Chapter 16
Sixteen
phototropism (n.): the phenomenon by which a plant bends toward a source of light
Sunday morning, wisps of woodsmoke rise from chimneys and merge into a platinum river snaking across the base of the mountains. Distant copses of autumn foliage appear like orange fires set ablaze across the horizon.
Even here inside the church sanctuary, a hint of sweet woodsmoke hangs in the air.
Alone in my highly favored seat—back row, right corner, in case something comes up with Chase in childcare and I need to make a swift exit—I’m listening or at least attempting to attune my mind to Pastor David’s sermon.
Trouble is, my awareness of a certain broad-shouldered sheriff’s lieutenant half a dozen seats ahead is unavoidable, given the fact that his substantial form directly fills my vision.
It also warrants mentioning that sitting small and sparrowlike in the seat right next to Wyatt is not-so-sunny Sunny.
Occasionally he leans down to whisper something to her, and even with her narrow shoulders beefed up by a wool coat, the disparity of the two members of my writing group, in both size and temperament, presents quite the charming juxtaposition.
All of which I find endlessly heartwarming.
How did they end up here together? I’ve never before seen either of them in church—not that I’ve achieved gold-star attendance myself. I haven’t.
Anyway, I’ve always been a people-watcher.
It’s second nature. Earlier, during the opening music, I caught sight of my neighbor Nina, her eyes closed, hands lifted, singing about the goodness of God, right alongside the sweet couple who founded the new youth ranch that’s benefiting her two kids so dramatically.
The same program Chase finally agreed to try out next weekend—can I get an amen?
Seeing friends—people for whom God has redeemed great pain—sing out from heart and flesh “Your Spirit’s water to my soul” makes the hair stand up on my arms and sends my own worship soaring.
The thing is, most of us are great at rejoicing about the grace and love and power available to us in the here and now and the hope we know we can bank on for tomorrow.
But we don’t talk enough about the hardness of life, what it’s really like out there when pain enters and the worship music fades.
Already we’re prone to shame, but add to that the sense that everyone else appears to be thriving while we’re flailing, and we think there’s something wrong with us.
Too long, I believed there was something wrong with me. Something I needed to keep hidden. All to say, we could do better. I could do better. And writing feels like a way—my way—to serve the need.
See, Lucy. Contrary to the story you’ve told yourself for so long, you do have opinions.
When Pastor David points out the mirrored, poetic structure in Psalm 1, I’m here for it, leaning in.
How have I never noticed this? And smack in the middle of the psalm is a familiar bit that for some reason sparks a piercing sensation in my chest. When I jot down the verse, I restate it in my own words and in first person.
When I, Lucy, find my highest joy in meditating day and night on God’s instruction, I’m like a tree planted by streams of water, always blooming, constantly yielding fresh fruit, never dropping a leaf.
Give me a good tree analogy any day. This one resonates in my spirit in a way Nytasha’s doesn’t even begin to. I love the symbolism in nature. Even Chase would’ve sat still for this sermon!
Planted by streams . . . yielding fruit. I hoped God would one day allow my writing to be this kind of fruit, something I could offer to others. If so, this verse might hold the key.
I was meant to hear this today.
And yet the side struggle continues. I can’t help tracking Wyatt’s body language, the way he tilts his head ever so slightly in response to some nuance in the teaching, the same things that make me tilt my own.
He, too, appears to be taking notes. This has the unintended consequence of turning my attempts to meditate on God’s wisdom into a pile of melted goo.
Ironic.
Which brings me back to the point of the sermon: pruning meaningless distractions, focusing on what’s essential, sinking my roots deeper and deeper into true nourishment.
So what if Wyatt Hayes has a great head of hair? Millions of people do. Another quick glance. How is it so glossy, though?
I close my eyes.
Lord, I don’t want my life to amount to nothing more than a handful of empty husks of wheat, blown away by the wind. More than anything, I want the good life as this psalm describes it. To taste the abundant life, yes. But even more, to offer it to others as you do.
As if to amplify the blown away concept, when I step foot outside the chapel doors, my hair whips across my face, a whirling dervish of golden leaves touches down in the parking lot ahead of me, and this morning’s overhead inversion layer is swept clear, leaving behind sapphire blue skies. It’s like a completely different day.
