CHAPTER 32 - GIVE THEM SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT

            Lake Conroe Methodist Church was a stereotypically middle-class house of worship. The architectural style was pseudo-colonial with a red brick façade, white columns, white trim and a 30-foot white steeple.  The 500-seat auditorium made it roughly twice the size of the small neighborhood church in which I'd grown up, but still only half the size of the community church that I currently attended back home in Fort Worth. Well perhaps I should have said, ". . . the church I occasionally attended . . ." I'll have to admit that my church-going had become rather sporadic of late. More often than not I tended to roll over and go back to sleep on Sunday mornings.

            My childhood had been an altogether different story, of course. I got dragged to church every time the doors were opened, twice on Sunday and once in the middle of the week. Above and beyond the regularly scheduled services was the yearly revival meeting that could last from one to three weeks with services taking place every night of the week, services that could sometimes last late into the night. Many was the evening that I sat on the back pew, doing my homework while some visiting evangelist thundered hellfire and damnation from the pulpit. After near-perfect attendance during the first twenty years of my life, I reasoned that I might be due some leeway during the autumn of my years - a reduced sentence on account of good behavior and credit for time already served.

            Nowadays I attended only on Sunday mornings if I attended at all. One of the advantages of attending a larger church was having the luxury of losing myself in the crowd and not having to give an accounting of myself every time I decided to skip a service. The small community church in which I'd spent my formative years had afforded me no such opportunity. Tiny Broadview had been like one large family. Everybody knew everybody else's business and took great pleasure from meddling in business that was not their own. No, I much preferred the anonymity afforded by a larger congregation.

            Regardless of how much I might have preferred to remain anonymous and unobtrusive, my presence in church on this particular Sunday was arousing more than a little interest among Michael's fellow congregants. I can't really say that I blamed then for their curiosity. From the way Michael walked with his arm around my shoulders, it was obvious that we were very good friends On the other hand, I seriously doubted that he had ever mentioned my existence to anyone, so they were understandably intrigued. I only smiled and pretended not to notice the less than casual glances and murmured speculation that followed us as we walked up the aisle and took our seats in a pew about halfway to the front of the auditorium. There were still a few minutes left before service was scheduled to begin, so people were milling about, greeting their neighbors and getting settled. At first I thought it was only my imagination, but to my surprise, a few people were actually turning around in their seats to get a better look at me. Some of them were even going as far as whispering behind their hands.

            I looked at Michael sitting beside me, leaning back with his long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles and his right arm stretched out, resting on the back of the pew just behind my shoulders. I leaned toward him and whispered, sotto voce, "All these people keep giving me the hairy eyeball. I get the impression that you don't usually show up for Sunday services with strange women in tow."

            He glanced around the room and grinned mischievously. "Nope. You're the first."

            "Then I guess we'll be giving them plenty to talk about over their fried chicken and potato salad."

            Michael gave a snort and whispered back, "Oh, I can guarantee they won't be waiting for dinner. We'll definitely be the main topic of conversation on the way home in the car. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if a few of them were talking about us right now." He looked around again. "Half of these folks have been trying to get me fixed up ever since Sharon and I split."

            At that moment an elegant looking woman in a tailored charcoal-gray pantsuit arose from her seat and approached us. She was tall and trim with professionally-coiffed auburn hair and green eyes. She reminded me a little of Maureen O'Hara, a classic beauty. She was poised and graceful on the surface, but something about her demeanor suggested that she probably had disposition to match those flaming locks. The term "spitfire" came immediately to mind.

            Michael sat up straight and smiled as she knelt on the mostly-vacant pew in front of us and reached over the back of it to shake my hand. "And speaking of Sharon," he said.

            She smiled, a dazzling display of perfect teeth. "Oh, and were we speaking of Sharon then?" She asked ingenuously. "I do hope it was complimentary."

            "Always, my dear," he assured her as I did my best to cover my utter shock with a pleasantly neutral mask. Michael regarded her warmly with a smile that evidenced genuine affection for an old friend but no lingering passion for a lover - which is probably all that saved him. Indicating me, he said, "Sharon, this is Maggie, an old friend of mine."

            For a split second I favored him with a look that could have withered artificial flowers, before arranging my features in a more placid expression and turning to greet her.

            "Well, hello, Maggie," she said as she shook my hand again. "I'm the ex-wife."

            I searched my memory, but I couldn't recall whether Emily Post had ever covered this particular introduction scenario in her book of etiquette, that meant that I'd have to improvise. "Well - uh - um - hello there," I responded, momentarily taken aback. Oh, well, what the heck, I thought. "Pleased to meet you, Sharon. I guess that makes me the old flame."

            Sharon laughed at this and looked at Michael. "Oh, I like her, Mike. She's quick."

            Michael regarded me affectionately. "I kind of like her, too," he replied. "Maggie and I knew each other a long time ago - back when I still lived in Fort Worth," he offered by way of explanation.

            "Well, well, then, you two do go back a long way, don't you?"

            "Almost a lifetime," I agreed.

            Michael clasped my hand, and gave a gentle squeeze. I squeezed back and dug my fingernails into the back of his hand just hard enough to leave an imprint but not actually break skin - just to let him know that he hadn't heard the last of this.

            The pianist and organist began to play and members of the choir were filing into their places. "I'd better get back to my seat," Sharon said. "Oh, by the way," she added as she turned to go, "Nick and Valerie are meeting us for lunch at the Cracker Barrel. Why don't the two of you join us? Nick and Val will be tickled to see you again, and I know they'd love to meet Maggie,"

            "Sounds wonderful. I always enjoy seeing the kids, but it all depends on how quickly Maggie has to get on the road. We'll let you know after the service."

