articles pertaining to your past.”

Will braced himself. “Yeah, I figured that had something to do with your visit.”

“And you’d be right. The thing is, Will”—the reverend brushed a hand over his balding head and scooted forward on the sofa, his eyes boring into Will’s—“I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

“Yeah, I thought you might.”

“You did? Then, you will?”

“Sure. I’ll start looking for a new church this Sunday. I understand that folks might look down on my attending your—”

“What’s that? No, no, I’m not asking you to leave, Will. Good gracious! What I would like to ask of you is to share your testimony with the congregation. People have been telling me they’d love to hear it—how you came to know the Lord, that is. And then, if you would be so kind as to play us a tune on your harmonica—a hymn, of course—why, that would just put the icing on the cake.”

Will’s mouth hung open, and he could do nothing about it. Of all the things he might have expected the preacher to ask of him, speaking to the congregation was nowhere near making the list. “You want me to get up and talk in front of everybody?”

“Yes, could you do that? We’d be honored if you would.”

“Really?”

The reverend studied him for a long moment. “Will, I can imagine why you’re hesitant. You’re rather new to the Christian way of thinking, and you find it hard to believe that your sins are fully forgiven, even harder to believe that other people have also forgiven you.”

Will nodded slowly, letting the assessment sink in.

Soon, the preacher continued, his voice soft and consoling. “That’s what the body of Christ does, Will. Rather, that’s what it’s supposed to do—embrace sinners, no matter the wrongs they’ve committed. If Jesus does it, then, by gum, the church had better learn to do the same.

“I don’t know what you think people are saying about you, Will, but our congregation is excited to see you on Sunday, and we’d like nothing more than for you to come and talk to us about all the things God has done for you. What do you say?”

A sense of joy, tentative and new, bubbled up from deep down in his heart and spilled over. He couldn’t help grinning. “I guess I could do that. In fact, I’d like to.”

He had no idea what the future held for him with regard to his job or his relationship with Livvie. But he knew one thing: God had forgiven his sins and thrown them into a deep sea of forgetfulness. And if He and the people of the Wesleyan Methodist church could forgive him, then it was high time he forgave himself, as well.

***

“Mommy, when’re we gonna go back t’ our own house and the rest’rant?” Nate asked Livvie, snuggling closer to her. She had been reading to him from
Winnie-the-Pooh
, a brand-new book Margie had picked up at the store last week, while Alex helped his aunt pick vegetables in the garden.

Livvie laid the book facedown beside her on the sofa and looked at Nate. “Are you getting a little homesick?”

“Yeah, and me ’n’ Alex wanna see Will.”

Ah, the truth comes out.
“You do, do you?”
That makes three of us.
She missed him more than she’d thought possible, but returning to the restaurant would mean reliving the sequence of events that had happened there, from seeing the vile Clem Dodd for the first time to hearing Marva Dulane’s enticing tale about a photo of Frank and her. Those memories would surely spark thoughts of Marva’s disturbing revelation about her mother’s relationship with Livvie’s father and the terrifying twenty-four hours Livvie had endured in captivity.

And then, there were the letters Sheriff Morris had discovered at Marva’s house and brought to the farm on Monday afternoon, letters she had yet to share with Margie. They’d been sealed in a larger envelope with her name on the outside, meaning that Marva had intended for her to have them. The sheriff had been curious about the envelope’s contents, so Livvie had opened it on the spot and skimmed the letters before passing each one to him. They were the letters her father had written to Miriam Maxwell, Marva’s mother. While they had been heartbreaking to read, they had confirmed what Marva had said about Livvie’s father’s having been in love with Marva’s mother. It followed that Marva was probably right in identifying her father, Gordon Maxwell, as the person who set fire to the Newtons’ house in a jealous rage.

The sound of the back door opening and banging shut, followed by the patter of feet across the kitchen floor, told her Alex had come inside.

“Hey, Nate!” He bounded into the room. “Uncle Howie says he’ll take us for rides on his tractor!”

In less time than it took to blink, Nate leaped off the sofa.

“Hey, what about
Winnie-the-Pooh
?” she called after him.

“We can read more of it at bedtime!” he hollered on the run.

An hour later, the boys were still out in the fields with Howard, and Livvie found herself standing in the kitchen, peeling potatoes, while Margie scrubbed the oven. She’d been trying to do her fair share of housework; plus, she found that busying herself with various tasks kept her mind pleasantly occupied. While the sisters worked, they didn’t lack for conversation.

“I think the boys are ready to go back home,” Livvie said, tossing a pared potato in the colander and then reaching for another.

“What about you?” Margie asked. “Are you ready?”

“I have no choice. There are bills to pay, and I’m sure Cora Mae and the others are anxious to get back to work.”

“Speaking of the others, you haven’t said much about Will Taylor recently.” Margie walked to the sink and rinsed out her cloth. “That man seems to care a great deal about you. Did you ever return his phone calls?”

“I tried, but, of course, he wasn’t in the restaurant when I called.”

Margie went back to the stove and resumed her scouring. “Does his prison record bother you?” It was the first Margie had brought up the subject, even though she’d had plenty of opportunities to do so. Livvie knew where Howard stood, for she’d overheard him talking to Margie in the kitchen on Sunday night. He’d said that he was confident Will had a contrite heart and a good, solid faith in God.

“Does it bother you?” Livvie asked.

