Chapter 3 #3
The inside is a jumble of speakers and music stands, cables and power strips, electronic bits and pieces I can’t identify.
A guitar case sits on top of the mess, and an inflatable mattress is pancaked on the bottom.
She rummages through the disaster, before dumping a monster-sized tote bag on the asphalt and slamming the van door shut.
“Waste not, want not, that’s what Mama used to say, Make the most of what you’ve got ’fore it fades away.
” She sings the way other people use their words.
Her hands catch mine, tugging them out of my pockets as she twirls us in a circle.
“Dance with me. Don’t spend your days just countin’ dimes, let your heart do the spendin’, too, ’Cause if you live for tomorrows, you’ll find a little more to lose.
“Okay. I’m all packed.” She laughs, a little breathless. “Take me home, big guy.”
Dixie is out of my league. Wickham Hollow is—small.
Paint peels genteelly from the craftsman bungalows lining Main Street and the houses all have the slightly haunted look of a Southern small town with more spirit than cash.
It’s pretty, though, in the moonlight. A silvery light stipples the deep porches with their thick, square columns.
Ferns hang from the rafters and shrub roses invade the sidewalk.
The Hargroves turned their porch into a spare shed two years ago and it’s packed to the eaves with ancient appliances and cardboard boxes. I can’t imagine Dixie here.
“I can crash at Deacon’s if that makes you more comfortable. You’d be safe.”
“I’m very picky about my accommodations.” She winks at the van. “As you can see for yourself, I’m a five-stars-minimum traveler.”
It’s too cold to sleep in a car. I remember what that’s like.
“I don’t have any expectations.” I sling her tote bag over my shoulder.
She looks at me, clearly debating grabbing her stuff back. “I, on the other hand, have expectations. High ones. Although you’re right. I should ask some preliminary questions. Do you live alone?”
“Yeah. Well, except for Huck and Georgia Peach.” I wait a beat, just to tease her. “Georgia Peach is the world’s oldest chinchilla and Huck has sworn undying love and devotion to her.”
“And you don’t have any weird kinks? I don’t need a safe word?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
She taps a finger against her lips. “That’s what they all say and then it’s here’s my banana and the olive oil.”
“I have no idea what that even means.”
She feigns shock. “Is there a Mrs. Preacher?”
“If there were, there would have been no kissing in Southern Comforts.”
We walk the three blocks from the auto shop to the church in easy silence, her fingers threaded through mine.
Holy shit. I can’t stop looking down at our joined hands like I’m sixteen and this is my first time holding hands with a girl.
Which, considering my dating history, isn’t that far off.
Her grip is strong and warm, and she swings our arms slightly as we walk, completely unselfconscious about it.
Meanwhile, I’m trying not to think about how this feels like the most natural thing in the world—walking through my town with this woman who showed up out of nowhere and turned my quiet life upside down in the span of an hour.
She stops. Looks up. Then up some more.
“So, you’re definitely— Wow. That’s definitely something. You could make a fortune renting this place out for movie shoots.”
Wickham Hollow Chapel doesn’t do subtle.
Pointed arches, dramatic buttresses, and a bell tower that juts up into the sky like it’s trying to poke God in the ribs.
The roof—my nemesis—pitches at angles designed to shed shingles directly onto my head.
Behind the church, weathered tombstones sprout out of the ground at random angles, half swallowed by beard moss and twisted cedar branches.
The founding families either had a flair for the dramatic or watched way too many horror movies.
“This place is straight out of a Tim Burton movie.” She eyes a tombstone. “I’m expecting skeletal hands to claw their way out of the ground any moment now.”
“Judgment Day would be something.”
“It would be awesome!” She shakes her head. “Zombies galore, arms falling off, missing eyeballs, lots of body rot!”
Like her fictional zombies, my real-life church is falling apart. The building shambles along, in dire need of a new roof and better plumbing.
“Do you live inside?” She gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “I’ll bet the acoustics are amazing!”
She is—a lot.
“I don’t live inside the church. Do you sleep on the stage?”
“It’s been known to happen,” she mock-whispers.
I move on. “I have a rectory—and a life.”
Out of habit, I give the roof a once-over (still attached, good) and pick a piece of shingle off the pavement (not so good).
Dixie snags a second shingle from the leafless hydrangea bushes lining the western side of the church and hands it over. “It’s raining rooftop. Is that supposed to happen?”
“Not unless I want the congregation wearing raincoats to Sunday service.” I lead her around the side of the church toward the rectory. “I’m working on it.”
Working on it means finding forty thousand dollars I don’t have. But that’s yet another problem for Future Jack. My master plan involves winning the statewide church talent show, which sounds about as likely as divine intervention. Maybe less likely.
The rectory, at least, doesn’t look like it belongs in a horror movie. Shingled and gabled, cozy instead of gothic. Mine, even if the church comes with it.
When I look over at Dixie, she’s doing some kind of spy routine—darting between shadows, flattening herself against the church wall, checking corners like she expects snipers.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure none of your parishioners are watching.” She shudders dramatically. “They’re like a panel of gymnastics judges, waiting to score your sex life. One-million-point deduction for stepping out of bounds!”
“It’s none of their business and they definitely don’t get to watch.”
“Okay. Cool. But bummer because I’ve never starred in an orgy before.”
She what—
She bursts out laughing. “Oh God, your face! Just kidding! As long as you’re up for some fun and not worried about your immortal soul, I’m good.”
I wrap my fingers around hers. “You’re something else.”
“I’m yours,” she says.
“That escalated fast.”
“For the night.” She winks. “Just think of me as a one-night engagement, a limited-time opportunity. Sneak me into your rectory, big guy.”