I’m well aware Chase’s request to stay behind with Paige and catch a ride home with Nina has more to do with cookies and lemonade than socializing.
Still, it’s a win-win. Because as I clutch the lapels of my denim jacket, tuck my head, and aim for my car, I’m well on my way to savoring a delectable slice of quiet contemplation.
Strike that.
A sudden gust snatches the church bulletin out of my hand and sends it twirling in the direction of the fellowship hall, a space I bypassed quite deliberately today.
In attempting to chase down the bulletin—half-blindly, I might add, given the way my mane of grown-out bangs flaps chaotically across my face—I sprint, lunge, and twice fail to grab the paper before it’s again carried away.
This time, I’m about to stomp on the dumb thing when somebody else does—somebody with a shoe of more considerable proportions.
And wouldn’t you know it, the someone attached to the shoe is none other than Lieutenant Wyatt Hayes. Amusement shines in his eyes as he returns the bulletin now gritty with parking lot dust.
“Ah,” I say, pulling strands of hair from my mouth. “I see you’ve been assigned to patrol the church parking lot today. So much for Sabbath rest.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” he says, smiling ear to ear, his eyes dancing. “Sometimes you just end up in the right place at the right time.”
My tongue feels pasted to the roof of my mouth. Apparently I don’t get enough practice responding to guys who behave like gentlemen. “I didn’t realize you went to church here,” I say.
“It’s only my second time.”
He looks nice, dressed in a crisp moss-colored Carhartt jacket and blue jeans.
Relaxed. Extremely un-sheriffy. I’m super curious how he ended up in church with Sunny, and I’m tempted to ask, except that he’d logically suspect me of surveilling him.
Which isn’t a hundred percent untrue. Maybe it’s Wyatt’s clear, keen eyes, which in this light appear autumn gold, or the fact that he’s just so darn guileless and good-natured, that renders me utterly incapable of artifice.
So I stick to “How are you enjoying it?”
“Hmm.” He scratches his jaw. “If I’m honest, I’m still getting used to the pastor’s style. Different from what I’m used to.”
I nod and smile. “I bet you could sense the whole congregation praying silently as one, Land the plane, Pastor David. Lord, help him land the plane.”
Wyatt’s eyes widen. “Yes! But then—”
“Then he hits you with a zinger? Knocks the wind right out of you—in the best sort of way?”
“Exactly.” Wyatt chuckles. “Okay, but I have to ask, does he . . . does he always—”
“Cry? Yes, yes he does, Lieutenant. Every Sunday. And you know what? I kinda like it. He’s very softhearted.” What I don’t say is that watching my pastor get choked up forces me to do the same. It feels good to feel my feelings. I can use the help.
“When are you going to stop calling me lieutenant?” he says, cocking a brow.
To which I shrug. I enjoy subtly taunting him. Maybe I enjoy it too much.
“Oh, hey,” he adds. “I never got a chance to tell you. Great job on the article. Thanks for making me look good. I meant to say something to you after writers group, but you were in a conversation.”
Making Wyatt Hayes look good takes no effort. But I don’t say this. “I’m glad you’re happy with it,” I say instead.
“Really. You’re a good writer, Lucy. Not sure why you downplay your talent.”
“At one time I did aspire to be a journalist, but . . .” I bite my lower lip and sigh. “I never finished my degree.” I’m not sure how I feel about this unplanned confession, but there it is. It’s out there now. What is it about this man that acts like truth serum?
“Sounds like a regret. Has it ever held you back? I mean, professionally?”
I don’t love this question, but it’s Wyatt, so I answer. “Honestly, no.” Even so, I’m not quite ready to admit that I’m the one holding me back.
“I’d love to hear you read sometime. Assuming you’re planning to keep coming to writers group.”
A hefty assumption for sure. I picture the evenings I’ve sat staring at Smitty. “I’m a little bit . . . blocked at the moment.”
His brow pinches together as he studies me. “Well,” he says after a moment, “you’ll always possess the title of seventh-grade spelling champ.”
I laugh. “No one can ever take that away from me.”
“Bragging rights,” he says, offering a large fist. I bump it with my tiny one. His hand is rock-solid. Mine feels warmer now.
