Chapter 2 Cece
CECE
I'm standing outside the First Baptist Church at eight-thirty in the morning, clutching a cup of Dad's nuclear-strength coffee and wondering if volunteering for the toy drive was a mistake.
The December air bites through my sweater, and I'm already regretting not grabbing a heavier coat.
But after tossing and turning all night, I figured I might as well make myself useful instead of hiding in my childhood bedroom like some tragic heroine.
I take a deep breath and steel myself for what's coming. Just get the toys sorted, avoid eye contact, then escape. Simple.
But I barely make it to the bottom step when they descend like vultures spotting fresh roadkill.
“Cecelia Montgomery!” Mrs. Whitaker's voice cuts through the morning air, sharp as a straight razor. She's leading the charge, a flock of church ladies in sensible cardigans and judgmental smiles right behind her.
They surround me before I can retreat, forming a circle that feels more like a trap. I'm caught in a perfume cloud of White Diamonds and barely concealed curiosity.
“Oh, honey, we've been just dying to see you,” says Barbara Fletcher, her hand squeezing my arm with false sympathy while her eyes catalog every detail of my appearance. “How are you holding up?”
“I'm fine, thank you.” I try for a polite smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
“We were all just devastated to hear about...well, you know.” Linda Peterson leans in, lowering her voice to a whisper that could probably be heard in the next county. “Such a shame when a man strays. Was it really with three different women?”
My coffee sloshes close to the rim of my cup. “I wouldn't know the exact count.”
“Your daddy says you're staying indefinitely,” Mrs. Whitaker says, emphasizing the word like it's a terminal diagnosis.
“That's very generous of him to share my personal business.”
The women exchange meaningful glances, the kind that communicate volumes without words. I've been on the receiving end of these looks my whole life—whenever I got caught sneaking out, or when I chose the state university over the fancy Christian college they all thought was more appropriate.
“Well, we just want you to know that we're praying for you,” says Margaret Hutchins, patting my shoulder like I'm a wounded bird. “And if you need anything at all—a casserole, a listening ear, help finding a nice Christian man to settle down with—we're here.”
“I just got divorced three weeks ago.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “I'm not exactly in the market for a replacement husband.”
Their collective gasp could power a small wind farm.
“Not at all, dear,” Mrs. Whitaker recovers first, her smile tightening at the edges. “Though you know what they say—the best way to get over one man is to get under another.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. Did the head of the church ladies' auxiliary just give me sex advice?
“I think you mean 'the best way to get over someone is to find someone better,'“ Barbara corrects, looking scandalized.
“That too,” Mrs. Whitaker says with a wink that makes me question everything I thought I knew about this woman. She’d been married to the same man since she was in high school. She is the least qualified person to offer me dating and sex advice.
I'm searching for an exit strategy when Dad appears at the top of the church steps like an answer to a prayer I didn't know I was saying.
“Ladies,” he calls out, his pastor voice carrying authority even in that single word. “I hate to interrupt this reunion, but I need to borrow my daughter. We've got donations that won't sort themselves.”
The circle parts reluctantly, “We were just welcoming Cecelia home,” Mrs. Whitaker says, smoothing her cardigan.
“And doing a fine job of it, but duty calls.”
He motions for me to follow him, and I've never been so grateful for his interference in my life. I give the women a tight smile and hurry up the steps, coffee clutched to my chest like a shield.
“Thank you,” I whisper when we're safely inside.
“I recognized that trapped animal look,” he says. “You used to get it at every church potluck when you were sixteen.”
The fellowship hall has been transformed into donation central, with folding tables lined up end to end.
But as I scan the room, my heart sinks. The tables are mostly empty, with only scattered piles of toys and a few boxes of canned goods.
I walk along the tables, running my hand over the sparse collection of dolls, trucks, and board games.
The emptiness is jarring—last time I'd helped with this event, back in college, we could barely see the tabletops under mountains of donations.
“Dad, this can't be all of it. What about the business donations? The fire department's collection? The high school drive?”
