Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Matt
Another empty desk in another unoccupied office.
Sometimes Matt loved being an interim minister, filling in while a parish searched for a new leader. It was an opportunity to meet new people and get to know them in a meaningful way, be of real use to their community, and then move on before bureaucracy grabbed hold or interpersonal dealings became complex.
Inspire, rinse, repeat.
Sometimes, though, he yearned for that complexity. Just when he'd learned names and who belonged to whom, the permanent minister would be hired, and off Matt went to the next parish, never knowing the results of his counseling. He was left to wonder if the rift in the longtime friendship was patched, or the cancer was beaten, or the crisis of faith was resolved.
There was a tap on the door and the church administrator poked her head in.
"Are you busy? Here are your messages from last night. I think you need to call Mrs. O'Malley this afternoon. Her son is in the hospital in San Francisco and she's beside herself."
"Of course! Anything else?"
"Well, yes, the altar decorating committee. There's some discord. The chair is here and she'd like to speak to you."
"What do you mean, discord?"
"Edith has been the chair for forty-two years. She has certain ideas about which types of arrangements speak to the aesthetics of the church and which do not. Strong ideas. And there's a new member of the committee who is quite a bit younger and has, uh, different sensibilities. And they each have their…"
"Factions?" Matt offered.
Janice smiled, eyes casting away, tact reining. "That's a harsh word. Supporters, maybe. Although I would say we're not far from factions."
“For a religion focused on consensus and respecting the inherent worth and dignity of all souls, there’s a lot of conflict over flowers.”
“Your words, not mine, Matt.”
"You mean my mess to deal with, not yours,” he said with a chuckle. “Fine. Send her in. No, on second thought, I'll come get her. Edith, did you say her name was?"
"Thank you. Yes, Edith Stevens. She's in my office."
Thus he was able to stride into the admin office and say confidently, "Edith, how nice to see you! Won't you come into my office? The altar looked beautiful on Sunday, I thought. What were those tall purple ones, the ones that looked like extraterrestrials?"
"Why, those were alliums. From my own garden. I'm so pleased you noticed, Dr. Draper."
"Matt, please," he said. "Would you like some coffee, or tea?"
"Oh, my, tea would be wonderful."
Plugging in the electric kettle, he asked, "Do you like hibiscus?”
“Only to look at. It causes tummy trouble.”
“We can’t have that! Chamomile?” he guessed, and when she beamed, he relaxed a little.
“Thank you, yes.”
“What brings you in to see me, Edith? I'm sure you'd rather be out in your garden on a day like this. I've heard it's a beautiful spot."
"Thank you, Dr.–Matt. I've had that garden for close to fifty years now. My late husband loved to sit out there on summer evenings. He said the breeze was like feeling God's warm breath."
"A lovely thought. After fifty years, you must have a wealth of horticultural knowledge."
She grinned as she took the cup of herbal tea he handed her, carefully moving the tea string to the other side of the handle as it steeped. "I've seen every weather event New England can throw at us. Droughts, floods, heat waves, cold snaps–everything. Cicadas! Marauding deer!"
"I can only imagine. You know, your expertise gives me an idea. Would you ever consider opening your garden to the whole altar decorating committee–giving a sort of floral seminar? I'll bet the younger members would give anything for that invitation, and the chance to learn from an expert like you. I'd love to attend it myself."
“You would?” Her gray eyebrows shot up, eyes wide. “Dr. Thomas has never shown much interest in flowers."
"Working with a congregation as active as this one is such a big job, I don't suppose he has much spare time. But he told me how much he values your contribution, Edith, how it enhances everyone's spiritual experience."
"He did?"
Crossing his fingers beneath the desk, Matt told himself that little white lies could be viewed as compassionate.
After Edith finished her tea and went home to plan her flower seminar, Matt asked Janice for the name of the floral firebrand on the committee who dared to suggest something new.
"Ellie? This is Matt Draper at First Parish Unitarian. Am I getting you at a bad time?" Fifteen minutes later, Ellie was delighted with the idea of a private–well, semi-private–tour of Edith Stevens's famous garden, along with reminiscences of grand local gardens of Edith's childhood.
This was going to cost the minister's discretionary fund a case of white wine and six dozen cookies from the bakery on Main Street (one dozen vegan and one dozen gluten free, of course), but peace would be preserved. At least until Dr. Thomas returned from his retreat in Southeast Harbor. Matt reflected briefly that no one ever seemed to take a sabbatical in Omaha, then opened his laptop to work on his sermon.
But first, he made himself a cup of tea. The coffee here wasn't what he considered drinkable, but it seemed rude to bring in his own beans, so tea it was. Maybe he could bring a large thermos next time of home brew and add a pinch of za’tar to give it some spice.
Or maybe he was just trying to think about anything but Nessa.
Matt sat down and pulled out his phone, just for two minutes, no more.
A quick mental escape.