“I asked you first.”

“In that case, no. He served his time and learned from it.”

“So, the two of you have talked, then. Are you in love with him, Olivia?”

Margie never had been one to beat around the bush. “I might be,” she answered, tossing another potato into the strainer. “Do you think it’s too soon?”

“Pfff! Heavens, no. Plenty of women your age would have remarried by now. Those boys need a father, and I could tell when Will was here that they think the sun and moon exist solely for him.”

That made Livvie chuckle. “I assure you, he feels the same way about them.”

“It’s not a matter of time, anyway, honey. It’s what your heart tells you that counts.”

“And what my older sister says, too,” Livvie added with a grin. “It wasn’t all that long ago, you made some comment similar to, ‘Olivia, he’s your employee, for goodness’ sake!’” She made sure to imitate Margie’s indignant tone.

Margie laughed, then paused in her cleaning to look at Livvie. “I did say something like that, didn’t I? Well, you know I only want what’s best for you.”

A few seconds of silence stretched between them before Livvie decided to dive into a whole new topic. “Margie, what was Mama and Papa’s marriage like?”

Margie dropped an oven rack on the floor, and the sound echoed through the room like a clap of thunder. She bent to pick it up and slid it back inside the oven without replying.

Livvie waited, then rephrased the question. “Were they happy together?”

Her sister spun around to face her and frowned. “Olivia, what would make you ask something like that?”

“I just…I’m curious, that’s all. And, well, Marva Dulane….”

Margie walked back to the sink, where she rinsed out the cloth once more, wrung it out over the sink, and then hung it on a hook to dry. This process took less than a minute, but it seemed to stretch out much longer than that. Finally, she angled her body to face Livvie again. “What about Marva?”

Livvie gave up on peeling potatoes for the time being, laid down the knife, and looked at her sister, certain she read trepidation in her eyes. “I have some letters, Margie. Letters our father wrote to Miriam Maxwell. He was trying to rescue her from her abusive husband. Did you know that our father loved a woman other than Mama?”

“Where did you hear these things? And where did you get these—these letters?”

“Marva held on to them for years. While I was tied up, Clem Dodd told me that Marva said her father had burned our house down. Do you believe that, Marg?”

With slumped shoulders, Margie stepped away from the sink and walked to the back door, where she gazed out over the fields, her back to Livvie. “Part of me always suspected that the house fire wasn’t an accident.”

“Did you ever tell the authorities and ask them to investigate?”

She shook her head. “I had nothing to go on but a feeling. I knew things were not good between our parents. I came upon Papa and Miriam in the bank one day. He was whispering in her ear, and she was laughing. I thought it was odd. As soon as Papa saw me, he lurched back, as if he’d just been shot. He tried to act innocent, but I could tell by the looks in their eyes that something wasn’t right. It was a very uncomfortable moment.

“It seemed like every time I went to see Mama, she was crying about one thing or another. It got so that I didn’t want to go over there. She never came right out and told me Papa was having an affair, but I surmised it from the way she dropped hints every now and again. Oh, I still feel so awful about it. I worried about you being neglected. Tell me about these letters, Liv.”

“You can read them, if you want, though there’s not much to them. They’re short, mostly three or four lines, and all of them were written a few months before the fire. In every note, Papa makes a point to tell Miriam he loves her and that he will get her out of that house, that they’ll go away together, just the two of them, and never return to Wabash. Gordon Maxwell must have found them and flown into a rage.”

“It’s quite probable.”

“And then, he convinced his daughter that I somehow played a part in the evil of it all. Marva Dulane has always treated me with utmost disdain.”

“Odd, isn’t it, how folks can let a root of bitterness take hold and grow so out of control, they lose touch with reality. Marva’s a very lost soul.”

Livvie took some time to digest those words. “I think I will visit her someday,” she finally stated.

Margie cast her a surprised glance. “You would do that, after she helped kidnap you?”

“If God can forgive me for the wrongs I’ve committed against Him, isn’t it my duty to forgive others? ‘
Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
’”

Margie smiled and walked across the room to enfold Livvie in her arms. “It feels like you’ve come full circle, honey.”

“I think I have.” She gently pulled away from her sister’s embrace to ask, “Would you and Howard drive the boys and me to the Wesleyan Methodist church on Sunday? We can leave extra early so you won’t be late for your own service.”

“We’ll do one better,” Margie said. “Howard and I will go with you.”

Livvie grinned. “And then, I want to go home. It’s time I got that restaurant going again.”

“The Lord is my strength and song, and is become my salvation.”—Psalm 118:14

Will had practiced giving his testimony in front of the mirror about a dozen times, yet he never got over feeling foolish talking to his reflection. “Lord, just give me the words to say when the time comes,” he finally prayed on Saturday night. “And, if it comes out wrong, give folks an extra dose of compassion for me. Please, let there be no egg throwing in the sanctuary.”

On Sunday morning, the congregants squeezed through the doors of the little white clapboard church, crowding the pews and spilling into the aisles. The deacons rushed to find extra chairs, and many gentle-
men stood to make room for women and children. From his seat in the front row, where Reverend White had asked him to sit, Will gazed around in amazement. There were at least twice as many in attendance than usual, and he couldn’t imagine why. Surely, they hadn’t all come to hear him. Good grief! If that were the case, there would be a lot of disappointed people after the service.