He shakes his head, shoulders slumping slightly under his pressed shirt. “This is everything. The fire department's bringing their collection this afternoon, but they warned me it's less than half what they usually get.”
“What happened?” I pick up a well-loved teddy bear that's clearly someone's hand-me-down, its fur worn thin in places.
Dad's mouth tightens into a grim line. “Between losing one of our biggest donors and the economy being what it is, we're looking at a pretty slim year.”
I don't have to ask who the donor was. The Kincaid family had always made a show of their generosity, especially at Christmas. Ethan's father would roll up in his Range Rover packed with toys, making sure everyone saw him unloading it all himself. The local paper always ran a front-page photo.
“So they pulled their donation because of...” I can't bring myself to finish the sentence.
“They said they're focusing on other charities this year.” Dad's tone makes it clear exactly what he thinks of their decision.
“Other charities,” I repeat, tasting the bitterness of the lie. “Right.”
Dad runs his hand through his silver-white hair, a gesture I've seen a thousand times when he's troubled. “It's not just about us, Cece. We've got families counting on this drive in Millbrook, Pinecrest, even out in Riverdale.”
“I thought those communities had their own churches doing drives.”
“They do what they can, but...” He sighs, leaning against one of the empty tables. “San Salona has always been the big brother. You know what this town is like.”
I do know. San Salona is basically a country club with a zip code—the kind where you're either born into membership or pay dearly for the privilege.
Growing up, I never realized how sheltered we were from the realities just beyond our pristine city limits.
The surrounding communities might as well be on another planet compared to our manicured lawns and luxury cars.
“Last year we provided Christmas for over three hundred families in the tri-county area,” Dad continues. “This year, we've got nearly four hundred on our list, and...” He gestures to the meager pile of donations.
“That's not even enough for half,” I finish for him.
“Not even a quarter.” He picks up a worn box of Candy Land, its corners frayed and taped. “The Kincaids usually cover at least thirty percent of our donations. I’ve been trying to talk to the other businesses in town, but they’re not taking my calls.”
I sit my coffee down on the nearest table before I drop it. This is my fault. All of it. The Kincaids aren't just punishing me—they're punishing hundreds of kids who have nothing to do with their son’s inability to keep his dick in his pants.
“They're doing this because of me. This is their way of getting back at me for the divorce. For making their precious son look bad.”
Dad starts to protest, but I shake my head.
“Don't. We both know it's true. They're making sure everyone knows exactly who to blame when Christmas morning comes, and there aren't enough presents.” I pick up a threadbare stuffed rabbit, its floppy ears worn with love.
“The great and powerful Kincaids, showing the whole county what happens when you cross them.”
“Cecelia, you can't take this on yourself.”
“Why not? It's obviously meant for me.” I gesture at the nearly empty tables. “This is classic Marilyn Kincaid. Remember when I was sixteen and broke up with Ethan before prom, and suddenly the youth group funding for the mission trip disappeared?”
Dad winces. “That was different.”
“Was it? The Kincaids have been weaponizing their money since before I was born. I just never thought they'd stoop to punishing children.” I pace the length of the table, anger and shame battling for dominance in my mind. “They’re doing the same thing on a much grander, public scale.”
I hate them for this. I hate how petty and vindictive they're being, using children as pawns in their revenge game against me.
My chest tightens as I imagine disappointed faces on Christmas morning, parents having to explain why Santa couldn't bring what was promised.
All because I had the audacity to leave their precious son after he humiliated me.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, Cecelia,” Dad says, coming to stand beside me. “Remember Proverbs 3:5-6? 'Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.'“
Scripture is Dad's solution to everything—broken hearts, empty toy tables, global warming. “I don't think the Lord arranged for the Kincaids to punish hundreds of innocent kids because I divorced their son, Dad.”
“That's not what I—”
“I know what you meant.” I soften my tone to hide my annoyance. “But Bible verses aren't going to fill these tables.”
He places his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Sometimes we need to trust that solutions will present themselves in unexpected ways.”