And there at the top of his feed was Nessa's slim ankle, close up, wrapped in ribbons from what looked like a very fashionable sandal. So she was an influencer–well, she certainly had influenced him, if that was any indication of her skill. There was no caption, just the name: verynecessary.
Her Instagram handle.
So much for not thinking about her.
He enlarged the photo, then let it go. Next was a post about a nutritional supplement, then a meme about not overthinking things, then a photo of the side of Nessa's neck, long beaded earrings tangled in her honey-blonde hair.
Don't overthink things , he told himself. This is not a sign from the cosmos. You've just looked her up too many times. Algorithms.
When he closed his eyes, he could still see her ankle in the beautiful shoe. It looked like a very expensive shoe, not that he was any kind of expert in these things. Was that what she cared about, expensive designer clothes? How she looked to other people? Was that the life she wanted to live? Because that was not compatible with his chosen life of service.
Not that he was personally destitute, but appearances mattered in his line of work. A lot .
More than they should.
"We're so proud of you, son," he remembered his dad's words when he'd floated the idea of divinity school to his parents. "You're a good man–a good human being. And thanks to your great-grandfather, you can use your natural gifts and still support a family. Not like Bill Gates, obviously, you can't pay for global public health, but still," he chuckled. "You have the freedom to follow your heart."
So far, he hadn't touched his trust fund, but he always knew it was there. He'd be able to educate his own children, and when the time came, he wouldn't have to take his sabbaticals in Omaha. But he wouldn't be taking them in the South of France, either, and his future wife wasn't going to be wearing thousand-dollar shoes to volunteer at the food pantry.
He'd met Nessa at a fundraiser for animal welfare, so she obviously had a good heart. But how could he find out for sure if she wouldn't even have dinner with him? When he'd called her office yesterday morning, she hadn't taken the call, and she still hadn't returned it.
This was ridiculous. He felt like a fourteen-year-old suffering through his first crush.
Yet something about her mesmerized him, an elusive quality that he couldn't describe.
Just feel .
A swirling inside him, one that made his blood feel more at home than usual, his body warm and excited in all the right ways, and his heart – his heart felt more hope than it ever had. Every chamber filled to the brim. Looking at her on his phone, in person, from across a courtyard – every glimpse mattered.
“Love can’t be explained, Matthew. Just felt,” his grandmother had told him years ago, when he was in middle school and had a crush on the speech-language pathology student who had come to his school, working with the buddy program in special education where he volunteered.
That hadn’t exactly worked out, his heart crushed when Ms. Robbins left after thirteen weeks, never to return.
No longer a teen, he was all man now.
And all consumed by Nessa.
Nothing about the stirrings inside him was superficial, though he barely knew her. She felt deeper, more nuanced, mysterious and layered. Sex had been hot and frenzied, explorative and intense, yet playful. Her smile was so free and open, eyes on him, attention intense and fulfilling. He was a good listener but she matched him, their styles different, his more obvious. She liked his coffee. That was a big one.
More Nessa, please.
More on every level.
Think about something else, he told himself. Back to work. Two-minute break is over.
As if in agreement, his phone rang, displaying a number he didn't recognize.
"Is this, uh, Reverend Draper?"
"Speaking."
"Oh, hi! I got your contact info from Emily Barr, I was at her wedding this past weekend? I'm getting married, and we just thought you did such an amazing job, I mean, even my fiancé had tears in his eyes when you talked about love at first sight, because that's what happened to us!"
"Thank you, I'm glad it touched you. Are you Unitarian Universalists?"
"No, I'm Jewish and my fiancé is Catholic, so we're looking for an ecumenical, inclusive officiant. And I saw some of Emily's first posts–the photos are fantastic! Our wedding is going to be in the Seychelles two years from now, will that work for you? We'll pay all your travel and hotel expenses, of course."
Explaining this to his friends from Div school who were currently on a hunger strike against the hydro pipeline being pushed across indigenous lands in Canada was going to be interesting.
Maybe he could position it as a spiritual retreat off the coast of Africa?
"Uh, I think that could work. I'd like to meet you both, get to know you a little bit. Could you come to my office?"
Appointment made, he ended the call and thought, The Seychelles. In February. As field work goes, it's not exactly inoculating babies in Sudan, is it? Could he go there after the wedding, help out with the vaccines or food distribution or something?
But then, because, in addition to being a minister, he was also a healthy young human, he thought of Nessa.
Nessa lying on the white sand, straw hat shielding her eyes from the sun.
Nessa snorkeling beside him, hair streaming out, surrounded by brilliantly colored exotic fish.
Nessa on a balcony in the warm moonlight, sipping wine.
He might have the vacation time, he might cover every expense himself, but the optics–like thousand-dollar shoes–were not good. Nor was it who he was as a person, in truth. Of course it was a wonderful fantasy, but this was not an episode of The Righteous Gemstones .
And anyway, Nessa wouldn't even return his calls, much less meet him on an island in the Indian Ocean.
Maybe it was time to wake up and… smell the coffee.