            Michael had graciously left me an escape. I leaned over and murmured through a clenched smile, "Why didn't you tell me your ex-wife was going to be here?"

            He smiled nervously. "Um, I didn't think about it?" He offered.

            "You didn't think about it? Typical man!" I harrumphed.

            Further exchange was prevented by the Worship Leader taking his place behind the pulpit as the congregation arose to join in singing the choruses whose lyrics were projected on a screen above the platform. My irritation with Michael was momentarily forgotten and replaced by a sense of delight as my soprano united with his baritone for the first time in nearly 30 years.

            The music was contemporary - not the traditional hymns that I'd grown up singing. Many of the choruses were unfamiliar to me, but I did  my best to follow along with the words and Michael's lead. I miss the old days, singing the classics from a real hymnbook, I mused. Unfortunately, many churches had begun to deal with congregational singing in a similar fashion. The projector replaced the song book because one software license was cheaper than several hundred hymnals. Since I was in that minority of folks who could read music, I often wished for some notes to go along with those words, or at least a bouncing ball to follow along with like in the television show from my childhood, Sing Along With Mitch.

            The first chorus ended and Michael whispered, "If you don't feel comfortable about lunch, I'll understand, but these people are my only family. I'd like for you to get to know them, and I'd really like for them to get to know you. It will be all right. Trust me."

            Truthfully, I didn't feel comfortable about the prospect of eating lunch with Michael's ex-wife, her husband, and Michael's stepchildren. But even more truthfully, I did trust Michael and I knew that this was important to him. I also knew that any part of my future which might involve Michael was definitely going to include these people "All right," I conceded with reluctance and trepidation, "I'll do it for you."

            "Thanks, love," he said as he slipped his arm around my waist and planted a quick kiss on the top of my head. "I won't forget this."

            I regarded him askance and gave him a meaningful smile. "No, you won't," I assured him. Just then the musicians began to play Amazing Grace. I heaved a sigh. At last, one I know!

            The rest of the service followed a familiar pattern. After the congregational singing came the announcements of baby showers and bake sales, of shut-ins in need of visitation and worthy causes in need of volunteers. Then the choir favored us with a selection while the ushers passed the collection plates.

            After the choir filed out, Revered Llewellyn ascended the sacred desk. He was a dignified and distinguished looking gentleman with white hair and an impressive white beard. He looked like Father Abraham or some other Old Testament Patriarch. He had a melodious voice and a somewhat British-sounding accent. Michael later explained to me that he had been born and raised in Wales.

            The minister took his texts from chapters 40 and 41 of the book of Genesis. He spoke of Joseph the dreamer, relating the tale of Joseph interpreting the dreams of the chief butler and baker while wrongfully imprisoned. This incident, of course, led to Joseph being brought before Pharaoh to interpret the dream that caused his rise to a position of power and influence and which allowed him to save his family during the famine. His theme was how God puts people in the right place at the right time.

            As I listened to him talking about Joseph and dreams, I recalled my own dream from the night before. I had been driving a truck, not a pickup, but an 18-wheeler. Now while I have driven a few pickups in my time, I have never in my life been behind the wheel of a Kenworth tractor. In my dream, it was night and I was approaching an intersection with a red light. I wanted to slow down, to stop, but I couldn't reach the brake and my leg felt paralyzed. My vehicle went through the intersection, but there was no one coming, no one else around so not being able to stop had no immediate negative consequences. This time. Still, I wanted to stop, and I knew I was supposed to stop.

            I'd had similar dreams ever since I'd first learned to drive, and it didn't require Joseph, Sigmund Freud or Carl Jung to tell me what they meant. This dream or a variation thereof recurred every time I was feeling overwhelmed by something. I was definitely overwhelmed by my situation with Michael. I felt that I had gotten a hold of something too big for me to handle, like a Kenworth truck. I wanted to slow down and apply the metaphorical brakes, but I was no longer in control. My inability to act had not yet resulted in unpleasant consequences, but I was desperate to regain some semblance of control before anything untoward happened.

            I stole a sideways glance at Michael's handsome profile. It was true. As much as I ardently wanted to share my life with this man, that's how much the prospect also terrified me. I couldn't seem to shake this vague feeling of uneasiness. I had ventured into uncharted territory, and I was scared. I had done my best to avoid situations where I didn't know what to do or what was expected of me. I preferred being in control, and right now I was anything but.

            Reverend Llewellyn brought his message to a close, and the whole congregation arose to be dismissed in prayer. The minister was an interesting speaker, but I soon discovered that he also had the ability to stretch a prayer far past the point where I was positive that the subject had been adequately covered. While waiting for him to drag his prayer, kicking and screaming to its conclusion, I sneaked a look at Michael from the corner of my eye. He was standing tall beside me, head bowed and hands clasped before him in a pious attitude. To my surprise, I was hit by an almost primal wave of desire that caught me completely off guard. I wanted him. I was completely shocked, and I blushed furiously as I looked around quickly to assure myself that no one had noticed. I had an irrational fear that someone might have managed to actually read my mind. I cautiously raised my eyes heavenward, sure that I was about to be turned into a greasy spot by a supernaturally aimed bolt of lightening. Oh, I was definitely having some carnal thoughts, and getting turned on by a man saying his prayers in church just had to be some kind of major mortal sin.