yet, and I thought I should at least let them know.”
“You should,” Jake says. “Tell your parents. Share your doughnuts. We’ll leave you to them, actually. We don’t want to be late.”
I kiss her cheek and slip out of the booth and past Delia.
“Thanks again, Jake,” Kaylee says. “Really. Better than a Furby.”
Delia steals a doughnut from the box and heads back to the kitchen.
“We’ll see.”
21
Brielle
Sunday revelation: an astounding percentage of churchgoers watch the news before heading off to worship. I’m squeezed and patted, my cheeks smeared with various shades of lipstick. It’s overwhelming, all these ladies in their Sunday best, their hairspray and perfume and soft sweaters pressed against me. Their promises to keep Dad and me in their prayers.
My lips tremble, but I force them into a smile and grip Jake’s hand.
They’re all so kind. But I’m angry and lost, and their kindness just might break me today.
The sanctuary fills with voices, human and flawed, singing about our Savior. Some sounding like skilled musicians, some pitchy and flat all at once. I mouth the words but let the others do the singing. I notice Pastor Noah’s not here today, but his wife, Becky, leads the congregation from the piano. Stephanie stands at her side, harmonizing. The two of them are lovely, angelic even. Next to me Jake sings, his eyes closed, the tender rasp of his voice most appealing here, in worship. And though our elbows brush, I’ve never felt so far from where he is.
The song is a favorite here, and I know each word before it’s sung. They’re beautiful words. Words that lift up Christ, thank Him for His sacrifice, declare that all things work together for the good of those who love Him.
But today it’s hard.
I close my eyes tighter and tighter. Try as I may, I just can’t see it.
Jake’s working again today, so I plan to grab my camera and disappear for a while. Far from Dad and whatever explanation he’s cooking up. But the second I step through the front door, I know I’ve walked into an ambush.
Pastor Noah is here. He sits on a barstool at the counter, eating a hefty serving of chocolate chip pancakes. I happen to know Dad hates this guy. Hates. More than he hates the Red Sox. Seeing him in my kitchen is bizarre—weirder than finding Dad flipping flapjacks for a koala bear. Next to him is my boss, Miss Macy. She’s pancake-free but stands there in a pair of jeans, nursing a cup of steaming coffee.
It’s always strange to see her wearing anything but a leotard.
“Elle, sweetheart.” Her lips are tipped down, her chin puckering. More sympathy. Yeah. But she squeezes me tight, smelling like fruit and sunshine, and I can’t help the tears that spring to my eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“Your dad asked us to stop by,” she says, rubbing my arms like I’ve caught a chill. I turn my eyes to Dad, but he’s flipping a pancake, patently avoiding eye contact.
He’s a chicken.
A big, fat chicken.
The kitchen door opens then, and the sheriff walks in.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, removing his hat. “Cemetery’s a mess. We’re going to have to—” He sees me and stops.
Miss Macy and Pastor Noah are strange additions to the kitchen this afternoon, but Sheriff Cahill? Pretty sure I know exactly what that’s about. I can only assume Dad invited Miss Macy and Pastor Noah for moral support.
And suddenly I’m out of place here. In my own house. I know things I shouldn’t know. Things they have to tell me but would rather not.
“I’m just going to change.”
“Go ahead, Elle,” Dad says, his eyes lingering on Mom’s Bible clenched in my fist. “Get changed. We’ll be here when you’re through.”
I kick off my heels as soon as I enter my room. They skitter across the carpet, disappearing under my bed. I swap out my slip dress for jeans and a yellow T-shirt, all the while considering just why Dad included Pastor Noah in this terrifying little gathering.
Of all the people in the known universe, Canaan included, Noah is the last person I’d have expected Dad to invite into our house. Noah and Becky were old friends of Mom’s, churchy friends, and Dad’s not keen on churchy folk. Out of ideas, but still hoping to stall, I run a brush through my hair and stare at myself in the mirror over my dresser.
I catch sight of the halo on my wrist. It’s grabbing hold of the sunlight spitting through