Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Bronze medal. Gold-level group hug.
Jack
I should be happy.
Our choir sang their hearts out and got the audience on their feet.
We’ve celebrated with hugs, passed out high fives, and shed some joyful tears. Slate disappeared somewhere with Dee, who stood behind him the entire song. People come up and pass out compliments like Tic Tacs. Our song’s fun. Fresh. Who doesn’t want to be part of a mess that felt like family?
But we’ve come in third.
We needed to win first to fix the church roof without taking out a second mortgage or holding eight million bake sales.
Fifteen grand doesn’t cut it.
I stand offstage in the wings, behind the black curtains that keep the audience from seeing how the magic happened.
It’s crowded as it’s crammed with crap from the performances.
Tape on the floor marks where the choirs stood.
There’s a folding chair, an errant bandanna from one of our costumes.
The wooden floor has a slightly sticky feel from years of dance recitals.
The stagehands started cleanup a half hour ago, pulling cables and putting away mic stands.
Most of the audience has filed out, and now there’s just a handful of people left, gathering music and water bottles prior to heading out. My phone buzzes in my pocket.
DEACON: She’s alive. Still cranky. Still sweaty. Still too good for you.
A second buzz. Proof of life.
I tap the tiny thumbnail. Dixie’s curled up on the rectory couch under the world’s ugliest quilt, all mismatched florals and crooked seams. Her hair’s in a messy bun, eyes shut, one arm flopped over her head like a half-hearted protest against existing. Georgia Peach is asleep on her feet.
Another buzz.
DEACON: If she wakes up and catches me taking pictures, I’m telling her you asked for nudes.
I huff a laugh, although this is my fault. I asked Deacon to stay with her, so of course he’s going to give me shit about my feelings. He’ll rib me for her, even as he watches her back.
I save the picture to my photos. I don’t have many of her and she looks like herself rather than the slick, pretty version on her website. I mean, she also looks tired. But still there. Still ours. Mine.
“Well. Look at you, hiding from the spotlight,” a familiar voice says behind me.
“Not hiding,” I say. “Just thinking.”
I slip my phone back in my pocket and turn around.
There’s no reason to be nervous. I’ve been nothing but open with my bishop, and she, in turn, has been nothing but supportive and understanding.
Also, I’ve just helped raise fifteen thousand dollars.
I don’t think she could have seen the picture of Dixie on my phone, and even if she did, I’m a single man who’s entitled to a life.
She—and her Doc Martens—steps into my peripheral view. “Congratulations. That was a heck of a show.”
“Thanks.” I wait.
“A new roof, right?”
“Part of one.”
“Still,” she says. “That’s a big win.”
“We didn’t win. Not really.”
She shakes her head. “You earned fifteen thousand dollars and the community’s goodwill. That’s not nothing.”
“No. But it’s not enough.” I’m not sure where this conversation is going, but I need to get back to Wickham Hollow and Dixie—despite the three hours of driving ahead of me, I can’t wait to see her. “We’re still twenty-five thousand short. And I promised I’d fix the roof.”
“You also promised not to spontaneously combust under pressure. How’s that going?”
Yeah. Not so well.
When I don’t answer, she plows ahead. “And Dixie? How’s she doing?”
“She’d tell you she’s fine. But I’d say she’s not feeling good today. She couldn’t make it and she’s super mad about that.”
That’s the truth without oversharing Dixie’s personal business. I know she’s mad at herself and frustrated that she wasn’t on that stage tonight.
The Bishop lets out a low laugh. “So. You and the country music star are still an item.”
“Yes, ma’am. Although I’d rather everyone moved on and stopped talking about us.”
“So, you’re serious?”
“I’d like to be.”
“But she doesn’t feel the same way?”
“I hope she does.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes, but with all due respect, ma’am, this isn’t church business. It’s my business.”
She nods and takes a step back, scrubbing a hand over her forehead. I’m sure my nerves and discomfort are obvious. “You’re right.”
“I am?” I half expect her to quiz me on my income and my estate next.
“You are. It’s between the two of you. It’s your relationship, not ours.
It’s just that, to be frank, I have eyes and ears.
And a diocese full of gossips with high-speed internet.
” She looks at me for a long moment. “Let’s talk pastoral boundaries, media management, and—if you want—personal courage. ”
I remind myself that grinding my teeth isn’t helpful. “It’s complicated.”
“So’s real life. If you want to be with her, be with her—and then we’ll figure out how to balance that with your job.”
“We’re two different people, from two different worlds.” I hate voicing that fear out loud, but I do think it needs to be said.
“You can’t ride two horses with one behind.
Plus, she’s a fundraising asset.” She pauses, and I wait for her to continue.
“And sure, she’s pretty loud. On her way to being famous.
Not your usual preacher’s wife. She’s all those things, but that’s on her and I’m worried about you.
You know I admire your heart. But you don’t owe the world a rescue mission.
Ask yourself—are you in this because she needs help? Or because you need her?”
“Did I see someone hurting and think—I could ease that? At first, yeah. That’s what I do. That’s who I am. But I know she doesn’t need me to fix her. She wouldn’t let me even if she did—and she doesn’t.”
“Okay,” my bishop starts. “That’s—”
Wait. I realize I’m not done, so I talk over her. I can apologize later. “She’d say that she’s just fine as she is. I’d say she’s just right. I don’t want to save her or change her. But I want to be with her, if she’ll let me. Some folks aren’t going to understand. I know that. You know that.”
“Of course they won’t. They’ve spent their whole lives defining love as something neat and quiet and appropriate. You think I haven’t made unpopular choices? Try being a woman in a collar for five minutes.”
That makes me snort.
She softens. “Jack, you are steady to a fault. You live by principles. You think before you speak. That’s what makes you a good minister. But sometimes, the right choice doesn’t come gift-wrapped with approval.”
“I don’t want to mess this up.”
“Then don’t. If you love her, don’t hide her. And don’t hide from what you want. Your church is strong because you are. You don’t have to play small to make people comfortable.” She pats my arm. “If you survive the gossip mill, I’ll officiate.”
That escalated fast. I know I want Dixie in my life, my whole life even, but is it too soon?
A lot of people would say it is. But we haven’t done anything by the book, have we?
Maybe we could skip a few chapters and go straight to the happily-ever-after.
When did this happen? How did I go from providing roadside assistance to thinking about forever?
I don’t know, but I have and right now I feel like I’m in the wrong place.
I should be with Dixie, not miles away when she’s sick.
I shake my head. “Thank you. I need to get back home.”
“I hope the drive back to Wickham Hollow gives you time to think about what we discussed.” She winks. “I’ve got a sermon about unconventional unions that I’ve been dying to use. Don’t deprive me.”
I grin and she walks off to buttonhole the director of the first-place choir. I’m heading for my truck when my phone buzzes again.
DEACON: She woke up. Asked how you did up there. I told her you sang lead. She muttered “Jesus Christ” and passed out again.
This time I smile for real. The photo’s of Deacon, in full grump-mode, holding up a handwritten sign scrawled in thick black Sharpie: “I’M NOT YOUR MAN’SITTER.”
I put my phone away, get in the truck, and hit the road. I’ll drive a little too fast for the next three hours to get home that much quicker, ready to ask Dixie a few questions.