“That reminds me,” I say, attempting to sound casual. Except there’s no smooth way to mention that I brought Wyatt up in conversation with my mother. “Turns out our mothers were friends. Bunco and tennis, or something like that.”
He quirks a smile. “Sounds like my mom.”
“I guess they lost touch at some point, though.”
Wyatt’s jaw clenches. He nods thoughtfully. Again, I sense he’s withholding. At this, my pulse skitters. But why? This man doesn’t owe me his life story. We only recently reconnected. It would be weird if he poured it all out here and now.
It seems, however, that it’s now wired into my cells to stay wary of enigmatic men. I’m no longer a welcome mat for tall, dark, and mysterious, and this is a good thing.
Except when Wyatt’s eyes meet mine, they’re open and light rather than hooded or intense, and my gut tells me this man poses zero threat. I draw in a deep batch of air and tell my adrenaline response to chill out.
“Well,” he says, “it’s kind of too bad they lost touch.”
Huh. Wyatt cares about his mother’s social life?
In response to the question in my eyes, he explains. “Or I might have met you sooner.”
Ka-thump. I sway slightly. I’m not sure why my heart reacts like it’s just been zapped by a defibrillator, or how I should respond to this brief but totally unexpected speech, or if maybe I’ve mistaken it. So I don’t. In fact, I sort of freeze up.
“I mean,” he sputters, clapping the back of his neck, “what I meant—”
Chase’s Sunday school teacher chooses this moment to walk by. I’m grateful for the chance to reset my face. “Hey, Kimber!” I say, waving. She returns a bright hello.
Wyatt clears his throat. “What I meant to say, Lucy, is that if things had been different, we might’ve become friends sooner.”
If things had been different, a lot of things would be changed. And yet, I’d walk the same broken road if it led me to Chase. I don’t say this.
Wyatt swipes a lock of hair off his face, then pivots to face the wind. “Thing is, I’m not sure my family was ever meant to leave Salem. We . . . went through some struggles.”
I drop my gaze. “Sorry to hear that.”
“And my mom is sort of private. So, yeah, I’m not surprised she lost touch with friends when we left. Anyway, it’s just . . . it’s something about the way our paths crossed again. I feel like we’re supposed to know each other. Is that weird to say?”
I give this a perky little nod, working to keep it aloof.
Like the kind of nod I might give the gas station attendant who asks “Shall I fill ’er up today?
” I mean, as small-world scenarios go, the likelihood of two Oregonian classmates relocating to the same town later in life isn’t all that far-fetched.
And yet, I don’t violently disagree with Wyatt or anything.
Might there be a touch of, I don’t know, fairy dust associated with our reunion? Mayyybe?
But since I haven’t a clue what to think about it, it’s probably better not to think about it at all. Here’s what I do know: I’d be insane to risk a budding friendship with this man by giving him the wrong idea.
We’re fist bump friends.
Plus, I don’t date. The meetup I agreed to with Ian this week? Definitely a non-date.
“She’s good now, though,” he rushes to add. “My mom. She’s great. Loves being a grandma. Matter of fact, that’s where I’m headed now. Got a pile of firewood to split and stack for her in exchange for lunch.”
“Aww, that’s kweet.” Kweet? What? I slap my hand over my mouth.
Wyatt’s brow crinkles in confusion.
Yep, this is me, Lucy Montgomery—totally inarticulate at key moments.
Laughter bubbles up and over, quickly escalating to being out of control, because now Wyatt is laughing, too, and I’m forced to abandon every attempt to sputter out an explanation, which is that of course my brain opted out before deciding whether to say cool or sweet.
“My, my, my,” he says slowly, once our laughter finally dwindles and we’ve caught our breath. “How far the queen of language arts has fallen.”
“Sorry, what was that, Officer? Couldn’t hear you. Too much wind whooshing over my ears.”
This earns me another of his deep chuckles.
“Okay, okay, enough already!” I say. “This concludes the entertainment portion of your Sunday morning.”
“Fine,” he says with a crooked grin. “In that case, I’m off to sharpen my axe—”
“Ah,” I say, turning to leave, “you’re a good son, Wyatt Hayes.”
“—and my wit,” he calls after me.
When I turn back, he holds up the two-finger scout salute. “Always be prepared.”
I click the unlock button on my key fob, then yell back, “Never surrender!”